Stalled

She could have rotted in that stall, but for me.

When I entered the restroom, the lights flickered on. I hardly noticed; the motion sensors on campus spoiled me. I didn’t have to think about turning lights on or off anymore.

The restroom was for faculty, and there were only two stalls. The first stall was occupied, so I automatically chose the other. I dropped my pants and sat down on the toilet to do my business.

Suddenly conscious of the person next to me, my restroom insecurities kicked in. Would she flush soon, freeing me from fear of making any suggestive noises? As if she’s listening, I thought.

Then I realized: Wait, there’s a person in the next stall, but the lights were off when I came in here. Weird. You had to sit pretty still quite a while for the lights to turn off, I imagined. Was she napping — in a toilet stall?

No, that’s silly, I thought. Maybe she’s just hiding. I had hidden in a restroom many times. Whenever a boss made me cry, I fled to the privacy of the bathroom. I did the same when I needed a moment to collect myself, to perk up, to steady my nerves. I had developed a relationship with every bathroom I knew as an employee and, in even younger years, as a student.

That had to be it, I concluded. She was hiding from someone or something.

I finished my business, flushed, and hiked up my pants. Then, as if she could have missed my presence, I cleared my throat and listened for a reaction.

Nothing. Not a sound came from the next stall. Weird.

I stood still for a few minutes, imagining a clock ticking away the seconds. Then I left the stall to wash my hands. I dried them using the automatic blow dryer. Finally, I checked out my hair in the mirror. The curls were falling in all the wrong directions, but there was little to be done about it. I had no tools or product with me; my bag was back in my office.

I turned toward the door, ready to leave. Something wasn’t right, though.

I had been in the restroom far longer than was natural, I knew. My frequent trips to restrooms over the years had helped me develop an inner clock for private matters. I had stayed too long for a normal, healthy toilet stop. She had been there longer than I.

“Ma’am,” I said aloud, my voice echoing off the tile walls. “Is everything all right?”

Nothing. Not a sound came from the occupied stall. Weird.

“I’m not trying to be nosy,” I continued. “I just thought … well, I thought maybe you needed help?”

Nothing.

“Well, OK then,” I announced, reaching for the restroom door handle.

I couldn’t leave, though. Something was definitely wrong.

I squatted down, not wanting to touch the floor with any part of my body north of my feet. The faculty restrooms tended to remain cleaner than the public ones, but that meant they were cleaned less frequently by staff. I bent over, trying to peek under the door of that first stall. I could see plump feet in tightly fitted sandals. Not helpful.

I dropped to my hands and knees, lowering my face closer to the floor. Now I could see denim capris, wrapped around even plumper knees, through the gap under the stall door. My heart tripped and began racing. Lord, I thought, please let her be deaf!

I crawled the short distance to her stall and stuck my hand under the door, waving it by her feet aimlessly for a few heartbeats.

Nothing.

Shit, I thought. Pun not intended, I followed up.

What do I do now?

Options ran through my head: fetch Public Safety, flag down a janitor, tell my boss.

All solid options, I thought, still on my hands and knees on the restroom floor. This was not my responsibility. Someone else could handle it better than I.

My heart wouldn’t calm down. My head felt light. I pushed myself up onto my knees and took a deep breath, then a second.

I argued with myself: Whose responsibility was it, then? Really.

I dropped back onto my hands and knees and inched forward, squeezing under the stall door. It had been a much easier task when I was a child. And when there was no one sitting on the toilet.

There was barely room for me to twist myself upright inside the stall, positioned sideways between the metal door and her heavy-set legs. I settled onto my knees, being careful to keep my eyes focused on the floor.

I shivered. The cold emanating from the floor and metal door was no surprise, but the fact that she was not radiating heat was startling. My eyes snapped to her face.

She appeared to be sitting comfortably, with her capris around her knees, her hands resting on her naked thighs. Her large frame had settled into itself perfectly upright, her back resting against the wall behind the toilet. Her head, however, had lolled to one side, her vacant eyes staring abstractly up at the ceiling of the restroom.

Weird.

My fears confirmed, my heart slowed.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her face as I stood up, being careful not to touch her, and reached around my own body toward the door lock. I fumbled with it, then forced myself to actually look at what I was doing. The door swung open silently.

I fled the restroom just as silently.

I was mere feet from the restroom when I ran into a janitor, whose face registered more annoyance than shock as I told him about her.

“You sure she dead?” he asked, his head cocked to one side.

Well, yes, I thought. No live person just lets you crawl into her restroom stall with her.

“Yes,” I managed aloud.

He told me to stay put while he called for Public Safety and checked out the situation himself. I didn’t move an inch, the passersby flowing around me unnoticed.

Public Safety sent two officers, who headed straight into the bathroom. Good move, I thought. It would take a couple people to remove the woman from the bathroom. And one big guy to get her off the toilet and out of the stall, I reasoned. In my mind, I played out several removal scenarios, all awkward and clumsy.

I still hadn’t moved from my safe spot in the hallway when the city police and ambulance arrived. The janitor jarred me from my reverie.

“We’re taking the stall apart,” he announced, proudly producing a cordless electric drill. “Makes more sense than trying to pull her out all stiff and shit.”

To myself, I followed up: No pun intended.

I took me a moment to come up with a more appropriate response, an awkward and clumsy: “Cool.”

He shrugged.

Phew!

“Wanna watch?” he asked.

I nodded and followed him back into the restroom, now bustling to the point of crowded.

“WHOA!” a uniformed officer shouted, stopping both of us in our tracks. “What is SHE doing here?”

My eyes were drawn to his, furious blue eyes beneath raised eyebrows.

“I found her,” I offered by way of explanation.

“Good for you,” blue eyes mocked. “You want pictures?”

NO! my mind screamed.

“No,” I said aloud. “I just …

“I don’t know.”

It’s my restroom, I reasoned, not his.

Blue eyes softened facial expression, but not his voice: “Well, you don’t need to be here, so get out.”

I turned around to leave.

“Wait,” blue eyes demanded, stopping me in my tracks. “You said you found her?”

I nodded my head yes, my back still to him.

“The stall door was hanging open, they said. Was it like that when you got here?”

I shook my head, silently making my confession.

“So, what ... you crawl in there to open it?” he asked, his voice mocking me better than his eyes had.

I nodded, further implicating myself.

“Why the hell you go in there? That’s kinda weird.”

Weird?

I turned to face him. He smiled.

“Maybe,” I agreed, shrugging my shoulders, “but what would you have done?”

Where am I?

It was the sound of birds singing that woke her up. Birds a little too close for comfort.

No, it was the smell of recently cut grass drenched in morning dew. And damp dirt.

No, it was the increasing warmth of the sun, bathing her in its morning glow. Burning her pale skin, no doubt.

Slowly, her mind climbed out of the fog of sleep, registering each sound, each smell, each sensation. The birds sounded excited, social. But they definitely seemed to be too close — had she left a window open? The damp grass smelled of summer, at first triggering the familiar relaxation that comes with blue skies and trips to the beach … then anxiety. The dirt smelled wet enough to be messy, and she envisioned mud stains on clothes. The sun felt so warm, so welcoming, so comforting. But her skin was bare, she fretted, and her freckles would no doubt emerge by day’s end.

In fact, she realized, her bare feet were resting in the grass, damp. And suddenly cold. She sat upright, startled. Where the hell am I? her mind screamed at her, as her eyes took in the unexpected — the large manicured lawn on which she had slept, an expanse of green so vivid that it made her wish she had sunglasses on. How did I get here? Panic set in, her heart racing and her stomach churning.

Her dreams had been vivid also, full of the colors, sounds and smells of the outdoors. In one, she remembered, she was riding a horse, something she hadn’t done since childhood. Closing her eyes, she recalled the sound of hooves pounding on the ground, the smell of horse sweat — and no doubt her own sweat, she thought, given the burning morning sun — mixed with wet grass and damp earth, and the sight of budding yellow-green leaves on trees along the path she was riding. The memory calmed her panic. In another dream, birds pecked at her arms and legs while she picked wildflowers. The wildflowers smelled sweet and sunny, a mixture of yellow, orange and white brilliance, but the bird “bites” stung. Ouch!

She sighed. Back to reality. She opened her eyes and squinted into the sun, her soon-to-be-freckled nose scrunching up in annoyance. This is your fault, she mentally scolded the sun. You’re too bright today — go away! There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, she noted, which meant the sun wasn’t going into hiding anytime soon. This is YOUR fault, she mentally scolded herself. You should have had more water. You’re dehydrated, dummy.

She tried to stand. Her head swam, and her back groaned. She settled for climbing onto her knees, then waited until the dizzy spell passed. Slowly, she stretched her arms up toward the sun, that welcoming but unforgiving sun. She twisted left, then right, then left again, trying to work the ache out of her back. Oh, and you’re too old for this sleeping-on-the-ground nonsense, she continued scolding herself. You should know better by now!

Feeling stronger, she stood, planting her feet firmly on the bare ground, digging her toes into the damp, cool grass. It felt good, she had to admit. She wiggled her toes more, and the grass tickled. She giggled, a quick and quiet giggle that failed to disturb the birds. Then, to further stretch her aching muscles, she slowly and deliberately swept grass clippings, allergens, insects, and all sorts of imagined pollutants from her sleep-wrinkled clothes, the same clothes she had worn yesterday. There were indeed muddy grass stains on the knees of her capris. She frowned. She contemplated running her fingers through her hair, sensing it was matted from sleep and sweat, but decided it would only make the problem worse. Time for the walk of shame, she told herself. Hopefully, no one sees me.

Slowly, she began to cross the yard toward the street. Despite her desire to hide from the public eye, she couldn’t resist cleaning up along the way. She took her first few steps tentatively, bending between them to pick up litter: a couple discarded chocolate bar packages and an empty chip bag, which served as a handy trash bag; a few cracked and sticky plastic cups; and a single dirty sock next to a broken bead necklace. The cheap plastic beads slid to the ground as she lifted the necklace; she squatted and picked up each one individually, focusing more than necessary on the simple task. She noticed that, to her left, a spill from one of the plastic cups had attracted a large mass of small black ants. She wondered idly if they were the culprits who had bitten her while she slept, or if it was mosquitos, or maybe spiders? Finally, her trash bag full, she resumed her slow-motion race to the safety of home, walking with steady purpose.

The yard was expansive. By the time she crossed the length of it, she was sweating again, and her breathing was a bit labored. She could hear herself panting, and she found it embarrassing. Might be time to get that gym, she thought, tugging on her T-shirt in an attempt to cool her core. The house, at least, offered some shade along its western side. She rested against the imposing brick building, hiding from the street beside the cleverly concealed air-conditioning unit, catching her breath. The three-story house was, in her opinion, too large and stately to be a comfortable family home, despite the fact that it was one of many just like it in a neighborhood bustling with families. No one should own a house that echoes when you walk through it, she objected, knowing it was pointless. No one cared about her opinion; after all, she didn’t belong here. Absently, she ran her hand through her hair — and immediately scolded herself. I can NOT wait to shower, she thought, grimacing at the image of her unkempt hair standing on end. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply; the gentle smell of cultivated roses reached her nose, bringing a slight smile to her lips.

Then she heard the back door of the house open and slam shut. Feet — little feet — were running along the stone walkway toward her. She turned around just in time to see a mess of bouncing blond curls round the rear corner of the house, the child beneath them running at full speed. “Mooooommy!” the girl squealed in delight, never breaking stride. “You’re awake!” Knowing the child would run right into her, Mom squatted and opened her arms for a hug, dropping the makeshift trash bag to the ground. The blond bombshell, clad in pink ruffles and lace, landed safely within them, smelling of sugary cereal and clean laundry. No fair! Mom thought, embracing the tiny body firmly but gently. She looks like she was freshly made this morning, while I look like last week’s leftovers!

Aloud, however, Mom could only say: “Morning, beautiful!”

“I loved camping,” the 6-year-old quipped in her ear, hugging tightly.

“I did, too, sweetheart,” Mom assured the innocent. “I didn’t sleep much, though, because of all that candy and soda I had after dinner — my blood was so sweet, the bugs ate me alive! I might need a nap later.”

The blonde giggled, a giggle loud and lengthy enough to disturb the now-distant birds. “Daddy says we should get a tent for next time,” she gushed breathlessly, “so the neighbors don’t think we’re crazy — you know, ’cause we’re new here and all.”

“Right,” Mom replied. “We don’t want the neighbors to think we’re crazy.” Not here in suburbia, she continued to herself. They might vote us off the cul de sac. Panic again set in, her heart racing and her stomach churning. She hid her frown in the curve of the blonde’s neck, suddenly missing the warmth of the sunlight. Where the hell am I? her mind screamed at her. And how did I get here?