//creative//
Fall 2017
Stage One
Nikki Kaiser
I received the call at exactly 10:48 PM, and upon hanging up, walked the short distance of country road from my house to my uncle’s house. He answered the door when I knocked, shuffled his feet on the carpet as he moved back to let me in. I stepped into his living room. Surrounded by pictures of his two children, I took a seat on the worn, flower-patterned couch.
“Why’d you call me over?” I asked him. He sat down on the old leather arm chair across from me.
“I’m feeling a beer. D’you want a beer?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
He got up and left the room to go into the kitchen. I heard him open the refrigerator door, heard its soft hum and the clink of bottles. He returned with a beer in each hand.
I took one when he held it out to me, twisted off the cap, set it on the coffee table. “So why’d you call me over?”
There was a long silence as my uncle took a swig of his beer. He lowered it, looked at me, waited.
“There was a plane crash this afternoon. Not everyone made it out.”
“That’s terrible.” I took a sip from my bottle.
“I don’t know how to tell you this.”
I lowered my drink slowly, met his eyes. He looked down. “Tell me what?”
“Your parents were on that plane.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean what I said. Your parents were on that plane.”
I stared, unfocused, and slowly set the beer down on the table. “Are they okay?”
He didn’t answer.
“Are they okay? Did you call them?”
“Someone from the airline called me. Not everyone made it.”
There was another drawn out silence. I could feel my uncle’s gaze resting heavily on me as I stared at the coffee table. Five minutes must have passed before I stood. “I’m going home.”
“Are you okay?” His forehead immediately creased in concern and he stood too. “You can sleep here tonight. I understand it’s a lot to take in, it took me some time to call you, but if you want to talk about it, we can. They say it’s good to talk.”
“I’m going home. We can talk tomorrow.” I opened the front door, stepped outside. It was chilly for July; I crossed my arms, wishing I’d brought a sweater.
“If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
I nodded, pulled the door shut behind me, and started my walk. I stayed to the side of large, empty road, watching my shoes shuffle over pebbles. The air was oddly crisp, and it was starting to dry my throat. Something terribly uncomfortable had also begun forming in my chest, a tugging feeling that was slowing making its way down to my stomach. I attributed the feeling to the fact that I’d skipped dinner tonight, having been too busy to cook for myself. That was probably also the reason I suddenly felt like I might vomit.
The ten minute walk back to my house somehow turned into a long, twenty minute stroll, and by the time I reached the front door my legs felt unsteady. Pushing inside, I stared at the vast entrance hall, now eerily empty. I kicked my shoes to the side of the door, stepped onto the marble. It was cold. Had I turned on the air conditioning too high? I walked into the dining room on my immediate right, slowly sat myself down in a plush silver chair at the finely polished wooden table. It was far too big. For a family of three, this table seemed incredibly unnecessary and an excessive waste of space.
I stood up abruptly, heading into the kitchen instead. The counters were clear, and when I opened the fridge to grab the pitcher of water, I found the shelves devastatingly bare. Why had I not gone grocery shopping this morning? I quickly took the pitcher and shut the refrigerator door, set the water on the marble counter, pulled open the dark wood cabinet above the sink and grabbed a glass. My hand was shaking slightly as I lowered the cup to the counter, filled it with water. I must have not drank enough today to be this unsteady. I made a mental reminder to drink more tomorrow.
Holding my glass of water, I moved to the large staircase in the center of the foyer, held onto its thin, gold, metal railing, and began climbing. It was so quiet upstairs I could hear myself breathing. I dragged my feet to my bedroom, pushed my door open, sat down on the edge of my bed, took a long sip of water. It didn’t help my shaky hands. Even when I drained the glass, I still felt unsteady, too tired to sit up. I lay back onto the bed, stared up at the ceiling. Were all ceilings white? It didn’t seem right that all ceilings were white; didn’t people want something aesthetically pleasing to look up to? I wondered how I’d never noticed the color before, thought perhaps I’d go buy paint tomorrow. Maybe I would paint the ceiling a soft yellow, or a bright blue. At least then I could lay back, stare up, and see something more inviting than this bare white.
I stared at the bleak, colorless ceiling for quite some time. Once I settled on painting it a deep shade of grey, I sat up and made my way back downstairs. I took my time washing my glass, drying it, and setting it back in the cabinet. I put the water pitcher back in the fridge and turned off the kitchen light. I padded quietly toward the front door and put on my shoes. Then I started my walk.
It was half past midnight by the time I made it back to my uncle’s house. I had little idea where all the time had gone; it was only a ten minute walk from my house. He opened the door when I knocked and stood back to let me in, wrapping his bathrobe tighter around him.
“Sorry if I woke you.” I stepped into the house, pushed my hands into my pockets.
“It’s no trouble. I couldn’t sleep much.” He closed the door quietly behind me, locked up for the night. “Was the walk over here alright?”
I nodded.
He started walking toward the kitchen, his slippers making a soft muffled swish against the carpet. I followed. He went to the refrigerator, pulled open the door, leaned down, peered inside.
“I’m feeling a beer. D’you want a beer?”
I didn’t respond. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a fly settle itself down on the countertop. I watched, engrossed, as it scuttled across the peeling laminate and over to a small droplet of what I could only assume was remains of spilled juice. The puddle was large in comparison to the fly, and for a moment I imagined it might drown should it get too close. But with a sort of expert ease, the fly lowered its head and pressed the long portion of its face down onto the orange mass. Slowly, the puddle seemed to break and move as the fly drew the liquid into its’ tiny body. I’d once read somewhere that time moved slower for flies. They observed the world as if it passed through thick treacle, a slow viscous movement in which they could dodge human swats with ease. My gaze only broke when the bug suddenly flew from the counter.
My uncle shut the fridge, straightening up with two beers in his hand. He twisted the caps off both and held one out to me.
“Have a beer, they say it helps.”
I stared down at the bottle he offered. With a small, barely noticeable nod, I accepted it.
“Why’d you call me over?” I asked him. He sat down on the old leather arm chair across from me.
“I’m feeling a beer. D’you want a beer?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
He got up and left the room to go into the kitchen. I heard him open the refrigerator door, heard its soft hum and the clink of bottles. He returned with a beer in each hand.
I took one when he held it out to me, twisted off the cap, set it on the coffee table. “So why’d you call me over?”
There was a long silence as my uncle took a swig of his beer. He lowered it, looked at me, waited.
“There was a plane crash this afternoon. Not everyone made it out.”
“That’s terrible.” I took a sip from my bottle.
“I don’t know how to tell you this.”
I lowered my drink slowly, met his eyes. He looked down. “Tell me what?”
“Your parents were on that plane.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean what I said. Your parents were on that plane.”
I stared, unfocused, and slowly set the beer down on the table. “Are they okay?”
He didn’t answer.
“Are they okay? Did you call them?”
“Someone from the airline called me. Not everyone made it.”
There was another drawn out silence. I could feel my uncle’s gaze resting heavily on me as I stared at the coffee table. Five minutes must have passed before I stood. “I’m going home.”
“Are you okay?” His forehead immediately creased in concern and he stood too. “You can sleep here tonight. I understand it’s a lot to take in, it took me some time to call you, but if you want to talk about it, we can. They say it’s good to talk.”
“I’m going home. We can talk tomorrow.” I opened the front door, stepped outside. It was chilly for July; I crossed my arms, wishing I’d brought a sweater.
“If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
I nodded, pulled the door shut behind me, and started my walk. I stayed to the side of large, empty road, watching my shoes shuffle over pebbles. The air was oddly crisp, and it was starting to dry my throat. Something terribly uncomfortable had also begun forming in my chest, a tugging feeling that was slowing making its way down to my stomach. I attributed the feeling to the fact that I’d skipped dinner tonight, having been too busy to cook for myself. That was probably also the reason I suddenly felt like I might vomit.
The ten minute walk back to my house somehow turned into a long, twenty minute stroll, and by the time I reached the front door my legs felt unsteady. Pushing inside, I stared at the vast entrance hall, now eerily empty. I kicked my shoes to the side of the door, stepped onto the marble. It was cold. Had I turned on the air conditioning too high? I walked into the dining room on my immediate right, slowly sat myself down in a plush silver chair at the finely polished wooden table. It was far too big. For a family of three, this table seemed incredibly unnecessary and an excessive waste of space.
I stood up abruptly, heading into the kitchen instead. The counters were clear, and when I opened the fridge to grab the pitcher of water, I found the shelves devastatingly bare. Why had I not gone grocery shopping this morning? I quickly took the pitcher and shut the refrigerator door, set the water on the marble counter, pulled open the dark wood cabinet above the sink and grabbed a glass. My hand was shaking slightly as I lowered the cup to the counter, filled it with water. I must have not drank enough today to be this unsteady. I made a mental reminder to drink more tomorrow.
Holding my glass of water, I moved to the large staircase in the center of the foyer, held onto its thin, gold, metal railing, and began climbing. It was so quiet upstairs I could hear myself breathing. I dragged my feet to my bedroom, pushed my door open, sat down on the edge of my bed, took a long sip of water. It didn’t help my shaky hands. Even when I drained the glass, I still felt unsteady, too tired to sit up. I lay back onto the bed, stared up at the ceiling. Were all ceilings white? It didn’t seem right that all ceilings were white; didn’t people want something aesthetically pleasing to look up to? I wondered how I’d never noticed the color before, thought perhaps I’d go buy paint tomorrow. Maybe I would paint the ceiling a soft yellow, or a bright blue. At least then I could lay back, stare up, and see something more inviting than this bare white.
I stared at the bleak, colorless ceiling for quite some time. Once I settled on painting it a deep shade of grey, I sat up and made my way back downstairs. I took my time washing my glass, drying it, and setting it back in the cabinet. I put the water pitcher back in the fridge and turned off the kitchen light. I padded quietly toward the front door and put on my shoes. Then I started my walk.
It was half past midnight by the time I made it back to my uncle’s house. I had little idea where all the time had gone; it was only a ten minute walk from my house. He opened the door when I knocked and stood back to let me in, wrapping his bathrobe tighter around him.
“Sorry if I woke you.” I stepped into the house, pushed my hands into my pockets.
“It’s no trouble. I couldn’t sleep much.” He closed the door quietly behind me, locked up for the night. “Was the walk over here alright?”
I nodded.
He started walking toward the kitchen, his slippers making a soft muffled swish against the carpet. I followed. He went to the refrigerator, pulled open the door, leaned down, peered inside.
“I’m feeling a beer. D’you want a beer?”
I didn’t respond. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a fly settle itself down on the countertop. I watched, engrossed, as it scuttled across the peeling laminate and over to a small droplet of what I could only assume was remains of spilled juice. The puddle was large in comparison to the fly, and for a moment I imagined it might drown should it get too close. But with a sort of expert ease, the fly lowered its head and pressed the long portion of its face down onto the orange mass. Slowly, the puddle seemed to break and move as the fly drew the liquid into its’ tiny body. I’d once read somewhere that time moved slower for flies. They observed the world as if it passed through thick treacle, a slow viscous movement in which they could dodge human swats with ease. My gaze only broke when the bug suddenly flew from the counter.
My uncle shut the fridge, straightening up with two beers in his hand. He twisted the caps off both and held one out to me.
“Have a beer, they say it helps.”
I stared down at the bottle he offered. With a small, barely noticeable nod, I accepted it.
//Nikki Kaiser is a junior in Barnard College. She can be reached at nsk2142@barnard.edu.