Play & Book Excerpts
Every Room Remembers
(Sibylline Digital First)
© Tara Badstubner
SJ
The day after Wyatt’s death, in the early morning hours, I forced myself off the couch and made my way toward the bathroom. As I staggered through the hallway, I felt for the solid walls on either side of me. Then I saw that the cabinet was open, its glass fronts wide, and the fighting conch shell lay on the floor, unharmed, sitting in the middle of the slate tiles as if a crab still haunted its environs and had grown tired of the cabinet and decided to venture out. I remember asking out loud, “How did you get here?” I considered for a moment whether I had opened the cabinet the day before, but no, I was sure I hadn’t touched the cabinet for weeks. I picked up the conch and studied its interior, looking for some reason for its movement, but saw nothing. Back into the cabinet I placed the conch in the spot it always occupied and closed the cabinet fronts.
I called out, “Wyatt?”
I felt, for a fleeting moment, that I wasn’t alone, but my voice echoed through the house, and no one answered. There was just the clicking sound of Hawk’s nails on the slate as he followed after me.
--
They arrived that night, Mae and Cole, my younger sister and her husband, but not Jane, my niece. Jane, we decided, was too young to process Wyatt’s funeral, so she stayed behind in Beaufort with friends. There is no playbook on how to aid someone buffeted by the intense shock waves of sudden loss. In hindsight, I see that Mae was doing her best to show up. I was an injured animal, primitive, lashing out, rejecting any touch or kindness, wanting my home free of unwanted interlopers or the curious acquaintance. Mae cleaned, cooked, sat with the people who arrived at our door, finalized decisions and arrangements for the funeral that I couldn’t even think about, even changed the bedding, and somehow that--that nearly did me in. I had been sleeping on the couch since Wyatt’s death, and Mae and Cole had taken the guest room, but one morning, I saw our bedroom door open, and there was Mae, kindly stripping the old linens to wash them and replace them with clean ones.
I stood at the doorway, frozen. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I thought I’d change out the bedding, do a little cleaning,” she said, looking up at me with a smile.
“Stop,” I said. “Put it back.”
She paused, a corner of the sheet in her hand. “SJ . . .” she began, her eyes full of concern.
“No!” I barked. “Just put it back.”
“Okay, but can I throw out all of this?” she said, and turned to point at the multiple amber bottles on Wyatt’s side table, each bottle there to manage his depression, or to manage the symptoms caused by the meds that supposedly managed his depression.
“No, Mae. Don’t touch a damn thing.”
She put both her hands up as if to protect herself. “Okay, okay. I just thought you wouldn’t want to be reminded of all of this,” she said, pointing at the bottles. “At least that aspect is over, you know? Wyatt’s not having to battle depression anymore.”
“All of that, Mae, all of that—shows how he battled for me. He battled for me! You have no idea.” I started to cry.
“You’re right,” she said. “He did battle, he did. I was just trying to make it easier for you. I’m sorry.” Mae put the pillows back on the bed, smoothed the old linen.
This surge of anger and regret, watching her put the bed right.
“I’m going for a ride,” I said, and didn’t wait for Mae’s response.
Down the stairs and through the kitchen, I found Hawk at his water bowl. I whispered, “Come on, boy,” and he fell in behind me. The two of us walked into the mudroom, where I found the car keys and Wyatt’s barn coat, and then out the door before anyone had a chance to ask where I was going or if I wanted their company. I opened the passenger door for Hawk, and without a word, he jumped in as he had hundreds of times before, expectant.
Midmorning, a perfect fall day. A honeyed, subdued light hinted that days of warmth were fast approaching an end. A perfect fall day—without Wyatt.
--
WYATT
A knock at the door rolled through the house. Then silence. Another knock, this one louder. Hawk sat up from the floor, his ears arched. He looked toward the door and back to SJ. But she didn’t even sit up, her head thrown back on the armrest of the couch, her hair spilling over the side, her long body lengthwise. But her eyes—her eyes were open. I knew SJ heard him.
Then he yelled, “SJ, please let me in. I know you’re home.”
Mike. It was Mike standing at the door with a bag of groceries.
I tried to communicate to her by sheer energy: No one is coming, SJ. This is it. Open the damn door and let him in.
She blinked but didn’t stir.
“SJ, please let me know you’re okay. We need to talk.”
Hawk whimpered and looked at her. Standing, he padded over and nudged her arm with his long snout, his warm nose. Then he sat, his brown eyes fixed on her. He whimpered once more.
She was lifeless except for long blinks, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Mike tried again. “SJ, please talk to me. Or don’t. Just let me see you. You’re my friend, too. Remember?” There was a long pause. Waiting. Mike looked through the sidelights of the door, moving the groceries to a hip, hoping to see her. Finally: “I’m going to go, but there are groceries on the porch. I bought your favorites,” he said. “Please call me. We need to talk. It can be three in the morning, I don’t care.”
I wanted to call after Mike, ask him not to leave her this way. In this moment, I understood the smallness of our life. A good life, but small. No mother, no father, no friends coming to save her. It was too much for her alone. Too much for me.
The day after Wyatt’s death, in the early morning hours, I forced myself off the couch and made my way toward the bathroom. As I staggered through the hallway, I felt for the solid walls on either side of me. Then I saw that the cabinet was open, its glass fronts wide, and the fighting conch shell lay on the floor, unharmed, sitting in the middle of the slate tiles as if a crab still haunted its environs and had grown tired of the cabinet and decided to venture out. I remember asking out loud, “How did you get here?” I considered for a moment whether I had opened the cabinet the day before, but no, I was sure I hadn’t touched the cabinet for weeks. I picked up the conch and studied its interior, looking for some reason for its movement, but saw nothing. Back into the cabinet I placed the conch in the spot it always occupied and closed the cabinet fronts.
I called out, “Wyatt?”
I felt, for a fleeting moment, that I wasn’t alone, but my voice echoed through the house, and no one answered. There was just the clicking sound of Hawk’s nails on the slate as he followed after me.
--
They arrived that night, Mae and Cole, my younger sister and her husband, but not Jane, my niece. Jane, we decided, was too young to process Wyatt’s funeral, so she stayed behind in Beaufort with friends. There is no playbook on how to aid someone buffeted by the intense shock waves of sudden loss. In hindsight, I see that Mae was doing her best to show up. I was an injured animal, primitive, lashing out, rejecting any touch or kindness, wanting my home free of unwanted interlopers or the curious acquaintance. Mae cleaned, cooked, sat with the people who arrived at our door, finalized decisions and arrangements for the funeral that I couldn’t even think about, even changed the bedding, and somehow that--that nearly did me in. I had been sleeping on the couch since Wyatt’s death, and Mae and Cole had taken the guest room, but one morning, I saw our bedroom door open, and there was Mae, kindly stripping the old linens to wash them and replace them with clean ones.
I stood at the doorway, frozen. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“I thought I’d change out the bedding, do a little cleaning,” she said, looking up at me with a smile.
“Stop,” I said. “Put it back.”
She paused, a corner of the sheet in her hand. “SJ . . .” she began, her eyes full of concern.
“No!” I barked. “Just put it back.”
“Okay, but can I throw out all of this?” she said, and turned to point at the multiple amber bottles on Wyatt’s side table, each bottle there to manage his depression, or to manage the symptoms caused by the meds that supposedly managed his depression.
“No, Mae. Don’t touch a damn thing.”
She put both her hands up as if to protect herself. “Okay, okay. I just thought you wouldn’t want to be reminded of all of this,” she said, pointing at the bottles. “At least that aspect is over, you know? Wyatt’s not having to battle depression anymore.”
“All of that, Mae, all of that—shows how he battled for me. He battled for me! You have no idea.” I started to cry.
“You’re right,” she said. “He did battle, he did. I was just trying to make it easier for you. I’m sorry.” Mae put the pillows back on the bed, smoothed the old linen.
This surge of anger and regret, watching her put the bed right.
“I’m going for a ride,” I said, and didn’t wait for Mae’s response.
Down the stairs and through the kitchen, I found Hawk at his water bowl. I whispered, “Come on, boy,” and he fell in behind me. The two of us walked into the mudroom, where I found the car keys and Wyatt’s barn coat, and then out the door before anyone had a chance to ask where I was going or if I wanted their company. I opened the passenger door for Hawk, and without a word, he jumped in as he had hundreds of times before, expectant.
Midmorning, a perfect fall day. A honeyed, subdued light hinted that days of warmth were fast approaching an end. A perfect fall day—without Wyatt.
--
WYATT
A knock at the door rolled through the house. Then silence. Another knock, this one louder. Hawk sat up from the floor, his ears arched. He looked toward the door and back to SJ. But she didn’t even sit up, her head thrown back on the armrest of the couch, her hair spilling over the side, her long body lengthwise. But her eyes—her eyes were open. I knew SJ heard him.
Then he yelled, “SJ, please let me in. I know you’re home.”
Mike. It was Mike standing at the door with a bag of groceries.
I tried to communicate to her by sheer energy: No one is coming, SJ. This is it. Open the damn door and let him in.
She blinked but didn’t stir.
“SJ, please let me know you’re okay. We need to talk.”
Hawk whimpered and looked at her. Standing, he padded over and nudged her arm with his long snout, his warm nose. Then he sat, his brown eyes fixed on her. He whimpered once more.
She was lifeless except for long blinks, the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Mike tried again. “SJ, please talk to me. Or don’t. Just let me see you. You’re my friend, too. Remember?” There was a long pause. Waiting. Mike looked through the sidelights of the door, moving the groceries to a hip, hoping to see her. Finally: “I’m going to go, but there are groceries on the porch. I bought your favorites,” he said. “Please call me. We need to talk. It can be three in the morning, I don’t care.”
I wanted to call after Mike, ask him not to leave her this way. In this moment, I understood the smallness of our life. A good life, but small. No mother, no father, no friends coming to save her. It was too much for her alone. Too much for me.
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Tara Badstubner lives in Pennsylvania and is busy creating her next novel surrounded by her husband, children, grandbabies, and several silly dogs. “Every Room Remembers” is her debut novel. Tara is a former artist-in-residence for Bookgardan.
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Tara Badstubner
Photo Courtesy: Tara Badstubner |
