tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35334322011-04-21T12:21:11.757-07:00The Invisible WomanA serial novel.Marthanoreply@blogger.comBlogger321100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-1139784957665726632006-02-12T14:51:00.000-08:002006-02-12T14:55:57.666-08:00Dear Betty: It's a wheelchair, I realize. A fancy one, not like the kind that they pushed you around in in the hospice. Motorized, computerized. My eyes focus."10 years," said the man. "In case you're wondering.""Excuse me?" my voice sounded dusty and remote. "I've been in the chair for 10 years, since I tried to do what you tried to do.""How do you know what I tried to do?"The Man in the Marthanoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-1111435449333585652005-03-21T12:03:00.000-08:002005-03-21T12:04:09.333-08:00"You're disappointed," the man says. "You wanted to be somewhere else, and you worked very hard to get there."Marthanoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-1078771148762363202004-03-08T10:39:00.000-08:002005-03-21T12:01:54.836-08:00Dear Betty:By now, I thought I'd be with you--well, not with you, because, of course, I would have gone to hell, but on the same side of death as you, but, no. I'm a failure at this, too."I wouldn't exactly call it a failure," said the man I couldn't quite see. I didn't have my glasses--I didn't think I'd need them after I was dead. He moved toward me, but he didn't get up, and I could hear a Marthanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-1077281577998655162004-02-20T04:52:00.000-08:002004-02-20T04:55:36.513-08:00Kate thought how much her husband---her ex-husband, she corrected herself--would have hated this room. He liked things with clean edges, uncluttered. Surgical, Kate thought, and then she thought about Betty, and how much she had failed her.
Well, she'd--she thought of the bad word her husband would have used, and could not bring herself to say it, even in her mind--she'd, yes, she could say Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-805728892002-08-22T09:08:00.000-07:002002-08-22T09:08:28.650-07:00Death smelled like...peppermint?
Kate opened her eyes. They ached.
Everything ached.
Death had old-fashioned taste: the room teemed with things covered in chintz. Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-804752912002-08-20T07:16:00.000-07:002002-08-20T07:16:05.406-07:00What would she wear on the Oprah show? Kate's mind stopped for a second. If I am still thinking about what to wear on a ridiculous talk show, maybe I don't want to die. And she laughed. The pills, were they making her giddy? She wasn't sure. Betty, tough Betty had just willed herself to sleep.
She was wearing one of her old lady dresses, one of the dresses she'd bought when it was clear Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-799863292002-08-08T09:13:00.000-07:002002-08-08T09:13:13.693-07:00From her pocket, she pulls the two amber bottles of pills. She thinks of Betty and her pain, Betty who wanted to die beautifully, and didn't. She takes a bottle of Evian out of her basket, the first bottle water she's bought since the divorce. She felt giddy buying the water, because for once she could afford to be reckless with money.
The pills take a long time to go down. She knows that; Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-799378422002-08-07T07:47:00.000-07:002002-08-07T07:47:12.033-07:00There's a homeless man fishing by the river. As Kate approaches, she sees that there's no line in his rod. But the man is carefully, even skillfully, going through the motions. He had a life once where fishing was possible, and he hasn't wanted to give that up. He waves to Kate. She waves back. She thinks of her father, how he'd get home from a shift at the mill. How he'd scoop her up and Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-799349222002-08-07T06:22:00.000-07:002002-08-07T06:22:15.136-07:00For once, Kate likes being invisible. As soon as the sun sets, she gathers her tools: her shopping basket filled with rocks, her pills, her flashlight, and heads out the door. At least two frat parties are in progress, and one young man nearly mows her down as he jogs to the house carrying a case of beer. He doesn't apologize. Why should he? He doesn't see her.
Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-797711792002-08-03T05:17:00.000-07:002002-08-03T05:17:09.900-07:00CONFIDENTIAL REPORT
Subject is having night terrors, mostly revolving around her son, and her planned suicide.
Subject has done an excellent job of planning her suicide. This investigator would not, however, recommend her becoming a part of the program. We would highly recommend her painter friend.
CONFIDENTIAL RESPONSE
Take tomorrow off, Tom. You're not getting out enough.Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-788673552002-07-12T09:05:00.000-07:002002-07-12T09:05:45.236-07:00It is amazing how efficient you can be when there will be no day after tomorrow.
I call the utilities, the paper, the post office, ask them to suspend service indefinitely. No one asks why. No one asks would I like anything turned back on. They can hear the age in my voice. No one is interested, except Blink.
She finished the painting today.
"It's beautiful," I lied. It is beautiful, Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-785467862002-07-04T05:11:00.000-07:002002-07-04T05:11:13.063-07:00Blink's picture of me is almost done. She says she works in acrylics because she is impatient.
"Maybe when I'm older," she says, "I'll be patient, like you."
I laughed.
"I'm not patient."
"Yes, you are. Most people your...most people wouldn't have the patience to sit for as long as it takes for dopey me to get this right."
"I've never done this before. I don't know how long it's Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-783919542002-06-30T13:46:00.000-07:002002-06-30T13:46:41.856-07:00My father used to take me to the river when I was a little girl. He thought the river was magic, even when it stank of steel. Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-783793102002-06-30T04:20:00.000-07:002002-06-30T04:21:13.000-07:00I know where to find the rocks by the river, because you helped me collect them for my garden. I walk down the street with my little red shopping cart, and people see a little old lady going for her double discount coupons. Not a woman planning her own death.Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-778926882002-06-18T08:53:00.000-07:002002-06-18T08:53:49.343-07:00Dear Betty:
Roy has sold the house out from under me. I have 30 days to move.
Now I really have to end it, Betty. I cannot bear another move. Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-777758942002-06-15T06:09:00.000-07:002002-06-15T06:09:23.663-07:00Dear Betty:
The sign outside reads: "Luxury Condos Coming Soon."
I feel so heartbroken.Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-777448872002-06-14T09:47:00.000-07:002002-06-14T09:47:35.496-07:00Dear Betty:
All those hours in Blink's cafe, and we never thought to invite her out, or visit her studio. Maybe we women make each other invisible. The old invisible to the young, but the young invisible to the old in a certain way, too.
Her studio is beautiful. It made me think about my old house in Fox Chapel. Despite its many rooms, I never had a room dedicated to my work, because, of Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-777447352002-06-14T09:43:00.000-07:002002-06-14T09:43:12.226-07:00CONFIDENTIAL REPORT
Subject appears to be taking mood elevators. Or perhaps suffering a psychotic break. (Investigator is aware that he only has a B.A. in psychology, but feels he must hazard some guesses.)
Subject has begun a series of nude painting sessions with the young proprietor of the independent cafe across the street from Starbucks. An unusual thing to be doing in any case, but even Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-775612752002-06-10T04:55:00.000-07:002002-06-10T04:55:35.710-07:00Today I did it, Betty.
Took off all my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror.
All the women's talk shows talk about it, but even when I was trying to be an actress, I never found my body all that appealing. And then, as the years passed, and Roy stopped touching me, I kept turning away from the mirror myself as if I were a terrible car accident.
But do you know what? I am not that bad. Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-775300402002-06-09T08:27:00.000-07:002002-06-09T14:29:22.000-07:00Dear Betty:
Four bags.
That's what my life consists of, after all is said and done. Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-775298902002-06-09T08:15:00.000-07:002002-06-09T08:15:35.033-07:00Dear Betty:
I can't disappoint Blink, who seems surprised that I would be willing to pose for her in the all together.
"This seems like something Betty would do," Blink says, and her eyes grow wet.
She's right. Where did that come from in you, Betty? You were older than me, more sheltered than me, but nothing stopped you. Herb adored you, even when you made him blush. He never told you to Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-775298742002-06-09T08:14:00.000-07:002002-06-09T08:14:27.736-07:00Dear Betty:
I can't disappoint Blink, who seems surprised that I would be willing to pose for her in the all together.
"This seems like something Betty would do," Blink says, and her eyes grow wet.
She's right. Where did that come from in you, Betty? You were older than me, more sheltered than me, but nothing stopped you. Herb adored you, even when you made him blush. He never told you to Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-773831042002-06-05T11:06:00.000-07:002002-06-05T11:06:24.296-07:00Dear Betty:
It shouldn't be hard to do. You left me a couple of bottles of pills. The river is kind. The biggest problems will be wheeling the rocks down to the edge. How did Virginia Woolf do it? Her river must have been rockier.
It feels strange to stay, but it feels good to have a project. To have a destination again. I haven't really had one since Roy left me and took everything. I Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-772920322002-06-03T09:40:00.000-07:002002-06-03T09:40:39.820-07:00Dear Betty:
Blink told me today that she wants to paint me.
Naked.
I said yes. She seemed surprised. After all, by the time she is done, I will be gone. Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-772916352002-06-03T09:29:00.000-07:002002-06-03T09:29:40.233-07:00CONFIDENTIAL RESPONSE
Subject is at risk, we agree. But it is not the investigator's job to evaluate subject; only to track her.Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-771839652002-05-31T07:43:00.000-07:002002-05-31T07:43:59.923-07:00CONFIDENTIAL REPORT
Subject is in her early 60s. Highly intelligent, and highly depressed.
Subject has been under stress since her best friend died of breast cancer a year ago. Subject's ex-husband runs an energy company in California, remarried, and is expecting child. (This investigator is not sure that subject is aware of that last fact.)
Termination, this investigator believes, is Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-770713322002-05-28T11:19:00.000-07:002002-05-30T12:41:46.000-07:00Dear Betty:
You used to make fun of how organized I was. In the end, you said, we're all dead anyway. I would agree with you, but why not leave an organized medicine cabinet, anyway?
When your daughter left me to clean up your house, I found the pills that you must have taken. I wanted to throw them away, but realized that I might need them, someday. Just a couple of them, to ease the pain inMarthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-770087672002-05-26T19:51:00.000-07:002002-05-26T19:51:08.210-07:00Dear Betty:
Today I went to Stay Up Late, where Blink greeted me with a hug and a clang: all that metal in her face! She refused to let me pay for my coffee, and told me that she was still working on the secret recipe for a drink she was going to name after you. It made me feel ashamed, knowing what I am planning to do. But I am already going to hell anyway. I knew that as soon as I let Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-769776442002-05-25T20:27:00.000-07:002002-05-25T20:27:28.146-07:00Dear Betty:
Last night, I dreamt I still lived in the big house in Fox Chapel. I was methodically cleaning every room, just like I did before Roy left me, before I lost Charlie. When I got to Charlie's room, I was afraid to open the door. Inside the room, though, I heard someone moaning. I was scared, but thrilled to think I would soon see Charlie's face. When I opened the door, a river of Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-769396042002-05-24T15:07:00.000-07:002002-05-24T15:07:34.206-07:00Dear Betty:
On one of those shows I cannot stop watching, a woman with bright orange hair and purple glasses told the audience that we had to go to our bedroom, light a candle, take off our clothes, and accept our bodies.
I got as far as my shirt and my shoes before my knees began to ache and I had to sit down.
I am 64 years old outside of my body, but inside, I feel young. You could see Marthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-769235102002-05-24T07:07:00.000-07:002002-05-24T07:07:31.080-07:00Dear Betty:
Today I went to the Rite-Aid to pick up a prescription. I won't tell you for what because you always thought illness was boring. "Skip the details, Kate."
So I'll skip them.
Lentil soup was on sale. The kind we used to heat up and drink in my little garden. So I stood in line, the weight of the cans finally forcing me to put the basket down. The line was long, and there was aMarthanoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3533432.post-769072032002-05-23T19:18:00.000-07:002002-05-23T19:18:56.693-07:00Dear Betty:
Oprah said this would help.
Oprah was wrong.
It's been a year since I buried you, and I still expect to get a phone call from you. "Kate," you'll squawk, "Get the hell out of the house. Don't let the bastard get you down! Let's go shopping."
It was easy enough, after you'd died, to imagine that you were actually on one of those fabled trips to Brazil that you wouldn't tell me Marthanoreply@blogger.com0