I See Green

This is a creative narrative written for NWP.

I See Green

The phone rings. It startles me in the still quietness of my room. I don’t feel like talking, so I don’t bother to see who is calling. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.  I convince myself that I’ll be left alone. I haven’t really spoken to anyone since Monday. My husband has tried, but he doesn’t like to see me cry, so he mostly sits beside me on the bed. Or, like now, he just leaves me in the bedroom. To be alone.

“Can I get you something? Toast and coffee? We have the good creamer,” he says. Not really asking, talking to the wall.

“No, I’m not hungry.”

Silence enters again. When it’s still, I can forget. But the phone rings again - a sharp pierce in my ear. Why won’t everyone just leave me alone? I pull up on my elbows and squint in the harsh light from the screen. With the curtains drawn, only a sliver of sunlight slides into the room. Jillian. I should be comforted, after all, she is my dearest friend. She was there when I walked across the stage at graduation. I remember she met me on the steps outside with her big smile, proud. She was there when Lee and I took the plunge and said “I do.” I remember how we all danced and sang, and laughed. She was there when I got the promotion. I remember how we celebrated all night, until things went fuzzy. I should want to talk to her, but what should feel like a familiar shoulder now creates a burning anger. Doesn’t she know that her words can’t help me? Her “It will be okay; you’ll get past this” is worthless. Just words with no real meaning.  I am now just a hollow shell, and she is full. Those words will just fall to the black bottom. Not now, Jillian. I hit decline with a deafening click.

“Who was that, babe?” he quizzes.

“Jillian.”

“Don’t you want to talk to someone? She’s just trying to be your friend.”

“No, I’m fine.” He closes the door as he leaves me.

It’s still again. Maybe, I think, I can go back. When the quiet settles back in and the garish glare from the screen has dimmed to nothing, maybe now I can go back to the place where I was whole not just the shadow of myself I have become. Back to Monday when there was a little lifetime waiting to begin.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Nothing. Like the soft blanket that comforts a child, silence is what holds me together now. No words. Especially not words meant to comfort from someone who can’t understand. Someone who is complete where I am not.

In the void, I drift off again. Sleep creeps in, and takes me to that place where I can believe what that another will come. That place where I am not empty; that place where I am a mom. The phone rings again. It shatters my dream into pieces. The phone, a jackhammer wrecking my careful construction, continues to pound in my ears. I know who it is. What does she want me to say? I can’t put my happy voice on. That’s another part that is gone. Ignore.

The door creeks open. I can tell he’s trying to be quiet and gentle, but his voice grates.

“You’ve been sleeping all day,” he whispers. “Don’t you want to get up?”

“No, I’m fine here.”

I’m not sure how much time has passed. I think it’s dark out now. The glow from the sun behind the curtains is gone. It must be evening. I feel better at night when everything else is still and quiet, too. I can relate to this now. 1:15 a.m. my phone tells me, and six missed calls. I pull on my robe and shuffle through the house in a fog of too much sleep and tears. Everything looks the same, is in the right place, but something is different. It takes a few passes through for me to realize that something is me.

I’ve heard people say that one instance can change a person. I was always so skeptical. How can one moment do so much when I’ve spent my whole life becoming me? I have always been able to see the good, the silver lining. And I’ve never wanted anything so badly that I begrudged someone else’s happiness. But here I am in my darkest hour, green with envy. All I want is what she has. What she can’t give or share with me. I realize that this one is out of my hands. I’ve planned things and made people crazy keeping up with the plan. Now, I can no longer stay on the path I have set. In the emptiness, all I can do is pray. Pray for peace. Pray for understanding. Pray for an open heart.

I had always prayed. I am still praying. Prayers and faith are what anchor me. What hold me together and fill all of the places that have been emptied. Just before dawn everything always seems so dark; one time, I thought that was all that was left of me. Now as I listen to the melody of creaks sung by the rocking chair that my mom rocked me in, it is almost dawn. But this dawn is different. I have whispered so many prayers in my life, so many broken praises have gone up in the past eight years. But this one is different. It carries the weight of all that has been lost, and with it also, the promise of two beautiful miracles of my very own. This time, I see green but not envy. I see the future and all that they can dream. I will watch them grow. I will help them fill their emptiness when I can, and will pray with them, for them, when I can’t.

“Thank you,” I say as I breathe in the scent of him and feel his little hands curl in my hair. But I’m not talking to him. He knows.

Author's Note

I don't consider myself a writer. Publishing this here is completely out of my comfort zone. I'm trying to grow as a writer in order to help my students.