Inhale.
Splash.
Exhale.
Splish.
The echo of the water as it slams into the porcelain reaches her across the great expanse of mustard yellow. Each drop that lands chips away at her sanity.
Perhaps if it were rhythmic she wouldn't be so irritated.
Inhale.
Splash.
Exhale.
Splish splash splish.
Inhale.
Splash splish.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Splash.
Exhale.
The water never seems to stop. She can think of nothing as tediously unrelenting as a dripping faucet. Something about its composition must make it so painfully persistent – but she can't imagine what. What drives something to push forward?
The drop forms at the tip of the rusted metal spout. Time is not on his side, however… it's only a matter of seconds before the next drop hurls itself down the pipe and threatens to overtake the first. The next drop may land somewhere else, or it may just pass him by. But he can't take any chances. The utter horror of the third possibility is what causes him to plummet – to leap into oblivion. If he didn't… he would lose himself. If he allowed the next drop to collide – to merge into one – he would no longer exist. And that is a risk no drop can take.
Splish splash splish.
Three heroic drops launch themselves forward. They don't know how it will end… but they know it's worth the risk. They know what lies behind them, and they're certain that's not where they long to be.
Splash.
She wishes they would stop. Perhaps if they realized the only thing that lay ahead was another pipe. Another dark tunnel. Another ill-advised leap.
Turning on her side, she finds herself face to face with a digital display.
3:27
It seems the only thing as persistent as a leaky faucet is the passage of time.
She carefully removes the blanket and slips silently out of bed. She doesn't want to disturb him. Though she doubts any noise on her part will. If he can sleep through the pounding of water as it smashes into the tub – he can sleep through the next world war.
Padding stealthily to the bathroom she surveys her options.
Logic.
She can reason with them. Convince the drops that there is nothing to jump for. Nothing beneficial about moving forward. No hope for a future any different than their current, daily droll.
But then, when has water ever responded to a rational plea?
The second option seems more likely.
Clamping her fingers tightly around the chilled metal knob, she twists it clockwise. The knob resists.
Of course it does.
She wraps her left hand around the remaining exposed metal and leans forward before turning the knob with all the strength she can muster. It remains unresponsive. The only thing that appears to budge is the skin of her palm as it rips and burns.
The screams of the drops increase in volume, only to be outdone by the thud as they sprawl helplessly on final contact.
Releasing her death grip on the knob, she retreats into the sink. She runs the flushed pink flesh of her hand under the cool water before reaching for a towel. As it absorbs the moisture from her hands, a solution presents itself.
Throwing the towel beneath the spout of the tub, she finds herself uncharacteristically pleased. It may not silence the screams… but it will soften the impact.
One step at a time.
""
She begins at the bathroom door.
Turn right and walk three steps.
Pass the closet.
Around the end table.
Around the bed.
Turn left and hug the wall.
Pass by the window.
Follow the divider.
Right into the kitchen.
Along the cupboards.
Pass the stove.
The refrigerator.
The door.
The table.
Left.
Hug.
Left.
She's at the bathroom door again.
Turn right and walk three steps.
Pass the closet.
Around the end table.
"Are you going to move for seven months?"
She halts beside the bed, turning to face him.
Within an instant of stopping she itches to move.
It takes all the restraint she can muster, but she manages to channel her energy into one tapping foot.
Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.
He sees the tension and pain overwhelm her face and aches to take back his outburst.
"I'm sorry. It's just…" he sets down his book and eases himself to the end of the bed. Taking her hand in his he continues, "you haven't stopped moving in two weeks. When you're not wearing a hole in the carpet you're twitching or tapping or wiggling." He sighs heavily and trails his free hand through his hair, leaving chaos in its wake. "I'm just worried about you."
She sees the wrinkles in his forehead and the pain in his eyes.
She takes a deep breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Her foot shakes as she wills it to stop tapping. Like a tuning fork coming to a stop as the pitch slowly dies.
Once it's sufficiently stilled she climbs onto the bed and crawls toward the pillow.
He scoots his back against the headboard and opens his arms to her.
She curls up safely in his embrace. The only movement she allows is the rising and falling of her head as it rests on his chest.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
The question hangs in the air as he awaits a response.
If she responded she would tell him she can't stop moving. When she stops moving her body, her mind will twitch freely. The thoughts will unleash themselves in her head.
If she stopped moving she'd be left with nothing to do but think. She doesn't want to think.
If she were to think she'd wonder what will happen to this baby. Wonder what kind of a life it has a chance of living. Wonder if it can exist in a world so full of pain. Wonder if it will ever, ever stand a chance at happiness.
If she responded she would tell him when she stops moving the world stops turning.
If she responded.
""
Ding.
Tap.
Crunch.
Inhale.
Buzz.
Squeak.
Crackle.
Thump.
Exhale.
Whir.
Inhale.
Crack.
Exhale.
Squeak.
Inhale.
Thump.
Exhale.
Tap.
Inhale.
Whir.
Inhale.
Chatter.
Inhale.
Buzz.
Inhale.
"Ma'am?"
Inhale.
"Ma'am are you alright?"
She grasps her forehead with her hand and squeezes her eyes shut tightly in an effort to block out her surroundings.
"Excuse me, Ma'am?"
Inhale.
Squeakthumpcrackwhirwhizbuzzding… she manages to mute it into a single all encompassing sound.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
She waits a handful of seconds before risking opening her eyes. The ringing in her ears causes her eyes to squint and burn as if she were staring directly at the sun.
As her vision becomes more acute she finds herself face to face with a teenage boy in a bright red apron. The name "Roy's" is scrawled across it in dingy white lettering. His nametag informs her she is being accosted by Sam.
"I'm fine," she spits out, unable to feign a pleasant demeanor.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down Ma'am? You look a little pale and you haven't moved for a good fifteen minutes."
He speaks to her as if she were grasping her last tether of sanity. Slowly. Softly.
She feels like the main attraction of some odd side show. Caged. Under the white spotlight. A microphone is pressed to her head and the loudspeakers echo the sounds that blast inside her mind. The people stare in awe and wonder, with more than a large dose of pity. They shake their heads and carry on their way, stopping to see the lesser exhibits before continuing on with their normal lives.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
She doesn't realize she hasn't responded until he hits her with another question.
"Well, if you don't want to sit down – is there something I can help you find?"
The Sound takes over her brain and she struggles to sort out his words. Once she narrows it down to a coherent question she manages a response. She forms the word as a toddler struggling to speak her desire.
"Crackers."
He looks at her with wide eyes. Big blue innocent eyes.
"Crackers Ma'am?"
"Yes. I need to find the crackers."
"They're… uh… they're right here. You're looking at them."
The teenager is right. She's standing directly across from a wall of cracker boxes.
She drops her hand from her head and attempts to regain composure.
"Thank you."
Sam wanders slowly down the aisle and toward the checkout counters. He glances back before turning the corner. Perhaps to assure himself it's safe to leave her alone. That she hasn't toppled over yet.
She faces the wall of crackers alone.
Hundreds of boxes sit before her. Red ones. Blue. Yellow. Big. Small. Salted. Unsalted. Baked. Fried. Round. Square. Flavored. Plain.
As she wades through her options she begins to lose the hold she has on the sounds in her head. The muted chorus begins to break apart… the sounds isolating themselves from one another. Competing in volume.
With her tenuous hold intact she grabs the closest box of crackers, throws it into her cart and lurches forward.
Squeak.
Inhale.
Rattle.
Exhale.
She makes her way to the checkout stand.
""
It isn't until well into the process that she is struck with how utterly cliché and domestic it is.
His sits across from her, flanked by an empty cardboard box and a plastic bag of nuts and bolts.
Between them stands the skeleton of a crib in a state of disarray.
In her hands she holds the instructions, unfolded like a map before her. Crisp white against a background of stale yellow.
As she reads over the contents she finds herself saying things like, "Attach side B to part F using four one and a half inch screws."
Somehow, when she used to picture this moment it was completely different…
After tightening the final screw he helps her to her feet. He had tried to insist she sit comfortably in the plush armchair, sipping on the lemonade he had made that morning from their budding young tree… but it was only halfhearted. He knows her too well to believe for an instant she will sit back and watch while tasks are carried out. She prefers to have a hand in everything – to add her blood, sweat and tears into the final product. Though she has to admit the lemonade is beginning to sound like a wonderful idea.
He pulls her back into his chest as they admire their handiwork. The crib is now pressed flush against the pale blue wall, the top just inches below the hand-stenciled balloons they had painted the day before. A warm breeze comes though the open window, causing the sheer white fabric to dance along the sill.
His lips brush her ear, immediately causing the goosebumps on her neck to rise.
"I love you," he whispers as he grasps her hand tightly. "I love you so much."
"And you," he says as he turns her around and crouches to meet her stomach, "you are going to be so loved you just won't be able to handle it!"
She smiles as he rubs her swollen stomach and continues to speak.
"You are going to be the luckiest little person to come into the world. Do you want to know why?"
He places his ear to her stomach as if awaiting a reply. After a moment he appears satisfied with the response.
"Because this woman," he stands to face her, "is the most amazing woman to ever grace the earth with her presence… and she is your mother."
A single tear rolls down her cheek and she can't contain the grin that washes over her face, "And your dad isn't half bad either."
Her stomach jerks in response and her eyes open wide.
He sees the expression of surprise and becomes immediately concerned. "What's the matter? Are you feeling alright?"
She takes his hand and presses it gently on her stomach and places her finger to her lips to signal his silence.
They wait for a few seconds before her stomach comes alive again.
"It's kicking."
"What?" he asks as he sets down the screwdriver and inches toward where she sits.
"It's kicking," she says in full voice, a smile creeping across her lips.
He meets her eyes and silently asks permission. She nods to grant it and he rests his hand atop her bulging belly. It connects just in time to feel the pressure of a tiny foot against his palm.
"It's kicking," he echoes in wonder.