Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine

 

Gibberish

by Kimberlee Esselstrom

 

 

The first words out of my mouth had nothing to do with anything. Gibberish. That’s what my grandmother would have called it. Our eyes locked after we spied the twig. I looked away as Daniel casually walked across the living room carpet and picked up the stick.

   

“I bought two chocolate bars from the neighbor girl, and she’s coming back with my change - I’m going out for a run - the pork loin is marinating - could you put it in the oven while I’m gone?” The gibberish flowed like beer at a high school party. I dashed up the wooden staircase.

 

The shoelace snapped when I pulled on my ancient Adidas. A knot formed in my stomach as I tied the frayed ends.

 

Daniel’s silhouette filled the bedroom doorframe. He fondled the leafless inch-long shoot then deliberately laid the twig on the dresser next to my wedding ring. “Have you been running on the trail again?”

 

“You caught me.” I said. My temples began to throb as I slid past Daniel. “I know the trail isn’t safe, I’m sorry.”

 

As I descended the stairs two-by-two I could feel Daniel’s steel-blue eyes pierce my shoulder blades. “See you in about an hour.” I called behind me. The doorbell rang as I stuffed my arms into my track jacket.

 

I opened the door to the neighbor girl - no longer in her school uniform, and wearing a Princess T-shirt and jeans. “I brought your money,” she said, then displayed a delightful gap-toothed grin. “Your house is cleaner than ours,” she said. Her large brown eyes peered past my waist.

 

Not just clean, I thought. Immaculate. We had no children to scatter toys and grind Cheerios into the carpets. The expansive living room had only five items of furniture, each with a  Scandinavian clean-line design. The twig had stood out like a fully lit Christmas tree.

 

I took the warm coins, and crumpled bills from the girl’s small hand and placed them in a bowl on the hall table. Her thick braid swayed like a horse’s tail as she pranced back to her house. She turned and waved. I gave a weak smile, nodded my head and began my run.

 

As my feet picked up the pace I considered my options. Confess or wait? For three years I had performed my expected role, and yet one day each month, I broke one of our rules. I had managed to get away with it until today. Daniel, a Hercule Poirot wannabe, would unravel this real-life mystery using the twig as evidence. The fresh start we had agreed to, would be spoiled.

 

I ran past rows of houses identical to mine. Nothing like the character-filled farmhouse, complete with creaking floorboards, Daniel and I had moved into five years earlier.

 

That first year of wedded bliss was exactly that. I took cooking lessons and created savory dinners on the massive cast iron range. I grew my own herbs and in the time it would take a child to go from the cradle to kindergarten, I hoped to have a certified organic garden. Each morning, I straightened the rumpled quilt on our antique four-poster and plumped the feather pillows, all while I breathed in Daniel’s scent and relived the love we had shared the night before.

 

A mini van, hauling pint-sized soccer players, spewed gas fumes in my direction. I wondered if Daniel still checked the mileage on my car?

 

Our first week in the new housing development had brought a parade of well-meaning women and their kids traipsing up my sidewalk carrying welcome-to-the-neighborhood coffeecakes and fruit platters. I shooed them and their children away, and I kept shooing, until they finally gave up.

 

Three years later, I’m startled when the doorbell rings. I’m so lonely the neighbor girl could have sold me dead plants.

 

Exhausted, and happy to be home, I grasped the railing and stretched my hamstrings. A familiar odor filled my nostrils; the same acrid aroma that permeated my nightmares. I flung open the front door. Smoke billowed from the kitchen while the smoke detector chirped. Oh God, not again.

 

Frantically, I swiped my arms through the haze only to discover a moon rock roast in an overheated oven.

   

“Daniel!” I yelled, as I ran up the stairs.

    

I found him asleep; stocking feet tangled in the white duvet. He rolled over and unclenched his hand. The twig had left a crimson line on his palm. His eyelashes were damp. He slowly opened his eyes. “We both know where this came from.”

 

I sat on the edge of the bed. Daniel placed the twig in my hand. Why was he in bed with his suit on? I thought. And the last time I saw Daniel cry was…

 

Daniel propped himself against the padded headboard and pointing to the stick he said, “I’m the one who planted the rose bush when she was born.” He straightened his crumpled tie then reached into his back pocket. He opened his wallet and pulled out two photos. “I know it’s against our rules. But I can’t seem to part with these.”

 

The top photo was my old garden in full flourish beside the farmhouse.

   

He broke the rules?

   

Daniel ran his fingers through his hair. “I go there too. I stare at this photo and ignore the reality of the charred wreckage.” He picked up the second photo. His voice cracked as he said, “In my daydreams, I run through the blaze and save Emma. I miss our baby girl.” He stroked the worn edges of her photo.

   

My breath was loud and quick.

   

He put the photos down and grabbed my hands. “Let’s rebuild.”

   

My fingers tingled from Daniel’s grip.

  

“Not just the farmhouse - our life.” Daniel cleared his throat. “This barren existence will never fill the void our Emma left behind. It’s impossible to wipe the slate clean.” Daniel looked at the  disheveled bed, then at me - sweaty from my run with windblown hair falling out of its

band. He tousled my bangs. “Life’s supposed to be  messy.”

 

Shock melted into overwhelming relief and left me speechless, but only for a minute. Then for the second time that day, the gibberish flowed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Kimberlee Esselstrom