Tomato-Soaked Hands
Trained to poop and pee into a bag, and trained to never move. He never moves, just breathes.
Her huge hands held onto the short leash of the heavy-set rottweiler on the other end.
She never notices my gaze as I run from point A: the front of my house to point B: the side of my house whenever she passes by at the same time every other day of the week. I would defend myself by saying that I do a light jog over to my kitchen, but I’ve caught myself multiple times huffing and puffing toward my sink. I should just go out and talk to her. Ask her questions, and get to know her, but I don’t have a dog, and my father is dying. I’ve been taking care of him for the past two months. The veins in his hands are holding onto an IV bag that is barely keeping his heart from collapsing.
The only time I’m outside are on the days that she is not walking her dog, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. I hate those days. I’m usually at the grocery store picking up saltine crackers and ice cubes, or at the pharmacy getting more medication to stuff into my father’s body. I never take him outside because he’s more of an indoor dog. Trained to poop and pee into a bag, and trained to never move. He never moves, just breathes. Each breath I convince myself will be his last because it’s a long, slow sigh that pauses for a moment and within that pause, I convince myself that that was his last. He’s gone. Then I hear the next long, slow sigh, and I go back to reading my book or cleaning. I catch her walking her dog again, this time her short hair is pushed back into a backward hat that would look so bad on me, but she pulls off so well. Her dog poops on my lawn, she bends down to pick it up, then looks straight up at me. As if she knows she’s putting on a show that I tune in to watch every Monday and Wednesday. She waves. I push my body down onto the floor, crouching below the large window. I wait there for a moment, struggling to catch my breath. Is he still breathing? Yes… okay. I get up looking for her, but she’s gone.
The next day, I was slow to get out of bed because I knew that I would not be seeing her today. I sluggishly poured coffee into two cups, even though my father doesn’t drink caffeine anymore. I rub the crust out of my inflated eyes, watching my father’s stomach shallowly rise up and back down like a pond that wants so desperately to be the ocean. He looks up at me, his eyes always wet and glossed over. I can never tell if he is crying or because of the sickness. I smile at him and then write, do you want me to pick up tomato soup? On a used napkin by his bedside table. His thumb perks up. I don’t know why I would ever suggest soup. It’s one hundred degrees outside, but if he wants tomato soup, I’ll make some soup. I got to the grocery store later than I would usually go. Most of the time, I went before the after-school and work crowd got there, around ten in the morning. It is three in the afternoon. I don’t know anybody here. It’s as if I were in a different grocery store or even another planet. Alien babies screamed at their alien mothers in a foreign language that I didn’t understand, they threw strange pieces of fruit and breads that I’ve never tried before; have never seen. I hurried past all the eyes on me, finally getting to the soup aisle. I crouched down, trying to get two perfect cans of freshly squeezed tomato soup. An arm darts across the shelf above me. Do I know that arm from somewhere? I watch the arm retract back to its owner. I have never been this close to her before. She wasn’t wearing a hat today, it was brushed back and the sleeves of her blue button-up are rolled up to the elbow. I couldn’t find her dog.
“Excuse me… I just need the paprika–”
“Where’s your dog?” I said without hesitation, without thinking that she might not actually know me. At all.
“Do I know you?” She took a step back. Was I the outsider?
“I live… I mean, we’re neighbors. I see you walk your dog sometimes in the neighborhood.” Very smooth of me.
“Oh…” She stares–trying to figure me out. I might pass out.
“My dad’s dying. That’s why I can’t go outside, and I also don’t have a dog either. I think that’s the reason you have never seen me before… if you’re trying to figure out who I am. I don’t know if you are, but that’s why.” Instead of passing out, I word-vomit all over her.
“Yeah, that might be why. Sorry about your dad.” Her eyes are wide. Hopefully, she’ll just run away.
“That’s okay. We’re okay… I mean, he’s not okay, but I’ve sort of come to terms with his death and everything, you know.” She’s still staring. Why can’t I shut up?
“Well, it’s good that you’re okay.”
“Thank you.”
“Excuse me, I just need–” She looks past me and reaches for the paprika. She smells a little musty, with a vanilla cologne that tries to cover it up. She throws the spice in her basket, smiles at me, then leaves.
Walking out of the store, my cart goes over the little yellow bumps. Then BAM! Both cans of soup jump out of the cart. One of the cans is relatively fine, just a little dent here and there. The other is not fine at all. Its thick red-soupy insides cover the cold, gray concrete. I try scoping the soup back into the hole it came out of, but it ends up soaking into the palms of my hands.
“You’re blocking the entrance. Please move!” I hear an employee scream from inside the store. People walk by, leaving behind trails of tomato soup. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my neighbor. I avert my gaze. This is so embarrassing. She is embarrassed.
“You need help?” She tells me.
“No, I just need this soup to get back into the can.” I chuckle as if I don’t sound insane.
“Can I get you a new one?” She checks her watch or maybe a bug bit her, because I don’t see one on her wrist.
“I’m okay. You have a dog to get back to.” I continue scraping the soup; playing in it now.
She holds out a hand, “Priscilla will be fine.” Tears stream down my face. I squish my red, garlicky tomato-soaked hands onto her now purple, wrinkled button-up shirt.
Note: There is still a lot about writing, especially fiction writing, that I do not know, but I am constantly learning and growing through writing and publishing my work on here. Thank you for reading this and hopefully we can grow together.
