It Is Wood, It Is Stone by Gabriella Burnham

Author:Gabriella Burnham [Burnham, Gabriella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

At the end of the semester, the university gave you three weeks off before the start of the next term, in August. With you home all the time I told Celia that I wouldn’t be able to talk on the phone. I didn’t explain it like it was a secret, just that you and I would be spending more time out in the world. I was actually looking forward to it—we could go to museums, walk the park, take a trip to the coast. But you informed me that it wasn’t a vacation. You would be doing research for an article the Provost wanted you to publish before you left USP.

Stacks of papers appeared on the kitchen table, like sedimentary rocks that had formed with the push of your hands. There was no room for me to eat lunch with you. I began to take my plate to the living room or the bedroom. You barely spoke. I tried to convince you to stop for a crossword or to walk with me to the grocery, but you buried yourself in your work. It was as though I was a ghost to you, someone who drifted by without so much as a shadow.

I soon learned it was a mistake to have created distance between me and Celia for the sake of your arrival. Your empty presence made me ache for Celia, an ache that metabolized behind my ribs. Involuntary functions—beat, breathe, beat, breathe—shuddered to a crawl, as if a claw was grabbing at my tongue from the inside of my throat, dragging me to the floor. I’m alone, I thought. I’m alone, I thought again.

Meanwhile, Marta reacted to your every need. She tended to your water glass and coffee mug, picked up your socks and shoes, swept the floor around you. I had not seen you and Marta interact for such sustained periods of time. The way you so easily connected with each other, so effortlessly interacted and abated each other’s intensity, made me cower.

When she brought you a coffee or water you thanked her and grinned with delight. She cooked you lunch, and you remarked on how her vegetables were the perfect firmness, or how she always picked the sweetest mangoes, or how you loved the way she made rice with yellow onions and salt.

“Can you show Linda how to make this rice, Marta?” you said, rice stuck between your teeth, rice covering the kitchen table. “It’s delicious.”

I tried to return to painting, but it was impossible for me to concentrate knowing you and Marta were in the other room together. This feeling swept through me, a wind of doubt, that you appreciated her more than you did me. I wondered if you two spoke in whispers while I ate lunch in the other room. I imagined opening the bathroom door to find you behind her, pants at your ankles, Marta’s stomach pressed against the sink. Maybe she tells you that I’m a recluse while you go to work. Maybe she tells you I want to be left alone.

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