If ever I were to believe in parallel universes, it would be now. Things are disappearing. Not just my stuff. Our stuff — from eyeglasses to written notes, from kitchen items, to sleepwear.
The first vanishing event was the disappearance of Garry’s computer glasses. These are prescription glasses and they never left the house. The case in which they were supposed to be was where it belonged, but the glassed that had been in the case were gone. Garry and I looked everywhere they could possibly be then everywhere they couldn’t possibly be. We checked every room in the house. Under the bed, behind the bed, in both bathrooms, the kitchen. We moved the small sofa and did a bright flashlight sweep under the other one. It also wasn’t in the Duke’s cave, aka “the crate.”
No sooner had we given up hope of ever finding Garry’s glasses — he still misses them — my big blue covered drinking cup vanished. It’s big. It was bright blue with a matching lid and had its own bright red straw. This is an item that is always in one of three places: the sink for washing, the living room next to where I sit, or overnight on my night table.
When it went missing. I stiffened my upper lip and bought new covered drinking glasses for Garry and me plus an four extra smaller (covered) drinking cups because we should not be so limited that the loss of a single cup puts us into a frenzy. Other cups had been tossed due to breakage or getting too yucky to use, so we were down to our last two. Now we each have two big ones each and there are four smaller ones which are used for everything from malteds to morning orange juice. I keep my eye on them because these covered glasses (okay, plastics) are not cheap, but we have learned the hard way that if you use a computer a lot, we should have lids on anything liquid. Covered glasses are cheaper than new computers.
I thought we’d settled down after that, but a couple of days ago, I had to call BlueCross to get their mailing address. I have to pay the first month’s fee myself, but by April, it will be deducted from our social security checks. Garry saw me write it down. He went to the kitchen to dump a bunch of trash (some might have called it mail) while I stayed put and never moved from the sofa. When he came back, I couldn’t find the information. The paper on which I’d written it was gone. I hadn’t moved or even stood up, but the paper was gone. Kaput. Whoosh.
We never found it, but at least I could just call BlueCross again and get the same information. I still don’t know where the paper went.
This morning, my favorite blue nightgown disappeared. I came out of the shower and put on my bathrobe. I had an empty plastic container in one hand and my gown in the other. I needed to throw the bottle into the recycling bin, after which I was going back to the bedroom to put my nightgown under the big cushions on the bed. I got back to the bedroom, but I didn’t have my night gown. My hands were empty. I must, I thought, have left it in the kitchen or the bathroom. But it wasn’t there. Or here, Or anywhere.
It was my favorite — and also my newest — item of sleepwear. I’m very fussy about sleepwear. I don’t replace it often because it’s expensive. This was my favorite. The perfect weight and not so voluminous as to wrap me in folds of fabric.
Regardless, it’s gone. Like Garry’s glasses, my cup, and the notes. All have traveled to that misty mid-region or parallel universe. Wherever it went, it’s gone.
Where IS our stuff? Was it stolen by tiny gremlins who smirk with glee as they sneak away with our stuff? A “hole in reality” — the kind of thing science fiction writers are so found of. Suddenly, oh look! There’s a hole in reality. Step through it and voila, you have traveled to the past. This simplifies the entire time-travel technology issue.
When a mysterious hole in time appears, grab your gear and go. Alternatively, hang on to year gear lest it go wherever the hole leads — without you.