Becoming Madeline

Late spring in the Pacific Northwest can turn on you. The wind is sharp and cold, biting at my neck, and I realize the sun’s sultry dance through my windows earlier was brilliant cat-fishing. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up and shove my fists into the front pocket.

Walking up the street, I keep my eyes down and take inventory of tiny things like rocks and leaves on the sidewalk. I can’t make eye contact with anyone I pass on the street because I’m sure that whatever I’m doing right now is wrong in some way. I’m grateful for a brilliant blue sky that make my dark sunglasses necessary, so no one can see my eyes dart from side to side in panic. It’s 2 pm and I’m only just now leaving the house. I’m probably the only person on this street right now that hasn’t accomplished anything yet today. Have I even accomplished anything this week? Yes. I remind myself that I emptied the litter box yesterday, and two days ago I took the recycling out to the street. I would probably mow the lawn later too and that counted as exercise. I feel pathetic.

The main street is busy and makes me painfully aware of how miserable I feel, so I measure the distance until I can turn down the side street by the number of songs playing through my headphones. Four and a half songs. Turning left the side street stretches out in front of me, and now I can measure progress by how quickly the entrance to the park appears before me. It’s still several yards away, so I stare down at my feet and count ten steps. Then I look up and it’s a little closer now. I look down at my feet again. One, two, three, four... back up to ten. Ten is as far as I can count before I need to look back up again. How about now, how close am I?

The sidewalk ends, and with a quick climb upwards I’ve reached the edge of a dog park, set into the gentle incline of a mountain. The smell of rank animal feces chokes me as I step through the gate. I’ve been to a lot of dog parks for someone that’s never owned a dog, and this is one of the better ones. There is nothing like the sweet, honest nature of a dog. They love, and they play. They explore and take in the world around them with innocence and gusto. Life is good when you have nothing to do but be a dog in a park.

My cell phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my back pocket. It wasn’t the long, double buzz of a text message. It was short and barely noticeable, like someone flipping a page in a book. I knew there would be a little red circle above my email icon. There was. A huge smile spreads across my face and my stomach and heart snap together like a rubber band, the twang reverberating down my spine.

I open my email and his name is there at the top in thick, blue letters. His name, his name. My tongue flicks delightfully off the roof of my mouth when I say it. When I allow myself to say it.

A cairn terrier and border collie rocket past my legs, nearly knocking into me. “Sorry!” a pet parent calls out to me, and I smile and shake my head as if to say, no problem at all! My lover has just sent me a letter, all is right in the world!

I turn my attention back to my phone.

“My love,” it begins. The blood rushes to my cheek and heat rises around my neck. “Thank you for the pictures yesterday! You look amazing! Your smile lit up my whole day...” I smile again now and light up the whole park. I was easily the happiest person here, everyone else looks so drab and pointless in comparison. My secret is my happiness. My happiness is my secret... love.

The message continues, “I want so badly for you to come over to watch a movie with me tonight, but she’s decided not to leave town after all. I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you. I want to come visit you at work tomorrow and buy you all of those dresses. Maybe we’ll find a new purse to match? I’m so sorry… I can’t believe she’s doing this…” My eyes bore into the words, she’s decided not to leave town. This can’t be true; it doesn’t make any sense. The universe doesn’t want him to stay with her, so why is this happening? He doesn’t belong to her anymore so why is she… still… here...?

My jaw sets and my eyes narrow. I am not the light in this park anymore, I am the darkness. I look at all the other people around me, simple and dull. Don’t they know that if I really wanted to, I could reach out my hand and draw all the joy and happiness out of their miserable lives? If I really wanted to give in… to the darkness. But the dogs, I could never scare the dogs like that. So, I scream inside my head and shove my phone back in my pocket. I’d had enough, I decided. Sometimes nature needed some help, and I knew I was ready assist. I turn on my heel and walk home. In my mind’s eye, my shadow self walks behind me; twelve feet tall and cloaked in darkness. My feet crack into the pavement with each thundering step.

This has to be a test. That’s it. The universe was just testing me. Are you brave enough? It was asking. Are you strong enough? Are you ready? I was.

As soon as I reach my front door my phone buzzes to life with another message.

“I’m going to the pool hall tonight… will you meet me there?” he asks.

“What time?” I type.

His reply came immediately, “10 pm.”

I pass the next several hours in my bedroom, anxiously searching books of rituals. I light candle after candle, burn sage, and arrange crystals into different patterns and clusters. I layer spell upon spell, apprehensively wondering if I’ve cast too many. Have I muddied the cosmos with incantations? I hope not. I place a few special stones into my pockets, satisfied that I have prepared myself sufficiently.

*****

If the air had been biting before, now several hours after the sun had set it was ravenous. I pull my stocking cap lower over my ears as I step out of my house for the second time that day. The drive is so short that my car has only started to warm up as I park parallel to the curb. This is not a particularly nice neighborhood, so the massive house stands out in an aggressive way. I love how it looks from the street though; I didn’t want to change a thing. The inside was a different matter, tacky and not to my taste at all. I’d calculated his income so many times in my head, and though it was fantastically high I knew that a complete interior overhaul would stretch the bank account. It will only be a temporary discomfort, I thought.

The windows on the main floor are dark. I turn my car off and listen to the engine tick. I’m surprised at how quickly the temperature inside my car drops and shove my hands between my thighs trying to keep the chill out. Suddenly, I’m not sure how to begin. I decide I will count to 100, although I’m not exactly sure what for. I begin to count; one… two… three…

When I reach sixty, the small light next to the master bedroom lights up. In my mind’s eye I can see the layout of the upstairs floor and know that it is coming from the master bath. Sixty-one… sixty-two… sixty-three…

I reach one hundred and the bathroom light is still on.

Big trees heavy with new leaves choke the streetlamp overhead so that I’m able to reach the edge of the property by way of a shadowed path. The manicured lawn has already collected a thin layer of dew, and children’s toys lay scattered across it. Ghastly plastic things, all brightly colored with big, round parts. My nose wrinkles. I detest children’s toys, growing like open sores around a house. That’s one thing I will absolutely have to change. No more toys just lying about! I tell myself decidedly.

I would prefer to stay as far away from the front porch as possible; but knowing my shoes will leave marks in the wet grass, I trot quickly up the walkway to the front door and make a sharp right onto the side path that leads around the side of the house. I reach over the fence and unlatch the gate from the other side. If the children’s toys are a pox on the front lawn, in the back they are terminal. But, I thought, that’s ok for the backyard. Children’s toys belong in the backyard. I’m pleased with myself for being so accommodating.

The spare key is too easy to find under the doormat. Why do people still do this? I wonder. I slip the key into the lock and slowly turn the handle. The doorknob slides silently, and with a pop! the latch bolt relents. I hold my breath. Silence. I slowly push the door open. Pulling my sleeve down over my hands I wipe the doorknob off.

The kitchen is still warm and buzzing with recent use. It’s spacious and opens into the living room in one direction, and formal dining room in the other. Silently, I walk up to the massive kitchen island on which stands an opened bottle of wine. Lifting the bottle to my nose, I draw in the scent. It smells expensive. I run the tip of my tongue along the bottle’s mouth and taste the sweet red wine. Family photos decorate the fridge, pudgy smiling faces of children, a trip to the beach, a Christmas photo with “Season’s Greetings”. I reach out delicately to touch one. I would save these, I decide, and put them into a photo album. One day we would all gather around and look back at the memories with bittersweetness.

My phone buzzes. An email.

“I’m here, are you coming?” I close the screen and slip it back into my pocket.

Moving through the living room, I reach the bottom of the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. I pause and listen. The silence crackles in my ears. I slowly climb the stairs, each step soft and calculated. My heartbeat quickens in my chest and sends tiny jolts of electricity through my veins with each beat. The stairs turn a corner, and again I pause to listen. Running water is coming from behind the double doors on the left. Soft, twinkling lullaby music drifts from under the cracks of the doors on the right. My heartbeat is now audible in my ears and my skin prickles as the hairs stand up on end. A light sweat brakes out over my palms.

The thick carpet muffles my steps as I slowly approach the double doors. I reach a hand up to the doorknob and hesitate, trying to visualize the route through the impressive master bedroom, around the four-post bed frame, past the armoire dresser and into the bathroom. The double doors into the bedroom were on the same wall as the entrance to the bathroom, so I knew I would be out of sight. I push the bedroom door open and tighten my muscles. The light from the bathroom spills across the king-size bed, which lay tousled and empty. I slip into the bedroom and silently shut the door behind me. Steam from the shower shimmers in the light, bringing the smell of lavender into the room. I inhale the scent deeply. I approach the armoire and run my fingers over its top. Several pairs of earrings sit in a delicate porcelain dish. Little trinkets and baubles in tiny, valuable piles. I pluck a pair of pearl earrings out of the dish. Pearls, once part of a living organism. As such, they contained the essence of life itself. My own ears had never been pierced; I don’t know why. I never got around to it, I suppose.

I pull the back off the earing and examine the sharp prong. Lifting it to my own, smooth earlobe, I press firmly against my skin. A wincing pain and popping sound; once, and then again, as the jewelry enters and exits my skin. Securing the stud in place, I take the other earring and stab it through my other lobe.

Just then, the water turns off. I hear the shower door open and close. I slip my hand into my coat pocket and wrap my fingers around the handle of the object inside. Even without lifting it I can feel its weight.

The muffled sounds of towels gathering come from inside the warm, wet, sweet-smelling room. I take a step closer and stand just outside the lighted doorway. For some reason, I begin counting again.

I had only reached 15 before the first bare foot crosses through the doorway. I look down at the foot; white, wet skin with dark nail polish, and estimate how a 5-foot 3-inch frame would measure up against my own 5’9 build. In one motion I pull the knife from my pocket, firmly grasping the handle, and with the frenzied strength of insatiable predator plunge the steel tip into the soft, delicate torso. I hold it for just an instant and we both look down, you in horror, me in sovereignty. Then, I recoil my arm and thrust again. And again. Florets of red blossom into great, majestic peonies against the white towel.

You gasp, and clutch the towel at your chest, as though pulling a shield around you. You begin to choke. Sweet, thick red wine bubbles up from your throat as you slowly sink to the floor. Thinking quickly, I push hard against you with my foot, pushing you back into the bathroom lest you stain my new carpet. I stare down at you, knees bent at awkward angles, curly red hair tangled, still wet and clinging to your face and neck. I am embarrassed for you, to be seen like this.

I close the bathroom door and give a loud, audible exhale. Noticing the small crystal lamps on each side of the bed, I click one on and survey the room. Piles of laundry have collected on most of the surfaces, shoes carelessly tossed in corners. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. What a missed opportunity, I think. I’m glad to be taking all this off your hands. And that was the very last thought I gave you for the rest of the night.

I walk back over to the armoire and, taking a guess, pull open the top left drawer. Smiling, I look down at the pile of lace and satin with the adoration of a new mother basking in the glow of her progeny. Black being the obvious choice given the situation, I select a floor length sheer satin nightgown, with a scalloped lace bust. I peel off my coat, jeans and t-shirt and toss them in a pile along with the other clothes to be thrown out, then slip the negligée over my head. The satin softly kisses my chest and hips as it falls around me. I examine my reflection in the floor length mirror, pulling my dark hair back and admiring how well the pearl earrings compliment the delicate sleepwear.

Just then I hear a car door slam. Looking outside, I see him exiting a taxi and making his way to the front door. I think about how many more times I’m going to be looking down on this man, from this very window, as he comes home to me each day after work. I think about how I’ll be able to rush down the stairs and throw myself into his arms each night, and we’ll make dinner together and share a sophisticated cocktail after the children are in bed, with a fire in the fireplace. And I’ll curl up to next to him as he strokes my hair softly and whispers “how did I get so lucky?” And I’ll smile to myself because I know exactly how he got so lucky.

With a giggle of excitement, I crawl into our bed, pulling the cover up to the top of my head. I almost forget about the bedside light, and reach an arm out from the thick comforter to flip the switch off. I hear the front door shut and know that soon soft feet will be shuffling up the stairs. I close my eyes and begin to count. One… two… three… four… five… six… I slowly drift off to sleep as I count, the glow of a well-accomplished day warming behind my eyelids.