Fifty Two Hundred Teeth

It looks like she didn’t make it. But I am not sure. She is on the stretcher now, her olive green Burberry jacket on the ground, discarded by the men who tried to administer CPR. I think I see a faint movement in her chest before the paramedics cover my view, stuff her in the ambulance and take her away. I feel a small pang of hope.  
I hover there, reliving the moment I happened upon the woman in the pond; her face just under the surface of the water, her curly blonde hair splayed out and floating like bleached seaweed, her green eyes open, expressionless. Bubbles coming out of her nose and mouth. I had just stood over her, frozen, wondering if she was a figment of my imagination.  
Her skin was very white. That’s how I saw her. I had been at this oasis before. It is a dark place for a dark mood, surrounded by trees whose leaves only let in the barest amount of light. There is a stream of water trickling into the pond in the middle of the grassy area. It looks like it was meant to be a waterfall but it never reached its full potential. The waterfall is my favorite thing here. I can relate to it.
No one I know has any idea that I have these dark moments where I feel the need to come here. Even my family thinks it is simple anger that will pass quickly. And usually it does. It has to. Not because it goes away, but because I repress it – force it down. In order to live the life I am expected to live. I forge on.
“You are so cheerful,” someone once told me when I reached out to share my feelings. I wanted to respond that if she cut me open she would see my heart in all its corroded, damaged glory, worn out with the increasingly difficult struggle to be normal.
A therapist once tells me that I don’t have enough dopamine. And now it is too late. I narrow my eyes at her and think, “Isn’t it a therapist’s job to help make you feel better?” She is right though. I do not know happiness. Oh, sure, I have laughed. I have enjoyed things. But there is always the fog. Most of the time it is just behind me, nudging me forward. Once in a while it decides it needs to come give me a hug. So now I am at the oasis.
Except instead of sitting in silence contemplating my mood, I find myself in the middle of an even bigger tragedy. My body is numb, but my soul floats above it all. I think about the woman in the pond. I look down at the jacket. An expensive but temporary fix in the search for contentment, now separated from its owner.  
A few days later I am at the funeral. How can I not be? She haunts me. She died on the ride to the hospital. Was she in a better place now? Would she find peace? Time will tell I suppose.
I look around at the people there. There are so many of them. It surprises me. Where were they before life drained out of her, gently floating away through pockets of air from her lips and nostrils, making their way to the surface of the algae infested water? Or was that unfair? They were there. They had to have been. But did she feel them? Did she know that they would always be there? Or did she feel, as I sometimes do, that any wrong move on her part and they would dissolve into thin air, leaving her alone?
I focus on the grieving crowd. What is grief really? I watch and listen. She had a daughter. I sidle up close and feel anger radiating out of the young girl’s body. Well, that should be no surprise, for a young girl without the guidance of her mother is a lost soul. And the girl knows it. It breaks my heart. I turn away.
The girl’s father is standing by her - the widower. His face is sad, but I sense some relief in his demeanor. Relief that she is no longer suffering? Or relief that she is gone? That question is answered practically as I think it. He lifts his head and winks. I think it is for me at first and what is left of my heart leaps to my throat. But he is looking right through me. I turn. Behind me is a petite, attractive woman with locks and locks of curly hair. She approaches and he whispers some term of endearment to her as he kisses her cheek.
Is there any sadness in anyone’s grief? I move around. Most of the females that look like they could have been her friends have an aura of shock surrounding them, a barrier against my scrutiny. I could always read other people’s feelings pretty clearly. But it is not working anymore. My “gift”, my heightened sense of insight is gone. I try in vain to find one person who feels only sadness.
I overhear the word selfish. The shrew that says the word is deathly white, her lips pressed together so tightly that you can barely see them. Selfish. It is indeed a word people use in these cases. What the woman in the pond did. If we wrap it up and put it in a box, can we label it “selfish”? Sure. But can’t we do the same for many of the behaviors these people will exhibit as they, the living, go out through that heavy, dark, wooden double doorway of the church? We gnaw harshly on the labels of other people’s actions but, do the teeth marks we leave behind change our own behavior?
I float out the door. There is nothing more for me here.
I wake up sweating. It has been upon me for two days now. I cannot shake it like I have been able to in the past. I look over at my sleeping husband. A good man, but completely unable to comprehend my needs. I get up. It is cold. I go out the door and down the hallway. I open the door to my daughter’s room. She has been the most precious thing I have ever been blessed with. But she is about to fly away. Soon I will lose her. It is good for her. It is a disaster for me.
I try. I really do. I cannot shake the fog. I fight valiantly. It is no good. It closes in, squeezing me too tightly. I scream out in my head, but no one comes running. They cannot. There is nothing they could do anyway.
I go into the bathroom. My face is white. Large green eyes stare back at me. I swipe at my curly blonde hair, but it bounces back to where it wants to be. The fog is tighter than it has ever been. It lifts me and carries me down the stairs. I put on my olive green Burberry jacket and float out the door.
Somehow I make it to my favorite place. The oasis is dark. Of course it is. It is nighttime. The very fact that I have thoughts like that make me feel worthless, stupid. The fog agrees. I kneel down beside the pond. I stare into the darkness for what might have been hours. I am alone. Me and the trickle of water. Somehow, this comforts me. There is life here.
The fog nudges me. It is time. I nudge back. But I obey. I cannot fight anymore. I get in the water.

Author Notes: Please enjoy! And I'd love comments @CristinaAMatta

Recommend Write a ReviewReport