Reflections over 10:30 p.m. Dinner

It’s 10:36 p.m., and I’m standing in my kitchen at college, holding a lukewarm mug of tea in one hand and stirring pasta with the other. College dinner at a college time. My mother’s old sweater is thrown over running shorts and leggings and my hair is still too short to braid, but long enough that I’ve started bundling it up in ponytails out of annoyance.

I’m taking a break from writing a reader’s report for an internship application to actually eat dinner, while my housemate hollows out a dozen limes in our living room for a fancy drink she’s making. I won’t be in bed until at least 1 am. So much for early bedtimes. Like usual, I’m splitting my time: running back and forth from kitchen to bedroom to stir pasta and type a few more sentences of this post. I notice a bottle of cheap vodka on our kitchen counter, next to our hot pot.

“Is someone doing shots?” I ask my housemate, running fingers through my hair and pulling more hair from the loose braid. Dammit, I need a haircut. I glance at the clock. “I mean, it’s 10—it’s Thursday—” It wouldn’t entirely surprise me.

“No,” she says, laughing. “I’m making jello shots for my date party tomorrow.”

I woke up from an 8:30 p.m. nap groggy and already overwhelmed by the stack of short stories on my floor, my half-read reader’s report book, emails that needed to be answered, the three text messages beeping insistently next to my head. I considered turning my phone off for the night. It’s a week where I don’t want much to talk to anyone—a week full of ups and downs, all blurring together like a merry-go-round that’s gone too fast.

We’re all in deep mourning, I guess, for a wonderful, life-changing professor who is leaving us at the end of the semester. It’s a lengthy and complicated story and not precisely mine to tell. But I’ve remembered waking up every morning this week, often from stress dreams about her, our department, the entire shebang. Winter is clinging insistently, stubbornly, to the landscape of this tiny Upstate New York town, and I want spring so badly that I went running today. 28 degrees felt warm and the sky was October blue. Good enough. I ache already, but I have a sneaking suspicion I also run for punishment, to feel some kind of physical response, some kind of burn after I finish.

My phone bleeps again. I mute it without looking. I can’t take care of one more person today. I can’t think of anyone but myself this week. Selfish, selfish, selfish, the conscience that lives under my breastbone sings. Selfish girl, bad girl, be kind to other people.

My mentor looked at me across her desk on Monday, with concern etched into her face, as I sat sniveling into a wadded ball of tissues.

“Be kind to yourself,” she said, in a way that only made me cry harder. “Don’t forget to be kind to yourself, Amy.”

Inside, I whispered Thank you, thank you, but out loud I said, “I know—I’m trying. I’m trying.”

I’m not sure if she believed me. I’m not sure if I believe me.

As is their right, my internship team wants things written up, layouts done, I work thirteen and a half hours a week, I have assignments due for classes, I’ve assigned myself internship applications, organizing various projects, submitting my work to journals, the list goes on.

“Amy,” one of my bosses said to me today, looking up from her desk as I dropped off mail, “I just wanted to tell you—if I ever have a daughter, I hope she’s exactly like you.”

I blushed and stammered, flattered and lost for words. I don’t know her quite as well as I know some of my other bosses, but we always smile and say hello in the hallway and ask how each other’s days are going. I’ve done a few small projects for her, but nothing huge.

“Thank you,” I say finally. “That’s so nice, thank you.”

“I told my husband that last night,” she said, “and I thought I should tell you. You’re always so put together and professional.”

I try to remember compliments like that when I’m making spaghetti at 10:30 p.m., getting anxious about how messy my room and all the things I haven’t done yet.

Breathe. Relax. It’s going to be okay.

My mom called this morning, at 7:30 a.m., which made me panic when I got it at 8:10, tucking the phone under my chin so I can hop on one leg to put my boots on. I’m going to be late for class, I’m going to be late for class. Shit. Shit.  My parents never call—not because they don’t worry an unreasonable amount, but because they have a very hands-off policy now that I’m out of the house. A year abroad in a foreign country between high school and college worked wonders in terms of expanding the parent-child relationship. But because they never call, I worry when they do. My mind skyrockets to a death in the family, another announcement of cancer, Sweet Jesus, what’s happened now, please don’t let it be anything too bad.

“Hi honey! Did you get my message?”

There was a message?

 “Uh, no, I saw you called—” I’m about to tell her I’m dashing out the door, as I wriggle, one-armed, into my coat. “Why, what’s up?”

“Uncle Dick’s going into the hospital today, I just wanted to call and let you know.”

I forget that I’m going to be late for class. “Wait, what, why?”

“Oh, heart surgery. I called him last night—you know Sue, she’s frantic, but Uncle Dick just laughed and said ‘Well, I’m on my fourth beer and we had steak for dinner tonight.’” Typical Great-Uncle Dick. Typical Great-Aunt Sue. I can just imagine my birdlike great-aunt fluttering nervously around her well built husband, who just turned 80, talking a mile a minute in her thick Boston accent. We share a birthday, Uncle Dick and I, and he called me on our birthday to pass me off to 17 members of our extended family, most of whom I’d only met this past summer. Second cousins, once removed, the McSorley family, on my grandmother’s side.

“Okay, but it’s a routine surgery, right? Like—nothing can really go wrong?” My voice rises at the end, as I stuff my keys, cell phone, and lipstick into my pocket.

A painful memory stabs hard in the chest: My grandfather was in the hospital for a broken hip and the day after we saw him, he was gone. Anything can happen.

It’s too early to be grieving. Jesus fucking Christ, I have been grieving all week, for someone who isn’t even dead. Enough. Enough.

“I mean, there’s always some risk.” My mother sounds cautious. “Uncle Dick’s 80, you know. But it’s pretty routine, yes.”

“Okay, will you let me know what happens?” I collect my water bottle and jar of Earl Grey tea, glancing at the clock again. 8:21 a.m.

“Yeah, I’m going to call him tonight.”

“Okay, well I don’t get out of class, meetings, or work until 5 pm. But I’ll leave my phone on for you.”

“Sounds good. Love you. Have a good day.”

I don’t turn my phone off after my nap, just in case. She hasn’t called yet. I’m operating on the assumption that no news is good news.

It’s 11:02 p.m., and I’m doing this instead of writing that goddamn reader’s report. I’m half tempted to scrap it and just not apply, but I know I’ll hate myself on Saturday if I don’t. The chances of me getting anything from them aren’t good—I mean, I’m submitting my application on the date it closes. How does that look? Pretty shitty. But why not try?

Tomorrow is Friday. There’s always the promise of a new week dawning. The promise of a Monday to make myself into a better, more tolerant, kindhearted person, who isn’t itching with stress, feelings of inadequacy, impatience, with a healthy dose of hormones whomped in there. When I say TGIF to my co-workers tomorrow, we’ll all sigh with relief and think what the weekend means to us. Maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll spend all of Saturday in bed finishing up business with tea. Maybe I’ll write some poetry and clear some of that raging in my head, or go for a run, because it’s supposed to be warm.

I’m reminded of a particular few lines from one of Anna Journey’s poems (“Letter to the City Bayou by Its Sign: Beware Alligators”):

“I’m made//of so many girls I can’t get them all/drunk at once or they’d mutiny.”

I half suspect they’ve been sneaking bourbon behind my back.

-15 With Candles Lit

I spent my last night at home driving home slowly, taking all the back roads. The radio volume was up 10 notches higher than my mother likes it and I was singing along, tapping the heel of my hand on the steering wheel. The noise and brightness of the restaurant were fading into the snowbanks on either side of me. I’ve been having a hard time figuring out time lately. Somehow the stillness and the dark made it less irrelevant. The songs on the radio sounded like they had a direct wire to my brain. I kept switching back and forth between stations–some songs hurt enough you can’t listen to more than a few bars. I fishtailed going up the hospital hill, swore, caught my breath and control, and went a little slower. Leaving always has been such a tragedy for me. It always means turning down another road before I go home, doing another loop before I turn off the radio and resign myself to pulling in the driveway. The lights at the gym shone a bright square as I came down the hill towards my house. This might be my last Christmas at this house; we have potential buyers coming on Wednesday. Part of me tries to not think about it too much. Part of me is already reaching out to the change.

I had just come from a small restaurant in my hometown, surrounded by my aunt and five cousins. Tomorrow I’d be back at college and in two weeks, they’d be flying back to Australia. I hadn’t seen them in two years. My fifteen-year old cousin is taller than I am, by a good six inches. He’s into surfing and good music and a sweetheart of a kid. My thirteen year old cousin is turning into the kind of young woman who’s going to turn heads, with a kind soul, and starry gray eyes. It’s been fun to hang out with her, to have chats, like big sister to little sister. My eleven year old cousin is the sensitive one of the family, content to curl up in the corner with a National Geographic, and an avid outdoorsman. The nine year old is a terror, with a penchant for blowing stories wildly out of proportion and a completely innocent look that swears they’re 100% true. And my five year old godson is feisty and independent. His lack of one arm doesn’t hinder him in the least and he’s the craziest of the bunch. I feel like I’ve just got back into knowing them and now they’re leaving again. I don’t know when they’re coming back.

Tonight, I banged around the kitchen, on the phone with various people, trying not to wallow in my empty house like I did last night, tucked up under blankets with How I Met Your Mother and tea. It’s all about keeping your hands busy, trying not to listen for the rhythm in the shrieking wind, turning on the porch light to say “Welcome home.” So I stirred cheese sauce for homemade macaroni and shouted on the phone and forgot to preheat the oven before everything was done, and there was a pause between conversations. I turned Anna Nalick off, turned on Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. Threw my phone onto the couch and made tuna salad. Worried about all the things I had to do that I couldn’t face just yet. Drained the pasta, answered the cheerful ringtone and paced the floor. Being home alone is not always the best thing for an unquiet mind. I washed the dishes, dragged out the blanket my mother made in the 1970’s, and looked at the list of movies I had to watch. Settled on Lost in Translation, with a quieter, more melancholy Scarlett Johannson and a serious Bill Murray. My mother called as I was dialing my home phone. It’s like she has a sixth sense. I was on my second bowl of macaroni. Trying to eat a 9 x 13 pan of comfort food by yourself is also lonely. I like to cook for other people, communal meals, and I forget how to cook for just me. I forget how to do a lot of things for just me. In the last two days by myself, I’ve been talking a lot more on the phone. The house is too quiet on winter nights. I think I could live by myself in the summer, with long-fingered days and balmy nights. But winter nights are too harsh and solitary to spend alone.

It’s like everywhere I look, I see pieces of people. Of a person. Like everything in my life is linked to some common experience, some shared memory, tied to some person. Maybe that’s why leaving is so hard for me–you can’t just snip people out of your life as easily as you’d like to. Four years later, there’s still songs that reminds me of someone I used to love. And there’s scents tied up in there too. What do you do with a great boundless love that can’t help but spread from your fingertips, make new constellations in your eyes, and squeeze your heart so hard it runs dry? And what you do with the ghosts in your closet, moaning through your silken scarves, and histories you’ve buried underneath mismatched pairs of socks, and all the songs you can’t listen to anymore? And what happens on a Monday night when you’re listening to “Sweet Winter Songs” on Spotify (which is a great playlist, by the way), and watching the candles you lit three hours ago burn down to nubs, and trying to make sense of the roaring chaos fire in your head?

Well I guess my solution was to write. And have a melancholy night, huddled up against the -15 degrees outside, wrapped in something my mother made. To make tea, just for myself. To reclaim all the cluttered space in my mind, just for myself. I guess it’s just a day of “having the mean reds”, because I’m in my 20’s and I feel like that’s common, but also because I’m human, and we’re all scared of something–even if we don’t know what it is yet.

I’m trying to be better at watching movies. Trying to get lost in other people’s stories to maybe find a little insight in mine.

Fireworks

Strings of lights arched over the picnic tables, thirteen rental tables, two hundred chairs, and the three hundred members of the Country Club and their guests, who had all gathered to celebrate Independence Day. The tiki bar was wreathed in lights, illuminating the laughing faces, the bartenders’ hands moving in an intricate dance of alcohol and surety, and the various colorful bottles scattering the bar. Behind the white-linened tables stood two or three of the wait staff, pristine in white polo shirts, khakis, and black aprons. The general manager moved around the crowd in a button-down and dress pants, picking up garbage, chatting with members, and keeping an eye on things. The lake gave the beach love taps every few seconds, the dock stretching long and snake-like into the water. One could see the boats beginning to gather on the darkening lake for the fireworks, as their lights began to flicker on, one by one.  It made a nice celebratory picture.

I was celebrating Independence Day in a much different way. I was in the middle of my second double shift, hauling garbage bags across the beach area, bitterly resentful of every girl my age who could wear a fancy dress and drink and lounge about for the evening. I was planning on going home and scrubbing every inch of my skin off, having subjected it to various kinds of barbecued food, garbage stains, and plenty of sweat. Even worse, I’d just found out I couldn’t go home once we’d packed all the food away. No, the wait staff was staying until the bitter end, so we could pack up 200 chairs and the thirteen tables. I wanted to scream.

“Can you get a trashbag for us?” asked one of the bartenders, casting a quick glance at the debris behind her.

I eyed the hill and two sets of steep stairs with a feeling of resignation. “Of course.”

The dishwasher looked at me with some sympathy as I dragged myself in the kitchen doors. “How ya doing?”

“Hrmphfmfh.” I stomped off towards the back room to find can liners.

Coming out of the kitchen, my boss caught my arm. “The fireworks are starting!”

I stared at him for a moment, without much enthusiasm. I’m carrying a trash bag, I’ve been throwing out plates of garbage all night, fetching people drinks, taking out the trash, explaining that stupid vegetarian dish to eighty people, and you want me to stay here until at least midnight. Fireworks. Whoopie. 

“Okay,” I said, sighing. “I’ll be right down.”

The fireworks were indeed starting and I sat on the darkened steps for a moment, watching the first explosions of white and blue and red. The scene beneath me was beautiful, the strings of lights softening everything into their mellow gold.

“Come on, come on, fireworks!” A gaggle of kids streamed down the stairs, eager to find their parents or friends or a good spot to watch from.

I wandered down to the beach, finding all the waitstaff and bartenders gathered around the bar. Right in front of most of the members. I didn’t care. We all stopped for a few minutes then, bartenders, wait staff, country club members alike, to turn our faces towards the lake, as the fireworks exploded over the lake. I wedged in between two of the wait staff, to lean against a table and tilt my face up towards the sky, illuminated in flashes of red and white and green and yellow. A boy who had been trying to buy me a drink for the last two months, but was foiled by my not-of-age-to-go-to-bars status finally succeeded, handing me a gin and tonic, and trying to pay for it without me noticing. I pretended I hadn’t. The employees toasted each other with our free drinks and sipped them, eyes fixed on the sky, but minds maybe elsewhere. I watched the fireworks try and reach for the stars, and wondered what the stars thought of our brightly colored sparks, if they sat up in their celestial perches and laughed at what they must surely consider human folly. Or if they maybe liked the company. It must get lonely up there. The light of the fireworks was reflected in the still waters of the lake. I imagined my friends on their boat, watching the same fireworks. Looking behind me, everyone looked quiet and entranced. Peaceful, bathed in the contented glow of being surrounded by family, friends, good food, plenty of drinks, and the holiday-feeling. I put my trash bag down on the table behind me, and watched my boss put his arm around his wife. I wondered if he was thinking about his son, gone these six months.

“The fireworks in Oneonta can’t even compare with these,” said one of my co-workers.

“You can’t beat fireworks over a lake,” I said, feeling a little smug to be from Cooperstown, where we had fireworks over our lake.

“It’s beautiful,” he agreed, and we lapsed into silence again.

The finale fired off in a five-minute explosion, one right after the other, and everyone whooped and clapped and cheered.

“Happy fourth of July,” someone said, patting me on the shoulder.

“Happy fourth,” I said, smiling for the first time all night. It was the small moments that mattered, those fifteen minutes of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my co-workers, drinks in hand, enjoying a moment together. Where everyone was equal: members and workers alike, enjoying the spectacular show.