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....Renee toys with
the idea of worrying about her bags. “May
as well not worry,” her grandmother used
to say, “you don’t have sense to know
what to worry about.” And so that particular
worry itself had always been Renee’s chief
concern, that she was expending energy in the
wrong direction, worrying about the wrong things.
The corollary to Renee’s chief concern was
that she was developing an obsessive-compulsive
disorder. Last night she had her regular pre-travel
nightmare, the one in which she’d wake up
late with just enough time to make the flight.
The reason it is a nightmare is that she has to
hurry. Hurrying can trigger attacks. Much less
frightening would be a dream in which she misses
the flight altogether, although such a situation
would certainly involve paperwork and phone calls
(also triggers). At any rate, she forgoes worrying
about the bags. Instead she concentrates on the
flight schedule monitor, pondering the irony of
flying to Mexico from LA on Alaska Airlines. She
wonders if there’s Baked Alaska on Alaska
Airlines flights. She wonders what Baked Alaska
is. She suspects it looks like a mountain. A snowy
one. She wonders if her plane will crash into
a big, sweet, snowy mountain.
....Monitor, monitor.
Most things can be fixed. For instance, a stove
top burner heating element. Handy that Renee’s
uncle sells appliance parts, after that weekend
at the beach Renee spent refusing to worry. Her
upstairs neighbor had keys for just such an emergency.
But she wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t
give in.
....Lately, a new
dimension to her condition has revealed itself
in the form of excess baggage, but of a non-psychological
sort. In what is perhaps a mistaken effort to
avoid a feeling of perpetual need or absence,
Renee has taken to picking up the occasional stray
object or two. She almost never leaves home without
picking up a paperweight or dropping a kitchen
utensil into her purse. She has stopped explaining
to friends why she might have an eggbeater at
the movies.
....Why don’t
you carry an umbrella, her mother suggests, at
least that would be useful. Renee clutches at
the doorstop. It’s an antique finial, cast-iron,
heavy, pretty swirling curlicues. I’m afraid
I’ll leave it somewhere, says Renee. The
weight in her hand holds her to the careening
earth. She lifts her hand from the armrest and
she stays put, a miracle. Not even dizzy.
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