Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Not Yet

Elmwood Springs, Missouri

1978

As the days went by, Dena sat with the cat, whose name turned out to be Bottle Top III, wondering what she was going to do with the rest of her life. She had not thought much about life other than her work and pushing for success. It had never occurred to her what she could do without either. What was left? Who was left? She had even forgotten why she had wanted to succeed in the first place, and why was she so devastated to think of life without success? What difference did it make anyhow? What difference did it make if she lived or died, for that matter? Nothing lasts, what’s the point?

After the first week in the house, Norma had brought over an old copy of The Neighbor Dorothy Cookbook. Lately, Dena had spent hours staring at the picture of the smiling lady on the cover. Her eyes seemed to be looking right at Dena. She looked so alive—but she was gone. Where had she gone? She was here, she was gone, and nothing was left, just a place where she used to live. Dena began to wonder about the past. Was it gone forever? Or late at night, when all was dark and still, did it come back? When the house stood empty, did the past suddenly come flooding back into the rooms? Was Neighbor Dorothy still there somewhere, her voice still up in the air? Dena didn’t know. All she knew was that she felt the presence of something in that house. She did not feel alone. Maybe it was someone there or maybe, thought Dena, she was slowly losing her mind. But whatever it was, it did not scare her and that was some relief, not to be afraid.

In the meantime she waited and listened. And, sometimes, she thought she heard things. It had happened the first week, early in the morning. At about four-thirty she sat up in bed and she could have sworn she heard someone rattling around in the kitchen. She looked over and Bottle Top was in bed with her, so it wasn’t the cat. She got up and as she walked down the hall, she could have sworn she smelled coffee brewing. But when she got in the kitchen and turned on the light, no one was there. There were times she thought she heard someone singing or the screen door slam or a sound like someone bouncing a ball against the house, but when she went to look, there was never anyone there. As the weeks went by, New York and the Ira Wallaces and the Sidney Capellos of the world seemed farther and farther away. When she had arrived in Elmwood Springs, her nerves were in such bad shape that any loud noise caused her to jump. But now, she felt safe here, a million miles away from the real world with its harsh lights and loud noises. As her ears adjusted to the quiet she began to hear other sounds—birds, crickets, and at times the sound of children playing. She could hear the church bells and lately she could even tell which bells were ringing, the Unity, the Methodist, or the Lutheran. Each had a distinctive sound.

She would sit for hours late at night with nothing but the orange glow of the radio light in the room, listening to the pleasant voices of strangers talking about God or the weather or crops. There was something so intimate about being in the dark with this talk about God that she almost began to be seduced into believing that they were telling her the truth. Her days were long. She had not known days could be so long. She woke up with the sun and watched the sunsets and the moon and the stars come out, amazed each time.

She sat in every corner, looking at the light from every angle. At night she began experimenting with the lighting in each room. She loved to put lamps against the honey-colored pine walls of one room; it looked so inviting.

Sometimes, she would go outside and stand on the lawn, looking in at the house with the lights on, and a wave of homesickness would sweep over her, a feeling so powerful it brought tears to her eyes. She would stand alone and cry, not knowing what she was crying about, or what she was homesick for. She began to feel like she did after she had been to the dentist and the Novocain started to wear off; it was painful, but a bittersweet pain. Slowly she was beginning to feel like the girl she used to be, the one that had gotten lost along the way.

Fall approached and the network kept calling Sandy, wanting to know when she was coming back. She sent him a telegram.

DEAR SANDY,

TELL THEM I’M SORRY BUT THEY WILL HAVE TO START THE FALL SEASON WITHOUT ME. I FIND THAT I CANNOT COME BACK AT THIS TIME. NOT YET.

LOVE, DENA