I absolutely love how life takes you in weird circles. The world is round and sometimes our paths are too. It's so cool.
Take, for instance, the fact that I randomly booked the cheapest hotel I could find on Hotwire. I chose a hotel in Valdosta, GA because it was a little less than halfway from Atlanta to West Palm (I am in the process of moving everything I own in this world--basically two sundresses and a laptop computer-- to South Florida).
I wound up with a reservation at Motel 6 for the awesome price of $30.
And guess what? I pulled into that hotel...er, motel...last night only to discover I had been there before. It was the SAME EXACT HOTEL I stayed at while doing a blitz build for Habitat for Humanity 7 years ago. Yep, in June of 2003 I built houses for one week.
That was the week I decided to take a year off from college and volunteer full-time with AmeriCorps. It was a moment that changed the course of my life. Without that year of AmeriCorps, I wouldn't have had the passion or the desire to write a novel (let alone ELEVEN of 'em). I wouldn't have had a message to send to the world, a sprinkling of encouragement to douse on strangers and friends.
So how's that for a weird little story?
I love the surprises that this world holds. God knew our route before we were born; He planned these cool incidents. That knowledge gives me comfort.
Wellll needless to say it was an emotional, riveting day.
I officially moved into my new West Palm Beach apartment. Amid the madness, I found time to continue working on book #3. So here's your daily dose of Alyssa Rossini.
Love, Lisa
I’m in the passenger seat, opposite the curb. Bending to see over Proctor’s head, I scan the crowd of people waiting for rides. There’s a group of older men who are probably here on business. There are also several families. My eyes land on one Indian family. The child, perhaps seven or eight years old, is moving in circles, fidgeting as though she’s been caged up for years. She darts toward the flow of traffic.
I watch as the child’s mother rushes toward her, panicked, and grabs her hand. Even with her mother clasping her hand, the girl manages to swing wildly, kicking her legs all over the place. She’s nervous about something.
She’s jumping out of her skin, which I can relate to; I have to clasp my hands in my lap so I can’t see them tremble.
Then he appears.
I nod at Proctor, and he understands. Steering the car up to the curb, he waves at Kevin.
“Welcome to de islan,” Proctor calls. I hear the words, but they’re muffled, as though being spoken underwater.
In a daze, I open my car door and walk around the vehicle. Standing on the curb, I attempt to formulate a sentence. But I can’t speak. Fortunately, there’s no need for words; Kevin rushes forward, arms extended. He wraps me in a hug. Something comes back to me, some vague memory, but it dissipates as I close my eyes and sink into his body. His arms feel the same as always.
The boy before me is the same old one I fell for all those years ago. He’s a little thinner and a little older, but this really is my Kevin.
No, I scream at myself. He is NOT yours.
Without letting go of Kevin, I pull back just far enough to look at his face. He belongs to Megan now; the green flecks in his eyes are her property.
I anticipated pain, but this is unbearable. I hate that Kevin is right here before me. It’s so much worse than having him be thousands of miles away. Because then, at least, my eyes can’t trace the contours of his perfect chin. My fingers can’t grip the firm surface of his back.
“Hi, A,” he says, smiling as though he can’t hear my heart shattering. “How are you? You look incredible.”
Really? I don’t eat for days. I get dizzy walking down long hallways. Sometimes at night my heart constricts so tightly that it feels like my body is imploding.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to muster a smile. We’re still touching each other, in a pulled-apart hug. He leans in one more time for a final squeeze.
“How’s life? This place looks awesome, and I’ve only been here for five minutes!”
“It’s great. I joined a sisterhood --a Caribbean sorority-- and I’m loving classes. The island’s beautiful, as you can see. These people are nicer than any other group of people I’ve ever met.”
I grab one of Kevin’s bags, hoisting it into the trunk of the car.
“I’m glad you’re happy here,” he assures me. But it’s a lie; my happiness does not determine his. His happiness is secure now that he and Megan are engaged; I was left behind quite easily.
“How’s Iraq?” I ask, slamming the trunk shut.
“Crazy. Those kids live in a world of bombs and fighting and super tight government controls. But I’m working closely with the children in my village; they’re starting to trust me. I feel like I’m making a difference there. At least, I hope so.”
He’s not just saying that to sound heroic. I’ve known Kevin long enough to know he means it. The guy is thrilled to offer his life to others, in order to make things a little easier for them.
I want so badly to trace his jawline with my fingers. Anything to feel his beauty. I can’t, though; I have to admire it from a distance.
“We’ll have plenty of time for updates later,” Kevin says. “You want to introduce me to your friends?”
“Sure,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat. Kevin hops in the back. “Satelle, Proctor, this is Kevin. All the way from Iraq.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Kevin says. “Thanks for coming to get me. Are you two from Trinidad?”
“Yes,” Satelle says. “We grow up dis place. Deana, my bes frien, cousins wit Proctor’s roommate, Joshua. Yuh meet both of dem at dinner tonight in Port of Spain.”
Kevin fastens his seatbelt. “Cool. Sounds fun.”
We fly down Eastern Main Road, Kevin asking questions about houses and towns we pass. Proctor does most of the explaining. I sit silently, half-listening to Proctor. Every so often, I sneak a glance at Kevin. Thankfully, he never catches me in the act.
His tanned face is angular, even more than it was in the past. His arms are much paler than his face, which means he probably wears long-sleeved shirts in Iraq. Those hazel eyes of his are practically glowing. He’s every bit as handsome as I remember. Even with a scruffy face.
“Here we are,” Proctor says, steering the car into a parking spot. From this point on the Southeast corner of town, we can see high-rises and a few docked ships in the port. We walk West.
“Dose de Twin Towers,” Satelle says, pointing straight ahead.
“They call them that?” Kevin asks, shaking his head. “Like in New York?”
“Yeah. I was surprised at first, too,” I tell him.
Proctor gestures to the booths set up along the sidewalk. “Dere vendors an peddlers everywhere. De bes part Port of Spain be de food dey sell.”
“Is it good, Alyssa? What’s your favorite street food?” Kevin asks, nudging my shoulder.
Have you looked at me? I scream inside my head. I don’t eat that garbage.
My cheeks redden. If Kevin really cared about me, or even just pretended to care, he wouldn’t ask that stupid question. He would know that I hate talking or thinking about meals, and that I avoid most foods. Especially foods prepared by other people.
“I like doubles,” I respond calmly. “They’re cheap and delicious. It’s just chickpeas, mangoes, and a few veggies on a warm flatbread.”
“Sounds amazing,” Kevin says, eying one of the vendor tables.
“Yuh mus try,” Proctor urges.
“Yes, jus get one. It nah ruin yuh appetite for dinner, I promise,” Satelle adds.
“Alright, alright, you convinced me,” Kevin laughs, making a beeline toward the booth. I follow behind.
“You’ll love these things,” I assure him. “You always liked spicy food.”
Kevin nods. “You, too. Remember when you drank hot sauce from the bottle at that restaurant in Orlando? You almost made the waiter sick.”
Was that really me, throwing back a bottle of hot sauce in Orlando? I barely remember how it felt to eat freely like that. I’m just a portion of my former self; sometimes it’s hard to recall the way I was. But Kevin apparently still thinks of me that way.
“C’mon, I’ll get you something,” he offers as he reaches the front of the line.
“I’m good, thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer later,” I say, to be polite.
“Anything you want,” he smiles. Which is a shameless lie. There’s only one thing I truly desire, and it’s very simple. But it isn’t going to happen. Ever.
Kevin holds his food in one hand and a stack of napkins in the other. He gnaws on the doubles. I watch him take very small bites. He always was a slow eater; that’s how he stayed so thin. He could control it. Never had to worry about eating too much or too quickly. Never had to deal with angry, overindulgent urges.
Never had to silence them by going to the other extreme.
Kevin’s jaw cracks one time. A drop of tan liquid escapes from the left side of his mouth. Without thinking, I wipe his face. When my finger grazes his cheek, Kevin’s eyes find their way to mine. My head hurts instantly; those eyes hold my entire past within them.
It’s dizzying.
I look down as I snatch a napkin from Kevin’s stack. Why did I do that? I can’t remember the last time I touched a man’s face. Why do things like that feel so natural with Kevin? If he threw up, I’d gladly clean the mess. It’s so strange how nothing about him disgusts me. I wipe my finger on the napkin and my chin starts to quiver. I promised myself I’d avoid waterworks…Kevin can’t see me cry. Not even at the wedding in a few months. I have to maintain some small shred of dignity.
“Thanks, A,” Kevin says as we head back toward Proctor and Satelle. “I can’t ever eat like a normal person, huh?”
“Yup, you’re a total mess,” I tell him, shaking my head.
“Aw. You’re so nice to me,” he remarks.
“Just keeping your ego in check.” I elbow his side. “Someone’s gotta do it, right?”
He nods and continues chowing down on his doubles, but this time he avoids spilling.
We rejoin Proctor and Satelle, who have been waiting on the street corner.
“I can’t explain how good this thing is,” Kevin tells them. “There are no words for this level of…deliciousness. Thanks for the advice. I love how the inside of the pita has crumbles in it. Made with butter, right?”
“Ghee,” Proctor corrects him. “Das de Caribbean version of butter; richer an more flavor. Told yuh it gon be a great snack. Now yuh addicted to Trini food, nah? An at dinner yuh gon to try more tings…”
“I’m excited,” Kevin says with a smile. He turns to me and the grin widens. His teeth shine in the bright daylight. It’s blinding.
I thrust my hands in my pockets and force myself to stare straight ahead as we maneuver through downtown Port of Spain. With every footstep, I find myself wishing there was some magical remedy to relieve the oppressive tension in my chest.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Book #11 is finished!
Well it was a mad dash at the end, but I finished the race. "In Search of Me" is done. Of course, the never-ending revision process starts now. But still...it's exciting. The bare-bones structure is complete. Now I just have to add a little flesh in spots, give the thing some color.
I'm going back a little bit, so I can return to Talia's birthday. I've skipped around a bit. From this point on, I'll try to stay (mostly) chronological.
Woohoo! Sure feels good to finish the book! Soon I must start thinking of ideas for book #12...
Love, Lisa
The plan was to wake her up, but I can’t do that. She looks too peaceful.
I slide next to Talia, curling myself into a ball on the edge of her bed. It’s only a double, but she takes up zero room since she’s so tiny. So we have plenty of space. I pull the covers around my shoulders and wait for my sister to awaken. In the meantime, my eyes close for a few moments. I return to the world of sleep, but I don’t dream. It’s been a long time since I had any dreams.
“Honey, we have to leave in a little while,” Mom says, poking her head into Talia’s bedroom. I lift my head and yawn. Talia awakens at the sound of our mother’s voice. She smiles without opening her eyes.
“Morning, Mama,” she says quietly.
“Good morning, birthday girl,” Mom responds. “I’m cooking chocolate chip pancakes in honor of the big day.”
“Yum,” Talia murmurs. Her eyes remain closed.
“Krista, thirty minutes,” Mom reminds me before disappearing down the hallway.
I shift my weight, moving the mattress a tiny bit. Talia turns toward me, blinking in the early-morning sunshine. She grins and pulls me into a messy hug. We get tangled in bedsheets, but neither of us cares.
“Happy birthday,” I tell her. “Get up, lady. I’ve got a surprise for you in the kitchen.”
“A surprise?” she repeats sleepily.
“Yes. I got you something you’ve been wanting for a long time,” I assure her.
Talia sits up. She leans against the headrest. “Krista, you didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t expecting anything from you; it was nice enough that you and Mandy baked me cupcakes yesterday.”
I shake my head while heading for the hallway. “Did you think I’d stiff you on your thirteenth birthday? No way, Talia. I wanted to do something special.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
While Talia washes her face, Mom and I slap a bow on top of the guitar. Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder, admiring the Yamaha. It's in great shape. Dad sets the table, placing four plates near each seat and a massive serving tray in the center. When Mom makes pancakes, she always makes a million of them. This is a good thing; we have delicious leftovers for days to come.
Talia shouts as she steps inside the kitchen.
She hurries toward the guitar, strapping it over her shoulder. This is a great look for my sister. She’s got the bohemian-teenage-songwriter vibe down pat. I can already picture her on stage, singing her heart out. Talia will gain energy from the cheers of strangers. She’s always been extroverted like that.
“Krista!” she shrieks. “I can’t believe you. This is awesome.”
Mom takes a sip of coffee, leaning against the countertop. Her black hair falls over her shoulders, covering most of her blouse. I’ve always loved her hair. It’s a silky texture that mirrors Talia’s. It’s thick and soft. I missed those genes, somehow.
“Your dad and I signed you up for guitar lessons,” Mom tells Talia. “So you can start writing your own music soon, baby.”
Talia looks at us with amazement in her eyes. She gently removes the guitar from her back, leaning it against the wall. Then she pulls Mama, Daddy and me into a group hug. I can’t remember the last time we all embraced like this. It sure feels good.
“You know, the music gene runs in the family,” Dad tells Talia with a wink. He was in a band during college, some goofy-looking rock’n’roll group. They couldn't snag a record deal. They were pretty intense about their music, though. Dad’s got tons of old photo albums filled with pictures from their gigs. They played in bars and parks, hoping for a big break. It never came.
“I’m not sure if your band’s stuff could be considered music, Dad,” Talia teases.
“What?!” he exclaims, his voice drenched in shock.
We always insult his band; it’s become a family joke. But Dad takes the subject quite seriously. Those are some prized memories, I guess.
“Bite your tongue! We were good," he insists. "And I was the best drummer your mom had ever heard.”
“Riiiight. We all believe that,” Talia says with an eye roll.
“Do you want to see the pictures?” Dad asks, making a beeline for the coat closet. That’s where Mom keeps all the ancient photo albums.
“No! Please. It’s my birthday,” Talia reminds us. As though we’d forgotten this fact. “I’d prefer not to be nauseous on my thirteenth b-day. Thanks.”
“A dagger through my heart,” Dad says, pretending to insert a knife through his chest.
“Enough of the theatrics. Your food’s getting cold,” Mom warns. She and I have already sat down at the table, but we waited before grabbing breakfast. We wanted the birthday girl to get first dibs.
Talia reaches for the first pancake, breaking the ice. Hungrily, we all dive into the stack. Mom usually makes these ones, with little chocolate chips and butterscotch clusters, on holidays. Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas. I take a bite and suddenly I’m in elementary school again. It’s cold outside, the kitchen smells like a bakery, and Monday morning is a million years away. I glance around the table, admiring my little family. We’re small but happy.
And then reality wafts over me.
I am fifteen, not seven. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in twenty minutes, one that is going to determine the course of my life. My best friend is going to North Carolina during a difficult time, a period when I need her most. I want her to chase after her dreams, but I also want her by my side. It’s a tricky situation. There’s no solution, no happy ending.
“Krista, I want to be there today,” Talia says, breaking the silence. She swallows the last bite of pancake, then stares at me. “Please let me come with you.”
Mom and Dad glance at each other. I know exactly what they are thinking, because it is the same thought weighing heavily on my mind.
“Talia, this is your big day. You should go celebrate with your buddies. Didn’t Brandice invite you to a movie?” I ask. “Besides, who wants to be in a stuffy old doctor’s office today?”
“I do,” she insists. “Please, Krista.”
I look at Mom. She shrugs, informing me that this is purely my decision. After a moment of deliberation, I fold my hands on top of my lap. “Ok. But you have to promise me that you won’t let this ruin your birthday. Whatever the results, whatever Dr. Oraham says…you still need to go out with all your friends tonight and enjoy the evening. Got it?”
She nods. “Yes ma’am.”
I'm going back a little bit, so I can return to Talia's birthday. I've skipped around a bit. From this point on, I'll try to stay (mostly) chronological.
Woohoo! Sure feels good to finish the book! Soon I must start thinking of ideas for book #12...
Love, Lisa
The plan was to wake her up, but I can’t do that. She looks too peaceful.
I slide next to Talia, curling myself into a ball on the edge of her bed. It’s only a double, but she takes up zero room since she’s so tiny. So we have plenty of space. I pull the covers around my shoulders and wait for my sister to awaken. In the meantime, my eyes close for a few moments. I return to the world of sleep, but I don’t dream. It’s been a long time since I had any dreams.
“Honey, we have to leave in a little while,” Mom says, poking her head into Talia’s bedroom. I lift my head and yawn. Talia awakens at the sound of our mother’s voice. She smiles without opening her eyes.
“Morning, Mama,” she says quietly.
“Good morning, birthday girl,” Mom responds. “I’m cooking chocolate chip pancakes in honor of the big day.”
“Yum,” Talia murmurs. Her eyes remain closed.
“Krista, thirty minutes,” Mom reminds me before disappearing down the hallway.
I shift my weight, moving the mattress a tiny bit. Talia turns toward me, blinking in the early-morning sunshine. She grins and pulls me into a messy hug. We get tangled in bedsheets, but neither of us cares.
“Happy birthday,” I tell her. “Get up, lady. I’ve got a surprise for you in the kitchen.”
“A surprise?” she repeats sleepily.
“Yes. I got you something you’ve been wanting for a long time,” I assure her.
Talia sits up. She leans against the headrest. “Krista, you didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t expecting anything from you; it was nice enough that you and Mandy baked me cupcakes yesterday.”
I shake my head while heading for the hallway. “Did you think I’d stiff you on your thirteenth birthday? No way, Talia. I wanted to do something special.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
While Talia washes her face, Mom and I slap a bow on top of the guitar. Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder, admiring the Yamaha. It's in great shape. Dad sets the table, placing four plates near each seat and a massive serving tray in the center. When Mom makes pancakes, she always makes a million of them. This is a good thing; we have delicious leftovers for days to come.
Talia shouts as she steps inside the kitchen.
She hurries toward the guitar, strapping it over her shoulder. This is a great look for my sister. She’s got the bohemian-teenage-songwriter vibe down pat. I can already picture her on stage, singing her heart out. Talia will gain energy from the cheers of strangers. She’s always been extroverted like that.
“Krista!” she shrieks. “I can’t believe you. This is awesome.”
Mom takes a sip of coffee, leaning against the countertop. Her black hair falls over her shoulders, covering most of her blouse. I’ve always loved her hair. It’s a silky texture that mirrors Talia’s. It’s thick and soft. I missed those genes, somehow.
“Your dad and I signed you up for guitar lessons,” Mom tells Talia. “So you can start writing your own music soon, baby.”
Talia looks at us with amazement in her eyes. She gently removes the guitar from her back, leaning it against the wall. Then she pulls Mama, Daddy and me into a group hug. I can’t remember the last time we all embraced like this. It sure feels good.
“You know, the music gene runs in the family,” Dad tells Talia with a wink. He was in a band during college, some goofy-looking rock’n’roll group. They couldn't snag a record deal. They were pretty intense about their music, though. Dad’s got tons of old photo albums filled with pictures from their gigs. They played in bars and parks, hoping for a big break. It never came.
“I’m not sure if your band’s stuff could be considered music, Dad,” Talia teases.
“What?!” he exclaims, his voice drenched in shock.
We always insult his band; it’s become a family joke. But Dad takes the subject quite seriously. Those are some prized memories, I guess.
“Bite your tongue! We were good," he insists. "And I was the best drummer your mom had ever heard.”
“Riiiight. We all believe that,” Talia says with an eye roll.
“Do you want to see the pictures?” Dad asks, making a beeline for the coat closet. That’s where Mom keeps all the ancient photo albums.
“No! Please. It’s my birthday,” Talia reminds us. As though we’d forgotten this fact. “I’d prefer not to be nauseous on my thirteenth b-day. Thanks.”
“A dagger through my heart,” Dad says, pretending to insert a knife through his chest.
“Enough of the theatrics. Your food’s getting cold,” Mom warns. She and I have already sat down at the table, but we waited before grabbing breakfast. We wanted the birthday girl to get first dibs.
Talia reaches for the first pancake, breaking the ice. Hungrily, we all dive into the stack. Mom usually makes these ones, with little chocolate chips and butterscotch clusters, on holidays. Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas. I take a bite and suddenly I’m in elementary school again. It’s cold outside, the kitchen smells like a bakery, and Monday morning is a million years away. I glance around the table, admiring my little family. We’re small but happy.
And then reality wafts over me.
I am fifteen, not seven. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in twenty minutes, one that is going to determine the course of my life. My best friend is going to North Carolina during a difficult time, a period when I need her most. I want her to chase after her dreams, but I also want her by my side. It’s a tricky situation. There’s no solution, no happy ending.
“Krista, I want to be there today,” Talia says, breaking the silence. She swallows the last bite of pancake, then stares at me. “Please let me come with you.”
Mom and Dad glance at each other. I know exactly what they are thinking, because it is the same thought weighing heavily on my mind.
“Talia, this is your big day. You should go celebrate with your buddies. Didn’t Brandice invite you to a movie?” I ask. “Besides, who wants to be in a stuffy old doctor’s office today?”
“I do,” she insists. “Please, Krista.”
I look at Mom. She shrugs, informing me that this is purely my decision. After a moment of deliberation, I fold my hands on top of my lap. “Ok. But you have to promise me that you won’t let this ruin your birthday. Whatever the results, whatever Dr. Oraham says…you still need to go out with all your friends tonight and enjoy the evening. Got it?”
She nods. “Yes ma’am.”
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Durham, NC
I might have been born & raised in Chicago, but in spite of this, I am a Southern girl. I swear.
I've tried the Midwest, the West Coast, the Northeast, and good ol' Florida (which I love, don't get me wrong!). What I've discovered is that none of those places holds my heart. The South has a subtle charm that I haven't been able to find anwhere else in the US.
North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee and Mississippi amaze me. I get excited just thinking about those beautiful states.
So here's a snippet from one of my favorite places. Writing this made me want to go back. One of these days, I will.
Love, Lisa
Hannah has golden curls. She looks like a fairytale princess. A modern-day Shirley Temple.
I remember when Mary was fresh out of college and unmarried. Jacksonville was blazing hot that year; the city broke every record. I was thrilled to be in Florida, so I didn’t mind. In fact, I wanted it to be as hot as possible. I would’ve been happy with temperatures in the 120s.
I slept over at Mary’s house once that year. It was an old-fashioned home with high ceilings and wood floors. We made salads, took a walk in a nearby park, and talked until both of us fell asleep. It’s a magical memory, the kind that burns brightly in your heart as well as your mind. I wouldn’t trade that year in Jacksonville for anything.
But that was then. This is now. I still haven’t figured out a way to stop time. I wake up a little older each day. A little more weary, too.
Mary scurries through the living room with a pair of polka-dotted pajamas in hand. Her daughter giggles and hides behind furniture. Hannah’s small enough to become invisible if she crouches behind the couch. She can curl up into a tiny ball. She’s a mini contortionist.
I watch this from the kitchen table. Against my will, sorrow fills my tired bones. Funny how the girl who ran so far away from her family now wants one of her own. At nineteen, I was happy to be a carefree wanderer. At twenty-six, I crave the stability of a husband and a designated home. I want the exact thing that’s always terrified me.
Too late, a corner of my brain whispers. You passed up that chance.
It’s true. My life is a series of long-distance flights. I never stay in one city for more than a day or two. I’m always on the go. I soar from Boston to Denver to Jacksonville. Or, in this case, Durham. North Carolina might not be the most exotic state that the airline flies to, but it’s certainly my favorite.
“Hannah, it’s time for bed,” Mary announces as she peeks behind the armchair.
Of course, Hannah is well aware of this. Why else would she be hiding? I can remember pulling similar stunts at her age. I’d camp out in the coat closet, hoping my mother would eventually forget about me. She never did, though. She would chase me down. I went to bed, but I hardly ever fell asleep. Even as a child, I had problems sleeping. I wrestled with too many ideas. My brain refused to shut off at night.
So little has changed…then again, everything’s different. I am half the person I was then. The other half of me is a mystery, a stream of evolving thoughts. I’m simple and complex at the same time. I’m a mess.
“Lisa, I’m sorry this is taking forever,” Mary apologizes. She offers me an apologetic smile. Her light eyes shine from halfway across the room. I can see Hannah in Mary’s eyes; that’s the one feature they have in common. Hannah’s hair is blonder and her skin has freckles. Her eyes, however, are exact replicas of Mary’s. They’re the same brilliant shade of blue.
“Mary, I can take care of bedtime if you and Lisa want to start your movie,” Brian offers. Mary hands him the pajamas and picks up the DVD. It’s the new Nicholas Sparks movie, Dear John.
I chose this movie because I’m fascinated by Nicholas Sparks. His books always start off cheesy, and they all have the same predictable ending. Yet he soars to the top of the bestseller list every time. What’s his secret? I can’t even get a contract from little no-name publishing houses in Jersey, and Nicholas Sparks’ books are flying off the shelves. I’ll never understand it.
Mary pops in the DVD. I make my way to the couch, plopping down next to her. It’s the perfect temperature in the house. No air-conditioning or fans needed. That’s the beauty of Durham in late August, I suppose. It’s much more pleasant than Atlanta.
We skip the previews, because there is no use getting excited about films we’ll never have time to see. For different reasons, Mary and I are far too busy to watch movies. Tonight is a rare exception. I don’t get to visit this corner of North Carolina very often. This is a treat for me.
The movie begins. Mary and I roll our eyes when John makes some lame comment about the clouds. Savannah holds her thumb up to the sky, blotting out the moon. It’s a terrible attempt to be romantic. You’re back to your old tricks, Nicky, I silently tell the best-selling author.
I sink into the couch cushions. Mary’s house is so comfortable. It’s simple and welcoming and…homey. My life is lived in hotel rooms. It’s been a while since I experienced anything this cozy.
The movie gets better after about an hour. I find myself empathizing with John. He’s so far from home. The only person he ever loved broke his heart; she unexpectedly decided that she couldn’t be with him. From thousands of miles away, he was powerless to change her mind.
I can relate to that. Trinidad, January of 2007. That was my exact situation, minus the bombs going off in the background.
Don’t get disheartened, I warn the fictional character on Mary’s television screen. Don’t let this steal your hope. Things will get better, right? They have to. It’s the same thing I tell myself daily. I figure if I say the words often enough, I might actually start to believe them.
Tears form in Mary’s eyes during the last scene of the movie. This isn’t a huge surprise. Mary has a massive heart that bleeds for those around her. She’s always been the nurturing type. Way back in Jacksonville, she took care of me. That year would have been tough without her support.
The memories make my chest ache. I feel tears well up in my eyes, but not because of the DVD.
I can’t go back to Jax, can’t rewind to 2003. Unlike the movie I’m watching, the scenes of my life can’t be replayed. For years, I let that fact gnaw at my soul. I gripped the past tightly, as though that could make it last longer. But yesterday is as elusive as the North Carolina sunshine that adorned my shoulders this morning. I can’t capture it in a jar, can’t bottle it up and carry it with me.
I’ll have to accept the present. Embrace it, perhaps. With a cough and then a half-smile, I turn back to Mary. The “here and now” isn’t really such a bad place to be.
I've tried the Midwest, the West Coast, the Northeast, and good ol' Florida (which I love, don't get me wrong!). What I've discovered is that none of those places holds my heart. The South has a subtle charm that I haven't been able to find anwhere else in the US.
North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee and Mississippi amaze me. I get excited just thinking about those beautiful states.
So here's a snippet from one of my favorite places. Writing this made me want to go back. One of these days, I will.
Love, Lisa
Hannah has golden curls. She looks like a fairytale princess. A modern-day Shirley Temple.
I remember when Mary was fresh out of college and unmarried. Jacksonville was blazing hot that year; the city broke every record. I was thrilled to be in Florida, so I didn’t mind. In fact, I wanted it to be as hot as possible. I would’ve been happy with temperatures in the 120s.
I slept over at Mary’s house once that year. It was an old-fashioned home with high ceilings and wood floors. We made salads, took a walk in a nearby park, and talked until both of us fell asleep. It’s a magical memory, the kind that burns brightly in your heart as well as your mind. I wouldn’t trade that year in Jacksonville for anything.
But that was then. This is now. I still haven’t figured out a way to stop time. I wake up a little older each day. A little more weary, too.
Mary scurries through the living room with a pair of polka-dotted pajamas in hand. Her daughter giggles and hides behind furniture. Hannah’s small enough to become invisible if she crouches behind the couch. She can curl up into a tiny ball. She’s a mini contortionist.
I watch this from the kitchen table. Against my will, sorrow fills my tired bones. Funny how the girl who ran so far away from her family now wants one of her own. At nineteen, I was happy to be a carefree wanderer. At twenty-six, I crave the stability of a husband and a designated home. I want the exact thing that’s always terrified me.
Too late, a corner of my brain whispers. You passed up that chance.
It’s true. My life is a series of long-distance flights. I never stay in one city for more than a day or two. I’m always on the go. I soar from Boston to Denver to Jacksonville. Or, in this case, Durham. North Carolina might not be the most exotic state that the airline flies to, but it’s certainly my favorite.
“Hannah, it’s time for bed,” Mary announces as she peeks behind the armchair.
Of course, Hannah is well aware of this. Why else would she be hiding? I can remember pulling similar stunts at her age. I’d camp out in the coat closet, hoping my mother would eventually forget about me. She never did, though. She would chase me down. I went to bed, but I hardly ever fell asleep. Even as a child, I had problems sleeping. I wrestled with too many ideas. My brain refused to shut off at night.
So little has changed…then again, everything’s different. I am half the person I was then. The other half of me is a mystery, a stream of evolving thoughts. I’m simple and complex at the same time. I’m a mess.
“Lisa, I’m sorry this is taking forever,” Mary apologizes. She offers me an apologetic smile. Her light eyes shine from halfway across the room. I can see Hannah in Mary’s eyes; that’s the one feature they have in common. Hannah’s hair is blonder and her skin has freckles. Her eyes, however, are exact replicas of Mary’s. They’re the same brilliant shade of blue.
“Mary, I can take care of bedtime if you and Lisa want to start your movie,” Brian offers. Mary hands him the pajamas and picks up the DVD. It’s the new Nicholas Sparks movie, Dear John.
I chose this movie because I’m fascinated by Nicholas Sparks. His books always start off cheesy, and they all have the same predictable ending. Yet he soars to the top of the bestseller list every time. What’s his secret? I can’t even get a contract from little no-name publishing houses in Jersey, and Nicholas Sparks’ books are flying off the shelves. I’ll never understand it.
Mary pops in the DVD. I make my way to the couch, plopping down next to her. It’s the perfect temperature in the house. No air-conditioning or fans needed. That’s the beauty of Durham in late August, I suppose. It’s much more pleasant than Atlanta.
We skip the previews, because there is no use getting excited about films we’ll never have time to see. For different reasons, Mary and I are far too busy to watch movies. Tonight is a rare exception. I don’t get to visit this corner of North Carolina very often. This is a treat for me.
The movie begins. Mary and I roll our eyes when John makes some lame comment about the clouds. Savannah holds her thumb up to the sky, blotting out the moon. It’s a terrible attempt to be romantic. You’re back to your old tricks, Nicky, I silently tell the best-selling author.
I sink into the couch cushions. Mary’s house is so comfortable. It’s simple and welcoming and…homey. My life is lived in hotel rooms. It’s been a while since I experienced anything this cozy.
The movie gets better after about an hour. I find myself empathizing with John. He’s so far from home. The only person he ever loved broke his heart; she unexpectedly decided that she couldn’t be with him. From thousands of miles away, he was powerless to change her mind.
I can relate to that. Trinidad, January of 2007. That was my exact situation, minus the bombs going off in the background.
Don’t get disheartened, I warn the fictional character on Mary’s television screen. Don’t let this steal your hope. Things will get better, right? They have to. It’s the same thing I tell myself daily. I figure if I say the words often enough, I might actually start to believe them.
Tears form in Mary’s eyes during the last scene of the movie. This isn’t a huge surprise. Mary has a massive heart that bleeds for those around her. She’s always been the nurturing type. Way back in Jacksonville, she took care of me. That year would have been tough without her support.
The memories make my chest ache. I feel tears well up in my eyes, but not because of the DVD.
I can’t go back to Jax, can’t rewind to 2003. Unlike the movie I’m watching, the scenes of my life can’t be replayed. For years, I let that fact gnaw at my soul. I gripped the past tightly, as though that could make it last longer. But yesterday is as elusive as the North Carolina sunshine that adorned my shoulders this morning. I can’t capture it in a jar, can’t bottle it up and carry it with me.
I’ll have to accept the present. Embrace it, perhaps. With a cough and then a half-smile, I turn back to Mary. The “here and now” isn’t really such a bad place to be.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
San Francisco
I love writing stories about different cities, especially now that I'm a professional sky-surfer. It's exciting to re-live the moments I spent in each town, or to conjure scenarios that never actually took place. This particular story falls into the first category. As I sit in the West Palm airport, I can remember every detail of my SanFran adventure. I will return to Northern California. Hopefully, soon.
Love, Lisa
“If It’s Love” replays in my head as I cross the street. I try focusing on the lyrics. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll forget about the numbing cold. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
“I’m not in it to win it; I’m in it for you,” I sing, keeping my voice low so the passing cars won’t hear me. A shiver runs down my back. If I’d known San Francisco was only 60 degrees, I would’ve brought a jacket. Or, at the very least, a thicker sweatshirt.
But nobody packs winter clothes in August. It’s the month of flip-flops and t-shirts. Boston was sweltering last week; sweat dripped down my back after walking two blocks to get to Stop & Shop. Richmond had been hot enough to confine me to a rooftop pool for several hours…not that I was bothered by that. Even Buffalo, a city notorious for its bad weather, broke 80 degrees.
Apparently San Francisco didn’t get the memo that it’s summertime. The city’s stuck in February mode. It feels arctic.
I spot the BART station up ahead. My heart skips a beat; this train will bring me downtown. Nancy swore that this is the best place in the world. She oughta know, having lived in about twenty foreign countries. I can’t wait to discover why San Fran is so special. All it’s going to cost me is ten bucks for a BART pass.
Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I check to see if Calli texted me yet. She’s due in at ten o’clock. Right now, she’s probably shoving some last-minute items in her suitcase. I’ll bet she’s bursting with excitement. Calli’s never been one to downplay emotions; she doesn’t believe in toning things down. We’re exactly the same in that regard.
I hurry inside the station, swiping my plastic card like an expert. These machines are identical to the ones in DC. There are little doors that open and shut like alligator jaws, as opposed to the turnstyles you find in Chicago. San Francisco bears no resemblance to the Windy City, which is fine by me. I’m used to being far from home.
The train is clean, quiet. After all, it’s four o’clock on a Wednesday. Not exactly peak travel time. An announcement floats over the loudspeakers, informing me this is the red line. As we begin to move, I study the map hanging over the door. Embarcadero-that’s the stop I want.
My cell phone has zero bars in here. I blink, staring at the dormant screen. Calli might be calling, but there’s nothing I can do about that. For now, anyway.
I try picturing her face. It’s been two whole years, which is enough time for the brain to fog up. I can remember certain details, though.
Her smile was the first thing I noticed. I’d been working at Countrywide for a whole ten minutes when her thousand-watt grin caught my attention. With long, wavy hair and an addictive laugh, she stood out. Calli was a beam of light in our stuffy, window-less office.
But her exterior wasn’t half as luminous as her personality. Calli contained so much passion that is spilled from her mouth, poured from her eyes. She was determined to be a singer. She still clutches that dream. In fact, it’s the reason she is coming here. Auditions are tomorrow morning. She’s been practicing for a long time. Twenty-four years, to be exact.
I shared Calli’s aspirations for a while. We discussed lyrics and songwriting and dreams that never, ever die.
But thoughts shift over time.
I still dream big…far too big for my own good. Singing has become less important, though. Now I’m a one-trick pony. My novels consume me, snatching every spare moment. They infiltrate my thoughts, my comments, my decisions.
A female voice announces our arrival at Embarcadero. I fly through the doors, bursting into a city that came highly-recommended. My phone beeps, informing me I have a text from Calli.
Driving to airport now-see you soon! Can’t believe this is real!
Trolleys coast up the streets, climbing these hills as though it’s no trouble at all. People walk by in jeans and scarves. I exhale slowly, curious to find out if it’s cold enough to see my breath. It isn’t.
Travel safe, I text my friend in Phoenix. Here’s to dreams…
Love, Lisa
“If It’s Love” replays in my head as I cross the street. I try focusing on the lyrics. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll forget about the numbing cold. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
“I’m not in it to win it; I’m in it for you,” I sing, keeping my voice low so the passing cars won’t hear me. A shiver runs down my back. If I’d known San Francisco was only 60 degrees, I would’ve brought a jacket. Or, at the very least, a thicker sweatshirt.
But nobody packs winter clothes in August. It’s the month of flip-flops and t-shirts. Boston was sweltering last week; sweat dripped down my back after walking two blocks to get to Stop & Shop. Richmond had been hot enough to confine me to a rooftop pool for several hours…not that I was bothered by that. Even Buffalo, a city notorious for its bad weather, broke 80 degrees.
Apparently San Francisco didn’t get the memo that it’s summertime. The city’s stuck in February mode. It feels arctic.
I spot the BART station up ahead. My heart skips a beat; this train will bring me downtown. Nancy swore that this is the best place in the world. She oughta know, having lived in about twenty foreign countries. I can’t wait to discover why San Fran is so special. All it’s going to cost me is ten bucks for a BART pass.
Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I check to see if Calli texted me yet. She’s due in at ten o’clock. Right now, she’s probably shoving some last-minute items in her suitcase. I’ll bet she’s bursting with excitement. Calli’s never been one to downplay emotions; she doesn’t believe in toning things down. We’re exactly the same in that regard.
I hurry inside the station, swiping my plastic card like an expert. These machines are identical to the ones in DC. There are little doors that open and shut like alligator jaws, as opposed to the turnstyles you find in Chicago. San Francisco bears no resemblance to the Windy City, which is fine by me. I’m used to being far from home.
The train is clean, quiet. After all, it’s four o’clock on a Wednesday. Not exactly peak travel time. An announcement floats over the loudspeakers, informing me this is the red line. As we begin to move, I study the map hanging over the door. Embarcadero-that’s the stop I want.
My cell phone has zero bars in here. I blink, staring at the dormant screen. Calli might be calling, but there’s nothing I can do about that. For now, anyway.
I try picturing her face. It’s been two whole years, which is enough time for the brain to fog up. I can remember certain details, though.
Her smile was the first thing I noticed. I’d been working at Countrywide for a whole ten minutes when her thousand-watt grin caught my attention. With long, wavy hair and an addictive laugh, she stood out. Calli was a beam of light in our stuffy, window-less office.
But her exterior wasn’t half as luminous as her personality. Calli contained so much passion that is spilled from her mouth, poured from her eyes. She was determined to be a singer. She still clutches that dream. In fact, it’s the reason she is coming here. Auditions are tomorrow morning. She’s been practicing for a long time. Twenty-four years, to be exact.
I shared Calli’s aspirations for a while. We discussed lyrics and songwriting and dreams that never, ever die.
But thoughts shift over time.
I still dream big…far too big for my own good. Singing has become less important, though. Now I’m a one-trick pony. My novels consume me, snatching every spare moment. They infiltrate my thoughts, my comments, my decisions.
A female voice announces our arrival at Embarcadero. I fly through the doors, bursting into a city that came highly-recommended. My phone beeps, informing me I have a text from Calli.
Driving to airport now-see you soon! Can’t believe this is real!
Trolleys coast up the streets, climbing these hills as though it’s no trouble at all. People walk by in jeans and scarves. I exhale slowly, curious to find out if it’s cold enough to see my breath. It isn’t.
Travel safe, I text my friend in Phoenix. Here’s to dreams…
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