The First Five Years

The First Five Years. That’s what the diner guy said. I mean, he was a bit seedy looking, and he had a gross mustard stain on the belly of his shirt, but what did I have to lose? So here I am at the bookstore looking up this random title. Ok, here it is! Wait a minute. This little girl on the cover kind of looks like I did- but only kind of- when I was small. I check out at the counter with a young boy of about seventeen. He’s got shoulder-length wavy brown hair and a mouth full of braces. I think he’s the owner’s nephew or something. Anyway, he smells a lot like bologna and I’m glad to walk out of there.

I get home and my roommate is just getting out of the shower. I’m not in the mood for her sunny attitude, so I hasten to my room before she has a chance to speak. I hate it here. Literally. But rent is cheap, and I have a pretty cool view of the city from my bedroom so, “it is what it is,” I guess. I belly-flop onto my bed (I’m so glad I actually made it this morning) and start flipping through the pages. The seedy diner guy said it was a great read, but I decided I’d be the judge of that. I ignore the weird feeling in my gut and start reading.

Immediately I’m transported to the back of a taxicab. It’s nighttime, and rain is pounding the car in a hypnotic rhythm that almost appeases the fact that I was just sprawled across my bed two seconds ago. The book slams shut- I guess I’m the one that closed it- and I stare at the cover in disbelief. This time the little girl on the front of the cover is me! I stare into her eyes, my eyes. This has got to be some sort of prank. I sit on the edge of my bed and let my eyes dart around the room. Everything is as I left it. A pile of dirty clothes in the corner next to the basket (I pulled them all out last night when I was looking for... never mind). The window with the view of the city is slightly open, letting that cool April breeze in that I love so much. My tiffany-style lamp is sitting on my nightstand collecting dust as usual, and my 32-inch smart TV is displaying its normal “Birds of the Earth” screensaver. So, do I burn this magic book, or do I go for the ride? I lean back onto my pillow, cross my legs at the ankles and buckle up.

The rain is pounding on the outside of the taxi once again. The poor driver is standing beside the car, soaked to the bone as he begs a pregnant woman in the back seat to stop screaming and push. I’m in the front seat shielding my ears from the piercing screams when she gasps for air and starts to bear down.

“That’s it, lady!” The driver coaxes. “Push! It’s coming! IT’S COMING!”

This lady, about twenty years old or so, brown-haired and green-eyed looks right through me and lets out a guttural moan. She inhales deeply and grunts. She’s obviously pushing. The driver reaches his hands up her dress and pulls out a screaming, wriggling, naked, newborn baby girl. Both mom and driver laugh and cry simultaneously while he wraps the baby in his jacket and hands her back to her mother. Just as he closes the rear passenger door, flashing lights approach the vehicle. I must have closed the book again at some point because now I’m staring out of my bedroom window again. But no amount of staring out of the window or counting the dirt spots on said window can help me process the fact that I just watched my mother give birth to me.

It's the next day and I barely remember the rest of last night. Honestly, I don’t want to remember. How does one’s brain process such an intrusion into one’s reality? How does one recover and recalibrate? The answer is simple. One doesn’t. So, I just carry on with the day keeping my experience to myself. My roommate baked croissants and sliced some oranges for breakfast, so I huff a thank you and devour three of the pastries and watch her do yoga in the living room. Our apartment is relatively small, but at least the open floor plan gives some semblance of space. From where I sit at the table I can see the entire kitchen, the living room, and the short hall that leads to the front door. Behind the kitchen wall is the rest of the hall that leads to the bedrooms and our tiny closet of a bathroom.

I thank her again without waiting for a response and slam the door behind me. I need to have a chat with this diner guy. I have questions and he damn well better have answers. The diner is two blocks up and one block over. I waste no time marching to the restaurant and flinging myself through the door. I should have thought it through better, though. Because now, since the bell above the door swung so hard it nearly cracked the glass, everyone has stopped what they were doing to stare at me in surprise. Now that I’ve made a scene, I can’t leave without at least ordering an orange juice or something. I help myself to a booth and survey the place while I wait for the waitress.

“You okay, darlin’?” It’s the coffee-breathed waitress with leathery skin and gray hair that must have been red once. She always has kind eyes, and a sweet word to share but today is not the day for niceties. I have a mystery to solve.

“Where’s that guy that always sits in the back?” I ask. “You know the one? That always spills his food on himself?”

“Who?” Her kind eyes go blank with confusion.

“You know the guy…” I insist. “He’s bald at the top and the hair around the side is wispy?”

I wave her befuddled silence off in disgust and order a juice and some toast. I figure I’ll sit a while and see if he comes in. Of course, he doesn’t, so I pay for my food and leave. This time quietly. On the way home, I mentally recount the events. I’d stopped at the diner on the way home from work for my usual: a Rueben sandwich, a plate of waffle fries, and an orange soda. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I was halfway through my meal and noticed Seedy Guy staring at me. If I hadn’t had to use the bathroom, I would have left without ever speaking to him. But I did need to, so we did wound up exchanging words.

I had tried to get past him with my head down but he’d clacked his fork on the table to get my attention.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I’d asked.

“The First Five Years.” He’d said. “It’s an amazing read. Life-altering, in fact. You should get it.”

Now, here I am, back in my apartment, on my bed, staring at this book, too scared to move forward but too vested not to. I finally put on my big-girl shoes and open the book.

This time I’m at my first birthday party. I’m wearing a ridiculous baby-doll dress with bare feet and a birthday girl cone hat. I’m crying and smearing chocolate cake all over my highchair tray while my frazzled mom tries to soothe me. I don’t know where my dad is at first until he finally wobbles his way into the apartment singing a slurred version of Happy Birthday. My mom is embarrassed and my heart breaks for her. Family members and friends gather up their toddlers, some with pitiful looks for my mom and me and disgusted glances for my dad. He would have been quite handsome if he wasn’t acting so ugly. Tears stain my face as I watch my one-year-old self bawl while my parents fight. He’s nothing but a drunk. She’s nothing but a nag. He can’t catch a break. She is breaking. I don’t know how I feel about this. She never told me about the night he died. All I knew was that they had a disagreement on the night of my birthday and died in an accident. But here’s how it goes. He leaves the apartment, stands outside the building, and yells up at my mom about what an ungrateful wretch she is until he trips over his own feet into oncoming traffic. Book closed, I curl up like a fetus and cry myself to sleep.

It's Sunday now, and I decide not to leave my room until I finish the book. At this point, I assume that each chapter is etched from a year in the first five years of my life. I’m struggling to see the point. My mom was young and naïve. My dad was a bum who got himself killed in a drunken stupor. By the time I had memories of my own, I was living with an aunt that would have sooner wanted an actual pet rather than take care of me. Why should I rehash all of this?

 I open the book again anyway, and this time I’m four. I remember this one. It’s Aunt Madeline “Maddie” Washburn. She’s standing akimbo at the bottom of her driveway staring down the road, watching my mom drive off with her boyfriend. Little me is squatting on her lawn feverishly picking dandelions and blowing their seeds into the wind.

This is the day my mom left me with Aunt Maddie and moved to New York City with her boyfriend. This is the last time I saw her. It’s pretty foul, you know, the way she left. Had I known she was leaving me there for good and not just “going to get ice cream for everybody” I wouldn’t have been squatting on a lawn playing with dandelions like an idiot. But alas, I would never see her again and spent the rest of my childhood wondering what I did to make her leave. Aunt Maddie snatches my younger self by the arm and drags her into the house, mumbling something about the unsightliness of little girls squatting in dresses.

I’m almost done with the book so I’m coming up for air. I head to the kitchen for a snack, and you know who is bopping around the kitchen wearing earbuds and using our broom as a microphone stand. I’m not as disgusted as usual; a scoff and a smirk sufficed. I stuff the remnants of a leftover croissant into my mouth and watch her as she finishes sweeping. She’s beautiful; a busty, curvy brunette with blue eyes and a tooth gap. If I wasn’t so cynical, I might appreciate her innocence, her joy. She almost reminds me of me when- never mind.

I get back to my room and exhale in preparation to finish the story. I stop to glance out the window at the city lights. It’s late enough at night to see the lit skyline but early enough that the streets are still bustling with activity. As I stand here, the view seems less like a night scene and more like a portal into another dimension of time, space, or both. The sounds of speeding cars, the occasional outbursts of pedestrian laughter and even a random barking dog blends into one soothing symphony. That’s my sign. It’s time to finish up.

This time I’m nowhere in the scene except as a spectator. I’m in a dingy studio apartment. It smells like mildewed carpets in here. In the dim lighting, I can barely tell that I’m in someone’s living room. There’s a loveseat, a footstool that I’m guessing is doubling as a coffee table, and a floor model TV that’s got to be one of the first ones ever made. Someone whizzes by me and slams themselves onto the loveseat. A tuft of dust and funkiness assaults my senses, but despite that, I can clearly see my mom. She’s been crying, and she doesn’t look as bright-eyed as before. She’s lost weight and has enough bags under her eyes to carry a full haul from Jerry-Mart.

I sit next to her on the loveseat and attempt to swallow the massive lump in my throat. All this time I figured she was living her best life without me, but she was actually wasting away. She pulls the stool between her legs and grabs the pen and notebook that were next to her feet.

Dear Hannah,

Hi honey, it’s Mom. I guess maybe I don’t deserve to call you honey right now, but hopefully, I will earn that right again soon. I’m coming to get you, baby. Not a day has gone by that I didn’t miss you and now I know that my place is with you. And little girls should be with their mamas. I hope Auntie Maddie is treating you ok. I know she can be a bit much sometimes, but I thought I was doing what was best for you. I wanted you to have a stable home and food to eat. But that’s my job and I’m coming to do it. I’m coming for you. I just want to hold you in my arms and kiss you and tell you how sorry I am! I will be there soon, and I promise you we will have that ice cream.

Love,

Mom

I don’t even realize how soaked I am from my own tears. Inside my emotions wage full-out war as I try to decipher what this means. She was coming for me? When? Why didn’t she actually come? What kind of cruel trick was this? I look up at the wall to process. And then I see it. A tattered calendar reveals that it’s the day before my fifth birthday. I look back at my mom who’s staring at her front door in alarm and coughing. Only then do I smell it. Only then do I feel it. The apartment is filling with smoke coming under the door. Mom runs to the window and flings it open, screaming for help. I sit on the seat in disbelief as Mom runs frantically back and forth.

“Hannah! My sweet Hannah!” She collapses below the window in defeat. “Mommy’s so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

I sit with her while she weeps. I cry, too. Eventually, the smoke makes the room invisible. And soon it’s too hot for me to continue. There, in that highrise, on the umpteenth floor of a building with no fire escape, I say goodbye to my mother and close the book.

The knock at my bedroom door gives me no time to process what just happened. It’s the roommate, and she heard me crying so she’s concerned. I have no energy to be dismissive. I don’t have a desire to lash out or roll my eyes as usual. I let her embrace me and spend the next five minutes bawling like a brand-new baby. It’s over. All the questions, the doubts, the rage; were purged. She scurries out of my room and hurries back with a handful of napkins and a cold bottle of water. I place the bottle on my cheek and blow my nose into a napkin. I know I must look a mess; she’s looking at me like some abandoned kitten in a drainpipe. But I digress. After a few sips of water, I scooch back on my bed and prepare to spill the beans. She straightens her back, folds her hands into her lap, and crosses her ankles (that’s so like her).

“You are never going to believe this…” I say.