84th Street

The woman, Elizabeth, sat at the table by the kitchen window holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold some time ago. She was waiting for her daughter to come home with her husband and the baby. She stared out at the street without seeing the traffic passing by on 84th street, trying to remember where Alison told her she was going. Despite her young age, she was only 53, Elizabeth was beginning to worry about the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. Her memory had become suspect lately, especially when Alison was out for long periods of time, like she was now. 

Elizabeth looked at the clock and was shocked to see that it was almost 10am. Could she really have been sitting there almost three hours? How long had Alison been gone? She couldn’t remember. Had she left before Elizabeth woke up this morning? That seemed possible, but didn’t feel likely. Elizabeth was an early riser, and was up before 7am, but maybe the baby woke Alison and Stephen up, and they decided to start their day at dawn. She furrowed her brow, trying to figure out how the morning played out, but could only remember waking up, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down in the kitchen.

It seemed like Alison and Stephen were always gone these last few weeks, but that was to be expected with a newborn. Everyone was clamoring to see the baby, and social calls had to be made around the neighborhood, but, still, Elizabeth wished she had more time with her first grandchild. Grandchildren are made to be spoiled, and since the family lived with her, she planned on having plenty of time to spoil hers, but her time with the little one was sparse at best and non-existent at worst. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw that beautiful face, and that caused an unexpected pang of grief. It caught her by surprise, mostly because she couldn’t figure out why the thought of the baby would trigger that response.

She was still recovering from losing Harold to a heart attack last year, but Alison moving back home with Stephen helped  with her grief. Then, when she found out Alison was pregnant, she was able to begin looking forward to her new life as a grandmother instead of lamenting her life as a widow. She still thought of Harold a lot, though, and perhaps she saw a little of her husband’s face in the baby’s, causing the moment of pain. She picked up her smartphone and pushed the button on the side, bringing up the image of Alison holding the baby in the hospital immediately after giving birth. She believed all babies looked like little shriveled up raisins, but she was sure she could see a little bit of Harold in there.

Elizabeth got up, dumped her coffee into the sink, and rinsed out the mug. She felt uncharacteristically weak, and the simple task took great effort. She shuffled her feet in the direction of her bathroom.  It seemed a hundred miles away, and she felt like half the day passed in the time it took to reach it. She looked in the mirror and was appalled by the appearance of the woman looking back at her.

Elizabeth had always been beautiful, even into her fifties. She had only just started to find more wrinkles than she would have liked, and her hair had only a hint of grey around her temples, but the woman in the mirror looked old and tired. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin seemed stretched across her face, as if her last meal had been more than a few days ago. Her eyes were bloodshot, and there was dried saliva caked on the corners of her mouth. She felt like she was looking at a seventy year old woman. How long was I sitting in the kitchen?!  she thought.

Elizabeth started to feel a panic attack coming on. She ran the cold water and splashed her face, rubbing her eyes and washing her mouth. When she gathered up the courage to look in the mirror again, she was relieved to see that she didn’t look as bad as she initially thought. She still looked thin, bordering on emaciated, but she looked like herself again. She opened the medicine cabinet and took the bottle of Xanax from the top shelf, shaking out one of the little blue footballs, looking at it thoughtfully, then shaking out two more. She popped them in her mouth and washed them down with a double handful of water from the sink. Now I need to eat something.

She went back to the kitchen and got two eggs boiling on the stove, set the timer for ten minutes, and started a fresh pot of coffee. She grabbed a box of Ritz crackers and ate a few to tide her over until her eggs were done and washed it down with a glass of water from the kitchen sink. Alison and Stephen insisted on drinking bottled water, but Elizabeth was a strong believer that tap water tasted better in Brooklyn than anywhere else in the country and had no use for the pre-packaged stuff. 

When the coffee was ready, she poured a cup, stirred in two sugar packets, and sat down at the table. She stared out the window, playing the waiting game again.

When she went to pick up her coffee, she noticed her hands were shaking. The cup spilled over, and she jerked her hands back, expecting a burn, but the coffee was ice cold. She suddenly became aware of her surroundings. There was a terrible racket in the kitchen that she realized was the combined sounds of the timer and the smoke alarm. 

Smoke alarm?! she thought and looked around. Sure enough the kitchen was filling up with smoke billowing from the pot on the stove. Elizabeth caught a whiff of the eggs burning and had to fight the urge to throw up the crackers she had eaten earlier. She had the presence of mind to pick up a pot holder before grabbing the pot, dropping it in the sink, and turning on the faucet. Steam hissed up, and, mixing with the smoke, caused Elizabeth to cough violently. When she regained her composure, she turned on the exhaust fan above the stove, hit the timer, and opened the window, grabbing a newspaper off the counter to fan the smoke out. 

She looked at the clock. 11:15? she thought. How the hell did I lose a whole hour? What the fuck is wrong with me?

She went back to the window to stick her head out for some fresh air and saw Mr. Lacqua hurrying across 84th Street as fast as his 82 year old body could carry him. “Lizzy! Lizzy! Are you ok?” he shouted. “I saw the smoke and got worried. I have my phone. I dialed 9-1. Just say the word and I’ll dial the other 1.”

Elizabeth laughed out loud at that, surprising both herself and Mr. Lacqua. “I’m okay, Mr. Lacqua. Just had a little mishap in the kitchen.”

Mr. Lacqua breathed a sigh of relief and put his phone in his pocket. “Thank god, Lizzy. I would die of heartbreak if something were to happen to you. Especially after all that’s happened.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lacqua. You’re a wonderful man. I put some eggs on the stove and must’ve lost track of time waiting on A…” she stopped abruptly. Waiting on Alison to get home was what she was going to say. “Waiting on Amazon to deliver a package. It was supposed to be here by ten.” She wasn’t laughing anymore. She felt the need to end the conversation immediately. “I have to go back in and clean up my mess. Thanks again for your concern.”

“Ah, you know me Lizzy. Always in everyone’s business.” Mr. Lacqua squinted at Elizabeth. “You’re getting too thin. I’m going to make you a baked ziti and bring it over tonight.”

“No, Mr. Lacqua. There’s no need for that. I’m ok.” She began to feel uncomfortable.

“No, no, Lizzy. I insist. Anyway, when was the last time we sat together? I think this is the longest we’ve spoken since the accident. I’m coming over around seven. We can watch Jeopardy! together.”

Elizabeth felt like someone punched her in the stomach. “That’s fine,” she managed to say, then she closed the window despite the smoke still clouding the kitchen, turned around, and threw up in the sink.

She hurried back to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and grabbed the Xanax. She opened the bottle and was dismayed to find only two pills left. When was the last time she filled the prescription?

Before the accident, a nasty voice in her head whispered.

Elizabeth gave a little shriek, and she dropped the bottle spilling her last two pills. She bent over to pick them up and hit her head on the sink hard enough to knock herself to the floor. She landed on her back and stayed there for a moment trying get her head back together.

After a few seconds, she sat upright and instantly regretted it. Each blare of the smoke alarm was like a railroad spike being pounded into her skull. Her head started spinning, and, having already emptied the contents of her stomach, she dry heaved into the toilet, a stream of saliva hanging from her bottom lip.

When she was done, her head began to clear and she remembered the Xanax. She spotted both pills and popped them into her mouth.

You definitely need those after all you’ve been through, the voice hissed in her head like the steam from the sink.

The voice brought her back completely and she stood up and spit the pills into the sink. Her head was pounding.

Elizabeth left the bathroom and looked at Alison’s and Stephen’s bedroom door. She paused, wondering what she should do. She started walking toward the door. Her feet felt like they were ankle deep in molasses. When she made it to the bedroom, she reached for the handle and held her breath.

She didn’t know what she expected to see behind the door, but when she opened it, it was just Alison’s and Stephen’s bedroom, the guest room before Harold passed. She walked in and felt her heart sink. The room felt empty. The air smelled stale. When was the last time that door was opened? Probably before the accident, she thought and shuddered. 

She backed out of the room, closed the door behind her, and turned to look at the room across the foyer. The baby’s nursery, Alison's childhood bedroom. She didn’t want to open the door, but felt her hand moving toward the doorknob anyway. She grasped the handle and turned it, pushing the door in. The midday sun filtered into the room through the curtains giving it a dream-like quality. She walked over to the crib, ran her finger through the thick layer of dust on the rail, and cried.