Melting by Julia Brietkreutz

2nd

Melting by Julia Breitkreutz

Her mother scrutinized the contents of the fridge, throwing away the package of sliced ham speckled in mold and scanning expiration dates on yogurt cups. Meanwhile, Martha sifted through the mail that lay scattered on their small kitchen table. Red, angry letters printed across the folded-up catalog for Goodman’s Furniture declaring EVERYTHING MUST GO, a warning from Real Simple magazine informing her mother that her six-month subscription would be ending soon. Looming amongst the flashy advertisements and coupon deals, the formal white envelopes of the hospital bills grabbed Martha’s attention. “He got into the ice cream again?” she asked Martha as she held up a carton of mint chocolate chip, the lid missing from it and the sides bent inwards, as if someone had tried to squeeze out the contents. “I guess so,” Martha replied, organizing the mail into three neat piles in front of her — urgent, semi-urgent, and junk. Everything in her life had turned into neat stacks. The laundry in the hallway, the notes on her desk, the wrinkled bills in her top dresser drawer, the dishes in the sink. They never seemed to shrink or grow taller, but rather stood stagnant, taunting Martha. “You have to keep a better eye on him, Mar. The doctor said we need to wean him off the sugary food.” She went to the sink and rinsed out the sad remains of the carton. “Okay,” Martha said. “And where the hell are all the bowls?” Her mother searched the cheap, wood-laminate kitchen cabinets in a frenzied manner, taking out the plastic plates and cups, determined to find bowls that weren’t there. “Mama.” Martha got up and approached her mother. She placed her hands on her bony shoulders, hidden beneath the green sweater, and pulled her away from the cabinets. “The bowls are in G’s room. He has been taking them, okay? I’ll grab them later.” She stared at her mother, who had her wet hair wrapped up in a faded purple towel. Underneath the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen and with her face clean of makeup so early in the morning — her thinning eyebrows almost white above her sunken eyes — Martha tried to recall a time when her mother had not been in a hurry. In the creases of her mother’s pale skin, Martha saw the worries of the past few years accumulated and wished she could wipe them all away. A door creaked open and the slow shuffling of slippers making their way across the hallway carpet followed. Martha peeled her hands away from her mother’s shoulders and reached for the coffee pot on the counter. She rinsed it out with warm water as her mother ventured into the dimly lit hallway. “Morning, Dad. Mar is making you some coffee now. Doesn’t that sound good?” her mother said in a low, steady voice. Martha measured out the coffee grounds, keeping her eyes

trained on the heaping tablespoons she dumped into the machine, waiting for the familiar outburst to happen. None came. Still, she held her breath as the smell of brewing coffee permeated the space of the small kitchen. He shuffled in, wearing his blue bathrobe splayed open at the front. They could not find the belt for it anywhere. Guided by his daughter to the table, G stared down at her hand on his right arm and swatted it away. Martha strode towards him with a big mug that had an image of Garfield printed on it. The cat was grinning as he held a cup of steaming coffee in his paws. Sometimes, he would reach for the mug as Martha approached him, but today he stared at the freezer door, not glancing up at his granddaughter at all. “Who drinks coffee in the evening? I want ice cream,” he said, sliding the mug away from him as she set it down. He looked at Garfield with disgust, his droopy lips shaking as he mumbled to himself. “Do you want some scrambled eggs? Or how about a bagel?” her mother asked as she leaned in towards G and placed her thin hand on the back of his own. Martha winced as the shouting began. “I want my damn ice cream! Now get your hands off me, woman.” He pushed the wooden chair back and stood up. Martha, who had been leaning against the counter with her cup of coffee, strode towards him as she noticed him wobble. His whole body trembled. G looked down at the mug, towards his daughter, and back towards his mug. After a few moments, during which the shaking subsided, he sat back down and cradled the mug with both hands. He sat staring at the yellowing floral wallpaper on the opposite wall, the unreachable thoughts whirring around inside of his mind. They all sat in silence with their coffees in their hands. It could have been worse. It had been worse. A mug full of hot coffee could have been thrown, skin could have been scratched, the yelling could have escalated and brought a startled neighbor to their doorstep. Out of the corner of her eye, Martha watched her grandpa’s shaking hands as he wrapped them around the mug. The hands that once pushed her on the tire swing hanging from the maple tree in the backyard. He would chuckle as she screamed through the air to him, “Higher, G! I want to fly!” The firm hands that used to take hold of Martha’s hand as he walked her to elementary school, pressing three tight squeezes into her small one at the front office, a silent reassurance given to her that served as a promise of his return at the end of the school day. The same hands she used to watch flip the pages of the Sunday paper as she ate a bowl of Fruit Loops, waiting eagerly for him to lay the paper down between them so they could read the comic section together. These hands that she once believed could hold anything now trembled — purple veins pulsing underneath the papery skin — as he brought the mug to his droopy lips.

*** Martha squinted at the wrinkled sticky note as she pushed the cart down the frozen

food aisle of Walmart, attempting to decipher her mother’s small, hurried handwriting. Except for one large woman on an electric scooter who wore a brown t-shirt with a realistic image of a chihuahua printed across it, the aisle was deserted. The scooter woman’s thick, white ankles were exposed and as she glided by with a wide smile across her round face, Martha could not help but notice how petite her feet looked and found herself fascinated by the anatomy of this woman. The low hum of the scooter carrying the woman down the expansive concrete floor and towards the next aisle grew fainter until Martha stood alone. At the frozen dinner section, Martha piled her cart with Hungry-Man meals, a Buy 2 get 3 FREE deal happening. She selected some with chicken tenders and others with the Salisbury steak, the kind that always reminded her of the cafeteria food she used to eat in elementary school. At first, Martha had disregarded her mother’s warning and let G prepare his HungryMan meals by himself. She showed him where they were in the freezer and gave him a quick tutorial on how to use the microwave. G had studied his granddaughter with wide eyes as she cut the slits in the plastic, placed the meal in the microwave, and pressed the buttons. Then one afternoon, Martha peered in his room and saw him in his bed with a frozen Hungry-Man meal in his lap. She watched, with a mixture of fascination and horror, as he tore off the plastic covering and proceeded to consume the uncooked meal. Martha had silently crept to her bedroom, shut the door behind her, and slid to the ground. The ugly crunch of her G biting into the frozen steak rung in her ears and nauseated her. Since then, Martha or her mother had been preparing the meals for him and bringing them to his room. Twenty meals were piled high and divided into neat stacks in the shopping cart. As Martha closed the freezer door and pushed the cart forward, she noticed a woman bending down in a blue work vest, adjusting a bottom row of items near the frozen breakfast food section. Behind the glass freezer door, Martha glimpsed the thick, gold hoop earrings and the line of smaller studs snaking up her ears. The woman, with her winged eyeliner, stood up and closed the door, wiping the backs of her hands on her khaki pants. She turned to her own cart, piled with frozen pizzas and Stouffer meals that needed to be put on display, and glanced at Martha. “Martha?” she said, tilting her head to the side as she approached Martha. She gave a wide grin that revealed a prominent gap between her two front teeth. “Oh my god, how are you?” Martha stepped to the front of her cart in an attempt to cover the piles of Hungry-Man and tried to recall the name of this girl from her past as she stood there. “God - it’s been like, I don’t know, a year? Whatcha been up to?” The girl’s deep, raspy voice and the way she smacked her gum as she spoke reminded Martha of her name — Luna. They were both in American Government with Mr. Myers during their senior year. Almost every day, Luna would arrive to class a few minutes late and would have to go to the front office to get a pass, or else Mr. Myers would not open the door for her. Luna would return with the pass and thump her bookbag down at the desk next to Martha, smacking her gum

as he lectured in his dull, monotone voice about the rights and responsibilities of U.S. citizens. She would talk to Martha in loud whispers, laughing in her raspy way whenever Martha said something remotely funny. When Mr. Meyers yelled at her for disrupting the class, Luna would stare at the wall behind him until his shouting gradually faded out. Still smacking her gum, she would smile at Martha when the class was dismissed. In the hallway outside of Mr. Meyers classroom, Martha used to marvel at how Luna could drift towards a group of people and laugh amongst them with such ease. She wondered what it must be like to be able to carry oneself through life like Luna did. “Yeah, almost a year.” Martha smiled, still standing in front of her cart. “Most people I see from high school, I want to forget about, ya know? But you were always cool, I remember.” Luna smacked her gum as she adjusted her thick, brown ponytail. “Yeah, I feel that. I don’t really run into people from then, though,” Martha said. “Really? I see people all the time. I guess that’s what I signed up for, getting a job here and all,” Luna said, staring at a point beyond Martha’s — lost in thought. “So, what do you do now?” she asked, returning her gaze to Martha. “Not much, really. Still with my mom, just helping to take care of my grandpa.” “Oh yeah? That’s nice.” Luna glanced at the cart behind Martha and then back at her. “Hungry?” she asked with a playful smile, adding, “I’m just messing with ya.” Martha’s felt her face turn warm and she gave a short, awkward laugh. The silence stretched between them. “I better get back to work,” Luna said, walked towards her cart and then turned back to Martha. “Hey, me and some friends are getting together tonight, if you want to join. It’s at my boyfriend’s apartment. You should totally come. I’ll give you my number.” Luna reached for her phone in her back pocket and passed it over to Martha, who typed in her number. “Thanks, I’ll try to make it,” Martha said, and she meant it. *** Martha arranged the last frozen meals into the crowded freezer, hiding a carton of mint chocolate chip behind boxes of Hungry-Man. When she closed the door, Martha noticed the torn piece of yellow notepad paper stuck between an old crayon drawing of a purple giraffe and a stick figure one above which “G and Me” was written in clumsy green letters. On the notepad paper, Martha recognized her mother’s handwriting. Covering for Becca tonight. Be back late. Money on counter for pizza. No sugars for G. An anger rose within her as she read the note over for the third time. She imagined her mother hastily tying her black waitress apron around her thin waist, twisting her tangled hair into a bun, and scribbling the note as an afterthought. The sliver of hope that had begun to take form inside of Martha upon talking to Luna had been stolen away from her in the span of half an hour by a situation which she had grown all too familiar with. In a swift movement, she moved towards the table and scattered the neat piles of mail she had made that morning. With clumsy

hands, Martha ripped up the envelopes and shoved them all into the overflowing trash can, burying them underneath take-out boxes and coffee grounds. In her room, Martha threw herself face down into the bed and lay there, unmoving, for some time. Her phone buzzed and she dug it out from her jean pocket. Hey. The address is 136 Sparrow Dr. Apt. 24. See u @8. Xo, Luna Martha slid her phone to the edge of her bed and stared up at the popcorn ceiling. She peered at the small holes where she had pinned up a map of the world that her G had found inside of a magazine and given to her when she was in the fifth-grade. She remembered how he had pushed it across the kitchen table towards her during breakfast one morning so many years ago. A smile had formed on his lips as he observed her unfold it. Before she hung it up, Martha had put star stickers on all the places she wanted to go, decorating various places on almost every continent with them. After her mother had tucked her in at night, Martha would take out a flashlight she kept on her bedside table and point it up at the map — gazing at the stars with a deep longing — until her eyes grew heavy with sleep. Martha had ripped it down sometime in high school, but that longing to be somewhere far away from all that she knew never went away. A low groan from G’s bedroom led Martha to peek her head into his dark room. Sunlight streamed in through a thin crack in the heavy curtains, creating a diagonal line of light across the room. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Martha noticed the scattered bowls, spoons sticky with week-old ice cream. “G?” Martha used her phone’s screen for light as she drew near the figure laying underneath the thick quilt. The floor was scattered with pages torn out of old editions of National Geographic magazines. As she stepped over the magazines, Martha recalled the hours spent pouring over those articles with her G when she was a young girl. For thirty-five years — right up until the sickness had begun to deteriorate his mind — G had worked as a security guard at the local hospital. At the end of every month, he would bring home a stack of expired National Geographic magazines that he had grabbed from the tables in the waiting room. Their covers were often torn and stained from the many waiting hands that had flipped through them. He had accumulated an impressive collection from this practice. In the evenings after they had eaten dinner, Martha and G would sit together on the living room couch. As G read to her the articles that revealed new discoveries about ancient civilizations, Martha would lean her small body against his arm and peer excitedly at the pictures. Sometimes, Martha would read the captions printed under the pictures of the various wonders of the natural world or the intriguing customs of distant cultures. “G, how many places are there in the world?” “That’s a funny question, Mar,” he had said, stretching his tired feet on the coffee table in front of them. “More than one person can visit in a lifetime, I’ll tell you that.” “I am going to go to all the places and wear other clothes and eat all the weird foods when I’m grown-up. Then, I’ll come back with all these pictures for magazines to use.”

With his head leaned back against the couch cushion, Martha remembered how the skin around his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. Near the side of the bed, there stood an old Victorian style cast-iron safe about two feet high that seemed out of place in his messy room. Inside of the safe G had stored an array of legal documents which he collected over the years. He had not been able to get into it for some time, having forgotten the combination lock’s password, much to the dismay of Martha’s mother. An assortment of pants and dirty socks lay piled in a stack on the foot of his bed. Amongst the array of drool stained pillows, Martha located her G’s face. His thick lips hung open and a low, squeaking noise emanated from him. His thin hands rested on top of a magazine flipped open to a section about tree frogs in the Amazon. With delicate hands, Martha picked up the bowls from around the room, careful to avoid stepping on the magazines. When she left his room, Martha set the small digital timer that sat by the coffee machine for two hours, knowing that she would need a reminder to wake G up and prepare his HungryMan dinner later. As she began scrubbing the ice cream bowls with scalding water, Martha felt the tears coming and scrubbed harder, her hands turning a bright red. She finished the dishes and wiped her face with a paper towel before reaching for her phone on the counter, its screen lit up with a message from Luna. Are u coming? Can u bring some food maybe? As she read the text, Martha could hear Luna’s raspy laughter and imagined a group of people sitting around a living room in a dingy apartment, drinking beers and perhaps smoking weed, herself sitting among them, unsure of how to participate, yet comfortable all the same. The crisp twenty-dollar bill lay untouched on the table. Martha grabbed her hoodie, tucked the bill inside her back pocket, snatched up the keys to G’s old 1997 Dodge Ram they used to haul their garbage to the dump with, and left without glancing back. *** “There you are!” Luna stood in the doorway, holding a beer in one hand and taking the pizza boxes from Martha’s hands with her free one. In the carpeted foyer of the apartment, Martha slid off her sneakers and followed Luna into the kitchen, where empty Red Bulls and open chip bags lay scattered on the small island in the middle. A line of dead succulents stood in a neat row on the windowsill above the kitchen sink that overlooked the darkening parking lot below. “Oh, yum, you got the meat-lover’s pizza. My favorite.” Luna placed the pizza boxes down on the island, throwing away empty cans and stray napkins to make room. “Yeah, I thought cheese and meat-lovers was a safe way to go.” Martha smiled; her hands hidden in the pocket of her hoodie. “Grab anything you like. There are beers and some Coke in the fridge. I’m going to go tell the guys that the pizza is here.” Luna wandered through the door on the other side of the island, where the muffled sound of laughter spilled from. Martha grabbed a red cup from a stack by the

pizza and filled it with water from the sink. The sound of footsteps approaching made Martha stiffen and lean, unnaturally, against the countertop as Luna came back, a group of four guys and one girl following behind her. “This is Martha, everyone.” She gestured towards her and the others gave a nod of acknowledgement or a small wave before surrounding the pizza. Luna waved Martha towards her. “We all need to thank Martha for the pizza since none of y'all cheap asses wanted to bring anything!” Luna put her arm around Martha’s shoulders and pressed her close. The others lifted their Red Bulls or beers in gratitude, one guy passing her a large pizza slice on a plate, smiling at her as he took a swig of beer. They made their way back into the living room, where dark blue shades were drawn over the windows and an episode of Rick and Morty played on the flat-screen opposite a cracked leather couch and a big, burgundy bean bag. A small coffee table stood in front of the couch, on which there were two bongs — one with an intricate green, floral pattern on the glass and another clear one with brown residue collected on the inside — standing like trophies amongst the empty Red Bulls and greasy napkins. Martha sat down between Luna and a guy named Marc on the cracked couch. At first, she held her body close by pressing her knees together and leaving her hands crammed in the warmth of her hoodie pocket. The haze obscuring the faces of the strangers scattered around the dim room and the remarkable softness of the couch took hold of her, however, and soon Martha’s limbs released their tension as she began to feel at ease. “You smoke?” A guy, Eric, who wore a snapback with a cosmic design on it, asked Martha. “Yeah, sometimes,” she said. Her response wasn’t a complete lie. She had smoked once in the tenth grade, at a concert she attended with Samantha — her former neighbor — who happened to have an extra ticket. She had told Martha she didn’t want to let it go to waste. They had met up with some of Samantha’s friends from school and smoked in the backseat of a car before entering the venue to listen to a band Martha hadn’t heard of. Smashed between sweaty strangers, Martha soon found herself separated from Samantha and the others. She had peeled away from the mass of bodies and went outside to wait by the car. The high dissipated as the muffled sounds of cheering from inside reached her while the sky darkened. “Hell yeah, here.” Eric passed Martha the dirty bong and she balanced it carefully in her lap. She felt Eric’s eyes on her and as she reached for the lighter on the coffee table, the sound of high-pitched dings coming from the microwave in the kitchen seized Martha’s attention. Her mouth felt dry and her heart pounded in her ears. Martha watched as Luna jumped up off the couch and glided towards the kitchen. She imagined the beeping sound of the timer she had set hours ago filling the empty house and envisioned a disoriented G stumbling about in the darkness. Luna returned, carrying a bag of popcorn delicately between two fingers, and collapsed into the cushions once more.

Martha glanced back at Eric and observed his glazed over eyes. He gave her a toothy, far away smile. The dings were over yet they still resonated in Martha’s head. She wanted to rid herself of the noise and wanted to smile like Eric was. Martha sat up straight and grabbed the lighter, pushing the thought of G into the back of her mind as she lit up the bong. She took an ambitious hit that ended in a bout of uncontrollable coughing. As her eyes watered, she felt Marc pat her back. Luna passed her a cup of soda and she drank the warm liquid in one gulp. “Damn girl, that was one badass hit,” Eric said, still smiling at Martha as she passed the bong back to him. And then Martha sunk into the leather couch, gazed up at the brown stained ceiling and discovered that she was unable to detach her limbs from the couch. Her head felt heavy as she turned to face Marc. She took in all the details of his face — the dents on his cheeks serving as the remains of a battle with acne, the thick eyebrows above his heavy eyelids, and the thin lips that she studied with intensity as he asked her a question. His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far away. She stared at his lips — the ones that seemed to be forming words which crawled towards her ears at a sluggish pace — for some time before turning her attention to the TV, a motion which made the room and all its contents blur into one bleak image. Only when her eyes were focused on the cartoon characters did the slow-moving voices begin to reach her. “She’s really gone,” Eric said, taking another hit of the bong. The smoke from his exhale danced over the bright TV screen and Martha followed its movement up into the ceiling, where the fan dissipated the smoke until there was nothing left. “Where did it go?” She gazed down at Eric, her hand unglued itself from the leather and pointed to the ceiling. “Where did what go?” Luna leaned towards Martha, a smile on her lips. “The smoke. Where does it go?” “Where does the smoke go, Eric? Do you know?” Luna asked him, leaning back into the couch cushion and placing her bare feet on the ledge of the coffee table. “I’m not sure where it goes.” He gazed at Martha and offered her the bong again. “I’ll pass.” Martha melted back into the couch and began to laugh. Starting as a small giggle, it gradually escalated into a loud sound, forming deep within her so that she soon found it impossible to control or stop. The others had joined in and the dark living room filled with the warmth of their laughter producing one big sound that made Martha feel even lighter. As the night dragged on and the weed ran out, Martha found herself laying on the crumb-laden carpet, her long hair fanned out a foot away from Marc’s head. “Would you rather,” Marc began his next question, “Be chased by a swarm of bees or a swarm of toddlers?” “Bees, of course. How about you?” Martha asked back, closing her eyes. “Toddlers. I’m allergic to bees.”

“Oh. That makes sense then.” She opened her eyes and turned to look at Marc. He was staring up at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head. “Where would you be if you weren’t here?” “I don’t know. Probably at work or at home. How about you?” “Nowhere. I don’t know.” She turned her attention back to the ceiling, unsatisfied. The high had begun to fade the longer they talked. The crevices in Marc’s face that had seemed intriguing earlier on now appeared harsh and ugly. His gestures — the way he stared so long at nothing — all of his movements bored her. As she lay there, the realization that they were all stuck dawned on Martha. The vastness of the world that existed beyond this town could not be obtained by her or anyone around her. The glossy magazine pictures she had poured over with G many years back, the holes in her bedroom ceiling where the map used to hang, and the ever-present longing to leave this place — these images danced through Martha’s mind as she stared up at the ceiling in the dingy apartment. She felt the weight of these recollections and their impossible promises like a rock inside of her, pressing her down into the dirty carpet. While the last remains of the weed smoke lingered around the dark objects and bleak faces of the inhabitants of the living room, the fog clouding Martha’s thoughts dispersed. A sudden terror seized her body when her mind conjured up the images that the weed had helped to push away. Martha was shaking as she pushed herself up off the dirty ground and pressed her palms hard against her temples. An image of G — trembling in his bed, calling out to someone for help, asking for his food — had moved to the forefront of her mind. She pictured him getting out of bed and shuffling towards the kitchen, only to forget why he’d gone in there. The thoughts grew more harrowing the longer Martha sat there and so she stood up quickly to try and stop them. “Hey, are you good?” Marc asked. “No,” Martha replied, without glancing down at him. She made her way towards the kitchen, stepping over an empty pizza box and a pair of outstretched legs. She did not look back as she stumbled out of the dark living room and into the brightness of the white kitchen. After splashing cold water on her face at the sink, Martha left the apartment, the cold air awakening all her senses and brushing away the last traces of her high. *** The beeping screamed at Martha when she entered the house — a sharp, consistent shriek that penetrated the darkness. The freezer stood ajar, a rectangle of light revealing boxes of Hungry-Man meals scattered on the tile floor. Martha drifted through the darkness towards the timer, gliding her hand on the cold countertop, the shrill beeping nagging her on. After shutting off the timer, Martha kneeled among the strewn meals and picked them up — the boxes soggy. Her hands shook as she pushed them back into the freezer, the terror

causing a tightness in her chest to form as she entered the hallway. Pressing her hands against the wall to steady herself, Martha made her way to the open doorway of G’s bedroom. A thick liquid composed of a dark red and light green color leaked over the magazines and towards her. Martha’s eyes followed this trail to the cast-iron safe, where the dark figure of her G leaned against. His pale legs splayed out in front of him and his hands lay concealed inside of a container she could not make out from her position at the door. She flicked on the light switch and stood still — taking in the scene as if she were observing animals at a zoo from behind a thick sheet of glass. The papery skin above his right eye had been ripped open when he tumbled down and smashed into the corner of the cast-iron safe. Martha imagined the falling as a slow movement, envisioned his thin arms flailing in slow circular motions. She felt her own blood move slowly through her veins as she stared at the dark, red liquid that stilled oozed out from the gash. In the light, she saw that the container cradled in his lap was the mint chocolate chip carton she had bought earlier that day. His crooked fingers were covered in the melted ice cream. Martha watched as her G scooped up the milky mess and brought it — with trembling fingers — towards his parted lips. Unaware of Martha’s presence, he continued the process of shoveling the minty sweetness into his blood-stained mouth. She stood there for a few moments — transfixed by the movement of the sticky substance as it snaked down the sleeve of her G’s blue robe. And then Martha backed out of the room. She kept her eyes trained on her G, scared that if she looked away, he would shuffle towards her and drag her down with him into the melted ice cream and blood pooling beneath him. When she felt her back hit the wall of the hallway, Martha turned and ran.