For the past couple months, I've shared my bathroom with a house spider. I told my mother about the spider, and Mom named it Esmeralda. I presume Esmeralda was a female. I say was, because, yes, my pet spider and I had to part ways this week. She crossed a line, that line being the thin silk thread by which she hovered over my head just inside the bathroom door. If I hadn't disrupted her descent when I swung the door open, she would have landed on my neck. I like all creatures but we each have our place, and I admit, humans don't usually stay where they belong, but spiders on my neck is not acceptable.
I miss her. Now I really feel alone.
It's been almost a year since my cat Eddie died. I miss him everyday. A spider is not a substitute for a cat. Still, Esmeralda was a presence. When I entered the bathroom, I always checked to see if she was there in her spot, either clinging to the wall by the shower stall or hanging a foot below the ceiling nearby. Only once or twice did she make the trek across the ceiling to hang near the doorway. (I can't actually be sure it was Esmeralda, because, you know, house spider identification is not my strong suit.) Everyday I told her, "You stay in your space, I'll stay in mine." During nocturnal visits, though, just to be sure, I waved my hands over my head when I passed through the doorway. Just in case.
I did my best to care for her. I put a piece of mango in a dish near the window to attract flies. I'm not sure my strategy worked. I never saw any flies hovering over the mango. It wasn't fresh—it was frozen, and it thawed to a remarkable gooey consistency that I found a bit off-putting. Maybe flies did too. It's winter, anyhow, so not that many flies are around the Love Shack, just a few little ones that zoom around the light above my computer monitor.
I'm sure Esmeralda got enough water. I take a bath nightly. The bathroom has no heat, but it gets pretty steamy in there, especially when it is cold outside. The steam rises and condenses on the ceiling. Water, water everywhere, I'm pretty sure, for a thirsty house spider. (And for a fine crop of mold, but that is a different type of pet.) I read that house spiders can live for a year or more if they get enough to eat and drink. I'm sure Esmeralda and I would have continued on as roommates, wary but amicable enough, if she hadn't crossed the line.
I wonder how she is doing. When I enter the bathroom, I look up at the spot where she used to hang out, almost hoping she perhaps has found her way back inside the house. So far, her perch is empty. I see a few flies hanging around the monitor but flies don't make good pets. That is my opinion based on many years of observation and experience.
Tonight I visited Mom at the care home. We sat outside under the shelter, me in a mask, her wrapped in fleece blankets. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year and the time of evening. We are enjoying intermittent rainstorms courtesy of the Pineapple Express, the subtropical firehose that occasionally points directly at Oregon.
Mom seemed inordinately sleepy tonight, for the third night in a row. I cast around for something to keep her engaged and entertained.
"Esmeralda and I have parted ways," I said.
"Who is Esmeralda?"
"She's the spider that used to live in my bathroom. You named her Esmeralda."
"I did?"
"She made the mistake of hanging over the doorway into the bathroom." Mom looked confused. "I didn't want her on my neck."
"Ah." She got it.
We looked at each other.
"I'm tired," she said.
"Tired today or tired in general?" Leading question, I know. I dig for facts so I don't have to feel my feelings.
"Tired in general," she replied. "It's all a puzzle."
I think the caregivers keep her busy working on puzzles so she will stay awake during the day and sleep through the night. Mom is weary of puzzles, but I think it's deeper than just puzzles. She's bored with the whole thing, the showing up for life thing. She's like a fine old watch that is winding down.
Of course, I could be reading it all wrong. Come spring, she might revive with the light and decide it's time to plant a garden. I'll be ready. Whatever comes, I'll be ready.
