Oil City
After three hours of overtime Sandy was beat. She took off her coat, not bothering to hang it up,
and just threw it across one of the two chairs that flanked the small, oval table that separated the dining room/kitchen and the living room.
Sylvester, sensing her presence even before she entered the apartment, was now sitting at his empty food and drink
bowls and staring up at her with hungry eyes. He meowed impatiently and with a sweeping motion rubbed his arched back against the edge of the refrigerator, saying in cat-ese, I’d do it myself if I could get this damned door open.
“Okay, okay,” she insisted. “Can’t I even get my coat off before you scold me for forgetting to fill your bowels up this morning?” She kicked off her shoes, went to the fridge and pulled out a half gallon of 2 percent milk and filled up one of the two bowls at her feet. As the cat lapped up the milk with a fervidness that was uncustomary to the otherwise lethargic feline, Sandy pulled out a bag of Purina Cat Chow from below the sink and poured it into the other bowl. Sylvester sniffed the food but promptly resumed his facial milk
bath, having decided the milk was the better choice of the two.
After attending to her poor, deprived kitty, she went into her bedroom and after relieving herself of her panty hose, plopped herself onto the bed. It filled the room with an abrading creak from its well-worn springs.
Though at the funeral home she had been too busy and too attentive of the relatives of the deceased to realize it, she was exhausted. Not physically so much as emotionally. The sleepless night had taken its toll, surely, but to see the loss and quiet anguish in the eyes of the grandson and great-grandchildren of that dear old man had put her into an especially altruistic mood. She became obsessive in her attempt to ease their pain as best she could. Now, emotionally spent, she could tell an afternoon nap was not far off.
She didn’t mind the fact that she worked her fingers to the bone. It gave her a sense of accomplishment, such as it was. Her days went by quickly, and she had no time to think about how lonely she had become. But even though she found a certain fulfillment in her work, she still felt as though parts of her soul were just draining away with no one there to stop the seepage.
She sighed and rolled onto her belly, resting her head between her hands and stared out the window blankly at the building across the street.
Today, though, she really laid on the sympathetic servitude thick. She even noticed how sickeningly sweet she had been to the grandson, John Walker, which made her cheeks flush now as she thought about it.
She wondered if he remembered her. She and John had shared the same clique of friends that hung out together in high school, though they themselves had never really talked all that much. But even being constantly around someone, as they had been in high school, its funny how the years can fog in some instances and banish altogether in others the things of the past; maybe the things not worth remembering.
She struggled to remember all the times during the day that the two had spoken: when she asked if he needed anything; how she had told him that his grandfather was a fine man, well known in the community; all the heart-felt ‘I’m sorrys’, the consoling touches on the shoulder. He had given her thanks and smiles and looks of familiarity, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him if he remembered her. She would just smile and walk away before a modest conversation could get started. She wasn’t ready for the ‘Sorry, I don’t remember you’ line. Not yet. Her self-effacing attitude towards herself still had too strong a hold on her. She decided, as she had done long ago, that she was one of the forgotten ones from high school, never to be seen nor heard of and even if happened upon by another alumni, would not be recognized. That was okay. It was a familiar role. She didn’t care, or at least that’s what she tried to make herself believe.
Things would start to look up soon. Hell, she was in better shape than she was just six months ago. And with perseverance--something that she seemed to have vast reservoirs of--she would be even better off six months from now, regardless of who did or didn’t remember her. She had to face only her reflection in the mirror each morning. You can’t put the cart before the horse, she reminded herself. Stop being so damned impatient. That’s how you got yourself in hot water before. She cringed at the unintended and equally morose pun she had just made. Be patient. You’re a good person. Of course old friends will remember you. She repeated the phrase a couple of times in her head, trying to convince herself of the fact just like her therapist had said to do, and slowly, though half-heartedly, she began to let herself believe it. “Yeah, you are a good person,” she repeated aloud. “And if you don’t like yourself how the hell are you going to find someone else who will?”
Self-esteem was such a fragile commodity. She struggled with it daily. In the beginning, when she decided to right her otherwise misguided and self-destructive life, she could not fathom herself as being good. That somehow she deserved everything she got. Though almost five months had passed since she started therapy, she’d gained remarkable strides. The emotional wounds deep within her were healing at a rate that equaled the cicatrix on her neck and arm, though sometimes when she had enough time to think--think too much--her therapeutic leaps would retrograde a few steps.
She sighed her current thoughts away. Satisfied with a good, hard day’s work she didn’t want to ruin it with self-loathing.
The bright day’s sun beat down hard through the bedroom window, casting a long shaft of abrading light into the room. She opted for a more subdued texture to the lighting in preparation for her well-needed nap, so she went to the window to draw the shade. As she did so, something in the street below caught her eye. Standing curbside across the street, dressed in a black leather coat and dark baseball cap, hair pulled to a ponytail, a man was staring up at her window. His clothing’s darkness seemed to bleed from the fabric across his features for he was well hidden in shadows and too far away to see clearly.
At first, she was unconcerned and started to resume closing her shades, but the more she looked, the more ominous the figure became. He had to realize that she knew he was watching her, and it didn’t bother him. He continued to stand motionless on the sun-streaked walkway with his head cocked up at her window. Or at least in her direction. Maybe he was looking up at something on the roof above her, she wasn’t completely sure. But just as the hair on the nape of her neck began to stand on end, the figure just turned and walked away down the block. Soon, he was completely out of sight.
Quickly, she drew the shades and pulled the curtain shut, washing the light from the room.
She returned to the bed, sitting at its edge.
Was he really staring up at me, she wondered? Did he know me? Finally, after pondering the silliness of the notion, she laughed in amusement. She had just thought about whether or not John Walker had remembered her from high school, and now all of a sudden everybody in town knows her and spends their day looking up at her window! “You’re something else, Sandy Ayotte,” she said aloud.
She nestled up at the head of the bed, plumping up an over-sized pillow. She closed her weary eyes and began to fill herself with more positive thoughts. “First, you have to like you, then others will like you.” She yawned long, heavy, never opening her eyes back up, then smiled. “And you like you so much that you’re going to treat you to a nice dinner out--after a little nap”
Within moments she began her sleep purrs, and Sylvester, licking the remnants of a milk mustache away from his whiskers, jumped up on the bed and nestled in under her neck following suit.
Even asleep, she wondered if John Walker remembered her.
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