Week Two Re-Do: Series of Events

                It wasn’t love but I won’t deny I had a small crush.  My fingertips melted into the softness and I imagined how they’d feel on my skin. Heavenly, I thought. Like nothing I’ve ever had. Then there was the white lace detail. I may have been able to bypass the lace but white?? It was too much, I couldn’t resist. I looked at the price tag and reluctantly pulled my hand away from the silky material. Maybe I could resist after all. “Hello!! Can I help you with anything?”

                “No….I was just browsing,” I replied.

                “Well what kind of jeans do you normally wear?” the girl asked. Her brown eyes sparkled behind a pair of black glasses and she was smiling brightly.

                “Uh….jeans?” I said. What kind of question is that? “American Eagle mostly,” I clarified.

                She looked me up and down, a frown of concentration on her face. “Turn around for me?” she asked. I turned around awkwardly, uncomfortable with her critical assessment of my body. “You look like you’d wear a size two or zero here,” she said. I was still stuck on her delusion when she asked “What kind of jeans were you looking for?”

                “Skinny jeans,” I said. Wait!! What?!?! I didn’t want ANY jeans!

                She came back with two pairs and led me to the dressing room where I found out how that silky fabric felt against my skin. Weightless, I felt like I was relaxing around the house in leggings. They were even the perfect length. At five feet, that never happens and my jeans always end up tattered and frayed. They were perfect.

                Handing them back to her I said, “I didn’t really like them.”

                “What exactly didn’t you like about them?” she asked, visibly concerned. Clearly, this wasn’t something she heard all the time.

                “I don’t know. They just didn’t fit right.”

                “We do have other styles. I saw you were looking at these ones when you came in?” and she pointed at the jeans. “Why don’t you try these on and show me so you can tell me exactly what you don’t like about them.”

                Ohhhh, I was getting sucked in. I could feel it. My first attempt at walking out of there without swiping my card failed, my second one did too. This girl was a force to be reckoned with, she was winning every round. She had me trying on jeans I never wanted to buy; I was just trying to kill some time before my flight. She flattered me, manipulated me, and now she had figured out my weakness in these perfectly girly, tomboy jeans that made me look amazing.

                I’d like to blame it all on her and the fact that she probably relies on commission to pay her rent; it’d be so much easier that way. But it wasn’t all her (even though she literally forced me to try on jeans). No, it was a combination of my seemingly uncontrollable spending habits and the irrational guilt I felt. She had been so nice, so helpful. I didn’t want to waste her time and every girl needs a pair of nice jeans, right? I swiped my card and the second I entered my pin I knew I was making a mistake. I would never wear these jeans. I should’ve gone with the skinnies, I thought. At least then I’d be able to wear them. She wrapped them up and gently placed them in a little brown bag, sliding them across the counter as if she were giving me a gift. I took it and smiled at her as I vowed to stop shopping for two months…..or one.

big risk, big reward?



               

              It is called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could get used to the incessant name dropping and blatant lies.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that part of his story was real, but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney.  

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for years and even though I was disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti, it’s a part of me. The strip-mall atmosphere and smog wasn’t enough to pollute my dream, so I have to go. Even though most people I talk to question my sanity and people who live there advise against it, I have to go. “Good luck finding a job,” said a woman I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Thank you, kind lady, for your advice and encouragement.

I got off the phone and panicked. Was I really that naïve? I thought that I would fly into LAX with three suitcases and my cat and find a job within a week. Maybe a month. It had never crossed my mind that this plan might not work out. The idealistic optimism that had given me the courage to go was suddenly my downfall.

I was thinking the worst. The cute apartment in a secure building became a small room on the first floor with five locks and bars in the windows. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.

It’s sad, I think, that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged. Maybe it’s just fear that has overtaken my excitement or maybe the reality this might not work out has cut deeper than I realized because I don’t feel like myself. Maybe I know I’m doing the wrong thing but don’t care. Maybe I’m crazy for giving up everything or maybe my risk will get me everything I ever wanted.

I’ll keep you posted.

and we ended up here

              

                She wasn’t surprised they had ended up here.

The distance used to keep her up at night. She’d go over and over in her head where he was, no, who he was with, always imagining the worse. There was one girl, pretty. Prettier than her. Petite, she was tomboyish in that beautiful way that tormented girls because they wanted to be her friend but at the same time they were insanely jealous of the way every man flocked to her. He’d go to the bar every Thursday night to see her and insisted a little too adamantly that he didn’t find her attractive. “Kate?!” he’d say, a twisted grimace hiding behind his beard. “No way.” They exchanged mysterious text message that didn’t say much but reeked of hidden meaning. She knew he understood what they meant even though she couldn’t. He captured her essence in a jar and kept it on a shelf in the kitchen and he’d laugh about it with his friends but never explained to her what it meant. She was grateful.

She opened the jar of melatonin, shaking three into her hand before swallowing them. You were supposed to take two but that was never enough. The chocolate coconut water wasn’t cold enough and it left a rotten aftertaste in her mouth. Or maybe it was because she had just brushed her teeth. He wasn’t home again and it was time for bed.  

This addiction to sleep aids was unfortunate but it was the lesser of two evils. At least she wasn’t a walking zombie during the day. Every night she tried to go to sleep without them but it was impossible. If she had to use something she figured melatonin was the healthiest solution. Benadryl, safe in the short-term, caused long-term memory loss if used on a regular basis and everything else was too addictive.

                She woke up the next morning, still alone. The cat was crouched on a pillow above her head, purring to herself. With a dainty meow the cat arched her back, lifted her tail above her back to touch the back of her head, and came closer for morning snuggles.

                He hadn’t come home. Again. The white comforter next to her hadn’t been ruffled, his pillows were still fluffed. “Thank God for melatonin,” she thought before getting out of bed to get ready for work. She was excited for the day. It was finally getting a little warmer out and she only had to work six hours. She’d be out by four. She didn’t even think about calling him until she grabbed her purse on the way out but decided not to. She didn’t really care where he was. Is that when you know it’s over? When you just don’t care anymore?

                His birthday came and went and she never got him a card. It was sad and she even cried a little because she remembered how she used to buy him cards for no reason. One time he was struggling a little bit, depressed. So she went to Hallmark and got him something silly, really. The card was humorous, a list of ridiculous reasons he was great. “You give me butterflies” was the last reason. She told him she loved him and it made him smile.

                She wanted to still love him but all she could think about all the reasons she couldn’t anymore. It was obvious that things had changed. Every time he touched her she pulled away as if it were a natural reflex, like pulling your hand off a hot burner. She was always the one to end a kiss and he always said “I love you” first.

                It was the first time he had done anything for her birthday in the four years they were together. The rings he bought her were beautiful; she knew he spent hours picking them out. One was white. A statement right, it was cut into an isosceles triangle and in different light it shimmered shades of lavender and light blue. She knew she should feel full, consumed with love, but she knew the only reason he did it was because he thought he was losing her.

                The thing was, he lied all the time. Stupid lies about things not worth lying about.  She always found out the truth.“Did you clean the cat box?” He’d say yes even when he hadn’t, only to be caught a few hours later when she got home. When he was drinking his lies were outright weird. One night he had the audacity to tell her that the reason he didn’t come home until five was because he was sitting on a park bench after the bar closed. Every time she felt insulted that he actually thought she’d believe something so ridiculous.

                “I love you too,” she said, wishing she was strong enough to see the hurt on his face so she didn’t have to say it back.

                “Hey….I have to work early so if you don’t want to come home tonight, you don’t have to,” she said, hoping he’d go out. She needed some distance between them.

a little slice of heaven

hospitality

                 The hospital. It’s so serious. Everyone there has the same blank smile, the one they hope masks their concern. Nobody says hello in the elevator and the mellow green walls designed to be calming, are not. You look at the ground when walking the halls because you don’t want to intrude on anyone’s privacy….or you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

                I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals. I was six the first time. I had been sick for days; couldn’t really breathe. My mother rubbed Vicks Vapor rub on my chest and propped me up on a mountain of pillows to help me breathe. I coughed incessantly, a dry, tight cough that took all the energy out of me. It was dark out when my mother bundled me up for the drive to the hospital. We sat in the waiting room in hard plastic chairs lined up next to the windows. There were toys in the corner of the room and a pile of picture books but nobody was playing with them.

                Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. I was so weak and cold but my mother insisted I take my jacket off; I just wanted to feel better. A doctor I didn’t know walked in the room with a bright smile on his face. Him and my mother spoke about me as if I wasn’t sitting in the room but I didn’t have the energy to explain how I was feeling myself. The doctor listened to me breathe, moving his stethoscope around on my back. His smile was gone and a slight frown was in its place. He told my mother he waas concerned about my high fever and the rattling her heard in my chest and would like to get some chest x rays.

                More waiting. For what, I didn’t know. I couldn’t rest. The bed’s lumpy mattress was uncomfortable and it was too high off the ground. I ached.  The lights were bright and too many people were walking by the room talking in hushed voices that weren’t quiet enough.

                Minutes, or hours, or minutes that felt like hours, went by before two men in blue scrubs arrived to take me to my x ray. Symbiotically, they locked the bars on each side of me and wheeled me out of the room. We winded down the corridors and I watched the dark green border whiz by me. The ride is the only thing I remember about my first x ray.

                I was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. It was the first time I heard the word. I was allergic to the penicillin I was prescribed, complicating my recovery. But I did recover and went home with two inhalers and a new bracelet.

                When you spend a lot of time in hospitals you develop a liking for people-watching and you learn a lot about relationships. You see sick wives downplaying their pain to ease the worries of their husband. You wonder why, when life is at stake and everything is exposed, people are more dishonest than ever.

                In 1992 my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was young, only seven and I wasn’t given many details about her illness. She was hospitalized often and I grew accustomed to seeing her in a hospital bed. I was too young to realize the severity of the situation, probably because of my grandmother’s impressive acting chops. Yes, she looked sick. She had tubes hooked up to her arms with clear liquid running through them and her eyes were sagging, her skin sallow. She had lost her hair. But she always smiled for me.  She stayed awake while I read to her and chattered about school. I laid with her in bed and we watched Days of Our Lives, her favorite soap opera. If she was scared, she never showed it. If she was angry, I didn’t know. Each week I painted her nails.

                When she had a double mastectomy she joked about it and showed off her new “ta ta’s.” Her good humor didn’t last long before she landed back in the hospital. This time it was lung cancer.

                Shocked. Another adjective that describes most people in hospitals. Whether you’re a patient or a visitor, you’re probably thinking “Why? How could this happen to me/someone I know? It’s not fair.” It’s never fair but people say it anyways, as if fairness ever factored into the bad genes or bad decisions that led the person to their hospital bed. As if saying it changes anything.

                My grandmother smoked for two years when she was twenty, before she got pregnant with my mother. She told me she gave it up easily, that she never really liked it anyways. Two years.

                She didn’t bounce back as quickly the second time. Her stays at the hospital were longer; she was home less. During the week my mother got out of work at five and we would get in the car and drive to Bangor to visit her in the hospital. We would say hi to the nurses congregated at the main desk. We didn’t need directions to her room and her doctor became a friend whom we all loved. He celebrated with us when she went into remission.

                Our happiness was short-lived, our enthusiasm premature. The dark winter was over and spring leaves covered the trees; flowers bloomed. My grandmother's spring allergies turned into a cold. Her immune system,weak from chemotherapy and radiation, was ravaged by the seemingly minor cold and it quickly escalated to pneumonia.  

                You always think you know what to worry about. You’re scared when somebody tells you they have cancer but shrug it off as a minor concern when someone gets admitted to the hospital for the flu. Most people think appendicitis is no big deal but what they don’t know is that your whole life can change in a day and it’s the things you least expect that will crush you.

                She was admitted to the ICU. Nurses and doctors in the ICU are the most empathetic of all hospital employees. They don’t bother with forced smiles. Instead, their eyes shine with pity and concern. Here, they don’t bother with lies. They don’t sugarcoat situations and they don’t bend the rules.

                I wasn’t allowed to visit her. I was underage. It killed me knowing that I could make her feel better. I wanted to tell her I knew it was going to be okay. I had had pneumonia only three years before and was completely fine.

                That was the last time we went to the hospital to see my grandmother. I was nine.

                I lost faith in medicine. Didn’t understand how someone could beat two forms of cancer and die from a simple virus like pneumonia. The only answer I had was that doctors didn’t know anything.

                Yet, I couldn’t avoid them. My asthma hadn’t gone away and the next winter I became a patient at the lovely Eastern Maine Medical Center when I developed pneumonia. I was petrified, too young to understand the factors that led to my grandmother’s death. I didn’t know about white blood cells and the immune system. I thought I was going to die.

                Every time I got sick there on out I was convinced it was a chronic illness. My knees ached and I was convinced I was arthritic. When I found bruises on my body I knew it was leukemia. Rashes were the worst for me.  A symptom of virtually everything, I would spend nights awake obsessing over what the rash (bug bite) meant. During my yearly physicals I would show my doctor freckles on my body that I had deemed cancerous only to find out they were just freckles.

                Since I knew I was being irrational, I spent a lot of time outside of the doctor’s office, convincing myself nothing was wrong with me. As a result, I avoided the doctor when I should have gone.

                I woke up early on a summer day in 2006, my stomach burning. I couldn’t stand up and cried out; it hurt so bad, I couldn’t help it. I spent the morning keeled over in the bathroom unable to move, the sharp pain stabbing my right side. I tried to drink water, do anything to make me feel better, but nothing worked. I laid back down in the fetal position, willing the pain to go away. Finally, at seven p.m. I couldn’t take it anymore. Terrified, I had my roommate drive me to the hospital where I waited three hours to be seen.

                This time I went into the examining room alone and as I chugged the fluorescent yellow liquid to prepare for my CT scan, I realized how lonely the place full of people really was. As I lay in the capsule, still as I could be, I prayed they would find something wrong with me. I needed an answer to the pain.

                I was preparing for surgery, the valium dripping into my veins. Quick. The surgery had to happen right away. This was pretty serious. So serious I had called my parents; they were in the waiting room. The nurse administering my drugs had a soothing voice and I wasn’t nervous anymore. Maybe it was the drugs or just relief to have the answer I had prayed for.

                My stay was short and sweet. I came out of surgery on schedule and my appendectomy was successfully. They sent me home with a prescription for vicoden and instructions to rest for at least a week.

                The hospital saves lives.  A scary place, you can justify avoiding it almost every single time. Not enough money, no insurance, the pain's not that bad. It’s probably nothing, let’s just wait it out. You’ve done it, I’ve done it. I almost did but something made me go. Fear, our most primitive symptom; it keeps us alive.

numbers

                 Arms behind my back I sucked in, trying to zip the last inch of the strapless cocktail dress. It was the dress I had been looking for; it was perfect. Winter white, its subtle lace details shimmered and the short hem made me look three inches taller. It was the last one and I had to make it fit. I turned to view the back in the mirror and admired the graceful way it fell above my knees. Elated I finally found the one I bought the dress and on my way home stopped at Hannaford to stock up on spinach, veggies, and coconut water.

                The Christmas party was a week away. Seven days to lose the five pounds that prevented the dress from zipping. Five pounds that would drop me from a healthy size four to a hungry size two. Five pounds that would grant me a generous “Samantha, you look nice.” instead of the usual, “Honey, you’re looking a little heavy in the stomach/butt/thigh/face….” from my mother.

                Numbers have directed me since middle school. In sixth grade, we started algebra and it took me months to figure out how to find x. I realized there was a thirty dollar difference between my Kmart jeans and everyone else’s from American Eagle. I measured my food and counted my calories to maintain a size zero figure. These numbers, simple and straightforward, complicated everything.  Dark and ugly, the numbers on the scale were the definition of everything I wanted to change.

                My alarm went off, its obnoxious ringing impossible to ignore. It was barely light out and the snow was coming down heavily. The weatherman had predicted four to six inches by noon. There was nothing more I wanted than to close my eyes and stay in bed until I had to go to work but I saw the white dress hanging in my closet.

                Half an hour later I was on the elliptical machine at the gym, watching my incline climb from four to five. I had been on it for six minutes and burned twenty seven calories. I had twenty four minutes to go before I could get off and six more days to fit into my dress. I wasn’t going to let one inch of stubborn zipper and my mother’s insult-laced compliments ruin my Christmas. When my time ran out I chose the extreme fat burning course and I settled in for another half an hour of hell.

                With every movement my legs burned and I wondered why I was even doing this. I watched myself in the mirror on the wall and I looked fine. I was thin. Nobody could call me fat, not even me. Yet I was driven by numbers. I let my pants size define me. I deprived myself holiday cookies and cupcakes to fit into a dress I would wear for four hours. The 116 flashing up at me on the scale made my stomach turn. It would be different if I was at the gym for the first time in months because I was motivated to be healthy and fit but….I was there out of pure vanity.

                I still had seventeen minutes to go on my second course when I slapped the stop button with my shaking hand. My legs felt like rubber when I stepped off the machine and I remembered why I had been meaning to cancel my membership.

                For the next five days I set my alarm at seven for an early morning workout but never got out of bed. I ate the muddy buddies my co-worker made and a piece of cheesecake. The night of the party, I wore my hair down to cover the imperfect inch in bouncy curls. I felt like a princess and when my mother looked me up and down and said “Honey….you’re looking a little heavy. How much do you weigh now?” I smiled sweetly and lied. “I don’t know, Mother. I threw out my scale.”

 

               

               

               

               

 

               

a new order

                 Erin and I trudged up the hill, sweating. It was early October but it felt like summer and we soaked up the afternoon sun.  We were later than usual but we weren’t in a hurry to get home where we would have to explain the reason why we were so late. I was dreading the inevitable interrogation of my mother who would never understand that I didn’t deserve to get detention. I couldn’t wait to be grounded from the phone for another month. “Isn’t it weird that your Mom is having a baby?” Erin asked.

                “No, not really,” I said, smiling to hide my guilt. At twelve, I knew it was selfish of me to dislike my unborn brother. I knew I should be happy for my mother, that I should be excited to be a big sister. Part of me was. I loved that sweet smell only babies have, their smooth skin. I knew he’d be cute and laughing babies always made me crack up.  Still, at twelve, I saw his arrival as an invasion of privacy. Our apartment was tiny, barely large enough for all live members of my family. There was no extra bedroom and the new bundle of joy was booting me out of mine. My new residence was the large hallway we used as an office between the living room and kitchen.  It had a tiny closet and retro orange tiles covered the floor in a hideous geometric design. Curtains were put up as doors and I knew I wouldn’t be able to block out the baby’s constant wailing. As someone who highly valued their beauty sleep, this was catastrophic.

                He was born on June 30^th in the same hospital as me. Eight weeks early, he was a tiny 4 pounds 7 ounces and his lungs were underdeveloped. He didn’t cry; he wasn’t strong enough, and the only way he could breathe was through tiny tubes. His name was Harley Michael, a true homage to his father.

                Mike was a biker. It was his vice, his joy. Mild-tempered and quiet, he lived to ride his Harley Davidson. Every summer night Mike and my mother took a ride, travelling east to Belfast or down Route 1A to Bar Harbor. In the winter they went to Bike Week in Daytona, riding their cobalt blue bike all the way down the east coast. He had a good job as a member of the parts department at Darlings Honda Nissan. It was uninspired work and while he was apathetic towards his day-to-day life, he was an adventurous and happy peson. A carefree lifestyle had allowed him many years of irresponsibility and at thirty-six Mike was ready to be a father for the first time. He had been ecstatic when my mother found out she was pregnant, proud when he found out they were having a boy. Now he was worried and sad, praying to a God I never knew he believed in.

                I prayed right next to him, silently taking back every negative thought I’d had about my brother. I bartered with God, promising to be the best sister I could be if Harley was okay. It was rough. Very early, he had a violent allergic reaction to breast milk. He was also allergic to soy milk; the only thing his sensitive body would accept was rice milk. He gained weight slowly and eventually he could breathe on his own. One and a half months after his birth, Harley came home.

                He took over my room. The walls were bare and the closet was filled with puke rags and diapers. Tiny shoes and socks barely big enough to cover my pinkie sat on the shelves and a white crib was against the wall where my bed used to be. My bookshelf was gone and its place was a shiny white changing table. There was a rocking chair in the corner and each day my mother spent hours sitting in it, cradling him in her arms as she tried to get him to sleep.  He cried all the time, hardly slept at all. It was colic, the doctor said. It was supposed to go away after a while. The striped curtains hanging in my doorways did nothing to block out his screaming and I slept with headphones on, a pillow over my head.

                I didn’t sleep through a single night for months. None of us did. We took advantage of the hours Harley silently slept only to be woken up by his desperate screams.  Most nights my mother, irritable and exhausted, was unable to coax him back to sleep. Eventually, Mike would gently take Harley from her arms and send her back to bed, doing everything he could to calm his son.  On particularly bad nights, he’d pack up the diaper bag and go for a ride, just so everybody else could get some sleep. Sometimes I sang him songs under my breath as we paced across the living room.  I bounced him up and down in my arms for hours, lulling him to sleep. The second I stopped moving he would wake up and I quickly learned which floorboards creaked as I walked in circles in the dimly lit living room, enjoying the silence.

                Eventually, Harley slept through the night and his ear piercing screams became angry murmurings only he could understand. Settled in his crib, baby monitor on, my whole family could sleep again and a new order was restored. Each night, before I retreated to my makeshift bedroom, I would wander into his room and place my hand on his tiny back, touch his silky skin. I missed our time together, those long nights hanging out in the living room.