Bleachclean

I still can't sleep. I feel wrinkles under my back. The bottom sheet must be crooked.

Should I open my eyes? No. Yes. What difference does it make? My eyes open and I turn my head. Big red numbers in the dark. Three twenty-eight. I've been lying here two hours. Not so long. Too long. Should I get up and straighten out the sheet? No.

What did Dr. Robinson say?

I should try to relax. I should sleep. But I can't sleep. I'm feeling wrinkles. I sit up.

I turn on the lamp. I slide my feet into slippers.

The coverlet lies folded at the end of the bed. That comes off first. I take the far edge and fold it toward me in half and then in half again and I place it across the near end of the vanity, by my jewelry box, away from my bottles of lotion.

Careful. No spills. I push a tall bottle of astringent an inch or so further away. Then I begin to pull the edge of the top sheet out from under the mattress. Starting at the far side, pulling it out little by little.

Folding it over, keeping it stretched out flat on the bed. It's folded three times. Not very neatly. Neatly enough. I pick the top edge up and bring it down to meet the bottom edge and then I lift it all along the center line. I raise my arms and let it hang from the center. One corner sags. It touches the floor.

I see the hem drag against the floor. Oh no. I examine the edge of the hem. There's nothing there. But I know there's something there. I look down at the floor. I can't see any dirt, but I know it must be dirty. I put the sheet down on the bed, letting the dirty end hang without touching either the bed or the floor, and standing on one foot I pick up the other one and examine the bottom of my slipper. Pale blue fabric. Pale gray discoloration. Dirt.

All right. So the very tip of the edge of the sheet touched the floor.

So what. It's going to be under the edge of the mattress anyway. It won't touch me. There will be me, then the mattress, then, possibly, a tiny bit of dirt. So what. A big thick mattress between me and the dirt on the sheet. I pick up the edge that touched the floor to look at it again. The sheet is white. There are dots in front of my eyes, swimming transparent spots between my eyes and the white sheet. I blink my eyes tight shut and open them again and see colors. I see that I'm very tired. I see nothing on the sheet. Nothing there. Just white. Maybe it's my eyes. Maybe my eyes are too tired to see anything. No.

There's nothing there. Are you crazy?

There's nothing there. Let's get on with this.

I fold the sheet smaller, carefully this time, and put it on top of the coverlet on the vanity and I take the pillow off the bed and put it on top of that. There's something like a wrinkle, a kind of twist in the fabric, in the center of the bottom sheet. I'm going to smooth it all out. No wrinkles. Sleep.

I lean down and pass my hand over the fabric. So smooth. So white. The top sheet isn't as clean as this. It ought to match. It's not quite as good as the bottom sheet. I should wash it. Should I? No. It's not dirty. But it's not quite as clean as this. It touched the floor. I stand there, hesitating. No. What would Dr. Robinson say? Maybe I should just get into bed. Relax.

I think I'll just quickly wash the sheets first. I pull the bottom sheet off the bed, take the pillow case off the pillow, bundle it all in my arms with the dirty top sheet and head down the hall to the washer and dryer in the kitchen. I'm looking forward to smelling the sweet detergent and then the sharp clean scent of bleach, getting everything clean and equal and perfect.

* * *

Should I open my eyes? Yes. Sure. I'll open my eyes.

Weak gray light seeping in. The light of early morning or of a rainy day. Dim light. Not dark and empty like nighttime. Not burning like full sun. Soft.

My head turns toward the big red numbers. But they aren't there. I'm not in my clean white bed, I'm in my clean white tub. I forgot. Silly me.

The porcelain is so white, so smooth. Smoother than fabric, but awfully hard. My neck is sore. My bottom is sore. The knobs of my spine are sore. Too long on the hard, smooth bottom of the tub.

Time to stand up, turn on the water and get warm again.

What day is it? Two. No, yesterday was two. Today is three. Three days, but is it afternoon? Or is it morning? Does it matter?

No.

I can see myself, a warped little beige-colored insect, way up there in the chrome rod that holds the shower curtain. Hi. I'm wiggling my fingers. Hello. I can see movement but everything is warped and I can't even tell it's my hand. I like that chrome.

Chrome is hard to clean. It gets dirty fast. But when it's clean it's beautiful. How long has it been since the knocking stopped? Hard to tell. Was it light or was it dark then? I don't remember. I only remember the noise, and Martin's voice. Poor Martin. A nice man, I suppose, to come looking for me. Okay, it's time to stand up. There are those transparent spots again, swarming in my eyes. I raise my knee, to get one foot under me. But I have to stop. Look at that knee. Poor, sad, gray-beige knee. I'm White. My skin should be white. But it's so discolored, so rough, so ugly compared to the porcelain. The sheets are clean and perfect, the tub is clean and perfect, and I just don't fit in.

I may not be clean but I'm not dirty, either. Not really. What would Dr. Robinson say? I can't relax, I'm too cold. I push my shoulders off the bottom. Every part of me that touches the tub, my hip, my knee, is sore. I raise my knees and wrap my arms around my legs. Soft legs. Soft arms. I lean my cheek on my knee caps.

What did Martin say? Are you all right?

That's what he said. Yes, I said, I'm all right. I was concerned, he yelled.

Everything's okay, I yelled. Will you be at work tomorrow? No, I don't think so. I didn't tell him I can't get out of the tub. So, shall I turn on the water again? I shall turn on the water again.
Get warm. Get clean.

* * *

What was that? A knock, I think.

"Maria?"

A voice. What. What do you want. Go away. You're dirty. You'll contaminate me.

"Maria? Can you hear me?"

Yes, I can hear you. Go away.

I've got to stand up. What if he comes in?

I'm naked. He's dirty. He won't come in.

He can't get in. But I'll stand up. I'll turn on the water. Just in case.

"Maria, I have the super here. We're concerned
about you."

Who is it? Who has the super? I've got to stand up. Too long at the bottom of the tub. Too long to move. Can I wiggle my toes? I can. I can feel them wiggling, way down there.

"Maria!"

What. Go away. Ouch. If I move the tiniest bit then everything hurts.

I'm groaning but no sound comes out.

Strange.

"Maria, you have to answer me.

Otherwise I've got to unlock the door and come in."

No. Don't come in.

I have to make a sound out loud. My lips cracking as I open my mouth.

My jaw cracking. No. No sound comes out.

"Maria, if you don't answer I'm going to come in."

I need to push the sound out. I pull air in, as hard as I can. Pulling, pulling, opening my mouth. "Na," is what I say.

"Okay," I hear the voice say. But not to me.

Breathe in more. Push out harder. "Naa."

Scrabbling at the door. Murmuring.

Jingling. Keys. Breathe in. "Naaa."

Louder.

"We're coming, Maria."

No, don't come in. "Naaa!"

Can I sit up? I can roll. I can push off the side. "Aaaah."

I hear the door opening.

"Maria? The super has unlocked the door.

I'm coming inside. I'm alone."

The voice is louder. The voice is in the hall. "Naaa." Keep away.

You're not clean.

"I hear you. I'm coming."

It's louder. I've got to get up. Push myself up. I can get my shoulders up. I push my hands as hard as I can against the tub and I'm sitting up, and everything is whirling. Colored butterflies.

Spots.

The bathroom door is opening.

"Maria?"

Colored fireworks swirling. I've got to lie down again. The voice is very loud.

"Maria, are you in the bathtub?"

I'm relaxed, Dr. Robinson. Here on the bottom of the tub.

See? See how relaxed I can be?