I had a sudden moment of clarity. These are not my people. If you looked at this scene, maybe as a passerby, or from a helicopter up above, you wouldn’t think twice. I was at a dinner with my husband and two other couples. All lovely people. And I say that with complete sincerity and not a hint of my usual sarcasm. I cannot emphasize that enough. It probably should be stated that though introductions might have been made from my husband’s work, I certainly felt comfortable and at ease with this company. I believe that’s why my sudden realization took me by surprise.
We were discussing the topics of the day. Though I lean left politically, I pride myself on being able to have a conversation with anyone and hearing out different opinions. How else do we learn? Yet, this was more a feeling than any one statement that brought me to my halt. As present company was discussing, no- stating what they believed to be facts about the heated politics of the day, I felt myself become quiet. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to listen either. I just suddenly wanted to be anywhere else. And it shook me to my bones.
I was with my husband, who obviously knows me and gets me as well as anyone could. But as I looked around at the other couples, people I genuinely liked and knew to be good, decent humans, I knew that I would not engage further with them, and I would even remove myself from the conversation. No one, of course, would notice. The evening was otherwise unmemorable.
Yet that dinner has always stayed with me. I was shaken by the overwhelming, yet completely unexplainable feeling like a bolt of lightning. It was a completely lovely restaurant, with people I genuinely enjoyed, and I was sad. We all know it- that release, that aha moment when we meet someone, whether romantically or platonic, and we instantly know they will be in our lives forever. One day will come, you’ll say four words to that person, and they’ll know exactly what you mean. Your tribe. Your people. They might not look like you, but you recognize them. And you recognize when it’s not them too.
I tell myself this is temporary, not forever. He has no words, but rage speaks volumes. I’m stepping over his life to get to the real him. He has strewn his life all around. Clothes, books., games...stuff. Disorder and unwillingness to fight our worst temptations. For my teenage boy, each day is a dog year. That is what a pandemic can do. What if the pandemic ends, and the rage stays? I tell myself this is temporary, not forever.
Oh, how I hate working on the holidays. November all the way through New Years is the most painful time of the year. I know I’m supposed to be all jolly, especially working in kids clothing at a rather large department store with benefits, but man, it’s sheer pain. I will say, the pay is great, I do overtime, and I simply keep my eye on the paycheck prize. Working on commission helps, and that is my sole motivator for getting out of bed in the morning.
It was the week before Christmas, and a frazzled mom walked into my section with her daughter, who I’m guessing was about five. I love the frazzled moms because I can just let them rant, not say too much, and they always buy a lot out of desperation. It’s a little secret I’ve discovered. Just nod sympathetically, ooh and ahh at their kid, and they love you.
So this mom started talking about her little one needing a new dress for Christmas Eve. Something about big family event, yada yada yada. I walk her to our dresses. Then, the daughter, who I quickly learned was named Marjorie, started talking. And never stopped. “Mommy has a baby in her belly. She doesn’t want Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma and Grandpa to know because she said it’s too early and they’ll bug here too much. She didn’t tell me that, but I heard her telling it to Daddy. I can tell you because you don’t know Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma and Grandpa.” (Looks at me) “ But if you do meet Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma and Grandpa, please don’t tell them I said anything. Mommy would kill me and not let me have ice cream for dessert. And I LIVE for ice cream. It’s the only reason to eat dinner. Chocolate chocolate chip is the best! With lots of chips. Like extra chips. Extra chips make my teeth get all black. That’s the best part. Do you like chocolate chocolate chip? It’s the best! Do you like when your teeth get all black? It’s so much fun. Mommy wants me to look extra special at the party so Grandma and Grandpa and Grandma and Grandpa don’t notice her chubby belly because I’m so pretty with a pretty dress. But my teeth will be all black! It’s just the best.” The mom grabbed three overpriced party dresses and threw them on the counter. “I’ll take these,” she said. That was it. I just love my job.
It began as a day like any other. Margie was getting the kids ready for school and Dan was getting ready. It didn’t occur to anyone that Margie might want some time to get ready too. Heck, it barely occurred to Margie, since it would mean she’d just have to wake up earlier, and that was simply not an option. Then all hell broke loose. They heard a large crash, like a large window exploded. A large window had exploded. Specifically from a basketball going through the front picture window. Their tween son had decided it would be fun to throw it for a split second, then.. ooops. Gaping hole right onto their busy, urban street. Before they could even comprehend what just happened, their new puppy jumped right through the open space. Both parents and the boy jumped through the “open” window, with the tween boy quickly redeeming himself by caching the excited puppy, who had mindlessly paused to pee. They all looked back at the window. There was cleaning up to do, a gaping hole to block, no one could leave just yet. Their neighbor, who had been remodelling his house for the past year, walked by with his dog. “This looks like my front yard,” he said almost gleefully. “I have a great window guy for you, he’ll do clean up as well, and he’s at my house right now.” Was this man sent from heaven? He continued, “My wife or I can hang out here for the morning if you need to get the kids to school. We can be your personal neighborhood watch, if you’d like.” It was official. Definitely from heaven. Margie and Dan looked at each other. Their tween tried to not look at anyone at all. All they knew was that without the help of their friends, it would have been a very difficult day.
She’s sprawled out next to me. I don’t have her sense of smell, but i smell her. I don’t have her acute hearing, but I hear her. We are so connected, I just know her. We are calm together. I suddenly remember my appointment, and the rush to get ready begins. She feels my agitation before I do, and it is unbearable. She feels my pain, urgency or joy beyond what I can imagine. I am her world. Is she mine? Nothing would make me happier.
Sami just stared into space. Yet again. She had her whole work area set up for high functionality- there’s the laptop with the Hemingway stickers placed appropriately on the cover, phone nearby but off for premium concentration, and of course, the proper accompaniments- headphones, latte, and a half eaten blueberry muffin. It was all picture perfect for writer on the move. The only thing missing was the writing. Ah yes, the writing. Sami could pontificate on any subject, would love to pick anyone’s brain at any given moment, but just... write? About anything for any length of time? Really?? Surely there’s an errand to run or a cup to refill. Anything but stare at the blank page or screen. Pure torture. Out of desperation, Sami turned on her cell phone and did the deed. Mom answered. “Oh sweetie,” Mom said, after Sami poured her heart out as to her current lack of creativity. She knew she would regret being vulnerable, but couldn’t help herself. “You’re so smart and talented, why don’t you tell that story of when the store was out of strawberries, you asked when they were getting them, and then the storekeeper found you so adorable, he asked you out? Then you had to explain how you were married and a mom, and he couldn’t believe you were old enough to have two teenagers? That’s a great story.” “Mom,” Sami said, as the hairs on the back of her head were standing up, “that didn’t happen.” “Sami, you just told me that story last week! I’m old but I’m not senile.” “Mom, the strawberry guy told me to come back that evening for strawberries, not a date, I said thank you and walked away. I never said anything about my personal life.” That’s not true, honey. I specifically remember you saying you didn’t have strawberries in the house, but had some kind of invitation for later, and that he had talked about how you looked too young to be a mom of teenagers.” “That was you, Mom. You said he would have been shocked by my age, and how young you think I look.” “Really? No!” “Yeah Mom. You created the rest of the conversation that never happened.” “Oh.” Pause. “I guess I did. Well, I like my version better. It’s way more fun.” “More fun then what actually happened?” “Definitely.” “Ok. Great. Anyway. I gotta go Mom. I’ll talk to you later.” “Bye honey. Love you.” Sami went back to her blank screen. Only now she wondered how she thought she was ever the creative one. Her mother should be writing novel after novel, since her inner life was clearly more interesting than anything that actually happened. Clearly it skipped a generation. Or maybe her mom had enough creativity for both of them. She started typing furiously— “I went to the grocery store this morning and they were out of strawberries, so I found somebody to ask...
