Frances Blankenship: THE REFRIGERATOR • Cleaver Magazine

Flash by Frances Blankenship
THE REFRIGERATOR

That morning when Lydia woke up, she saw that she’d become a refrigerator. It must have happened fairly quickly since she was certain she had woken around two a.m. to give the baby a bottle. Her regular curves and softness had hardened into the straightened lines and edges of one of the boxier models, and she found herself looming several feet above the cherry highboy. She now stood firmly planted in the middle of the bedroom. Bob would simply have to move her when he got home from work because she wouldn’t do anyone any good in here.

Lydia stood there patiently and waited. She could see the morning light grow brighter underneath the linen shades, and soon she heard the buzz of the house coming to life. There was a brief series of thumps outside of her room. The door was flung open, and her oldest entered, his dark hair askew and school backpack slung over one shoulder. He was almost thirteen and paused only briefly as he sized her up, newly erect in her stainless steel glory. He squinted but seemed untroubled, even unsurprised by her condition.

“Why are you still in here? No one’s had any breakfast!”

She tried to answer him but found that she couldn’t make any sound at all. Any exertion on her part only resulted in the revving of a small motor that appeared to jump start the ice maker. The boy looked startled at the ice cubes that fell out of her in response. Then he shrugged and went back out the door.

“Mom’s in her room,” she could hear him tell his sister. She heard the front door slam as he left to wait for the school bus. In a few moments, Susie, a girl of eight, stuck her head in. Upon seeing her mother, she hesitated. Lydia kept quiet; she didn’t want to scare Susie with the ice maker. Susie moved closer, taking the tiniest of steps until she stood in front of her. The little girl took a deep breath and, using both hands, pulled open the refrigerator door. Lydia felt happy about this. She hoped Susie would eat something. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Susie reached in shyly and found a yogurt. She closed the door and headed out towards the hallway. Lydia heard her call, “Bye, Mom!” before she, too, left to wait for the bus. It was silent for a while except for the steady pat of the clock in the living room and the occasional car going down the street. She could hear the nanny come in for the baby at eight thirty and hear the nanny call for her. Lydia waited and listened. Eventually, during her regular tidying up, the nanny entered the bedroom and came face to face with the refrigerator.

“Oh dear,” the nanny said.

Lydia rumbled her motor, and ice fell from her in a tumble. She wanted to tell the nanny to use baking soda on the baby’s diaper rash. The nanny seemed unsure of how to respond. She straightened the room and then came back with some cleaner and a roll of paper towels. She opened the door to the refrigerator.

“Excuse me for just a moment! Let’s get you all squared away in here.”

The nanny spent a good half hour scrubbing every inch of her. Lydia was touched that she took the trouble to fuss over her. The nanny stood back and surveyed her work.

“Good as new! And when Mr. Bob gets home, we’ll move you right into the kitchen!”

Lydia spent the rest of the day waiting, for the children, for Bob. The nanny brought the baby into the room, and he crawled around her, holding onto her great gleaming sides for support. She smiled at the handprints he left on her doors. When the children came home, they immediately went in to see her.

“We’re back,” her son said, opening her door and peering inside.

“For you!” her daughter proudly taped a picture she’d drawn onto her steel finish. Lydia loved the way it looked. She wanted to be covered with their drawings. She worried that they would be shy about using her now. But, in fact, the children treated her no differently. They went about their afternoon activities as usual. Lydia stood in the bedroom, trying to peer outside the doorway. She could hear the television, the occasional slam of the front door, the slip and slide of sneakers on the kitchen linoleum. Once or twice her son came into the bedroom.

“Hi, Mom,” he would mumble, looking briefly at the ground before rummaging around her insides in search of soda or deli meat.

She would rumble her motor gently, and an ice cube or two would fall. Her daughter came and placed stickers on Lydia’s face, singing softly under her breath. When her husband finally arrived home, the nanny led him towards the bedroom. Lydia could hear her whispering to him furiously. Bob stood in the doorway, still holding his briefcase. When he saw Lydia, he appeared startled. His eyes ran down the silver length of her, stopped at her handles. He touched his fingers to the Frigidaire label on her chest. After a few moments, he took off his coat and put down his bag. With a sigh, he rolled up white shirtsleeves over pale, broad forearms. Bob heaved his shoulder into Lydia’s side and began to slowly scoot her little by little out of their room. She marveled at the sensation of moving, changing views. She admired Bob’s sheer strength, the curve of his back straining at his dress shirt. After considerable exertion, his face red and shiny with sweat, Bob stood back triumphantly. The gleaming refrigerator shone in the middle of the kitchen. “You did it!” said Susie, clapping her hands. “She looks beautiful!”

Then, just like the rest of them, Bob opened her up to take what he needed. And she was glad.

Frances Blankenship is a writer born in Washington, DC. She lives with her husband and three young sons and much of her work explores the complex roles of women as partners, mothers, and caregivers in contemporary society. A former policy analyst, her writing appears in Little Patuxent Review, Frontier, Cleaver, and other publications. She is currently working on a one-woman play that is taking far too long.