“Oh, I can’t. Gettin’ my hair washed and set. It’s Thursday, you know,” she informed me. I knew the old woman’s schedule. Just as she made it a point to know mine. She was an observer in her own, nosy way.
“That’s right. Well another time then,” I said with a smile.
“I’ll bring you some peanut butter crunch cookies later. I’m trying out a new recipe before my granddaughter comes to visit.”
“When is she coming?” I asked.
“In a couple of weeks. She’s about your age. Maybe a little older. How old are you again?” I eyed the older woman speculatively, knowing exactly what she was doing. She had been trying to glean information out of me since I had moved in. She wasn’t in the slightest bit subtle.
“Twenty-four,” I replied, feeling no need to lie. I typically held my truths close to my chest, revealing none. But there was no harm in giving Mrs. Statham what she was looking for.
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t spoil.
I didn’t bleed afterwards.
Mrs. Statham clicked her tongue several times, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Danielle is twenty-eight. She’s been working in the city for a few years now. She’s close enough that it shouldn’t take her six months to come see her grandmother, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Statham remarked sternly, already discarding the information I had given her.
Insignificant.
Unimportant.
She had no idea.
“People get busy,” I offered, backing away from the door, knowing the conversation was nearing its inevitable conclusion.
“True, true.” Mrs. Statham peered at me, eyes wanting to see so much. “You don’t leave your poor grandmother to pine after you, do you?”
“I don’t have a grandmother,” I reminded her. She knew the story I had told her. Sprinkled with the reality I had come to know. Some honesty that made it real.
“Oh that’s right. You lost your parents and grandparents. I’m sorry about that. It’s a shame that such a beautiful girl like you is all alone in the world,” Mrs. Statham exclaimed without tact. If I were an emotional woman, her words would have wounded.
But there was no pain.
“I have to get ready for work. And you have hair to wash and set, Mrs. Statham,” I reminded her, getting annoyed, wishing she’d leave.
Mrs. Statham clucked her tongue again. “That’s right. I’m going to be late. I’ll come by later.”
I didn’t bother to tell her that I would be at work later. I’d let her come by to find me not at home. Her future disappointment almost made me smile.
“Bye, Mrs. Statham,” I said and closed the door as she turned to leave, more words on her lips that I didn’t want to hear.
I walked into my kitchen and stopped at the dry erase board I had hung on the refrigerator.
I uncapped the marker and jotted down a line: Sealed lips, closed eyes, dead ears. Easy heart.
I laid the newspaper out on the table and turned on my computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I skimmed the local stories. I made a point to familiarize myself with the goings on in the tiny towns I chose to live in.
Brecken Forest was typical in all the usual ways. The front page was dominated by the minutes from last night’s school board meeting. Pictures of the recent garden show took up most of the second and third page. I looked at the faces of local celebrities. Women and men whose names meant something in this quiet hamlet. Families who had been there for generations.
This was about blending. About claiming. I wanted to slip inside the blood and bones of the town to find belonging. For however long I could have it.
I could pretend that I had grown up in the small town with the state championship winning football team. That I skinned my knees on the streets of a make believe childhood filled with parents who had normal jobs and friends I had known since infancy.
I could dip my toes in an imaginary past and live a few moments in content delusions.