I have never experienced anything quite like this! Atlanta shut down after 3 inches of snow. No, SERIOUSLY shut down. As in, all the highways were closed, all the hotels were oversold, and the airport was a disaster area. As frustrating as it's been, it has also been kind of exciting. I've been flying by the seat of my pants (no pun intended) and I've been unable to predict where I would wind up.
It's a giant guessing game.
Fortunately, I was "stuck" in Los Angeles for 20 hours. I love my job.
The madness has made it hard to keep up with writing/revising, but I've got some time these next few days. I fully intend to dive back into the literary world. I'll start by posting another little snipped from "Nothing Left of Me." Alyssa visits Jasmine for the second time.
As a reminder, this book is available at barnesandnoble.com and 100% of profits go to Food for the Hungry!
Love, Lisa
A gray car eventually pulls into the lot, kicking up dust as it gets closer. Kara smiles at me from the driver’s seat. I jog toward the sedan; I’m ready for the afternoon that awaits us.
“Hi, love,” she greets me.
“Thanks for driving,” I say as I fasten my seat belt. “Did you end up going to Calculus class?”
“Yes, Mother,” she laughs.
I shake my head. “Technically you’re the mom, since I’m still a baby Martian. Not even…a Martian-in-training, actually. A Martian fetus.”
“I’m only a part-time Martian, though,” she points out, flicking on the radio. “Doesn’t count.”
“About that…do you wish you were more active? I guess what I’m asking is, why don’t you participate in all the Martian events? It makes me nervous. Like maybe there’s something I don’t know about the sisterhood. Something bad.”
Kara sighs. “No, it’s not that. I love the Martians, but it can become a cult. Many of those girls don’t associate with people outside of B-Hall; I can’t limit myself like that. My second year at UWI, I started dating a boy who lives in Milner Hall. Half the Martians shunned me, acting betrayed because I spent time with someone outside the sisterhood. It was juvenile. Are we not allowed to have friends? I was frustrated…I kind of gave up on the B-Hall girls.”
“But you came back to Bartelby Hall anyway; you didn’t have to live there again,” I reflect. We pass the Tunapuna Marketplace, an open-air market. I stare out my window at the flurry of excitement; vendors and buyers are exchanging money. “Something must have lured you back.”
“Yes. B-Hall is a nice place, very clean. And the location’s great; I like living on campus. Closer to classes. And Brett.” Kara smiles. “That’s my Milner Hall boyfriend.”
“You’re still together? That’s cute. Very Romeo-and-Juliet.”
“At times it feels that way. I wish B-Hall and Milner didn’t have a rivalry. That’s the worst part about being a Martian. It’s obnoxious.”
“I haven’t seen the rivalry side yet,” I say. “But I love the creative things we do. Like this talent show, for instance. Granted, I wish we had more time to prepare for it, but still. It’s a cool idea.”
“Well as a Martian senior, I’m required to be there tonight. So I’ll watch the talent show…part of it, at least.”
I bite my lip. “I hope we can pull it off. Guess the truth will be revealed soon enough.”
“What street is this place on?” Kara asks as she scans the alleys. “I think it’s nearby, but I’ve never actually been to the orphanage. I don’t know the exact address.”
“This one,” I point at the alleyway. “If I remember right, it’s just around the corner.”
The dilapidated building comes into view, and I direct Kara toward it. We pull up onto the yard, right where Joshua parked his car two days ago. I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Suddenly I wish that Josh, Satelle, and Proctor were here with me again. Proctor’s presence put me at ease. And Josh was so natural with the children. And Satelle, well, she’s like my long-lost sister. It made it easier to come here, to this lonely old house.
I open my door and step onto the dirt.
“Let’s get this party started,” Kara smiles. As though sensing my insecurities, she links her arm through mine. We walk into the house side-by-side.
“De American return!” Stella cries when she spots me. “How nice! Tanks for offerin yuh time once again. Who dis come wit yuh?”
“I’m Kara, pleased to meet you,” Kara says with a wave.
“Well we jus about to have a snack, if yuh wan help us distribute it,” Stella informs us.
I scan the room, searching for Jasmine. I see the boy that Josh was playing with and a couple other familiar kids, but there’s no sign of Jazzi. I follow Stella to a closet underneath the staircase.
“Each chile get one lolli,” Stella directs us, placing one bag of lollipops in my hand and another one in Kara’s palm. “Only one per chile, no matter how much beggin dey do. An trust me, dey gon plead wit yuh.”
“I’ll go upstairs,” I offer, hoping to find Jazzi up there.
Kara smiles. “Ok. Have fun.”
I hop up the staircase, eager to see my little girl. The upper level is dusty and bare, like the bottom level. There’s the same bare floor, the same meager furniture. The one difference is that a corner of the room is covered in blankets and cushions. I observe these makeshift beds and immediately a wave of sorrow washes over me.
A lady wearing an outdated cotton dress smiles. She’s large. And she is old, at least twenty years older than Stella. Her hair is twisted into frizzy braids that extend halfway down her back. Her skin’s only a couple shades darker than mine; she must be a mix of East Indian and something else. Maybe Hispanic? It’s hard to tell.
“I’m here to give out candies,” I tell her. “I’m Alyssa, by the way; I volunteered Monday night with Proctor, Josh and Satelle.”
“Me name Filena. Welcome to de upper level; dis where I usually work. De kids gon love dat yuh givin out lollis!”
There are about ten kids here. Some are smiling, some playing. These kids are much younger than the ones downstairs, but they’re the same in every other way: tattered clothes, scabbed knees, messy hair and heartbreakingly beautiful faces.
I smile and distribute the sugary snack. Jasmine is nowhere to be found. She must be hiding behind the couch.
But when I walk to that side of the room, there’s one little boy in a diaper
and yellow t-shirt. No Jazzi. Confused, I hand a purple lollipop to the smiling boy. I glance at the other children, wondering if I missed Jasmine.
I hurry over to Filena.
“Um, excuse me, there was a little girl I played with on Monday. She’s got…uh…” I trail off, realizing there are no distinguishing features I can use. What do I say, she’s black? Young? Tiny? Every kid here fits that description.
“Don know which chile yuh talkin bout, but we send tree or four youth to de doctor today. Dere a volunteer medic aroun de corner; dey take a few little ones each week, to see how dey progressin an make sure dey still healthy.”
“Oh. That’s good.” My words don’t match my mood. I can’t control the disappointment flooding my body; I’d really been hoping to see Jazzi today. With a sigh, I descend the stairs.
“Yuh leave so soon?” Filena calls out.
“Just taking the leftover lollipops to Stella,” I tell her. “I’ll be back.”
On the first floor, Kara’s already befriended a whole group of children. They sit around her in a circle, listening as she tells a story. I shake my head, marveling at her ability to entertain a bunch of three-and-four-year olds. Kara’s a natural; she makes it look so easy. You’d never guess she just met these kids today.
I give the bag of lollipops to Stella wordlessly, offering a half-sincere smile. Sunlight streams into the room as the front door swings open. My eyes instantly flicker toward the light. A few kids run inside, followed by a man in a white medical coat. He’s tall, with buzzed hair and glasses.
“Sorry we took a little longer than usual,” the man tells Stella. He has a trace of a Canadian accent. “Baby boy over here has a rash on his shoulders, so I wanted to check that out. Seems like an allergic reaction; nothing major. Maybe stay away from wool blankets, to be safe? Other than that, all is well. You’ve got a strong bunch, these kids. Much healthier than the group last year.”
“Tanks, Doctor Dave,” Stella says. She waves as he slips out the door.
At the very end of the pack, I spot a familiar face.
“Jasmine!” I cry. She sees me and perks up. She’s wearing the same jumpsuit she wore earlier this week. The same ruffled socks, too, except they’re a little dirtier today. Although that could be my imagination.
“Yuh come back for me?” she asks, reaching her hands up for me to grab onto them. “Yuh love me?”
“Of course,” I assure here. “Jazzi, you just missed snacks. But don’t worry, I saved you a very special sucker.”
“But I got a orange candy at de doctor man,” she whispers, her eyes wide and guilty. “Das two snacks, den.”
I reach into my pocket for the lollipop. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Our secret.”
“I like secrets.” Jazzi’s eyes light up. “An dis my favorite flavor! How yuh know?”
“You like green?”
She makes a face. “What color? Green?”
“Yes,” I smile. “It is a very pretty color. Your jumpsuit, that’s pretty too, but that’s a different color. You know what your dress is?”
Jazzi shakes her head no and licks her green lollipop.
“It’s blue. It looks terrific on you, by the way.”
“Tanks.” She glances down at the dress for a long time, as though re-evaluating how good it looks.
“You know, I had a dress like that when I was a little girl.”
“You was little like me?”
I laugh. “A long time ago.”
“Yuh live here too? Wit Miss Stella an de other Miss upstair?”
“No,” I answer, picturing my perfect suburban childhood and my two amazing parents. “But Miss Stella and Miss Filena are lucky to have you here. You are a very nice girl, when you’re not kicking people.”
Jasmine rolls her eyes and chomps down on the lollipop. “I already say I sorry for dat.”
“I know. It’s ok, we’re still friends.”
“Bes friens?”
“Sure.”
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Nothing Left of Me
The time has come to say goodbye to "The View from Way Up Here."
Sheesh...what was I thinking? With a title like that, it was bound to be a failure! Well I wrote the book as a way to purge my soul of all these traveling adventures I've experienced. It wasn't really designed for the public to read, so I removed it from the B&N shelf. This was a long-overdue action. I feel good about it.
In it's place, I have added the newest (old) novel of mine, book #3. I also tweaked the title of the book. Lots of changes yesterday. Maybe I should've gotten a tattoo, also (just kidding. sort of).
"Nothing Left of Me" is now available at BarnesandNoble.com. This book depicts the horror of an eating disorder. It follows a confused college student as she tries to overcome the death of a family member. It also addresses marriage, broken dreams...and a broken heart. Alyssa Rossini is the most damaged heroine in any of my stories. She is flawed and messed-up and real. I love the girl.
So check it out. Search my name on barnesandnoble & see for yourself if the book is worth reading. An excerpt is posted below.
Love, Lisa
When I get to my dorm room, I set the letter on my desk. It feels good to collapse onto my bed.
I lie flat on the mattress, staring out the window at the setting sun. It’s beautiful. Night is about to pour in, with its silent dark charisma. In the half light of dusk, I glance down at my darkened arms. I spent a long time in the Trini sun today. I’m at least three shades darker than I was before.
I realize that I never finished Kevin’s letter. There were a couple of paragraphs left.
I lie very still, debating. Will it make things better or worse to read the rest of the letter?
Probably worse, I admit. Everything I do somehow makes it worse.
After a moment, I lift my hand and grab the paper. My eyes scan the words nervously.
…Either way, it’s been too long! It’ll be good for us to reconnect.
I value our friendship so much, Alyssa. You’ve been there for me since we were teenagers, and I’ll never forget the time we spent together. High school basketball games, small group at my house, spring break in Orlando.
Megan told me your response card came in right before you left for Trinidad. I’m so glad you’ll be able to at the wedding. It means a lot to have you there. My family will love seeing you; after four months in Trinidad, you’ll have so much to tell Caryssa, Sandy and my parents! They’ve always enjoyed talking to you. Especially Sandy. She really looks up to you. You were like a big sister to her throughout high school.
Yeah. And for a while, I thought I really would be her big sister someday. Legally. Funny how Kevin skips over that part. I guess Megan is more deserving of the title.
Well I have to get going. So much to do here. Be safe and enjoy Caribbean life. I’ll see you soon! Can’t wait to explore the island with you. I’m sure by then you’ll know Trinidad like the back of your hand. Or maybe you already do…you always were great with directions.
Take care, Alyssa.
~Kevin
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s as if Kevin is trying to make me hurt. Telling me he is coming in a month and a half…it’s vicious.
I’ve been through this before; I can predict what’ll happen: the next few weeks, my life will be put on hold. There will be nothing but anticipation. I’ll be living in the future, waiting for that stupid day when Kevin arrives. And when October 18th does come, I’ll feel important for about ten seconds. I’ll probably have a resurgence of hope. But nothing will change, in the end.
Isn’t that how it always is with Kevin? Excitement builds, expectations multiply, and nothing ever happens. Well, that’s not entirely true. One thing happens: I fade away a little more each time.
I decrease in size. Do my disappearing act, which I’m good at. It’s taken years of practice, but I really have become an expert.
Sheesh...what was I thinking? With a title like that, it was bound to be a failure! Well I wrote the book as a way to purge my soul of all these traveling adventures I've experienced. It wasn't really designed for the public to read, so I removed it from the B&N shelf. This was a long-overdue action. I feel good about it.
In it's place, I have added the newest (old) novel of mine, book #3. I also tweaked the title of the book. Lots of changes yesterday. Maybe I should've gotten a tattoo, also (just kidding. sort of).
"Nothing Left of Me" is now available at BarnesandNoble.com. This book depicts the horror of an eating disorder. It follows a confused college student as she tries to overcome the death of a family member. It also addresses marriage, broken dreams...and a broken heart. Alyssa Rossini is the most damaged heroine in any of my stories. She is flawed and messed-up and real. I love the girl.
So check it out. Search my name on barnesandnoble & see for yourself if the book is worth reading. An excerpt is posted below.
Love, Lisa
When I get to my dorm room, I set the letter on my desk. It feels good to collapse onto my bed.
I lie flat on the mattress, staring out the window at the setting sun. It’s beautiful. Night is about to pour in, with its silent dark charisma. In the half light of dusk, I glance down at my darkened arms. I spent a long time in the Trini sun today. I’m at least three shades darker than I was before.
I realize that I never finished Kevin’s letter. There were a couple of paragraphs left.
I lie very still, debating. Will it make things better or worse to read the rest of the letter?
Probably worse, I admit. Everything I do somehow makes it worse.
After a moment, I lift my hand and grab the paper. My eyes scan the words nervously.
…Either way, it’s been too long! It’ll be good for us to reconnect.
I value our friendship so much, Alyssa. You’ve been there for me since we were teenagers, and I’ll never forget the time we spent together. High school basketball games, small group at my house, spring break in Orlando.
Megan told me your response card came in right before you left for Trinidad. I’m so glad you’ll be able to at the wedding. It means a lot to have you there. My family will love seeing you; after four months in Trinidad, you’ll have so much to tell Caryssa, Sandy and my parents! They’ve always enjoyed talking to you. Especially Sandy. She really looks up to you. You were like a big sister to her throughout high school.
Yeah. And for a while, I thought I really would be her big sister someday. Legally. Funny how Kevin skips over that part. I guess Megan is more deserving of the title.
Well I have to get going. So much to do here. Be safe and enjoy Caribbean life. I’ll see you soon! Can’t wait to explore the island with you. I’m sure by then you’ll know Trinidad like the back of your hand. Or maybe you already do…you always were great with directions.
Take care, Alyssa.
~Kevin
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s as if Kevin is trying to make me hurt. Telling me he is coming in a month and a half…it’s vicious.
I’ve been through this before; I can predict what’ll happen: the next few weeks, my life will be put on hold. There will be nothing but anticipation. I’ll be living in the future, waiting for that stupid day when Kevin arrives. And when October 18th does come, I’ll feel important for about ten seconds. I’ll probably have a resurgence of hope. But nothing will change, in the end.
Isn’t that how it always is with Kevin? Excitement builds, expectations multiply, and nothing ever happens. Well, that’s not entirely true. One thing happens: I fade away a little more each time.
I decrease in size. Do my disappearing act, which I’m good at. It’s taken years of practice, but I really have become an expert.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Round II
So here's the follow-up to Alyssa's brief church session.
She's caught in an awkward situation. She can't ignore Kevin's e-mail, but she can't let herself get too involved in the response, either. She has to find a balancing act. Somehow, she must prevent her heart from breaking any more than it already has.
She's also got an annoying little habit of not sleeping at night. There's a lot I can't relate to concerning my main character, but when it comes to sleep disorders...well, we're totally on the same page, sister.
Love, Lisa
Kevin, thanks for the e-mail, I type. I hunch over in the metal chair, eyes to the ground as I consider how to say the things that need to be said.
There are no good words at a time like this. I hate that Uncle Chris is gone. And it’s frustrating being a million miles from home.
On a less depressing note, I love Trinidad. The girls in my dorm are nice. School starts tomorrow, which is exciting. But I feel guilty enjoying things when Uncle Chris is dead. It doesn’t make sense, you know? How can he hug me one day and disappear the next?
Maybe prayer will help.
As soon as I type those words, I delete them. Kevin’s e-mails are censored and I don’t want him getting in trouble. It’s better to be safe.
But death is part of life, right? I type. No way to avoid it. Oh well. I hope things aren’t too bad in Iraq. Take care and write back whenever.
I send the e-mail before I have a chance to edit it. I tend to drive myself crazy with revisions. It’s so silly, so obsessive. I shouldn’t spend extra time poring over a five-line e-mail.
Sighing, I rise from my seat. The computer lab is the only part of Trinity Hall that’s air-conditioned. My body rejects this artificial air; goosebumps cover my arms. I eagerly dash from the cold room.
I head back to the first-floor lounge. Throwing myself on the couch, I sink into cloth cushions and turn on the television. There’s nothing on. That’s fine, though. I’m not really watching anyway, just letting the noise and images soak over me.
An advertisement fills the screen. Skinny girls parade around in striped sweaters. I crack a smile, because it’s almost fall in certain parts of the world, but Trinidad has no autumn, winter, or spring. It’s always summertime here. Thankfully.
And soon I will look exactly like those girls, down to the last detail. Bones and angles and edges. I will be their twin sister.
Except, of course, for the sweaters; I’ll be wearing a tank top.
***
I wake up, gripping the sheets in one fist. A layer of sweat covers my forehead and nose. I want to wipe it away, but my hands are too shaky. My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if it’s going to explode.
The room is so dark, so desperately lonely.
At first I take short breaths, shallow ones. Then they’re deeper. I sit up, propping myself against the wall. As much as I tell myself I am fine, there’s still a lingering hollowness in my core. My stomach screams at me, but that pain is tolerable. It’s the aching in my chest that is unbearable.
Why are you doing this? I ask him, knowing I’ll never get an answer. Leave me alone.
Kevin’s face remains etched in my brain. I can see it so clearly, every fleck of green in his eyes. His shaggy hair has grown so long that it’s almost messy.
I lie back down. The tension in my chest decreases a little, but not enough. I stare out my slitted window. The silent world stares back at me, offering no condolences.
I’m sure there’s something that can take away this pain. There is a solution, a cure I’ve turned to in the past. There must be. But I can’t recall what it is.
So I face the window. I close my eyes and wait for morning to come. I tell myself that once the sun rises, this isolation will depart. But that’s like tossing confetti in the air and expecting it to never fall.
She's caught in an awkward situation. She can't ignore Kevin's e-mail, but she can't let herself get too involved in the response, either. She has to find a balancing act. Somehow, she must prevent her heart from breaking any more than it already has.
She's also got an annoying little habit of not sleeping at night. There's a lot I can't relate to concerning my main character, but when it comes to sleep disorders...well, we're totally on the same page, sister.
Love, Lisa
Kevin, thanks for the e-mail, I type. I hunch over in the metal chair, eyes to the ground as I consider how to say the things that need to be said.
There are no good words at a time like this. I hate that Uncle Chris is gone. And it’s frustrating being a million miles from home.
On a less depressing note, I love Trinidad. The girls in my dorm are nice. School starts tomorrow, which is exciting. But I feel guilty enjoying things when Uncle Chris is dead. It doesn’t make sense, you know? How can he hug me one day and disappear the next?
Maybe prayer will help.
As soon as I type those words, I delete them. Kevin’s e-mails are censored and I don’t want him getting in trouble. It’s better to be safe.
But death is part of life, right? I type. No way to avoid it. Oh well. I hope things aren’t too bad in Iraq. Take care and write back whenever.
I send the e-mail before I have a chance to edit it. I tend to drive myself crazy with revisions. It’s so silly, so obsessive. I shouldn’t spend extra time poring over a five-line e-mail.
Sighing, I rise from my seat. The computer lab is the only part of Trinity Hall that’s air-conditioned. My body rejects this artificial air; goosebumps cover my arms. I eagerly dash from the cold room.
I head back to the first-floor lounge. Throwing myself on the couch, I sink into cloth cushions and turn on the television. There’s nothing on. That’s fine, though. I’m not really watching anyway, just letting the noise and images soak over me.
An advertisement fills the screen. Skinny girls parade around in striped sweaters. I crack a smile, because it’s almost fall in certain parts of the world, but Trinidad has no autumn, winter, or spring. It’s always summertime here. Thankfully.
And soon I will look exactly like those girls, down to the last detail. Bones and angles and edges. I will be their twin sister.
Except, of course, for the sweaters; I’ll be wearing a tank top.
***
I wake up, gripping the sheets in one fist. A layer of sweat covers my forehead and nose. I want to wipe it away, but my hands are too shaky. My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if it’s going to explode.
The room is so dark, so desperately lonely.
At first I take short breaths, shallow ones. Then they’re deeper. I sit up, propping myself against the wall. As much as I tell myself I am fine, there’s still a lingering hollowness in my core. My stomach screams at me, but that pain is tolerable. It’s the aching in my chest that is unbearable.
Why are you doing this? I ask him, knowing I’ll never get an answer. Leave me alone.
Kevin’s face remains etched in my brain. I can see it so clearly, every fleck of green in his eyes. His shaggy hair has grown so long that it’s almost messy.
I lie back down. The tension in my chest decreases a little, but not enough. I stare out my slitted window. The silent world stares back at me, offering no condolences.
I’m sure there’s something that can take away this pain. There is a solution, a cure I’ve turned to in the past. There must be. But I can’t recall what it is.
So I face the window. I close my eyes and wait for morning to come. I tell myself that once the sun rises, this isolation will depart. But that’s like tossing confetti in the air and expecting it to never fall.
Church in Trinidad
Alyssa is starting to realize there is only one answer to her problems. The world offers so many "solutions," but none of them really seem to solve anything.
Christ is the cure. There is no remedy except God's love. We can run in crazy circles and tell ourselves that we are fine, but it's a lie.
Alyssa is beginning to understand this. She still has a long way to go.
Love, Lisa
I roll over in bed, reaching for my blanket. It’s all the way on the floor. Gremlin chants pound against my skull. My head feels like it’s been slammed in a door. I’m exhausted, but I need to get up. This is the last day before classes start; there’s a lot to do.
I throw cold water on my face and brush my teeth in a hurry. There’s no point showering; I’ll get dirty by walking to church anyway. I’m getting used to being muddy and sticky all the time.
Returning to my room, I select a flowered dress. Its silky material clings to my legs and waist. I touch my stomach briefly, and instantly I regret it. There should be a crevasse, a void. A dip where my ribcage ends. It used to be there; I would touch it every day. I want it back. I want to be a straight line.
It’s early enough that the streets are quiet. A few maxis pass by, but I keep walking. My legs are aching, which is a good sign.
A car drives by, kicking up dust. Black flakes cling to my skin.
“How it goin, whi-tey!” the driver hollers, whistling at me.
I’m gross, I silently tell the driver, even though he’s practically out of sight now. Don’t pretend I’m attractive. It’s a lie.
I sigh, because this fight with myself never results in victory. Never.
Eastern Main Road feels strange on Sunday morning. Stores are closed. Not just a couple of shops, but every single one. It’s a ghost town. A bird leaps from the sidewalk into the air. Its flapping wings echo down the street, the loudest noise for miles around.
My legs begin to tingle, the way they sometimes do when I’ve walked too far without eating or drinking. I pause for a moment, enjoying the sensation. This means I’ve worked my body past exhaustion.
Squinting down a worn-out alley, 5th Avenue, I spot a white building with a cross on top. It’s small, the size of a house. There are no people out front, just a home-made sign that reads “Jesus is Lord, Amen!”
The tingling grows stronger as I approach the church. I’ll need water soon, I know, to avoid blacking out. My heartbeat erupts in strange places, like my shoulders, ankles, elbows. I grasp the wooden door, leaning against the handle for a moment.
After catching my breath, I slip inside. Immediately, a wave of music hits me. It’s a gospel song.
I grab a seat in an empty pew. This church is relatively empty. Some of the rows only have one person, some two. Mine is empty, except for me. It’s not lonely, though. God suddenly feels much less distant than before.
Surprisingly, I know this song. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before. Behold, He comes/Riding on the clouds…I try to join in, but my throat is dry. I barely make it through one line of the song before my vocal chords give out.
Suddenly I choke on my tongue.
I have to stare at the ceiling so I won’t cry. Uncle Chris is gone. He’s really done it this time; there’s no turning back. No joking or returning to the family.
Why him? I wonder, closing my eyes. There are people like me, people who make no difference and have no real ties to anyone.
Why wasn’t I the one who was killed?
I’ve been far from home for years now. Kevin picked Megan and my life became meaningless. I successfully alienated every person that ever loved me. It was like a twisted game where I earned a point for each relationship I destroyed.
Uncle Chris should be at home with his family. I should have been the one to flip over in a car on the side of the road. Chris has children and a wife. I have friends and acquaintances who won’t remember my name in a few years.
What the hell, I ask God, throwing up my hands in frustration.
“Out of Zion’s hill, salvation comes!” the people in the pews shout, raising their hands in worship.
My hand is high in the air, too. But it’s clenched in a fist.
And then it hits me: I have two options. I can continue to be angry, to feel that the world has screwed me…or I can turn to God, trusting that He is greater than these foolish problems.
“I’m sorry. I can change,” I whisper.
The words are drowned out by the loud singing, but God can still hear me. He hears every single word, tear and thought.
“I can change,” I repeat. But the growling in my stomach, the angry acid churning there, indicates otherwise.
Christ is the cure. There is no remedy except God's love. We can run in crazy circles and tell ourselves that we are fine, but it's a lie.
Alyssa is beginning to understand this. She still has a long way to go.
Love, Lisa
I roll over in bed, reaching for my blanket. It’s all the way on the floor. Gremlin chants pound against my skull. My head feels like it’s been slammed in a door. I’m exhausted, but I need to get up. This is the last day before classes start; there’s a lot to do.
I throw cold water on my face and brush my teeth in a hurry. There’s no point showering; I’ll get dirty by walking to church anyway. I’m getting used to being muddy and sticky all the time.
Returning to my room, I select a flowered dress. Its silky material clings to my legs and waist. I touch my stomach briefly, and instantly I regret it. There should be a crevasse, a void. A dip where my ribcage ends. It used to be there; I would touch it every day. I want it back. I want to be a straight line.
It’s early enough that the streets are quiet. A few maxis pass by, but I keep walking. My legs are aching, which is a good sign.
A car drives by, kicking up dust. Black flakes cling to my skin.
“How it goin, whi-tey!” the driver hollers, whistling at me.
I’m gross, I silently tell the driver, even though he’s practically out of sight now. Don’t pretend I’m attractive. It’s a lie.
I sigh, because this fight with myself never results in victory. Never.
Eastern Main Road feels strange on Sunday morning. Stores are closed. Not just a couple of shops, but every single one. It’s a ghost town. A bird leaps from the sidewalk into the air. Its flapping wings echo down the street, the loudest noise for miles around.
My legs begin to tingle, the way they sometimes do when I’ve walked too far without eating or drinking. I pause for a moment, enjoying the sensation. This means I’ve worked my body past exhaustion.
Squinting down a worn-out alley, 5th Avenue, I spot a white building with a cross on top. It’s small, the size of a house. There are no people out front, just a home-made sign that reads “Jesus is Lord, Amen!”
The tingling grows stronger as I approach the church. I’ll need water soon, I know, to avoid blacking out. My heartbeat erupts in strange places, like my shoulders, ankles, elbows. I grasp the wooden door, leaning against the handle for a moment.
After catching my breath, I slip inside. Immediately, a wave of music hits me. It’s a gospel song.
I grab a seat in an empty pew. This church is relatively empty. Some of the rows only have one person, some two. Mine is empty, except for me. It’s not lonely, though. God suddenly feels much less distant than before.
Surprisingly, I know this song. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before. Behold, He comes/Riding on the clouds…I try to join in, but my throat is dry. I barely make it through one line of the song before my vocal chords give out.
Suddenly I choke on my tongue.
I have to stare at the ceiling so I won’t cry. Uncle Chris is gone. He’s really done it this time; there’s no turning back. No joking or returning to the family.
Why him? I wonder, closing my eyes. There are people like me, people who make no difference and have no real ties to anyone.
Why wasn’t I the one who was killed?
I’ve been far from home for years now. Kevin picked Megan and my life became meaningless. I successfully alienated every person that ever loved me. It was like a twisted game where I earned a point for each relationship I destroyed.
Uncle Chris should be at home with his family. I should have been the one to flip over in a car on the side of the road. Chris has children and a wife. I have friends and acquaintances who won’t remember my name in a few years.
What the hell, I ask God, throwing up my hands in frustration.
“Out of Zion’s hill, salvation comes!” the people in the pews shout, raising their hands in worship.
My hand is high in the air, too. But it’s clenched in a fist.
And then it hits me: I have two options. I can continue to be angry, to feel that the world has screwed me…or I can turn to God, trusting that He is greater than these foolish problems.
“I’m sorry. I can change,” I whisper.
The words are drowned out by the loud singing, but God can still hear me. He hears every single word, tear and thought.
“I can change,” I repeat. But the growling in my stomach, the angry acid churning there, indicates otherwise.
Monday, January 3, 2011
In Pieces
Alyssa is unraveling very quickly.
I've added some flashbacks to the story at various parts. The goal was to make this book as intense as possible.
So here goes nothing. It might be a mistake; I may snip these little flashbacks.
Not sure yet.
I'm placing the most dramatic ones in this post. All feedback is appreciated.
Love, Lisa
In spite of myself, I looked back.
Mom was crying in the passenger seat. Dad had his arm around her shoulder. He was trying to hold it together; Dad had always been the rational one. His emotions didn’t get in the way of his life.
But he was even upset this time.
I wanted to run back to the car, tell my parents I am sorry. Tell them I would change. We all knew that was a lie, though. There was no way I would go back to the body I used to have. I would’ve rather died. Literally. I’d actually been working fairly hard to achieve that.
I exhaled sharply and stepped through the airport’s entrance. My flight to Florida left in an hour, so I needed to rush. There was no time for regrets, for meaningless apologies. Mom knews I loved her; that wasn’t the issue. It was myself I couldn’t stand.
She begged me to get treatment. There was a good place in Schaumburg, just a few miles from our house. But that would’ve meant staying in Illinois. That place was crawling with memories. It was a cesspool of could-have-beens.
The world used to be such a bright place. I was not willing to live in the shadow of that brightness; that would be a torture beyond what I could bear.
Besides, I didn’t want treatment. I didn’t want to be healthy because this half-crazed, extreme method I’d discovered was much more intriguing. It was my sole source of relief these days.
I lost Kevin. I chased away my family and most of my friends. I had no plan for the future and only a painfully wonderful past to reflect on. A reminder of the perfection that had slipped through my bony fingers.
Everything that mattered had been stripped away.
But I had control. I floated above this heavy anchor that weighed others down. I was immune to temptation and desire. I could go days without eating, then live off crumbs. I was a champion of my own little game. I was a queen.
A tiny, narrow, hollowed-out queen.
***
If only it would come faster, I thought. I’d be abroad in a couple months. I’d be away from this nightmare of a life.
I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Mom was running errands, Dad was working from his home office, Johnny was hanging out with friends. Because, unlike me, he still had some. He hadn’t ignored their phone calls until they eventually stopped calling.
I closed my eyes. What I wanted to do was reach across the dresser and grab the novel I started reading. Or maybe even the Bible, although it had been hard to comb through that book lately.
I didn’t have the energy. Stretching my arm across the nightstand would’ve felt like running a marathon. The books would have to sit idle. Just like me.
My breathing was shallow, my muscles were tired even though they hadn’t moved today. It was tiring to breathe, even. My eyes flew open and I stared at the white ceiling.
Maybe the breaths would just stop. That would be nice; I could finally rest. I could drift off into nothingness. After all this time, the gaping hole that Kevin left would dissolve.
I would be free.
I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to remember the last time I ate anything. I had a tea yesterday, maybe at ten in the morning. But I’d only finished half the cup. It tasted too sweet; Mom might’ve slipped some sugar in there. That was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
I blinked. There was no water left in my eyes, so I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t sweat, either. No periods anymore. No emotions left. My body was shutting down.
I couldn’t work my face into smile. But there was a grin inside my head. My body was transforming into something stunning. I was so little now that I had to buy children’s clothes. Girls’ size 10 usually fit me. I was five feet and ten inches, yet wearing the same items that an eight-year-old typically wore. It was amazing.
Maybe I could be a child again, travel back to the time when the world made sense. It was my only chance at happiness. Adulthood had brought loss. And misery, too. So much misery. The kind that chipped away at me until I shattered.
I was in pieces. A teacup that someone had tossed to the ground. The fragments were really sharp; they could slice through flesh. Easily.
I've added some flashbacks to the story at various parts. The goal was to make this book as intense as possible.
So here goes nothing. It might be a mistake; I may snip these little flashbacks.
Not sure yet.
I'm placing the most dramatic ones in this post. All feedback is appreciated.
Love, Lisa
In spite of myself, I looked back.
Mom was crying in the passenger seat. Dad had his arm around her shoulder. He was trying to hold it together; Dad had always been the rational one. His emotions didn’t get in the way of his life.
But he was even upset this time.
I wanted to run back to the car, tell my parents I am sorry. Tell them I would change. We all knew that was a lie, though. There was no way I would go back to the body I used to have. I would’ve rather died. Literally. I’d actually been working fairly hard to achieve that.
I exhaled sharply and stepped through the airport’s entrance. My flight to Florida left in an hour, so I needed to rush. There was no time for regrets, for meaningless apologies. Mom knews I loved her; that wasn’t the issue. It was myself I couldn’t stand.
She begged me to get treatment. There was a good place in Schaumburg, just a few miles from our house. But that would’ve meant staying in Illinois. That place was crawling with memories. It was a cesspool of could-have-beens.
The world used to be such a bright place. I was not willing to live in the shadow of that brightness; that would be a torture beyond what I could bear.
Besides, I didn’t want treatment. I didn’t want to be healthy because this half-crazed, extreme method I’d discovered was much more intriguing. It was my sole source of relief these days.
I lost Kevin. I chased away my family and most of my friends. I had no plan for the future and only a painfully wonderful past to reflect on. A reminder of the perfection that had slipped through my bony fingers.
Everything that mattered had been stripped away.
But I had control. I floated above this heavy anchor that weighed others down. I was immune to temptation and desire. I could go days without eating, then live off crumbs. I was a champion of my own little game. I was a queen.
A tiny, narrow, hollowed-out queen.
***
If only it would come faster, I thought. I’d be abroad in a couple months. I’d be away from this nightmare of a life.
I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Mom was running errands, Dad was working from his home office, Johnny was hanging out with friends. Because, unlike me, he still had some. He hadn’t ignored their phone calls until they eventually stopped calling.
I closed my eyes. What I wanted to do was reach across the dresser and grab the novel I started reading. Or maybe even the Bible, although it had been hard to comb through that book lately.
I didn’t have the energy. Stretching my arm across the nightstand would’ve felt like running a marathon. The books would have to sit idle. Just like me.
My breathing was shallow, my muscles were tired even though they hadn’t moved today. It was tiring to breathe, even. My eyes flew open and I stared at the white ceiling.
Maybe the breaths would just stop. That would be nice; I could finally rest. I could drift off into nothingness. After all this time, the gaping hole that Kevin left would dissolve.
I would be free.
I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to remember the last time I ate anything. I had a tea yesterday, maybe at ten in the morning. But I’d only finished half the cup. It tasted too sweet; Mom might’ve slipped some sugar in there. That was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
I blinked. There was no water left in my eyes, so I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t sweat, either. No periods anymore. No emotions left. My body was shutting down.
I couldn’t work my face into smile. But there was a grin inside my head. My body was transforming into something stunning. I was so little now that I had to buy children’s clothes. Girls’ size 10 usually fit me. I was five feet and ten inches, yet wearing the same items that an eight-year-old typically wore. It was amazing.
Maybe I could be a child again, travel back to the time when the world made sense. It was my only chance at happiness. Adulthood had brought loss. And misery, too. So much misery. The kind that chipped away at me until I shattered.
I was in pieces. A teacup that someone had tossed to the ground. The fragments were really sharp; they could slice through flesh. Easily.
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.
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.
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.”
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