I have nobody to tell these things because I am bouncing between territories of a new age, fantasy, and potential insanity. It’s going to stay trapped in my inner monologue, and eat me alive for a little while.
At four in the morning, I decide to attempt a couple of hours of sleep, knowing right well I am not about to visit the same realm.
XII
Hallmark Moment
February 13, the day before Valentine’s Day, and there are many superficial things to be handled. Even though Bruce and I do not celebrate the overcommercialized excuse to say, “I love you,” Cheyanne must spend the next several years competing with the rest of her class in the exchange of valentines. I try to do something unique without going too far out of the way that will earn both the teacher’s and students’ acceptance so she can feel comfortable in that anxiety-ridden facility. This year, something to piss off all the parents with hyperactive kids: chocolate! Single heart Chocó pick molds, where we get to do all the sample tasting and melting. In the middle of this sticky chocolate nostalgia, I receive a phone call.
It’s Margaret, my paranoid neighbor. The poor lonely old woman can barely make it to her car during the harsh cold February conditions. Bruce and I routinely make it over to shovel and salt her driveway, and Cheyanne occasionally takes her tiny Shih tzu for a walk. For the most part, she’s a nice old lady whose husband passed away several years ago, following their fiftieth wedding anniversary. I occasionally witness a relative or two stop by for a visit, but she spends the vast majority of her time alone in her large home. I pass her home virtually every night, and the vast majority of the time, I only see her car in the driveway. For this reason, I took it upon myself to give her my number in case she needs anything.
She took that as an invitation to call every time she’s found a chewy bit of gossip. “Sage!” she cries out in a frantic “you are not going to believe this” voice. Bruce gives me a sarcastic “better you than me” look, and I feel like whipping the phone straight at his face. He knows that even if I try to rush getting off the phone, it would be impossible; she inevitably steers the discussion as if it’s a matter of life and death no matter what the topic.
“I am in the middle of doing an important school project with Cheyanne, is it possible this could wait?” I try to discourage her, but she speaks over me as always.
“It will take just a minute,” she tells me. God, I wish she would join a sewing circle to wag her tongue at or bingo perhaps. I’ve thought about changing my number, but if I did, I’d probably be responsible for her having no emergency contact close enough to save her if anything happens. “What is it?” I regurgitate.
“It’s Fran. She’s been ranting about you all over town, and then showed up at my door looking for you, mumbling something about the living dead. No offense, Sage, but that does not look good for you.”
“Fran?” I question. “Who the hell is that?” And who do I supposedly have to answer to in this idealistic little town? I think to myself.
“Fran is someone I went to school with years ago.” As if she had to clarify that school was centuries ago for her. “She’s a complete whacko with imaginary friends and claims she can speak with the dead.” I do my best to stifle a sigh.
“Well, what does this have to do with me? I hardly know anyone in this town, and what are the chances she has met me in the city?” I’m about to fake an incoming call when I suddenly remember the business card I never threw away, the museum, and the dream. “Wait! I may have had an encounter with a lady by the name of Fran, and yes, she did seem a bit odd.” At this point, the kitchen is silent. Both Bruce and Cheyanne are now making obvious efforts to listen in because I had not managed to rush her off the phone yet.
“Odd? No, she is certifiable, Sage, and are best to stay away from her.”
How did she end up on our block in the first place? If she made it as close as Margaret’s home just around the corner, why didn’t she just knock on my door? I think to myself, afraid that if I said it aloud, Cheyanne and Bruce would worry that I have a stalker.
“Sage, she has been saying strange things about you to a wide range of people in town, something about you having a dark affair, that you sleep with the dead, and that the damned are following you to give you hell eternal. Why, I believe she was looking for you in church, in the holiest of all places, Sage! What will people think?”
“Obviously, they’ll think she’s crazy, Margaret, and it will fade as a conversation piece when the next underage girl in town gets knocked up by someone’s cheating husband,” I reply in frustration, forgetting that Bruce and Cheyanne were listening closely. What she is saying is not only absurd, but I am upset with myself for participating in this line of discussion with her. “I am sorry, Margaret, but I do not think it is appropriate to be having this type of conversation in front of my family. We are working on Cheyanne’s homework, and that must take full priority.” It was a weak attempt to shift the blame squarely back to her. “I appreciate your concern,” I state politely. The phone remained silent for a minute.
“Okay, well you have a wonderful night, and sorry for bothering you. Make sure Cheyanne is bundled up tight tomorrow, it’s going to be as cold as an ice cream cone,” she finally responds in a voice that implies I would be the sorry one, with a tinge of patronizing concern.
I turn to Cheyanne with a smile, trying to ignore what had just taken place. “Okay, let’s get this done. We have tons of cavities to promote!” Cheyanne doesn’t bite.
“What was that all about, Mom?” she queries, in a voice as crinkled as her face.
“Don’t worry about it. That was an adult conversation, and you’d have no idea what she was ranting about. Even I’m a bit perplexed. I’m fairly certain that even Margaret has no idea herself,” and I brush the entire conversation aside as Bruce turns to help with the valentines.
The kitchen smells like a bakery, and I’ve tasted enough sweets to give a small child diabetes by the time I realize its midnight. I use my sugar rush to clean up the kitchen, just before climbing into bed.
Lying in bed next to Bruce, I press my breasts against his hard, warm, and familiar chest, and tuck my chin into his shoulder for some bodily comfort.
“Bruce?” I ask in a tone of false innocence. “How intense are your sexual dreams, and how often do you have them?”
“You mean like wet dreams?” he answers, slightly embarrassed. “I haven’t had one of those since I was in boot camp with nothing but men in bunkers surrounding me, thinking about hotties like you. Though there have been a few times where I’ve fantasized about you getting your way with