In Life

“I think I’m lost in time.”

We all sit in the movie theater. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Everyone is rapt. This movie is not too long, although I can’t remember a time before the movie began. This movie is familiar; I know I’ve seen it before. This movie…

“These are times when Diana truly loved.”

Someone, a few rows ahead, shifted in their seat and turned to look at me. I meet his eyes. Looking at him—his eyes are wet—suddenly, the room tilts. I need to be near him. It’s not about anything else. Our eyes are magnets, and I am stepping over the legs of people who look so familiar and do not mind that I am getting up.

I keep my eyes steady on him, swallowing, although I did not need to, kinda nervous, should I be? as I make my way down the aisle and toward his row. I step over people, again, to get to him—and the empty seat next to him. I sink into it with a sigh of relief. I’m in physical pain somewhere, everywhere. He holds me.

He holds me.

I am crying. We are crying. Our eyes are wet, and our tears are drops in the oceans of the other. His mouth is on my cheek, his inhale pulls on my hair, my arm winds around his waist. And my heart has been racing. My chest is hollow and big, and I am shaking. It’s okay. Whatever this is, this is okay. This is okay.

I look at the screen; I’m watching a man, older, maybe early 50s, leave the car door open. It’s a grey, cold-looking day. There are Christmas cookies on the dash with a red grosgrain ribbon around them. There’s a tinny dinging noise that goes on and on. No one makes to stop it. The door remains agape. The man is walking away, fast. But there is someone still sitting in the car.

I know this scene. I’ve seen it before.

He is walking toward a large concrete building; he passes it along the side, in the shadows, and just before he turns the corner, I see him wipe at his eyes, throwing his arm out as if to throw his tears to the ground.

But this part, I haven’t seen before. A very young girl sits in the passenger seat. All dressed up. White coat, gloves. I have never seen such a young girl look so old. She is pale yellow, her eyes are red with dark circles under them; she has a large, makeup-covered swollen mark under her right eye, her skin is flaking, her nose is red, and tears are running uncontrollably down her face. Her nose is dripping. She looks old. She looks very old for someone her age. But she's beautiful; I wish I could tell her that.

And suddenly I feel nauseous. Like the room is moving again, like I am being pulled backward—I reach out—reach out desperately, hoping for him. He has to be near—he was just near—with the wet eyes—I need him—I touch his fingers, and everything stops moving. But I am not really anywhere; it is just our fingertips. His fingertips seem to say, “I am here,” “It is okay, you don’t have to worry, you will find me again.” We squeeze each other’s hands—and then I’m off.

I’m watching the snow fall in the courtyard out the window. There are statues in the courtyard; did I remember that? In front of us are large floor-to-ceiling glass windows and we are sitting on a plush curved bench with a high wooden back. We have the same shoes, how funny. There are others around us in these same spiral yin-yang benches, whispering, or giggling. It’s so peaceful. But there’s an undercurrent.

I’m typing on my computer; I don’t know what I’m writing. This semester, all I have done is go over to Thomas’s in the evenings, drink whiskey, and watch Twin Peaks. Walking down the old street next to campus after rehearsal, with its colorful Victorian houses and lazy porches under the orange hum of the streetlights. Spying the glow of the senior housing across the creek through the dark and dense woods.

I can’t remember anything. Well, I didn’t study a damn thing all semester. Shit.  

He picks up my hand; I look at him from the corner of my eye, but his eyes are still on his work. History. He’s carrying my hand, palm up, gently cupping my wrist; he presses my palm to his beard, his lips, he closes his eyes, holding the back of my hand; so so gently, he rubs his face back and forth. He stays like this for a while. I feel his warmth, his breathing, the softness of his lips. I think he says my name, softly.

I thought, I have never felt anything more tender.

I watched the snow fall in the courtyard.

Sometimes my mother is too much. I love her too much. I care about her too much. I truly can’t handle it. She thinks I don’t like her, or something. I can’t convey this to her. The words I have don’t work.

Her friends are all laughing and talking over one another, crowded on the little couch. One of them, Linda, wears leather pants—she was just at the motorcycle rally in town—“You should go!” she said.

This is good, though. She’s in really high spirits, radiant, even, as only my mother could be right now, but I know her. I watch the bag sitting to the side of the bed fill with yellow liquid; one of her friends follows my eyes. This is for me to see, not for you. You probably shouldn’t think of her like this. But this is good, either way, this is good. A good sign. I hope she knows to think of it like that. Maybe she does. My mom either doesn’t notice or pretends she doesn’t. As well as I know her, sometimes I don’t. One thing I know; after the highs, come the lows. I suddenly get nervous; I pick up the broth.

“Okay, you have to have a little bit. Do you want a spoon or a straw?”

She gets serious, because she is grateful for the break from them. She loves to focus on a task. To be taken care of. If there’s one thing I know, sometimes people wear us out.

“The straw.” She prods with her fingers around the tray; I see it before she does. The paper’s wet.

“I’m gonna go get another one,” I turn to go find one, but Mike says, “There’s extra on the counter there by the sink.” I nod.

I use some hand sanitizer, and then grab a fresh straw and bring it over to her. I tear the paper away, like I learned to do for the sodas at the barbecue restaurant, and hold it by the paper tip as I put it into her bowl of broth. She needs a cup.

“I need a cup.”

I consolidate two cups of water she had and pour the broth into one of the cups.

“I’m gonna help you sit up a bit, okay? I’m gonna tilt you upright a bit more.” I go slow. “Here, I’ve got you,” I grab the sheets to move her, as Mike scoots around her friends to grab the other side, careful not to push or jostle her. I watch her wince. I can’t think about what that would feel like, but I do. I see it in her eyes. Her body is more familiar to me than my own, and now it’s different. She will always be different after this. This is the beginning. There was a funny taste in my throat, my ears hurt.

I thought about her giving birth to me; that was probably the last time she was in a hospital. I pictured her glowing, smiling, in her thick socks and long ponytail. My mom.

Her friends exchange uncomfortable looks, unsure as to whether or not to keep gossiping.

I look at her neat hair, her beautiful thick hair still intact in a glorious bun. She is still here. She is still here. I hold the cup up to her and she takes a sip from the straw.

The room tilts from under me; I have a headache, I feel nauseous, like the room is moving.

“I love you, cousin.” She grips me really tight; I almost can’t look back at her as I roll my suitcase toward the door. But I do and I smile and waive, “I love you!”

We fought nearly the entire time. We always fight nearly the entire time. I really miss her. My breath was shaky as I approached the check-in desk.

We also talked about everything the way that I could only talk about everything with her. In the car. On the way to the beach. I still remember when I couldn’t talk to her about sex. How I kept that a secret from her, when I should have told her, told someone.

I rode the escalator. It felt wrong to be here without my mom. It felt wrong to be leaving already. My little pink suitcase.

I miss her so much. I thought we would go to the beach with the Cousins and the Uncles and Aunts and Grandmother forever. I didn’t think it would end up being such a small portion of life. Those weeks were everything to me. All year I would wait.

I could feel at any time I wanted to the thick brine on the air, the warm wind blowing my hair as I grabbed the rope and stepped up onto Uncle Tom’s boat deck.

Nothing felt like a summer evening on the beach in Alabama. Just nothing else. The smell of sulfur from the fireworks. The way it hurts your nose like you drank it too fast.

Putting soap and toilet paper in Grandmother’s bathroom, carrying up her navy blue hard-sided traveling cases. Her Clinique compacts, her lipstick, her tissues, her suits.

Her smell. Her gold jewelry. Her stockinged feet resting on the footrest.

 So many reliable things—gone. I didn’t realize life was like that. I mean of course it has to be, I’m not an idiot. But I’m not sure how anyone’s supposed to feel about all the loss—am I more sensitive to it than other people? Or do we just not talk about it? Is it self-indulgent to feel this pain?

The water was pretty cold according to Anna; but this was the time I had. It was warm enough for me. I wish everyone else had gotten in with me and spent the afternoon in the waves like we used to with Aunt Beth and Uncle Matt, and Ralph, with his goggles on, spending the whole time underwater looking at who knows what like a frog. He never told us what was going on down there.

We ate strawberries this year instead of peaches, we drank margaritas, instead of frozen lemonade and Sprite with a sugar rim—well we had a couple of those. Thank God we didn’t drink sugar beer, a ‘Gulf Shores Iced Tea,’ as I had christened it our last year at the beach house.

The keg from Uncle Jim’s wedding had been unloaded into an iced tea pitcher in the kitchen fridge, where it had gone completely flat. I loved a bit of sugar in my iced tea, especially at the beach.

Grandmother was sitting in her chair in front of the big TV, and I was in the kitchen. I always tried to tread quietly, everyone did, or else,

“Anna? Is that you, Sugar?”

“No, it’s Diana, Grandmother.”

“Oh, Diana dear, could you get me a nice, ripe peach?”

“Of course, Grandmother, do you want a bowl?”

 “Could you wash it and put it in a paper towel with a nice little bowl for me?” she laughed her liquid sugarcane laugh, “Thanks, Sugar!”

The smell of the peaches, the cantaloupe, the tomatoes, the clean dishes. The dappled glass cutting board. I could see the waves rolling in out the window. The oil rigs on the blue horizon. The hot yellow sand.

I selected the best peach (Anna was better at it, but she wasn’t up here) and ran it under the cool water, smoothing the fuzz off with the palm of my hand. I felt suddenly self-conscious about my still slightly sandy feet and legs, the towel around my waist, my sloppy ponytail. I wrapped the peach in a paper towel, wrapped my torso in the beach towel, fixed my hair, put the peach in the paper towel in the bowl, and walked over to Grandmother.

“Here you go, Grandmother.” She needs a knife.

“Diana dear, will you go grab me a knife? Thanks, Sugar.”

“Of course, Grandmother.”

I brought her the knife, handle first—“Thanks, Sugar! Are y’all having fun out there?” her smile lit up her whole face with hope.

“Yes Grandmother. We’re having lots of fun.” I smiled at her right back. I really looked into her big brown eyes; just like mine.

Hers melted, “Good!” She squeezed my arm with her soft hand, “Good!”

When I saw him come in the door, I stood up immediately.

“Hey,” I was so happy to see him.

“Hey,” He smiled at me. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t. I didn’t need to right now.

So, this was it. This was the beginning. I guess, in life, there are lots of beginnings, too.

“Have we met before?”

I smiled. I walked ahead and turned to look at him, so he’d know to follow.