Wherever You Left It
Tom Gray pulled into his driveway, put his grey sedan in park, then took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. It had been a long day.
He turned off the car, grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, and stepped out onto his driveway, closing the locked door behind him. Standing in the ever-dimming sunlight, Tom stretched his back and neck and shoulders. Eyes closed and brow furrowed, he placed the stresses and chaos of the long day into a metaphoric jar. Not to be opened until tomorrow morning he promised himself.
Tom took another deep breath in and out. Then walked to his front door and entered his house.
It was dark inside. Soft, pulsing glows peaked out from different corners. Evidence of children playing video games on hand-held devices or watching TV. Their happy voices rang out in unison at the sound of the closed door behind him
“Hey dad!”
Tom answered back, weary but happy himself.
“Hey kids!”
He did a quick tour of the first floor, making a point of looking into each room and laying eyes on the children planted therein. His oldest daughter played X-box on the TV in the family room. The next youngest sat beside her, playing on her iPad.
“Hey there. What did you do today?”
“Nothing” from the 14-year-old.
“Nothing” from the 12-year-old.
Tom nodded, then walked to the top of the stairs of his split-level house. Looking down into the den, he saw his three boys, eyes glued to their respective Nintendo Switches.
“Hi! What did you all do today?”
“Nothing” from the 10-year-old.
“Nothing” from the 7-year-old.
Not a word from the 4-year-old, so involved was he with his game.
Tom nodded again, then walked upstairs. Slow steps. Heavy steps. Up the dark stairway. To his bedroom.
He opened the door, relieved to have finally made it back to his only place of refuge. He walked in, closing the door behind him. His wife lay on the bed. The same spot where she was when Tom left for work. She was asleep then. She was on her phone now.
Tom put his briefcase down and began to change. Taking off his work clothes. Putting on shorts and a T-shirt. Shedding the vestments of stress. Slipping into comfort. He watched his wife. Scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling.
“Hey Jen. You still feeling sick?”
“I have so many Reels for you!”
“Great . . . .”
Tom bit tensely at his bottom lip.
“Any thoughts on dinner?”
Jenny’s eyes locked onto Tom’s. Annoyance cloying at her voice.
“I haven’t had the energy to even think about it.”
Tom nodded and sighed.
“That’s alright. I’ll make dinner. I just need to unwind for a minute.”
Jen went back to her phone. Scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling.
Tom walked to the TV across the room. Just one quick show. Just to clear the mind. Unwind.
He stood looking at the top of the dresser. The TV was there. A box of tissues was there. Dust was there. All in their usual place. But that was it.
“Where’s the remote?”
“It’s wherever you left it.”
Tom’s winced. He walked to his side of the bed. Looked at his nightstand. Lamp. Books. Keys. Change. Charging station. Dust. That was it.
He looked on the floor. Under the bed. Under his nightstand. Back to the TV. Under the dresser.
“You sure you don’t know where it is?”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“Did any of the kids watch TV in here today?”
“No.”
“Did they play with it?”
“No one took it.”
“All day?”
“No one.”
Jen’s voice was ice.
“It’s where you put it.”
Tom looked at her. Meeting her gaze.
“It’s not in here.”
Jen’s eyebrow cocked. Daring.
“Then you must have put it somewhere else. No one touched it.”
Tom’s shoulders slumped. His posture wilted.
“Could one of the kids have taken it when you weren’t looking? When did you wake up? Were you here all day?”
Jen bolted upright in bed. Phone Down. Voice roaring.
“How dare you call me lazy!”
Tom wavered from the impact. His eyes widened. His mouth gaped.
“What do you mean?”
“You know I’ve been in here all day. I’m sick!”
Tom stammered.
“I wasn’t calling you lazy.”
Jen ignored him. Her voice raised.
“You have no idea how hard it is to get any rest when the kids are constantly yelling and arguing and coming in and out and in and out and asking questions and wanting things and bothering me.”
Tom’s head tilted. Ever so. His eyes glazed. Only just.
“That sounds very frustrating.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m exhausted.”
Tom’s head nodded. Up and down. Up and down. Just a little.
“I know. Me too.”
Jen raged.
“You always do that. You always try to one-up me. It can never just be about me. My needs. You always have to compare us. You always have to compete.”
Tom’s voice raised in response. Shoulder squaring. Chest lifting.
“What are you talking about? I’m just trying to find the remote.”
“No. You’re trying to make me feel guilty. You’re trying to prove I’m lazy. Just like you do with money and housework. Always asking questions about my spending. Always asking what I did with my day. You’re not my boss. I don’t have to account for every decision I make and every minute of my day.”
Tom’s head shook. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. Cheeks raised. Brow furrowed. Face twisted.
“Will you please stop the hyperbole? You’re not being fair. I don’t always do anything. No one does.”
“No? What about the time you tried to limit my spending to a weekly amount? What about the time you took over all the accounts to I couldn’t pay the bills without you knowing?”
Indignation covered Tom’s face. Mingled with confusion.
“That’s not fair. That’s not how it happened.”
“So you’re calling me a liar? Fine. You tell me how it happened. You tell me the truth.”
Tom’s hands raised. Head shaking hard.
“Stop. Please. I just want to find the remote and you’re hurling accusations at me. Can we just please focus on one thing at a time?”
“Oh, so now you’re criticizing the way I argue? Nothing I do is good enough for you, is it?”
Tom’s hands dropped. Along with his head. It shook left and right and left and right again. In frustration. In resignation.
“Look. I don’t want to argue. I’m going to look for the remote.”
Tom left his bedroom. Jen’s raised voice and continued complaints trailed behind him. He walked downstairs the stairs. All the way down to the den. His three boys were still there. Still staring at their Switches. Still playing away.
“Hey dad.”
Tom didn’t answer. He went to the TV stand. Looked for the remote. There were remotes there. But not the one he was looking for. He walked around the room. Searching and scanning. He walked to the couch and chairs. Dug his hands between and behind and underneath cushions. Moved blankets and pillows and empty bowls and cups. Nothing.
Tom walked to the main floor. To the family room. His daughters were still there. The older on the X-box. The younger on the i-Pad. They said nothing.
Tom looked at the TV. The digitized death of Rainbow Six flashed in silence on the screen. The pounding sounds of mass murder leaked through his daughter’s headphones.
Tom looked down. Underneath the TV. To the top of the entertainment center.
There it was. The remote. His remote.
Tom battled the urge to scream. Instead, he grabbed the remote and trudged upstairs. Back to his room. Back to his bed. Back to his wife.
Tom sat down on his bed. He turned on the TV. Selected a streaming app. Chose a channel. Started a show.
The merry whistle of Andy Griffith filled the room.
Jen talked over it.
“Where’d you find it?”
Tom answered. Tired. Low.
“By the TV in the game room.”
Jen laughed. Realization lighting her eyes.
“That’s right! Kate took it to see if it’d work on the TV down there. She lost the other one.”
Tom’s eyes closed. He sighed. Then spoke. Quietly. Gently.
“So it wasn’t wherever I left it . . .”
“I guess not.”
The show continued, flickering serenity in all the comfort of black and white. Andy and Opie walking to their favorite fishing hole. Poles in hand. Opie racing to pick up a rock. Throwing it into the water. Both heartened by the majesty of life.
Jen spoke again. Her voice soft.
“I’m glad you can watch some TV. I’m not sure it was worth all the trouble, though. I love you anyway.”
Tom’s breath caught. His body flinched. Muscles stiffening.
Then he let the air out. All of it. Slow and deliberate. Letting go of all the stresses and chaos of the day.
“I love you too.”
Copyright © Graham, 2024; All Rights Reserved
