The Other Side Of The Wall

At night, she always heard him sobbing. On the other side of the wall. Soft, rhythmic sobbing like some sort of bizarre lullaby. On the other side of the wall.

She wondered if he knew she heard him. On the other side of the wall. When they were together, his smile brightened her heart’s darkest place, his blue eyes punctured her soul’s strongest spot. But when they weren’t together, there was only his sobbing. On the other side of the wall.

Every time she saw him, she wanted to tell him she knew how he felt. On the other side of the wall. She wanted to scream it to him in her loudest voice. She wanted him to know she understood what happened. On the other side of the wall. She wanted to hold him tighter than a child clutching a bright red balloon he got at the zoo. She wanted to hold him and hold him and hold him and never let go.

But, she wasn’t brave enough. She was afraid he would run away if he knew that she knew his secret. On the other side of the wall.

So, instead she just let his cries sing her to sleep. Every night. On the other side of the wall.

Finding Peace

A few days ago, a very close friend of mine died.  And, I’m having trouble saying her name and dead in the same sentence.

She was 45, my good friend since high school.  She died of unexpected complications from a surgery that shouldn’t have been so complicated.  I blogged about spending the day with her sons a few years back in a post called The Pirate Queen.  It breaks my heart that her beautiful children will grow up without their mother.  And, I can’t even begin to imagine the life her husband will have trying to be strong for his kids.

I went to visit her in the hospital after I got the call saying she was in a “vegetative state”.  I didn’t know what this meant, exactly and I’m still not sure I do.  They tell me it means that only her brain stem was active so any movement was just reflex.  But, when I saw her, she opened her eyes, she seemed to look right at me.  When I talked to her — even though she couldn’t respond — in my heart I felt like she KNEW I was there.  And, maybe that’s the way our mind tricks us into dealing with the impossible.  By providing some crazy rationalization that makes it seem not so bad.

I’ve known my friend since I was a freshman in high school.  We were 13 when we met.  We grew up together — we shared our crushes and broken hearts, a bad senior prom and many other high school memories.  I was her “ghost writer” in high school.  Whenever she had to write papers or essays, she would tell me what she wanted to say and I would write it for her.  She was always amazed at how effortlessly I could write.

We went to different colleges and had boyfriends but we always stayed in touch.  I was in her bridal party.  Of course, we grew apart as high school friends can.  But, we tried to see each other regularly.  Our lives took different paths — she became a stay at home mom and I pursued my artistic endeavors.  While we weren’t always successful at getting together, I always knew she’d be there for me.  Even if we hadn’t seen each other in months or years, we could easily pick up where we left off.

She was so proud to know I had become a writer.  She was probably my first writing fan.  The first time she came to one of my plays, she said she sat there the whole time thinking “I can’t believe Helene WROTE this.”  It made me cry.  I’ve been crying off an on for a few days now, realizing that she’s gone.  That she won’t be there anymore.

I’ve experienced the gamut of emotions over the past two weeks — from anger to denial to depression.  I’m struggling to find acceptance and peace.  I keep trying to be strong and distract myself but I can’t stop thinking about her.  I can’t stop thinking about what my last conversation with her was about and why I didn’t talk to her before she went into the hospital.  I’ve spent more hours at the gym than I have in months (which probably isn’t a bad thing) but some days I forget to eat (which is a bad thing).  I cry a lot.  I stay up with insomnia a lot (well, more than usual).

Two nights ago, I dreamt of her.  I was at a party and she was there, alive and full of life in a bright green sweater with a smile everyone knew her for.  She said “If you’re listening to this, it means I didn’t make it…”

And, then I woke up.  Crying.

I have to go the wake and the funeral over the next few days and I’m dreading it.  I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say good-bye.  I don’t know if I’m strong enough to find peace.

Blueberry Pancakes

The thing she loved most about the diner was that you could order anything. The menu was almost as long as some books she liked to read.

But, on Sundays, at The Country Club diner, she always ordered blueberry pancakes. With whipped cream and syrup. She always thought The Country Club diner was such a fancy name for a not so fancy place.

She loved coming to the diner with her father, after their Sunday visit to the rides in South Beach. They always played Skee Ball and cashed in their tickets for silly prizes. This week, she picked out a doll with red pigtails and a pink dress. She sat the doll up against the table jukebox at the diner and watched her father drink his tea while she waited for her pancakes. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

The carousel ride was her favorite. Today, she tried to convince her father that one of the carousel horses had been hurt. That he had blood on his head. Her father didn’t believe her. He told her they were made out of wood and couldn’t be hurt. But she saw the sadness in the horse’s painted eyes. Maybe the horse was trying to be strong and not show he was hurting. She wondered if her father did the same thing.

This morning, she had been upstairs in her room putting on her favorite striped pants and pink sweater when she heard the sound she dreaded the most. It invaded her brain like some horrible monster. The sound of her mother yelling at her father. Using ugly words. Her father yelled back and told her mother to watch her language. She wanted to run down the stairs, two, maybe three at a time and scream at them to stop. She wanted to scream louder than them. But she didn’t. She just stayed quiet and waited like she always did. Waited for the screaming to stop. Sometimes it lasted long, sometimes it was over quick. This morning it was somewhere in between.

She sat at the diner across from her father and looked into his blue eyes. She saw the sadness. The same sadness she saw in the horse’s painted eyes. She hoped her father’s sadness wouldn’t be permanent like the paint on the horse. She knew her mother made him sad. She wished she wouldn’t.

She wondered if her mother would come to the diner with them and have blueberry pancakes with whipped cream and syrup. Just once. She wondered if her mother would come to ride the carousel with them. Just once. She wondered if that would make the sadness in her father’s eyes go away. Just once.

The Carousel Horse

“Do carousel horses bleed, Daddy?” she asked.  ”Of course not, sweetie,” he replied.

Her wide blue eyes stared into his, quizzically and curious as the sound of the carousel circus music played in an endless loop.  Every day, he found himself  more and more amazed at how fast her seven-year old brain worked.   “Why would you ask that?”, he said.  ”Look, over there at that white one — it  looks like blood, right by his head.”  His eyes scanned all the horses until he found the one she was talking about.  Sure enough, it did have a red mark by its head that could be mistaken for blood.  He marveled at how observant she was.

“The horses are made of wood, they can’t be hurt,” he told her.  She looked like she wanted to believe him but for some reason her brain just wouldn’t let her.  ”His eyes look so sad, Daddy,” she said.

He took her to the carousel every Sunday.  It was their special time together.  They went to the carousel and the diner for blueberry pancakes.  Every Sunday.  It didn’t matter what time of the day it was.  They always had blueberry pancakes.  With whipped cream and syrup.  He treasured their Sundays and often wondered how long they would have that time.  When would she think it wasn’t “cool” to hang out with her dad?  Would it be in two years?  Three?  Four?  He hated to think about it.

“I want to go on the white horse today, Daddy,” she told him, snapping him out of his time-is-going-too-fast-for-me thoughts.  He wondered if that white horse was always there and why she hadn’t noticed the blood-like mark on it before.   “He’s new,” she continued, “he’s scared and he needs friends.”  He  took her hand in his and they walked up to the carousel platform.

She climbed onto the white horse and ran her tiny fingers over its “blood” spot, whispering softly to it.  ”It’s okay,” she said, “I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”  She spoke very softly and gently.  He sat beside her on a brown horse with a golden mane and listened to the circus music blaring through the speaker.  He watched his daughter talking to the wooden horse with the sad eyes and the carousel began to move.  He wondered where carousel horses came from.  Did someone model them after real horses?  Could that be the sadness in this one’s eyes that only his daughter seemed to see?

“Daddy, I think carousel horses can bleed,” she told him.  ”Maybe you’re right,” he replied.  And, for a moment, he wondered if it were true.

She Kissed Him In The Rain

She kissed him in the rain. She pressed up against him, against the outside of her car door on the dark road. A streetlight glowed somewhere but she couldn’t see it because her eyes were closed. She heard only the rain. She felt only his soft lips against hers. It was their first kiss, their last kiss, their only kiss.

“I can’t stay,” he told her earlier. He was leaving the next day for some far away place like Zimbabwe or Baghdad. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was he couldn’t stay. She kissed him in the rain to forget. To forget she would never see his face again. To forget she would never feel his eyes pierce through her own eyes again. To forget she would never hear his voice again. To forget she would never feel his heart beat again like it was now as he pressed back against her, against her car door, in the rain. The rain mixed with her tears but she kept kissing him. She wanted to stop but she couldn’t. The rain kept falling, they kept kissing. Their hair stuck to their faces like overcooked spaghetti strands, their wet clothes stuck to their bodies like some bizarre version of wetsuits. Their first kiss, their last kiss, their only kiss.

Years later she would remember the kiss, every time it rained. She struggled to remember where he had to go. Was it Zimbabwe? Was it Baghdad? Was it somewhere less complicated? Why couldn’t he stay? She didn’t know. He never told her why he had to leave. “I want to stay,” he said, “but I don’t know if I can”. She thought she remembered a tear in his eye when he said it but she couldn’t be sure. She decided it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except she kissed him in the rain. Their first kiss, their last kiss, their only kiss.

Who Am I?

I’m traveling with my family and suddenly one of us is shot point blank between the eyes. The rest of us run for safety. We huddle together to protect what’s left of our pack. Who am I? A wolf. A wolf recently taken off the endangered list so I can be any hunter’s target. A wolf who lives in a pack and mates for life. A wolf who was free to live his life in Idaho or Montana without danger of being hunted. Once an endangered species, now fair game for hunters. I am a wolf. I sense fear. I feel pain. I don’t understand.

I’m waiting at the end of the line which I don’t mind so much because I can’t smell death from back here. My feet hurt. I am hungry. I am thirsty. Who am I? I am a horse. A beautiful creature who once raced and had the respect and admiration of many. Now I wait to go into the kill box where a shot to the head may or may not kill me before I am slit open and bled out. As I get closer, I hear the kicks and screams of the others. I am a horse. I sense fear. I feel pain. I don’t understand.

I’m running around on the floor, not sure where I am. It’s too late when I see the stiletto heel coming down to crush me. Who am I? I am a hamster, the subject of “crush” videos people watch for enjoyment. I am a hamster. I sense fear. I feel pain. I do not understand.

I’m in a small stall, too small to move around. My tail has been clipped so I fit better in my stall but now I can’t swat away the flies. Who am I? I am a dairy cow whose udders are so swollen from being forced to produce more milk than I am supposed to. They take my babies as soon as I am born. When I try to sit down to rest, they beat me. I am a cow. I sense fear. I feel pain. I do not understand.

First he hits me with a whip, then a bullhook, then he shocks me. He tries to get me to do tricks but it hurts to stand the way he wants me to. Who am I? I am an elephant in the circus. I am majestic, enormous, once beautiful. Now, I am just afraid. I don’t know which pain is worse, the pain from being forced to do what he wants or the pain from the beatings. I am an elephant. I sense fear. I feel pain. I do not understand.

I read story after story about animal cruelty. I sometimes have nightmares. I often cry when I think about what people do to animals. Who am I? I am one person with one voice that isn’t loud enough to save all the animals I want to save. I am a human being who respects, admires and loves all animals. I am a person who is not like the monsters out there. I am a person who cares. I sense fear. I feel pain. I do not understand.

Writer’s Remorse

Recently, a good friend of mine asked me “Do you ever write something and like it?”

I didn’t answer him right away — in fact, I’m not sure I answered him at all except for a mumble of some sort. Yet, somehow, I can’t stop thinking about his question. I wondered if he thought I was being that passive-aggressive type just fishing for compliments because I never seem really happy with what I write.

Here’s the thing. A lot of times I censor my writing out of fear of what those closest to me might think. So, I might start out with a good story but I inevitably water it down. And, that’s what I don’t like. This watered down version of my ideas. It’s not real and it feels fake when I read it. It feels like something is missing. And the average reader can’t tell that it’s diluted because they don’t know what it’s in my brain. There are dark, dangerous and sometimes frightening stories in there just begging to be put on the page but I wish them away. I write what’s safe. That’s what I don’t like.

But, there must be something I like, you’re wondering — because why else would I write? Now, THAT I can answer. I write because I have to. It’s in me, it’s something I can’t NOT do like brush my teeth. It’s the only time I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I may not always be writing scripts or stories but I’m writing in one of my many Moleskin notebooks or blogging from my phone. It’s an impulse I have to feed.

I finished a script back in June and it had a first reading. A lot of people really liked it. I thought it was okay. I was angry at myself for merely scratching the surface of where I wanted to go. I had Writer’s Remorse. I wanted to take it all back, not have it out there in its safe little script, its neat little package. It should have been more raw. It should have had more truth. It should have been what I really wanted it to be. But it was too late. I couldn’t take it back.

I do like pieces of what I write but I so often don’t like the whole. And, maybe I’ll never get to the point where I like everything. Maybe that’s why I keep trying harder. Maybe one day I will win the self-censoring battle and stop being afraid.

And, maybe, just maybe, my writer’s remorse keeps me humble.