Depths
Celeste awoke. The stifling afternoon air pressed heavily around her, simulating a drugged state. She stretched and slowly lifted her head off the pillow. It felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Wincing, she tried to ignore the pounding in her temples. Her fuzzy tongue felt too thick for her mouth and she was feeling a slight disorientation. "I slept too long again," she thought. "I've got to get out of this afternoon nap rut."
Celeste’s eyes swiveled painfully towards the bedside clock. Seeing the time, she cringed. "Shoot! Paul will be furious if the house is still a mess tonight."
Celeste groaned. Rubbing her eyes, she reluctantly sat up and struggled to her feet. She put on slippers and shuffled slowly out to the kitchen. She was oblivious to her surroundings; her mind totally occupied with the unpleasant images of the last confrontation between her husband and herself.
Celeste picked up the teapot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. Turning on the fire and leaning her back against the cabinet, she watched the flickering flame. It was almost hypnotic.
Rousing herself from her reverie, Celeste reached up into the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap, and put the mouth of the bottle to her lips. She took a long swig, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the burning feel of the alcohol as it slid down her throat. Her chest felt warm. She could feel her muscles start to relax.
Celeste shook her head from side to side. Her stringy blonde hair swung across her face, sticking to her sweat. A trickle of the vodka ran from the corner of her mouth and dripped onto her sweatshirt. Almost sensuously, her tongue caressed the drip in the corner of her mouth, while she reached up to remove the hair plastered to her face. "This ought to make me feel better," she thought out loud.
Celeste opened her eyes wide and scanned the room. Her gaze lingered on a towering pile of dirty dishes. The clutter made her feel so darned tired. She felt drained down to the very marrow of her bones. Her arms and legs actually felt as if they had weights attached to them. "It's useless. Same old stuff day after day. What's the point?" She took a deep breath, and let it out shakily.
Averting her eyes from the mess, Celeste spied a magazine lying open on the cabinet. Aimlessly she started to thumb through it. An advertisement on one page caught her eye. It was for a book that revealed breast-enlarging secrets.
Peering closer, Celeste saw the ad depicted a voluptuous young woman, barely clothed, picking an apple. The caption read, "Was Eve Flat Chested?". Celeste looked down at her own chest, half hidden by the baggy sweatshirt. Flat as a pancake. She couldn't even "fill out" right! Tears welled up in her eyes, and she brushed them away angrily.
Suddenly, it seemed as if someone was playing a video in Celeste’s mind of all her failures in "fast-forward". A parade of her shortcomings and disappointments marched past a reviewing stand behind her eyes, and she was the judge. She felt as if her chest would explode. She couldn’t bear it. "Isn't there more to a woman than her body?" she screamed.
Celeste picked up the magazine, ripped out the page the advertisement was on, crumpled it, and threw it in the general direction of the garbage can. Her arm bumped the tower of dirty dishes, causing an avalanche onto the kitchen rug. As she looked down in horror at the mess on the floor, the teapot began to whistle and her telephone rang.
After a brief moment of confusion, Celeste yanked the teapot off the stove, ran to answer the phone, and sloshed hot water all over the floor and herself. She grabbed the receiver. "Hello", she panted. She recognized Paul’s voice. "A client of mine is stuck in town for the night, and I'm bringing him home for dinner. Try to get that garbage heap cleaned up for a change." He abruptly hung up; no please, thank-you, hello, good-bye, or I love you.
Celeste scowled blankly at the dead phone receiver in her hand for a few seconds. Suddenly, with a cry of rage, she flung the teapot full of water across the kitchen. It smashed into the plastic canister set on the cabinet, sending hot water, tea bags, sugar, flour, and canisters flying in all directions. White powder covered the rug. Water dripped from the cabinets and the refrigerator. The force of the throw chipped the Formica cabinet top and broke one of the canisters.
Somehow, the carnage gave Celeste a perverse sense of satisfaction, and she felt some of the tension drain away. Twitching, her lips formed a slight smile. The smile quickly widened into a laugh, then blossomed into full-blown hysteria. She leaned her back against the cabinet and laughed until her stomach hurt. Doubling over, she started coughing and retching. The hysterics slowly melted into sobs, as they always did. Sliding down the cabinet doors to the floor, she sat forlornly in the midst of the mess, slumped over crying, losing all sense of time.
The clock in the living room chimed four times. The sound jolted Celeste from her stupor, as if she had received an electric shock. Looking up from her position on the floor, she panicked when she saw how late it was. "Damn! I have to get this mess cleaned up before Paul gets home." She rose stiffly off the floor and brushed the remnants of her tantrum off her clothes. After scrutinizing the damage done to her kitchen, she had an urge to cry again, but managed to pull herself together and start cleaning. Shutting her mind off, and blocking out all emotion, she concentrated on her housework.
As she washed the last dish, Celeste looked at the clock and realized that Paul was due in fifteen minutes. An icy hand gripped her intestines. She hadn't started supper yet!
Grabbing the freezer door handle, she yanked it open and pulled out two steaks. She tossed them in the microwave to defrost, her mind racing. "This'll do," she thought. Spotting some frozen French fries, she quickly planned her menu. "Steak, French fries, tossed salad, dressing", she mused. "Maybe I'll warm up some French bread. We've got some ice cream and chocolate chip cookies for dessert." "God," she prayed, "I hope I make Paul happy this time."
The steak was broiling, the fries baking, and everything was going well. Celeste began to set the table. She paused for a moment, wistfully looking out the kitchen window at the neighborhood children playing their games. A desire to go back to her carefree childhood overwhelmed her.
Celeste addressed the dishes as she placed them on the table. "Why did I have to grow up? Where did my dreams go? Where are my fantasies? Why does life stink?" Mocking her, the dishes remained silent. Celeste sighed.
The doorknob rattled, then turned, interrupting her daydream. "Shoot. They're here." Celeste glanced up, then immediately looked down at her body. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized what she was wearing. In her rush to clean up the mess and cook, she had forgotten to change clothes. She was still dressed in a baggy sweatshirt, house slippers, and jeans, accessorized by bits of sugar and flour. Her eyes were puffy and red. Her hair was disheveled, reminiscent of a rat’s nest.
Celeste could feel her husband's shocked stare boring into her. It was too late now. Like a whipped dog, Celeste slowly raised her eyes, expecting some form of punishment. It soon came, in the look of disgust and anger smoldering in Paul's face. He turned to the man behind him. "John," he said, "This is my wife, Celeste. She's been ill. Here, let me take your coat." He passed the coat to Celeste. "Please take this to the bedroom dear."
When Celeste entered the bedroom, Paul slipped in behind her, shutting the door. "What's the big idea, embarrassing me in front of a client? Do you hate me that much? What the hell's the matter with you? Why can't you ever look nice like you used too? Why can't you be like other guy's wives? They're assets to their husbands jobs."
Sniffling, Celeste stared down at her dirty house slippers. "Is that all I mean to you? An asset?" Her voice broke. "You're not even that," Paul hissed. He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Celeste just stood there wringing her hands; feeling very small. All life seemed drained from her body.
The evening painfully progressed. Three hours later Celeste found herself back in her bedroom, brooding. She had managed to clean herself up and serve a decent dinner. She had even been a fairly charming hostess. Now her husband and his client sat entrenched in the livingroom talking about whatever it was that men talked about.
Celeste always hated cooking for company. The men invariably got up from the table and wandered off. They got to chat or read the paper, while the women always got stuck with the mess; like it was their birthright or something. Maybe the rule was in a contract somewhere that she forgot to read. Tonight she didn't even have the company of other women while she cleaned up. She didn't always feel comfortable around women, especially successful ones. They depressed her. However, when they helped her clean up after a dinner she didn't mind socializing with them. At least, with other women around she didn't usually feel so lonely.
Celeste lay back on the bed and studied the ceiling. She could hear muffled voices and laughter coming from the living room. She felt totally empty. "What would Paul say if I came out to the living room, sat down, and joined in on the conversation? He'd be furious," she thought.
She should do it. She should; but she knew she wouldn't. Instead, she stood up, turned out the light, sat back down on the bed, and stared out into the darkness.