Chapter 1
Dishes
The house is empty, and the sink is full of dishes. For a moment that is all Celia knows, in her first few minutes of waking, pulling on a robe, stumbling down the stairs. Then her shoulders return to their ever-tense position, nearer to her ears than they should be, and she moves into the kitchen she knows better than herself. She pours a cup of coffee and sits down on a stool. Celia's never liked chairs with backs, she considers them a crutch. Support nobody really needs. And a waste of wood—she believes in the environment.
She looks at the full sink. Sighs. It's always like this. But no matter how many times she comes down the same stairs to the same sink full of a rotating cycle of the same dishes, she forgets every night until the morning. She forgets that this is her life.
It is somewhat removed from her last life, by distance, time, happiness. She was never happy in her old life, being that person, with that man, and those responsibilities. Here, she is content. She has shed the skin that was once hers and become something new. With this chrome sink, and these ceramic dishes.
Lloyd is at work, as he most often is. Her son is at school, learning how to be a teenager. Nowadays he comes home smelling like cigarette smoke, and thinks she doesn't notice. Of course she notices. Celia still smokes, more than a pack a day, she just hides it better. She shakes her head over her coffee. Silly Gabriel. Deception should really be left to the experts.
Shakespeare never did get the idea of deception right—it is rarely a tangled web. Even the earliest deceptions can be clever, as long as they're based in truth. Celia is one of the experts. Most of her sentences are half-truths, and she has always prided herself on them. Her use of words in a world full of inarticulate, overly-educated people.
Celia rises quickly to her feet, her coffee only half-consumed. The phone is old, rotary dial and in a color of off-white that will never be egg-shell. It weighs heavy in her slim hand. Artist hands. Another feature of herself Celia treasures.
Margot picks up on the second ring. Their phone isn't old, their phone is attached to a Comcast hub, with caller id and call waiting and conference calls—Margot calls them conveniences. But Celia knows that she will never feel the weight of the rotary phone in her artist hands, and that makes her happy.
"Celia, this is early for you!" Margot has a night club singer's voice. Over the years it has been tamed and winnowed down to something more refined, but Celia hears only the crooner that never was. "Something wrong?"
Celia will never be comfortable with the term "wrong". It could be applied to so many parts of her life. She doesn't want her life to be anything but right.
"No, everything's fine. It's good. Would you like to do anything today?"
Margot's frown is audible. "I thought you had an exhibit coming up."
Celia shrugs. Her shoulders don't relax. "I do. It's in a few weeks though, the rest can wait."
"How are they coming?"
"They're coming along." Celia thinks of the clay in her work-room, the wires that almost make shapes on their wooden stands. She has time. "I don't feel like being cooped up today."
The rotary phone is heavier. She didn't think the conversation would take this long. The sink is still full, and her work room is still full of skeletons.
"Yeah sure, honey. What are you thinking, mini road trip in the Beamer?"
"Yes." It comes out as a sigh of relief. She needs to get out, just for a few hours. Away from her home and her rose-detailed china, away from this phone.
"All right. I'm getting a mani in an hour, but after I'll swing by and grab you. Don't be late. And don't wear those big sunglasses. I know they're Dior, but they were so not worth it."
Celia smiles. She bought those so she could walk her neighborhood unrecognized, without the stigmas of housewife and mother and beautiful woman attached. "I won't."
"Good. Because my baby is all about class. See you in a bit."
"Yes. See you soon."
Celia hangs up the phone, thinking idly that soon is rarely soon enough. The doctors told her it would be over soon during labor, the lawyer told her it would be over soon during her divorce, Lloyd tells her daily that soon he won't have to work so much. Soon.
The television is tempting right now, the screen reflecting the living room in odd angles and warped sizes. She likes that living room better. But Celia doesn't believe in TV. She believes that it is a crutch, for those not smart enough to deal with the world. And it wastes electricity. She takes rich pride in her own frugality.
Margot arrives as promised, new long nails shining in the sun, tapping on the steering wheel to show off. A childish grin widens her face, and she looks nothing like the cynical bitch the neighbors call her behind her back.
Celia slides into the front seat and flashes a smile. Instead of sunglasses, she wears red lipstick. Margot starts the car, revs the engine a few times solely for the sake of angering the quiet neighborhood, and they speed out of the culdesac. The sink is still full of dishes. But for the first time this morning, Celia doesn't care.
When she was younger, Celia knew that all she needed was art and moonlight. That these two things would make her happy. She grew, and then she knew that all she needed was art and wine and moonlight. That simplicity would make her happy. Later, when she fell in love, and again when she fell out of love, she knew that all she needed was art and wine and moonlight and love. That this would make her life worthwhile. She hasn't added to her list in years. Mostly because now she isn't sure what she needs.
She is reminded of this driving in Margot's car. Sitting in Margot's car. Celia never drives. The wind in her eyes, pulling her hair away from her face as if it would take it from her scalp entirely. This feeling reminds her of her list, and the elusive finish to it. Lloyd and Gabriel make her happy. But they are not on her list. She wonders why.
"Are you sure nothing's wrong?" Margot's voice carries even over the wind.
"Yes. I'm sure. There is nothing wrong." She hopes anyway. Because if something is wrong, it is she. She who has neither her son nor her husband on her list. She who still smokes and hides the butts like a nervous fifteen year old. She doesn't want to be wrong. "There's nothing wrong." Celia doesn't like repetition. But this statement is more for herself than for Margot. Not as a reassurance, but as a puzzle. Nothing is wrong. There is nothing wrong.
Then shouldn't it be right?
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