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I’m staring at the kitchen floor. Like a broken doll, I stoop over the wooden surface, my spine jackknifed, my hands dangling. Having just used the sink, I examine the floor for water—drips that may have sloshed over the edge of the basin, drops that may have fallen from my hands. Back and forth my eyes run, along the slender oak planks, looking for the tiniest puddle.
Around me the early evening has begun to simmer, like the kettle of pasta on the stove. Mom stands preparing the dinner, a wooden spoon in one hand and the telephone in the other, chatting with my brother about his upcoming wedding. "That sample of cake I tasted was delicious!" she says. In the dining nook my cat concentrates on his own meal, snapping his teeth against the moist nuggets of turkey. But amid the vitality I sag like a wilted flower, unable to overcome the frustration. As I scrutinize the floor, the thick lines of grain seem to quiver like interference on an old television screen, but then a distressing picture comes into focus: Mom backs away from the stove. She slips on the wet surface. Her head slams against the counter. The paramedics can’t revive her. I bury her next to Dad.
For three years my psychiatrist has tried to discredit this fear. "Obsessive garbage," he calls it. A dedicated scientist, he insists that irregular chemicals in my brain are concocting my worries. "Your mind is ringing like a fire alarm," he explains. "The problem is that there’s no fire!" With this conclusion, he invalidates every ritual I use to extinguish the "flames," from my two-hour showers to the countless prayers I repeat throughout the day. As I hesitate in the kitchen, however, I don’t have faith in his diagnosis. After all, it’s possible that I did splash water on the floor; it’s conceivable that Mom could slip and fall; it’s likely that she would get hurt.
To prevent this tragedy, I linger in the kitchen and gaze at the floor. The pasta now boils on the stove, and Mom’s conversation has shifted to the honeymoon. My cat has retired to the family room, where he sits licking his delicate lips. But like a bear caught in a poacher’s trap, I remain ensnared until Mom hangs up the phone. Only then can I beg for freedom.
"Um, Mom," I say. "You’ll have to be careful here. I may have gotten some water on the floor."
"That’s okay, Jimmy. I’ll wipe it up. Go work on your writing while I fix dinner."
With that reply, I can finally end my inspection, so I leave the kitchen and walk down the long hallway, heading for the library. At the other end of the house, the library doesn’t bustle like the kitchen; it remains placid, reverberating only with the memories of Dad. He’s been gone for almost two years, but his personality still characterizes the room in which he worked: Upon the shelves, the thick medical textbooks embody his studiousness; near the window, the red birch desk shows his industriousness; on the wall, the historical map of Greece reflects his worldliness. His favorite item, a small statue of a chimpanzee, stands proudly in the corner, wearing its white physician’s coat, blue trousers, and wide grin. Like the chimp, Dad always looked at life with a smile.
The thought of Dad’s buoyant disposition generates a feeling of melancholy within me, especially as I consider the fact that he’ll never see my return to good health. He supported me as much as any parent could, applauding me when I graduated from law school, reassuring me when my disorder forced me to quit work. I want to show my gratitude, and I need to express my sorrow, so I sit down at the desk and pull a sheet of paper from the drawer. As I situate the blank page, it reminds me of the impediment I confronted moments earlier. Like the kitchen floor, the paper on the desk forms a plane; it represents a by-product of wood; it has lines that divide its surface into narrow rows. But unlike the floor, the paper inspires contemplation instead of fear; it promises illumination rather than anxiety; it allows me to apprehend my life at home with Mom, my life with mental illness, my life without Dad.
I pick up a pen and begin to create.
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