Chapter 14: January 22nd Bloomington

The morning after the mall, I wake up, and I feel different. I can’t explain it. I can’t describe it. But I feel different. Something has shifted. Something has changed. Something inside me has cracked open, like the ice cracking on the river. The way the ice is breaking up. The way the water is starting to flow.

I stand up. I walk to the window. I look out at the world.

The snow is still falling. It’s been falling for weeks, months, years. It feels like it’s been falling forever. The world is white. Everything is white. The streets are white. The houses are white. The trees are white. Everything is white.

But something is different.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to name it. But something is different.

I walk to the kitchen. Ingrid is there. She’s making coffee. She looks at me, at my nakedness. She doesn’t say anything.

She pours me a cup of coffee. She hands it to me. She doesn’t say anything.

I drink coffee. I sit at the kitchen table. I look out the window at the snow.

I think about the mall. The Mall of America. The place where everyone is performing.

I think about the woman on the bench. I think about what she said. I think about her husband. I think about the numbness. I think about the grief.

I think about how we’re all carrying something. I think about how we’re all trying to let go of something.

I think about the bag. The bag I dropped in the snow. The bag I let go of.

I think about how I’m free.

I think about the month. One month. It’s almost over. I’m almost at the end.

I think about what happens at the end.

I don’t know. I don’t know what happens at the end. But I’m going to find out.

I finish my coffee. I stand up. I walk to the door. I put on my boots.

I don’t grab my bag. I don’t need it. I don’t need anything.

I walk out into the cold.

The cold hits me like a wave. I feel it on my skin. I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my breath.

I feel everything.

I walk to campus. I walk across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I stop in the middle to look at the river.

The river is still frozen. But the cracks are getting wider. The ice is breaking up. The water is starting to flow.

I stand there, naked, looking at the river. I think about the ice cracking. I think about the water starting to flow again.

I think about what that means for me.

I think about the mall. The Mall of America. The place where everyone is performing.

I think about the woman on the bench. I think about what she said.

I think about the bag. The bag I dropped in the snow. The bag I let go of.

I think about how I’m free.

I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.

And I don’t wear anything.

And I don’t carry anything.

On Monday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.

And I see a group of students standing in a circle. They’re looking at me. They’re whispering. One of them has a phone out.

I keep walking. I don’t slow down. I don’t speed up. I just keep walking.

One of them steps forward. She’s a young woman, maybe a junior, with a curious expression on her face.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I heard about what you did. At the mall. Someone posted a video.”

I stop. I look at her.

“What video?”

“The video of you walking through the mall. All day. Naked.”

I think about the video. I think about being seen.

“Yes,” I say. “That was me.”

She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.

“Why did you do it?” she asks. “Why did you go to the mall?”

I think about the question. Why did I go to the mall? Because that’s where everyone is performing. Because I needed to be the only one who wasn’t.

“Because that’s where I needed to be,” I say.

She looks at me. She doesn’t understand. But she doesn’t push.

“Okay,” she says. “I just wanted to know.”

I keep walking.

I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.

And I don’t wear anything.

And I don’t carry anything.

On Tuesday morning, something else happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.

And I see a woman standing on the sidewalk. She’s older, maybe in her fifties, with grey hair and a kind face. She’s holding a book.

She steps forward as I approach.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I don’t want to bother you. But I heard about what you’re doing. And I wanted to tell you something.”

I stop. I look at her.

“I think you’re doing something important,” she says. “I don’t understand it. But I think it’s important.”

I think about the words. Important. That’s what other people have said.

“Thank you,” I say.

She nods. She steps back.

“Take care of yourself,” she says.

“I will,” I say.

I keep walking.

I walk to campus. I teach my classes. I have my meetings. I grade my papers. I do everything I’m supposed to do.

And I don’t wear anything.

And I don’t carry anything.

On Wednesday morning, something different happens. I’m walking across campus. The sun is rising. The light is thin and grey. The snow is falling.

And I see a man standing on the sidewalk. He’s younger, maybe in his forties, with a beard and a concerned expression. He’s holding a coat.

He steps forward as I approach.