Still Recovering

For so long I'd held it all inside.
I fought so long.  I cried.

When did I grow up?
Why was I not told?
It's like I woke up one day and said:
"I'm three days older than three days before,
and I refuse to be a child anymore."

No one told me she almost died; she tried.
No one told me she almost succeeded at suicide.
And now I know.
She hasn't mentioned it
but I know.

And when I listen to her talk, I wonder where I'd be
if no one had walked in and found her lying there.

I wonder what pills she had or what drinks she slammed.
And I wonder if she thought of me when she spent two months in recovery.
I wonder why no one told me.
Or why I didn't wonder for those two months
why she didn't call.

No one told me,
but I know.
It doesn't show,
but I know.
I've got a lot left to live,
to give.
I'm not that child I once was and never will be.

I smile until my lips crack.
I want my childhood back.
But, I wonder where I'd be
if no one had told me.

Running in the Rain

I had a week I can't forget,
a load I'll keep forever.
I walked into uncharted waters,
I wish I'd been more clever.

It rained that night, the lamps were out,
the house had seemed so dark.
The light just outside my window jumped;
yet, the night snuffed out it's spark.

He sat there crying
behind the dark back wall.
The night seemed large, the rain so loud...
why did I feel so small?

I could hear his gulping sobs
as I slowly drew near;
but, I flinched and recoiled
before he saw me hear.

I moved into the kitchen,
feeling scared and trapped.
I felt caged and caught, a wingless bird...
Just then, the screen door flapped.

My eyes turned towards the door
and then flickered back to him.
He stood there in the hall...
the darkness made him dim.

I frantically grabbed my coat
and went flying out the door.
I left him standing there
before he could say more.

The pounding rain caught my cries
and carried them away,
but did not hide them well enough
for they haunt me now today.

I ran and screamed across the field
while flinging fists into the sky.
I hit and punched this nameless foe
and asked God to make him die.

I screamed at him until I went hoarse
and blamed him for my pain.
I tripped and fell into the mud,
sitting curled up in the rain.

I let it run across my face
mixing with my tears;
I whispered out my anger
built up from fifteen years.

I stood once more to face the storm
and fight the nameless foe...
yet, as I drifted more from home
I had nowhere else to go.

I stood there staring toward the line
that separated rain from dirt,
and I felt the cold seeping into my bones
and dampening my shirt.

I tried to move further down,
but something told me no.
As I reared my head up to scream,
I saw my nameless foe.

He sat there laughing in the sky
sending rain to hinder me.
He blinded me with pelting drops
that drove me to my knees.

I tore off my coat and hat
and threw them in the dirt.
Laying on my back, I soaked
my jeans, my hair, my shirt.

I waited for the final blow
which God had promised me...
Or, perhaps it was the devil who had heard
and the one that I could see?

My tears had washed away
and joined current with the rain,
and as I lay there waiting,
gone too was all my pain.

Now, I felt wet and cold...
and a little nauseous too.
I became aware of rocks beneath me
cutting as I moved.

I sat up and searched for warmth
and found my coat and hat.
They were too wet to be much comfort,
so I stood from where I sat.

My fear was much too great right then
to be dealt with in hell.
I knew had I said the word
that's where I would have dwelt.

As I headed toward the house
the clouds slackened to a lull.
The lights were lit now in the windows.
Yet still, they seemed too dull.

Instead I started walking
back the way I came,
and as I moved the thunder rolled
and I braced myself for rain.

I walked for hours, they said;
but, I don't remember much.
Except, my eyes feel tender,

still too soft for touch.

I'll try to sleep this hurt away

and awake alive and new.

Yet, sleep does not work wonders

when I want it to.

As I drift to sleep

and await my dream scape show

I'm still taunted by a face...

that is my nameless foe.

My Only Night in Paris

4:00pm in The Vatican:

I kneel quietly in the pew in the gold room of St. Peter's church. It glows with warm splendor as candles at the altar glint off the reflecting gold relics. My mind immediately turns to my grandmother, who is ill in Oregon. I contemplate how I wanted to pray for her, whether praying for her to get better was really what she or God wants.

So, I pray.

"I just want whatever is in God's plan for her; I want her to stop suffering."

With that, I stand, light a candle, and then push through the crushed velvet curtains back into the expansive church.

7:40 in Rome Airport:

I quietly sit in an uncomfortable seat when I have a strange realization... I begin thinking of the trip. I couldn't, however, separate my thoughts and reflect since I was still in that horrible traveling mode that makes you want to push the person in front of you down the escalator. This trip seemed to determine a lot of things. It made me think about love and made me wonder about a truth I had been harboring for a long time. From that point, something had changed. Not visibly. Yet, there was an odd rift of uncertainty... I thought I was in love, at least in the capacity I knew how, yet questions still existed about my future as well as interfering factors: friends, family, school, life.

Part of me felt going to Italy would fix things one way or the other, and provide answers to various questions: should I even think about love? Was I capable of it? I was 19, and it felt like I was going on 40. So what does that mean? (I know a lot of divorced 40 year olds, and a lot of lovesick 19 year olds).

I'm an extrovert... that seems to pose a lot of problems when I seem to enjoy the company of introverts much more. I like the simplicity of an introvert (not simpleminded, just simple... not going a mile a minute like I feel I sometimes do).

And so, I arrived in Italy, no expectations about the traveling, the sites, or even school. My biggest expectation was to find some answers and to experience and accept internal change.

10:00pm on my way to Rome, heading to Paris:

I suppose the madness all started when my gate was changed. It was only a slight inconvenience, to trek the entire width of the airport in five minutes before I was supposed to board; but, it was definitely a bad omen to the string of events that I would encounter in the next six hours.

When I had heard my grandmother had passed, I had about 60 hours to get back to the states from Florence... which meant going to Rome, flying through Paris, doing a lay over in Amsterdam, flying into Minnesota, and then over to Oregon. When I began my trip from Rome, I did not yet know she had passed yet. That came later.

In addition to finding flights that matched up with this necessary schedule, the sheer amount of traveling in under three days was enough to make any person a crazy one. Furthermore, when I realized the only flight I could take from Rome to Paris was on "Baghdad Air", I was slightly relieved to find that the very attractive stewardesses gave out little croissants mid flight. I let the nomenclature fly by.

When I arrived at the Orle Paris Airport, I was slightly put out that we would once again herd into a large shuttle like cattle to slaughter as we swayed and bumped our way to the actual airport. Why they could not pull into the gate once in the six times I had to board and then deplane, I do not care. I was tired of buses, trains, planes, automobiles, taxis and people in general.

As far as people, leering men were at the top of the list. Looking down my shirt. Yes, yes, look sheepish as I pull a scarf around my neck as a tribute to you, you jerk. (Although my favorite day in Italy was the day Chris and I walked upstream during a marathon in Florence and Chris overheard one man say in Italian to another: "Quit looking at her! Run the race!" It was like something out of the American Girl in Italy photo.



(Now on a plane from Amsterdam to Minnesota. Can't help but feel like I have wasted so much time flying, training, and generally traversing in the past week... yet, feel a sense of accomplishment since I am covering thousands of miles at breakneck speed while sitting on my booty listening to my ipod. That's something, isn't it?

On another note, the plane has become a regular party flight. I am sitting in the 2nd to last row by the bathrooms, so the line has yielded into chat time as a party of twenty traveling together are now all standing with cocktails in hand like they're at a dinner party. Thirteen of them are currently bustled around me babbling in rapid German. Oh, and did I mention I am in the last row by the bathrooms? Guess how many people need to go to the bathroom on a 9 hour flight. Just guess.)

Anyway, when you left me last, I was enduring insane, unsanitary, yet, amazingly, still humorous conditions in a shuttle on the way to the airport. (ps, in flight dinner party is now leaning over me to get a better look at the first bits of Canada below us, while briefly looking at my writing... perhaps testing out their English? hopefully they haven't found that I have written an entire page on being annoyed with them. Also lucky is the fact that my writing looks like chicken scratch/boy writing anyway).

Once I had grabbed my bags, I meandered aimlessly, as I noticed nothing in the Paris airport seemed to have anything in English. I found this odd since in Italy, anything written, whether it be streets or fire safety instructions or even subway maps had the English version of the word before the native Italian word.

Finally, I located the shuttle stop that would take me to Charles De Gaulle... alas, no shuttles. Several fat, balding, red-faced, uniformed men sit outside of a small office smoking next to the shuttle stops. As I approach, I catch one's eye by pointing to the shuttle schedule in my hand. He ignores me and goes back to his cigarette and some clearly raunchy joke he was in the middle of telling. Even as I join the circle inside the office and listen for a break in the conversation to ask when the next shuttle comes, the group continues to ignore me. Eventually, it occurs to one that I am not, in fact, a fat, balding, red-faced, uniformed man coming to join my guffawing buddies, and he asks, "Mademoiselle?"

I reply gratefully, "When is the next shuttle?"

They look at each other incredulously, as if all shuttles had exploded in a headline making national news story and that I was the only idiot that hadn't heard about it in France... no, on the planet. "They're all gone, last stop hours ago." One replies in broken English. I look at my schedule which up to this moment had indicated otherwise, with one leaving at 10:30pm. My watch said 10:15. I reveal my sleuth-like skills. Yet, they still look incredulous.

"It left early," one finally volunteers. "No passengers."

"Ok... " I trail off, looking between my schedule and itinerary with confusion while slowly realizing I could yet end up in a ditch somewhere. After the ridiculousness of the Rome airport, not to mention the past week, I had reached the end of my travel agent's directions. Without a shuttle, I was stranded.

"You could take the metro," a third interjects, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. "Last train for night." He points up at a large train above our heads that looks like the Elle in Chicago. Passengers were boarding.

"Hurry!" The first cries, and I would not have surprised if he had pulled out a whip and slapped me on the ass like a horse out of the starting gate.




As I finally settle in my seat with my bags flanking me and Bridget Jones in hand, the thought occurs to me that perhaps I am on the wrong metro. Second guessing is a favorite past time of mine when travelling. Getting to a place without confusion is impossible for me; nine times out of ten, I am usually in the wrong place and somehow luckily able to correct it before it is too late. In this case, it was too late. The doors were shutting and we were moving. Drat.

I look across me at the tall blond bookish looking man who had been standing next to me on the plane-to-airport shuttle. As if on cue, he pulls out his cellphone and begins conversing in soft French, as if to keep me from overhearing which prevents me from asking any further questions.

Instead of trying to stare him off the phone, I turn my eyes to a familiar diagram above his head showing the stops on the straight blue line, which was obviously this metro's schedule. My eyes follow it along each stop, only recognizing Notre Dame. At last, I see Charles DeGaulle airport; but unfortunately, the blue line splits four ways six stops before it, indicating some sort of transfer that would need to be made. I started to become worried... how would I pull that off with no French and no clue where I was going?





When my focus returns back to the Bookish Man across from me, I notice an older man now sitting next to him, not occupied by a cellphone or other conversation; he was staring at my book with a slight grin on his face. Yes, I realize reading Bridget Jones or Harry potter in Europe is ridiculous looking as an American, but I decide to break his reverie with the only French line that had insured my safe travel up to this point: "Parlez-vous anglais?"

He jumps, startled, and replies, "Only a little." He squeezes his fingers together to indicate the small amount of English he knew. Oh boy.

"Does this shuttle go to CDH?" He stares blankly. "The airport," I press.

"Uh..." He turns to the Bookish Boy (he was now off his cellphone and now donning a youthful pair of reading glasses, thus allowing him to no longer be called Bookish Man). They converse a moment in French and then Bookish Boy begins in soft English, explaining that I needed to get off at the last stop and transfer. From his tone, it seemed that transferring would be the next logical step once I arrived, so I need not be concerned. Slightly placated, though still worried, I nod and then pick up my book, only just barely missing the faint smile on Bookish Boy's face as he eyes the title. Oh bother.

The trip is uneventful, and finally it is Bookish Boy's turn to get off. As he stands, he murmurs something about it being his last stop, wishes me well, and disembarks. I turn back to my book...until I realize everyone has gotten off the train, this was the last stop, and Bookish Boy is waving at me frantically through the glass to get off the train.

"Oh my god!" I squeal, grab my bags and rush for the closing doors, just barely getting through.



"Ok," he begins as if speaking with a small child. "Here is where you transfer. Yours will be the third train." He tilts his head to the side, and speaks slowly, "Now, you must be careful. Not all trains go to Charles Degaulle." With that, he turns to follow the rush of people through the turnstiles, punching his ticket.

I go to follow him until I realize that, in a panic at the airport, I had not purchased a ticket. I could certainly step over the turnstiles as I had seen some do, but being arrested at 2am in Paris was not exactly on my travel itinerary.

Two men remain from the metro, both appearing to be metro workers. As they part, one approaches me, seeing my large bags and wide eyes dating about. "Do you need a ticket?" He asks in French.

"I'm American," I bluster, fearing his further instructions would be in French.

He sighs and leads me to a nearby ATM-like machine which I had missed before.

"Just pick destination, ok?" I nod, and he leaves quickly, off to another important metro duty, I am sure. I turn back to the machine and suddenly want to burst into tears. It is in French. Blast this stupid country and its disdain for English!

I fumble around on its touch screen until I see "Idiomas" emblazoned on the bottom. I touch it, and everything turns into English. Ahhh... I am suddenly a savvy genius and seasoned American traveler. I get a ticket and go to the turnstile to punch it. The gate does not open. I push on the gate. It still does not open. I finally realize I am holding two tickets stuck together and put the other in. Gate opens. Okay, I think, stop gloating, you are still not at the airport or hotel yet. Good grief.

I arrive at the platform to find Bookish Boy looking expectantly for me, most likely correctly assuming that I had issues getting from the train. Immediately thankful he has not left yet, I walk up and ask if he knows when my train would arrive. He explains that it is not this train but the next and it should take me all the way. I turn to ponder the schedule lit up on the board above me and while I do so, he flips open his phone to make a call and then rushes down the full width of the platform. I feel taken aback, and slightly ashamed, for being a lost obnoxious American following him. I watch him as he talks on his phone while peering at something on the wall.

Now fearful once again at being alone and confused, I look back at the flashing board, trying to discern my next moves. Suddenly, Bookish Boy is at my side flipping his phone shut.

"I called one of my friends who lives near your stop. I was in fact wrong after consulting the map down there, " he gestures. "Take the next train." He hastily puts his phone away and then puts out his hand. "I'm Charles."

"I'm Rachel, thank you so much for your help!" I gush. He smiles meekly.

Soon, the train arrives and we board. He was very shy about his English, so our conversation is a bit laborious as he would only speak once he had worked out the correct tense and grammatically perfect sentence. I found myself speaking too fast as I was sick of my inner monologue and glad to have some one to speak to, but eventually slowed down when I realized I had to repeat nearly every sentence so that he could understand. We talk about college and his PHD thesis on Noam Chomsky, his thoughts on the war in Serbia, and President Bush. (Of course, you cannot come to France without being accosted by political theorists wondering if Americans really liked their tyrant of a president. Sometimes, I considered just telling people I was from Canada.)

All the while as we stood swaying on the train, sharing travelling stories, career plans, and dismantling his misconceptions of "Boring Minnesota", a tall black man stared openly at me. I was eventually uncomfortable as Americans are easy targets for theft, and he would not avert his eyes from me or my luggage even while I stared back at him. I was further bothered when Charles got off at his stop after saying goodbye, leaving me alone in the car, with the tall man staring at me, and me staring at the ceiling.

This was briefly alleviated when three large men with huge diamonds in their ears, sideways caps, baggy sweatshirts, carrying some shopping bags with designer labels on them traipsed onto the train. Suddenly, they surrounded me, speaking in rapid French to each other but gesturing at me. I could tell they were annoyed, because it appeared they were asking me questions but I had no idea what was being said.

"I speak English," I blurted once again. "I don't understand what you are saying!"

"English!" They each exclaimed.

"Brit-ish then, righto," one aped loudly.

I smiled until I saw the tall man behind them still staring at me. "No, American."

They laughed uproariously. "American!!" one jeered. "Where you from?"

"Minnesota."

They all became silent. "Minn-e-sot-ahhh," one sounded out, looking perplexed.

"By Canada," I explained, at which I got knowing nods.

"By New Jersey then?" One carrying a Lacoste shopping bag said.

I started to giggle. This was getting silly, and I was so tired, I felt punch drunk. I gave up trying to explain and asked them about their shopping bags. One laughed:

"Oh, is some one trying to get us to carry her luggage?"

At this point, the train had stopped, and we were at my stop. They gave me directions to the next train, only after asking me to join them clubbing the next night. I gave a flippant smile, said, "Au revoir!" and went with bags in hand. They seemed harmless, but I was thankful for the opportunity for a graceful exit nonetheless. As the doors shut, I could hear them catcalling me.

As I began to walk, I suddenly became aware that the tall African man was now walking very closely behind me. I turned slightly back to him, caught his eye, and then sped up. He quickened his step, and I nearly yelped when he reached out and grabbed my arm.

"You are going the wrong way." He intoned, letting go of my arm. "They give wrong directions. This is your train." I followed him over two platforms away from where I originally thought I was going.

"Get off in two stops. O.K.?" I nodded mutely, still shaken. He nodded, satisfied that he had sent me on the correct path.

"O.K. Goodbye." He walked away slowly, gesturing for me to go through the train doors that were now opening in front of me.

I walked into the train, sat down and stared at his back as he glided away from me. By far, I thought, the person tonight who saved me from peril was the one person I thought was going to rob me. I shook my head, upset with myself. I looked up at the diagram above me. Two stops to go, and I will be at my destination.

Once I was in CDH, I again was wandering aimlessly, trying to find some sort of bus, shuttle, or cab to take me to the nearby hotel. It was like de ja vu, for I saw another group of men guffawing outside the front of the airport, yet these men were in plain clothes. I was unsure whether to approach, since this seemed a little bit more of a possibly unsafe situation. Still, there was no one nearby, so I walked up to the men, asking how I could get to my hotel.

Instead of the run-around I had gotten before, a small older, curly headed man in stone washed jeans, a plaid shirt and a light jacket stepped forward. He looked like something out of an old 80's TV series. "Come with me." He turned on his heel and started to walk. I looked expectantly at the men in the circle for any indication of where this man was taking me, but they were back to their conversation. Well, I thought, I haven't ended up in a ditch yet. So, I followed.

The man brought me down a flight of stares to a dimly lit area. As we came down, I realized he was bringing me to the cab waiting area. After speaking to the first cab we came to, he simply put my bags in the cab, and shut the door behind me as a I clambered in. With that, he slapped the trunk of the car and turned quickly to head up the stairs. "Thank you!" I shouted at his disappearing shoes.



The ride to the hotel was a relief, but terrifying as well. The driver spoke in jumbled English, while swearing at other drivers in French. We were soon going at least 100 miles down the motorway, with me clutching my bags. If I die on this highway, I thought, it would be the most ridiculous end to this seemingly endless night. When he opened the door and handed me my bags, I pulled out my wallet.

"No charge," he said gruffly, and then hopped back into the cab.

"What...wait..." I started, but he was already pulling away. I turned back to the hotel and walked in. Interesting place, Paris is. I wondered briefly why he hadn't charged me, whether the man at the airport had told him not to, or he was just being kind to a lost American girl. Inside, I check in and then bought a Fanta and a boxed sandwich from a vending machine and went up to my room.

I set my bags down and went over to the phone and dialed. My father picked up instantly. It was now four in the morning in Paris, and fat tears rolled down my cheeks as he told me that my grandmother had passed away in her sleep. After calling my mother, I slowly got undressed and crawled into bed, pulling a pillow close to my chest and cried until I fell asleep. The last thoughts I had were of the night: Charles, the tall African man, and a kind cab driver. As I drifted off, I stopped myself from worrying about getting to the airport tomorrow and the lay over in Amsterdam. Something was protecting me, and I knew I need not worry.

Mona Lisas, Madhatters, and Mental Wards

I looked amongst the boxes and bags that lay in disarray across the common room of our newly inhabited dorm.  The only order that emerged from the chaos was the four desks bolted to the adjacent walls.  Daisy busily rummaged through one box, while Linnaea carefully unfolded, and then refolded each article of clothing she pulled from her suitcase.


“So what is it, like, a mental ward or something?” Daisy’s voice boomed from within the cardboard box.  As I paused, she pulled her head out to look at me.  I could feel Linnaea studying me from behind.


“Um, I don’t really know…” I began, as I slowly turned the pages in my day planner.  “I haven’t been there.”


“Well, can she leave?” Daisy asked, tilting her head to the side, a piece of chewed gum peaking out from the side of her mouth.


“I’d assume not, she isn’t stable.”


“Uh, yeah…” Daisy murmured, distracted by the two notebooks she had unearthed  from deep within a box that were now clearly stuck together by a wad of gum.  I stood and moved into our bedroom, pausing at the doorway to study the two sets of bunk beds that were crammed into the tiny room.

Stirring behind me, Linnaea chuckled, “It seems rather improbable that four people can sleep in here, doesn’t it?”


“That’s the mildest way to put it,” I laughed.  Sighing, Linnaea slid past me and sat on one of the beds.


“Yeah, a lot of changes in one week, particularly for you,” she said.  I gave her a sideways smile and nodded, realizing how odd it was that these complete strangers suddenly knew nearly as much about me as my own friends back at home.  In some ways, perhaps more.


A knock at our door caused us both to turn.  “It’s for me,” I sighed, and turned to leave.


“See you when you get ‘home’,” Linnaea said, smiling.


In the doorway stood a monument of a man, a mold that should have been erected in some parking lot of a dive bar, standing as a tribute to boozing, smoking, and slovenliness.  He wore an unevenly buttoned flannel shirt that fitted him tightly across his rotund stomach, and then hung lopsided and loosely at his waist.  While his brown laced shoes appeared to be recently cleaned, the cuffs of his pants revealed the faintest layer of mud that had been nearly washed out, but not quite.  Shaking away the thick curls that cascaded wildly from his matted head away from his eyes, he nervously rubbed his freshly shaven face.  I had to give the man some credit: there was real effort put into today’s appearance.


“Everyone,” I swept my arm grandly across the room, “This is John.  John…” I paused as I watched him walk into our bedroom.  Embarrassed I hurried after him, grabbing his arm.


“Four people sleep in here?!” He asked incredulously, putting his hand on one of the top bunks and shaking it, apparently testing it for quality.


“Uh, yeah, can we leave now?” I said, blushing as I saw Daisy and Linnaea appear in the doorway.


“Oh, sure,” John sniffed, and tugged at his shirt.  “Your brother’s waiting in the car anyway.”


Stepping out into the September air, I sighed heavily.  This was my second night at my dorm, and again, I wouldn’t be hanging out with my new roommates.  The day before had been a whirlwind.  Pushed from event to event like cattle, we felt completely overwhelmed and entirely distracted by all the speakers, workshops, and information tables.  The school had a formulaic way of ensuring that when the parents did eventually leave the campus, the students would barely notice.  All had been going as planned for me until about 2 pm on Sunday when I had my meeting with my student advisor.


It began subtly: a small itch behind my ear, a scratch beneath my knee.  As she flipped through my high school transcript, I felt flushed, but not in any unordinary way.  Ah yes, she murmured, as I mentioned this high school and that English class.  Oh really, she mumbled, as I mentioned my extracurricular activities: the sports, the student government, the paper.  Uh huh, she muttered, at my final futile attempts as I desperately tried to make some impression on her.  Finally, she looked up as she turned the last page of my file and gasped.
 
“You-you’re covered in hives!” She cried, pointing at my chest.  Startled, I looked down to see my entire chest, arms, and legs covered in giant splotches.  Sure enough, I was covered from head to toe in an overt allergic reaction.  Almost as nearly as I realized it, did I begin to notice my throat feeling somewhat tight.


Am I having a panic attack? I wondered as I dumbly watched her dial the nurses office, and gesture wildly, staring wide-eyed at my body.  I don’t feel panicked, I thought, tugging at my collar.  It felt as if it was shrinking.  Clearly, neither being noticed for leper-like qualities, nor being known as “that girl with the hives” was my ideal outcome from this meeting.   Hence, I slowly packed up my things, pausing long enough to hear directions to the health center, and gracefully exited.


For the remainder of the day, I listened to the nurses whisper around me as if the reaction caused deafness as well.


She’s very stressed, one sighed.


It’s her first day of college, the poor thing, another lamented.


Did you see she’s just here with her father, and well, I heard about her mother and…


I closed my eyes.  This is awful, I thought, as I slowly drifted off into a Benadryl induced sleep.  What seemed like minutes later, a touch on my arm roused me.


“Ella,” my father said, looking down at me.


“What time is it?” I said, sitting upright.


“Nearly five,” he replied, checking his watch. “I actually have to catch my plane soon.”


“What?” I looked around, disoriented.  “Did we miss all the events?”


My father shook his head, “No, I went to them alone.”


I felt my eyes begin to well.  My father sadly smiled, and sat down beside me on the clinic bed.  Studying the hives that had gradually started to disappear, he took my hand.  “Ellen,” he began, but I heard his voice catch.  A solitary tear slid from his kind, weathered eyes.  “Ellie, if there is any reason why you don’t want to be here, and you want to leave, you can come with me right now.”


“I know, Dad,” I whispered, as I began to sob, sitting up to bury my face in his sweater.


“Ok.”  He stood up, wiping his face.  “I love you so much.  Keep me updated…you know…on this whole thing.”  
He swept his arm through the air, indicating that the hives were the “whole thing.”  I laughed messily, with snot and tears dripping off my face.


“I really am such a piece of work right now.”  I giggled, with tears still flowing down my face.  “I missed my first day of classes!”  Granted, it had been a mock class, but I had missed it nonetheless.  I was already light years behind the other students who had had two days to socialize.


I slowly rose from bed, and wrapped my arms around my father.  He smelled of mint shaving cream and vaguely of cigar smoke.  For whatever reason, he felt the need to hide his smoking from me.  Perhaps it was because he had quit both smoking and tobacco use years ago, and prided himself on his resolve to stay substance free.  He had now been sober for twenty-one years, and he viewed most vices as character flaws.


Now, as I walked back to my dorm, memories of my father flooded back to me.  Eighteen years under a roof with one man had made me not only the definition of a daddy’s girl, but ensured that I inherited every one of his qualities, save the obsessive cleanliness.  This, in hindsight, was unfortunate.  I had gained his temper, and his impatience, his serious demeanor.  That, coupled with my silly humor, made me quite the anomaly.  He never yelled, but when he was angry, a cold storm would come over him, and his low voice would send tremors through my body far before I knew why I was being called into the living room. It was then, more than ever, that I am sure my father saw glimpses of my mother in me, and feared for both of our sakes that it would be quelled by aging.        


I pondered this as I stared out the window in the car, holding hands with my brother, as the small shops and restaurants passed by.  What would she look like?  Would it even matter that I was there?  I sighed and tilted my head so it rested on John’s.  “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters” came on the radio and I shut my eyes.

PBS, Phone Calls, and Paramedics

Four days earlier, I sat on CL’s couch. We ate pizza while watching Simon and
Garfunkel’s famous concert in the park in New York City on PBS. I had given up
my fight with him. I was lonely, and he had persistently called again and again
over the week. I had also given up calling my sister, who had not returned my
calls after I screamed at her upon hearing they had released my mother after 48
hours. I was a train wreck, and I needed to regain composure. Or at least some
semblance of it.


I had never felt so out of control before, or so volatile. A temper was one
thing, but this constant fear of impending disaster followed me each day.
Finally, my anger centered itself where it belonged in the first place: at
myself. I was angry that I had flown off the handle at just about every person
in my life in that week; I was angry that I could not stop thinking or worrying,
all the while enraged at my mother’s selfish act; I was angry that I couldn’t
stop being angry.


I had talked to my mother, and that was when things within me began to change.
She sounded like a ghost, a fragile voice on the other line that only responded
in single words.


“Mom,” I spoke softly, “Why did you do this? Brooke is pregnant. Don’t you
want to see the baby?”


“Yes.”


“Do you understand that if you had passed away, you wouldn’t be around to be a
grandma?”


“Yes.”


“And I’m coming out to school in a month. Don’t you want to see me?”


“Yes.”


“Then why?” I pleaded.


“I don’t know.” It was then that I realized how sick she was.


“I love you.” The other line was silent. “Mom, you know I love you, right?”


“Yes.”


Now, as I sat with my legs intertwined with CL’s, I felt relaxed. He seemed
slightly pleased that he knew what was going on, as if he hadn’t accidentally
been there to hear that first conversation, but rather that I had taken him
into my confidence. He didn’t know that I hadn’t told any one else, and that
Kate had been just as obsessively trying to call me, knowing something was
wrong when I didn’t return a single call. Because CL knew, I felt that I
had sanctuary there, allowed to sit in silence without being questioned.


Of course, it was a mistake to let down my guard. This moment of all moments,
would be ruined by another phone call. Even as Brooke's number flashed across
the screen, I did not think to be afraid.


“She fucking did it again.” Brooke yelled into the phone, the sound of whirring
nearly drowning her out.


I sat up slowly. “What’s that noise?”


“They’re life-flighting her out, to St. Vincent’s. She did it again,
Ellie, I think she won’t survive this time.”


The room began to spin as I rose and walked into the kitchen. “How?” I
expected it would be medication again.


“I’m sorry I didn’t call you until now, they’d been searching for her all
afternoon,” Brooke sounded winded as if she were running. I heard a car door
slam, and the background noise was now minimized. “She’s going into surgery as
soon as she arrives.”


“Why?”


She plowed over my second unanswered question. “Alex is already there, and so
is Nelson. John is in the chopper with her. I’ll call you when I know more.”


The line went dead.


I turned to see CL standing in the doorway. My eyes began to blur with
tears, and he rushed over to me.


“Your mom?” He questioned, wrapping his arms around me. I began to shiver
uncontrollably, and he lifted me and brought me to the couch, pulling a blanket
around my shoulders.


“I need to go home.” I stood up, grabbed my keys, and walked out the door. He
was smart to let me go. Without thinking, I drove to Kate’s house, and
cried to her until the early morning.


The next day, I received a call from Mary, my mother’s psychologist, who would
explain what had happened at my sister’s behest. The story that she outlined
was much more graphic than intended, as I made her stop and explain in detail.


My mother had spent the week under a fog of depression. John feared leaving her
anywhere alone, yet he had a business to run, so he carted her around like a
child on his errands. She sat in the car and stared blankly out the window as
he ran into the hardware store, his paint distributor, the shop, and his
office. At night, she picked at her food, despite his urging, and then retired
to bed at eight. John had an alarm randomly set to check on her throughout the
night. Mary paused to swear about the incompetence of the hospital for
checking her out early. She and John had kept a watchful eye, however. 


As Mary spoke, I began to realize that she was carefully wording everything.
She’s afraid of me, I realized. I had left an angry message on her phone the
day after the first attempt; the day that was supposed to be spent resting
instead of working was spent instead trying to lay blame and get explanations.
John had likely warned her about me, knowing that I loathed him, and would
likely blame him for the second attempt.


The week had been routinized, with watches scheduled to keep eye on my mother’s
behavior, she said. It was clear that she had been waiting for the first
possible moment to try again, however, because John had left her napping,
thinking he could runto the office and back before she would wake. When he arrived at the field,
however, he was greeted by my panicked brother who had been running the
business in John’s absence. The seventeen year old had gotten in a fight with
one of the distributors, and failed to place an order for the upcoming weekend.
Thus, John was gone much longer than he had anticipated, and soon began to grow
fearful that he was making a mistake by staying to help with the order.


So, he picked up the phone and called the house. There was no response. He
hoped she was still sleeping, and replaced the receiver, slightly placated that
she had not answered the phone. He turned back to the paper work. Several
minutes passed, and soon he began to worry again. There was a phone next
to the bed, and it would be odd if it had not woken her. Not wanting her to
wonder where he was, he picked up the receiver and dialed again. She answered
on the first ring.


Startled, he asked how she was, but he instantly knew something was amiss. She
seemed abrupt, as if she was trying to get off the phone quickly. Feigning the
need to get more paperwork done, he hung up with my mother. Shouting to my
brother from his car, he sped off to the house. The sight that lay before him
when he arrived was unimaginable, yet I could see it clearly as Mary described
it.


The house looked like a murder scene. The front door lay open, with the screen
door partially ajar. Bloody prints glowed hotly on the front porch. John ran
upstairs, following the smudges to the bathroom. A pool of blood was still
running into the drain in the tub, with a trickle of water from the faucet
helping it along. More red was smeared on the sides of the tub, with puddles
spattered over the majority of the white tiles near the sink. The phone lay
off the hook, with a bloody handprint tarnishing its handle. The razors sat
under running water in the sink. Running back downstairs, John saw the
bloodied butcher knife on the table. That was when he placed the call to 911.


They found her, nearly a mile away, in a ditch near the railroad tracks. The
dogs found her first, and then the police called to have a life flight come.
Her wrists were clumsily slit vertically, soaking her from head to toe in
sticky blood. It was the stab wounds, however, that worried the medics. Blood
and fluids seeped from the wounds in her lower abdomen. Though she was
unconscious, her hand was wrapped tightly around one wrist. When they
unclenched her grasp, they found a large flap of skin hanging loosely, with an
artery spurting blood. It was clear that she had become squeamish from cutting
herself. The phone call from John had likely startled her, causing her to
panic. Running downstairs, she saw the knife, stabbed herself eight times, and
then ran out of the house, knowing John was coming back soon. Rushed straight
into surgery, they repaired the damaged stomach and intestines, but she had
lost an incredible amount of blood, and the transfusions were coming much too
late. They feared she might not make it. Mary stopped.


“How are you doing, Ella?” She asked.


I inadvertently laughed. “How am I doing? How am I doing.” I could hear Mary
take in a sharp breath, likely steeling herself for a tirade of anger. “I’m not
doing well, Mary. But that is to be expected, isn’t it?” I sighed. “Having a
mother who would rather end her life than be with her family…I understand she’s
sick. But I am angry, and I’m tired. And I don’t understand how someone who
wants to die so bad, doesn’t succeed at it.”