Timing is Everything

55 year-old Carolyn:

Why won’t people just leave me alone! I enjoy my own company. I have everything I need. And what I don’t have, I can live without. I’ve had a long line of losers teach me how. What makes people think they know me, and what I need, better than I do? I don’t need anybody; I don’t want anybody.  It’s been years since I willingly answered my door. Leave your business outside and maybe I’ll get to it. I doubt you have anything I can use anyway.  I had to have the doorbell uninstalled because I couldn’t stand the sound of it. Ding dong ding-a-ling dong. Made my skin crawl. Bare-knuckle knocking isn’t much better, but at least it’s direct and easier for me to ignore until it goes away. Can’t anyone take the hint? 

* * * 

15 year-old Carolyn:

Of all foster families, how did I get stuck with this one? They don’t really want me.  I can tell. Maybe in the beginning they did, I really had hope. Foster Mom has a decent collection of books I’m interested in, like the entire Oz collection. I had no idea there was so much more to it than The Wizard of Oz.  They even took me to the local library so I could get my own card.  But then, miracle of miracles, we’re pregnant! They don’t really want me. And just when I was beginning to fit in, I thought.  We all like to read.  Well, I don’t want to fit in now. I’m just a babysitter, a convenience, free labor, and I don’t know what I’m doing half the time and then they get mad and I won’t get my allowance. And I need my allowance or I can’t even afford my cigarettes, and I’d die without my smokes. I’m running low on weed, too, and that’s the only thing that keeps me sane around here now.  Makes Oz look like a place I’d really like to be. 

I don’t have a memory of my own family. My dad OD’d when I was a baby and my mom got locked away pretty soon after that, so the story goes. My grandmother raised me until she died. I was only five then and I vaguely remember her. I remember feeling safe and warm and her reading to me.  I know she’s the reason I read as well as I do. She had a love of books and passed it onto me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way, like someone took a real interest. Now, I just feel like excess baggage.  I don’t remember any of my people, but that’s probably just as well.   I can create my own family.   At least Jake knows how to score weed and Casey knows the nightlife.  Think I’ll sneak out tonight. No one will miss me.

 *  * *

18 year-old Carolyn:

It’s not that I meant to start the fire. It was purely accidental, not that anybody’d give me the benefit of the doubt.  I really didn’t know hot oil could combust like that. I just felt like making some French fries. But no one believes me. And it’s not like anyone else was home at the time. My fake-folks were out with their real kids, so there weren’t any casualties, to speak of. Well, not counting yours truly, but I was a casualty at the get-go, let’s not forget. My skin itches and burns like hell. No Jakey, no smoke, no weed, no speed, no high to get by. I haven’t ventured out from my cell much but I could probably locate a storekeeper somewhere on the premises. That’s what my foster daddy used to say to me all the time: “If you want to remain on the premises, you’ll have to tow the line, young lady.” Well, they’ve already made it plain to the judge that they have no interest in having me return after my stint here, so I guess there’s no more line for me to tow. 

So, new plan. Being of age but with little, if any, means, maybe I will take those classes they offer. It’s not like I have anything better to do. They have some dumb ass rule about you’re not allowed to use the library unless you’re part of a class, and I heard Lydia say she was planning to, and I would like to know her better.   So I’ll go, at least until something better comes along. I just never want to have to depend on another living soul again. People are nothing but trouble.  But Lydia might be worth it.

* * *

22 year-old Carolyn:

Finally, things are going my way. I’ve been out now for less than a year, I have my GED, and I met this guy. He’s not great looking and he doesn’t talk very much but he hasn’t hit me and he doesn’t do drugs and he has a job.  He’s clean. He drinks a little but that’s okay. More for me! I gave up the pills and powder but I don’t mind beer and a bump now and then. And now, and now. Anyway, I got a job working at a grocery store and it almost pays the rent, but if things work out with Travis, who knows? Easy street, here I come. Imagine me, settled down with a great guy.  Travis and me against the world! I can learn to cook. I helped in the kitchen at the detention center and I picked up a few things. And I don’t need a white picket fence or kids even – at least not right away. Travis has cats but I can probably live with that. They stink but it’s got to be better than where I just came from. I paid my dues and now things are beginning to look up.  I just knew they would!

* * *

28 year-old Carolyn:

What am I going to do now? I can’t afford this place. Not that I want to live here with nothing but memories. If Travis is really gone, I have to figure out what my next move is going to be.  He didn’t even have the courage to face me, the bum.   But he was my bum. Six years together, four under the same roof, and I’m left with a note on the kitchen table with two words, “I’m sorry.” And that’s it? You’re sorry all right. Sure, Travis was always a man of few words but I would think he owed me more than that. I thought we’d get married, I was counting on it. And why did he have to take the cats, both of them?  And he had to wait until I became really attached to them, too. 

My god, I really am alone now, aren’t I? Fuck it. I’m taking the phone off the hook and going back to bed. I don’t want to face anyone right now anyway, not that many people call me anymore. Nobody I know even liked Travis. My friends dropped out of my life like flies.  People can be such scum. A few of them warned me he was gay and was just using me. If I’m honest, I have to admit I had my doubts. He dressed better than I did and was such a great listener. I’ll miss that. The words I dread most in life are “I told you so.” If Travis called, I’m not sure what I’d say. I’m so afraid I’d take him back. I’m too pathetic for words. God, I can barely stand.  I think I’ll take that bottle of Chardonnay with me to bed. At least I know it’ll treat me better than he did today.

* * *

35 year-old Carolyn:

I really thought this was my time, that this time things were going to work out for me. Why did I think that? I knew better. History repeats. Haven’t I been paying attention? I’m a self-educated dumbbell. My life is an endless reel of disasters, a conveyor belt of trash heading to the incinerator, an elevator stuck in the basement with the sewage water rising.  Isn’t that great? Franco convinces me to elevate my interests and get into the classics, and so now I can describe my unholy mess of a life in more eloquent terms. Well, whether it’s Shakespeare or Goofy doing the talking, the results are the same.  And he leaves me for a stripper. Maybe he’ll make her literate, too, though I doubt he’d succeed by the look of her. I’ve played both sides of the aisle so it’s not that I don’t get the attraction, but she’s got the I.Q. of a cork. Wait until he gets around to actually talking to her.  There’s your wake-up call waiting to happen. Please, learn from this. Let’s get a dog.

* * *

45 year-old Carolyn:

You really stepped in it now, didn’t you. You almost died. Is that what you wanted? It had to be. Couldn’t you keep track of how much you were using? You should be dead, gone. Is that what you wanted? Answer me. Yes? And what about now? You don’t know, huh? Well, you know where you’re going after here, don’t you? You’ll be held in confinement, a psych ward, some sort of rehab looney bin for who knows how long. That should give you ample time to figure it out. Why am I speaking to myself this way? Because I deserve it. I’m way too old for this shit. Do I really want to follow in my real dad’s needle tracks?  You know how messed up you sound, right? Well, that’s just me caught in the act of being myself. Fuck you then. Go back to sleep, and don’t wake up until you have something good to say. Yeah, well, I may have to get back to you on that. Doctor? I think I’m ready for my lobotomy now.

* * *

50 year-old Carolyn:

How did I ever live to be a half-century? I should have made my exit a long time ago, me thinks. Following rehab, I spent time in a halfway house. where I met Larry. I thought we had so much in common and that I’d finally found my home. He swept me off my feet. That should have been enough of a warning that it was just a control thing. Boy, can I pick ‘em. We “enjoyed” eight months together, I got expert at ignoring the flags all waving their little heads off. I thought I was happy.

And then we moved in together. It’s that old story. That’s when it all changed. I have the bruises, broken collarbone and scars all documented to prove it.  I’ve sworn off men, women, love.  I’d get a dog but I tried that once and the poor thing didn’t last two years and I practically drained my savings trying to save it.  A lost cause trying to save another lost cause. I’m not being bitter, just honest.  I read once that love is shit with sugar on it.  I get it now. If I have to live at all, I’d rather live alone. 

* * *

60 year-old Carolyn:

Things have settled finally. No one comes around anymore. I keep my doors locked and lights off most nights, especially nights like Halloween, and no one bothers me. I’ve had my mailbox cherry-bombed and my front lawn trees TP’ed more than once. You have to expect people are going to treat you like that. 

The only reason I can live here alone is because of the settlement I was awarded after Larry almost killed me. At least I didn’t fall for a broke batterer this time.   I’m finally living the way I want. I read my books. I’m ready to go but I won’t force the issue. I can wait it out so long as I have my library and my bar. Yep, rehab at least taught me how to draw the line while I’m still able. Attempting a completely sober life, for me, would be like jumping from an airplane with no parachute. It’s reckless and before the jump I already know it won’t end well.  And it’s not like I ever had a safety net.  So. I lay low and travel in my head until the vodka shuts it down, and that’s all right with me. Sweet oblivion.

* * *

62 year-old Carolyn:

There’s knocking at my door for the first time in I don’t know how long. It went on for so long, I thought I would scream. Then I hear this voice I don’t recognize. It’s a man and he said he was looking for his sister.  He said something about his mother passing away and that she had a daughter, a girl named Carolyn. Of course I don’t believe it. There’s so many scammers out there, people looking to take anything and everything you’ve got. And I learned my lesson a long time ago. Finally, the joker gave up and left.

The next day I open my door to take out the trash. There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground from the night before, and it’s cold. As I’m fastening the top button of my coat, I see an envelope on the mat. All it says is “Carolyn.” I look around and don’t see anybody. I pick it up, put it in my coat pocket and then bring the garbage out to the garage.

Back in the house, I open the letter. And this is what it says:

“Carolyn,

It’s taken me a long time to find you. I didn’t even know you existed until two and-a-half years ago and I’m willing to bet you didn’t know I exist. My name is Edward Canton, Eddie, and I’m your half-brother. Our mother had me while she was in the psych ward in Beth Israel Hospital in New York. I was put up for adoption so I wasn’t raised by our mother and never knew who my father was. But I’m not contacting you to share my tale of woe.”

My hands were shaking so bad, I couldn’t continue reading. I went to the bar and poured a finger of vodka into a glass and swallowed it. I steadied myself as best I could, went into the kitchen and got some ice. Then I poured more vodka into the glass and went back to the letter and picked up where I’d left off.

“I would like to meet you. There’s too much to explain in a letter and I would like to hear your story, too. If you would like to meet, you can let me know by taping the envelope this letter came in to your door. I wrote my name on it and I’ll know. You don’t owe me anything. I just would like to meet you. I don’t care if it’s only for a minute. It would help me. 

I’m sure you’re wondering if I’m who I say I am. The charm I’ve enclosed was our mother’s and one of the few things the hospital gave me that belonged to her.  I’d want you to have it in any event. 

I hope to see you soon.

Yours,

Eddie”

A charm? I picked up the envelope and saw in blue marker the name “Eddie” on the back of it. I felt something inside and retrieved a small oval disk that had a diamond embedded at one end and a name engraved in the center, “Carolyn.”

I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my face. I didn’t know why I began to cry like I did. I’d never cried before unless it was from frustration, pain or despair. This felt so different. It felt good. I realized I was crumpling the letter and envelope in my hands so I set them aside and allowed years of repressed hope and longing that I hadn’t allowed to surface pour out of me like a dam broke. It had been a luxury I had refused myself because I hadn’t any faith that such things were of any value, certainly not in my experience. A turning point.

* * *  

When Eddie came into my life that day, I opened my door willingly for the first time in a very long time. He brought with him two bags, one bag filled with groceries to make dinner. He introduced himself, looked around and placed one of the bags on the floor near the door. Then we talked. We worked in my kitchen together and enjoyed a lovely chicken and rice dinner. I was surprised how easy it was. 

After cleaning up, we sat on my couch with glasses of port. I’d forgotten about the other bag Eddie had brought so I asked him about it. I’ll never forget his answer.

“It’s for you. Merry Christmas.” And he smiled.

It’s Christmas? The look on my face must have given me away; that and the lack of any tree or decorations. We both laughed and I felt a tear trickle down my face. 

“Didn’t you notice the decorations on all the other houses? What did you think it was for?”

“Well,” I said, “I knew it was the season but that’s all I cared to know. I didn’t celebrate.”

Eddie looked at me. “Mind if I help you change that, Ms. Scrooge?

“You’re not too busy?”

“That’s what I was hoping. I’ll be busy getting to know my new family.”

* * *

So, there it is. Out of the vast wasteland of my existence, just as I was getting ready to call it quits and good riddance, the greatest gift came knocking.  And you’ll never convince me that there isn’t an angel for everyone, and a shot at redemption. Both came to my door that day. 

I’m just glad I opened it.