which, and so I pretend not to see or care. I donât know much about agoraphobia, but I do know that the mailman brings her mail to her door sometimes, when thereâs so much stuffed inside he can no longer close the door. A little neighbor boy lugs her trash bins to the curb. I, or some other twerp like me, run her errands. From what I know, it started with a panic attack at the market in town. It was a Saturday in summer a few years back, and it was crazy busy around here. The market was packed, and so thatâs what the rumor mill blames for Ingridâs very public panic attack. The crowds. It was also hot out, stiflingly hot, hard to breathe. The lines were seemingly endless, swarming with people sheâd never seen before and didnât know. Tourists. Some bystanders saw her grope at her neck, gasp for air; others heard her scream, Go away and Leave me alone , and so they did, phoning 911 to help instead. Donât touch me! Ingrid purportedly screamed.
The fear of a repeat attack is what keeps Ingrid inside these days. The fear of losing control, the prospect of dying in the local market with everyone watching on, staring, pointing fingers. Sheâs never said as much, but thatâs what I assume. âCause thatâs the last place in the world I would want to die, at the local market, surrounded by the smell of fish fillets and tourists.
Ingrid takes a bag from my hands and I follow her into the kitchen where, spread across the farmhouse table, is a deck of cards. Sheâs playing solitaire. How sad. Sheâs got a pad of paper set beside the cards, ticking off the times she wins a game. Sheâs up three to one.
Also on the table are all of Ingridâs beading supplies. The ribbons and the wires and the cords. Beads and clasps. Empty cardboard jewelry boxes. A rainbow of tissue paper. A handwritten list of orders that need to be filled. Trapped at home and yet surprisingly resourceful, Ingrid manages to make her own beaded jewelry and run an online shop. Supplies are delivered to her, while the mail carrier collects the outgoing packages, pint-size jewelry boxes with necklaces or earrings tucked inside. Ingrid makes a living without ever having to step foot outside her home. She tried to show me how to make her jewelry once, a necklace for no one in particular, not as if I had someone to give a necklace to. But still, my bungling hands couldnât figure out how to bend the wire, how to put on the beads. Ingrid smiled at me sweetlyâthis was years agoâand confessed that I made a lousy apprentice. After that I stuck to running her errands and delivering her meals. But still, she made me a necklace, nothing girlish or sissified, but rather a sharkâs tooth necklace on an adjustable cord with just a few black and white beads. For strength and protection ,she told me as she set it in my hands. She said it as if I was in need of these things. Supposedly thatâs what a shark tooth represents: strength, protection. It became my talisman, my good luck charm.
I wear it all the time, but so far it hasnât worked.
Today we shoot the shit. We talk about the Lionsâ loss to the Giants last night, the fact that sheâs going to bake cookies this afternoon. We talk about the weather, we talk about the gulls. Never heard them so loud ,says Ingrid, and I say, Me neither .But of course I have. The gulls are always loud. I think if I should mention the squatters in the yellow house across the street from mine, deciding that no, thatâs not the kind of small talk she wants or needs to hear. I help her unpack the sacks, laying the items on the table so that she can put them away. She hands me another twenty for my time. I try to refuse. She shoves it into my hand. I take it this time.
We go through this routine every week.
As Ingrid unpacks the sacks, she hums a song. Itâs not one I know, but itâs a gloomy song, a morose song, one that I canât place,
The fear of a repeat attack is what keeps Ingrid inside these days. The fear of losing control, the prospect of dying in the local market with everyone watching on, staring, pointing fingers. Sheâs never said as much, but thatâs what I assume. âCause thatâs the last place in the world I would want to die, at the local market, surrounded by the smell of fish fillets and tourists.
Ingrid takes a bag from my hands and I follow her into the kitchen where, spread across the farmhouse table, is a deck of cards. Sheâs playing solitaire. How sad. Sheâs got a pad of paper set beside the cards, ticking off the times she wins a game. Sheâs up three to one.
Also on the table are all of Ingridâs beading supplies. The ribbons and the wires and the cords. Beads and clasps. Empty cardboard jewelry boxes. A rainbow of tissue paper. A handwritten list of orders that need to be filled. Trapped at home and yet surprisingly resourceful, Ingrid manages to make her own beaded jewelry and run an online shop. Supplies are delivered to her, while the mail carrier collects the outgoing packages, pint-size jewelry boxes with necklaces or earrings tucked inside. Ingrid makes a living without ever having to step foot outside her home. She tried to show me how to make her jewelry once, a necklace for no one in particular, not as if I had someone to give a necklace to. But still, my bungling hands couldnât figure out how to bend the wire, how to put on the beads. Ingrid smiled at me sweetlyâthis was years agoâand confessed that I made a lousy apprentice. After that I stuck to running her errands and delivering her meals. But still, she made me a necklace, nothing girlish or sissified, but rather a sharkâs tooth necklace on an adjustable cord with just a few black and white beads. For strength and protection ,she told me as she set it in my hands. She said it as if I was in need of these things. Supposedly thatâs what a shark tooth represents: strength, protection. It became my talisman, my good luck charm.
I wear it all the time, but so far it hasnât worked.
Today we shoot the shit. We talk about the Lionsâ loss to the Giants last night, the fact that sheâs going to bake cookies this afternoon. We talk about the weather, we talk about the gulls. Never heard them so loud ,says Ingrid, and I say, Me neither .But of course I have. The gulls are always loud. I think if I should mention the squatters in the yellow house across the street from mine, deciding that no, thatâs not the kind of small talk she wants or needs to hear. I help her unpack the sacks, laying the items on the table so that she can put them away. She hands me another twenty for my time. I try to refuse. She shoves it into my hand. I take it this time.
We go through this routine every week.
As Ingrid unpacks the sacks, she hums a song. Itâs not one I know, but itâs a gloomy song, a morose song, one that I canât place,
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