The Smallest Parallel

Chapter 2

Three days earlier

            Marguerite had spent the morning lying on the front porch. It was a day like any other day. Although, she couldn't help but feel that she had forgotten something. She kicked her toes together and closed her eyes with force. This week, her thoughts led her to Geoffrey. She hadn't thought about him in a year, and his creeping into her mind alarmed her. Frustrated, she stood up and ran inside. In the mornings, she would scrounge up whatever food remained in the pantry from last week's grocery trip. It was a routine that had little effect on her life, and she enjoyed it. She pulled out a plastic wrapped blueberry muffin and set it on a plate as her tea kettle heated up on the stove.

               Make the damn tea. Just make the damn tea, and everything will be normal and perfect. She told herself lies such as this one every morning. She knew that each day would be a challenge when she decided to live in seclusion, though she wasn't completely alone. Every week, her wealthy neighbor Adrien Aldridge would join her for tea in the back room. Marguerite knew he didn't understand her, but he made good company. He would tell her fascinating stories of his travels and inquire about her life. He found her fascinating, even though she'd never been anywhere. Adrien was young. He had inherited his money from his Aunt, who had been his closest companion before her death. Marguerite liked Adrien because he understood what it was to truly be alone.

            That morning, during tea and breakfast, Marguerite wrote a passage about Geoffrey in her thick, messy journal. She always journaled her thoughts as if they were of the most importance. She also wrote letters to those that she thought about, whether they were problems she faced or actual people. This was her daily therapy. She had no money for an actual therapist, and, to be frank, she'd never considered it. What was the point in venting to a complete stranger?

    This was a Monday, and on Mondays, Marguerite would spend her day weaving in the poorly lit puce living room. This room was the only room left untouched by the chaos of Marguerite's imagination. This room was where she kept her grandmother's things. I mentioned her earlier, Marguerite's grandmother. Maria had been an interesting character, but her flame had been snuffed out by unfortunate circumstances.

She had been paralyzed from the neck down in an accident involving a drunk driver, Marguerite's mother. Gwyneth had been on the way home from gambling the grocery money with all of her gentleman suitors while her mother Maria had been on the way to buy groceries to care for Marguerite, who was only twelve years and nine months old at the time. Maria was a careful and generous woman who always put her family first and didn't understand why her daughter would squander her potential on a game of chance. The accident had left Maria irreparably damaged and with a newfound distance from her daughter. After all she'd done for Gwyneth, she'd lost hope for her daughter. She could no longer afford to love her.

This was the first tragedy that drove Marguerite into obsessive behavior. She'd never been so focused on one thing before. Her life had been filled with a million different hobbies, none of them remaining long enough for Marguerite to be proficient in them. She took to weaving quickly because her grandmother could no longer weave herself. They sat side by side daily, in silence. They never spoke to one another, but their love remained strong until Maria's death, five years following the accident. Weaving became Marguerite's constant, her only hobby that stood the test of time.

Marguerite sat and thought of Maria now as the slow process of building this blanket calmed her turbulent brain. Marguerite prayed for peace more than anything, and this would remain her burden. She still carried hope, its heaviness sitting upon her head. As long as she kept her balance, that hope wouldn't fall. Years of hell would not make her a cynic. That was the difference between her and the rest of the universe. She would remain lost in her own thoughts, in the world that she created for herself.