Room For Me

I wake up every day in that room. Everyday, That room. I've lived in that room almost all my life. From the time I was brought home as a baby, That room. Same four corners. That room. Design has changed over time, from crib to twin bed to Mom's old queen sized frame squeezed into a cramped corner under the window across from the door. Lumpy mattress. Squeaky box springs. The door that is always closed. That closed door. I first closed that door in a fit of anger so many years ago. I wanted to slam it but knew better so I closed it as angrily as I could without drawing the ire of the parenthood mom and dad. I am the only, as in child. I was their decision not to have any more children. Their running joke. Only years later did I learn a cancer dance and a hysterectomy obliterated the baby channel. Mom wanted a large family because she was an only. Babies and babies and babies was her thwarted desire. Dad didn't care. Big family Dad with all those loud brothers and brassy sisters. When they visited, I retreated to that room. Cancer came back with a vehemence. Two more time. Took its time to wreak havoc. Cancer took control. Took her. Finally. Dad faded into oblivion. Didn’t notice the closed door. Walked away from it. Walked away from me. Swallowed a bottle of pills in the garage. The locked garage. Chose his own room. The room he worked in while mom cooked in her room. Her room. The kitchen. Warm and hearty and welcoming. Her room. Cold and closed off now. Food arrives at the front door. Delivery by doorbell. I don't venture out too much anymore. Tired of the questions. "How are you doing?" Nosey witches! How would you be if your heart was ripped out by a person you had loved with open doors. Son of a biscuit who lied and cheated and laughed as they drove away in a new car purchased in your name. “You should have a car in your name,” they said. Left behind with bitter memories and a car note. They despised that room. That room. Called it my escape room. Whenever they pushed me to go out, I would escape to that room. Dull and dusty. That's what they called me. Tired and timid. More names. What else could I do but escape to that place. That room. Not a Virginia Wolfe room. Just that room. A tatty old room that matches the tired and timid, dull and dusty me. That room. That old room.

I stop talking. My therapist closes that notebook and stares at me for a moment, then leans towards me.

"I just chose to lean toward you. I leaned toward you and you leaned back. In this room. In that room. Either room, tired and timid, dull and dusty, what you accepted, you lean back, away from. You lean back in any room. You lean away from life with any color. But. Life is hard and it is soft. It is kind and it is mean. It's about birth and it's about death. Lost and found. Beautiful and ugly. Whatever. You may, one day, lean away from all the specters in your past but you must also lean into today. Lean into the laughter and the tears, the joy and the sorrow. Not embrace but lean! Life will never be everything we want. Ever. But. Just. Lean. In!”

I lean back from her, close my eyes and lean back.

Mom leans over me. I open my eyes to her smile. “Hey, sweetie. Just checking on you to make sure you’re okay. You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you so I just stood here until you opened your eyes. Why don’t I make your favorite, blueberry pancakes? Would you like that? But it’s so cold in that kitchen. Oh, how you love those pancakes. Do you know why the kitchen is so cold? Maybe it will warm up when I turn on the stove to make your favorite, blueberry pancakes. Have you seen your dad? I’ve been calling out to him but he doesn’t answer. Tried the door to the garage but it’s locked and I don’t have the key. Why would he lock himself in the garage anyway? Well, maybe, when he smells those blueberry pancakes, he’ll come running. Oh, how he loves those blueberry pancakes. Like father, like daughter, I guess. Or, is it the other way around? And why is that kitchen so cold?”

She’s so beautiful, my mom. Beautiful. Just so beautiful. Even when the hair began to thin and the eyebrows melted away to nothing, still beautiful. The day she stepped into that room with her newly shaved head, boldly bald and beautiful before me. Told control of the situation with no fear or shame. Just beautiful and wise and wonderful! Damn! Dad is so handsome. Cowboy handsome though he’d never even seen a farm. Rough and ruggedly handsome that turned the heads of everyone when he passed by. I got the best parts from each of them, mom eyes and dad nose but the rest never came together in my face the way it did with them. Sometimes I peer into the mirror in that room and the reflection is just different. Different. Life. Different. “Is she your daughter?” She would always beam proudly to declare my greatness to the inquirer. I believed every word until she was gone. Damn! The kitchen is cold and the garage door is locked. Everyday is the same day. The same day in that room. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Same. Bad dream. Wounded soul. Endless journey, Cold Kitchen! Locked garage door. That Room.

Someone gently shakes me. I open my eyes. Mom? Dad?

The therapist sits in front of me. Silently watches and waits for me.

My mom used to wait for me. Would sit on the front porch and wait for me. As the days progressed, mean kids would point and talk about the bald-headed lady on the front porch. Laugh and point. I didn’t care. She was mom,  bold, brave, beautifully bald mom. I didn’t expect them to see what I saw just like those nosey witches who didn’t see what my mom saw when they asked that question. “Is she your daughter?” The hair grew back and the days connected, life steadied itself and hope thrived in that room with me. Day after day, hope. Year after year, hope. But, one insidious day, cancer vanquished hope. The kitchen grew cold. The garage door locked. The door to that room closed. Until. What I thought was love beckoned. Opened the door to that room. But. Love left and closed the door behind it.

The therapist points to the watch on their wrist.

My time is up -- for now.

I lean, a little, towards my therapist

When I come back next week, maybe I’ll leave the door open to that room. Maybe I’ll warm up the kitchen. Maybe I’ll find the key to the garage door and unlock it. Maybe I’ll walk into this room bold, brave and beautifully bald.

Maybe.