The Yellow Kitchen

Part One | What Theodore Did

I can’t tell if the apartment really is as empty and cold as it seems, or if I’m just irreparably lonely. The man from the leasing office and I stand here together, both wishing we were elsewhere.

“It’s a decent size,” I proclaim, just to say something. I can hear the blood pooling in and out of my brain.

“Yeah,” he says absently, checking his cell phone.

I’m taken by the kitchen walls, which are painted a flaxen yellow. Hand-drawn sunflowers cascade over the half-moon entrance. I open the refrigerator and discover a jar of pale green pickle juice with the lid removed. A magnet that says Las Vegas! solemnly lingering on the door.

Want and need exist in separate realms, and I need this apartment. Last night, Theodore had packaged every item I’ve ever owned. I had pulled apart one of the boxes to find a pair of underwear that didn’t belong to me—they were hers. He’d mistaken me for her. I’d collected her underwear in my hands, held the thin purple cotton to my chest.

“Can I move in tomorrow?” I ask. We look at each other transactionally.

“Sure,” he says.

---

I return from signing my new lease to find Theodore in our old bedroom with the door shut. I stand motionless outside of it. I wonder if he can hear me breathing, waiting to be collected by time. He’s speaking softly, his voice hypnotic.

“I know, I know,” he says, “I heard her come back just now, but she’s finally moving out tomorrow. This is all almost over.” My vision wanes.

His new girlfriend’s name is Victoria. I saw her with him outside our apartment on a very late night from our balcony, where I’d been nervously lingering as I waited for him to return home. I’d been calling him all night to no avail. I watched him kiss her slowly, already in love. As much as I wanted to avert my eyes, perhaps even dissolve into a puddle and let the animals ravage my bones, I remained there to watch her leave.

“Theo!” I cried when he appeared in the doorway, my voice marred by humiliation. “Hey,” I continued breathily, searching his face, “where were you?”

“Julia,” was all he said. He looked at me as though I might not be real, a hologram holding him accountable for his clandestine operations.

“I missed you,” I heard myself say. He looked past me to the balcony.

“I know,” he finally laughed, “I didn’t mean to stay out so late. You know how those guys are.” I forced a laugh. “You should be asleep,” he said, walking past me.

Then and now, I fall asleep feeling like the Earth had reversed its rotation and changed everything eternally. Grocery stores now riddled with shelves of food foaming with mold, streetlights flashing cornflower blue. My old life, irretrievable.

Part Two | The Doctor

The doctor is young and good-looking. This thought comes with so much objectivity that I feel one thousand years old. I can smell myself—acidic body odor softened by peach deodorant. He’s just finished telling me I’m a great candidate for Prozac.

“Are you eating well?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him.

“That’s good to hear. How many times a day?”

“Three.”

“Right.” He lowers his eyes to my intake sheet. “Are you sure you’re eating regularly? You’re 108 pounds.”

“Your scale is really old,” I reply.

“How are you sleeping?”

“I’m sleeping tons,” I respond, recalling the way my head was enmeshed with my pillow all morning.

“The medication should help get you out of this slump. I’ll set you up with a prescription. If anything changes or you start feeling unwell, please stop taking it and book an appointment,” he says, standing to leave.

I follow him into the hallway, towards the sallow faces in the waiting area. Then, I see her.

Victoria is exiting an exam room. It’s unbelievably jarring to see her in a mundane setting, juxtaposed with office-supply chairs and a front desk with a bell. A cell phone is pressed to her ear. 

“Oh, my god, I know. I can’t believe it either,” she’s stammering, starry-eyed with elation, “but I mean, timing is weird sometimes, right? Do you feel good about it? No, I feel really good about it. Oh, my god. Holy shit. I can’t believe it. I’m pregnant.”

Part Three | The Red Room

I was on my way home when I passed a bar called The Red Room, and decided I couldn’t stand the despondency of my apartment, the kitchen pulsing yellow and jovial while I spent another afternoon staring at the walls.

A lone woman is working behind the bar. I sit down and immediately begin to cry.

“What do you want?” the bartender asks, ignoring my display. Her indifference staunches the flow of tears, like a bandage to a new wound.

“I don’t know,” I say. I really didn’t.

“Scotch and soda?” she suggests, irritated.

“Can I have two?” I reply. She stares.

“You should just have a shot,” she sighs, moving toward the haphazardly stacked bottles, all at varying levels of fullness and encrusted in dust like me and everything else in here. She pours it out, the dark liquor fanning across the bar like an oil spill.

“Why don’t you clean this place?” I ask. I survey her polyester clothing, her belt-sized skirt. I suddenly hate her for wearing that. I hate myself for having thoughts about another woman I’ve never had before. They flit through my brain like moths.

She laughs, shakes her head, and begins cleaning the spilled scotch with exaggerated motions.

“Did I miss a spot, master?” she says mockingly, rolling her eyes. “Fucking yuppie bitch.”

“How do you get a job like this, anyway?” I continue as if I hadn’t heard her. “Did the nice family restaurants turn you down? Did they look you up and down and politely tell you it just wasn’t a good fit?” I end my sentence with air quotes, my face splitting into a smile that feels hideous and foreign.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” she says flatly. As she retrieves my bill, I notice her hand trembling.

“I haven’t had any. Are you okay?” I ask. She isn’t looking at me anymore. I drink the shot and think about pain for the millionth time today.

“Do you have a lemon?” I ask, eyeing the quartered fruits atop the bar, so many flies swarming above, like a smattering of poppy seeds. “Hey. Can you hear me?” I throw the empty glass in her direction and listen to the din of it bursting open on the ground.

“No, I don’t,” she says tightly, slapping the bill on the bar. I reach past her, selecting a lemon from the dirty plastic container.

“I bet you’ve slept with a lot of guys in here,” I say plainly, forcing the juice from the fruit with my teeth. “Right here, I bet.” She looks down, pretending to arrange the receipts in the till, all the proof of hedonism crisp and uniform.

I’m making my way towards the door, fearing the exposure of light on my face and all the shame, the guilt, when the bottle connects with the base of my skull. The moment before it bruises the bone, I see a rainbow haloed on the wall, streaked hot pink and emerald and tangerine, and then red, all red, as the blood drains into my eyes.

Part Four | The Dream

I’m in a garden boasting a clean white atrium, alive with foliage. I ascend through it into the autumnal sun.

Victoria appears, smiling graciously at the abundance of people around us. Theodore is at her side, undeniably experiencing bliss. I can see it broken into his features like a path I used to walk. There are two L-shaped tables draped in white linen and lined with crystal flutes, the liquid inside rich and vermilion. I take one, pausing to watch them.

“I’m so proud of them,” Theodore’s grandmother, Elizabeth, remarks. “They’re so young, too. So much time left to give to one another. And that baby,” she continues, beaming.

“Do you remember me?” I ask when I realize she’s speaking to me.

“I think so,” she responds slowly, looking at Theodore.

“I came to your house in the Keys. I think it was last July, or maybe the one before,” I say softly.

“Oh,” she replies.

“You made us tea every evening, and we’d stargaze on your porch. Do you remember?” Her smile is melancholic. “I would sit in the rocking chair. You told me it was your husband’s, and he passed away years ago, but you keep the chair out to pretend he’s with you, that you’re watching the stars die together. Do you remember now?” I hear the strain in my voice, the need.

“Oh, dear,” she whispers, taking my hand.

“One night, I couldn’t sleep. I could see the shape of the rocking chair in the dark. I was just staring at it and feeling so mournful for you. Then I heard the breathing,” I continue rambling, my skin hot.

“Okay,” she says softly.

“I saw him there. I mean, I could’ve sworn I did. I came to wake you so you could see him, too.” I look over at Theodore, who’s staring at the table of wine. “I finally arrived at your bedroom. I was moving slowly, so I didn’t wake anyone. It felt private. I don’t know. I didn’t know what I was seeing.” Tears crest upon my face, salt descending between my lips. “Your bedroom door was open. I saw you sleeping, and I just—I couldn’t bring you there, only to have him taken away from you again. I didn’t know what it would do to you. I’m sorry.” I feel her fading.

“Everyone! Thank you so much for your attendance.” Victoria’s voice is loud and pressured. It fills my head with sound.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat to Elizabeth. She caresses my hand.

“Sincerely,” Victoria shouts, “thank you. Well, Theo and I both want to thank you. Actually,” she laughs now, looking down at her stomach, “the three of us want to thank you!”

“Does it hurt?” I ask her.

“Does what hurt?” she replies, breaking from my grip.

“Living without him,” I say, watching as Theodore embraces Victoria, gently brushing the hair from her eyes.

“I’ll go back to him soon,” she tells me. I feel her absence before it happens.

“Please, everyone—take a glass of wine, and join me in a toast,” Victoria calls out. The crowd moves to select their glasses. Elizabeth is gone.

“To new life, and what’s left of the old,” Victoria says peacefully, “and to Julia, for her sacrifices.” I only stir when the wine has been propelled into throats, and there are hundreds of bodies strewn upon the grass.

Part Five | The Obituary

I awoke in the hospital with jagged black stitches sewn into my skull, like an insect gorging on what remained of my mind. I was released when I could prove I knew today’s date, the name of the current president, and my birthday.  Back at my apartment, I touched the sunflowers in the kitchen and ate dinner without tasting. I lay in bed, letting myself imagine Theodore was next to me.

“I had a dream about you last night,” I say aloud to him in my vacant bedroom. “Victoria was there. And your grandmother. It was your baby shower.” I fill in the blanks where his silence comes. I’m sorry you had to see that.

“So am I. That was supposed to be my life. Our baby shower. Why did you do this to me? Nothing was wrong. It feels like I’m haunting you, or you’re haunting me.”

I’m not doing it to hurt you. 

In the hospital, the nurse told me I was found on the street outside the Red Room after a passerby called 911. When the paramedics arrived, I was face down, haloed in my own blood. I wondered if anyone walked by and over me, racking their brain for why a woman would be lying there, appearing as though she’d just fallen from the sky.

“I was cruel to this girl yesterday,” I sob, “I felt like I was rotting inside, and I wanted her to feel just as emotionally depleted as I did. I wanted her to wonder about worth and placement, and if there was any love out there, if she was capable of receiving it if it ever came.”

That’s sick, Julia.

I reach for my cell phone to pull up his online profile, desperate to see his face. There’s a photo of his grandmother, Elizabeth, at the top, posted hours before. In Loving Memory is typed above it. I stare at the words for a long time. 

Yesterday, we lost my beautiful grandmother. Before she left, she said she couldn’t wait to let go so she could be reunited with her husband.

Victoria and I will be hosting a wake in our home on Thursday, March 30th, at 1:00 pm. Please spend time with your loved ones tonight, and remember that life is brief; we’re all very fortunate to have each other for any length of time.

I close my phone and surrender to the dark that awaits me, a dreamless sleep, with footsteps and light sounds cascading through the yellow kitchen.

Part Six | Florida

“You’re just dreaming. You’ve had vivid dreams since you were little. You used to crawl into the covers at the end of my bed and frighten me nearly every morning.”

“I’m not dreaming. Sometimes I get out of bed to make sure I’m not. The sounds don’t stop.”

“It’s just your neighbors. Noise travels easily in these old buildings.”

“It’s coming from my kitchen.”

“You have mice, then, honey.”

My mother is removing my stitches after some coaxing. “Also, the doctor is supposed to be doing this,” she says tightly.

“I can’t go back there,” I reply. She pauses.

“Your father and I are very concerned about you. You’re sure you don’t know who did this?” Her eyes flicker to my scalp, to the slowly healing gash.

“I saw something last night,” I tell her, ignoring her question. “It’s not just noises, I saw something. Someone was here.”

Something had woken me up. I listened in the absolute dark, the kind that only the dead of night can conjure, where there’s no resolve, no beginning or end.

I heard pacing. I turned on the light, illuminating my empty hallway. The pacing was growing louder, emanating from the kitchen.

“Hello?” I said dumbly.

A shadow began to elongate on the wall before me. I saw the shape of a dress, bare feet upon the wood.

“Julia,” she said, and then I knew, and the knowledge was not any reprieve. It was Elizabeth. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath as it filled and emptied my lungs. When I opened them again, she was in a rocking chair, moving slowly back and forth.

“What? I—what are—?”

“I had sunflowers in my garden, just like these,” she told me, motioning to the painted flowers above the kitchen. “Do you remember them?”

“No,” I said, moving away from her. “I don’t—I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she said gently. “In life, there are so many moments we cling to. Others don’t even know we are, much like they recall what we’ve long abandoned. It can be heartbreaking to be forgotten.”

“I had a dream about you,” I cried, certain of my insanity. “We talked about the stars. And then—well, then you died.”

“I’m all better now,” she said dreamily. “I saw my husband today. He embraced me for the first time in so long. My feet weren’t even touching the ground.” She paused. “Or whatever the ground is to me now. Millions of miles of matter and dust. There is no ground, and there is no sky.”

“Why are you here?” I shielded my eyes. “I barely knew you. I don’t understand.”

“Life doesn’t happen so you can understand it,” she said calmly. “You’re grieving. I have grieved. It’s not wrong for us to be here together.”

When I uncovered my eyes, we were on her porch in the Keys. The stars were more brilliant than my memory could ever recall.

“People will leave you when it’s time to,” Elizabeth said, now from her husband’s chair. “But they’re not really leaving. No one is left. We’re given opportunities to be reincarnated while we’re still alive. We move on. It’s the natural order of things. You’d never want to be paralyzed in time, would you?”

“I wanted to be. I wasn’t ready,” I whispered.

“We’re never ready. Everything that’s ever happened to us is a surprise: having your heart broken, dying, and being born. Did you expect me? Did I expect to care for you? Now, I’ve been removed from this place. It wasn’t my choice, but I’m not upset. You cannot hate the universe. It always produces outcomes, but they are not random. It has objectives for you—even if that objective is to be in pain, just for now. Just for a little while.”

We sat together for a moment, looking out. I closed my eyes. I heard someone come up behind me; her lover returned to her in the night. How my heart aches with want, how I feel it in the dense water of my bones.

“You didn’t see anything,” my mother says now, freeing the last stitch. “You were dreaming.”

Part Seven | The Wake

I reach the door of the apartment that was once my own. I knock, and Theodore answers immediately. When he sees it’s me, an unreadable emotion surfaces in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into the hallway. “Did you leave something? I can get it for you. We have some people over.”

“No, I came to pay my respects to Elizabeth,” I say. He shuts the door, blinking at me.

“How did you find out about that?” My head wound throbs.

“I found the obituary—and, well, I have a distinct memory with her, you know—of the Keys.” I trail off while he stares.

“Julia,” he sighs. “Your mom called me after your accident. You hadn’t told her we’d split, I guess.” My heart lifts when it occurs to me he may have been worried. I silently thanked any god that might be scanning my thoughts for sending a girl to strike me with a bottle.

“Oh, sorry. It was just a small thing,” I tell him, casting my eyes down.

“That’s what I assumed,” he says flatly.

“Right.”

We stare at each other.

“I’m sorry, Julia. I’ll give you the burial location if you’d really like to say goodbye, but I can’t let you in.” The tears are warm and humiliating on my face.

“Is she in there?” I ask, frantically clearing the tears with the backs of my hands.

“Who? Victoria?” he replies, crossing his arms.

“No—Elizabeth. I just want to see her for a moment. Please.” I look past him, towards the closed door to our past.

“Jesus, fine. You can come in for a minute. I don’t understand this, but if I let you have a minute with her, will you leave quietly after? Please?”

“I will,” I say. He opens the door. Elizabeth is laid to rest in the middle of the room. She looks tranquil, the halcyon days of her love having found her once more. I envy her. To be jealous of the dead is to be truly devoid of hope.

I stand over her. There are no words for grief or love that can be profound enough to be passed from a mouth to a casket, even if you had years to conjure them. So I silently thank her. When I look up, I see her in the corner of the room in a rocking chair, her husband at her side. Falling stars rain down upon their heads.

Part Eight | The Sunflowers

When I arrive back at my apartment, I want to touch the sunflowers, to recall the evenings on Elizabeth’s porch. Craving what’s no longer mine for the taking, all of it lost in the gloomy pale nothing.

I enter the yellow kitchen, the air languid with my surrender. I know I will never see Theodore again. I press my fingers to the sunflowers. I stand there and hold them as much as they hold me.

I lift my head, seeing what now resides above them, so intricate they could almost be missed if I weren’t looking. But I am. And they’re here and as real as you and I, and they do not ask me to understand them. Two petite, faultless rocking chairs are now encapsulated on the wall and in the gloaming vista of my memories.

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