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Staring up at the ceiling in the dead of night was starting to become a common occurrence. Her husband’s breath and occasional low rumbly snore filled the otherwise quiet. She could make out the rafters in the faint moonlight that filtered through drawn curtains. The wood was sturdy and dark, creating harsh lines in the dimness. Ulla could tell that she was straining her ears- her eyes- trying to find something at the edges of her senses. She just couldn't tell what it was and it drove her to consciousness in the restless hours.
Eventually, as she did many a midnight, she pushed the covers off of her- leaving the warmth of the mattress behind. The bed bowed anyways from Quirin’s weight so she was confident that her absence wouldn’t disturb him. It didn’t. They say that you should never go to bed angry, and she guessed that’s what they did. Instead, they went to bed frustrated, maybe a little confused- like they were trying to communicate in different languages or across borders or perhaps she was screaming from the bottom of a lake but all he heard were air bubbles.
Either way, she knew that she wouldn’t be missed even if he sensed her absence. And she knew it wasn’t fair to think of him like that- she knew he loved her. He- he did love her. He was just tired- from the farm work- from her antics as he called them. Tired of her, from her. Always the mediator, always the one who smoothed things over- like she was some child or rabid animal, like she was wild and dangerous. This town and herself, they didn’t exactly get along. Sometimes she wondered if they’d run her out had she not been married to Quirin. For some reason that idea didn’t upset her as much as she thought it would have, it should have. It should be upsetting. It was upsetting to her.
Her bare feet met the cool wooden floor, pulling her back from thought. She picked up the dress laid out for the next day, the material was simple but good quality- he had bought it for her as a gift. Pink looked good on her. He liked the way it sat on her body. Sometimes she felt like this dress with its lacing and pristine cream-colored apron wore her instead of the other way around. Glancing over her shoulder, she crept into the closet and, from the back behind all the other hangers, retrieved a blue dress with a slightly ripped gray apron also hanging from the hook. She held the skirt in her hands, running her fingers over the worn fabric. Quirin had told her to retire the old thing, she deserved something nice and new- that’s what he said. He was so thoughtful.
Slipping out of her nightgown, she brought the familiar garment over her head, adjusted the way it sat on her hips, and fastened the buttons to her vest. Her fingers pulled on her pants and tied the apron strings tightly. She breathed in the smell of closet- wood and fabric and dust, the underlayer of herself, of a bunsen burner flame and slight explosion, of singed hairs and dirt and summer winds that wrapped around her like an embrace. Ulla squeezed her arms to her chest, realizing that she was grinning to no one in particular.
The hanger went back on the rod as she put on her old boots and carefully opened the door, slipping out into the hallway of their home while pulling her hair into a braided crown with most of the locks falling down her back. Donella would be sleeping across the house, a level down. That woman, as opposed to her husband who could sleep through a storm, would probably jolt awake hearing a mouse burp.
When they were younger, oh that thought sent electricity through her veins, when they were kids she’d mention being awake into the late hours of the night- the world was too loud. So imagine Ulla’s surprise when her friend slept so soundly at their sleepovers, in her home- how she found some sort of comfort or security in her life, in her loudness. She always slept better at her side. But they weren’t those kids anymore- they weren’t kids anymore.
She was grown and- and her place was different now. It was the other side of a bowing mattress next to a rumbly snore. Pausing by the door right next to her bedroom, Ulla held her breath as she turned the knob and peered inside. Quirin told her not to smother him- that a baby must learn to sleep through the night. So she kept quiet as best she could, his warning voice in her mind as she tiptoed in and stayed by the edge of the crib. Varian. The name made her heart squeeze. She stared at his pudgy face and his little hands and his mop of dark hair.
Part of her wanted to reach out, to gently pet his cheek and whisper about how his mama was there- she was there and she loved him so much. But she resisted, held her hand to her chest like she didn’t trust herself. What if she woke him? What if she hurt him? Her husband’s watchful gaze echoed in her mind, the fear that flitted through his eyes every time she held their son.
He thought she didn’t notice. She did. Ulla gulped away the twisting feeling in her stomach and time and time again she’d vow to never be the person to warrant such a look. Staring at the baby, her baby- he was her baby, she resisted the urge to hug him tight and kiss his forehead again and again.
Leaving the room, she stole one last glance like it was contraband before shutting the door. And then it was just her in the quiet of nightfall. Her feet lead her down the stairs, one step at a time. The light outside drew designs across the floor from the windows, now in the true silence she could probably hear the stars whispering. Did they remember all she said to them years ago? If she listened could she be reminded of her wishes of grandeur?
“It starts as nothing,” She stepped off the last of the stairs, her hand lingering on the railing as she walked around on an axis almost in orbit, “Just a thought or a dream.”
Her blue eyes lingered on the outside world she could see, standing directly in the light of the window. The lines from the divisions of panes drew across her face, her features, almost like bars of a cage. She stared at the dirt road, knowing that beyond her visual field their stable was just around the corner. They had a wagon, she could find a horse. The road led out of town, a straight shot into the horizon. She wouldn’t need much. “Then one day, you're in the driver's seat, the key is in the ignition.”
Turning back to look up into the darkness, She stared at her bedroom door and paused as if she was expecting to hear that low snore, “And no one gave you permission.”
Ulla swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away. She didn’t mean them- they were just little daydreams. But then she thought about her very real plans, the ones she made with Donella- the ones people doubted and chastised and chalked up to just some silly little girl dreams. And the memories made her angry like they were igniting a spark she thought was put out long ago. She snuffed her own flame, fearful that it would burn too bright- too hot- dangerous. But unfortunately, it also made her feel alive again- she craved it like a moth.
“It’s only you in the car. And only you know how uncertain you are,” Pressing a hand to her chest, she shook her head and turned to walk from the living room into the kitchen, “How your heart is racing. Still, you reach for the moment you’ll finally say…”
She stopped facing the kitchen counter, turning her head to the door. The last door. Her shoulders hung heavy on her frame, she wondered what it would be like to be that girl again. The one who dared to dream. “I’m the girl who drove away.”
Her boots scraped against the floor as she felt herself half run half skip, as if all her muscles were lurching- vying for something, “Leave the fear and doubt behind!” She skidded to a stop, pressing her hand to the wood and resting her forehead against the surface. Through the cracks where the two separate planks met, she peered between them at the sliver of the universe, “Choose the road less traveled!”
Just as she felt her fingers reaching for the handle, just as she saw herself throwing her weight, “Not the memories too real-” She shook and suddenly all the new air in her lungs depleted, “Not the guilt that left you paralyzed.”
Ulla took a step back to steady herself, staring at her palms and the lines carved across them. She heard a few times that those markings told her life story, her money- her future- her lovers- that thought made her ball her hand into a fist. No one was going to tell her that her life was already premapped, preplanned- preshaped into the perfect puzzle piece that’d slot into a singular role. She could be a mother and a scientist, a wife and a friend. And was the imperative word. “Close your eyes and everything’s clearer! Your life’s in the rearview mirror.”
She lifted her chin and allowed her eyelids to shut, sending her into darkness. If she focused she could feel the wind in her hair, the deafening sound of driving fast on a warm summer day. Adventure, discovery, change- it all came back within reach in that one teeny tiny moment. “If no one knows who you were the line between the dream and you starts to blur.”
But someone could only live in what-ifs for so long. Her eyes opened, a few more steps back as if she was scared of the pull- of the wanting of the world. “Standing at the crossroad,” Turning, her gaze met the far wall- a painting hung on it proudly. Quirin commissioned it to commemorate their family, their picturebook-perfect life.
Her knight in shining armor- well- not anymore. He was her knight in shining armor, at least that’s who she married, what she expected- a husband off on valiant adventures who promised to bring her back items from his travels, a whole kingdom of people who understood her- who wanted to learn about magic.
Well, it wasn’t like that now. But to anyone, to all the girls she went to school with minus Donella, this life was the goal. And now she’d crossed the finish line and put on her medal in the form of a ring and she felt- not what she expected to. What was wrong with her? She didn’t feel any different no matter how much everyone claimed that this piece of jewelry, like some magic potion, was supposed to transform her- supposed to complete her like a final but critical piece.
Delicately, her fingertips reached out and rested on her own image in the fabric- the soft smile on her lips she practiced in the mirror every day a week before the appointment. Her hair was so nicely done, it took Donella a few hours to make sure not a strand popped out of place. It was always so difficult to get it to behave. The dress she wore was pressed with precision. The canvas was rough under her touch, her freckles had been left out- the painter claimed that ‘touch ups’ were part of the package. She had never seen Donella so ready to throw a punch before- though her friend had just excused herself. The only reason Ulla could stay still for that long posing was because of her presence just out of the stretcher bars.
When they were presented with the final work, Quirin had kissed the top of her head and pulled her close with his large strong arm. And when he held her hand he swallowed it up in his own, enveloping all the lines on her palm. He whispered softly to her, ‘You look beautiful’, and she remembered relishing feeling that way in his eyes. Like it was he who taught her the meaning of that word. But now, and even then, she looked at the woman so adored, so admired by her husband’s gaze, and couldn't find an ounce of herself in the paint.
“There’s the girl who was written in your DNA,” Her bottom lip shook, she pulled away from the frame and turned back to fully face the doorway. “Or the girl who drove away.”
Gritting her teeth, she threw herself forwards and ran- hurriedly across the hardwood, opening the doors and breathing in the cold night air like an icy shock after coming up from deep underwater. Her arms spread out at her sides, her fingers splayed from her palms as she felt the wind wrap around her and threaten to chill her to the bone as it blew her skirt and hair around in a dance. “If I could feel it! The way the day blows across the sky!”
The door locked behind her, the key tucked under a fake stone. It all seemed so ludicrous now. Tilting her head up to greet the stars, she laughed and it felt like freedom. Skipping steps as she made her way down them, her feet touched the dirt and she felt as if she could run forever dead into the horizon. If you asked her, a caged bird never sang, not truly- because song could only come from the ability to spread your wings and find something. Down through the center of town, past the sleeping houses of people who hated her- away from the places where her husband would hide his head in shame- they didn’t matter anymore. “And how the miles keep on flying by!”
To the outskirts of the village by an oak tree, she stretched out her hand as far as it would go and reached straight towards the horizon as the sun’s rays started to peak through and carve a golden line across the sky, “The dawn is breaking! The sun's nearly waking the life inside me!” And she could picture it as she stood there- laughing harder than she had in months.
She could feel Donella’s hand on her shoulder, the onset of possibility nipping at their heels- driving them forwards. It was so real, to the point where she felt the urge to spin around and hug her friend so tightly and utter ‘We’re going to be something great! I just know it, Donnie!’ into her chest like both a dream and a promise.
When she was a child her mother would bake treats for her teachers, probably to pacify their complaints about her intelligent but over-rambunctious daughter. Their kitchen teemed with flour and eggs, creamy fresh butter, and dusted powdered sugar- fine and dainty like lace. Ulla would carry these offerings of sweet indulgence down the street to school- and she would be terrified to look at them for fear of the clawing growth of hunger in her stomach. So she’d stare anywhere but in an attempt to feel satiated by forgetting what she couldn’t have. And she’d breathe as shallowly as she could for fear of any wafts of vanilla or cinnamon.
She did so because she knew it wasn’t for her. And as she grew from that ravenous child to the woman she was today she began to add to the ever-growing, ever-present, and ever-important list of things that were not for her. So she wouldn’t look, for she couldn’t- for she knew that she was placating the near villainous want inside of her and any trip of wire could release it from the binds of society’s womanhood that she had so carefully learned and constructed and tied. But with each pull and tug and quick smother she felt even more monstrous than she had the day before. Ulla wondered if that was what marriage was, finding a way to vanquish the beast of girlish dreams.
And she realized in this moment, as she looked out at the horizon- that it had been months since she allowed herself the pleasure. She inhaled the fresh breeze, felt the sun on her skin in a way that mattered, and indulged in the sweetness of vanilla cinnamon scented, lacy powdered sugar dusted, flour and egg made freedom.
But then, like a fierce tug on her heart- the line extending fway back up the road through the village that hated her into the home just before the bedroom filled to the brim with unspoken mutual regret and disappointment- that string connected and forever tied to her son beckoned her. She pictured a life without him and it made her chest ache in this throbbing sort of way. Stepping away from the tree, away from the sun and the horizon, from freedom and Donella almost apologetically- she turned back to find that her friend wasn’t actually there. “If only I could turn the key…”
Donella was home in the room on the other side of the house. Maybe this wasn’t the life they dreamt up on that rooftop in their childhood town, but they were together. And Ulla knew that despite whatever wishes or wants tried to pull her this way or that, as long as they were in each other's lives things would be okay. Her friend always insisted things were good- her green eyes reassuring and content- tranquil through the storm that grew some days. So why did she feel the need to apologize- to mourn for the life they never even knew?
A thick swallow of the passion that grew in her chest. She exhaled through her nose like it could escape back into the air- like she was returning it to the stars- to that girl who still dared to dream beyond the greedy grabbing hands of expectation. And she turned around.
Hurrying back, Ulla pressed a hand to her heart as she pictured the sleepy baby grin she was going to be greeted with in the morning. And it almost dulled the ache of night. She loved him, she did the moment she felt his presence despite the crippling fear that gripped her tightly as well. She was never taught how to be a mother, to be his, but she was going to be the best she could for him. And she would learn to love the life he created for her, her perfect picture book puzzle piece life. She would learn to be the woman carved from brush and paint. Beautiful.