I have written 12.5 novels. (The thirteenth one is a work in progress). This is the space where I share my stories with the world. There is so much to say in this life, and so little time...



Thursday, December 30, 2010

Going in Circles

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.