She wasn't positive, but she thought she might be dreaming, or dead, meaning she'd crossed an exit point for her old life. The world was a softer place than it had been
the day before. The weather warmer, the
traffic noises sounded further away, and the creek she took her morning walk alongside of was uncharacteristically trash free. She noticed she was was more
relaxed than she had been in a long time. So she figured she must be dreaming, or in
that place people go when they’re between one life and another.
Her ‘old life’ had
been difficult, full of unrelenting mental work. While she had been given a top of the line
brain, she liked to mix it up a bit.
Splitting her time between solving problems, reading, writing, time spent with family, friends and patients, and
getting out into the wide world breathing in and breathing out - just being
without doing. The unrelenting nature of
her studies had gotten old. Grateful
that she was able to get the education at all due to her advancing age, Katie
none-the-less was noticing signs of inner rebellion growing at the irrelevance
of much of it. Sighing, she knew that
the minutia came with the territory. But
that didn’t mean she had to like every facet of it. Though she grudgingly admitted perhaps the
very contrast made her appreciate the good stuff even more.
Taking a break from her studies, she made
her way into the Antique Mall, feeling as though she had stepped into a different reality. She wondered if somehow the upscale flea market was a way station of sorts. Where people chose their next life by the
things they wanted around them. Katie believed that things are an outward expression of the inner beliefs and rules that one lived by. It wasn't always true to form, but she had found that those who chose their
surroundings deliberately tended to reflect their inner landscape surprisingly well.
She had always
loved wandering around looking at ‘shiny things’ that one found in the nicer shops, having grown tired of garage sales early in life. She enjoyed mentally trying on a potential new possession (or way of life) the way some women try on shoes. Mostly
she enjoyed the exercise in imagination.
But it had taken on a different quality this time. It was at once more vivid, and more detached.
Most of the things
surrounding her were well worn, and would make for an authentic setting if she
were a ‘staging expert’ like her friend who set up empty houses for
resale. She looked with curiosity at a booth crammed with the detritus from estate and garage sales. The vendor had gathered items that had a high
resale value, but had haphazardly mixed decorating styles. Katie would have grouped the things
differently. Placing the stainless steel
toaster, plug in percolator, the kitchen utensils with the black bake-o-lite
handles, and a white plastic canister set on the chrome and vinyl table. The tea kettle, fine tea cups, and lace tablecloth
would be arranged elegantly on the butler’s side table, and the Shaker chairs
would be hung on the wall above the plain wooden bench. But she liked to have things grouped by era. Not mixing Danish Modern with 1950's Chrome and Formica.
Some of these
styles her mother had had at one point or another in her life. All of them were attractive in some way, but
she didn’t want to duplicate her mother’s home. She wanted her own style,
wanted to reflect a softer, kinder life.
Moving on, she
found a booth where the vendor had chosen the items to blend together, reflecting a
style that Katie could only describe as pink, frilly, frivolous. She hadn't known that lace came in so many
shades of white, cream, and pink, much of it attempting to hide what was underneath. Dripping with ribbon, flounces and ruffles,
crystal chandeliers, the booth was 4000 cubic feet of total fluff. Lampshades covered with what looked like bits
of lace tablecloth and tulle. Ornate lamps, silk ivy garland wrapped in order to hide the ugliness beneath, shades
heavy with crystal beads, mountains of pillows, buckles, buttons and bows. It was rather overwhelming, all that fluttery
stuff. For a tidy sum Katie could have
the kind of room she might have liked for about fifteen minutes when she was
thirteen. There were a few things in the
booth she liked: a quilt here, an old
powder box that would hold jewelry, little things that would remind her of her
femininity without requiring the extraordinary steps to keep the dust at
bay.
Right next to
this wash of pink was an art-deco booth lined with movie posters, flapper
dresses, retro faux mink stoles, spike high heels, and a number of little retro women's hats. She slipped one of the hats on,
and stopped to admire herself. A single
glance in the mirror had her snatching it off, for she looked like her grandmother. When had she grown that old? The beret was definitely not her style, never had been, never would be, no matter how cute they looked on the model.
Ah but then she
saw a soft wool fedora, in black, she could not resist trying it on. Over the
shoulder of the elegant woman in the mirror she spied a patch of black, hiding
behind a hideous red, vinyl raincoat.
Pushing aside the offending bit of plastic she found a well, tailored, cashmere coat. Slipping it on, she
admired the way it hugged her curves. Paired with the fedora she would not be out of
place stepping out of a taxi at the Met.
All it needed was the right scarf.
Silk or soft knit, in red, dove grey, or cream depending on her mood. After a last look at herself, she reluctantly placed
the hat back on the wall hook, and the coat on its padded hanger.
She knew that
she would find these things again someday, probably in better shape. But now was the time to dream, not buy.
She fell in love
with a vase, clean elegant lines, rainbows showing through the cut crystal
edges. It was beautiful even without
flowers. A red and white quilt there, some
blue and white china, and a cut crystal sugar bowl. There were baskets and boxes. Dressers and damask drapes. Brass fireplace tools, a fender, and antique
brass andirons for a larger-than-life fireplace. There original oil paintings, and candlestick
lamps. Crystals and occasional
chairs. An old hutch made of mismatched
wood caught her eye, reminding her of one her grandfather had lovingly made
from an abandoned wardrobe.
She spent the
next several hours wandering about finding things she would enjoy if she were
to completely refurnish her home.
Stacks of soap
made in Scotland that smelling like ‘home’ spilled lazily down a display of
charming wooden boxes. English lavender dresser paper, and handmade cotton
quilts thrown over the foot of a bed caught her eye. Natural fibers, old time fragrances, and well-crafted
wooden furniture out shown the garish synthetic fabrics that so many merchants
were pawning off on the ignorant public.
An overstuffed wing back chair and ottoman were crammed into a corner
next to a fake fireplace, begging to be set free. A small wooden dresser buried under a
mountain of linens whispered of the lingerie that it had once held. A bent teakettle hung from a hook above the
coffee grinder that was missing the bowl.
And she smiled to herself for the one she owned looked better and still
worked. Katie had made coffee the old
fashioned way when the power went out – in the old metal pot hanging in the
fireplace while beef stew simmered in the Dutch oven and snow storms raged
outside.
The rows of old
glass medicine bottles in the next booth reminded her of her grandmother’s
vinegar cold remedy. Tasting of garlic
and something that kicked like a mule, she smiled as she remembered that it had
broken up every cough she had ever had. She moved on, nudging
a square bottle back into line.
And then she saw
the wooden humidor. Sanded till it felt like satin, someone had
lovingly crafted the maple piece, fitting it perfectly with an airtight insert
lined with a cork sheet. When she lifted
the lid the aroma of cigar tickled her nose, and she was washed with a wave of
homesickness. And she knew that this was
why she had come. None of the other ‘stuff’
mattered.
She knew He had
smoked the cigars that the humidor had held.
Wherever he had journeyed to make
his fortune – this time it was up to him to find her. She didn’t know what his name was. Or the
details of his life… but she had a sense that he was looking for her… and that
he had left the humidor for her to find, which meant he had been there. As she thought about it, she wondered if he
had been leaving little things that would remind her of home for years. That would wake her up enough to recognize
him when she saw him.
And then she
realized that perhaps it had not been him that had gone away, but her, because
she had needed to find out who she was independent of him, and whether she still
wanted to mingle her life with his. And over time, she had forgotten much of their
life together. And yet she had been
driven by a yearning to get back home.
Was she
dreaming? Or finally awake? Ready to enter her new life?
