Pressing Leaves

The spout of the dingy brass kettle released steam at a boil -the shrill whistle that once made arm hairs stand at attention is mute. It’s been silent for years but often the smoke alarm blares instead and the kitchen window drips with condensation. On such occasions, the aging, jaded, faithful kettle shakes from emptiness, burning from the heat below it and belching poison smoke into the air in a final effort to draw attention to itself.

Molly pulls a tureen-sized mug from the closet grabbing a tea packet from a jar overflowing with caffeine-free choices. She sets it down on the table next to Peter’s smaller, half-empty mug of instant coffee he'd prepared for himself only minutes before whilst craning his neck to see the television news blaring at full volume. Peter proceeds, as he does every evening, to engage with the reporters, local and national politicians, and even the actors in the commercials. Molly, in turn, cradles the warm mug and stares at the wall of photos at the far end of the room, drowning out the noise around her with the louder voices in her head.  

Molly looks at the photos of Kevin and Anna on the wall above the mantle- the two beings that along with the dog, made the house a home and life worth living. Suffering a marriage gone loveless over the last decade was almost a joyful sacrifice if it meant giving those wonderful beings a stable home, running interference, and keeping them oblivious to the pain and disappointment that welled in her throat and turned to acid while she slept. 

 Molly often wonders if she actually disappeared or if she had simply made herself small over so many years of keeping the peace. She tried to temper the outbursts when the pendulum swung and manic high became desperate angry lows by taking only shallow breaths in a room where his mere entrance sucked out the air.

She thinks about the time before this, and although it's farther in the distance than her memories can see, she knows that at one time, the mere sight of her made him tear up as he brushed her hair to the side to get a better look at her face. He’d breathe in the smell of her neck as though it gave him life, he’d framed her multiple diplomas, filled her gas tank, warmed her slippers, and filled the kettle at night to make her tea. 

As for herself, Molly remembers when his gray hair was jet black, and his eyes were brooding like Heathcliff’s and she imagined like Kathy did, that only she really understood him; that their relationship was transcendent and everyone else was dead wrong about the signs. She quickly became addicted to the way he smothered her with attention, the way he seemed to love the physical flaws he so aptly pointed out and she took it to mean that no one else but he would ever love such imperfections. Fighting was loud and frequent, but it was surely because they were passionate people on fire… most certainly nothing basic white-bread America could ever understand. To protect this pearl of great price, she abandoned friends that weren’t his, and family who’d raised flags. She silenced every voice in her head, every pain in her stomach, and proceeded down the path of self-inflicted sadness, and internal rage.

Alone. Peter waited for this time to have her all to himself again. He even saw his own children as competitors to be taken down as it was clear they embodied every ounce of Molly’s love. She’d found a thundering voice when it came to them. With ferocity and purpose, she undermined him at every turn, disgusted with his cruel and archaic methods of education and child-rearing. As of late, he often snickered about how Molly’s “projects” had left her for the world, and there she was all alone; as if that would return her to the pathetic state in which he’d found her thirty years before. As if he could once again control, dominate, and determine the course of her life, this time by ignoring her very existence.

For no special reason on that day, at that time, wearing a pink robe and house shoes, clutching a half-finished crossword puzzle and an empty mug, Molly understood that the project to which she’d devoted 25 of her 55 years had been left incomplete. She’d taught manners by being polite, compassion by showing it, forgiveness by offering it. She remembered young Kevin cradling her head against his chest before his big move imploring her to think of herself for once and build a life of her own. Anna, always direct said “if you don’t leave now, you never will” and begged Molly to join her in New York. Molly seemed no longer capable of feeling things herself, and if she was to find any motivation for change, it had to be couched in caring for Kevin and Anna.  

Modeling, it’s called— embodying the actions and values you want to see in your children. What about standards? Self-respect? Independence? Self Reliance? Bravery? Molly was suddenly hit with the anxious belly— the stab of fear when a mistake was realized. If she’d never modeled any of these behaviors she’d jeopardized the kids’ futures. Would Anna be drawn in by a dark-eyed and brooding stranger dressed in red flags? Would Kevin become a brooding, controlling, angry man himself and ruin someone else’s child in an effort to control them?  That was it…for their sake and that of future generations she must extricate herself from the unlocked prison…..

Rising, Molly quietly filled the kettle once again, this time setting it atop the wood-burning stove in the library. She knew it would take longer but it always seemed that the tea just tasted better when prepared this way. If one thinks about it, the time something takes matters little in the larger scheme of the atmosphere. The point is, that once enough heat is applied, water molecules break free. Molly placed the whistling kettle on a ceramic trivet so the whistle turned sweeter, quieter, gentler and the steam freely coated the air harshly dried by the intensity of the flames. 

She lifted the house phone and made two consecutive calls.