the atmosphere of —the world and even more especially ....amongst communities has begun to make me feel like I am suffocating.... the oppression ....I feel like I need to run and never stop, just never ever stop; such a desperate need, this feeling, to get out of here.... but I know there is nowhere to go; yet still — there is such a desperate need to run
********
it is soon after he starts the shower
“Where did you go?” I ask Jörn
“Where?”
“Where have you been?” I rephrase
but he gets a call just then
“I have to take this,” he tells me; he shuts off the shower and gives me ‘that look’ which by now I recognize to mean it is about business; his spy work.
he answers the call with a quick,
“—hold on a minute,” and a glance at me
I can hear the male voice with a hard to place accent say from his phone in English,
“I am sorry to have to call you but something has come up—“
Jörn goes downstairs and I watch him from the gallery as he walks through the house. I watch him as he goes outside, through the two story window and walk from the back patio of the house go down the path towards the farmhouse
and after he goes I decide to return to the shower
When he returns from his call, I have already by then dried off and found a simple white t-shirt to wear over a pair of drawstring yoga pants and, as I see his face now in the fading light, I can see the tension in his expression and, as well, his closed demeanor that implies he is not able to say what the call was about
so instead I decide to ask,
“how serious were you about going somewhere else?”
“Why?”
“Because I feel like I need to get out of here.”
“But you always say that after you have only been somewhere for just more than a few months.”
“I have been in New York for almost two years now ....what about Maine? I know Portland is not exactly a big city but it is like the furthest edge out of this country before the Atlantic Ocean and —still close to Canada for— whatever it is you do there ....in case Amsterdam isn’t in the cards, I mean.”
“Does this have anything to do with this?”
Jörn holds up the letter.... I realize he found in the farmhouse where I must have left it
“—this sudden need to run away .... is this why you have been acting so strange?”
And when I don’t answer he says, almost apologetically
“I didn’t know what it was— as it was not addressed to anyone and wasn’t signed. I found it in the farmhouse and ....well, thought it was something I left, otherwise I would not have ....it is from your daughter, I assume?”
“No it —was not even addressed nor signed....” I whisper and sink down to the nearest level place to sit which.... is the foot of the staircase
I feel myself go sick inside and along with it, the weird sensation in my head
“You read it?”
“.... I just.... skimmed through it—until I realized what it was....”
“Shit....” I whisper to myself
“At least she contacted you,” Jörn says
“It was a ‘fuck-you’ letter, Jörn....” I say with resignation and defeat; “a ‘fuck-you-mom letter’....” I say plainly, “meant to coincide with Mother’s Day —poetic, right? —for added punch.... I didn’t get the mail for a week so.... I guess I dodged that poison arrow ....”
“Did you answer it?” he asks me
I cannot look at him. And look away and say more to myself,
“.... ja ....”
and slowly exhale.
As I feel his eyes on me I realize he wants to know. And I guess that surprises me, somehow,
as it is a strange thought to me
that he ....
would want to know
I look at his eyes. I try to read them for judgement
and as I do I force myself to raise up my chin as if I don’t care what he thinks.... only I do.... I care more than he could know
....if his judgement is as harsh as hers; only —I pretend not to care and that it does not matter what he thinks
I see he still waits to know
“It was not —like hers.... what I wrote.... I .... did not let myself reply ....with raw emotion ....I ....thanked her for her honesty and told her that I respected whatever her wishes were to have me or not in her life, I ....was diplomatic—“ the words rush out to sound brave but i hear my voice crack at the end and stop myself in time. I say, “maybe.... I think I have to put it behind me.... I think it’s time.... that I need to move on.... from my past....all of it....”
“She may come around—“
“It—does not seem that way to me, Jörn,” I tell him honestly, “I do know her.... and I can read between her lines. She —my daughter—holds grudges ....forever, she does not ....forgive, it is her way. I am history to her.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, “you’re her mother.”
I shake my head, and after a pause to collect myself I say,
“I can’t keep waiting for her forever.... so.... I know ....I must figure out a way ....past this....”
He shakes his head and asks, waving the letter,
“If I hadn’t found this, when were you going to tell me—? or were you?—is this why you have not let me near you?”

No comments:
Post a Comment