Echoes of normalcy

Zelda: [I’m in the office room, working on some false emergency, when I notice it: The house is quiet. No courtroom dramas screaming from TV. No doors opening or closing. No water running. No kitchen clatter. Not even any light cussing or grunting. I stop working and go investigate. I find Zach standing at the kitchen counter, pen in hand.] 

Zelda: Whatcha doin?

Zach: Making lists.

Zelda: What kind of lists?

Zach: Lists of all the shit that needs to get done! Fucksakes, woman.

Zelda: And you’re wearing big boy pants with shoes! What’s the occasion?

Zach: Grocery store. Gotta get stuff for your dinner.

Zelda: My dinner? You mean "our" dinner. How are you feeling?

Zach: Same. Everything hurts.

Zelda: But you feel good enough to cook?

Zach: No. But I’m doing it anyway. 

Zelda: [I notice Zach has also made one of his famous menus: A single sheet with a dozen or so entrees and their accompanying side dishes. I brace for what’s coming next, and he doesn't disappoint. He slides the menu toward me.]

Zach: Pick one.

Zelda: [I stare at the words but they don’t really land, and not just because he uses shorthand:] 

  • Gyoza w/salad & stuffed shrooms
  • Lentil soup w/salad & garlic brd
  • Chkn tenderloin sliders w/bacon & beans
  • Shrmp enchys w/avo, onions & jalas
  • Ribeye steak w/taters & broccolini

[I’m speechless, but I know I need to respond.]

Zelda: Whatever’s easiest—or needs to be used first?

Zach: You really don’t care about food, do you? 

Zelda: I love that you care about it. Want me to go to the store with you?

Zach: You that bored?

Zelda: No, just happy to keep you company.

Zach: It’ll be faster if I go by myself.

Zelda: ‘k. I have to finish a couple work things anyway. What else is on your list?

Zach: Have a look. 

Zelda: [The list runs the gamut from the mundane to the unexpectedly aspirational:]

  • Laundry
  • Plant tomatoes
  • Prune trees
  • Poison lawn
  • Plant dichondra
  • Make dirt
  • Organize freezer
  • Clean out pantry
  • Get rid of shit in closet
  • Fix shower diverter
  • Get 2 bags of concrete for mailbox
  • Shop for new shed
  • Shave & haircut

[Zach's effort to get back to normal—to reclaim his life. One item in particular caught my eye.]

Zelda: We're getting another new shed?

Zach: Yup. Roof's rusted through in the garden one. Needs replacing.

Zelda: [I take a deep breath. We actually have an old "new shed" that's been sitting in a giant box for 6 years waiting to be built. The idea that we needed another one surprised the hell out of me.] And you found the one you want?

Zach: Think so. Haven't clicked Buy yet, but it looks good.

Zelda: See if you can get them to set it up for you—and haul away the old one—including all the stuff that's in it.

Zach: Ha ha funny girl. It'll be a piece of cake. Hopefully, we'll have it done before the rain comes.

[I give him a peck on the cheek and head to my office. Zach leaves for the store. When he gets back, I hear him opening the refrigerator and cupboard doors, putting stuff away. Awhile later, he's making a racket in the bedroom. I poke my head in. He's half naked in front of his closet.] 

Zelda: What now?

Zach: Deciding what to chuck, donate, or keep. Got a lot of really nice clothes that don’t fit any more. Somebody’s gonna get some cool light-weight hiking shorts with lots of pockets. [He pulls them on, but they fall to the floor the second he lets go.]

Zelda: Lots of great memories of you in those.

Zach: And out of 'em. [Holds up a pair of shorts twice his current size.] Don’t have to try these on.

Zelda: Didn’t you get those in Vegas? So you could swim in the lazy river at the hotel?

Zach: Yeah. Now I’m swimming in them. Jeez, I was huge!

Zelda: But you’re gaining weight again, right? Maybe you shouldn’t get rid of all your big clothes.

Zach: Remember this? [Shows me a collared shirt that now fits him like a tunic, his shorts barely showing underneath.] Got it when they lost my luggage. Tried washing it hot last week. Didn't shrink a bit. Still fits like a dress. Into the donate pile with you, old buddy.

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