by Jackie Tricolli
I wake in a room with four blue walls. Palest of blue. Soft, soothing walls. A room with twin beds and matching comforters, a delicate blue and white floral chintz pattern. A room that once held trophies and secrets and fights between two sisters. Claws out over closet space. A room once pink, then lime green, now pale blue.
My childhood room. Not much leftover memorabilia. A photo of me with my boys on my side of the room, a photo of my sister and her kids on the other. Funny how we still have “sides” even though the room has been vacant for decades. My mom has taken over the vacated area as her “dressing room,” which is also funny because my mom’s not fancy, but now she fills the closet once shared by two girls with her own wardrobe. Still, I’m glad she has her own space in the tiny three-bedroom house.
My mom has done her best to clear things out so it won’t be a burden to us when she and my dad die. She often brings boxes of our old “stuff” when she comes to visit or simply throws things away, memories lost forever. It’s efficient but seems dark when I think of her planning for her own demise. Part of me has adopted this way of thinking into my own life, and my boys don’t like it either.
I painted these walls pale blue in high school, shortly after my sister left for college. A weekend project I attacked with vigor. It didn’t feel like a chore. My dad tricked me into the work, but I had fun. Enjoyed the labor of love required to transform my room. Painted the cardboard set of drawers next to my bed pale blue to match the walls. My worldly possessions stored in these drawers that served as a nightstand. Pictures from semi-formal dances, tip money saved from my summer job, old autograph books from elementary school, notes from friends folded like neat little paper footballs so no one else could read them. I even painted a milk crate I took from my job at the root-beer stand on Route 93, snatching it from the back of the building when no one was looking. Now it’s transformed from a generic greenish gray to a pretty pale blue.
But I am no longer a child. Not on this visit. No childhood sleepover, no teenage angst, no children of my own tumbling down the hallway to clamor into my childhood bedroom, giggling at pictures of me with a perm. Long gone is the pale blue milk crate full of albums, my favorite vinyl collection stored in my own attic now, bringing Bruce and Billy with me.
This time, I have come alone.
I’ve come home to take refuge from my unfolding world as I sort through the end of my marriage. My parents wait at the door for me, expectantly, with sheepish smiles on their faces. They cannot hide the fact they are happy to see me, have me home. I arrive loaded with bags, a mishmash of things stuffed everywhere as I made an exodus from my house. Seeing them waiting for me with open arms brings relief.
It must be heartbreaking for my parents to watch their middle child, the strong one, go through this life-altering event. Telling my mom is easy. She has known since forever how unhappy I am; there is no shock, no judgment, just simple acceptance. Telling my dad takes some courage. I ask him to sit down. He will miss the good life my marriage provided, the material items and the privilege I will lose. After initial tears, I tell him, This is a good thing, and in time he will see that too. No father wants their daughter to endure the emotional abuse I did.
These stoic, gentle octogenarians bravely, solidly stand by me, accepting this inevitable change, let me take naps in between phone calls to my attorney. There are quiet walks with my mom, who seems to shrink every time I see her, but she carries me through the next few days like a soldier used to battle. Pensive looks from my dad, someone who is used to hard knocks and heartbreaks, adjusting into his declining body from years of physical labor. To break the tension and get me moving, we go to Perkins because my dad likes to go out for breakfast, his favorite outing. Coffee, eggs, toast, and hash browns. I won’t deny him this small comfort no matter how fragile I feel.
At the restaurant, we are interrupted by a call from my attorney to let me know my credit-card payment hasn’t gone through. My card has been turned off. My attorney says this happens all the time. Still, I’m embarrassed.
It’s going to be a battle.
After our breakfast outing, I return to the room with the four blue walls for another nap.
Rested, with some new energy, I walk up the street to use the library’s printer. This used to be my elementary school, but now the building houses the library, the police station, and some meeting rooms. My short walk, the one so familiar to me from kindergarten to third grade, is full of trepidation. Instead of jumping over puddles on my way to school, I am wrestling with a slow-burning anxiety. I don’t want to run into anyone I know. Growing up in this small town, the odds are against me.
As I walk through the doors, the woman behind the desk, my brother’s childhood classmate, recognizes me immediately, asks about my brother, my husband, and to please tell them she says hi. I struggle to recall her name; she provides the answer—Susan—when she senses my discomfort. I know another nap will follow this awkward encounter, but first there is a task at hand. I am being held together by the tiniest of threads. There is comfort when I think of the four blue walls that will soon surround me again.
I don’t want to draw more attention to myself, but I get stuck trying to log into my email. I need Susan’s assistance. I’m practicing calm, a calm I don’t feel, trying to hide my shaking hands. She assists me professionally and promises she is not looking over my shoulder to read the email as I open it.
I snatch the papers from the printer so she cannot get a peak at the first document that makes my separation official. I leave, hoping my face doesn’t belie my churning stomach.
As I exit, I pause to look at the grounds surrounding my old elementary school. The black macadam where we used to play Red Rover. The grassy area where the annual Civic Association bazaar is held, an anticipated highlight of summer. The softball field behind the building, where I started my fledgling softball career. Reminiscing for a moment, wishing I could go back to the day we had a bomb scare in second grade and my biggest fear was leaving my Little House on the Prairie book on my desk inside the building, standing in the cold with classmates imagining the building might explode, losing Laura Ingalls Wilder forever. I want to be that little girl with pigtails again.
Back down the lane to my childhood home.
I only stay a few days, long enough to catch my breath, refresh a bit, before heading back to what is now my home to face more heartbreak. Work out the details I can’t manage from afar.
The pandemic is coming to an end, but all my people are still at home. I’ve left a mess behind and now must return to forge ahead with my exit plan, including a way to tell my young-adult sons. Heavy footsteps, heavy heart. Heavy.
As I head out the door, too numb to cry, I hug my parents once more, knowing I have both crushed and impressed them with my sorrow and strength. Is it fair that I have turned their world upside down too? Have I leaned on them too much, expected more than an adult child should ask of aging parents in my quest to seek security as my marriage crumbles? I thank them for everything, reassure them how comforting it was to stay in the blue room once more.
My mom stops, looks at me and pauses. What blue room? You mean your old room? Those walls haven’t been blue in at least twenty years.
If only my parents could protect me forever.
If only there were four blue walls.
Category: Featured, Nonfiction