Your Life As You Now Know
It Is Over
By
Julie Webb Kelley
- I checked into a motel in Pottstown that didn't have television
or phones, so I was in no danger of being on the Internet every
seven minutes. It was just another rural area in Kentucky where
emptiness caused you to experience time in the present and in
the past simultaneously. Being alone had its advantages, but
as I looked out the window, I wondered how far I was really willing
to go.
The rap on the door was expected.
"Dr. Stewart, it's me, Mert."
My cell phone was ready to die, so I spoke fast. "I have
to go now, Mrs. Brown. Please, just reschedule all my appointments
for another two weeks. Refer new patients to Dr. Otto if you
must. I've got to go, my phone is dying. Please don't reschedule
all of the appointments with my husband; Dr. Stewart doesn't
need the extra stress in his life right now. I'll be in touch."
I plugged in my phone and opened the door, but had no time to
say hello.
"Sorry it took so long I've been so busy. Here're the towels
and washcloths. And the Burts sent over this coupon for 10% off
your breakfast tomorrow, if you go that way in the morning, of
course." She started to leave, her words trailing after
her.
-
- "You sleep good tonight and think about trying Burt's
place, they got'em some great biscuits and gravy over there."
By 9 p.m. I was restless and had cursed this hole in America
so many times there was no way I was going to fall asleep. I
decided to go for a walk. When I opened the door the cold air
sent me back inside for another sweatshirt and a brief thought
of forgetting it all and crawling into bed. But I needed time
to think - the chilly air would force my mind to go to the places
it needed to go better than this starchy cubical could. Wasn't
that why I was here anyway, to figure out a few things?
It was darker than I would have liked, where was the moon tonight?
I looked up, couldn't see much. As I rounded the corner to downtown,
Main Street USA greeted me, holding nothing back. I thanked the
heavens that a few of the streetlamps still worked enough for
me to see the well-laid road lined by buildings sagging under
decades of clumsy inattentiveness. Even in the darkness, I could
see what it is and what it used to be. There should be a café
open for coffee, I hoped.
Pealing paint on doors, broken brick-fronts, and aged, falling
signs screamed vacancy like no flashing motel sign could hope
to match. I couldn't quite grasp the neglect of the place, how
time had been allowed to wash over it again and again leaving
it bleached and dry.
At the end of the block I crossed the intersection, just as the
streetlamp on the opposite corner blew up and went black. Startled,
I stopped dead in my tracks. That's when I saw the café,
just a half block off Main Street. I turned left, drawn by the
yellow glow spilling through the tall plate-glass windows displaying
the words LuLu's Café. I pulled the door wide as a tasty
unsavoriness soured my stomach and salivated my mouth. I looked
around.
-
- "Hey, ya," a call rang out around me.
"Hey," I mumbled, trying to find the thick voice.
-
- "Have ya a seat anywhere; I just put on some fresh coffee.
That what ya came for?"
I sat at the first booth I came to, and suddenly there she was
- the body of the voice.
"Coffee?" She asked, pushing her hair off her face.
I followed her hand across the dingy white collar as she gave
her neck a quick squeeze. After noticing eight hours worth of
business across the front of her uniform, I answered.
"Yes, coffee's what I came for. Thank you." I looked
up into a name tag that read Darlene.
"Should be ready to go," I watched her walk behind
the counter toward the coffee maker, check the flow and pick
up the pot.
"Let me freshen that, Tom." She spoke to the man at
the counter, who sat slung over a gray-blue coffee mug, with
a pile of empty Sweet-n-Low packets nearby.
Behind me, sat a young couple, couldn't be more than 20. They
slurped their malts, threw four dollars on the table and swooshed
out the door before my coffee was poured.
"Bye, Dean. Say hey to your mama for me." Darlene called
after them.
As Darlene poured the coffee, I couldn't help but ask about the
smell. "Is this a bakery too? I smell something rich and
. . ."
"Oh, my, I am so sorry. I should have offered you a piece
of pie. We go through at least 40 pies a day." Darlene's
voice sang out.
With her full frame moving quicker than I thought possible, she
was behind the counter again. "Sweetie, I have a chocolate
pie left or . . . let me see," she disappeared behind Tom,
who finally turned to see who Darlene was making all this fuse
for. "Yup, that's all, just chocolate pie left. Ya want
it?" She called out to me.
"Sure," I thought I'd better take it, since I had opened
my big mouth.
"What'd you think, Tom? You like the chocolate pie pretty
well don't ya?" She asked him as she produced a plate, a
fork and a slice of pie with three separate and distinct loud
noises.
"Best pie in town," Tom swung around on the stool and
crossed his arms over his chest as if challenging me to doubt
him.
"I'm sure it is at that." I decided to oblige the old
fellow and fit a gooey, dark forkful into my mouth without any
reservations. I rolled my eyes in delight. Darlene smiled as
if a victory had been won. Tom just sat there.
"You enjoy that, honey, I gotta get this place cleaned up
if'n I want to be home by 11 o'clock." Darlene disappeared.
Tom slid off the stool, picked up his gray-blue coffee mug and
joined me. My mouth was full of savory chocolate; all I could
do was swallow.
"Where you from, young lady?" He asked as he settled
in.
"40 years old is not young. I drove over from Cypress Town."
I took a sip of coffee.
"Long ways from here," Tom took a gulp of coffee.
"Only a few hours, maybe more."
"You got business in Pottstown?" He asked.
I smiled and pushed my hand toward him. "Dr. Katrina Stewart,
call me Kat, please."
"Dr. Kat. I'm Tom, nice to meet you." He gave my hand
a fast squeeze with his cold fingers. But the introduction-as-a-decoy
ploy didn't work.
"So, what brought you to Pottstown? Did I see you checking
in at Mert's when I made my rounds this evening?"
"Your rounds?"
"Sheriff Tom checks in on every business every night, rain
or shine." Darlene sang out from behind the counter that
she was cleaning furiously.
"Sheriff Tom? I see. Where's your uniform?" I smiled.
"That's for the young ones, the Deputy and the Officers.
I like my flannel shirt and my jeans, they do me just fine."
He swallowed the last of the coffee and called to Darlene for
a refill. "Just one more cup, Dar." Then let his gaze
rest on my head. I knew he was waiting for the answer to his
original question.
"This is great pie, Darlene," I said when she filled
our mugs.
"What are ya doing in a place like Pottstown?" She
asked.
"Just went for a drive today and this is where I ended up,
Pottstown." My voice had betrayed me by sounding too happy
and too matter-of-fact. I silently cursed myself and finished
my pie.
"Sure, because everyone ends up in Pottstown sooner or later,"
Darlene laughed as she returned to her cleaning duties with a
few loud bangs and a long scrapping sound that made my skin crawl.
Tom didn't buy it though. He was mixing more pink packets of
fake sugar into his coffee when he said, "Trouble at home?"
I ran the first finger of my right hand around the top of my
mug and finally looked up at him.
"No, I'm not some kind of psychic." He smiled the words
out. "I've seen the look before."
"The look?"
"That searching look that you're always trying to shorten
and pull back to yourself."
I sighed. "Guilty as charged." I raised my hands in
a mock surrender. "Guess I was just feeling stuck, missing
what used to be . . . believe it or not, Pottstown is a step
up for me." I laughed, but it didn't convince anyone of
anything.
I tried again. "You know, it's like that line from the movie
'The Firm,' when that guy said "Your life as you know it
is over.' Well, it's true sometimes."
"I don't watch movies." Tom rearranged his long legs
under the table.
I tried one more time. "Let me explain it to you this way.
I'm an ophthalmologist and . . ."
"An eye doctor?" He sat forward again. Now I had his
attention.
"Have you ever heard of implicit sight?" I didn't wait
for him to shake his head no.
"It's when the visual parts in the cerebral cortex get knocked
out but not the visual centers in the subcortex. What happens
is, visual signals are perceived and responded to but none of
that perception reaches the consciousness. So, you were right
. . . there have been a lot of changes at home . . . disconnections,
I guess you could call it. And my brain keeps reaching and responding
because somewhere inside it's just not getting through to my
heart that . . . life as I knew it is now over."
We sat in silence for several minutes. And strangely, Tom didn't
ask anymore questions. He drank his coffee and we talked about
artificial sweeteners and cafés that close too early on
Friday nights.
"It's 10 o'clock, I gotta get the front door locked,"
Darlene was rattling some keys. "You two want in or out?"
"Already?" Tom winked at Darlene.
I looked at the green paper that Darlene had left on the table,
dropped some singles on top of it and got up while Tom finished
our conversation, "Don't worry about me and those little
pink sugar packets, they might do me more good than harm and
keep me around longer than I ought to be." He slid out of
the booth and followed me out the door, thanking Darlene and
wishing her a good evening.
"What is it about Pottstown? Why are you here?" I asked
as we walked toward Main Street.
His gate was uneven, his shoulders stooped, and his hair wiry.
"What is it about Pottstown?" He repeated the question
like he'd heard it wrong.
"I just mean . . . well, look at this place. There's just
not much here." I swooped my arm toward the drained buildings
of Main Street as we approached. Then, I stopped suddenly.
Looming above me was the most spectacular display of Art Deco
I had ever seen. Rising some three stories toward the sky, the
old movie theater, although forgotten and broken, shone perfectly
in the overcast of the surrounding streetlights. How had I missed
it coming down this street before?
"This place was something in its day," Tom nodded.
"Wow, I can hardly believe that it's here in the middle
of this wasted little town and that no one has taken the time
to . . ." I stopped myself, but not soon enough.
I looked at Tom. He had continued walking.
"I'm sorry, Sheriff Tom, I didn't mean it the way it came
out," I stumbled after him.
"You came to Pottstown looking for answers. I don't know
that we have any answers, but I do know this," he paused,
looking back at the old theater. "It's just a simple town
with simple people. When we open our eyes each morning, it's
upon a world that we've spent a lifetime learning to see. We're
not given the world any more than you are. We each make our own
world through experience, memory, and connections." His
words made him smile and correct himself, "No, reconnections"
He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, "Mert's place is
just around the corner there. You take care, young lady. Hope
you find what you're looking for."
Leaving me at the corner of Main Street and 4th Avenue, Tom took
long strides back up Main Street. A block away I saw the lights
on the signs of the motel blinking simultaneously, first a yellow-neon
'Mert's Motel' followed by an orange-neon 'Vacancy'.
When I turned to call after Tom, he had disappeared.
I wondered back toward a few of the old buildings. Rubbing my
hand across the chipped wood fronts, I wondered about the strange
mixture of the 'thens' and the 'nows' of life and how the shifting
of time binds them together. My fingers ran across a metal plate
that read 1940.
Tears stung my eyes as I looked through a dusty window. It was
as if Pottstown had grown cataracts, never recognizing that the
familiar face of the town had blurred to a smear of light and
shadow. I can't wait to be able to forget the past like this,
I thought. I gave up wiping at my eyes and let the tears pour
across my face.
My thoughts were suddenly jolted to a stop as a popping and hissing
sound above my head made me look up. The streetlamp next to me
exploded, shattering glass down on my head. I stifled a scream
and covered my face too late. Looking back up, I was stunned
by the shape of the lamp post. The beautiful curves and the skillful
grooves caught my attention for the first time. This place really
was beautiful once, I thought.
Tom's words rang in my head, "connections. No, reconnections
. . . we've spent a lifetime learning to see . . ."
Wow, to think how time had flooded this place leaving it stark
and bare, changing everything so slowly that the people had never
learned to see what was left behind. Will it take me that long?
I thought. Will it take decades and decades before time either
changes my perception or leaves me alone?
I laughed aloud at myself. It was no wonder I couldn't make any
sense of life anymore. The experiences and the meanings I had
used to make sense of my world were gone. I needed to reconnect
just like Tom said. For the first time in months I felt that
maybe time could heal, it could do more than leave me drained
and empty.
This unexpected splurge of hope felt strange, I couldn't remember
the last time I had looked ahead.
Running back to Mert's left me out of breath. I burst into the
small front office. Mert sat on the tiny couch talking with a
man in uniform who was leaning against the counter. His badge
read, Deputy Nate. Mert sat up to attention when she saw me.
"What's all the fuss? And what's happened to your face?"
She asked, rising to get a cold compress from the back room.
"What's happened," Deputy Nate postured himself for
a response as Mert returned with the compress and sat me on the
couch where she had been sitting.
I addressed the deputy, "A streetlamp just exploded above
my head. And, I talked to Sheriff Tom for a while at LuLu's,
he's great. And Darlene served me the most wonderful chocolate
pie I have ever had in my life . . . and, I've got to get some
sleep, I've got to go home tomorrow." I stopped. They were
both staring at me, like I had lost my mind.
"Honey, you feeling alright?" Mert asked.
"Sure," I smiled, pulling the compress off the side
of my face and seeing the blood for the first time.
"Do you know what time it is?" Mert asked.
"Just after 10 o'clock." For the first time I could
feel the inflammation on my face rising and the blood dripping.
They looked at each other as my eyes found the clock behind the
small counter. It read 3:54 a.m.
"You're tired, aren't you?" Mert looked concerned.
"But I'm afraid that face might need a doctor."
"That clock's not right," I argued.
"Ma'am, my shift is up at five. That clock better be right."
The deputy declared as he double-checked his wrist watch.
The two looked at each other again. "Can I take you over
to Roadstown? Next town over, they got a hospital with an emergency
room and everything. I can take you in my squad car."
"I don't need a doctor. My face," I looked at the compress
again, "it's not that bad."
Mert patted me on the back. "You're just confused, honey.
You probably just need someone to talk to, seeing a doctor might
do you some good."
I stood up, "I'm going to my room."
"Dr. Stewart, I think you should know something." Mert
had taken a few steps after me. I stopped but hung on to the
door to steady myself. "LuLu's place hasn't been open for
years, and Sheriff Tom, well he's . . ."
She looked at the deputy, who finished her sentence, "he's
been dead for almost 40 years now."
I knew they were kidding me; I could still taste the coffee and
the chocolate pie in my mouth. My hand flew to my shoulder, I
could still feel the weight of Tom's hand there. I could still
hear his words, "Hope you find what you're looking for."
I didn't look at either one of them as I let the door fall shut
behind me.
When I got back to my room, the clock by the bed read 4:00 a.m.
I sat down next to the table with a tiny lamp that held a weak
40-watt bulb. I wiped a coat of dust off of the graduation picture
of Anna that I always kept with me, while I picked up my cell
phone and saw the missed call. I recognized the number immediately,
Murray. In less than a minute I was listening to a voicemail
from my husband, it was the same message he'd been leaving everyday
for the last two weeks: "It's impossible to forget her,
please come home. I love you."
I wrapped my arms around the picture of my beautiful daughter
and lay down on the bed abandoning the glimpse of hope I had
laughed with earlier. Reality set in again as I realized that
when Anna died I had lost not only my past but my future. I waited
there on the bed in a motel in Pottstown, Kentucky. Waited for
time to weaken my memories and dull my perceptions. I waited
for time to leave me as washed and worn as it had left Pottstown.
The End
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