Amber

If walls could talk Amber Harbridge wouldn’t be lying dead on my carpet.

Even if I had vocal cords underneath my Benjamin Moore 1960's Mustard Yellow exterior, I don’t think I could have not talked Jake out of his crime of passion or convinced Amber not to tell Jake she needed to break up with him to focus on her marriage. Amber was too honest and straightforward of a person.

No. This is a story that goes back far before today’s events. Despite being the wallflower in the room, I saw it coming from miles away. It's a long story. One I think I need to save for another time.

But since I am not going anywhere, let me fill you in on a little tidbit.

Right before Jake left with blood splattered hands–which some Brooklynites say might help him blend into the streets of Flatbush–he let out a shriek, “I hate this apartment!”

I leapt to the conclusion that Jake hates this place because I gave him the silent treatment every time he came here. But that would be grandiose thinking for a wall, wouldn't it?

Deep down, I know he hates this apartment because Amber never stopped talking about how each nook and cranny of it and reminded her of her childhood traumas.

(Author's Note: If I don't have a compassionate tone about these events, please understand, walls don’t have a frontal cortex, so it’s hard to have true empathy, but I have always had a soft spot for Amber.)

From the beginning, I always cared deeply about Amber, and so did Jake.

When he heard about her struggles, he felt compelled to help. She would list them off: an absentee father, the hurtful outbursts from her mother, never receiving a birthday present, and the endless cycle of counselors, diagnosis, and treatments that her parents inflicted on her.

Worst of all, these days, Amber’s husband wasn’t even listening or helping her anymore. He would drown himself in craft beer and stonewall Amber’s cries for help, and tell her to “man up”.

I remember when thing were different. Amber and her husband would drink and talk about everything on their minds, and after a while, hug and go to the bedroom. Oh, those were the days. I’d hear second-hand gossip about it from the other walls for a week afterward.

The good times followed the bad times. Before, they would go out to bars on Friday nights and leave us home alone. Just me, the carpet and other walls--the walls didn’t talk much, but at least the carpet was nice to look at.

After their nights out in Williamsburg, when they returned home, they'd interrogate each other. Why did he smile at that other woman in the bar? Why did she accept a free drink from that man? Their worries would turn into wild accusations, and then escalate into shouting matches.

One day Amber said, why don’t we just stay home? We can turn up Death Cab For Cutie and The Strokes here, smoke as much weed as we want and have a party. Our neighbors are understanding, and we have this huge space my parents gave us after they retired to Sarasota.

When Amber's parents left, I remember her Dad saying they wanted a fresh start. He was fun in the beginning. He drank craft beer before it was called craft beer. When he was in a good mood, he would joke and toss out all sorts of odd expressions: “loose lips sink ships” and “the wall have ears”. He wanted to make people laugh; and if they didn’t, he would laugh himself.

I don’t have ears, but boy, did I hear a lot in this place.

When Amber was a teen, when her parents had dinner with the other parents, I’d hear her Mother tell everyone how great everything was in this family. This was in days around the beginning of the internet–I’ll never forget them drilling that hole through me.

But the next day, when Amber’s mom was home alone, she would telephone the other mothers and tell them how unhappy she was. That she didn’t find her husband attractive. Tell them about the other fathers at school who tried to talk to her, which ones found a reason to ask her phone number.

When Amber’s Dad was home alone, he would look at naked women on the computer. Back then, he didn’t know that teenage daughters understood a lot about computer and knew how to check search histories.

When the family was at home, and there wasn't a party, no one would talk. The walls would just stand there with the carpet laying down in between them, and Amber sat alone in her room.

Amber didn’t have any friends come over. Her middle school counselor said this was normal because she was on the spectrum. Her primary school counselors said she had ADHD. They kept changing her mind about "what was wrong" with Amber. I didn't think anything was wrong.

Everyone being home and no one was talking was sad. Because way, way back in the beginning, they were all so happy. Everyone was talking and each year there were new changes of furniture and interior decorating. I know, a crying baby isn’t everyone’s idea of a great time, but I didn't mind the noise. They said Amber was supposed to “make things work” and it did for a very long time, in the beginning.

My childhood? I remember a hazy, nostalgic period of peace and quiet as I slowly came to life. And then for a long time there was just the four of us, and then a carpet before the whole place suddenly sprang to life.

I see flashing lights outside. Jake’s voice is ringing out along with some others I don't know. It looks like he didn’t make it far.

Everything could have been different.

If walls could talk, I would have spoken to Amber when she was a child. Told her that that her parent's struggles are not her own. That she didn't need to carry them with her though her entire life. She could toss them off and move on. Perhaps to a yurt in Montana with the whistle of the window outside and no walls that watch.