The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was.  And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.
–Wallace Stevens, “Le Monocle de Mon Oncle”

This morning, my husband yells at me.  There’s nothing to do, I say.  You could try doing the dishes, he says.  He goes.  I cry. Mary Ann tells me, Stop it. She’s angry, says he shouldn’t have done that.

Mary Ann switches on the TV. We watch.  Horrors streak across the screen and the words at the bottom.  I watch it go. A warning, sports scores. Neither of use to me.

Pieces come and go. I am almost used to it.  I’ll never be used to it.  I had a life. A thief stole it. I can’t remember the details. He crept in at night and knelt by my bed and whispered and a part of my brain walked out to him, cat lured with a bowl of milk.

I try to bring the pieces closer but they don’t want to move. I try to make them fit.  They don’t.  I’m tired. I don’t want to live.  I say this and they say I have to. My husband, his pale face, in the lab all day, never gets enough sun. The others.  Psychiatrist, neurologist. I used to be an ist, too. I can’t anymore. The pieces grow bigger in my clumsy hands. I drop them.

I lost myself. I did something bad thought something bad and the thief came and took all the not-bad things. I am broken and they don’t know how to fix me.

They tell me regardless I must work with the pieces and so I do I do I do.  I remember that I have a husband.  Nick. I recognize him.  My boy, my girl.  I swallow pills so that I will want to live and so I won’t forget them.  I don’t, though I do lose track.

They say I must get out of bed. They say I should do something but there is nothing to do. They’re afraid to give me anything. I might contaminate it.

I used to do the laundry. But I forgot.  Towels in the kitchen, they showed me, underwear on the windowsill. I failed to perceive the problem.

This is a problem. When I see their faces it’s obvious, but when they’re not there I can’t see it.

I did something wrong, I say.  No, you’re not doing anything wrong, my husband says, but I see his look, before he covers it over.

I used to have a sense of order but the thief took that too. I would like to interrogate this person but he will not submit himself.  I used to do experiments. I used to tell people how to be orderly. Why didn’t I keep notes?

Outside the window I watch the birds.  The little brown sparrows who move in a flock and hop around on the bushes.  The red cardinal who sometimes swoops in.

Mary Ann fixes me something to eat. I sense she’s no longer annoyed.  Maybe because I stopped crying.  Did I?  Was I crying?  This piece grows multi-sided as I turn it in my hands.  My big, clumsy hands. I am tired, please. It is too hard. Don’t make me.

I eat. My little boy says, Mommy, you’re eating my dinner. I believe him, but I don’t understand.

Eat, Mary Ann says, not unkindly.  It will help.  At these times I like her best, when she is gentle and tender with me.  My husband has a soft voice.  He said something hard.

No more crying, Mary Ann says.

I don’t want to live but they tell me I must. They say it is my duty, they lecture me as if I am a child.

I am a child.  Playing in the grass.  I want to stay here, in this place, but it is breaking apart, I lose it.

I don’t want to live, losing things.  The thief is an experimenter, like my husband, like I used to be. I think that’s how he found me. Maybe I even met him, before.  I didn’t realize who he was and he came into my house and he took something. He left something, too, to confuse me, throw me off his scent. Smells like the lab.  Formaldehyde.

If I knew what he took I might defend myself.  He confused me. It is confusing. I watch the TV, the images that flow one into the other. Horrors, but they go.

I live here.  Not bliss. They tell me I am needed, damaged like this. Should I believe them?  I don’t know. Maybe they are not really they and it’s the thief all along.

I think in the moment of my death I will grab the thief and throttle him.

If I knew exactly what was taken. They tell me, they explain the results. Don’t talk down to me, I want to say, but I can’t remember how to move my lips to make those sounds.

How I wish there was something really to do.  I used to do things. I used to do so many things!  That was good.  That’s what the thief took. Why did he need that, the things I used to do, had a previous thief taken that from him?  I don’t want to sneak into people’s houses taking things.  I would rather die.

Maybe the thief wanted to die and they wouldn’t let him.  I would.  I’d say, Die, you son of a bitch, die.

Only I’d never get back what he took. There are rules.  They can’t fix.  I can take pills. I am an experiment in the laboratory of a thief. He infiltrated me.

My girl tells me to stop repeating things.  Stop stop stop. I want this to stop.  I try to tell her but my tongue grows big and she stomps out of the room.

I must have cut myself.  Blood. Something I’m supposed to do. I’m sure of this, but I don’t know what it is.  There is supposed to be blood, I remember something about that, but it can’t be right to let it just drip like that.

Do you need help? my husband says. Do I?  I can’t connect. I think the blood is okay, but how can that be right?  Not okay to let it drip, I’m sure of that.

My girl closes the door to her room. It bangs.  I can’t speak. Nothing fits. He tells me what to do. Hands me things.  I don’t remember but I follow instructions. I was right that it shouldn’t drip. 

He’s gone now and Mary Ann is humming a tune.  We’re sitting outside, she’s knitting.  Click click, the sound, click clack.  I repeat that for a while, because it amuses me.  Making a scarf in the middle of summer. That would make a good song, I try to tell Mary Ann but she’s got something on her mind.

I used to be able to knit but then the holes got bigger and bigger. The thief released moths into the laboratory and they are eating my brain.  The thief is studying me. He wants results.

I had results myself, once. The thief stole those, too.  He erased my name on the paper, and scribbled in his own.

Mary Ann’s deft brown fingers cut a tomato. First in halves, then in quarters.  She puts the plate in front of me.  Eat, she says.  I smell the fresh fruit. It is warm and gloppy between my fingers. Red.  The blood I forgot. Am I dripping?  I start to stand but Mary Ann places her hands on my shoulders. Is she an agent of the thief?  I hate to think so but it’s possible.

We struggle.  I struggle with the thief in her. Every day I am pulled into a struggle with him. What does he want, that he hasn’t taken?  What possible use am I to him?

Mary Ann pushes me down in my seat, into the blood.

Finish your tomatoes, she says, picking up the plate and going inside.

The thief has it figured out. He will torture me until I die.  What use, what possible use?  This piece no one can fit.

My husband, my children, the -ist’s don’t know about the thief. He is my secret.  Maybe I am his too, like we are looking into a mirror.

If you mention me I’ll kill you, he whispers. I should go ahead and shout Thief! In the loudest voice I can and let him.  I don’t want to live.  Not like this. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I would rather kill myself but they say I mustn’t.  If I do something bad to myself, I will be punished. Don’t ask me how.

Karen, they call. My name.  I know it by shape, by feel.  A small pleasure the thief still allows me.  If he hadn’t taken quite so much, I might interrogate him, and we could engage in a battle of wits. He took that from me but left me my name.  For now.

They don’t say that but I read it on their faces.  Why doesn’t my husband go out and hunt him down, this thief?  He looks hopeless and tells me to do the dishes. I would break them over both their heads.

Karen, he says, in his soft voice, strokes my cheek.  I will not cry. His body is warm. Things inside, whirring. I remember the blood then forget about it. He is good to me.  Not his fault the thief got in.  I lean my head against his shoulder, close my eyes.

My mother’s voice, singing. How could I have forgotten her singing? I’m crying again. I try to put it in a place the thief can’t get it but he has left me no secret compartments, and it goes.

Before the thief came, I made children.  My girl has long fine hair. She sits on the edge of the chair and leans against me, strokes my hair.  My boy will not sit, runs away.  I reach for the curl behind my ear. I wish someone would say my name.

This is what it is to live.  Whether I want or not.  The thief gets to say.  He is letting me in on this.  It’s not just me, he’s got everyone’s number, I’m just one of the ones he’s focusing on at the moment.

Air across my skin.  Days of moments where nothing happens. My name.  Karen. K-a-r-e-n.

I was working on numbers, adding them up.  They didn’t. They kept telling me, Yes, they do. They are tricky, numbers.  They do one thing in front of them, another in front of me.  It’s the thief, he controls them.  Plays with me.

Was there supposed to be blood?  I was supposed to tell my girl. It’s all become so complicated.

Food in my mouth.  We are talking. I am moving my mouth, but I don’t know what I’m saying.

Karen.  Karen. His cheek against mine, wet.  I will not cry.  I want to warn him about the thief, that he will come for him. Shh, he says, it’s all right.

I dream that I am a young girl. I dream a whole life in an instant. I can’t tell you now, it’s gone.

I can do it, I tell him. I can do it. Why does he doubt me?  The thief has been speaking to him, setting him against me. The thief tells him I’m incompetent. Liar.  I can do things. I’ve done things. Why can’t he remember?

In the dark, his hands across my belly.  I rub myself against him. He steps into me like a warm bath.

I can tell you a story. The thief plays with time.  He juggles balls in the air.  One by one he catches them. Oh, so clever.

Outside, katydids. Karen-did, Karen-did.  I like the long light.  Turning dirt over in my hands.  I will hide a seed.  Keep it underground, away from the thief.

Nick takes me to the -ist. He puts tests in front of me.  Pieces to move.  A string of words to remember. They mean nothing and I lose them.  Something comes into my head, a story from school, the word, labors.  I repeat it.  Labors.  Then it goes.  They watch me fail. The thief laughs.

I can do things.  They have given me the wrong tasks, they are in league with the thief.  I am getting worse, they are saying. They are wrong, the thief has turned them against me.  I try to tell them.  I don’t want to live, when I have to fight like this.  They refuse to hear me.

I dig into the dirt with my fingernails. It smells good.  Mint. 

Every day I repeat things, to keep myself here.

I go in the car a long way, and there are my parents, who made me. My mother who used to sing. 

We go swimming.  I push my hands through the water. It runs through.  My body cuts through. The water holds me up. It whispers to me, not like the thief.  He is silent, for once. I can’t hear him.  Fingers in ears.  I-can’t-hear-you, I-can’t-hear-you, the water sings and I sing along. I-can’t-hear-you.  The water smoothes past my hips.  They tilt from side to side.  A dance.  Something I can do.  More intimate than with a person.  The water dances with me.  So little I can do now.  Thief’s fault.  This is easy, just step in.

I raise my head, air whooshes into my nostrils, down my throat, into my lungs. I turn my face to the water.  My eyes sting.  I close them.  When I reach the side I turn around. Easy. Turn around, go back.  Don’t get lost.  Lost, lost. Lost.  Don’t need help. Just the water and we are friends.  It holds me up, holds me, holds.  Won’t let me sink.  My arms move over my head in a circle. Down through the water.  I push myself ahead. It lets me move through.  My feet flap at the end of the legs.  I keep them moving. Water flows around them.  I like that.  Flow, flow, flow, the water sings.  Like me, it repeats things.

My boy squirms away if I try to hug him. Unless he’s asleep. But my girl, she sits next to me, puts a hand on my shoulder, strokes my hair.  How I like it when she strokes my hair.

The thief is there as always and he laughs. I don’t listen.  I-can’t-hear-you.

I hear the water. Gurgles and bubbles.  I hear the splash.  I like the way it sounds underwater. I would like to live here. Away from the thief and his nasty words.  I could live with this pulse-pulse-pulse, pulse-pulse-pulse.

My husband Nick would give me a look, if I told him, he would think I don’t understand but I do, he would be trying to look one way but I would see the other look underneath.  He hides, thinks I don’t see.  Maybe that’s noble of him but I don’t like it.  I forget what I’ve said, but not the feeling.  I leave this behind in the water.

My little boy feeds me cherries. He scurries away when I try to catch him.  He digs out the pit and laughs at the juice on his fingers.  I laugh too.  Funny.  Then he presses the rest into my mouth.  I feel the stain in my mouth. Good.  He takes one himself and spits out the seed.

My mother says to have hope. I repeat this every day.  I have hope, I have hope, I have hope.  My mother says the -ists are doing all sorts of things, in the labs.  I swallow their pills.  I repeat the words but the thief is talking to me all the time underneath.  He’s in the labs too, reeks of formaldehyde.  Sometimes he talks so fast I can’t follow, he’s a blur of noise.  Every day, now, I strain to hear the words of others over his. He is telling me now that he has unwound my brain onto needles and is knitting it into a new pattern.  He’s so proud of his work, he can’t resist boasting.  I want to rip out his stitches but I can’t. He’s seen to that.

My husband’s friend named Amy visits, with the boy that she made. I tell him I remember her, and he looks at me.  Isn’t that what he wants me to say?  She brings a box with crinkly red paper inside. I tear through it and there is a ball.  Light green with bubbles on the surface, but smooth and cool in my hands.  A gazing ball, she says.   I like that, and repeat it, gazing, gazing.  I hold it and run my hands over and over.  I stare down at pieces of my face.  My nose long, my eyes scrunched, my mouth smudged.  For the garden, they say.  There is a metal pole and stand.  We go outside.   Nick twists the pole into the dirt by the mint.  You can see it from the window, she says.  I like that. She takes me back inside so we can test. 

I can see it, I say.  I can see.  Green bubbles in the glass.  Something to watch. With the birds.

Yes, she says.

She brings airplanes for the little boys. We sit on the steps and watch them fly them over the ball, over the mint.  The boys run back and forth.  Boys, boys, always running.  Won’t sit still until they’re asleep.  The airplanes go up, up, up.  Then down. They crash into the mint, smash onto the driveway. 

She brings bubbles.  A big ring to make large ones.  We dip it in and run, and the bubbles form behind us, then pop their goo all over us.  We use little rings to make the bubbles that cluster on the bushes. Sometimes they hold for a moment before they pop and they shine, blue and green and pink.

We leave the boys and go in and have a glass of wine.  I have hope, I say.  My husband’s friend Amy says, Yes.

Nick says nothing, his back to us.  He is cooking dinner, preparing the roast.  He likes to cook.  I do too.  There are still things I can do. Crack eggs.  I take one and tap it on the edge. Nick’s fingers on my elbow.  The clear glop and the yellow drop into the bowl. I laugh.  I always like that.  It’s funny the way it is so sloopy, the way it just plops out.  Plop, I say, plop. Funny word, plop.

The thief has been quiet all this while.  He is shy in front of guests.  Prefers to watch and keep his counsel.

My girl comes down from her room and stands eating crackers.  There is a little white box on the table.  I pick it up and open it.  Inside is a little blue ball on a black string.  It is pretty and I hold it up, but they say it is not for me.  I hold it up.  My husband Nick puts a hand on my shoulder, eases it out of my fingers.  My girl takes it, holds it up, murmurs Thank you.  Hard to keep straight what belongs to whom.  I don’t understand why this matters so much.  The necklace is pretty.  I would like to put it on and wear it.

Look, Amy says, points to the garden, the gazing ball.  The light winks off it and I smile.

Do you like swimming? I say.  There is a pool inside the gazing ball.  Green light. Looking out, the bumps and bubbles break everything into pieces.  They don’t fit.  But looking out from there, they aren’t supposed to.

Mary Ann gives me a crayon and a piece of paper. Blue of swimming pools.  I press it onto the paper. The pool forms in front of me.  I smell the pool smell.  I want to go swimming. It is winter, Mary Ann tells me. The pool drained and covered up.  I have to wait.  I press the crayon onto the paper.  My pool. I swim back and forth. The thief is hovering over my shoulder.  Ha, he says, ha.  I scribble over him, I cover him in swimming pool blue.  Ha, he says, ha ha.  I don’t mind. Blue fills up the page.

My show comes on TV.  Kids trapped inside a computer. They are supposed to protect the motherboard from the hacker.  There’s a parrot that helps them.  Clever.  More clever than the hacker. They figure things out.  See, see, I say to the thief.  I shouldn’t speak to him, but I do.

Ha, he says, ha ha ha.

I scribble with my crayon.

Clever, clever, clever. The parrot and the children solve the problem.

I need a parrot.  He could help me figure out things.  Then we could swim.  In my swimming pool.

The show is over. The page is full of color.  Blue,  blue, blue.

Ha, the thief says. You will break that crayon, and I do.

Pieces.  Pieces.  Water spreading on the page, filling my swimming pool. I touch my face.  I broke it.  Did something wrong and the thief came into the house, he whispered in my ear, and a piece of my brain came crawling out to him.  He took it and put it on a plate like a piece of cake.

Careless, careless.  I broke the crayon, broke myself.  I try to tell my girl, but I can’t put the pieces in order. They are mixed up in the box.  I need a magic parrot to help me sort them.  To fight the thief.

I decide to rat him out.  Even if he makes good on his threat and kills me.  Let him, I don’t care.  In the morning, first thing. 

I come down to the kitchen when everyone is there.  I open my mouth and I explode.  Heat, then nothing. 

I am yolk sloshing out of the egg.  I jiggle and bounce.  I am a bubble shining green and pink, blowing toward the bushes. The slightest touch and I will pop.

I wake up in a car.  I am not dead. The thief wants me alive for his experiments. I scream that he has taken me, and the people he has sent hold me down. 

My husband talking. I don’t understand. But the thief comes in clearly.  You see, he says. See?

See, see.  Seizure, they say.  I know better, but I go along.  I repeat, seizure, seizure.  Every day I repeat, to placate them, No seizures today.

My girl sits on the edge of the chair, stroking my hair.  My husband Nick, making dinner. My little boy makes noises as he plays.  The thief is quiet for a moment, and it is like swimming, I hear them, as if I’m the thief, crouched at their ears and can hear into their brains, I can hear what’s inside of them, the accusation they hold back, clear as if they just spoke it aloud, Why are you leaving us?  I’m crying but they don’t understand, I want to explain about the thief and the -ists, the explosion and the egg and the bubbles, the broken crayon and the knitting, the parrot and water, but they say, You didn’t do anything wrong.  I’m trying to tell them about the water, how it flows around my skin, how it drowns out the thief and how badly I want to hear my name before the thief knits it up in his tangles and it disappears.