V. H. King's Ink

The day I accepted Turner’s challenge assignment, I put in a request for two weeks’ vacation and then shut down my computer. No need waiting for a reply, especially when Turner would handle my inbox while I was gone.  Besides, he had remote access to my desktop and knew my file organization system.  It had taken half a month to train him on, but now he knew it backwards and forwards.

Taking the afternoon.
Thanks for the lead.

Instead of turning off my phone like I was quite tempted to do, I made sure it was on silent and went to pee. I took a long time in the bathroom afterwards. Brown sugar and honey exfoliating cream, mixed with some turmeric body scrub to help with my joints. Too much mango-citrus body wash, because I liked the way it foamed on top of my shoulders and tickled my cheek.

I rinsed off as the water cooled, taking slow deep breaths to steady my heart.  It was the only part of me that could gallop these days. Dried off and dressed in my underwear, I rubbed in bergamot lotion, doing my best to massage the aches out of my arms, legs, back, and sides.  I certainly couldn’t punch them out of myself.   

The steam had mostly receded with the cool water.  A hazy mix of scents danced around the tiny enclosure whenever I moved, reminding me of the urgency I was trying to quell.

Turner likes to say I distract myself, but mostly I’m trying to parcel out my energy for an entire day instead of deep-diving into whatever idea sounds most exciting at the time. Little tasks like emptying the dishwasher or putting away the laundry I’d folded a week ago usually helped me meter out my energy. 

A task that took fifteen minutes and forced me to rest for forty-five was better for me than a ninety-minute brainstorm flitting between notebooks, binders, and presentation slides. Turner looked thoughtfully unconvinced when I told him that in our first one-on-one so many years back.  He’d said those brainstorms somehow always managed to yield an abundant crop, but he said it in a way that meant Keep doing whatever you need to do, I’ll cover for you.

I always joke that he never knew what he was getting into with me, but I know he’s more self-aware than that.  If anything, he realized that our knowing each other would always mean something.  I think he decided he would rather pay close attention during our encounters than dismiss whatever feelings or ideas our interactions brought up for him. Turner tells me I’m chronically cynical in what I assume other people think of me, and I think that’s one of his ways of saying he cares.

Guess I ended up with some family, after all. 

I scrubbed my face and neck twice over with hot water, then rinsed away the steam and static with a clean, cool cloth.  That’s what the restlessness is like, for me.  Static-y, or that high pitched whine and ringing that’s underneath every conversation and dream. 

The tinnitus got worse after the first surgery.  If I’m paying attention, it clues me in to when my mood is about to swing. Most of the time I don’t notice until I’m three days into a slightly-manic spree. I’ll look at everything I’ve done and start plotting my next sticky-note list to conquest when the ringing creeps in, warning me to put on the brakes now before I do some serious damage. And most of the time, I listen.

Every now and then, I blow past it like an impatient driver scraping underneath the rail-crossing arms, willing to risk the unpredictable speed of a train for the thrill. I’m not always that reckless though.  Sometimes it’s more like the twinge-y feeling of seeing a city skyline in your rearview when you set off on a roadtrip.  A few exits later, you realize you forgot your wallet, but you don’t turn back to get it.  You just see where the trip takes you.

After brushing my teeth, I left the bathroom to find red leggings and my astronaut hoodie.  I have an array of wearable merch from every podcast I listen to. Most of them are space-themed, but funnily enough, only one of them has astronauts the way I grew up think of them—floating in the darkness somewhere way out there, doing space-walks to keep from getting sucked into black holes created by unknown star explosions.  Or whatever it is they do.

I flattened the back of my high-tops shoving my feet in, then wiggled my index finger around to pull them into shape. Took one of the three hairs tie off my wrist and twisted my locs away from my face.  Athletic tape on both wrists gave me the snug feeling I craved, despite my tendency to push my sleeves up to my elbows.  I decided on a bright pink wrap and put on my fit bit.

Heart Rate: 170.

Maybe I should start breathing again.

Instead I shoved my ID and debit card in my pocket and grabbed my water bottle from the little cubby in the headboard. Halfway through scrounging through the no less than five blankets on my bed for my journal, I heard my alarm blaring from the other room. I waited until my fingers slipped across the fake-leather binding and snatched up the journal before the blankets could claim it again. 

My phone was on my desk, where I had left it.  I unlocked it. Opened the app, which I’d named Reggie.   

Bold text in a red triangle. URGENT LOW!

Arrows pointing downwards.

I hushed Reggie, knowing he would yowl again in five minutes.  Enough time for me to fill my water bottle, add a squirt of lime juice, lock up, and head outside.

o-o-o

The parking lot was mostly gravel.  Three cars.  Five pickup trucks.  Judith scanned the scene as she pulled in to pump number three. This was the first stop she’d seen in fifty miles that was more than a wide spot in the road.  That didn’t mean it was safe.

“Bastard,” she muttered to herself.

Turner had offered to go in for her, the one time they’d been on the road together. Besides being annoyed that he could tell how exhausted she was, Judith didn’t care for being left alone in a car.  She had too much energy to just sit and watch people pump gas.  Plus, there could never be too many snacks.

I think that’s called anxiety, Turner had said, and Judith had called him a bastard.  That particular observation of his had stuck, repeating itself whenever she chose to push herself just a bit more than was necessary. Sometimes the word bastard slipped out a random, two quiet syllables said with all the weary relief of a prayer. Mostly her face pinched just so, with Turner nearly always knowing exactly what she was thinking.

This time she said it out loud because the wind chewed at her bloodless fingertips and the touch panel wouldn’t respond.  And because she had three unread messages from Turner, and she didn’t want to read them because she had no idea how to respond. What made it worse was that Turner didn’t expect her to say anything.

Judith had zero social coordination when it came to things like people caring. Suspicion, she could handle. So she re-routed her focus to keeping track of movement in the parking lot as she locked the doors and headed to the mini-mart. Her license and debit card were in her front pocket so she wouldn’t have to other with digging around in a purse.  She kept her keys in hand, and despite her relaxed shoulders, she’d be ready to dodge behind a shelf or barricade herself in the bathroom in a moment’s notice. 

There was no way to control a situation like this.  People would think what they wanted about her, but playing the part of a casual customer was as good a use of her adrenaline as anything. Since leaving the house three hours ago, she’d managed to avoid eating much more than a granola bar. 

One of Turner’s texts was probably a reminder to get a sandwich or something.  Judith decided she’d do that once she got in for the evening.  For now, she opted for teriyaki beef jerky bites, a king-sized plain rice krispy treat, and the brightest color Mountain Dew the store had.  Fifteen different kinds of gummy candy laughed at her as she made her way up the aisle to the cashier. 

Judith bit her lip but decided to keep going. Right at the cashier, a sharing-size bag of sour gummy Skittles danged bright green beside the display of charging cables and chapstick. 

“That all for you?” Cashier asked.

“Might as well take the Skittles, since they’re staring me right in the face,” Judith said with a wry smile.  “Thirty dollars on pump three, please.”

“No problem.” Beeps and a glance out the window, over a shoulder. “Cash or card?”

“Card please.”

“Alright, whenever you’re ready.”

Judith held her breath as she swiped and put in her PIN.  Spinning, spinning, spinning.  A half-hearted buzzer and the machine started chugging out the receipt.

Finally, the magic word: APPROVED.

“Need this?”

“My boss will bitch if I don’t take it.”

Another wry smile, and this time it was shared between them.

“You drive a lot for work?”

“Every now and then, yeah. The paperwork for it’s a headache, but I like the rest of it.  Never been good at just staying in an office.”

“I hear you on that, man.” Cashier started slinging the snacks in the bag, topping it off with the receipt.  “You stay stuck in a box like that, you forget there are all types out here, and most all of ‘em are just trying to get by.”

“Sounds about right to me,” Judith said, taking the bag. “Take it easy, yeah?”

“You too—enjoy the ride.”

On her way out, Judith swiped a few napkins from the dispenser by the coffee machine. When she got back to her vehicle, the screen invited her to lift a nozzle and select which fuel she wanted.  After stashing her snacks, Judith popped the gas cap and started to fill up. 

The wind chased away the stale cigarettes.  Birds busied themselves with smashed cheerios and discarded fries.  Judith breathed gasoline and concrete, the tension in her unraveling itself.  She had been so focused on the impulse to leave that she hadn’t thought through much else. But the tip came back to her now, and Judith pondered the last line again.    

I thought you should know about it.

Not I wanted you to know, but I thought. I thought you should know. What was it about that wording?  Why did it carry the weight of a warning? Or was it a threat?

The gas pump clicked, and Judith looked at the display.  She had twelve dollars left.  Judith milked it to an even ten and put the nozzle back in its cradle. 

THANK YOU!

Judith got behind the wheel with a sigh. I wrote a story I forgot about. What was she supposed to do with that? Which story needed telling—the one forgotten, or the act of forgetting? And if the forgotten story had been written, what had been remembered? When, and how?