The List

Her wrist is vibrating — no, her Apple Watch is vibrating with her alarm. It's 5:00am on a Monday morning; the alarm is for work. She doesn't need the alarm. She's hardly slept all night, has been lying there wide awake for the last two hours, but decides its usefulness is still relevant — now it is an acceptable time to get up, to other people in the home, not because she is going to work today.

It's been a week planning today's events. Inside that same week it has also been her 43rd birthday, and Mother's Day. So many events inside the same week, so many people and so much to do, but none of those other days mattered. They hardly even celebrated, because today is the day they've been planning.

Before she gets out of bed, she runs the list of things in her head. Her dress is pressed. What is her husband wearing? Usually she helps with his attire too — today she has no idea. How did she overlook this? What time do they need to leave the house? She can't forget to change the bandage on her leg today, she forgot it yesterday. She thinks, once again, that she hopes it's not cancer — there is too much going on right now to hear the words basal cell carcinoma again. She wishes she had a longer dress, one that would cover the bandage over the stitches on her calf. She can't bear to have anyone ask her about it today. Not today. There's no time for another dress. She'll need to get over it.

Not enough sleep, not enough caffeine. Caffeine — that's what she needs. She tells herself to get up and make the coffee, but she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to face the day, but she also wants it to be over. The only way out is through. She has managed to get up every other day this past week. She can get up today too.

What else is on the list? What about parking — how far will they have to walk, do they need to leave earlier? The food this afternoon, who was doing that again? Did she remember to put everything in the car or by the front door last night, the things she needs for today? What was on that list? Where are these lists — are they just in her head, did she put them in the notes app on her phone? Why isn't someone else handling these fucking lists? Why is she always the one who has to organize everything?

Oh — wait. Her best friend has the list. She made it yesterday, remember?

Why can't she remember anything anymore. She really is losing her mind. She thinks: caffeine, coffee. It's okay to get up now. Why is she worried about whether it's okay to get up — this normalcy facade is annoying.

She rolls over. She quietly exits the room, trying not to disturb her sleeping husband, both jealous and annoyed that he's asleep. She struggles brewing the coffee, both because she is extraordinarily tired and because this coffee pot is unfamiliar to her. Coffee grounds cascade onto the counter, water has dripped over them as well. It occurs to her that this is something she would normally clean up immediately — she is in someone else's home, and she is a very neat and clean person — but today she lets the mess sit. Apropos, she thinks.

The percolating and hissing starts, and she stands there staring at the contraption, waiting for the dark liquid to fill the clear pot. She looks down and notices the hissing and dripping has stopped. Wow, that was fast. Or was it? No — she was gone for a bit again. Large moments in time, lost in her head.

What was it that pulled her attention this time? Was it the list again? Where did she leave off — oh, right, the stuff she needed in the entryway. She pours a cup of coffee and walks over to the front door to take a look. There is nothing there. She thinks, what happened? Where are the things she needs for today? She is irritated that she can't even recall the things she needs in order to inventory what isn't there. Then she remembers: her husband loaded everything in the car last night. She thinks that was nice of him — she would've had a hard time remembering today.

She walks back to the kitchen and stares out the window into the backyard, slowly sipping her coffee. She looks down and the mug is empty. Did she already drink the coffee, or forget to pour it? She looks inside the mug for a stain to confirm, smells the remnants of coffee as she peers in.

She needs to take a shower and snap out of it. She sets the coffee mug on the counter — not in the sink — and makes a mental note of this as she walks back toward the bedroom. Why didn't she put her cup in the sink? She can't decide if it's because she needs another cup, or if she's just rebelling against the principle of normalcy again.

Her husband is awake when she returns to the bedroom. She tells him she brewed coffee but doesn't offer to bring him any. She tells him she needs to shower. He responds, okay, I love you. She thinks to herself, yes, I know, but doesn't respond.

She undresses slowly. Being naked feels too vulnerable right now. She thinks, I'll just rush through the shower, it will be fine. Usually she likes to relax, letting the hot water run over her skin, enjoying the calming sensation of it. Not today.

Before she knows it, she is already dressed, her hair loosely styled, and she is trying to find her shoes. Did she remember to put on makeup? She glances in the mirror. The woman in the mirror has on blush, mascara, and lipstick. That will do. She wonders where she was when she put the makeup on that woman in the mirror. She thinks about that woman getting ready for work a week ago, on a Monday, in her own bathroom, looking in the mirror. She wants that woman back. That woman was 42, not 43, and that woman didn't have a father who put a bullet in his brain.

But this woman — she is dressed now, and ready to go bury her father. Where are her shoes.