The Wastepaper Basket takes a walk through London

The past few days I think about not coming back from my walk. It’s December in London and I hate it out here, making lazy loops around the block as I call my pack. I didn’t used to have a pack. I make phonecalls every night, and slip outside every night to make them in peace. I walk out in the same bland black puffer jacket and I think to myself, most nights I think this: could I just keep waking. Don’t make the loop, keep walking. I’ve checked for a wallet, keys, cash- what would happen if i didn’t come back tonight. How would I say it, how would I let them know “good riddance, tonight was the last straw.” Sometimes I get pretty far in the planning. Would I call? Send a text? 

I can imagine sending the message- knowing my spineless character it’s going to be an apology. I’m sorry. I’m sorry but I can’t do this, I can’t stay with you anymore. I can’t help you anymore, I’m sorry, it’s too much, i’m sorry. Of course it’ll be an I’m sorry, my life is one big apology to the universe.

I make phonecalls every night to three people. My mother, my brother, my sister. I don’t tell them about my thought of never returning to the London house. I tell them about everything else- and they listen. I apologize to them, too. It’s a balm to hear what they say back.

“It’s horrible what’s happening-” or,

“I couldn’t do what you’re doing.”

Maybe I’m a narcissist. Somewhere along the line I didn’t get enough attention and now I’m the way I am. I’m twenty one, single, and I live in other people’s homes for a living.

Twenty five days ago I moved into the London house. My mother, she never wanted me to go, and was pretty clear on that point. Come to think of it, my brother didn’t either. The 2024 election made everything feel combustible. I remember him calling, talking as we usually do, for a good 40 minutes. Isaac works in news, the man behind the camera. He’s half my mother and my father- someday, if you keep listening to me, and if I keep trying to be interesting, I’ll tell you how that makes sense. Isaac and I are siblings because we’re both nervous. I’m not sure where he puts his. I think about this a lot.

Isaac and I usually talk at each other. I’ll take the mic, he’ll take the mic, so on. Sometimes bad jokes are made. It’s odd, but I think we somehow make eachother laugh harder than we usually do with other people, but also are less funny with each other. There’s a kind of discomfort in everything we say. I kind of like it. 

We talked in this discomfort for the 40 minutes. Finally-

“I know I never do this.” His nervousness sounded like mine. Worrying. People that sound like me should worry you.

He laughs, over miles and miles of phone connection. Six hours behind- I wait for particles or waves or rays or whatever they are to catch up, but it turns out he’s just pausing. He’s not- himself. “I just think,” Isaac says this slowly. He’s good at that. Usually everything I say gets tripped over and stupified. “It would be a good idea to stay away from populated areas for a while. Until we see what happens.”

I’m thinking about that moment, and it makes me smile to tell you this… but I apologized. 

Isaac never wanted me to move here. My mother didn’t want me to move here… for now. I can never tell the timing she wishes for my life. Growing up, travelling across the world was all she spoke over my life. Write. And travel. I did this- I tried that horrible year of college. I dropped out- to write. I dropped out- to travel. Somehow this didn’t fit into the plan. I think it would take me a lifetime to figure out what her idea of the plan is.

We’ll talk about the summer of ‘23 someday. I never talked about it enough. I’m not going to tell you today, because that reminds me of what my mother is capable of being. That’s something I know, too deep to mention it. Not today- today we’re learning how kind she is.

My mother lets me call her three times a day. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. It started in the year of college- sometime we’ll talk about that, too. I can tell you that it was the first time I experienced paranoia. I would call her in the middle of panic attacks- walking to get lunch. On my way to the therapist. In my room- the sweaty yellow comforter that I never ever washed enough. I started calling her for the first time then- who else was there? Mariah, sixteen years old, running around town egging houses or something. That’s demeaning to her- I’m sorry, Mariah. She had friends and some semblance of a life living with our parents. This sin’t tru either- it just makes me feel better to say I left her alone because she was young and living a happy life. That’s something neither of us would say out loud. I’ll go into it- I promise, there’s a lot to cover. I can tell you that if you ever asked our mother what she thought of Mariah, the answer would be lists of love. Maybe not accurate to who she is, but the answer would be kind. Flip the script around- Mariah and I know what ma’s face would say if you asked what Mariah thought about her. 

 Maybe it was good that we didn’t talk as much when I was at school. In those days I always made things worse. Isaac didn’t talk to me much that year. Dove never talked to me at all.

We’ll talk about Dove-

When I walk at night, and I think about leaving, I wonder if I sniff out difficulty because of Dove. Ask Mariah this, I swear she would tell you a resounding yes.

Dove, Mariah, Isaac, Me. 

Why did we have to be so nervous.

I turn on my heel and I start waking home. The past week I stop, usually still on the phone, screeching “Mariah, wait, mariah! Turn your camera on, Mariah!”

The same red fox has followed me at night for a week. If this is an omen, I’m going to be pissed. I really don’t need omens this week. Mariah has never seen the fox- four nights in a row I yell, sometimes at 11:00 at night. What time in Missouri? I always have to count on my fingers. Mariah can do it in her head. I turn over the camera and the fox has already gone.

“You know, you care about this more than I do,” Mariah’s says dryly.

“Yeah” is all I can say. But one of these nights she’s going to see the damn fox.