The first sip of coffee burns the roof of my mouth. By the time I finish the cup, it has gone cold, making the blackness more bitter. I put the empty mug on the windowsill where its gray tint makes it look in place next to the gray sky. I look past the mug to the window. My reflection wavers at me, the blue of my shirt combining with that of the ocean. I try to see my eyes, but the sun brightens and my reflection mostly disappears. Only my outline remains.
“Breakfast!” my mother calls from the kitchen.
After a few more seconds trying to find my eyes, I turn away and head to breakfast. My socks slide on the wooden floor, making me stumble into the kitchen.
“If you got dressed before breakfast you wouldn’t have that problem.” My mother puts two plates at the table, and I sit down without replying. “Did you sleep last night?” she asks.
“Some,” I reply. I don’t tell her that I lay awake for seven hours and slept for one.
“Good, you’ll need to be present today. You need find to a bridesmaid dress.”
I start to sigh, but I pass it off as a yawn. This isn’t much better, because following the yawn my mother questions me about exactly how much I slept. I give all the vague responses I can fathom. “I don’t know what time I fell asleep— I don’t remember looking at the clock— it felt as long as it always does.” She doesn’t try to conceal her sigh.
***
The evening before, I went to the ballet with my friend Tristan. I spent most of the night contemplating what happened. I sat in the first row of the balcony section and watched the dancers on stage. I saw pointe shoes tied up the dancers’ legs, flailing arms of the conductor, and violin bows rising up from the pit and descending again. Tristan was so enveloped in the music, I could tell he had every note memorized. As the music built and the tension grew, I felt him stiffen in anticipation, eventually holding his breath and closing his eyes as though the music was completely overwhelming his senses, and I could feel how it felt to him. I could feel his embrace with every phrase, like he was having a conversation with the musicians which was inexpressible by words and inaccessible to me. At the resolution, he let out the breath he had been holding. His face showed relief and an unconditional sense of peace.
Some members of the audience seemed as mesmerized as Tristan, while others were clearly trying not to fall asleep. I wondered if the performers could tell or if they cared. I could feel their struggle to simultaneously control the performance and to release their tension enough to be expressive. Their need for technical perfection in every element colliding with their desire to convey some inner emotion. Like trying to paint a picture while focusing on each individual bristle in the paint brush.
Only then did I realize I had left my seat. I looked up to the balcony seating again. She was still sitting and observing the show. I saw Her eyes still following the action on stage, shifting back and forth to keep Her eyes trained on the lead, but there was no emotion in Her face. Not an expression of interest, enjoyment, irritation, or even boredom. My body, but not me.
I tried to move and saw Her arm lift to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Her ear. But still, I was gazing at Her from the stage. I saw Tristan’s eyes light up with mirth at something on the stage behind me. I watched him lean in and Her body automatically replicated the movement. “The lead dancer looks pissed,” he said in Her ear. Her own head nodded in agreement, with a twitch of Her lips that didn’t reach Her eyes.
I spent the first act trying to get back inside Her head. I floated around Her seat and tried everything. I tried using brute force, but I was simply thrown away from Her. I tried steadily inching towards Her, but no sooner than I drifted in did I begin to drift out. I settled on sitting on the bar in front of Her seat, and I pretended to see everything from Her eyes.
At some point I got caught up in the action on stage and forgot She was separate from me. I realized I was no longer sitting on the bar, but I was sitting in my seat. I looked to my left and made eye contact with Tristan. He looked concerned when he saw my expression, so I smiled until he turned his attention back to the stage. Then I turned my own eyes forward and lightly tapped my fingers against my leg to ensure I wouldn’t drift away again.
“Are you enjoying the show?” Tristan asked at intermission. Still concerned, he said, “I know this isn’t really your thing.”
“It’s perfect,” I replied. He looked unconvinced. “I got lost in my thoughts for a moment, but I’m fine now, and I love how happy it makes you,” I told him. I tried for a smile, and he relaxed a bit. “Explain the music?” I asked him. He talked for the rest of the intermission about keys and cadences and many other things I didn’t understand. I didn’t follow the theory, but I loved listening to him talk with passion. Soon, the lights dimmed and we watched the second act, my fingers still drumming against my thigh.
***
The eggs are too runny and the toast is too dry. I pick at them until they look at least half-eaten and sip my fresh cup of coffee.
“Are you listening to me?” my mom asks. “You need to be there for your sister today.”
I nod my assent and remain silent. Amelia, my sister, is getting married in five months. I was the first one Amelia told about the engagement. She took me out to lunch and told me every detail of the proposal and every detail of how she wanted to tell mom and dad. She was so happy.
I feel I have already tried on hundreds of dresses, each one worse than the last. I want to complain, but I notice the nearly empty coffee pot on the counter and the stifled yawn my mom makes as she finishes making the rest of the scrambled eggs.
I don’t know how we’re going to afford this wedding, especially with Laura going to college so soon. I’ll just have to pick up more shifts at the restaurant to make up for it. She turns towards Her and I see myself, still sitting at the counter and periodically lifting the mug to take a sip of coffee. Again, I feel it without feeling it. I taste the bitterness and feel the sting of heat on Her mouth, but I don’t feel the need to cringe away from the pain. It’s only there on the outskirts of my mind.
I keep looking at Her face, but I feel my mom’s thoughts again, “We’re going to leave in twenty minutes and we’ll meet your sister there. Well… did you hear me?” Not my mom’s thoughts. I realize my mom is speaking aloud and strain to nod Her head. I will Her to move to the floor of my bedroom.
She lay on the floor and I feel Her heartbeat build, not growing faster but rather growing stronger until I can see it in Her stomach. I feel the air enter her lungs and watch her chest rise and fall. I think about each body part in turn: fingers and toes starting to turn cold with lack of circulation, legs, torso, neck and shoulders. I try to connect with every inch of Her, try to weave myself back into Her body. I hold temporarily, but as my mind drifts, so too do I from Her body. I feel the physical sensation of the tears on her cheeks, but not the accompanying emotion. I feel wisps of hair on Her forehead, but the tickling sensation brings no sense of annoyance or irritation. I feel her muscles fill with tension, but none of the tiredness that usually follows it. I feel everything, and I feel nothing.
Just as I decide not to go, I find myself looking up at my concerned mother through my own eyes. I make up an excuse to explain away my tears and motionlessness on the floor— cramps— not knowing why I fell back into myself.
-
“Hi sweetheart,” my mother says, hugging Amelia. A man comes out to greet us, and before I can say a word of disagreement, I find myself squeezing into the dress that seems several sizes too small.
“That’s too small,” they both say as I step out of the dressing room. My mom looks displeased and my sister’s face is a mixture of frustration and smugness.
“I told you, I’m not an eight. I need a ten.” Every single dress shop we went to, they made me try on the eight, even though it never fit. My hips press the fabric tight in an unflattering way; they create large bulges by my midriff and the material gathers above and below to make up for the difference. I don’t try to hide my frustration as I turn to them, but my countenance brakes when I see the worry in my sister’s eyes. How am I going to make the whole day amazing if I can’t even get the stupid dresses figured out. For the third time, I am stuck outside Her body. And here, with my mom and sister so focused on Her, it seems impossible to remain hidden.
I work Her mouth and manage to say, “I’ll try on the next one,” before I carefully force each foot to step on turn and lean to close the door behind Her.
I will Her fingers to manipulate the clasp, but the motions are too intricate. I scream in frustration, and She rips the fabric. With that motion, She not only tears through the fabric, but She rips me back into my body. Briefly, I panic, thinking of what my mother will say, but I feel my mind loosen on the edges, and I know this line of thought puts me in danger of floating away again.
I vocalize my frustration again, this time for them to hear. Pulling the dress off and my clothes on, I shout to my mother and sister, “It ripped. I told you I'm not an eight. Why don't you ever listen to me?” Clothed, I open the dressing room door and leave the store, not glancing at my mother or sister.
I am leaning against the car when they come out. A few parking spaces away, a woman pulls her sleeping infant out of a car seat to place her in a stroller.
“You are going to work that money off. This will come out of your income.” I see the shopping bag in her arms.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. The mother kisses the forehead of the sleeping girl and, eyes still closed, he smiles. I get into my mom’s car.
“Just look at what you’ve done to your sister,” my mother continues lecturing me on the drive home. I assume Amelia is crying, but I don’t look up. I know that if I meet either of their eyes, I will again be set adrift.
“I’m sorry,” I say, emotionless.
Eventually, my mother and Amelia begin to discuss other things. I listen to Amelia talk about the people who came in during her last shift. Amelia is a receptionist at the local hospital. Old man Rogers came in complaining of a toothache and it took an hour to convince him he needed to go to the dentist, not the hospital. A young girl had a terrible cough, which turned out to be pneumonia. An agonized man quit chemotherapy. Two babies were born. Three elderly deaths. Amelia speaks casually, but I feel I am falling down a hole. All the life, death, suffering, joy. I feel I could shatter the concrete and sink below its surface.
“Why are you crying?” It’s my mother. I just stare at her. “You’re upset?”
“Of course I’m upset. Why aren’t you? Why isn’t everybody?” I feel I am shouting, but it’s barely a whisper
“What are you talking about?” This is Amelia.
“All of those lives you saw changed forever. All of that pain. How do you not…” I don’t know the word.
“Why do you always have to make everything about you?” Amelia asks, ending the conversation.
We are silent the rest of the way home, but I can’t help the tears still streaming down my cheeks. Soon, I am alone in my bedroom.
Maybe they are right. Maybe I am selfish. Maybe I do make everything about myself. I think back to my past, wondering if any pain was actually mine. Was it selfish for me to feel grief for their tragedies?
When I was five years old, my grandmother passed away. I watched the effects shatter my family without truly comprehending the loss. I cried with everyone, but it was really for their loss more than my own. When I was eleven, my sister came home in tears because her boyfriend broke up with her. She asked me why I was crying, and I told her it was because she was crying. I didn’t really understand her confusion. When I was fourteen, I went out with my friend for her birthday. It was the first birthday she celebrated since her mother died. I remember crying at her crumpled face as she told me that all she wanted was to hear her mom sing her happy birthday. When I was seventeen, a girl in my high school committed suicide. I knew her, but not well. She was a friend of Tristan’s. At the funeral, he laughed at a memory of her, which turned into a sob. None of it was my grief, not really. Did I make their tragedies about me?
I also break for broader tragedies. I read statistics about the rapid melting of the ice caps. The vast pollution and resulting global calamities. The many murdered by hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes, the list is never ending. And then there’s the fallout after these disasters, which claims more loss. On top of this, we have to cope with human violence. How someone can intentionally hurt people, I cannot understand. I’ve spent hours researching motives and meanings, and I still cannot comprehend this world of murder, rape, abuse, terrorism. Crimes of passion are one thing, but how is it so easy for these people to commit premeditated violence? How do they, in their humanity, take the actions in preparation to bring people pain? The entire world enveloped in the dark, how can it ever go back to the way it was? Although I suppose it never was any other way to begin with. The world wasn’t innocent when I was a child, I just didn’t know. The only way for my world to go back to the way it was is to forget the dark, which is what everyone else seems to do.
It’s like no one even cares. Weeks after such violence, I still reel from the actions, while everyone else seems to move on minutes after the news. There is so much pain in the world. Where is the rage. Where is the action. How many times have I heard: There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s always been like this. Like everyone on the planet is just resigned to the dark, and there’s nothing we can do, so why care? Everyone just says fuck it.
I feel the pull begin. Tears pool and my body instinctively curls. I know I am spiraling but I can’t stop myself. I just follow the spiral in and in and in. I don’t even fight it. Maybe I’m resigned too. I hide my face even though I am alone. Maybe part of me thinks that it will make this feeling go away. This collapsing inwards. My eyes are closed, but I can’t stop seeing their pain. I see their faces broken by sobs. I hear the sound of their cries, never drowned out by my own internal wailing. And I can never help them. The more I sink the less I can breathe, and then it’s over.
-
She sits up and wipes the tears away. First, She cleans her room. She makes the bed, tightly tucking the sheets under the mattress and fluffing the pillows to be symmetrical. She puts away the laundry that sits in a laundry basket in Her closet. She reorganizes each drawer and reorders the clothes hanging in Her closet. She sorts through the items on her desk and bookshelf. When Her room looks clean, She repeats the process with Her bathroom. Nothing to be cluttered anywhere.
She then settles upon Herself. She begins with Her fingers and toes, carefully trimming away the excess nail and cuticle that has accumulated there. Then She settles upon Her teeth. Not merely brushing them, but also flossing each gap at least twice and scrubbing Her tongue. Then She brushes them again. Her lips, peeling from Her nervous habit of biting them, sting as She scrubs away the dead skin. She steps into a steaming shower. She first scrubs shampoo into Her hair. After rinsing it, She applies copious amounts of conditioner. She lets it sit in Her hair while she meticulously scrubs every inch of Her skin and shaves both Her legs and underarms. Then She washes Her face, twice, and rinses the conditioner from Her hair. After towel drying, She brushes Her hair and works Q-tips into Her ears to ensure they are as clean and dry as the rest of Her. She returns to Her room to dress.
She goes to Her stash of money and calmly counts out the amount for the dress and walks out to Her mother. She apologizes for Her actions and hands over the bills. Her mother hugs Her and whispers that she is sorry too.
“I love you,” Her mother says.
“I love you too,” She replies, Her lips carefully forming the words. She will have a similar exchange with Her sister.
She returns to Her room and stares at the ceiling. She is more rational now. She knows that the world would not function if people fully felt the pain around them. She knows it’s better for people to pay their respects and move on. She doesn’t want to bring them into Her spiral. Their distance protects them. She sits at Her desk and does the homework that accumulated over the week. Sometime after the sky darkens, She lays in Her bed. The sky begins to lighten again before She sinks into sleep.
-
She wakes up, but She doesn't move from Her bed. Her mother calls for Her, so She knows it must be late. She tries to call back. To say that She is awake and coming, or even that She feels ill and wants to stay in bed. But Her lips don't move, and Her voice doesn't sound. She doesn't even blink. As much as I strain, She remains still. Eventually, Her mother comes in and She sits up.
“Sweetheart, it’s nearly time to go. Why aren't you up? Was it a bad night?”
She lifts Her shoulders vaguely.
“It’s alright. Take a few minutes and then come out for breakfast. We won't worry about the rest of the day yet, okay?”
She nods Her head in compliance, and Her mother leaves the room.
She moves to the window. This morning She wears a black shirt that stands out in the reflection at the window. Only Her dark silhouette shows, solitary against the waves cresting and breaking outside Her window. The sun appears from behind a cloud and the golden light makes Her dark silhouette disappear.
In the distance, She sees a small boat fighting to get past the current at the shore. Again and again, it is buffeted back by the waves, but still it perseveres toward the horizon. After several minutes, it still hasn’t made any forward progress, yet still it thrusts into the waves.
Her phone beeps, bringing Her attention away from the boat. There is a text from Tristan. His Grandma died early that morning.
I tell my parents and drive to Tristan’s house. The door is unlocked, so I let myself in. Tristan sits in the living room watching the cooking channel. His parents are out taking care of the formalities that accompany death. He looks the same as always, but also different. I remember when my Grandpa died. I was five years old.
***
Grandpa was dead. That I knew because I heard my mother tell my father. But death was one of those things which all the adults already knew about. They only asked how he died—mother said in his sleep— but no one asked where he was. It’s not like when someone’s on vacation and everyone asks where they went. When they’re dead, everyone already knows somehow.
“Where is Grandpa?” I asked my parents. My father said Grandpa was taking a very long nap. My mother said he was visiting God in heaven, and that someday I would get to see Grandpa and God when I went to heaven. I told them I didn’t understand, but a few seconds of silence passed and the doorbell rang.
“Amelia, where is Grandpa?” Amelia was five years older than me, she would be able to explain.
“Grandpa is dead,” she said, simply.
“I know that, but where is he?” I asked again.
“Are you stupid? He’s dead. He’s not anywhere.”
For the next hour, I walked around the backyard trying not to be anywhere. But no matter where I went, I was still somewhere. I tried all my best hiding places: under the bench, behind the big tree, crouched beneath the space under the porch. Every time, I was still somewhere. It was hard work, and I went inside to get a snack.
Everyone was too busy to help me get a snack, so I had to ask James. I stared at his bedroom door, specifically at the sign hanging from a hook. The hook on my bedroom door held a sign that read “Laura”. The hook on Amelia’s door held a sign that read “Amelia”. James’s door didn’t have his name. The hook on James’s door held a sign that read “KEEP OUT” in great red letters.
I knocked. “What?” James barked from inside.
“James, I’m hungry,” I said.
“Sounds like a personal problem to me,” he answered.
“James, please—“ I stopped mid cry. I knew he wouldn’t help me. “James, where is Grandpa?”
James opened the door. “What do you mean, he’s dead.”
“I know! But where is he?” I was getting tired of asking this.
“He’s in a box. Soon he’ll be in a box six feet under the ground.” And James slammed the door closed again. I didn’t get a snack.
-
The next day, we drove to Pennsylvania to see Grandpa. This made much more sense than anything else. Grandpa was just in Pennsylvania, like he always was. He wasn’t in a box, he wasn’t nowhere, and he wasn’t visiting God. He was just in Pennsylvania.
All of us were going, and that meant we had to drive. James and Amelia switched off getting the entire back seat to themselves, while I was permanently stuck in the middle. I played with my toys and tried not to bother them. I must have grown nearly as old as Grandpa by the time we arrived, but we eventually made it.
“When can we see Grandpa?” I asked my mother.
“We’ll see him tomorrow. But honey, it's not really your grandpa. It'll look like grandpa, but— well, it's like when you go to your friend’s house and there’s no one home. Do you understand?” I did not.
But the entire drive I had been thinking. Maybe if I asked the same question as all the other adults, I would understand. “How did Grandpa die?”
“Well, honey— he lost his mind.”
This was the best new I’d heard all day. If his mind was just lost, we could all look for it. My mother was the best at finding lost toys, I was sure she could find a mind. But when I suggested this to her she said, “No, it's not like that. Your mind— it's not something someone can help you find.”
“So if you lose your mind, it's gone forever?” This didn't bode well for me, I was always losing my things. Grandma always said I'd forget my head if it was loose, but she never said anything about my mind.
“Not always, but people have to find their own way back.”
“I bet Grandpa can, he always finds the way back when we go camping.”
“It's not quite like that, and it's too late for Grandpa.”
-
A few weeks later, when I played at the park with Tristan, I tripped on my untied shoelace and the world turned sideways. I immediately wrapped my arms around my head and began wailing.
“What's wrong? Are you hurt?” Tristan looked terrified.
“Is it still there? Did I lose it!”
“Lose what?”
“My MIND, of course!”
“I don’t know, you look the same to me. Let’s look around to make sure you didn’t drop it. It will be okay,” Tristan said. For the rest of the afternoon, we looked for my mind throughout the entire park, but we didn’t find it.
Later my mother told me that's not how you lose your mind. Even after her explanation, I didn't know what it meant to lose your mind, but I’m beginning to understand.
***
Tristan looks up and sees me. He smiles at me, but I don’t believe it. I know comforting him won’t be as easy as searching through a park to find a missing mind.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply. I walk to sit next to him on the couch. I can tell he wants to say something, so I remain silent to give him space to speak. After several minutes, it's clear he won't be able to.
“Come on,” I say, rising from the couch.
He stands, too. “Where are we going?” He asks.
“You’ll see,” I tell him. He looks concerned, so I add, “It’s not far.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the park.
“What are we doing here?” he asks.
“We’re going to look for your mind this time,” I tell him, and he gives me a real smile at the memory.
We don't actually search the playground as we did twelve years earlier. We don't search under park benches, behind trees, inside slides, and on the tops of swings. But in this place, Tristan is able to speak.
“Do you know what my grandma said to me the last time I saw her?” I shake my head. “She said she missed seeing me.” His eyes were somewhere between anger and sadness. “I should have spent more time with her.”
Just like all the times before, I don't know what to say. I don't know how to comfort him. And then I worry that this is more evidence of my selfishness because I am worrying that I can't help him. And then I worry that this is even further evidence of my selfishness because I am worrying about my selfishness. And then I see Tristan.
The last time I saw him, his eyes were lit with excitement over the intricacies of music. Now they look lost.
“Tell me about your Grandma,” I ask him.
“What do you mean? You knew her,” he says.
“Tell me anyway,” I say. “What did she enjoy? What did you do together? What made her laugh?”
He begins hesitantly, but the more he speaks, the more animated he becomes. Eventually, his eyes look as they had at the ballet. “Well, she’s definitely the oddest person I know— knew.” He pauses. “She collected yard decoration of all sorts; her backyard looked like a fairyland. She had bird feeders, gnomes, potted plants, little ceramic creatures poked throughout the lawn— mowing was a nightmare. She wouldn't go to the nursing home because she didn't want to leave her yard. She used to say, ‘I may be mad as a box of cats, but I'm not stupid. I can take care of myself,’ and we could never talk her out of it.” He rambles on until he runs out of things to say. When he finishes speaking, he still looks sad, but less broken.
“It sounds like you spent a lot of time with her after all,” I say.
“I guess I did,” he replies.
I smile because some broken things can be put back together. The world can go back to the way it was. Maybe not everyone's world, but one person’s world, and that’s not nothing. Even with all of the dark, there are still memories of Grandmas who are as mad as a box of cats, still small boats struggle that against the current to attack the vast horizon, still people who become overwhelmed by music and performers strive to find that line between technicality and passion, still little boys who help little girls search for their lost mind, and still sleeping babies who smile when their mamas kiss them.
“Breakfast!” my mother calls from the kitchen.
After a few more seconds trying to find my eyes, I turn away and head to breakfast. My socks slide on the wooden floor, making me stumble into the kitchen.
“If you got dressed before breakfast you wouldn’t have that problem.” My mother puts two plates at the table, and I sit down without replying. “Did you sleep last night?” she asks.
“Some,” I reply. I don’t tell her that I lay awake for seven hours and slept for one.
“Good, you’ll need to be present today. You need find to a bridesmaid dress.”
I start to sigh, but I pass it off as a yawn. This isn’t much better, because following the yawn my mother questions me about exactly how much I slept. I give all the vague responses I can fathom. “I don’t know what time I fell asleep— I don’t remember looking at the clock— it felt as long as it always does.” She doesn’t try to conceal her sigh.
***
The evening before, I went to the ballet with my friend Tristan. I spent most of the night contemplating what happened. I sat in the first row of the balcony section and watched the dancers on stage. I saw pointe shoes tied up the dancers’ legs, flailing arms of the conductor, and violin bows rising up from the pit and descending again. Tristan was so enveloped in the music, I could tell he had every note memorized. As the music built and the tension grew, I felt him stiffen in anticipation, eventually holding his breath and closing his eyes as though the music was completely overwhelming his senses, and I could feel how it felt to him. I could feel his embrace with every phrase, like he was having a conversation with the musicians which was inexpressible by words and inaccessible to me. At the resolution, he let out the breath he had been holding. His face showed relief and an unconditional sense of peace.
Some members of the audience seemed as mesmerized as Tristan, while others were clearly trying not to fall asleep. I wondered if the performers could tell or if they cared. I could feel their struggle to simultaneously control the performance and to release their tension enough to be expressive. Their need for technical perfection in every element colliding with their desire to convey some inner emotion. Like trying to paint a picture while focusing on each individual bristle in the paint brush.
Only then did I realize I had left my seat. I looked up to the balcony seating again. She was still sitting and observing the show. I saw Her eyes still following the action on stage, shifting back and forth to keep Her eyes trained on the lead, but there was no emotion in Her face. Not an expression of interest, enjoyment, irritation, or even boredom. My body, but not me.
I tried to move and saw Her arm lift to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Her ear. But still, I was gazing at Her from the stage. I saw Tristan’s eyes light up with mirth at something on the stage behind me. I watched him lean in and Her body automatically replicated the movement. “The lead dancer looks pissed,” he said in Her ear. Her own head nodded in agreement, with a twitch of Her lips that didn’t reach Her eyes.
I spent the first act trying to get back inside Her head. I floated around Her seat and tried everything. I tried using brute force, but I was simply thrown away from Her. I tried steadily inching towards Her, but no sooner than I drifted in did I begin to drift out. I settled on sitting on the bar in front of Her seat, and I pretended to see everything from Her eyes.
At some point I got caught up in the action on stage and forgot She was separate from me. I realized I was no longer sitting on the bar, but I was sitting in my seat. I looked to my left and made eye contact with Tristan. He looked concerned when he saw my expression, so I smiled until he turned his attention back to the stage. Then I turned my own eyes forward and lightly tapped my fingers against my leg to ensure I wouldn’t drift away again.
“Are you enjoying the show?” Tristan asked at intermission. Still concerned, he said, “I know this isn’t really your thing.”
“It’s perfect,” I replied. He looked unconvinced. “I got lost in my thoughts for a moment, but I’m fine now, and I love how happy it makes you,” I told him. I tried for a smile, and he relaxed a bit. “Explain the music?” I asked him. He talked for the rest of the intermission about keys and cadences and many other things I didn’t understand. I didn’t follow the theory, but I loved listening to him talk with passion. Soon, the lights dimmed and we watched the second act, my fingers still drumming against my thigh.
***
The eggs are too runny and the toast is too dry. I pick at them until they look at least half-eaten and sip my fresh cup of coffee.
“Are you listening to me?” my mom asks. “You need to be there for your sister today.”
I nod my assent and remain silent. Amelia, my sister, is getting married in five months. I was the first one Amelia told about the engagement. She took me out to lunch and told me every detail of the proposal and every detail of how she wanted to tell mom and dad. She was so happy.
I feel I have already tried on hundreds of dresses, each one worse than the last. I want to complain, but I notice the nearly empty coffee pot on the counter and the stifled yawn my mom makes as she finishes making the rest of the scrambled eggs.
I don’t know how we’re going to afford this wedding, especially with Laura going to college so soon. I’ll just have to pick up more shifts at the restaurant to make up for it. She turns towards Her and I see myself, still sitting at the counter and periodically lifting the mug to take a sip of coffee. Again, I feel it without feeling it. I taste the bitterness and feel the sting of heat on Her mouth, but I don’t feel the need to cringe away from the pain. It’s only there on the outskirts of my mind.
I keep looking at Her face, but I feel my mom’s thoughts again, “We’re going to leave in twenty minutes and we’ll meet your sister there. Well… did you hear me?” Not my mom’s thoughts. I realize my mom is speaking aloud and strain to nod Her head. I will Her to move to the floor of my bedroom.
She lay on the floor and I feel Her heartbeat build, not growing faster but rather growing stronger until I can see it in Her stomach. I feel the air enter her lungs and watch her chest rise and fall. I think about each body part in turn: fingers and toes starting to turn cold with lack of circulation, legs, torso, neck and shoulders. I try to connect with every inch of Her, try to weave myself back into Her body. I hold temporarily, but as my mind drifts, so too do I from Her body. I feel the physical sensation of the tears on her cheeks, but not the accompanying emotion. I feel wisps of hair on Her forehead, but the tickling sensation brings no sense of annoyance or irritation. I feel her muscles fill with tension, but none of the tiredness that usually follows it. I feel everything, and I feel nothing.
Just as I decide not to go, I find myself looking up at my concerned mother through my own eyes. I make up an excuse to explain away my tears and motionlessness on the floor— cramps— not knowing why I fell back into myself.
-
“Hi sweetheart,” my mother says, hugging Amelia. A man comes out to greet us, and before I can say a word of disagreement, I find myself squeezing into the dress that seems several sizes too small.
“That’s too small,” they both say as I step out of the dressing room. My mom looks displeased and my sister’s face is a mixture of frustration and smugness.
“I told you, I’m not an eight. I need a ten.” Every single dress shop we went to, they made me try on the eight, even though it never fit. My hips press the fabric tight in an unflattering way; they create large bulges by my midriff and the material gathers above and below to make up for the difference. I don’t try to hide my frustration as I turn to them, but my countenance brakes when I see the worry in my sister’s eyes. How am I going to make the whole day amazing if I can’t even get the stupid dresses figured out. For the third time, I am stuck outside Her body. And here, with my mom and sister so focused on Her, it seems impossible to remain hidden.
I work Her mouth and manage to say, “I’ll try on the next one,” before I carefully force each foot to step on turn and lean to close the door behind Her.
I will Her fingers to manipulate the clasp, but the motions are too intricate. I scream in frustration, and She rips the fabric. With that motion, She not only tears through the fabric, but She rips me back into my body. Briefly, I panic, thinking of what my mother will say, but I feel my mind loosen on the edges, and I know this line of thought puts me in danger of floating away again.
I vocalize my frustration again, this time for them to hear. Pulling the dress off and my clothes on, I shout to my mother and sister, “It ripped. I told you I'm not an eight. Why don't you ever listen to me?” Clothed, I open the dressing room door and leave the store, not glancing at my mother or sister.
I am leaning against the car when they come out. A few parking spaces away, a woman pulls her sleeping infant out of a car seat to place her in a stroller.
“You are going to work that money off. This will come out of your income.” I see the shopping bag in her arms.
“Yes ma’am,” I say. The mother kisses the forehead of the sleeping girl and, eyes still closed, he smiles. I get into my mom’s car.
“Just look at what you’ve done to your sister,” my mother continues lecturing me on the drive home. I assume Amelia is crying, but I don’t look up. I know that if I meet either of their eyes, I will again be set adrift.
“I’m sorry,” I say, emotionless.
Eventually, my mother and Amelia begin to discuss other things. I listen to Amelia talk about the people who came in during her last shift. Amelia is a receptionist at the local hospital. Old man Rogers came in complaining of a toothache and it took an hour to convince him he needed to go to the dentist, not the hospital. A young girl had a terrible cough, which turned out to be pneumonia. An agonized man quit chemotherapy. Two babies were born. Three elderly deaths. Amelia speaks casually, but I feel I am falling down a hole. All the life, death, suffering, joy. I feel I could shatter the concrete and sink below its surface.
“Why are you crying?” It’s my mother. I just stare at her. “You’re upset?”
“Of course I’m upset. Why aren’t you? Why isn’t everybody?” I feel I am shouting, but it’s barely a whisper
“What are you talking about?” This is Amelia.
“All of those lives you saw changed forever. All of that pain. How do you not…” I don’t know the word.
“Why do you always have to make everything about you?” Amelia asks, ending the conversation.
We are silent the rest of the way home, but I can’t help the tears still streaming down my cheeks. Soon, I am alone in my bedroom.
Maybe they are right. Maybe I am selfish. Maybe I do make everything about myself. I think back to my past, wondering if any pain was actually mine. Was it selfish for me to feel grief for their tragedies?
When I was five years old, my grandmother passed away. I watched the effects shatter my family without truly comprehending the loss. I cried with everyone, but it was really for their loss more than my own. When I was eleven, my sister came home in tears because her boyfriend broke up with her. She asked me why I was crying, and I told her it was because she was crying. I didn’t really understand her confusion. When I was fourteen, I went out with my friend for her birthday. It was the first birthday she celebrated since her mother died. I remember crying at her crumpled face as she told me that all she wanted was to hear her mom sing her happy birthday. When I was seventeen, a girl in my high school committed suicide. I knew her, but not well. She was a friend of Tristan’s. At the funeral, he laughed at a memory of her, which turned into a sob. None of it was my grief, not really. Did I make their tragedies about me?
I also break for broader tragedies. I read statistics about the rapid melting of the ice caps. The vast pollution and resulting global calamities. The many murdered by hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes, the list is never ending. And then there’s the fallout after these disasters, which claims more loss. On top of this, we have to cope with human violence. How someone can intentionally hurt people, I cannot understand. I’ve spent hours researching motives and meanings, and I still cannot comprehend this world of murder, rape, abuse, terrorism. Crimes of passion are one thing, but how is it so easy for these people to commit premeditated violence? How do they, in their humanity, take the actions in preparation to bring people pain? The entire world enveloped in the dark, how can it ever go back to the way it was? Although I suppose it never was any other way to begin with. The world wasn’t innocent when I was a child, I just didn’t know. The only way for my world to go back to the way it was is to forget the dark, which is what everyone else seems to do.
It’s like no one even cares. Weeks after such violence, I still reel from the actions, while everyone else seems to move on minutes after the news. There is so much pain in the world. Where is the rage. Where is the action. How many times have I heard: There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s always been like this. Like everyone on the planet is just resigned to the dark, and there’s nothing we can do, so why care? Everyone just says fuck it.
I feel the pull begin. Tears pool and my body instinctively curls. I know I am spiraling but I can’t stop myself. I just follow the spiral in and in and in. I don’t even fight it. Maybe I’m resigned too. I hide my face even though I am alone. Maybe part of me thinks that it will make this feeling go away. This collapsing inwards. My eyes are closed, but I can’t stop seeing their pain. I see their faces broken by sobs. I hear the sound of their cries, never drowned out by my own internal wailing. And I can never help them. The more I sink the less I can breathe, and then it’s over.
-
She sits up and wipes the tears away. First, She cleans her room. She makes the bed, tightly tucking the sheets under the mattress and fluffing the pillows to be symmetrical. She puts away the laundry that sits in a laundry basket in Her closet. She reorganizes each drawer and reorders the clothes hanging in Her closet. She sorts through the items on her desk and bookshelf. When Her room looks clean, She repeats the process with Her bathroom. Nothing to be cluttered anywhere.
She then settles upon Herself. She begins with Her fingers and toes, carefully trimming away the excess nail and cuticle that has accumulated there. Then She settles upon Her teeth. Not merely brushing them, but also flossing each gap at least twice and scrubbing Her tongue. Then She brushes them again. Her lips, peeling from Her nervous habit of biting them, sting as She scrubs away the dead skin. She steps into a steaming shower. She first scrubs shampoo into Her hair. After rinsing it, She applies copious amounts of conditioner. She lets it sit in Her hair while she meticulously scrubs every inch of Her skin and shaves both Her legs and underarms. Then She washes Her face, twice, and rinses the conditioner from Her hair. After towel drying, She brushes Her hair and works Q-tips into Her ears to ensure they are as clean and dry as the rest of Her. She returns to Her room to dress.
She goes to Her stash of money and calmly counts out the amount for the dress and walks out to Her mother. She apologizes for Her actions and hands over the bills. Her mother hugs Her and whispers that she is sorry too.
“I love you,” Her mother says.
“I love you too,” She replies, Her lips carefully forming the words. She will have a similar exchange with Her sister.
She returns to Her room and stares at the ceiling. She is more rational now. She knows that the world would not function if people fully felt the pain around them. She knows it’s better for people to pay their respects and move on. She doesn’t want to bring them into Her spiral. Their distance protects them. She sits at Her desk and does the homework that accumulated over the week. Sometime after the sky darkens, She lays in Her bed. The sky begins to lighten again before She sinks into sleep.
-
She wakes up, but She doesn't move from Her bed. Her mother calls for Her, so She knows it must be late. She tries to call back. To say that She is awake and coming, or even that She feels ill and wants to stay in bed. But Her lips don't move, and Her voice doesn't sound. She doesn't even blink. As much as I strain, She remains still. Eventually, Her mother comes in and She sits up.
“Sweetheart, it’s nearly time to go. Why aren't you up? Was it a bad night?”
She lifts Her shoulders vaguely.
“It’s alright. Take a few minutes and then come out for breakfast. We won't worry about the rest of the day yet, okay?”
She nods Her head in compliance, and Her mother leaves the room.
She moves to the window. This morning She wears a black shirt that stands out in the reflection at the window. Only Her dark silhouette shows, solitary against the waves cresting and breaking outside Her window. The sun appears from behind a cloud and the golden light makes Her dark silhouette disappear.
In the distance, She sees a small boat fighting to get past the current at the shore. Again and again, it is buffeted back by the waves, but still it perseveres toward the horizon. After several minutes, it still hasn’t made any forward progress, yet still it thrusts into the waves.
Her phone beeps, bringing Her attention away from the boat. There is a text from Tristan. His Grandma died early that morning.
I tell my parents and drive to Tristan’s house. The door is unlocked, so I let myself in. Tristan sits in the living room watching the cooking channel. His parents are out taking care of the formalities that accompany death. He looks the same as always, but also different. I remember when my Grandpa died. I was five years old.
***
Grandpa was dead. That I knew because I heard my mother tell my father. But death was one of those things which all the adults already knew about. They only asked how he died—mother said in his sleep— but no one asked where he was. It’s not like when someone’s on vacation and everyone asks where they went. When they’re dead, everyone already knows somehow.
“Where is Grandpa?” I asked my parents. My father said Grandpa was taking a very long nap. My mother said he was visiting God in heaven, and that someday I would get to see Grandpa and God when I went to heaven. I told them I didn’t understand, but a few seconds of silence passed and the doorbell rang.
“Amelia, where is Grandpa?” Amelia was five years older than me, she would be able to explain.
“Grandpa is dead,” she said, simply.
“I know that, but where is he?” I asked again.
“Are you stupid? He’s dead. He’s not anywhere.”
For the next hour, I walked around the backyard trying not to be anywhere. But no matter where I went, I was still somewhere. I tried all my best hiding places: under the bench, behind the big tree, crouched beneath the space under the porch. Every time, I was still somewhere. It was hard work, and I went inside to get a snack.
Everyone was too busy to help me get a snack, so I had to ask James. I stared at his bedroom door, specifically at the sign hanging from a hook. The hook on my bedroom door held a sign that read “Laura”. The hook on Amelia’s door held a sign that read “Amelia”. James’s door didn’t have his name. The hook on James’s door held a sign that read “KEEP OUT” in great red letters.
I knocked. “What?” James barked from inside.
“James, I’m hungry,” I said.
“Sounds like a personal problem to me,” he answered.
“James, please—“ I stopped mid cry. I knew he wouldn’t help me. “James, where is Grandpa?”
James opened the door. “What do you mean, he’s dead.”
“I know! But where is he?” I was getting tired of asking this.
“He’s in a box. Soon he’ll be in a box six feet under the ground.” And James slammed the door closed again. I didn’t get a snack.
-
The next day, we drove to Pennsylvania to see Grandpa. This made much more sense than anything else. Grandpa was just in Pennsylvania, like he always was. He wasn’t in a box, he wasn’t nowhere, and he wasn’t visiting God. He was just in Pennsylvania.
All of us were going, and that meant we had to drive. James and Amelia switched off getting the entire back seat to themselves, while I was permanently stuck in the middle. I played with my toys and tried not to bother them. I must have grown nearly as old as Grandpa by the time we arrived, but we eventually made it.
“When can we see Grandpa?” I asked my mother.
“We’ll see him tomorrow. But honey, it's not really your grandpa. It'll look like grandpa, but— well, it's like when you go to your friend’s house and there’s no one home. Do you understand?” I did not.
But the entire drive I had been thinking. Maybe if I asked the same question as all the other adults, I would understand. “How did Grandpa die?”
“Well, honey— he lost his mind.”
This was the best new I’d heard all day. If his mind was just lost, we could all look for it. My mother was the best at finding lost toys, I was sure she could find a mind. But when I suggested this to her she said, “No, it's not like that. Your mind— it's not something someone can help you find.”
“So if you lose your mind, it's gone forever?” This didn't bode well for me, I was always losing my things. Grandma always said I'd forget my head if it was loose, but she never said anything about my mind.
“Not always, but people have to find their own way back.”
“I bet Grandpa can, he always finds the way back when we go camping.”
“It's not quite like that, and it's too late for Grandpa.”
-
A few weeks later, when I played at the park with Tristan, I tripped on my untied shoelace and the world turned sideways. I immediately wrapped my arms around my head and began wailing.
“What's wrong? Are you hurt?” Tristan looked terrified.
“Is it still there? Did I lose it!”
“Lose what?”
“My MIND, of course!”
“I don’t know, you look the same to me. Let’s look around to make sure you didn’t drop it. It will be okay,” Tristan said. For the rest of the afternoon, we looked for my mind throughout the entire park, but we didn’t find it.
Later my mother told me that's not how you lose your mind. Even after her explanation, I didn't know what it meant to lose your mind, but I’m beginning to understand.
***
Tristan looks up and sees me. He smiles at me, but I don’t believe it. I know comforting him won’t be as easy as searching through a park to find a missing mind.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply. I walk to sit next to him on the couch. I can tell he wants to say something, so I remain silent to give him space to speak. After several minutes, it's clear he won't be able to.
“Come on,” I say, rising from the couch.
He stands, too. “Where are we going?” He asks.
“You’ll see,” I tell him. He looks concerned, so I add, “It’s not far.”
A few minutes later, we arrive at the park.
“What are we doing here?” he asks.
“We’re going to look for your mind this time,” I tell him, and he gives me a real smile at the memory.
We don't actually search the playground as we did twelve years earlier. We don't search under park benches, behind trees, inside slides, and on the tops of swings. But in this place, Tristan is able to speak.
“Do you know what my grandma said to me the last time I saw her?” I shake my head. “She said she missed seeing me.” His eyes were somewhere between anger and sadness. “I should have spent more time with her.”
Just like all the times before, I don't know what to say. I don't know how to comfort him. And then I worry that this is more evidence of my selfishness because I am worrying that I can't help him. And then I worry that this is even further evidence of my selfishness because I am worrying about my selfishness. And then I see Tristan.
The last time I saw him, his eyes were lit with excitement over the intricacies of music. Now they look lost.
“Tell me about your Grandma,” I ask him.
“What do you mean? You knew her,” he says.
“Tell me anyway,” I say. “What did she enjoy? What did you do together? What made her laugh?”
He begins hesitantly, but the more he speaks, the more animated he becomes. Eventually, his eyes look as they had at the ballet. “Well, she’s definitely the oddest person I know— knew.” He pauses. “She collected yard decoration of all sorts; her backyard looked like a fairyland. She had bird feeders, gnomes, potted plants, little ceramic creatures poked throughout the lawn— mowing was a nightmare. She wouldn't go to the nursing home because she didn't want to leave her yard. She used to say, ‘I may be mad as a box of cats, but I'm not stupid. I can take care of myself,’ and we could never talk her out of it.” He rambles on until he runs out of things to say. When he finishes speaking, he still looks sad, but less broken.
“It sounds like you spent a lot of time with her after all,” I say.
“I guess I did,” he replies.
I smile because some broken things can be put back together. The world can go back to the way it was. Maybe not everyone's world, but one person’s world, and that’s not nothing. Even with all of the dark, there are still memories of Grandmas who are as mad as a box of cats, still small boats struggle that against the current to attack the vast horizon, still people who become overwhelmed by music and performers strive to find that line between technicality and passion, still little boys who help little girls search for their lost mind, and still sleeping babies who smile when their mamas kiss them.