The Walls Know

If walls could talk, and they probably can, what would happen if we listened? It was a question posed at the meeting today. We were searching for a new angle to attract a luxury home builder to our ad agency. It stuck with me, and I couldn’t shake it. It seemed like it was a dumb idea, mostly because it was Stan’s, and his ideas usually were out in leftfield. But it played in my brain for the rest of the day.

Like many of us, I breathed a sigh of relief when I got home and firmly closed the door against the outside world. I enjoyed the silence for a while, but then the noise in my head seeped through and took over. Work issues, family troubles, idle gossip, and the day’s news jockeyed for attention. I tried to prioritize what needed to be dealt with, but it was all a jumble.

Time to put the music on and turn it up loud. My playlist on shuffle kept my thoughts at bay. I danced as I made dinner, chopping random veggies into a bowl, along with cubes of ham, shredded cheese, and a hard-boiled egg. As I whipped up a vinaigrette, a familiar melody started, too familiar. The tears fell, the memories too fresh. I stabbed at the buttons on the remote until a disco beat came on. Images of dancing flashed in my brain. We were together and happy then. I turned off the music and took my salad to the couch.

At first, the silence was welcoming, but then it began to feel heavier, oppressive. I strained to hear something, anything. There was a small cracking noise. I looked around and saw a tiny crack in the wall under a window. I heard a child’s voice, “Mommy, come look! It’s snowing. Can we make a snowman together?”

I shook it off and told myself, “There are no voices in the wall. You’re just tired and emotional; pull it together.” I concentrated on my salad, coating each bite in dressing, savoring the combination of flavors.

I heard a door open and close. I looked around, but there was no one there. The child said, “Daddy, you’re home! Come watch the snow with me.”

I put my salad down and walked to the window. I ran my hand over the tiny crack in the wall. Nothing happened.

As I turned to walk away, I heard a familiar voice say, “Where’s your mother? I’ve missed her.”

I tried to place how I knew the voice. But then I heard another. “Stan, I’m so glad you’re home. How was your trip?”

That voice, the nuances, the tone. It was mine! I tried to process what this meant. Stan? Stan from work? Yes, that was his voice. We’re together and have a child? What was happening?

I quickly sat down on the couch because my head was spinning. I tried to rationalize what had just happened. Fatigue was the obvious answer, plain old burnout.

A rustling noise attracted my attention. A union of voices from every corner of the room came together. “Trust and have faith.”

I was suddenly exhausted, yet I felt a sense of relief. I put my salad in the fridge and got ready for bed. Under the duvet, I pondered my odd evening. I was probably just delusional, yet I felt better than I had in a long time. As I closed my eyes, I thought, “I’m not sure if walls can talk, but if they do, apparently they can also predict the future.”

Just before I nodded off, I made a mental note to be nicer to Stan.