What Kills Me by Wynne Channing Page A

teasing Jerome about how
he slurped. It felt like I was at home, like I was part of a
family. I missed my own family so much.
    Outside, above ground, wind
rippled through the trees. I rolled off the chest. I can’t lie here all day. I need to walk
around. I maneuvered around the boxes,
which I saw in silhouette, and climbed the stairs. I paused to see
if the groaning stairs had disturbed anyone. No one stirred. I
pushed up on the trapdoor and went out.
    With all of the shutters
closed and curtains over the windows, the house was dim. But in the
day, the sofa’s cream upholstery appeared tie-dyed in yellow and
brown. Dirt obscured the titles of the books on the table. Flecks
of dried blood dotted the counter, the floor, the face of the
fridge. Boot prints created a mosaic across the floor. They need to invest in a cleaning
lady.
    A flock of birds flew
overhead. The flapping of their wings sounded like applause. I
opened the back door a crack and waved my hand through the beam of
light. Still okay. I stepped outside and turned my face up to greet the
sunlight. Through my closed eyes it looked like the world was
ablaze. I bathed in the sun’s warmth. I felt alive.
    I walked into the field, the long
grass tickling my knees, a breeze catching in my hair. Jerome’s big
runners made me feel like I was wearing clown shoes. I followed a
butterfly in between some trees. It soared on the wind like a kite
with its yellow and black papery forewings and brilliant, royal
blue hind wings. I tracked its journey through the woods until it
spiraled, flew toward me, as if acknowledging my presence, and then
rose into the treetops.
    I paused and I felt despair
descend on me. What was I going to do now? How would I survive? To
distract myself, I picked wildflowers: tiny yellow flowers, purple
flowers with spiky petals, blood-red poppies. I gathered tall stems
that looked as if they were topped with a bunch of grapes, and
others covered with white blooms that reminded me of lilies. I
reclined in a ditch softened by dead foliage and listened to the
forest. I imagined my mother in her garden, with her plastic
watering can and her yellow polka-dot gardening gloves. Wanting to
remember every detail of her face, I turned this picture of her
over and over in my mind. I never wanted to forget. She has a brown spot under her left eye. When she
smiles, she has a single dimple in her right cheek.
    Later, I returned to the quiet house
with my bouquet. In the doorway I surveyed the place and decided
that flowers would not help. I needed to clean. I opened all of the
cabinets in the kitchen. They were empty except for dead bugs,
cobwebs, tools, and knives.
    Under the sink, I found a hardened
cloth, a half-empty bottle of dish soap, a plastic container, and
random mechanical bits. I pulled the container out, unscrewed the
cap, and smelled the liquid. I coughed. It was some sort of fuel. I
wet the cloth with soapy water and went to work.
    I’m like Snow White, doing
housework in the forest for dwarfs. Lucas is definitely
Grumpy.
    I cleared the dining table,
wiped the books, and stacked them in a corner. They were in
different languages. I placed Sun Tzu’s The Art of War on top of the pile. I
wiped away cobwebs and the coat of dust on the furniture. I cleaned
the floors. I arranged the flowers in two empty glass jugs and
placed them on the dining table and the coffee table. Then I
flopped down on the sofa and rested my feet on the
table.
    I must have dozed off. I awoke with a
start when Lucas kicked my feet off of the table. The room was
already dark.
    “I must have fallen…”
    Lucas bent forward and yanked me to my
feet by the front of my shirt. “Hey!” I said.
    “What were you doing?” he
demanded.
    “What do you mean?” I said, trying to
pry his fingers from my collar.
    “You left the undercroft in the day,”
he said.
    “Ow! Let go of me. I left the
what?”
    “The cellar, you left in the morning.
Why would you go out in the day? I thought I