Choices

I wake before she does, eyes pried open early by a phantom alarm. Usually when this happens I look at the clock, realize I have a few more minutes and promptly turn over to wait for the real thing, but not today.
She’s curled around her pillow, as far from my side of the queen size bed as she can get. She’s more than familiar with my violent sleeping habits, my snoring and my talking. Yet every time she visits, she still throws her overnight bag on my bedroom floor as if there is no guest room. I suppose to her there isn’t. We’ve been sharing the same bed since we were toddlers and, at almost 27, it doesn’t feel right to change now.

Last night we lay still in the dark, talking about random things and laughing. That’s my favorite thing about our relationship – the laughter. We’ve had fights I wasn’t sure we could recover from, months of silent anger, and personal tragedies that therapists salivate over. But no matter how bad it’s been, no matter how ugly the situation, we always laugh. And it’s not fake or hesitant or forced – it’s usually loud and obnoxious and over something everyone else in the world would find horrifically inappropriate or, simply not funny at all.

I need to get up and get in the shower, but I lay thinking and watching her instead. I always go first because it takes me longer. I’ve never quite figured out how she manages to bathe, put on makeup and blow-dry that horse’s mane of hers so fast. But she does nearly everything at warp speed and she does it hard, barreling through life like it’s a race. She works hard, plays hard, falls hard and, when she gets back up, she takes off running as hard and as fast as she can, determined to make up ground.

And me? I don’t run. I amble around looking at all the pretty colors, possibly jogging if I see something I really want in the distance, but rarely going fast enough to fall too hard. And if I do fall, I spend more time looking for detours to take my mind off the scrapes than accomplishing much forward motion. If “Doing Things Half-ass” was a highway, I’d Forest Gump that bitch on a regular basis.

We’ve a few things in common, of course. Some, I imagine, are due to being blood related and brought up in the same environment. Some are due to our age. And some, like the reason she’s here for this visit, are by chance and a choice.

She came to me because she knew I wouldn’t judge. How could I? There are three paths that fork off from this scenario, three possible choices, and I’ve taken two and walked a few steps down the third. She came to me because the choice she’s made can be intimidating – not just mentally and physically, but socially. We each have issues with worrying about what other people think, everyone does, and in this particular area, she’s the worrier and I’m the one telling people, “If you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourself”. She knows what she wants; she just needs me to support her. To hold her hand, make her laugh and drive her home.

I finally get up, get ready and pack the necessities: cookies, GPS, books and an attitude. I’ve been to these places a few times and protesters are always a possibility. I respect the right to say what you think and do what you want, but I don’t appreciate it being said or done with malice and a megaphone next to my ear. It’s possible to have an opinion and voice it without being a fanatic.

And this is how it’s done: If you want to save kids, go help a few already born and starving ones instead of wasting your time in a parking lot judging me. If you’d rather stand in the parking lot judging, then have at it, but don’t be surprised when the only difference you make is raising my blood pressure and my middle finger. That’s my opinion. I don’t shout it in anyone’s face and I generally only give it if I’m directly asked.

*****

We’re ready early and I’m ok with that. My mother has been asking questions and giving us suspicious looks. We expected it, prepared for it with a story only slightly more plausible than the one we fed her before we took this trip as teenagers.

The first half of the drive is mainly country highways – long stretches of peach trees sprouting pink blooms and white clapboard roadside stands waiting to be filled. We talk about the peaches, we talk about summer and we talk about the father. She cares for him, but doesn’t love him. He’s comfortable and irritatingly doting, a good friend that she occasionally sleeps with that has much, much stronger feelings for her.

Listening to her describe their relationship is difficult. When I knew him only as the guy that’s obsessed with her, that she keeps telling it isn’t going to happen, it was much easier to make fun of him. Now, though, he just sounds pitiful and desperate...in love with someone that uses him without even fully realizing that’s what she’s doing. Now he just sounds like me, in the not so distant past. You can tell someone it isn’t going to happen all day long, but why should they believe you if you keep saying it with your pants down?

We attempt to lighten the mood as we transition from spring soaked countryside to busy highway. I tell her about an interesting message I received from an old flame and she tells me something similar, but in the end there’s no avoiding the subject at hand. The best we can do is make fun of it.

“Do you know what I hate”, she says. “I hate that pregnancy tests are so fucking happy. If it’s positive, you get a smiley face or a pink plus sign or, in my case, a giant YES with an exclamation mark. Don’t they think about the fact that half the people taking those tests don’t want exclamation marks?”

“Exactly”, I reply, laughing in agreement, remembering that there was no exclamation mark after the “No” the last time I’d peed on one of those blasted sticks. And I certainly felt like there should have been because I was so happy I nearly died.

It’s been a long time, yet the moment I take the exit ramp the scenery is so familiar I could’ve driven by just yesterday. As we approach the next stoplight she points. “You’ll need to turn there.”

“I remember”, I say, as the computerized voice from the GPS chimes in.

Our destination sits in the middle of a sort of business park, the buildings meant to look more like brick townhouses. It’s unassuming, the small white sign barely visible from the street and the tiny parking lot empty except for one other car. We pull to the left of the front stoop and sit, staring at the steps as though they might suddenly fill with protesting people.

They don’t, thankfully, but the owners of the other car do. It’s a couple, about our age, with a little girl. She can’t be more than two years old, toddling around their legs as he says goodbye to the woman, and she walks inside alone.

“Are you sure”, I ask, for the last time.

She watches the little girl wander up and down the stairs, around and around the parked car, braids bouncing as she attempts to shake off her adult follower. I wonder for a moment what kind of idiot would bring a small child here, of all places. Then it crosses my mind that maybe it’s a staged performance, a different, quieter, and even cruel for many, sort of protest. I think perhaps it would be a more effective endeavor than waving signs, in general. But not against someone like me.

“I’m sure”, she finally says. And her eyes confirm it. Staged or not, the show hasn’t worked on her either.

*****

Several hours later, we’re home again.

We lay in the same positions as we did last night and this morning, as we always do, with only a few differences. Neither of us sleeps or talks. I read quietly, stretched out on my stomach, and she half watches TV, curled up on her side. From the other room come the slightly muffled sounds of cartoons and my daughter’s unintelligible jabbering. You’d never know, unless you looked very hard or knew us very well, that there’s yet another difference in our positions.

Hidden in the valley between our bodies, nearly concealed by the tangled mess and bright pattern of the quilt, two hands grasp each other tightly – connected by the past, compelled by the present and trying, for now in vain, to bridge the gap of very different futures.

All the world's a stage

I leave work early and stop at the gas station, hurrying inside to prepay. I have an appointment in half an hour and I cannot be late.

There are three people grouped behind the counter – two girls and a boy. They have the look about them that says they’ve just arrived at work and aren’t yet bored with their surroundings. It isn’t a look I wear much anymore, but then...I start my day at 5am.

When someone asks me what I do, not just my title but about my daily activities, I always struggle to explain. I don’t want to sound boring, but I don’t want to lie either. “I process patient and employee occurrences, organize that data into reports and send it out to important people that barely know my name. Something, something, trending...something, something. I also give out parking decals to new employees, process parking tickets and play an exorbitant amount of online mahjong.”

The response is usually a tiny nod followed by a short and uninterested “oh”. And I can’t fault them for it because, if someone delivered that spiel to me, I’d probably react the same way. I receive far better treatment simply by wearing my badge and saying nothing – the corporation I work for generally speaks for itself. “Oh, you work for them! Wow, that’s great.”

I’m wearing dark dress pants and a dark top – colorless but for the light blue photo badge hanging from my neck and the silver sandals on my feet. Dark sunglasses cover my face, masking dark circles. I haven’t worn makeup to work in over a week, nor have I fixed my hair.

“Hey, how’s it going”, asks one of the girls behind the counter.

“Fine, thanks.” I give her my trademark I’m not interested in communicating tight lipped smirk.

“Do you know what yesterday was?”

There’s a secretive sort of smile on her face, one that says she knows a joke that, if I’m lucky, she might just share. The other two edge closer to her, the same smile on their faces.

“4/20”, I say matter-of-factly, handing her my money.

“Yes, but what day was it”, she asks me again, searching.

I wonder if she wants me to say it was Wednesday or if she wants me to lower my sunglasses and prove that I’m one of their brethren. Maybe they’re conducting a survey or trying to find a new dealer.

“Um...”

“National smoke day”, the three of them chorus loudly before I can say anything else.

I can’t help but give them a real smile, simply because they’re so damn happy to be stoned, working in a gas station and conversing with random people. I was like that once. Well, a waitress...but still. I smoked a lot of pot.

“That’s what I said. 4/20.”

They laugh as I walk out the door, delighted. I imagine them making a mark under a tally labeled “Yes” before gearing up for the next customer and I have the sudden urge to actually smoke, to stroll into the dentist’s office with glazed eyes and a cheeky grin and say, “Do you know what yesterday was?” But of course I can’t.

*****

I arrive at 4 o’clock on the dot and am greeted the minute my foot crosses the threshold by the elderly receptionists. It’s a case of they know me, but I don’t know them. Mom works at the pediatric office next door, sharing a parking lot and sometimes a lunch with the crew at the dentist’s. Southerners are a nosy, gossipy bunch so after spending a bit of time with a woman that likes nothing more than to complain about me, they treat me with more familiarity than another office would. And because I often have a “give them what they want and they’ll leave you alone” mentality, I play along, returning their greeting with an equally casual “What’s up ladies?”

“Are you ready”, the tech asks the second I close the door, popping up around the corner.

“Yes.”

“Come on back.”

There’s no check in process, no forms to sign, and I follow her down the hall. She takes her time, even pausing to straighten a frame.

I sit on the ugly brown lounger and cross my ankles while she lays out instruments on the connected table. Her white scrub top is too tight, but the blue bra matches her pants quite well. She’s about my age and relatively new, though I can tell they’ve told her who I am and what my connections are before I arrived. She keeps her head down and avoids making eye contact as she moves about the room, saying nothing. “That’s the slutty, ill tempered one”, I imagine them warning her...and I’m probably not far off.

She mumbles that the doctor will be with me in a minute and leaves, never once introducing herself.

I busy myself with looking around at the décor. I’m willing to bet that nothing has been updated in this office, other than the dental equipment, since the 70’s or 80’s. Hideous brown paneling still covers the walls, floor to ceiling, and the posters are so old they’ve turned color around the edges. The front room is even worse – with an enormously puffy, cream colored leather loveseat that looks like it once belonged to one of those larger wrap-around sectionals. My favorite part though is the shiny wooden clock that hangs by the desk. It’s shaped like a large plaque – the bottom dedicated to the gold numbers and ticking hands, the top dedicated to a glossy photo of a young, big-haired Reba McEntire. It’s completely kitschy, but it makes me smile.

“Well, look here!”

The dentist strolls through the open doorway, grinning. He’s gotten a bit round over the past few years and his thick, wayward hair has gone completely grey. He’s the original church going gossip – knows everyone, talks about them and doesn’t care who knows it. His best friend is Mike, a guy who also happens to have been friends with my parents since before I was born. And because he knows about this connection, Mike is his favorite person to talk about when I come for an appointment. He talks about Mike’s demon redheaded wife, Mike’s brief affair with the nanny (who also went to church with all of them), and most of all...Mike’s lifelong torch for my mom.

But today, before he launches into the Mike stories, he decides to grill me for information. I figure he must be getting low.

“So how old is your daughter now?”

“She just turned six.”

“God almighty”, he says, chuckling. “Haven’t had any more slip-ups have ya?”

I raise my eyebrows at him, more amused than offended. “Not yet. So far just the one.”

“Being more careful, eh”, he asks with a grin.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Got yourself a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Well why not?”

“I’m not very good at monogamy”, I reply with a straight face. I’m not exactly sure if that’s true anymore, since I haven’t tested it out in a long time, but it’s the sort of thing he expects me to say.

He throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Honesty! Ooh boy, at least she’s honest! I like that!”

He talks continuously while he x-rays my teeth, asking questions and laughing so hard the mute tech pokes her head around the doorframe. He finally gets to Mike when the cleaning begins.

“Poor Mikey Mike”, he says.

I simply blink and wait, since his fingers are in my mouth.

“I bet he’s real upset that your mom is getting married. Poor Mikey Mike. Is he coming to the wedding?”

“Uh hooo ooooh.”

“Yeah, that oughta be something. I wonder if he’s going to bring that redheaded wife. Oh, poor Mikey Mike!”

“Mmm hmm.”

I start to count how many times he uses the phrase “poor Mikey Mike” and by the time I rise from the chair, drained of my information and pumped back full of his, I’m at 18.

He walks me to the front desk, leans against it and crosses one leg over the other. “You take care now, you hear? Behave yourself...get you a nice young man.” He grins and slaps me gently on my back.

“Yeah maybe”, I say with a smile.

He shakes his head and clucks his tongue as he walks back down the hallway. “Poor Mikey Mike...”

Even though he’s nosy, I quite like him. I could go to another dentist, upgrade like a lot of people I know that got tired of the tacky old place and prying questions, but I won’t. When they ask why I stay, I tell them that he waves away payments if I need a cavity filled, simply because he likes me and thinks my mother is pretty. And he does.

But it’s also because, unlike most people, when he asks me how I’m doing I can tell that, all gossip aside, he genuinely wants to know. It’s in his eyes. Of course I’d never take him up on it, never show what he’s telling me it’s ok to show, but it’s nice to know I could.

*****

I haven’t been home long when I get a text message from Claire:

“After midnight tonight, I can’t go back in the house anymore. I’d like to smoke one last cigarette on my porch and I’d love it if you’d join me...if you want.”

A week ago they were my family – Claire and her sister were closer to me than my blood sibling that sleeps right across the hall. But because of things that having nothing to do with me, or with those two really, a rift has opened that I’m not sure can be bridged.

I haven’t heard from her since the day her mother received the papers, when she sent me a message that seemed cloaked in anger and blame, then refused to respond to anything I said.

“Tell me when and I’ll be there”, I type back.

A little after ten o’clock my cousin and I slip on our shoes and walk quietly out the door. She’s just as anxious to see Claire as I am.

We walk briskly, shoulder to shoulder, down the gravel road. When we’re halfway there I see her, standing alone under a streetlight in front of the house she used to call home, with her favorite hippy purse draped across her chest and trailing down her side, platinum hair piled atop her head in a messy bun.

My mastiff, Tank, reaches her seconds before we do and she bends to pet him. I can’t help but think about her dog that’s buried only feet away in a yard she can’t visit anymore.

She straightens and we stare at each other.

“Hey”, she finally says.

“Hey”, we reply. She moves to hug my cousin first and I shouldn’t feel slighted, but I do. Our hug is brief, hesitant, and when we pull away she blows out a shaky breath.

“This is hard. Weird.”

I nod in agreement.

“C’mon.” She turns, walks toward the door and we follow, subdued. “It’s so...empty”, she finishes lamely.

She pushes the front door open, turns on the light and walks to the middle of the kitchen. She lifts her arms and holds then wide, dropping them almost instantly in a gesture of futility. I look past her to the living room, but there’s nothing to see. The house is stripped bare and of more than just furniture. There’s no future here, and the past is colored with doubt and fresh paint.

The three of us move to the screened in porch that overlooks the lake, sitting Indian style in a semi circle on the hard floor. The big cushioned swing is gone and as we each light a cigarette, I realize the tacky giant green ashtray is too.

We talk haltingly about what’s happened on either side of battle lines drawn without our consent. As much as we want to keep ourselves separate from the conflict, it’s clear there are things we simply can’t say to each other...and that speaks louder to me than anything we’re actually saying. No matter how close we’ve been for the past eleven years, the fact remains that our core loyalties lie elsewhere.

A few cigarettes and the bare minimum of small talk later, we rise to leave. Her family doesn’t know she’s here and she has to hurry back...and vice versa.

My cousin walks ahead, but Claire and I pause in the kitchen again, facing back into the house.

“This was my home."

I nod, not knowing what else to say. She sighs and walks away. I move to follow, but something catches my eye. On the glass and gold light fixture that used to hang over the kitchen table there’s something green. It’s one of those rubber bracelets, the kind that have words and symbols etched into them for causes and the like. I turn it over to see what it says.

“Happiness.”

Without even thinking about it, I slip it on my wrist as I walk out the door. It never occurs to me to offer it to Claire.

We say goodbye in the driveway, exchanging another round of short hugs, and promise to call each other soon. I don’t know if we will, but it seems like the thing to say.

My cousin and I walk silently back up the gravel road toward home and I can feel her still standing there, watching. My fingers absently pull on the bracelet, circling round the inside, and that’s when I feel the crack. Looking down I notice the smallest notch in the green rubber and I think to myself, “If you don’t pull on it anymore, maybe it’ll stay intact.”

But I know better than that. I won’t be able to stop touching it, testing it, pulling on it. Maybe that’s why it was hanging there in the first place – maybe they knew they couldn’t stop themselves either.

Cousins

As a small child I remember being baffled by her girly demeanor. Growing up next door to a house full of boys, I was a combination of awkward bookworm and tomboy so I imagine she was just as baffled by me too.

Her mother dressed her in fashionable dresses, leaving her waist length brown hair loose and lovely, while my mother stuffed me into overalls and cut my frizzy bangs at an awkward angle. When I went over to play there were tea parties instead of teepees made of sticks and dress up games instead of chase. She had shelf upon shelf of Barbies, all in their original boxes, and when I tried to play with them I was reprimanded. She was prissy and I was rough, as different as two little girls could possibly be, yet every time we had to be parted we cried and begged our parents for just a little more time.

At the age of twelve we got what we asked for, but in the worst possible way. Her parents were in a boating accident – her father killed on impact and her mother in a coma with severe brain trauma. She and her brother moved in with our Papa, right next door to me.

I remember fighting my way through the adults until they allowed me to sit next to her at her father’s funeral. I clutched her hand and looked straight ahead. And when the minister finished a monologue with “for all the Days of Our Lives”, we looked at each other, unable to stop the grins and tiny giggles that escaped simultaneously. It was our favorite soap opera, we watched it with our moms all the time, but we knew how much her father had hated it.

I was so excited when she started attending my school. We didn’t have any classes together, but we saw each other at lunch, recess and of course every day at home.

But it soon became apparent that our differences, however easy to work around when we hadn’t seen each other daily at home, weren’t so easy to ignore anymore. She became part of the popular crowd and I took a backseat, watching from the sidelines as she crooked her finger and got all the things most young girls are interested in – the good looking boyfriend, being a member of the cheerleading squad, and being invited to all the coolest events and parties.

I was jealous and resentful that she walked in and things seemed to fall into her lap, but I kept that to myself and I felt guilty for even feeling that way. Her father was gone and her mother was the child rather than the parent, living next door with a nurse maid. How could I possibly begrudge her the attention? She deserved to be happy and enjoy life as much as possible.

But my feelings of discontent grew as, little by little, she developed a habit of putting me down in front of other people. She would have her friends spend the night and I would be there, sitting on the edges, only included as an afterthought or a joke. I would go home crying, devastated about the way I was treated, but too afraid to stand up for myself for fear of losing the good parts of our relationship.

And there were a lot of good parts. When we were alone or just with family, we were the best of friends. We had sleepovers and inside jokes. She comforted me when my dad went on drunken rampages and I comforted her when she was depressed about her family. And the summers were the best – spending every day in our bathing suits with our other cousins, swimming and tubing, riding our bikes barefoot in the hot afternoons, picking handfuls of honeysuckle and exploring every inch of the woods around our houses. She played a major part in a lot of my fondest childhood memories.

Then, when we were 15 and 16, in the summer of 2001, our cousin Ben died in a Jet Ski accident. And we turned to each other first. I was home alone with my sister, doing chores as quickly as possible so we could go swimming, and she was just down the hill at her house, vegging and waiting on us to finish. We each got a call about the accident from someone different, but at the same time. After I hung up I took off running through the house and out the backdoor, across the porch and down the stairs, shouting her name...and she was doing the same. We met with a crash in the grass a few yards from my house and held on.

Later we prayed on our knees and I’ve never begged God for anything as hard, before or since, as I did that day in the hour after receiving the news of the crash, waiting to find out if he survived. And when he didn’t, I became something she was already well on her way to becoming – reckless.

The three of us had been born three months apart – her birthday was in March, mine in June, and Ben’s in October – and though he was the baby, I’d been the only one to really hold back on the partying, only occasionally indulging in smoking or drinking. But soon after his death I was sneaking out of the house with her, getting high most days and drunk every weekend.

She still treated me badly at school sometimes, and even at home if the neighbor girls were around, but the closest I ever got to confronting her then was a letter that she shrugged off. Because of Ben, my fear of confrontation had turned into my fear of losing her...and I was willing to be occasionally miserable in order to keep us close. I made every concession I could and when it sometimes became too much, I avoided her for a week or two to get my head on straight, always eventually giving in. After all, we’d been through so much together.

People began to notice how unbalanced our relationship had become, namely my mother, and started badgering me about standing up to her, about taking instead of always giving. Instead I continued to run when she called and I let all the resentment, all the hurt and anger continue to build up.

After we graduated and went our separate ways, it got a little easier. We still saw each other often, but not every day. In the past my attitude with her had been largely submissive, obviously, but because of the stuff I was going through, every little thing set me off. Combined with all those stored up years of fat jokes and nerd jokes, it turned me into almost as big a bitch as she was. She was thinner and had better hair, but I was witty and well read. I took every opportunity to make her look like an idiot, but with a smile on my face and more cunning than she’d ever managed to use when insulting me in public. And for a long time I was satisfied with that, with what I thought of as subtle retribution.

Over the next few years I still gave far more of myself than I thought was fair, but I’ve always been sort of a masochist. Then (I believe) the addition of being a parent stole the last shred of patience I had for the old games. I finally began to let her know that I thought she was ungrateful and took advantage of me (albeit often with my help), but instead of a reaction I expected (anger, sadness or denial), she practically laughed in my face. That, and an upsetting diatribe about what a shitty mother I was, ended it. I turned my back, ignored her calls, and went on my way.

In the long stretch of months that we didn’t speak, I had plenty of time to think about our situation. I admitted my areas of wrong doing (to myself, and later to her), but I still felt good about my decision to cut off contact. At first I felt healthier, and generally happier, without the added drama.

But soon I missed her to the point of nearly caving and calling. I missed the stories that only we shared, the laughter and all night gab sessions. She’d always been the first person I told everything to and though I knew I needed the space I’d created, it hurt.

It was nearly two years ago that, after months and months of silence, we had our first adult discussion about why things were the way they were. She was living with her then boyfriend and, for reasons that had nothing to do with me, was alienated from the majority of our family. I’d been the last one to cut off contact and the last one she’d expected it from. As I sat there on the couch I could literally see the toll it had taken on her and it shocked me. For the first time since I wrote her that letter in my childish, bubbly script, I told her how I really felt...about everything. And she listened without a trace of a smirk or hint of a laugh.

We were up all night and well into the morning, crying and confessing, hugging and promising. Underneath all the negativity that surrounded our relationship, we’d always loved each other.

And over the past year we’ve really worked at changing the way we interact. I’ve become more assertive and outspoken with her...and she’s curbed her temper, become more thoughtful. But it’s a process and, though she’ll always be my family and I’ll always love her, there’s a scar there. I knew we could never go back to being those two little girls, arguing over which game to play and nothing else, but I hoped we’d still fight tooth and nail to stay together, just like they did. I hoped we’d still go to each other first when shit went down.

I hoped, but until this past Monday, I really wasn’t sure.

*****

I woke at 5:15 to the radio alarm playing Lady Gaga and the phone bleeping and flashing red. I switched off the music, reached for the phone and turned over on my back, squinting at the bright screen. Three missed calls, all within the last 10 minutes, were from her.

And then I saw the text message, sent a mere three minutes before: “He shot his self in the face beside me. Help.” I jumped up and fumbled for my glasses, putting them on to make sure I’d read it correctly. Unfortunately, I had.

I hit redial and she answered immediately, sobbing and managing to tell me that she was going to the hospital; he was still alive. “I’m on my way”, I said. “I’ll meet you there.” The moment we hung up I ran around my room tugging on clothes. I grabbed my purse, slipped my feet into flip flops, alerted my mom and ran out the door.

It takes an hour to get there in good weather, but it was freezing and pouring down rain that morning. And while I navigated the dark, wet roads at a pace I wouldn’t normally, I thought about what I’d say to her. Even without knowing all the details I was horrified. I wasn’t thinking about him at all – I didn’t wonder why or how. I liked him alright, but I’d only met him a few times and he was still just the boyfriend to me. All I could think was, “After everything she’s been through...dear god, I can’t even begin to imagine...I’ve got to get there.”

Arriving at the hospital, I parked and ran through the rain, cursing my flip flops and lack of umbrella. My glasses fogged as I sloshed through the lobby, wet pants legs clung to my ankles and dripping hair was plastered to my neck. I rode the elevator alone to the third floor, getting out in front of another, nearly empty, lobby.

We saw each other at the same time. She was sitting in a chair next to two women and as I moved toward her she stood up and took a step, clearly unable to do more. But we crashed into each other with the same force that we had on that summer day ten years ago.

I held her thin, shaking frame tightly, until her knees started to buckle. Then we sat and I held her over the armrest, noticing that the two women she’d been sitting beside were staring. The one closest to us introduced herself awkwardly over my cousin’s crying. It was his mother. “I’m glad you’re here for her”, she said.

After a few minutes I was able to let go and she began to tell me the story. The more she spoke, the sicker I felt. She’d told me before that he had anger and depression issues, had threatened to kill his self before, but the way she’d relayed it made it sound like it was all in the past. Apparently things were strained and he “flipped out” too often. She’d always been able to calm him and talk him down before, but not this time.

And still, after I knew the details, I couldn’t think about him and his issues. I didn’t think about how I’d laughed with him at the wedding the weekend before, how young he was or about what a blow it was for his family. All that would come later. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was how close she came to being killed, how horrific it must have been to witness such a thing and how maybe, if I’d been talking to her more often, she would have told me everything from the beginning and I could have helped her get out of the situation.

After speaking with his mother, it was decided that I would take her back to their neighborhood to get her dogs safely put away. She has two Great Danes that she loves more than anything and they were scared and alone. She immediately agreed and we left.

I didn’t think we were going into his house where it happened because the dogs were at his mother’s right around the corner, but she said she needed her keys. I was hesitant, but I couldn’t let her go alone so I followed her into the entryway. While she went to the bathroom immediately inside the front door, I stood in the foyer. I stared at a cell phone lying halfway open on the carpet, surrounded by broken glass and shredded items, and shuddered.

When she came out we decided to get some of her clothes so we wouldn’t have to come back, but that required us going through the master bath and into the closet, where he’d done it. I’ve always been an extremely squeamish person, covering my eyes during anything bloody on TV and occasionally vomiting when around bodily fluids, so she told me I didn’t have to go in there...that she’d already seen the worst. But again, I couldn’t let her do that alone.

I cannot go into detail, but it was the most grisly thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She was unable to go all the way in after all and I had to make my way around the closet, picking things that were clean and holding my breath. I steeled myself and thought of nothing but getting her out immediately. It wasn’t until she was settled back at the hospital that I made my way to the bathroom and was sick.

All day we sat and waited, alternately speaking to friends and family as they found out and called to check on her. She broke down every once in awhile, finally passing out from a pill and exhaustion for about half an hour.

He made it through surgery, but was still critical. His parents were able to see him for a moment late that afternoon and they allowed her to go in too. She wouldn’t leave the hospital until she’d seen him anyway, and when she came out she nearly collapsed. I said “enough”, and took her home with me.

*****

These past few days have been exhausting, emotionally and physically. She’s getting a little better each day and truthfully, I’m in awe over her ability to keep going. He’s as stable as he can be at the moment and won’t be awake this week so she’s staying away from the hospital for now. Yesterday she saw a trauma therapist and it went well. She’s still staying at my house and between our family, his family, and their friends, there’s someone with her all the time. I’ve been managing the phone calls, the insurance information and anything else that crops up. Making sure she eats and rests.

I’ve been silently struggling a bit, trying to comfort her and keep things together. It’s a repetitive, draining task and I’ve never had to deal with anything quite this difficult before. But I love her and I’m going to keep helping her and listening, distracting her and making her laugh. And though I’d never wish this tragedy on anyone, ever, positive things have happened as a result. She’s getting therapy, which we’ve been trying to get her to do for a long time. Bridges are being mended. He’s going to get the help he needs.

And I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that we’re going to be ok. Because when everything fell apart she dialed my number...and I fought my way there, without hesitation, to hold her hand.

Thanksgiving - Part two

The atmosphere at The Grandmother’s is vastly different from Papa’s. It’s like leaving a school assembly that only had one or two mouthy students, then walking into a circus tent chock full of clowns. Paper plates replace china, swear words multiply like Mormons, and there are running, screaming germ breeders everywhere.

The two families couldn’t be more different – a fact thrown into glaring affect as soon as I arrived at Papa’s. Stepping out of my car, I waved at a group of laughing cousins seated at a patio table. The tallest one waved back and came toward me, grinning and blowing smoke out his nose.

“Hey Al”, Tim said, wrapping me in a bear hug. He carried the crock-pot full of dip toward the house and I followed with the bastard ass Italian crème cake. I was already planning to force every single one of them to taste it, whether they wanted to or not.

“Hey whore”, shouted Tim’s wife Ellie as I passed the smoking section. “Menstrual chunk”, I deadpanned back, wrestling with my purse and the cake holder. The others laughed.

Pushing open the heavy, sectioned glass door I walked into a wall of barking dogs. There are seven – Gucci, Sonny, Dixie, Mimi, Gracie, Scooby, and Bud. For as long as I can remember Papa has been surrounded by dogs. They climb on top of him while he lounges in the recliner, sit in the front seat and get their own ice cream at the Sonic drive through, go on boat rides and trips to the city. They’re his babies. And just like any other member of our neurotic family, we’ve learned to accept them and deal with the ruckus they cause...if a little grudgingly.

And, just like every other time I’ve walked in that door, the chocolate brown cocker spaniel, Bud, charged me like a bull and nipped the backs of my calves. He’s so fat that he looks like a barrel, giving the impression that if you tipped him over he’d just roll away. Unfortunately, it’s just an impression. I’ve tried rolling him, shoving him, running from him, shouting at him...everything. I finally developed a routine that semi-works: I hang my purse low and angle it between the two of us as I walk in, screaming at him, “SHUT THE FUCK UP BUD, I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD!” (or something close), giving Tess (Papa’s girlfriend) time to whack him away with the newspaper. It’s the best I’ve been able to come up with. Once I’ve been in the house for a few minutes, though, he’s fine.

“Hey Pop,” I shouted at a corner table. “Hey darlin’”, he boomed back, getting up and following me to the kitchen. My Papa is a big, big man with wispy grayish brown hair, a jowly face creased with laugh lines, and simply enormous earlobes. With blue eyes full of mischief and a contagious laugh, he’s always reminded me a bit of Santa Claus without the beard. His plodding walk – feet turned slightly out, head held at a high angle and arms crossed behind his back – never fails to make my smile.

Reaching my side he rocked back and forth on his heels, arms still behind his back, and looked into the crock-pot. “Mm, The Dip! You’re early! I’m proud!” Nearly everything he says has an exclamation mark on the end and there’s no doubt about where I got my powers of vocal projection. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then left him and a few others digging around for tortilla chips.

As I was rounding a corner of the island, waving and saying hello to various aunts, uncles, and neighbors, I was slammed into from behind. “OOF! Gggrrroff!” My cousin Christine had, as usual, launched herself at my back and hung there – arms tight around my neck, sending me staggering about the kitchen, trying to shake her off. She knows I hate it and she does it, I’ve gathered, to draw attention to our physical differences. She’s a rail (though she certainly feels heavy clinging to my back) and I have not, nor will I ever be, that tiny. She’s always been the pretty, petite one; I’ve always been the smart, curvy one. I often speak to her using words I know she doesn’t understand – she’s got her bullets, I have mine.

“You love me”, she screeched in my ear. I finally managed to shrug her off and with a long suffering sigh, answered, “Yes, unfortunately I do.”

After making sure the kid was safely ripping the children’s play area to shreds with the others, I made my way back out to the patio. My cousin Dooby and his wife Marie had driven down from Virginia for the weekend and I was excited to see them. “I missed my lesbian life partner”, Marie said as we hugged. We laughed, then relayed the story behind her greeting to the rest of the group. We’d both gotten wildly trashed at the Halloween party and there was a lot of lap dancing and suggestive picture taking.

For an hour we all sat, taking it in turns to make the others laugh with one story or another. When it wasn’t my turn, I found myself observing more than listening. I’d heard most of it before anyway.

Tim leaned against the brick wall, towering over everyone even while slumped. At 22, one of the youngest in our group, he managed to beat us all in The Game of Life. Recently married to a single mom with a five year old son, he’d secured a great job and bought his first house - a long way from the child of a mother in and out of rehab and the teenager caught cashing stolen checks. He’d met Ellie and her son and quickly became a family man.
Dooby paced restlessly, playing with his cell phone, while Marie sat with her legs crossed, calmly puffing on a cigarette. They’d been together for a very long time and had finally taken the plunge into marriage just a year ago. They argue often, but not in a way that causes concern. Somehow their personalities complement each other – Marie almost always appears bored and unconcerned with everything (except when she’s drinking) and Dooby gives passionate speeches about whatever strikes his fancy.

Having nursed him through his younger brother’s death and an addiction to pills, and staying with him after more than one affair early in their relationship, I’ve come to think of Marie as a bit of a hero. In the beginning I thought her foolish, but somehow she managed to pull Dooby back from the brink of destruction and piece him back together. Every now and then he’d glance up from his phone and look at her, the adoration on his face clear as day.

Soon after Christine and I had horrified the other men with a frank discussion about sex toys, it was time to go inside for dinner.

The huge kitchen quickly clogged up with traffic while everyone attempted to fix their plates. Being a veteran of the bob and weave technique, I was soon settled at the dining room table and tucking in to a plate across from Pop. “Mm, this looks good”, he shouted. I nodded, turning my lips up in a grin, mouth stuffed full of macaroni. He always says that, no matter what kind of food is in front of him.

By the time we’d made it to dessert and I’d forced them all to have a slice of my cake, (“Mmm! That’s good”, Pop said immediately.) we were in the midst of a discussion on what college my sister was going to attend.

“Where have you applied”, my Uncle asked her. He’s one of those bible thumping sorts now, but I remember when he was a drunk, getting into fist fights with my dad on the front lawn. I often find myself missing the drunk, as I’m much better at handling them than I am the “shove the bible down your throat” religious fanatics.

“I think I’m going to go to a small college close to home for a year, to get used to things. Then I’ll transfer to Charleston”, she replied.

“Charleston has one of the highest STD ratings of any college”, mom chimed in.

Puffing up, deep frown pulling his mustache down in a highly comical way, my Uncle glared at Leigha. “You know how to fight that, don’t you?!”

Leigha looked around the table, searching for help. So I gave it to her.

“Yeah”, I said, pumping my fist in the air, “wrap it uuuuuup!”

“NO”, he shouted. “Abstinence...”

“does not make the heart grow fonder”, I finished.

While he harrumphed and sputtered, everyone else laughed. Except for Papa, who ignored the whole exchange, rolling his dessert around in his mouth like a cow and staring past our heads at a western on the big screen.

Packed full of food and moaning miserably, the sexes separated. Tess and the older women attacked the kitchen, fixing up leftover plates for people to take home and washing dishes. The older men crashed in the living room and watched sports through slowly closing eyelids, while the younger ones congregated outside on the patio. Us younger women moved to the table in the sunroom and discussed mom and Ray’s coming nuptials and the possibility of another Charleston bachelorette weekend.

Then Papa summoned me from across the house, bellowing my name and sending the dogs into a barking fit. Lounging in his recliner, he informed me that I was in charge of the name drawing for Christmas again this year. “You got it, Pop”, I said happily. Nothing like being able to ensure your name goes to the person with the biggest spending problem.

I wrote down all the names, tore them into little strips of paper, folded them and dumped them in a Solo cup. Then, armed with a notepad and pen, I danced around the house and had everyone draw. I shoved Christine and Dave away from my notepad and ignored whispered pleas for cheating. There would be no cheating for anyone but me!

As I passed through the living room for the second time, finally finished with the list and very pleased with myself for getting a good name, Papa said, “And she didn’t even hear me!”

“What”, I said, turning in confusion. “What happened?”

“I paid you a compliment and you didn’t even hear me!”

“What did you say”, I asked.

“Nope...I’m not going to repeat myself”, he said, pouting.

I turned to my sister, determined to get an answer. Papa so very rarely compliments anyone on anything other than how well they cook. And when it comes to me, his loving insults are par for the course. “What’s that ugly green blob on your foot”, he asks me at least once a week, referring to my four leaf clover tattoo. Or, “Woo-wee! Where’d you get that new dress, Jackass?! Columbia Tent and Awning?”

“What did he say”, I asked her.

She smiled. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear him! He said he was proud of you, that you’ve been doing so good lately.”

“Well. I’ve been doing well”, I corrected automatically. “Well”, she repeated, rolling her eyes.

“Aww, Pop”, I said, grinning at him.

“Better keep it up”, he replied gruffly.

Feeling happy and tired, I checked on the kid then rejoined my cousins. Slowly everyone started to drift off – hauling hyper children out to their cars, toting high stacked plates, and distributing hugs. As I said goodbye to everyone, I realized that there’d been no fights at all. No arguments, no crying...not even any drinking. I wondered how much of that had to do with the absence of my father and how much of it had to do with how “well” I, the main instigator, was doing.

After making plans for Marie and Christine to pick me up, I kissed Papa goodbye and took the kid home to settle her for the night. We were going to make a beer and cigarette run into town, then meet Dooby and Dave on the dock.

It’s tradition. No matter how cold it is, the younger group always congregates on the dock or on the porch and drinks. We tell more stories, sing old songs (like a degenerate family Von Trapp), and watch the stars through puffs of smoke.

Out of all the traditions, it’s the one I look forward to the most. Not because we drink and talk about disgusting things, but because, unlike the family dinner, it’s not a requirement. No one says we have to spend that extra time together, but we always want to.

Marie, Christine and I spent the trip into town and back listening to old school rap music and dancing. Every now and then a deer would pop out of the tree lined darkness and we’d break, squealing and cursing, before going back to our dancing.

Back at Papa’s we walked, giggling through the yard and out to the dock. Huddling in deck chairs and clutching cold beers, we rolled our eyes when Dooby pointed out a streak across the night sky and started lecturing us on atoms or something. We mimicked him and argued that it was just a mark from a plane, sending him further and further into professor mode.

“How do you know all this stuff”, I asked him with exaggerated interest. “Did you study it, read it in a book somewhere?”

“I read books”, he said. “I know all kinds of things about science. I’ve...” He droned on and on, knowing I was poking fun, but too interested in hearing himself speak to let it deter him. Marie looked at me as if to say, “See? See what I have to deal with every day?”

Two hours crept by before we finally called it a night, hugged, and headed in opposite directions – Dooby, Marie, and Dave crept back into Papa’s, Christine drove back to the city, and I trudged up the steep hill back to my dark house.

I eased through the door, relishing the sudden heat on my frozen face and fingers, and went through my night time routine quickly. “One more month”, I thought as I finally crawled between the sheets, exhausted, “one more month and we’ll do it all over again.” The cooking, cleaning, decorating, shopping, working, parenting, and socializing...all repeated for both sides of the family.

I knew I should be thankful that the day went pretty smoothly, getting progressivly better and ending without any of the usual family drama. But all I could think before drifting off to sleep was, “I wasted all that money on Xanax and not one person got drunk and threw a punch. I hope Christmas kicks it up a notch.”

Love letter fail

I wasn’t your typical angst ridden, obsessive teenager writing things that would embarrass me later. Unless you want to count the 4evers and hearts scribbled amongst the pages of my diary – but no one would ever read those. Unlike the majority of my female peers, I avoided passing folded squares of notebook paper professing one’s love for some unworthy boy.

Being a bit of a nerd I was, of course, afraid of rejection. But I was also disappointed in the process. In my mind it just wasn’t romantic for the girl to initiate things. My head was full of paperback and movie heroes that swept the geeky girl off her feet, that marveled at her wit and intelligence – not the bloomers peeking out from under her cheerleading skirt.

I didn’t write my first love letter until I was a freshman in high school – until I thought I’d found the guy that would really appreciate it. I never felt the urge until I met him.

His name was Ben and he was a senior. The all American guy – good looking, friendly, charming, athletic, talented, smart. Girls practically drooled on themselves when he walked by and I was no exception. Just to cement his dreamy status, he was one of the leads in Chorus – dropping by during our freshman class to show our guys how it was really done and send the girls into convulsions. That voice combined with the rest of the package was just lethal.

My cousin Ashley was also a senior and they hung out in the same group. We were allowed to eat lunch in the hallways back then and their designated area was by the trophy case. Trespassers were not welcome and invitations were coveted. The guys lounged around in their letterman jackets, leaning against the brightly painted walls like demy gods, goofing off and surveying the girls that sat on the floor in a neat row – their hair perfectly coiffed and their makeup shellacked on with a spatula.

Despite the fact that I was a freshman nerd, I was granted an all access pass. Having a hot cheerleader cousin had its perks. I sat with the senior girls and pretended I wasn’t dying to eat the half bag of Doritos concealed in my book bag, and that I was like, totally interested in what semi-matching outfits everyone was planning to wear the next day. I was nothing like them, but Ashley did her best to help me fit in. My paperbacks were concealed during lunch; traded for whatever girly magazine the rest were pouring over. I got contacts and kept my mouth full of metal closed as much as possible. I let Ashley cake layer upon layer of thick, too dark foundation on my pale skin and line my lips where I actually had none.

For school picture day she loaned me her clothes – a tight, low cut yellow sweater and a short, tight black skirt. She styled my hair into what was supposed to be a replica of her own messy bun, but with my Don King frizz, I ended up looking like the drunken librarian that stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. I remember she was mad because I had to wear my glasses; I’d ripped my contact that morning. Consequently, my mother refused to buy the packet because I looked like a nerdy baby hooker, and the only record that the day ever happened is a faded proof photo stuffed in a shoe box among my other macabre school things.

Ashley also took it upon herself to tow me along to events I would never have gone to otherwise – parties, college baseball games, trips to the mall. I was largely ignored by the guys, but her girlfriends always treated me kindly. They’d all grown up using our Papa’s house as a summer retreat and to them I was already a fixture.

The first time I really spoke to Ben was at a local college’s baseball game. We never sat in the stands, preferring instead to park by the surrounding fence and tailgate. Papa allowed Ashley to use his Expedition and she packed it with as many of her friends as possible. I, of course, always ended up in the last row.

That particular night I was a bit drunk, though on what I can’t remember. I climbed onto the middle seat of the SUV to sit for awhile because I was tired of standing. A nice breeze was coming through the open door on my right and I was gazing at the baseball field through the front windshield, not really seeing anything, a half smile on my face. The back left door opened a few minutes later and Ben hopped onto the seat next to me, throwing his arm over the back of the seat.

“Hey Alyson”, he said smiling.

“Hi”, I replied, more than a little awed. He was so close the sleeve of his letterman jacket brushed my cheek when I turned to look up at him.

I wish I could remember every detail of our insignificant conversation, because it was the beginning of the end for me. When he was among the senior lunch crowd or a teacher’s aide in chorus, there was a barrier. But in that backseat he was just a guy, being nice to a girl who should have known better.

We drank a beer together – him taking large comfortable swallows, while I struggled to keep my tiny sips down. I confessed my complete ignorance about baseball and he explained a few key points, gesturing toward the game through the windshield while I watched his lips move. In the back of my mind I knew he was just being nice. He was nice to everyone. But the alcohol combined with a teenage girl’s need for acceptance won the “does he, does he not” battle. I was suddenly convinced that he liked me.

For the next few weeks I talked Ashley’s ear off about him – without much success. She never was one to pay attention unless the subject was one of her favorites: Ashley, what you could do for Ashley, or shopping. She largely ignored my hints that I wanted her to talk to him on my behalf. I know now that was likely due to the fact that she’d already infringed upon “the in crowd” enough, just by having me around.

I watched him in the halls and in the classroom – always waiting on him to notice me again, to swing an arm around my shoulders liked he’d done that night. But of course he didn’t. Every once in awhile I would get a half wave or a quick smile as he strode by, occasionally followed by a distracted “hey Alyson.”

I’d had crushes before, but I was absolutely devastated by his fleeting “moment of interest” and then nothing. That was when I decided that I should tell him exactly how I felt...in a letter.

The only letters I’d ever written before were to my Grandmother, a pen pal, and my diary. I knew nothing about winning a boy’s affection through words, but I was convinced I could do a better job of it than other girls my age. A smart guy like him would surely be more appreciative of a winning display of vocabulary, as well as a profession of deep feelings, than any of that check yes or no bullshit.

I sat Indian style on my bed for hours, alternately chewing my pen and staring into space. It had to be perfect – my words had to move him. And so I finally wrote:

Ben,


I had a wonderful time talking to you at the ballgame a few weeks ago. You aren’t like the other guys at this school; you’re definitely a lot nicer. I think you’re super hot and really sweet. I’d be ecstatic if you would give me a chance to be your girlfriend. If you aren’t inclined to date me, I believe I could settle for being your friend.


Think about it and let me know.


Love,

A

(I pieced that together from scraps of rough drafts that I found in a shoebox. The actual letter, the one I passed onto him, was perhaps a little different. Either way, it’s painfully obvious that writing love letters was (is) not my forte, no matter how highly I thought of my academic prowess.)

There was a freshman named Angela who was on very good terms with the senior athletic crowd. She was a great big barrel of a girl – tall, with a giant muffin top and pancake-like breasts. Her blonde hair was always cut in a boyish way, shaved across the back of the neck, with frizzy bangs bouncing across her forehead. I never thought about lesbians when I was that age, but now I’m relatively sure that Angela was the first one to make my acquaintance.

Her sister was a gorgeous senior, just like Ashley (only a natural blonde; not a peroxide one with “fashionable” black roots). Though she was often a part of the lunch group, she spent most of her between class times with the jocks – Ben included. I decided that she would be the best one to give him my note. I knew she wasn’t interested enough to read it and she wasn’t the sort of girl to make fun of people or start rumors.

We had chorus together every other day. I waited until we were there on a Friday to explain the situation. I hoped that it would be easier for Ben to receive the note and read it without any of his friends noticing, what with everyone leaving for the weekend.

“Angela...do you think you could give this to Ben for me?”

To her credit, she looked neither surprised nor pitying when she took the proffered note and said “sure thing”. No questions asked.

The following Monday I asked if she gave it to him and she said she had, but she offered no more information. I felt awkward asking anything else, so I waited.

A week went by and nothing happened – except that I didn’t see him very often, and when I did it was just in passing. The seniors had plenty of things to keep them busy since the end of the year was drawing to a close. It wasn’t until he finally made an appearance to help with my chorus class that I received my long awaited answer.

As I stared at him from my chair in the top row of the soprano risers, I know I looked like an anxious, wide eyed child. He smiled a sad little smile and shook his head at me. He looked genuinely sorry and he might have even mouthed the word, but my eyes had already blurred with tears.

We never once spoke about it and I spent my summer away from Ashley and her senior friends, avoiding the possibility of running into him. I was devastated by the rejection, of course, but more than that...I was angry at the anticlimactic end of it all. Shouldn’t there have been more drama over my first real profession of love for a boy – accepted or not? Wasn’t something else supposed to happen?

But over fifteen years later, I realize that I was lucky to have such a gracious, anticlimactic crush. And that I never again got the urge to write another love letter. I doubt, even at this age, that I'd be able to fill an entire page with flowery words and phrases. I wasn't that sort of girl, and I suppose I'm not that sort of woman either. "Let's get to the point, shall we!" Romantic, yes?
Ben owns a bar in our area now and I see him every once in awhile. He treats me like an old friend – sitting beside me and catching up on family and mutual acquaintances. When he came to my cousin’s wedding last year we all hung out on my patio, drinking shots of Jim Beam and laughing.

That night he put his arm around me while we stood around our friends and I thought about the last time he’d done so, in the back of my Papa’s Expedition, and I wondered if he remembered it too. I’m not the same girl that mooned over him then, it’s true, but he’ll always be special to me – firstly, because he received the only love letter I ever wrote, however miserable it was, and second, because he never once made fun of me.

Before he left that night, while our arms were still hooked around each other’s waists, he made a comment that he hadn’t realized I had a daughter. I looked up at him and smiled. The urge to ask him about the letter, about what he remembered from that time, had been with me all night. We were older, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, and I was simply curious. But rather than asking outright, I decided to remind him of my past interest in my own unique way.

“She’s four”, I replied to his comment.

“Who’s her dad?”

It was just the opening I’d been waiting for. I breathed a heavy sigh and rolled my eyes a bit.

“It could have been you, you know”, I said with exaggerated regret. We stared at each other for a moment – then suddenly burst out laughing at the same time.

Yes, I thought, he definitely remembered.