Killing Time With Gratitude

Coming home for the holidays was always a bittersweet trip. Sweet; to visit old friends and eat all of your mother’s food. Bitter; to reopen wounds of something you had left behind. This year, Layla was only able to see her family for a few days. Having flown in two weeks before, she had been in compulsory quarantine due to the pandemic. Layla didn’t want to be away from ‘home’ for too long, so she only allowed 3 days after her quarantine period to visit.

Painfully aware of what a waste of time the travel was, she tried to look on the bright side: Her parents hadn’t seen her in over a year and she was looking forward to hot wings with the old gang. She would use the isolation to write.

As a writer, she had been bereft of ideas for months. Her publisher was getting impatient for the next chapters of her book. The city she lived in was one of the hardest hit with the virus and she had been isolated for much of the year. In between bouts of sorrow of what the lost year had cost her, there was also the anxious feeling that nothing new would ever happen. She had the simultaneous feeling of imminent action; as if something significant could be revealed at any moment, coupled with the complete inability to do anything other than basic survival jobs. Cook, clean, eat, sleep, work, repeat.

What does one write about when your day to day is exactly the same bar the movie you watch after work or the bottle of wine you drink to ‘change it up’. Walking around the neighbourhood became a grim death march. The same gardens, the same streets. This wasn’t usually a problem – we all walk the same streets day after day in our neighbourhood. This time it’s different. No destination in mind, no friends to meet, no one to hold your hand as you look at the flowers in the park. Around the block, maybe two or three and back again. Out of breath, because you want to get your heart rate up, but keenly aware that a fast walk means you’ll be back in the box sooner. Layla mused that her fiercest anxiety and disaster game thoughts occurred when she was out walking. Her brain kicked into high gear when there was no work to think about, or the same room to go numb in.

Arriving in town, the quarantine hotel was adequate. She had a window and space to work out. Although she probably wouldn’t work out, she thought.

On day three, her motivation waned. Or, more accurately, was replaced again with the existential dread that had occupied her mind most of the lockdown. This time, however she didn’t have the sweet freedom of her neighbourhood death march or trip to the coffee shop for a wrongly made latte; lovingly handed to her by a masked boy who’s muffled salutation irritated her.

She opened her little black gratitude journal and began her ritual of writing down five things she was grateful for in the moment. Intended as a grounding exercise, it usually came across as a wry wish. You’re meant to either be grateful for what you have (Might be less than yesterday) or say in present tense what you intend to have (You don’t have it, but pretend you do). Manifesting mojos online had espoused it’s benefits during ‘this hard time’. She wanted to scream.

Peeling the latest page out of the notebook, she folded it carefully and was about to burn it by holding a match to the page, watching the flames lick up the wood. Glancing up she noticed the sprinklers of the hotel’s fire system and hastily blew it out. Decisively she walked to the door and slid it under, to the hallway. The door was electronically locked so she couldn’t hand it to someone, and even if she could… why? What was this going to achieve, setting it out into the world? How embarrassing, the guard would likely read it before passing her the meal service in the evening.

The note had read:

1. I am grateful for my health

2. I am grateful for the view from the window

3. I am grateful for my freedom

4. I am grateful for my warm bed

5. I am grateful for love

Numbers 3 and 5 were intentions, sneakily mixed in with the present tense.

Layla woke, confused. She had fallen asleep on the couch rather early, before dinner. She had missed all the messages and Zoom call invitations (Thank goodness) and curled up on the couch that she had dragged across the room to sit in front of the window. The darkness, dotted with city lights faced her and it was a few moments before she realised she had missed dinner; like a rat waiting for a pellet, her day was punctuated by these small things.

She glanced at the door, and was surprised to see her note, pushed back into the room under the door. No, not her note, someone else’s.

1. I am grateful for my job

2. I am grateful for the served meals

3. I am grateful for the internet

That’s all I could think of. Call the desk for your dinner.

She laughed at first but was then saddened by the lack that emanated from the note. It was something new though. She called the front desk and explained she had fallen asleep. The disembodied voice on the other end said she would be getting a sandwich instead of the hot food unless she wanted to order in. Not wanting to push her luck, she agreed to a sandwich.

Layla sat in front of her laptop, chatting with family over video chat. She stared at the now stale sandwich that sat nearby, half eaten, although it didn’t even deserve to have been consumed that much. She smiled as she gave her goodnights to her mother, and rolled her eyes at all the messages waiting from acquaintances asking to meet after her emergence from hotel captivity. Thinking on it, she opened her phone and ordered some food to be delivered. On second thought, she wasn’t sure if the guards were available to ferry deliveries up to her at this time of night.

Opening her little black notebook, she penned a note:

I am grateful that you are there to bring me an Uber delivery

And slipped it under her door into the outside.

Worst case scenario was she lost $25 worth of Chinese food and her Uber guy eats it on his break, she thought. To distract herself, she opened a document of a novel she was working on.

Procrastination had been her most prominent trait lately, and she was running out of excuses on delivering this new work. Money, while not super tight, was not going to last forever and this hotel quarantine was not cheap. A twinge of anger transpired that it was sprung on her at the last minute and that she had to pay for it.

She glanced at page 312.

“It was a dark and stormy night….”

There was a knock at the door, and a note slipped under, into the room. Elated, she rushed over and picked up the note. Her door lock beeped, signalling she could open it. She peeked out, and saw no one, but her bag of food was sitting there waiting for her. She plucked it from the hallway and regretfully allowed the door to close behind her. Tucking into her dumplings and rice, she opened the note.

I am grateful for a new friend

--

Days went by, as Layla and the mystery guard exchanged notes of what they are grateful for – some boring and normal, others filled with wishes and longing. She mused she had no idea if this person was a man or woman, nor what she would say to them on her exit. She had begun to romanticise this person, less as a romantic interest but more thinking of the story of them. Who they are, what they are like. Her breakfast note yesterday had read:

I am grateful for fresh flowers

And with her doorstop lunch, was some hand-picked wild daisies, no doubt from the nature strip outside the hotel. In exchange she would sometimes include a small poem with her notes

A crack, the door;

A promise, the anticipation;

A embrace, the solace.

A flicker, both.

Lame. But genuinely engaging for her, she was writing again, albeit briefly. It took the attention away from the news; pandemic, fires, storms, death, robberies. It seemed there was no good news in her home town. The more she stayed in quarantine, with brief video chats with her family and friends, the more she wanted to return home and just get on with her life, such as it was at the moment. Two days to go.

No notes on her penultimate day. She diligently wrote hers, but there was no response at meal times. Layla found herself worrying about what might have happened. Did the pandemic breach the hotel and kill everyone? No, she was still getting meals and the front desk was active… She reasoned it was likely shift changes and there had been no time for goodbyes. From her window she had noticed more security outside, a store nearby had been burgled or robbed. Some excitement for the guards she guessed. This small glimpse of the outside world primed her anticipation of the next day. Her mother was coming to pick her up from the clinic across the street in the evening. She was to pack and wait for her movement orders after lunch, at which time she would be covid tested on exit. She would need to stay indoors at her mother’s till her negative result was sent to her. 24 hours they said.

Dinner that evening was uneventful as usual, but this time even bereft of the note game. Layla packed for the next day, and messed around on the internet til the early hours. Anxious because she was at the end of her book advance, her morning note, to no one, stated:

I am grateful for the cash windfall

Well, it had gotten her flowers, pancakes and a magazine… she wryly thought.

--

A knock at the door signalled lunch. She had been hoping that a person would be seen this time, as she was due to exit today. The hotel front desk had confirmed that she was on today’s list and some papers would be provided for her to fill out before she was collected. The door beeped and she opened it a smidge and peered onto the ground. An Uber eats bag. She hesitated – she hadn’t ordered anything from ‘the outside’ and had been expecting a paper box with something flavourless inside.

She sensed there was someone just beyond her line of sight, and called out to them. No reply. Fine, she thought, and brought it inside.

Inside the bag, there indeed was a paper box with her usual hotel lunch, an additional paper bag, folded with something small inside, and a note.

I am grateful to help a friend

Layla laughed, thinking her friend had bought her lunch. But the boxed lunch was nothing special, cold chicken pasta. The TV news was showing the foyer of her hotel.

The paper bag was $10,000 in cash.

Layla squealed and dropped it. The cash, the pasta. The phone rang.

The front desk, her mother was waiting, the guard would collect her in an hour, was she ready?

She was.