Jessica Binkley

The List

I closed the notebook, its black cover smooth under my calloused hands. Hands which I closely examined, each tiny line a representation of the pain I felt. A thousand tiny cuts. Wounds that never closed. Its not what I wrote about though when I sat cross legged on the floor across from the washing machine. I watched it spin in circles, the clothes soggy and soapy slapping against the clear glass door mesmerizing me into a state of mind where I could detach and make the lists of things I needed to finish before the BIG DAY. I gave myself a solid 6 months to execute them all and once a week I sat with my pen and black notebook, the one that never left my side. Diligently I checked items off my list and made sure I was not forgetting anything. The black ink ran in a few spots where large tear drops had fallen, until the washing machine lulled me back into my detachment. Line one read “fix the car serpentine belt” line two read “have the piano tuned”. Each line dutifully scratched through. All but two lines remained and 4 weeks until all the lines would not matter anymore. The two items left required me to fix the floorboards around the fireplace and that required tools and spending time on my hands and knees; something I was not looking forward to but as I stared into the darkness of the spinning washer, I reminded myself it wouldn’t matter in a few weeks. The pain would go away, the loneliness gone like a ghost in the night, its vapors extinguished. I decided I would start that project first and went to work gathering tools. Each tool a memory of a life I no longer lived. A sharp reminder of music playing and laughter always in the background. If I focused, I could hear my own laughter. See myself head thrown back laughing hysterically calling tools by the wrong names. I ran my fingers over the etching of his initials in the handle; P.W. I wanted to scream out and throw the tool through the picture window, but something snapped me back. I thought of my notebook and regained focus because the only thing that mattered was finishing the list in time. I wiped my face catching a glimpse of it in the mirror hanging above the piano snuggly set next to the fireplace. I saw a ghost. A shell of someone I once knew and couldn’t linger there staring. I spent hours once tracing the lines of my face in the mirror searching for one I recognized. Something, anything that made me who I know I used to be. The floor was uneven, if a marble dropped it would roll to the opposite wall from the fireplace. That was not what needed fixing in this old place. It was the trim around the fireplace that bowed strangely, and from the first day I moved in it bothered me like a dead flower in the middle of a vibrant bouquet. I passed it daily, an uneasy feeling; but always moved to something else. I told myself it was more character which this house had loads of and meant it just needed to be repaired. The new trim was not as heavy but looked like it could substitute and would not bow strangely. As I removed the trim the old nail jutted out quickly like it had already been worked loose or maybe it wanted to be free and was helping itself out. Once the entire piece was removed, I measured the new piece, careful to check several times. It still did not fit. I decided the floorboard, its ancient pine edges swollen from moisture and humidity over generations needed to be sanded. I figured that might have been the cause of the trim bowing out. A quick sanding and I realized there was putty where someone had attempted to fix it before. Possibly they gave up and left it. I grabbed a thin flat head screwdriver and dug into the groove between the floorboards. Two of them felt loose. For a moment I wanted to give up and chuck all the tools. The calmness reminded me that I needed to finish the list. The house had to sell and make as much as possible to carry my kids through college. The board creaked as I worked around it popping it loose. I decided to bring it all the way out and sand it down to make a fit better. With the board out, I saw the runners underneath and a hollow spot. When I looked closer that hollow spot held a canvas bag covered in dust, wrapped around itself. As I pulled, it snagged on a nail so I gave it more force. Suddenly it ripped the canvas sending me ass over elbows onto the floor and something flying over my head. When I sat up, I saw money all over the floor, more than I had ever seen in my life. Some of it banded together and loose bills stuffed into the bag as if someone had been in a hurry. I sat there dumbfounded. Completely disturbed from my detached mental state. I was suddenly present in my body and reached forward to pick up a twenty-dollar bill that felt real. But who would have left this here? I gathered it all stacking it and roughly counting until there were over twenty stacks of cash and still some in the bag. I examined the bag shaking some dust off. An old army green duffle bag, the side torn open, the end still rolled over closed. I stepped back surveying the scene and began counting. I realized there was about twenty thousand dollars in cash. My head was alive with noise. I immediately grabbed my notebook and sat down cross legged in front of the gaping hole in the floor. I ripped out the list page. The one with all but two items crossed off. I crumpled it up repeatedly then threw it into the fireplace. The first two matches would not light, and the voice told me to take it out and continue the list because it was the only thing to do. It told me my kids needed the house to sell for college. It told me I needed the list to get me to the BIG DAY. The third match struck, and a flame rose its sulfur smell burning my nose. Its heat and light mesmerizing and awakening. I turned to view the stacks of money in the empty room.