For the twenty-sixth Tuesday in a row, I sit at the kitchen table, watching my mom sprinkle blueberries into pancake batter.
In a second, she'll wipe her face with her knuckles to avoid staining her cheek purple. She'll somehow leave a trace of color on her chin anyway and, as she wipes it off, she'll tell me about the news. Maybe today, this time loop will end and she'll talk about something different, I lie to myself, not believing it for a second.
"I was watching the news earlier," Mom says. My chest heaves out a sigh so heavy I worry my lungs may give out. "And Sandy on Channel 5 said this year's lovebug season's going to be particularly bad."
I mutter, "That sucks," and do my best to pretend that I haven't heard her say this over twenty times already.
I could tell Mom I'm sick of hearing about those damn lovebugs. I could break her favorite vase that's always filled with handpicked flowers from her garden. I could scream and cry. I could burn the whole kitchen down.
It wouldn't matter, because at sunrise, tomorrow will settle back into today, as seamlessly as the hardwood floors settling beneath my feet. All thanks to an agonizing irritable bowel syndrome flare-up that broke time's ability to move forward (at least, that's my theory).
I did try telling my mom once, on day three. In a fit of tears, I begged her to see reason, attempted to unlock the subconscious part of her that had lived August 6th already. Somewhere in her brain, I thought, the memories could be buried, waiting for me to dig them up.
If they were, they were far too deep for me to unearth them. Mom had shuffled me back to bed, insisting I get more rest. She tucked me in and gently told me that upping my therapy appointments "may be beneficial." Of course, the suggestion only lasted until sunrise, gone from her mind once the next August 6th cycled through.
It's much easier to pretend everything is fine and eat a pancake. Or rather, choke down a pancake. After twenty-five days, they taste less like fluffy goodness and more like dry cement.
When we're done eating, Mom heads out to her garden. I usually snuggle up on the couch and read a book with a plot vaguely connected to time or pay for a scholarly article on the probability of time loops, hoping that the way out is somehow woven into the text.
It never is. Every Google search leads to loose threads and dead ends. Every time loop movie I study leaves me hollow during those last five minutes, when the music swells and tomorrow comes. At that point, I tend to shut my laptop and stare at a wall instead.
After a few hours of alternating between deep-diving and contemplating what god would curse me with an existence this mind-numbing, Dad calls. I typically pick up on the first or second ring and he says, "Hey, Bug, you up for getting your ass beat at Scrabble today?" Occasionally, I don't pick up until the last ring. When I do, he says, "What took you so long? Your uncles got here an hour ago, we're ready to beat you at Scrabble. Are you free?"
Today's a "pick up on the first ring" type of day. I'm not in the mood for waiting.
As I assure Dad that yes, I'll be over soon; no, Mom doesn't mind; and yes, I'll come equipped with my extensive vocabulary, I pull on my only clean outfit that I laid out on August 5th. It's a baggy cream-colored T-shirt with, very ironically, an image of Garfield on the front.
