Gaping
It’s too bad I’m abandoning my family of three older and three younger brothers, but something in our home is making me sick. I suspect it's mercury. I came to live with them after my husband and I separated, and they liked having me around very much. I cooked. I cleaned. I rearranged the furniture so the big room became several small areas. I brought home lamps and reupholstered their shades. I fashioned curtains out of old sheets, and I hung them. Men don’t think of these things. They said, “Bella, you make such a fuss. How are your big eyes so full of little things like furnishings?” I told them, “I’m made for fuss. It’s my destiny.” It was no use explaining to them how these things excite me. They don’t understand how big small things can be.
One of my brothers, Andrew, knew I liked tuna, so he kept it stocked in the cupboards. Sweet, I know. What he didn’t know is that I like tuna too much. I couldn’t help myself. I ate tuna for every meal. I made salads, casseroles, cakes, sandwiches. I ran straight through jars of mayonnaise and boxes of Morton, crushing the fish with a fork and scooping it up with crackers. In the end I got so sick they had to take care of me. I couldn’t let that go on any longer. I promised to return when I’m stronger. This will probably be after two months of wallowing because I can’t eat tuna. Some of my brothers still don’t know. I have put off telling them because it hurts my pride. Poor Andrew. He thinks I’m on vacation. I’d like to return as if only one night has passed. I’m excited to get back because I have more ideas about furniture arrangement. I want to design a maze.
For now I live by myself in an apartment with a cat. When my husband heard I was sick, he came over with her. There was a violet bow around his neck. I was surprised: my husband never used to like the color violet, and she was our friend’s cat. When we would go over to their house for dinner, she would push her head against the back of my hand and I’d rub her in turn with my knuckles.
“Have you gone insane?” I whispered. “You stole their cat?”
“It got sick,” my husband shrugged, tugging on the bow around his neck. “And they couldn’t take care of it anymore. I thought you might want the company.”
This made me love the cat even more. How sad to be given up.
“Oh! Come here,” I said.
When my husband leaned over to hand me the cat, I playfully untied the bow from around his neck. He had a hickey.
I like living with a cat because we are on the same page about tuna.
Each morning and night I stuff a pill down the cat’s throat. The pink of her mouth bleeds into the pink of her nose. Her teeth are tiny and sharp, and she has very pretty eyes. I speak to her. I say, “Open up, please, please, open up.” She squirms and tries to escape. I try to look sympathetic so she doesn’t think I’m bad. I use my manners. It breaks my heart that she might think I’m bad, because she once thought I was good. There’s a tragedy in that shift that has nothing to do with me. How sad to have someone betray you. For someone to do something you never thought they would. I like to think I’ve never been surprised by anyone’s actions. I may be taken aback by them acting, but never shocked by them wanting to. I find people make their desires known, one way or another. When my husband asked for divorce, I feigned surprise to be polite. But he made it hard; he approached me as if I was a pet scheduled for euthanasia. “It’s time,” he said.
Perhaps the cat suspected I was bad all along. I plunge the syrange with the pill in as far as it will go. She gags. I push the lever down. She spitters and runs away. Thank you, goodbye. Andrew knows I’m not on vacation.
What a shame I’m 32. I feel like a baby. I have infant impulses. Abandon! Investigate! Revel! Nothing can hurt me. Watch me skate along on the charm of my big bug eyes. If I were to go missing, write on the flier: “The girl with eyes that bulge!”
Correction: “woman.”
But I thank God for these eyes of mine. I can see for miles. Only in front, though. You hear all these things about hindsight, but I never look back. I see very clearly, but seeing is different than knowing. I rarely make sense of things. The past can be so dreary. My husband’s lawyer served me divorce papers on our anniversary last year, the Fourth of July. I was holding a hot dog. Though I didn’t want to be married, I didn’t want to be divorced. I’d convinced myself my husband felt the same. I smeared ketchup on the dotted line.
Let me refocus: I am focused on focusing on the road ahead.
Once I fell in love, and its failure left a gaping hole. This wasn’t with my husband. Ecstasy is the feeling of being pierced. Sometimes moments scrape the sides but most of the time they flail in a cavity. The whole cannot be filled. I designed my husband refusing to love him. I didn’t see the point. The hole was too big. Nothing will ever be as good as my first can of tuna in oil.
Rumor has it there’s a solar eclipse coming. I’m afraid I’ll look it straight in the eyes, and it will be the last thing I see. Would that be so bad?
It might be luxurious to possess such big eyes that can’t see a thing. We have other organs that don’t function, but they aren’t beautiful or at eye-level. I would need someone to dress them up for me. Hang ornaments from my lashes. Smudge pastels on my eyelids. I want my eyes so beautiful no one could ever imagine them being of use.
Trouble is I would never get to see, and a room isn’t furnished until it is sat in. But my brothers would, and I’d trust their descriptions.