potatoes

The crumpled box gave in to moisture and gravity. It tumbled from a tower of like-minded boxes, splashing its contents spectacularly across the full length of the porch. A small black notebook announced itself.

She’s been alone for … she knew it wasn’t a whole year, but other than that she refuses to remember. Plausible deniability.

The shelter of the porch provided protection in the summer, but, as autumn rolled in, cardboard designed as a temporary shield from the elements succumbed. First it faded, then it dimpled, then it sagged.

She could relate.

This morning, as the sea fog persisted — weaving through the garden, stroking along the clapboards, creeping through imperfect door seals, into the lacuna behind her eyes — the topmost box gave in with graceful inevitability.

From the kitchen window, she saw a vague shadow of a teeter then the full, slow, elegant collapse. Packing tape — long having succumbed — offered no resistance. Once voided, the box lay prostrate with relief. The tower of peers watched on in envy.

She shared their sentiment.

She turned her attention to the potatoes. They floundered under running water; staring up at her desperate and expectant. She stopped the gush, watched their pathetic last throes, bobbing and rolling.

Dead eyes watched her, no longer questioning, no longer hopeful.

She wasn’t sure she could be bothered anymore.

A waft of wind pushed at a flap of the box, calling her to look at the disgorged life strewn across the boards.

She peered upwards for a glimpse of a sky that wasn’t there. A thick, dull, grey announcing the fog wasn’t planning to shift. Fog meant no pain. She meant rain. There was no hurry to gather up the contents. Besides, if the wind stayed at bay, the porch would shield the worst of any downfall.

She wasn’t sure she could be bothered.

Leaving the potatoes — deep in contemplation, she filled the kettle. She’d make a pot of tea. Tea she didn’t want, and probably wouldn’t drink before it was cold. There was a slim, matt-black, notebook among the jumble of a life.

Moving house was supposed to be the period that ended the sentence; began a new sentence. She meant chapter. She’d told herself not to throw anything out — not then. There would be time — it just wasn’t then. She didn’t remember packing the boxes; she didn’t remember the slim, black book.

Two, three, six, nine months — some number — had passed while the boxes crouched on the porch. She’d promised she’d unpack, put stuff away, give stuff away, throw stuff away, burn stuff. Plausible deniability that there ever was another life. She meant another’s life.

She didn’t think she could be bothered to differentiate anymore.

The kettle whistled. She warmed the pot, added the tea — one for each person and one for the pot, poured in the steaming liquid, turned it three times, left it to brew. Brew for as long as it took to make a bed; a ruse she’d brought from the other life.

She climbed. At the top of the stairs, she saw the matt-black book — or perhaps a doorway to a dark room. A shuttered, silent room, devoid of life. She meant light. They’d talked together of — one day, some day, the two of them — a clapboard cottage by the sea. That could’ve been — should’ve been — her room.

She closed the book on the dark. Plausible deniability.

As she tucked in the corners of the counterpane, rain began to fall. In earnest. The fog enveloping the clapboards had fled in advance of a cloudburst. The mist behind her eyes remained.

She wasn’t sure she cared anymore.

The contents of the box had spilled spectacularly across the full length of the porch. In the midst of the jumble was a slim, matt-black book. In the deluge the porch couldn’t protect anyone. She meant anything. Still, she wasn’t sure she could be bothered.

But, it wasn’t hers. She was mere custodian. She’d packed a life into moving boxes, schlepped them to a clapboard house by the sea, and propped them in a tottering tower on the porch. What did she think would happen? Of course, it would spill out one day. And, in amongst it all, a slim, matt-black, expensive-looking book, which she couldn’t recall packing.

She cupped one hand to a side of the pot, as she passed through the kitchen — warm enough for now, and maybe a few minutes more. Surely, it would only take a few minutes to pull the bits and bobs into the heart. She meant the house.

She pulled the plug on the potatoes. Eyes watched her walk out the door.

Under fat clouds, the morning was as dark as night. Night — right — might — fight — flight. The night didn’t leave questions unanswered like fog did. She could see more sharply, more real, more alive. She meant a life. The words stamped into a medal — U9s Viceroy Vixens - Most Improved — easy to read; the label on a CD — The Chronicles of Narnia — sweet and clear; the sweat stain on a baseball cap — well-deserved; the grain to the leather of the slim, black book — …

Propping open the door with the mud mat, she grabbed at spilled items and flung them backwards into the hallway — except for the black book. A gold ribbon ran through its centre, its pages splayed slightly. She nudged it aside with her foot, away from the drumming rain, the drumming in her head. She meant her heart.

Bending double made her dizzy. She’d got half the stuff in; wasn’t sure she could be bothered with the rest. Maybe the rain would wash it away, or destroy it, or damage it enough to give plausible deniability of it ever having existed.

Maybe rain and time and denial could wash away a life.

She picked up the notebook. It was damp, not wet. It had time.

In the kitchen she fell onto a chair, reached for a towel draped over the oven door, and wiped her arms, her face, the back of her neck and the black leather.

Her daughter must have had this notebook long before... How long before that night — fight — ‘I’m right’ — flight?

Maybe things could have been different; maybe, if they’d not created a shuttered, silent void between them one day, many days, that day.

Plausible deniability was a ruse.

A road ran through the void behind her eyes — a mangled silver motorbike, shattered amber glass, stripes of blood-red strewn across matt-black.

She turned the pages of the notebook. Each was a year; the first in childish pencil; the latter in confident pen. 2005 - 2006 - 2007 … … Between the pages of the notebook was a rainbow of Australian dollars — flame-orange twenties, deep-blue tens and mustard coloured fifty-dollar bills. The last page —

A sob escaped, then another — and another. She couldn’t stop them. She meant she didn’t want to stop them.

She wept noisily, raggedly, and messily. She prayed she’d never stop.

The tea went cold.

The rain stopped.

The day moved on.

The tears did end.

Fog threatened to envelop the clapboards. A twilight sun held it back.

Can’t go back.

She pulled the multi-hued bills from the pages of the slim, matt-black, expensive looking, leather grained, book. She counted them one by one by one. By one. When she was done she had twenty thousand dollars. It was a fortune.

She’d had twenty years. It was a pittance.

She slid the rainbow back into the small, black notebook. Tucked the notebook into a fog. She meant a box.

The potatoes lay in the sink. Dead eyes staring —watching — waiting.