I confess that I fear aloneness—but not the kind you’re thinking of. I like the sound of my own breathing, of my own solid footsteps on these hardwood floors, the lively splash of water in the bathroom sink in the morning, the tick of the wall clock in the hallway at night. I like the hush of an empty house and the joy of bare feet on the coffee table and the slightly dusty smell of the book in my lap. Diet Coke spilled over ice into a glass, something salty while I read. When it gets dark outside, the first thing I do is close the blinds so no one can find me here....
I also like how my mind packs up and takes itself to different places when no one's around. I need only that space—where the world cannot see me; and even sometimes when they can, but when they are not paying attention. Often the hum of music acts as a runway, and I do not feel the lift-off, do not recognize the pulling away from a demanding ground. I go where I go unknowingly, yet willingly. But it has not always been like this. Many years ago I tried to train my mind to stay put—but it would not. And then she explained that it was a way to protect myself, and so I came to recognize this flight as a treasure, a gift…
And yet they feel sorry for me at times: Rachel alone over there—as I lie naked on the bed, listening to the silence of these walls, my hands cupped behind my head. I like the shape of my toes from this angle, the curve of my hips, and how my breasts respond to the cool air moving over my skin. Above me is a muted crack, just beneath the surface of the ceiling, and it runs the width of my room. As I study it, it reminds me of the schism of my two lives: one lived on the street, in the office, at a friend’s house; the other here in the silence of my empty house. And I do not fear either.
But I fear aloneness of another kind—the one that comes from being separated from history, from milk drawn from an old pail. I am energized by these many new faces, their eyes, their stories, and the different ways they try to reveal themselves—and hide from me. They want me to understand their essence, but only the shiny parts that they have Windexed, the parts that they have reconstructed and rehearsed. The scary stuff gets tucked into a back pocket, pressed to the bottom of a chaotic purse…
Yet there are times when I’m overcome by the desire to strip down and stand before you in my nakedness, palms open to your inspection. To show you first what scares me most—it’s as much a defense as anything—so you will put away your weapon. But when I stand there, plaintive, open, and my jokes flutter like lint into the carpet; and my tears for being hungry, for discovering my own humanity in a photograph, a painting, a poem, are something from which you turn away—to text, to lace a tired shoe—I feel my aloneness… Yesterday I heard the Muscle Shoals rhythm section on my iPod like a train coming on—and there were only strangers on either side of me, and I ached to have someone to turn to who would touch my arm, who would know why my skin tingled from that sound. It was Jeff who said listen, Rachel, all those years ago. Listen. And this young girl from a small town, moved alone to the city, listened... heard... felt... And he is dead these past many years, and I have kept walking.
And the scene in Tolstoy where the narrator switches to the artist’s perspective—and we both cringed, understanding that dark insecurity, that unbridled confidence, all in the time that it takes to open the door. But he is gone, too, the man who would understand that—who would cast a knowing look from across a crowded room when the air felt thick, felt full of the weight of so many stories, so many people working to be heard. I know what you’re thinking, Rachel, his look would say. And I knew that he did...
But there is no more of that.
This summer I will stand alone at night and listen to the rush of unseen waves along a craggy beach in North Truro. It will be windy and close to midnight, the moon like a quiet pearl in the sky. In the distance, the lonely call of the harbor lighthouse and a few scattered lights from P’town. I will feel around in the dark, trying to touch the shadows. And maybe I will even whisper to the wind how joyous and inconsequential the ocean makes me feel sometimes... This is of course what we used to say—and one time many years ago we made a fire on the beach, and I could see his steady profile, looking for things out there. Our lips were quiet that night because they didn’t need to move. And I heard him and he heard me...
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