Keys of Life

Chapter Two: Faye (I know. Again)

Chapter Two: Faye  

   After a hot shower and a badly needed dose of caffeine, I wandered from room to room, barely aware of what I was doing. Time flew in whirl of dishes and dirty laundry, washing machines screaming to be emptied and the timer blaring from the cooker. I didn't really see the mess or care if the sheets needed changing because I would do them anyway.

   Cleaning was one of two things that gave me a complete oblivion. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a neat freak. Yet the smell of fabric softener on a pillowcase or the crisp scent of a freshly ironed shirt sent a wave of utter peace through me, as if an inkling of a memory had taught me that this was home. A freshly baked batch of muffins shining the golden brown of sun on a cornfield awakened an ache for a family I could never quite get rid of. I could only ever dream that if I could make the perfect cinnamon and apple scone or have the laundry clean and prettily folded in the dresser, I could find someone to belong to. Even so, the monotony might have led me into a trance as opposed to boring me, but there were days I felt that if I saw another heap of dust on the floor I would scream.     

   The other thing that gave me that core of harmony was reading. The thrill of a world I could never have imagined or the greeting of an old tome placed gently in my hands was like nothing I had ever felt, the rustle of pages accompanied by a sharp scent of glue and new paper was something I loved. The worn-down library had become as familiar as my own house after a year of scouring its shelves, and the bookstore thrived on the money I frequently handed over for the latest hardback. A book was a journey - the beauty was that it wasn't yours to take.

   I sat down to a plate of food a chef might have been proud of. Eating always felt like a waste of talent, an end that in no way justified the time spent making it. I half-heartedly scooped up a forkful of spaghetti, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that made my eyes prickle and my chest painfully tight. I was fifteen, yet I felt older and greyer than a wizened war-veteran, gulping down his last mouthfuls of air as his heart finally stops beating, his soul relieved that his struggle with life was over, fifty years after his comrades in battle.

   The phone rang, silencing my morbid thoughts.  The shrill screech was impossible to ignore, and with a heavy sigh, I picked it up.

   "Hello?" I always felt on edge with the receiver in my hand and an insistent babbling on the other end. You could tell so much from a person's face, find the right way to interpret their words by the emotions sparkling in their eyes. A phone cut out all of that, leaving you grappling with words that held no emotion other than the inflection in their tone. 

   "Faye? We won't be home for dinner. Your father and I are tied up at work. We'll see you tomorrow." My mother's terse voice filled the line. She had said the same thing yesterday, and a million other times throughout my fifteen years. It didn't mean they cared any less about me. Just that my dad's next promotion or the latest piece to come into the gallery was occupying the place laundry and electricity bills should have been.        

   "Okay. I need you to sign a note when I get home - it's about biometric something-or-other. I'll leave it on the work-surface. How was your day?" It would really help if that note was still readable. After my escapades earlier on, I might as well work on my excuse now.

   "Faye, I need to go. I'll talk to you tomorrow." The phone clicked, cutting off anything I might have said, and leaving my question hanging in the distance between us. I could see the chasm between us stretching, and yet there was nothing I could do other than hope. The air wafting towards my nose carried a faintly charred scent, sending a wash of grief, an undeniable wave of remembrance. I wasn't really hungry anymore. Scooping the remains of my dinner into the bin, I was still struggling into my coat as I locked the front door.