this, and yet, I feel far away, distant; like I am on the outside of our kitchen window, peering in, hearing snippets of conversations and softly spoken words. Why, if it was just a dream, is it affecting me so? I need to get a handle on myself. I need to get out of this house. First however, I need a bath.
Our bathroom is old, like the rest of our house, but it has a wonderful, deep tub. After years in other centuries, where you’d never find something like that, much less instant hot water, I avail myself baths frequently. It is a luxury that I dread missing when we leave, and leave we will eventually. Inevitably. An embarrassing amount of my tip money is squandered on bubble bath and oils. I may not have good clothes or fancy hair, but I guarantee I smell good. This morning I pour in a ginger and pear concoction that I paid far too much for and only use for special occasions. That’s a ridiculous limit I’ve sternly set for myself; if I wake tomorrow in dusty Egypt four hundred years in the past, I am really going to be angry with myself for wasting what I had left in the bottle. So I pour in a few more drops before sliding in myself, up to my nose in fragrant bubbles. I can’t help the sigh that escapes me when I hear knocking on the door only a scant few seconds later. Without even moving the rest of my body, I can reach the doorknob and I open it obediently. It swings by my head and I don’t even open my eyes to see who it is because I know it’s Meli. She probably was left at the breakfast table, still talking, as everyone wandered off and now she’ll be looking for a captive audience. Sure enough, when I open my eyes just a slit, Meli is sitting on the counter and she begins a long narrative about Will and work and babies and marriage and cars and the house and this century and the weather and politics and religion. I do love Meli dearly, but she is not helping the pounding in my head that began after my nightmare and is building to a rousing crescendo. I “mmm” and “uh huh” while I shave my legs (not a requirement of womanhood I shall miss if I do wake up in Egypt centuries past). I wash my hair and then condition it and scrub my face with a pink washcloth I bought used at a garage sale. It has white ribbon around the edges that is silky when dry but rough when it gets wet, and the initials TS have been embroidered in one corner. I like to wonder who TS is or was and how her handiwork ended up in someone’s garage sale and finally in my hand. Was TS someone’s grandmother? No one these days would do such an old fashioned thing as to hand-embroider a washcloth. But I am an old-fashioned girl, literally, as old fashioned as one can get. I would have been alive many years before TS and I will be alive many years after she is only a memory, only I will have nothing to leave behind for my descendents to sell, a thought that is vaguely sad to me. I decide to embroider myself my own initials on my own set of towels. Take that, Fate or Destiny or God or whoever pulls my marionette strings. I may be a puppet, but I can be a rebellious one.
Meli’s conversation seems to wan and I sink lower into the ginger and pear bubbles. She finally accuses me of not listening, but it’s good natured – Meli is all bark with no bite – and when she leaves I towel myself dry and ponytail my wet hair. I put on my denim coveralls with a striped tank top and pull out my old battered sneakers from their spot under my bed as quickly as possible. I am uncomfortable now in my own bedroom after my memories of last night. It’s dark in my room because the bulb in my lamp is low wattage and the only window is the mottled, hazy kind that is hard to see in or out of and it doesn’t let in much light. My imagination seems to be running a mile a minute and as I grab my bag and slam the door