normal.
Emily was bouncing on a mattress.
More than she slept on it, she stood on it, stepped on it, desultorily bounced on it. Like right now. The mattress was a slab in the center of the room. She rarely thought of it as a bed.
She stopped.
Sleep, when it happened, happened like a cough. Her body suddenly too huge and heavy to feel, her vision muffled, squirrely, her brain just totally shot and then
cough
, like that but bigger—COUGH!—and she’d either fall where she stood or make it to a chair, or a nice spot on the floor.
The mattress was surrounded by potted shrubs and buckets of wildflowers.
These came from out back, some of them. There was a dreamy, wholly unexamined system here. Others Emily adopted from the hills and trails around Queens Falls: strays surreptitiously dug up from the littery banks of the roads she found herself walking some nights. She’d even gone out behind Mr. Jeffries’s place the other night. Not like he’d notice. The guy was a tree. Emily thought that maybe someday she’d take him in, too, plant him over by the fireplace, water him until he sprouted a smile, a pulse, anything.
Emily laughed.
The TV was company.
She changed the channel.
Emily wasn’t particular but she especially loved documentaries about anything that had happened in black and white. Musicals as well; they reminded her of Peppy and Peppy’s version of her mother, Nancy.
Anything Goes. My Fair Lady. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
. Emily loved baseball. Baseball was a log in the fireplace. But not watching, only listening. Peppy’d watch the game on his radio out in the backyard, and it wasn’t until Emily was six that shefinally saw the game on TV. It looked nothing like it was supposed to. They were playing it all wrong. Real world baseball was stodgy, inexplicable. But weren’t most things, actually, if you opened your eyes and bothered?
The bathroom was off the hall that led from the living room to the kitchen. Only door on the right.
She walked by it.
Emily Phane was walking.
The hall itself was longer than you’d think, especially at night. It was a tunnel lined with the dead. Emily’s grandparents, great-grandparents, great-uncles in great, awesome hats. Nancy, age seven, on stage in dancing duck costume. The NDE Emily had called it: their hallway as a near death experience. “Go toward the light, Peppy,” she’d joke when he got up for a snack during a commercial. They used to joke about everything.
Compared to the plant-choked living room, the kitchen was a sky. Four uncovered windows. Everything washed out by a hundred years of direct sunlight: pale wooden cupboards, a steel marshmallow of a fridge, a microwave and a toaster and ostensibly brown wallpaper that had long since camouflaged itself into the exact color of the light that struck it. The linoleum was permanently clammy and nice underfoot.
In the kitchen there were doors. Laundry room door. Door to the backyard. Door to Peppy’s office.
It was past midnight.
Emily refilled the yellow ceramic jug at the sink. Then back to the living room to water the plants.
They thickened and hushed expectantly. Stupid things. Stupid me. Emily’s eyes wanted to sleep, but her head, she knew, was no mattress. Who said that? Sometimes she’d close only one eye, as if this would be enough, tricking herself, giving half her head relief. Keep busier than time and time goes away. That was also a trick. Because it wouldn’t be past midnight forever; soon, once again, it’dbe before midnight. Meaning what? Meaning Emily didn’t know, just do something before you fucking fall asleep. Not fall, she thought. Plummet.
She watered a particularly sullen tree. Its tilt and sag worried her. Then a shrub, a matriarch, Emily decided, with a sudden gust of goodwill toward her own peculiarities. You’re a good old girl, aren’t you? Look at you. You’re a grandmamma.
Then on to the spider-eyed berry thing. Then the one with the pointy clown wings.
Emily was bouncing on a mattress.
More than she slept on it, she stood on it, stepped on it, desultorily bounced on it. Like right now. The mattress was a slab in the center of the room. She rarely thought of it as a bed.
She stopped.
Sleep, when it happened, happened like a cough. Her body suddenly too huge and heavy to feel, her vision muffled, squirrely, her brain just totally shot and then
cough
, like that but bigger—COUGH!—and she’d either fall where she stood or make it to a chair, or a nice spot on the floor.
The mattress was surrounded by potted shrubs and buckets of wildflowers.
These came from out back, some of them. There was a dreamy, wholly unexamined system here. Others Emily adopted from the hills and trails around Queens Falls: strays surreptitiously dug up from the littery banks of the roads she found herself walking some nights. She’d even gone out behind Mr. Jeffries’s place the other night. Not like he’d notice. The guy was a tree. Emily thought that maybe someday she’d take him in, too, plant him over by the fireplace, water him until he sprouted a smile, a pulse, anything.
Emily laughed.
The TV was company.
She changed the channel.
Emily wasn’t particular but she especially loved documentaries about anything that had happened in black and white. Musicals as well; they reminded her of Peppy and Peppy’s version of her mother, Nancy.
Anything Goes. My Fair Lady. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
. Emily loved baseball. Baseball was a log in the fireplace. But not watching, only listening. Peppy’d watch the game on his radio out in the backyard, and it wasn’t until Emily was six that shefinally saw the game on TV. It looked nothing like it was supposed to. They were playing it all wrong. Real world baseball was stodgy, inexplicable. But weren’t most things, actually, if you opened your eyes and bothered?
The bathroom was off the hall that led from the living room to the kitchen. Only door on the right.
She walked by it.
Emily Phane was walking.
The hall itself was longer than you’d think, especially at night. It was a tunnel lined with the dead. Emily’s grandparents, great-grandparents, great-uncles in great, awesome hats. Nancy, age seven, on stage in dancing duck costume. The NDE Emily had called it: their hallway as a near death experience. “Go toward the light, Peppy,” she’d joke when he got up for a snack during a commercial. They used to joke about everything.
Compared to the plant-choked living room, the kitchen was a sky. Four uncovered windows. Everything washed out by a hundred years of direct sunlight: pale wooden cupboards, a steel marshmallow of a fridge, a microwave and a toaster and ostensibly brown wallpaper that had long since camouflaged itself into the exact color of the light that struck it. The linoleum was permanently clammy and nice underfoot.
In the kitchen there were doors. Laundry room door. Door to the backyard. Door to Peppy’s office.
It was past midnight.
Emily refilled the yellow ceramic jug at the sink. Then back to the living room to water the plants.
They thickened and hushed expectantly. Stupid things. Stupid me. Emily’s eyes wanted to sleep, but her head, she knew, was no mattress. Who said that? Sometimes she’d close only one eye, as if this would be enough, tricking herself, giving half her head relief. Keep busier than time and time goes away. That was also a trick. Because it wouldn’t be past midnight forever; soon, once again, it’dbe before midnight. Meaning what? Meaning Emily didn’t know, just do something before you fucking fall asleep. Not fall, she thought. Plummet.
She watered a particularly sullen tree. Its tilt and sag worried her. Then a shrub, a matriarch, Emily decided, with a sudden gust of goodwill toward her own peculiarities. You’re a good old girl, aren’t you? Look at you. You’re a grandmamma.
Then on to the spider-eyed berry thing. Then the one with the pointy clown wings.
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