Lonely

After my abrupt, unhappy goodbyes, I’m in the basement, rereading old chats. The internet’s unplugged and all I have are e-mails from late 2006 and early 2007. These people are changed, even the ones that seem constant now. The old dramas taste bittersweet, strange, and disturbing. My worldviews and relationships have morphed into something else. My friends have become harder, older, more tired, more bitter. We’re not as carefree and shallow as we used to be. We have uglier, messier, crueler problems these days.
         I finish leafing through them and start the process that sends them to old mail. I unplug my Zune, pick up my purse and my laptop, and leave the computer churning away. The background on my Zune, a tree and a rich green field against a starry night sky, is the only small spot of peace in an ocean of lost dreams and painful memories. I turn the small screen off and plod up the stairs. Light and noise spills from the doorway above.
         I walk into the living room. ACT study books, religious literature, and half-folded clothes—men’s shirts, little boys’ socks, conservative dresses—accent the tan suede furniture and honey-golden wood cabinets. On the couch are a quilt and a pillow with a Little Mermaid pillowcase. The TV is on, blaring soft mindless chatter. A dim lamp fills the room with warm yellow light from one side. I turn around towards the kitchen. The harsh half-light hits hour-old unwashed dishes by the sink—four plates, four cups—and small notes and to-do lists wearing yesterday’s date on the counter.
Moving past the kitchen, I shuffle up another flight of stairs. The hall light at the top brightly illuminates the staircase. The bathroom light is also on, and light streams from under a closed door at the end of the hall. I faintly hear a TV playing from the closed-off room. To the left there is another room with a closed door. I can see the pale radiance of a nightlight half-escaping from it. Taking care to pass this room quietly, I enter my own room, turn on the light and the fan, set down my Zune, purse, and laptop, and close my door. I turn out the overhead light.
For the next few hours, I use my laptop’s wireless to connect to the internet and talk to my friends. I am suspicious and paranoid. Every time I hear a sound, I turn off my laptop’s screen and pretend to be asleep for a minute or two. I listen to music in iTunes, playing the same three songs over again: Dead Man’s Ballet, The Ministry of Lost Souls, and Memories. While my friends are typing replies, I play Jewels on my Zune.
It is early in the morning—either 2 AM or 3 AM; my vision is blurry and I am having trouble reading the clock. I bid my last remaining friend good night and he goes to bed. I close my laptop, hide the wireless card under some blankets, and turn off my Zune. Then I get out of bed, closing my door carefully behind me.
I pad quietly down the stairs. I turn off the flat screen TV and the lamp in the living room. I tiptoe into the kitchen, add “crunchy peanut butter” to a pad on the fridge labeled “Mom’s Shopping List”, and turn off the light. Then I go back upstairs, turn out the bathroom light, and walk to the end of the hallway.
Hesitantly, I open the door. No one is inside. My steps are halting. The TV breaks the silence with inane sounds. The fan whirs. The waterbed is empty. I brush dust off the pillows with the back of my hand, gently, almost caressing them, and smooth the comforter into neatness.
Slowly I raise a hand to the TV and turn it off. My hands are shaking from exhaustion. As I walk to the door, I turn my head back for one last look.
I snap the ceiling light off.
“Good night, Mama.
“Good night, Daddy.
“I love you.”