Tom, exercise 7: Lists

Ellie sat at the cluttered desk, the pen hovering an inch over a fresh sheet of looseleaf. She stared out the window at the brick façade of the building next door.

Lists, he had said. Try making lists.

Carefully, she drew a number 1, a few lines down from the top. She put a period after it. She circled it. She tapped the pen on the paper idly, fostering an inkblot.

She got up and walked out to the living room. She checked the front door. Locked. Same as 15 minutes ago.

Start with the small stuff. Chores, groceries, that sort of thing. She had nodded, not understanding how this was supposed to help. Restore some order, maybe. But she would try anything. She still couldn’t sleep.

Eggs, she was running low on. Bananas turned black. Tomatoes too. She’d been losing track. She walked into the kitchen, cracked open the fridge, took stock. She reached into the back and retrieved a couple of misbegotten yogurt containers. She inhaled, held her breath. Grimacing in expectation, she opened them.

If it had ever been yogurt, it wasn’t anymore. It looked more like the graim remains of leftovers, though she could only dimly recall the meals. Memories as fuzzy as this green stuff. She tossed the containers in the trash. She imagined her mother. You make six figures. Why don’t you just buy some goddamn Tupperware?

Mom’s spirit prodded Ellie on. She blitzed the fridge, throwing out geriatric milk, wizened celery, Mesozoic lettuce. The older the food was, the angrier she got. By the time she found the leaky jar of bright-red maraschino cherries half-glued to the back of the bottom shelf, she wanted to scream. She tore them from their prison and threw them in the trash so hard the basket fell over, spilling onto the kitchen floor.

Ellie swore. She slammed the fridge door, yanked open the cabinet under the sink and rooted around for cleaning products. The sponge was gone. So was the bleach. She banged the door shut, heard bottles falling over from the force of it. She slumped down to the floor, careful not to let her feet slide into the growing pool of slime leaching from the garbage can. She put her hand on her forehead and stifled a sob.

Lists.

Ellie ran her hand down her face and pulled herself back up. She breathed heavily, leaningover the sink. She splashed water on her face.

She walked back into the den and sat down at the desk. Sponge, she wrote. Also bleach. Probably need a new mophead, she guessed. The words were short, orderly. She liked the way they lined up on the page.

Ellie looked out the window again. Twilight had settled in. If she left now, she could get to the supermarket and back in an hour. Only a six-block walk.

She checked her watch. No, it would be dark by the time the shopping was finished. Tomorrow was Sunday. She’d do it then. She was in for the night.

She turned on the floor lamp. Thank-you note, she wrote. For Mrs. Crawford. Nobody took credit for the cleanup but it must have been her. No one else had a key. Did a number on the cleaning products, but Ellie was glad to come home to a place that sparkled and smelled like nothing but bleach.

Start with small stuff, the doctor said. Work your way up.

Ellie wrote “Grocery List” in big friendly letters atop the looseleaf sheet, folded it and put it on her dresser. She readied another sheet. “Next Steps.”

Call Mom, she wrote. Call Sis. Back to Work. Next Week?

Ellen added two more question marks. She wasn’t ready yet. Monday, no. Maybe Wednesday? Sleep wouldn’t come, and she couldn’t tell whether the headaches were receding or not. They were being very helpful at the firm, but she couldn’t string sick time out forever.

She thought of something else. Androwitz, the guy from the D.A.’s office, had called the other night. Something about another statement. Call D.A., she wrote.

She looked at it. Six letters long, and it dominated the paper. Everything before or after, sucked into its gravitational pull. Her personal event horizon.

Start with small stuff.

Ellen walked over to the spreading mess on the kitchen floor. It had started to reek. She didn’t even have any paper towels. She’d have to go downstairs, knock on Mrs. Crawford’s door.

But she was in for the night.

She walked to her front door and undid one lock. Then another, then a third, chain-ends thudding against the doorframe. She put her hand on the knob and took a deep breath. Just down the hall, three flights of stairs.

Work your way up.

Ellie suddenly understood what the doctor was talking about. She redid the locks and walked back into the den. She shoved the last list to the side and placed a fresh piece of looseleaf on the blotter. She pressed so hard the tip of the pen tore through the paper.

Things I want to do to the motherfucker.