Numb

I stare up at the ceiling without any thought. Not even sure if I’ve been blinking. I just feel empty. I feel no joy or sadness. I feel nothing. Not even sure if I can muster enough feeling to care that I don’t feel anything.

After a long moment, I turn my head to the left and stare blankly at the man lying next to me. He’s sleeping comfortably with a soft snore emanating from his slightly open mouth. I married this man.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I know that I love this man. But somewhere down the line, I stopped feeling it. Why? There was no cause. I just stopped feeling. When did this happen?

I turn my head to stare at the ceiling again. What’s wrong with me?

As I continue to stare at the ceiling, I hear all the sounds resonating throughout the apartment. My husband’s breathing, the drip of the kitchen faucet that our apartment manager keeps putting off fixing, and the ticking of our generic clock hanging on the wall of our living room. All the sounds mingling together cause me to feel even more numb.

I sigh and turn onto my side to stare out the window. Not any better. Now I’m staring at the back of the apartment building behind ours. The building is painted a drab beige and the windows are old, generic and dingy. Every window has vertical blinds because that’s what the apartments come with. A few windows have added decorations such as twinkle lights. But most didn’t bother to make an attempt to liven up their window dressings.

Done staring at the other building, I cock my head up slightly to look at my digital clock. 3:35AM flashes at me in red. I let out another sigh and drag myself out of bed. No point staying in bed if I’m just staring and doing very little sleeping.

I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and place my feet in tattered black house slippers. I drag my feet into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I stare out the living room window waiting for the sun to come up.

As I sip my tea, I get a sudden urge to go outside and take a walk. Having worn a t-shirt and sweats to bed and having a complete lack of caring about what I look like, I only needed to switch out my house slippers for a pair of sneakers.

I step outside at 4:00AM so it’s still quite dark. I start to walk without a destination in mind.

The apartment complex is large and the buildings are arranged in such a way that there is a nice walking path within the area. With hands in my pockets, I lumber along the path. I walk aimlessly and stare out ahead of me. I’m about to think how fortunate I was to not have tripped considering I was barely paying attention, but then I stumble. That took me out of my daze.

I look down wondering what I tripped over. It was a little black book. Normally, I probably wouldn’t have tripped over such a tiny thing, but I was barely lifting my feet as I walked.

I pick up the book and look for any identifying features. It’s small and thin, fitting into the size of my outstretched hand. It is covered in a faux black leather and has a bit of foxing on the corners. Nothing really remarkable about it. I open it to the first page thinking there might be a name written in it. No name. I continue to flip through the pages hoping for anything that would identify its owner but there is none. Actually, it becomes strange that this little book had nothing written or drawn in it. Why did somebody carry it around enough for it to get worn but not use it?

As I continue to stare at the book, I realize that this is the most interest I’ve shown anything in a long time. It felt nice. I’m still flipping the pages when finally I come across something stuck between the pages. It’s a little sticky note. But it wasn’t a simple neon sticky note. It was shaped like a lacy napkin. I could tell that it used to be a cream color but it has gone yellow from age.

The note had writing on it in a feminine penmanship. It read, “To my dear Frank, may you use this notebook to write down all of your wonderful ideas. Maybe one day you will write a book.”

I looked at the notebook in my hand and thought of its empty pages. Frank never did write down any of his ideas. Frank…

Then it dawned on me that it may have been one of the residents living in the complex. Old Frank. He is a sweet man who tends to keep to himself. Always looked a bit lonely. Now that I am aware of my surroundings, I realize that I’m in front of his apartment.

It’s 4:30AM, much too early to be knocking at someone’s door. I’ll have to come back another time.

I turn to head back home, when I hear a door open behind me. Lucky me, it’s Frank.

“Good morning, Frank. A bit early to be up, no?”

“Same goes for you, my dear. As for me, I’m old and can’t seem to stay asleep longer than a handful of hours.”

“I happened upon this notebook and wondered if it was yours.” With my open hand and notebook nestled on top of my palm, I stretched my arm out towards him.

Frank opened his wrinkled eyes wide and took hold of the book, gently.

“I’ve been looking for this all over my apartment. Thank you. Where was it?”

“It was on the floor. I’m glad it made its way back to you.” I turned to leave but curiosity stopped me.

“Why is it blank? You didn’t write in it.”

“Oh, it’s nothing that interesting. But if you’re still interested, I can tell you the story over a cup of tea. Would you like to come in?” I didn’t see the harm in it and accepted his invitation.

When we walk into his apartment, it smells of leather and peppermints. He has a large leather couch faded in places where people sat. Behind the couch is a wall completely lined by bookshelves, overflowing with books. Next to the couch is a small end table with black and white photographs. They are pictures of Frank and who I assume to be his wife.

She was lovely. She had a kind face framed by a curly bob of hair. They looked at each other with love and endearment.

Frank walks around his kitchen counter and starts to put together our teas.

“My wife gave me the notebook on my 40th birthday. I was an editor at a publishing house but my dream was to be an author one day. She bought me the notebook to encourage me to follow my dreams,” Frank said with a wistful tone in his voice.

“So then, why didn’t you?”

“Very shortly after, she fell ill. We were in the hospital most of the time and when at home, I was taking care of her. She didn’t survive for very long.” Frank paused a moment to gather his composure. “After she died, so did my dreams. Didn’t have any more ideas when I was so full of grief. Then when the overwhelming grief wore off, I felt numb. I carry the notebook around to remember her.”

“I’m so sorry, Frank. Well, I’m glad then that the notebook was found and returned to you.”

“Yes, it is a great relief to me. I am abundantly grateful. Unfortunately, I don’t have any money to reward you with,” said Frank as he pats himself down and starts looking around.

“No, really not necessary,” I reply with my hands up as a way to cease his worry.

“No, I must. Ah! I have this scratcher that I bought on a whim while going to the grocery store. It most likely isn’t a winner but you never know. I gift you with possibilities,” said Frank as he handed me a small scratcher.

I take it from him and place it in my pocket.

“Thank you, Frank. It’s a very nice gesture. And thank you for sharing your story.” I looked up at his kitchen clock. “I have to get back. I hope to run into you again. I suspect you have more stories to tell.”

I walk towards his door as Frank opens it for me.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve told any sort of story so that was a pleasant experience. If you ever find yourself walking in the early hours again, feel free to knock at my door. I’m more than likely awake.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you for the tea and the scratcher.” I walk out and head back to my apartment.

When I enter the apartment, it is still only 5:30AM. I feel oddly refreshed. I go to the kitchen counter and take out the scratcher that Frank had given me. It was one of the cheap $2 dollar scratchers. It was red and gold and promised a grand prize of $20,000 if you uncover three gold coins.

I take out a penny from one of our coin jars and begin to scratch away. The first symbol I uncover is a gold coin. The second is another gold coin. I scratch at the third and it looks like I am uncovering another gold coin but I stop midway because I hear crying from our second bedroom.

I leave the scratcher with the third symbol partially uncovered and rush into the room. My baby is crying because she is hungry. I pick her up and hold her close making a shushing noise to calm her.

As I hold my baby I feel love, fear, guilt, unworthiness, exhaustion… everything. It overwhelms me like it always does when I hold my dear child.

The day, the cycle starts all over again.