Chapter 7: December 10th Ingrid and Brita

I wake up on Sunday morning, and the light is different. It’s not the thin grey light of the past weeks. It’s something else. Something sharper. Something that cuts through the window like a blade.

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

The snow is falling. It’s been falling for days now, weeks, months. The world is white. The streets are white. The houses 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 walk home. I think about the bridge. I think about the river.

I think about the ice cracking.

I think about what that means for me.

I think about the bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed.

I think about what it would be like to let it go.

I think about the man in the library. I think about his questions. I think about the answers I’m starting to find.

I think about the layers. The layers I’ve shed. The layers I still have to shed.

I think about what’s underneath.

I’m starting to find out.

Ingrid sits down across from me. She looks at me. She’s been looking at me for weeks now, watching me, trying to figure out what’s happening.

“Karen,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

“What are you doing? I mean, really. What are you doing?”

I think about the question. I think about the answer.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m trying to find out who I am.”

“And being naked helps?”

I think about the question. I think about the answer.

“Yes,” I say. “I think it does.”

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

“Why?” she asks. “Why does being naked help?”

I think about the question. I think about the answer.

“Because I’ve been hiding,” I say. “I’ve been hiding for so long that I don’t know what’s underneath. I’ve been wearing layers and layers of clothes and layers and layers of performance. And I don’t know who I am without them.”

“But you’re not wearing any clothes now.”

“I know.”

“So what’s underneath?”

I think about the question. I think about the answer. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s underneath.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m starting to find out.”

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

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

“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”

I finish my coffee. I stand up. I walk to the door. I put on my boots. I grab my bag. I sling it over my shoulder.

And I walk out into the cold.

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.

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 bag. The bag over my shoulder. The one thing I haven’t shed.

I think about what it would be like to let it go.

I think about the man in the library. I think about his questions. I think about the answers I’m starting to find.

I think about the layers. The layers I’ve shed. The layers I still have to shed.

I think about what’s underneath.

I’m starting to find out.

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.

On Sunday night, Brita comes over. She’s Ingrid’s partner, a professor at St. Catherine’s. She’s been coming over for years now, and I’ve always liked her. She’s smart and kind, and she doesn’t try to fix things that can’t be fixed.

But tonight, she’s different. She’s looking at me with concern in her eyes.

“Karen,” she says. “Can we talk?”

“Okay.”

We sat in the living room. Ingrid is in the kitchen, making tea. I’m sitting on the couch, naked, my bag on the floor beside me.