Ellen Block: The Language of Sand

Since the fire, she occasionally had incidents similar to sleepwalking. Minutes, let alone hours, could completely blur. The knowledge that she could abandon her body and it would act on its own, perhaps against her will, unnerved her.

When she returned to the laundromat, the man with the under-bite was gone. Her towels and bedding lay in wet mounds on the sorting table. He had taken them out for her.

“At least he’s not a ghost.”

“I do that too.”

Flushed, Abigail spun on her heel as the man appeared from inside a storage closet.

“Do what?”

“Talk to myself. Shouldn’t be ashamed. There’s no better listener than your own set of ears.”

“That’s…” She had to think of a sentiment that wouldn’t be insulting. “Not untrue.”

“I got you some dryer sheets.”

“These’ll be fine without—”

The man wagged his finger. “Wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll get static. As much as twelve thousand volts. The sheets have a lubricating effect.”

“Wow. Who knew?”

He proffered the dryer sheets as if to say: I did, and so should you.

“On the house?” Abigail asked.

“On the house.”

As she prepared to shove the sopping bedding into a random dryer, she deferred to him first. “Can you suggest the dryer du jour?”

Beaming, he began, “In my opinion, number eight is by far the best for sheets and blankets; not ideal for delicates. I’ve had trouble with the calibration. Runs real hot. For your towels, I’d go with number eleven. Heat stays even.”

“Number eight it is.” Abigail loaded in the soggy laundry under the man’s watchful eye.

“Be ready in forty minutes,” he informed her.

“Got it. Can you tell me where I might find a supermarket?” She didn’t want to talk voltage and heat settings with him the whole time and needed groceries badly.

“There’s a general store up the street on the right-hand side. You can’t miss it.”

“Can’t miss it, huh? I’ve heard that before.”

A billboard-size sign for Weller’s Market was propped on the roof of a barn-style building a block away. Abigail’s new pal from the laundromat was right. She couldn’t have overlooked it unless she was blindfolded.

The market had the feel of a makeshift country store. Rows of plywood shelves and display stands stacked on overturned crates gave it the vibe of a traveling show, ready to be dismantled and moved to a new location at a moment’s notice. Even though the registers in front were vacant, Abigail could hear shuffling somewhere in the store. She picked a cart and cruised from aisle to aisle, lamenting that she hadn’t written a list.

“Doesn’t matter. You need everything .”

One of the wheels on her cart was wobbly, making it troublesome to maneuver. The broken wheel bleated monotonously, and the front end kept veering into the shelves. The more she filled the cart, the more strenuous it was to steer. Since Lottie was AWOL and Abigail couldn’t get her to have the place cleaned yet, her top priority was cleaning supplies. She couldn’t stand all the dust for another night, so whichever products claimed to be the most powerful and abrasive got thrown into her cart.

“The stronger, the better.”

She also chucked in any provision that caught her fancy. Hunger had that effect. Her cart on the verge of tipping, Abigail was ready to check out.

Slouched at the register, engrossed in a paperback romance, was Janine, the woman from the Kozy Kettle. Abigail unloaded her groceries, thinking Janine might not remember her. Unfortunately, she did.

“You got coupons?” Janine snapped.

Abigail hadn’t been food shopping since before the fire. Her purse lay in the cart’s children’s seat, suddenly reminding her of Justin. The jolt of sadness made her entire head buzz for a second.

“I said, you have any coupons?”

“Me? Coupons? No, no, I don’t. Not that I don’t use them,” Abigail stammered, worried Janine had mistaken her confusion for condescension. “I just don’t have any with me. I’m new here. I got into town yesterday and I haven’t even unpacked and I didn’t get a good night’s sleep and I…I…I’m going to stop talking now.”

Janine narrowed her eyes, then rang Abigail’s items in silence. When Abigail started to bag the groceries, Janine stopped her.

“I can do that.”

“I thought I’d help.”

“Well, don’t.”

Abigail’s face burned with embarrassment. Unable to devise a sharp retort, she bided the minutes until Janine finished bagging and announced the total. It was higher than Abigail expected. She’d gotten extra cash for such expenses before leaving Boston and handed over three large bills, providing Janine with another reason to dislike her.

She thrust the change at Abigail. “Have a nice day.”

“I will.”

It was a lame comeback. Plus, it was hard to look triumphant pushing the wobbly shopping cart from the store to her station wagon.

“Where does that woman get off?” Abigail railed as she shoved the grocery bags into her car. “I’ve barely met her and she hates me. How can you hate somebody you haven’t even been introduced to?”

Then Abigail caught sight of the John Deere twins from the Kozy Kettle standing on the corner, staring as she talked to herself. She blushed.

“Morning,” she said with a wave.

The men toddled away as fast as their arthritic legs could carry them.

“Terrific. Everyone you’ve met so far either hates you or thinks you’re crazy. Speaking of crazy, it’s time to get your laundry.”

Abigail arrived at the laundromat to discover the man with the under-bite folding her sheets.

“Gotta get them while they’re hot or else they wrinkle,” he explained, smoothing the fabric and patting down the creases. “Same goes for towels. I did those too.”

“I don’t know what to say. I mean I really don’t know what to say.”

Having him touch her sheets and towels was disconcerting. She had to squelch a grimace.

“Here. I couldn’t remember what brand you preferred.” Abigail had bought a container of detergent and a box of dryer sheets for him at the market.

He blinked at the offering. “These are the fancy kind. Top of the line. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Seriously , she thought. Don’t mention it.

This experience had gone from bordering on bizarre to flat-out freakish. Abigail was eager to return to the refuge of the lighthouse. She collected her laundry and began to back out the door.

“I’ve got to run. Things to do. People to see.”

“Okeydokey, you have yourself a nice day.”

On the ride home, Abigail replayed the morning’s events, wondering if she should bother unpacking. She could break the lease and pay the difference. Except that would mean admitting defeat.

For months, Abigail had felt defeated. The fire was an ambush, and grief had overpowered her, trouncing her spirits. Some days she would wake up thinking she was in someone else’s body. Other days, she’d pray she was. She would stare at her fingers, unable to recall if her nails had always been so short. Or she’d look at her freckles in a mirror, uncertain as to how long they had been there. Her arms seemed clumsy, her legs gangly, her rib cage too small for her, stuffed tight with her swollen heart. Abigail had been losing the battle to reclaim herself and couldn’t afford to be beaten.

She was passing the meadow, the marker that indicated she was halfway to the lighthouse, when a flicker of color caught her eye, a strand of blue-gray in the sea of vibrant green reeds. A heron was wading through the grass. The sheer beauty of the bird’s slender body made Abigail slow the car. The heron stepped elegantly through the meadow hay, until it strode into a thicket and out of view.