Orange Zest

The Rain Cannot Wash It All Away

He sat motionless inside of his rusted Ford Explorer for the thousandth time; head resting against the frigid steering wheel in the parking spot he has chosen for the last several years. The rain cascaded delicately over his windshield and the autumn breeze whistled irregular tunes through the cracks of the windows. He contemplated the idea of replacing the wheel with a pillow at some point, maybe even having it lined with some softer form of fabric, but he knew the moment this was engineered there was a chance he would never open the door to leave.

The rest of the office's parking lot was empty. The moment five o’clock becomes reality, the congregation of restless and exhausted suits dart for the interstate to simply find themselves sitting in another commuter parking garage that was never ending for miles. He knew the fastest way home, from alleyways to four large lanes. He memorized the most creative and reliable route to get home, but today was not the day he wished to witness the checkered flag. He was unsure of what he wanted at this moment. He was resting in the forest green atrocity to wait if something in the world would grab him and guide him.

He leaned back into his leather seat to hear the roar of warped leather wrap around his back. His pack of Marlboro’s only had one to offer and he lit it just to watch it burn. The smell was the least bit appetizing, a deathly mix of menthol and uncertainties, and his eyes began to water from the wafting remnant smoke. The radio had no words to speak, even if there were some secrets or meaning of direction, he never cared to power it on. He felt as though there was no further step from here as his greatest nightmare was unable to be awoken from.

What We Never Thought to Lose

6:17 p.m.

Any other day, by now his Explorer would be resting in the driveway of a white and navy-blue shuttered colonial that had a front yard riddled with toys and bicycles standing on training wheels among the fallen amber leaves. The children inside would rush out the front door as they heard the chirp of his car alarm, and they would leap into his open arms as if they believed that he was almost lost and forgotten. Once through the front threshold, the grey hardwood floors would be accented by a mound of fall fleece jackets, unopened backpacks, and an overly hairy Great Pyrenees named Braun. The children’s screams would become centralized to the second level, and he would be guided by an aroma pouring from the pots on the stove as his wife would be tying her apron for the ninth time in that half hour. She would be glossing over an open cookbook as she tried to help their oldest daughter decipher the unrelenting troubles of algebra. Frustration riddled across the Freshman’s face, she shouts, “Mom, I don’t get this at all!”

“Yeah well,” the wife and mother stared hectically at the bible written by Rachel Ray as water began to boil over a pot, “that makes two of us.” The defeated teenager scoops up her books, ripping past him as he stands in the entrance that intersects the hallway and the kitchen. He watches behind his wife’s back as she could not regain some control of the cuisine around her. The more the poor woman moved, the looser the strings of her apron became. As there was one last effort to grab for a fallen wooden spoon, there was not more left she could contain as the strings completely let go and the kids’ echoes could be heard far too well, “That’s enough!”

Silence fell across the house, and she placed both hands to her face; an attempt to shield away the failure she sensed surrounding her. He snuck up to her and placed his arms around her as she jumped from fright, “Oh my goodness, you scared me,” she began to shout as she lightly slapped his chest, “you could’ve been a murderer!”

“Which is the reason why the kids are upstairs laughing hysterically, right?” He began to pull the apron over her head, “Speaking of murderers, why don’t you hike upstairs and make sure the little felons aren’t trying to kill each other and I’ll keep an eye out for the food?” He placed the apron over himself and tied it tightly. He walked past her and began stirring pots and turning the temperatures up or down, depending on the needs, and his wife stood there in astonishment. She had been used to this behavior ever since they began dating. She can recall a time when he asked her for a spare key to her apartment. Not to show up whenever he pleased, but to surprise her by cleaning her house while she was in class or at work and he knew she was having a stressful day. He cared, he tried, and he never thought to stop doing either.

“You didn’t even change yet.”

“I’ve worn the same clothes all day, love. I can wear them for another hour or so.” To her, his smile was contagious.

“But,” she was searching diligently to create more excuses, “the red sauce could stain your tie or your shirt.” He turned around once again and there was that smile, lightly walking over to embrace her once again. He did not hesitate for a moment, nor did he attempt to pull away, but he kept his arms wrapped around her for as long as she needed.

“I love you,” he began to say, “but I got this under control. I used to watch Rachel Ray when I had my place before we met, so I practically could run my own bistro if I wanted to.” She laughed as they softly kissed a few times. “You know, I worry that I don’t tell you enough, but I appreciate what you do. You come home from work every day and maintain this entire jungle by yourself. Not once do you ever flinch. There is so much that you do around here, and I cannot thank you enough for-”

“Ow,” one of the monkeys in the jungle began to shout, “you hit me in the eye!” Birdie, the youngest of the two, shortly began crying after that.

“Go ahead, babe,” he began once again, “I can handle this. I have Braun for back up if I need a sous chef.” She rushed upstairs to release some necessary discipline and Braun found himself wandering in the kitchen. The white long-haired giant was seventeen years old, so maybe in that moment, the old-timer finally registered that he had come home from work. “How we doin’ today, Brauny-Boy?” he asked as he stooped over to rub his ears. Braun released an over-dramatic sigh as he plopped himself back down to the floor, laying beneath the stove and on top of his feet. He glanced around to make sure there were no witnesses present as he accidentally dropped a meatball on the floor. “Oops,” he whispered; a secret forever to be kept between two best friends. He finally walked over to look at the list of ingredients sprawled across the counter, and he held a mandarin orange in his hand, placing it on display for Braun to see. “She does realize that she was making spaghetti, right?”

The Endless Drive

8:24 p.m.

The sun was no longer covered by overcast and rain, but rather, it was asleep much like his colleagues that left hours prior. He does not remember moving since the last time he glanced at the clock, and he wondered how long it would take for him to receive a call; he never got one.

9:07 p.m.

He let out an aggressive breath as he shoved his key into the ignition, “Fine,” he said to himself aloud, “let’s go.” The roads were flooded heavily as the rain had yet to stop. The stoplights coated the rested rain in a gloss that made the lines in the road impossible to see. The radio remained silent, which caused him to hear a knock in the motor for the first time, but there was no traffic to be found. The city was desolate. Block to block, intersection to intersection, there were no signs of life for miles.

As he carried pain and anxiousness, it never occurred to him that his wife was feeling the same way. Even then, feelings evolve and develop and create the person hiding them to morph into alternate beings. Monsters take full control of all cognitive functions. What if her worry and sadness transitioned to anger and regret? What if the feeling of comfort and safety that saturated their bed left her with an emptiness as she found herself lying alone more as time progressed?

What is going to happen when he pulls into the driveway and the Colonial is dark, or even worse, empty? He walks inside and does not trip over the coats that missed the hanger by the front door. There were no small heads from the creations he and his wife made slamming into his abdomen that welcomed him. Of course there would be no dog, because Braun died years ago, but there would be no souls to speak of his name and reminisce on the love for him that refused to leave in his passing. Sauce would not be sizzling all over the stove, their oldest would not be sitting at the kitchen island complaining about homework and boys, and his wife would not ask him to tie her eight-year-old apron that they purchased together after they signed off on their mortgage.

He began to remember the life he followed before he met her; before there were screaming kids to hold. He sat in darkness. He sipped on six packs of cheaply manufactured domestics and watched the same reruns of old sitcoms that people eventually forget about. There was no opportunity for sustenance, no purpose other than to wake up and watch the minutes pass by. He created that world for himself, and although he despised it, he looked at the clock attached to the radio and asked himself why he would allow him to do this again.

The Dog’s Banquet (A Dream)

“Dinner,” he began to say to his family resting at the dining room table, “is served!” They all stared blankly at their plates, except for their oldest daughter. Her thumbs were restless amongst the many social media applications downloaded onto her phone. He was unaware of how to respond to their reactions. Even his wife was unapologetically displeased. He sat down in his chair at the end of the table and reached out his hands to initiate their tradition of saying grace. Everyone quickly locked fingers and glanced around the table in anxiousness and anticipation, “Well,” he began to say once more, “is there anyone who would like to say it tonight?”

“I will!” Six-year-old Birdie was always eager to pray. As much as she loved her family, she always loved God first. Everyone bowed their heads, and he could never hide his smile as she cleared her throat before reciting her lines. Birdies' prayers were innocent and kind, a feeling he prayed to rediscover every night before he sleeps. “Thank you, God, for the day we had. I got to eat popcorn in school today, but it wasn’t that good. It’s okay that Miss Arnie burnt it though because one of the kids in my class LOVES burnt popcorn, which is weird, but we still love him like you love all of us. I pray that this food tastes good and we all like it. I also pray that Braun sleeps in my bed again tonight because he kept me warm last night. Aaaaamen!” Everyone else followed suit and stared at their plates once more.

He and Birdie began to stir their spaghetti together while the others refused to join. “Honey,” his wife whispered, “did you stick to the recipe?”

“Of course, babe,” he said confidently, “why do you ask?”

She politely asked him once more, “Did you try to do something different?”

Not grasping the concept, “How do you mean?” He stared at his plate, and it looked like everyone else’s.

“What’s with the orange shit?” their oldest daughter bluntly asked.

“Language!” Both parents recited at the same time.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” the teen spoke up to be the hero they all needed, “but someone has to be honest around here.”

“I’m excited to try it!” Birdie hollered, “I love oranges! The ones at school are always sour though.”

“So,” he began to explain, “when you went upstairs to take care of the kids, I noticed you left an orange out with the left-over ingredients on the counter. From watching Rachel Ray in the past, I knew she would use an orange in a situation like that as a zest to brighten up and liven the plate!” He was beyond thrilled to share his creativity, but his wife remained unamused.

“Oh…. oh, honey…” she took a large sip of her Chardonnay, “No. Just…” she reached her hand out to cover his hand resting next to his plate, “No.”

“Just try it, Mom!” Birdie began defending her father’s honor. “Miss Arnie says it’s good to try new things because we don’t know what we like until we try it. I tried eating a tuna sandwich at lunch yesterday. It was gross, and I threw up on Ben’s new shoes, but now I know what I don’t like.” They all stared at Birdie, and he thought to himself how amazing of a job they did raising her.

“Alright,” he announced, “with that kind of logic, we have to try it now.” They all stared at each other one last time before they dove in. Like a blood pact, there was no backing out now. Once he placed a bite into his mouth, he let the ingredients intertwine. At first, the sauce was sweet and the Italian sausage crumbles mixed perfectly with the red sauce. Then, there was the orange zest; an entity that belonged on his palate as much as a vegan belonged sitting at a table next to Joey Chestnut on the Fourth of July.

Needless to say, he understood everyone now.

They all forced themselves to swallow and they reached for their drinks of choice, leaving no drops left in their glasses. Silence captivated the room, a heaviness that was awkwardly unbearable, and as soon as embarrassment reached the redness in his face, Birdie spoke to everyone at the table. “Daddy.”

“Yes, beautiful?”

“Do you know how Braun eats too much food, and he barfs it all back up? And then he eats it again?”

He hesitantly responded, “Yes.”

“I’m guessing this is what that tastes like.” They all laughed uncontrollably until tears poured down their cheeks until Birdie became chillingly silent all of a sudden. Her face was as white as a sheet, and she refused to move.

“Baby,” his wife asked the little one, “are you okay?” She was silent for another moment until she turned to the floor to redisplay the orange zest that entered her body. The oldest daughter began to scream, and he jumped up to rush for napkins in the kitchen, and his wife darted to Birdie for comfort. As he was standing in the kitchen, chaos was set free.

“Oh my God!” The oldest yelled, “Ew, Braun, go away! Dad!” She was panicked, “Braun is eating Birdie's puke!”

“See!” Birdie yelled in joy, “I told you guys!”

History Repeats Itself

He pulled himself into the driveway and the time staring back at him was shouting 10:03 p.m. Four hours late. The children would already be in bed. His wife would have already removed the day's makeup off of her face and she would become entranced in her romance novel. He would have been watching ESPN lying in their California king while he rested his hand on her thigh. Tonight was different. Tonight, he felt as though there was a chance that the moment he walks through the front door, there is a future waiting for him that he will not be able to change. He wondered how dangerous it would be for him to not walk inside at all. Maybe a stale motel room would remove this nightmare.

He knew that making such a decision would only make things worse, but there is a conundrum in his mind that allows him to think otherwise.

How could something get worse if it is already miserable? 

Whispers roared through his subconscious, and he was unable to stop them. 

They are probably already gone. So, face the misery and lonesomeness and leave now. 

He refused to listen.

For the first time since five in the afternoon, he climbs out of his SUV and feels the ground beneath his feet. His legs were stiff, his back felt crooked, and he stretched in an attempt to limber up in case he needed to sprint away. The rest of suburbia, much like the streets on the way home, was lifeless. The rain created a delicate ambiance where the taps of drops hitting the gutters acted as a lullaby. No dogs were howling about how miserable their lives were before they retreated into shelter to sleep on a couch covered in their own designated blanket next to the fireplace. Not a single home for as far as his eyes could see had a light on. Not even so much as a porch light. The streetlamps' dull hue had him ready to embrace a knife in his chest delivered by Michael Myers. Unwilling to wait for his cinematic destiny, he turned around to discover the front door still dull as the moment he became lost in thought. The suspense was so intensified, so heavy, he vomited in the shrubs in the garden that his wife had planted just weeks prior. He let the tears roll down his face that he kept back all afternoon and he finally collected himself before he placed his key into the knob.

The door creaked open as it allowed for itself to be taken with the breeze. He stood there for a moment, stepping aside from the center of the entrance so the streetlight in front of their house could light the hallway for him. Normally, they all typically agreed to leave the light on above the stove to fend off the shadows, but tonight was not the case. He patted the walls down in the hallway to guide himself to the kitchen where he opened the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. He let one half of the door hang open as he searched the countertop for notes. There were no small pen pads written with goodbyes or see you later’s, so a breath of relief was deserved. For now, at least.

Once he chugged the bottle, he tiptoed his way up the stairs and reached the eldest’s room. Her door was covered in pictures of her and her friends lit up by battery-powered Christmas lights. He could not fathom how much of a woman she has grown into. Now halfway through her senior year, she carried a charming smile like her mother back when the two of them met. Her grades far exceeded their expectations, she continues to open acceptance letters from universities all over the country, and she still has the same attitude that she had that one night several years ago at the dinner table. He cracked open her door to glance in and she was sound asleep; box fan blaring at the highest speed directly into her face as she snored from the dry throat she probably had from the constant stream of air.

Birdie, now twelve, matured quickly for her age, but still became the opinionated and fascinated girl he always hoped she would be. She was suspended from school three weeks ago because a boy in her class inappropriately touched another female class member and Birdie took it upon herself to stand up to him. Little 5’2 Birdie broke this young man’s nose over a butt touch. He remembers getting the call from his hysterical wife at the time and she could not understand how our innocent daughter had transformed into a violent criminal. He decided to take off work for the rest of the afternoon and chose to be the one to pick her up from school, telling his wife to return to her office and allow her to become lost in her fantasy that Birdie would be bringing home copies of mugshots and not the typical school photos. He was so proud of her that day. Birdie held her head up high, radiating confidence, and they picked up take out from her favorite Chinese restaurant. They picked it apart on the couch watching wildlife documentaries on National Geographic. She was resting in bed, but there was no noise, simply her head barely poking out of her oversized purple comforter.

His bedroom door seemed unrecognizable. Uneasiness overcame him as he placed his hand against the hallway wall, and unlike outside, he could not catch his breath. His inhales became shallower, and he could not keep up with his heartbeat. He placed his other hand to his throat, and he felt as if he were suffocating, reciting the last possible thoughts he wished he could have said. As he became lost in this state of panic, his wife ripped open the bedroom door and caught him before he hit the floor. “Honey,” she quickly began, “honey, are you okay?” He gasped for air as all he could do was scream. His daughters now ran into the hallway, and they rushed to find him empty on the hardwood. All three of them continued to hold him as close as they could as he bellowed out in such agonizing pain, part of him wished that he was not alive to feel this way.

An eternity must have passed for all of them during the time it took for him to calm down. The walls began to close in.

Pillow Talk

A few hours later, he was lying in bed with her. She could not keep her eyes off of him as concern coursed through her veins. She ran her fingers through his hair and made sure to keep him close, but he lay still on his back, staring at the ceiling for answers to fall from above. After the pain violently removed itself from his body, the only impression left was guilt. He refused to believe that he was confident enough to tell her how he had been feeling. He could not come to terms with the fact that he would have to discuss the intentions he had after he clocked out at work. He could not bear the thought of doing or saying anything to hurt her, at least not now. Six hours prior, he would have been ecstatic not to be here.

She was gently wrapped in her pajamas. An old band tee that he used to wear while he completed yard work, and work out shorts that once belonged to her daughter. They were taken away for being “too short,” but he had no problem when his wife asked, “Do you think I should hold onto these or throw them away?” She looked equally as beautiful as she did back then, making his shame burn worse. She was unsure if she needed to initiate the conversation first, so she waited patiently until she decided that he may not ever be ready. “How was work?”

“It was okay,” he refused to stare at anything aside from the ceiling.

“Nothing exciting happened?”

“Not really, no.” He was unwilling to accept her open invitation to openness and honesty.

“Well, she slightly began to pry, “I assumed something new happened today since you stayed at the office so late tonight.” He felt a ball rolling up his throat. Her fingers stopped running through his hair and she completely removed her hand. The comfort was being taken away, and he could not decide if this was some level of negative reinforcement or not.

“I sort of just sat at work for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Since 5 p.m.” A hush fell over the room and a chill made him wonder if there was a window left open. She was holding certain parts of herself back, mostly the angry parts, because she still loved him and wished for him to be comfortable enough to release the truth. She bit her tongue until she felt like she tasted blood as she remembered the chaos of the afternoon. He could have been there. He simply chose not to be.

“Why?”

The question he had been waiting for. The question he tried to avoid for as long as he possibly could. He was reciting lines in his head on the drive home, he planned out different scenarios of what would happen once he finally let everything free. But after weeks of torture and planning, he finally threw a curveball, he questioned if she could catch.

“I almost left you and the kids today.”