Umbrella, rain or shine

I’m not sure when it started; the despair. I guess it had been the slow-building kind, filling in the pit of my stomach until it was overflowing and making me sick. Getting out of bed for a job I didn’t care for had never made things easy, but this feeling was something else. A marked solemnity each time I woke. I couldn’t seem to remember how to be happy. I laid there quietly, trying to keep out the day. All I wanted to do was sleep. I imagined myself heaving dirt over and over, the sound of earthy clumps landing with a heft over my grave. It was comforting, almost. But then I shook my head. No. At least I was still alive, and even if I was miserable, it was still better than being dead.

Right?

If I spent any more time thinking about it, I’d never be able to get up. My grisly, careening thoughts would wind themselves through my mind, taking control. I’d be homebound, unable to function. I couldn’t let that happen. I took a deep breath, threw off the covers and planted my feet on the carpeted floor. I did it all in one swift sweeping motion, like tearing off a Band-aid.

***

The shower had little effect - I was still groggy. As I waited for my coffee to brew, I carelessly threw together a paltry salad in the early gloom of a Tuesday morning. It wasn’t the eerie gray light filtering into the kitchen that made me sullen; it was the idea that soon I’d be trudging my way through traffic, surrounded by people who didn’t give a damn about me. I could already hear the horns blaring, see the mocking faces and the upturned fingers brandishing in the air.

My husband, Jake, came downstairs, shaggy-haired in comfy pj’s, like a little kid that overslept. He kissed me on the head as I made his sandwich, layering it with his favorite toppings and carefully packing it away. I didn’t want him to worry about getting lunch in the rain.

We said our I love yous and goodbyes; Jake sipped a glass of juice as he handed me my umbrella - a family heirloom. The thing was old-school, clunky with a real wooden handle, black-topped and funereal. Over the years as we moved from apartment to apartment - trying to minimize our expenses, sacrificing space for cost - I had considered selling the umbrella. We didn’t have room for extras, and I had a few good offers for it. For whatever reason, I hadn’t been able to part with it.

The sky was dappled with moisture-laden clouds, but I made it to work without one drop of rain. So far, the umbrella was going unused. I carried it inside the office building anyway, confident it would be raining by the time I left in 8 hours.

Yes, I was counting the hours, even the minutes that stretched before me like a long hallway, lights flickering, cracked paint, dirty floors, odd and disconcerting smells lingering in the stale air. There was no end. This maze was circular; whenever I exited into fresh air or the comfort of my own home, I would eventually stumble back toward the door that lead to my Monday through Friday misery.

I was busy all morning, stacks of paper to sort through, letters to type, phone calls to make and emails to reply to. I was droning on, machine-like, eyes glazed and glued to the computer. There was a certain sense of pride I felt in my efficiency, yet I also despised myself for it. Why couldn’t I apply this kind of work ethic to my own personal goals and dreams? Why didn’t I learn a new language or start training for a marathon?

The clatter of mugs being cleaned in the sink alerted me to the lunch hour. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I immediately knew something was off. Amy, the office favorite who never did more than enough work to get by, was standing hunched over the sink, sloshing water, clanking ceramic against steel, scrubbing furiously with the mucky sponge. In all of my ten years at the firm, I never once saw Amy wash so much as a fork. I grabbed my salad from the fridge and smiled at her, though it went unreturned. We were stuck in that uncomfortable territory where it was too awkward to keep quiet and too abrupt to suddenly say hi. Thankfully, two coworkers entered the room. Jenna and Melissa scooted past me to the fridge, talking loudly about Amy's upcoming baby shower. I was invited, but only because the entire office would be there.

"Oh my god! Here she is. So glad we ran into you!” Jenna had a bright and cheerful voice. I felt a twinge of annoyance; how could someone else's default operating mode be set to happiness and mine to sorrow? Jenna’s forever-tanned, heavily-ringed hand reached out and touched Amy’s shoulder. She shook it off.

“What’s going on with you?” At first, Jenna and Melissa giggled, but when Amy didn’t answer they arched their eyebrows at each other.

Amy’s hands were raw and red, the heat of the water visible as steam rose from the sink and into her face. Her hair was matted on her forehead. I sat in the corner by the door with my salad, or what had once been a salad. It resembled limp, damp grass. I ate a mouthful, not really enjoying it. My stomach turned nervously as the tension expanded in the room. Jenna wouldn't let it go, obviously not pleased at being ignored.

"Hello, Earth to Amy." She leaned in close to her.

I braced myself, holding my fork midair, unable to take my eyes off the three of them.

Amy turned on her heels so fast that the girls didn’t see it coming, but I did. Water sloshed from the sink into the air. I ducked down as a clatter of ceramic mugs broke in a spray against the wall. I wasn’t sure if she had really been taking aim or just throwing things in a blind rage. When I looked up, I saw a mug handle sitting in my salad. There were a few pieces scattered in my lap as well. Something wet clung to my hair. Nasty dish water.

Jenna and Melissa were completely unscathed, yet they stood there in shock. Tears were streaming down Amy’s face. The office manager, Elise, came rushing into the kitchen, catching Amy by the waist as she crumpled in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Amy,” she said.

Seeing her cry like that sent tears prickling at my eyes, but I wouldn’t let myself cry. I wasn’t even friends with her. Why should it bother me that she was sad? I didn’t even know what it was about. The three of them helped walk her out of the kitchen as she bawled so loudly I thought the whole building would hear. It was the kind of cry that never seemed to stop. It undulated in highs and lows; a steady, constant wail.

I started cleaning the kitchen. I quickly mopped up the floor so no one would slip. I swept away the broken pieces and tossed them into the trash, along with my half-eaten salad. I drained the sink, put the leftover mugs and my tupperware into the dishwasher like I usually did at the end of the day. As I looked around the kitchen, I noticed a spot on the wall where the mugs had hit. It was right above where I had been sitting. If I hadn’t ducked, I would definitely have a black eye or a broken nose. A fat lip, at the least. I took the sponge and scrubbed the wall until it was clean. I washed my hands, my back to the door. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. I turned quickly to see the managing partner walking toward me. He poured his leftover coffee into the sink and briefly rinsed his mug even though I was still washing my hands. He didn’t even excuse himself, yet I did what I had to do - I greeted him with my best smile. Abruptly, he barked out a laugh, but the joke was lost on me.

He scoffed at my unkempt appearance, gesturing rudely to my hair. “Geez, what happened to you?”

I looked up at my wavy reflection in the microwave, and I wondered the same thing.

***

With the afternoon came a rush of requests. The hours flew by in a whirlwind of electronic communication. My eyes burned from staring at the computer for so long, but being busy definitely helped move the day along. That was the part that made me sad; how I wished my time away.

I packed up my bag and locked my desk drawer. At the elevator bank, I checked my reflection again. I had cleaned up the dirty water from my hair, but every now and then I caught a whiff of something that smelled like old sponge mingled with strong coffee. And no one had even thanked me for cleaning up the kitchen! I couldn’t wait to get home and shower. It had been a terrible day.

Down the hallway, the bathroom door slammed. I stood frozen as I listened to Jenna and Melissa talk as they walked toward the elevators.

“God, poor Amy! Still can’t believe she had a miscarriage!” Jenna said.

“Actually, it was a stillbirth,” Melissa said. I reflexively rolled my eyes. Melissa was known for correcting people, even at the most inappropriate and unnecessary times.

“What are you talking about? Amy said-”

“Yea, I know she said “miscarriage,” but she was already 30 weeks pregnant so-”

“So what?” Jenna interrupted.

“It’s not the same thing. Miscarriage happens, like, 20 weeks or before. This is totally different.”

“You always do this, you know? You get like-”

“What?! What do I “get like”?” Melissa never enjoyed it when the spotlight turned on her.

“You get caught up in the details. The main thing is that Amy lost her baby. And that’s, like, the saddest thing ever.” Jenna had a point, I thought.

“The worst,” Melissa agreed.

Their conversation paused. I heard one of them shaking up a handbag, looking for something.

“Ughhh!” cried Jenna.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just realized I have to call the restaurant and cancel the baby shower! That’s going to be the most awkward conversation ever,” Jenna whined.

“That totally sucks! And I was so excited to eat there! Oh! Remember how I planned my sister’s wedding and I told you she was such a nightmare? I basically had to call every venue, like, fifty times...”

I ran like a foolish child, hurrying back into the office to hide from them. I made it out of sight before they laid eyes on me. I was overwhelmed; I didn’t want them to know I’d heard. It was too personal. Too intimate. The tears were back, stinging my eyes. I felt like I had no right to cry, but it was one of the saddest things I’d ever heard. Sure, everyone at the office would know soon enough, but it felt wrong to have learned about Amy’s situation by eavesdropping. Even if it was somewhat accidental. I didn’t even care anymore that no one had thanked me for cleaning the kitchen. If anything, I felt ridiculously petty for letting such a small thing stand in the way of being content and grateful. I fully believed that Amy had no idea what she was doing when she threw those mugs across the room. Any one of us might have reacted similarly, consumed with a blind despair that wrought havoc on our senses.

Her world had been turned upside down. A day that had started out so normal, so routine, had completely collapsed on her, leaving behind dashed hopes and dreams. She was heartbroken.

I heard the elevator ping and the doors shut on Jenna and Melissa. I was about to exit the office when I noticed my umbrella still hanging from the coat stand. I scooped it up, feeling its heft in my hands. There was something comforting in its weight, nothing like those flimsy knock-offs sold at dollar stores and 24-hour markets. Life had become all about streamlined convenience, making the whole world feel less solid, less grounded in reality. I made my way out to the elevators, but decided to take the stairs to the lobby instead. At that moment, I couldn’t stand the idea of being trapped in a tiny metal box all alone as it plummeted back to earth.

***

I sat in the crawling traffic, lumped in with thousands of others. We were all together; all dealing with the same slowdowns and lane closures, the same buses and trains, the same stop signs and red lights. Some of us were just an arm’s length away from each other. I could reach out my window toward the passenger side of the car next to me, and touch my neighbor’s hand. But we didn’t so much as look at each other. In reality, the only thing that connected us was our tiresome, me-first attitudes.

Everyone had something on their mind. In order to transport themselves out of the present moment and into a more comfortable mindset, some people listened to music, some applied makeup, some ate cheeseburgers and fries or slices of sicilian pie, some drank extra large coffees, and some talked on the phone or texted as they weaved through traffic. As long as there was an available escape from experiencing the moment (especially the tough ones), people would find it. Humans were so adept at willful ignorance, creating every possible distraction to avoid living life.

I wondered how we strayed so far from nature as it once was. No, I didn’t really want to go back to hunting my food, or living half-naked in a cave, or missing out on all the incredible art that’s been created. But was this really our destiny? To become so unmoved and desensitized, to have numbed our senses to the point that we weren’t brother and sister anymore, but complete strangers living in our separate worlds, just hoping to get by another minute, hour and day? How much longer would we wish time away before we woke up and realized these amazing lives of ours wouldn’t last forever?

I was almost home and it still hadn’t rained. My car idled at the corner, red street lights swaying above in the heavy winds. I stared at the pretty, purple-blue chicory that lined the curb. I wondered what it must feel like to have plastic bags tangled among your feet. I was impressed that plants could keep growing through all that grime and come out so strong and beautiful. Suddenly, large drops hit the pavement all around, leaving behind abstract splatters until the whole ground was covered and wet, shimmering in the last light of the day.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone running up the street toward the convenience store. It was the homeless man who collected from people in cars on the service road. I had never once given him anything. With my eternally empty checking and dwindling savings accounts, I didn’t usually carry cash unless I had a specific need for it. I reached in the backseat for my umbrella and quickly grabbed it. I rolled down my window, the inside of the car splashed with rain, and I shouted out into the street for the homeless man’s attention. I felt bad for yelling “hey” at him, but I didn’t know his name. “Take this umbrella,” I said as I waved it out of the passenger window. He shook his head at first, but I insisted. Finally, he took it. As the umbrella slipped from my hand into his, I saw something I had never noticed before: an inscription in the crook of the handle, dulled over time by the pressure and oils of the various hands that held it. I grasped it, turning it into the light to read it better.

The smallest act of kindness

is worth more than

the greatest intention

The homeless man might have thought I was only taunting him if I didn’t let go. I loosened my grip and he pulled it away, nodding at me in thanks, our voices useless over the roaring storm. I wondered who in my family had chosen the engraving. As I drove away, I watched the man walk over to his friend and share the umbrella’s cover.

***

I walked into the apartment, dripping all over the mat, feeling invigorated.

“How was your day?” Jake called to me.

“Wonderful!” I said, and I meant it.

Jake came bounding down the stairs. “Man, what a storm! I was already home by the time the rain started, but I was getting worried about you. Good thing you took the umbrella today.” He stopped short when he saw me smiling ear to ear, soaked head to toe.

“What the?! What happened, sweetheart? Did you forget?”

“No. Actually, I remembered something.”

Jake wrapped his arms around me, not caring that I was sopping wet. “What’s that?”

“I remembered to be grateful, always. And to keep my sense of awe.”

He looked at me as if he was seeing something new in me, something I had buried beneath the day-to-day doldrum. I felt that inertia slipping away from me, revealing a boundless zest for the life that lay ahead of me. I knew the routine would still be waiting for me in the morning when I woke, but I had a good feeling that I might see things differently after today.

I stood on my tiptoes, feeling his arms hold me steady as I gave him a long kiss. That was one part of my routine that I wouldn’t trade for anything.