fresh off the chopping block

I don't really remember when we met. I was really more friends with your across-the-hall neighbor, and to be honest, rather foolish and flirtatious with said neighbor. The first time I really remember you was one day when you were scolding him for missing me in chapel. "C'mon, man," you said, blue eyes wide. "I always notice my friends!" Thinking about it now, you were angry with the other guy for being oblivious (only one of the masculine traits you would attack in the coming years). At the moment, though, I was just grateful for your verbalizing what I was grumpily thinking. After that, there were a few more incidents (properly described) that cemented our friendship. One rainy night, a friend and I banged on the boys' dorm door and you popped out, barefoot, and played in the monsoon with us and our pathetic, broken umbrella. You watched me cry my way through every huge paper that first year, all without freaking out or fleeing the scene. When I was having a major self-esteem freak-out about my upcoming gym class, you drove me to the store to buy pants that made me feel hot. ("These better be the best darn pants in the whole world!" you snapped at me in the car.) You knew both sides of the circumstances of my first serious broken heart, and you didn't throw it in my face when it predictably blew up.

Most people either feared or disliked you on sight. I did neither. Somehow I understood and accepted your sarcastic bitterness, your pessimism, your apparent chauvinism, and your brusqueness. It was like I already knew you before we began, and it was easy to just continue on. You sort of just rolled into my life . . . and stayed.

On my twentieth birthday, you rescued me from awkward advances from an awkward boy, then went ahead and talked me down from the emotional cliff. That was the first time you gave me any type of good advice, and I think, perhaps, that was when I began to really love you. Instead of reciprocating, you found someone else. That became the motif of our relationship. When you were free and unattached, I was very interested in someone else--someone "better," I told myself. When I yearned for your affection, you were in love with the pattern girl--someone skinnier, shorter, funnier, smarter, classier, more intriguing, more ambitious, and much more obnoxious than I was. Somehow, we stayed friends through it all. I called you whenever I needed help with picking up guests or checking car engines or taking care of my plants over break. You answered your phone all those times, and, unasked, you held me as I wept from stress and hurt and fear. Without fail, we had screaming, knock-down drag-out fights every time we spent too much time apart. You always "won," but I really won because I avoided doing the one thing you aimed for. ("You know you want to hit me. Right here," you'd say, patting the side of your face.)

I watched you grow up while we were at school, but so much of you remained enigmatic to me. There were so many things I hated about you--the way you stole my food right off my plate, how you ignored me when someone "better" arrived in the conversation, your chuckle right after making a jerk-ish comment, the stubborn belief that you were always always right. There were times when I silently cheered for people who called you "arrogant" or "rude" or worse. But mostly, I was on your side. I never understood why you went through random phases when life was good, and everything was looking up. It made me vaguely uneasy when you were so optimistic; I didn't quite know how to handle that version of you. And I couldn't fathom why you endured my ignoring you for weeks, then suddenly responded to my frantic phone calls with such tenderness. I didn't understand . . . but I was grateful. Was that the real you, trying to get out?

I think that was really you--the one you should be. You wanted to be the understanding, enthusiastic, tender version of yourself . . . but you didn't know how. No one ever showed you, maybe, or you felt strange and unnatural when you were like that. I wish I could tell you how much I believe in the real you. I wish I could tell you that I know you can be the man I started to see in you--the one who's tender, and thoughtful, and strong in all the right ways. I wish you would believe me . . . but I'm pretty sure you'd laugh and roll your eyes.


And then I just might hit you.

best. boss. ever.

The first time I met him, I wrote in my journal,
He is indeed a great boss, like B. said he would be. But I am insanely curious about his background. He speaks perfect American-accented English, perfect (as far as I can tell) Hebrew, walks and dresses and acts like an American man, has a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand (revealing he has a past, haha), has sort of Jewish-looking dark eyes and hair and skin, is married to Liat (who sounds . . . Jewish? I'm so bad at discerning accents), and has boys with rather Jewish-sounding names that I can't pronounce.

Funny how much I got right in that first impression.

I was terrified of Natan for the first few weeks I worked for him. He had a temper, and tended to be contentious, which intimidated me. I also was certain he didn't like me, as he never ever smiled or praised or actually really looked me in the eyes. Then, one day, he randomly picked me to be the first double-checker, to be sure the rooms were really clean. In the face of more-experienced volunteers' protests ("But . . . she's new!") he said, infuriatingly calmly, "I know. But I rely on Katie. She has perfectionist tendencies."

It was a little bit of an oh moment for me; I think I walked a little straighter afterward.

In the few months I was in Israel, there were many people who surprised me, beat through my reserved-ness, and attached themselves to my heart, but I think that none was so surprising to me as Natan. I don't even know how to explain it to someone who hasn't met him.

He was this strange strange mix of American cockiness and Jewish stubbornness (and that without any Jewish lineage--the dark eyes were Armenian, from his mother). He was raised, right outside Jerusalem, by two resident aliens, Americans who emigrated to Israel "before it was in style"; he grew up speaking Hebrew and English and spending summers and especially the Fourths of July in Kentucky. ("Fireworks are the only good thing about summers in the States.") He ran in some ridiculously-named street gang in junior and senior high school. ("Were you ever in any gang fights?" I asked him one day. "Yes, Katie," he smirked, "we had our 'rumbles' in the parks."). He served in the Israeli and U.S. armies ("The American army was harder, actually, because they expected everything to be so clean, but their breakfasts were great.") He was a rebel, a hippie, a drunk, a runaway, a shame. And then, suddenly, he came back to the faith of his parents, got things together, and met his wife. ("When she was single, she used to tell people, 'My husband is in a bar somewhere, drunk,' and she was right.") He went from being a disappointment to being a husband who loves his wife, and a father who wants to raise his boys in the best way he knows how. ("Well . . . I don't want to make them celebrate Christmas, because that's really counter-cultural here and I don't want them growing up confused and feeling like outsiders.") Mostly, he hated being put in a box, any box. ("I am not a third-culture child! Do you even know what that is?!?" "Yes, I do," I told him, "and you most definitely are one." "No," he insisted, "I'm distinctly my own culture.")

And even though, maybe, he didn't realize it, he sort of became a father to "his" volunteers. On one of my days off, I had a fight with one of the other girls, and when it was over I slipped off to Natan's office. "Can I stay here for awhile?" I asked him, barely holding back the shaking in my voice, and he just nodded. I sat on my stool, far away from him, and breathed. He stayed at his desk, making up the schedule and ignoring me, but I knew, somehow, that he was sliding his eyes over to survey me when I wasn't looking. I grew to understand the veiled affection, just nod and ignore his doomsday words about all things dear to him--like the housekeeping cat, which he secretly smuggled food every day. ("Do you know that cats usually die of kidney failure because they refuse to drink?" he grumbled one day as he put a huge bowl of water outside.) Housekeeping wasn't an easy job, but Natan stood as an advocate, a protector between us volunteers and the rest of the moshav. When he'd leave following a tense or angry or stressful conversation, I learned to expect and even be relieved by the faint scent of nicotine that clung to him when he returned. If Natan disappeared and came back smelling of cigarette smoke, I knew things would pan out okay.

As my close volunteer friends left, as my time in Israel drew to an end, as my heart became more and more afraid of leaving all I loved there, I found myself drawn again and again to the housekeeping "office" and Natan's presence. On my days off, or my night-shift days, I'd come in and help him fold laundry and ask him dozens of questions about his life. There was strange comfort in his stories of recklessness and bad decisions, even in his sarcasm and cynicism. He answered my questions, understanding both my culture and the Israeli culture as his own. He debated my theology, my practices, my politics. ("I'll get you an article about that subject," he told me. "Natan . . . your father wrote this! I can't argue against it!" "Well--I just wanted to get you the best information out there.") He infuriated and frustrated and challenged me . . . and I loved him for it.

In my last days in Israel, I was more drawn to the quiet reasonably-predictable moments and places and people than to new experiences or places. So it was that, nine days before I left Israel, I lingered in supply room with Natan, after all the other volunteers went back to their rooms to take showers and rest or go out or whatnot. I was sitting crazily yet firmly balanced on a narrow strip of desk, one foot on Natan's desk, the other on the arm of a broken plastic chair. As was usual after the volunteers' workday, Natan crouched near the doorway, scrubbing out the cups and mugs before putting them in the dishwasher. It was an unseasonably hot day, and we'd worked hard, so I was tired and smelled so bad I could nearly see my scent rising from under my arms. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but suddenly he looked up from his work.
"What was Jesus' message, in one word--if you had to sum up?"
"Natan . . . I feel like you already have an answer."
"Oh, I do." (He probably smirked, and I probably rolled my eyes.)
"Well, just tell me then."
"Okay. Jesus' main message to people was--'Relax.' And most people don't. I didn't."
And then he looked straight into my eyes with his dark Armenian gaze.
"Most of the questions you have now, you won't have in ten years. The things that matter to you now . . . won't. The questions will mostly answer themselves."
I leaned back and tried to breathe without crying. Natan went back to his dishes, as if he hadn't just solved my entire life's problems in one sentence.

Saying goodbye to Natan was nearly harder than anything else I had to do when I left Israel. Different volunteers had come and gone, even roommates and best friends, but Natan--he'd been there to watch me from day one, and he knew and remembered all the ridiculous and horrible and lovely things I'd done. Surprisingly, he came to my goodbye evening at the volunteers' clubhouse (he hated that place) and even more surprisingly, insisted on doing a "confirmation circle" for me. When it was his turn, he looked at me, seriously, and said, "Katie, you were a cheerful worker . . . usually--" A tiny smirk quirked the corners of his mouth, but his eyes stayed roundly innocent. "--and a lot of fun to work with . . . most of the time." (I could immediately recall some days I'd not been fun.) He looked at me, eyes and mouth and voice all serious and gentle, and he said, simply, "You're a good girl."

When I said my final goodbye to Natan, hours before I left the moshav, he mocked my handwriting ("Why didn't you print my letter like you printed Liat's?!?") and hugged me (twice). As I turned to go, he said, "Don't worry--you'll be back. And in the meantime, I'll be showing your photo to qualified guys and finding you a husband."

I think I laughed at him.

Ohhhh, Natan. Of all the things you are, "matchmaker" would not be on the list, I'm sorry to say. But I am so grateful for your kindness, your trustworthiness, your honesty, and your strangely-expressed affection. Mostly, I am grateful for your respect, for I know it is not given easily. Though you hate expressing yourself, I understood what you meant when you said goodbye. It was all summed up in that one phrase that meant so much. You're a good girl.




And you, Natan, are a good man.

don't listen when they tell you that these are your best years

One year ago, I looked out an airplane window into a star-filled sky and lost the ability to breathe.

One year ago, I fought my way, alone, through Israeli customs and the Tel Aviv airport, finally spilling out onto a hot dusty sidewalk under a parking garage, where I was immediately approached by two or three eager taxi drivers.

One year ago, I sat in a sheirut and wept because I was tired and hot and overwhelmed by the gravity of what I was about to do.

One year ago, I watched the countryside of Israel flash past my window in the grey pre-dawn, and I thought, I am really and truly finally here.

One year ago, I paid the driver whatever he asked, out of simple relief that he took me exactly where I needed to go without trying to kill or rob me.

One year ago, I walked up to kabalah, dragging my suitcase behind me, and was shocked to find it locked and dark, with only one rather exhausted-looking man at the desk inside.

One year ago, I raised my hand and knocked on the wooden pine door.


And that . . . began it all.

the thing with feathers that perches in the soul

Tonight, I started thinking back on the last few months . . .

I remembered that evening, sitting across from you, my hands spread wide on the tabletop, words tumbling from my lips like a waterfall I was helpless to stop. I didn't want to tell you everything I was spilling out; I didn't want you to know the depths of weakness and fear and hopelessness that dwelt within my heart. I was ashamed, and naked, and cut to the barest bones of my soul.

You circled my wrist with your thumb and finger, and the strength of your grip told me that you were real and solid. You didn't tell me to stop being childish (a valid point), and you didn't mock me (an understandable choice). Instead, you held my gaze and let me see into your heart. You told me that my feelings were okay . . . but they were just feelings.

And then you told me the truth.
You showed me the image of God.
You gave me hope.


It occurred to me, tonight, that hope is the one thing I most want to give to those around me. And I thought of you, and that night when you held out hope to me by presenting the truth that nestled within your heart. I knew, suddenly, that the one and only way I can ever offer hope is to offer truth, for it is truth that sets us free.

To speak truth, I have to know it, deep in the crevices of my soul. I have to be so intimately acquainted with Jesus that His words spill out when I open my lips. I have to be constant in holding myself up to the example of His life. I have to allow myself to be probed and torn and mended by the Hands of my Creator.

I think of the hope you offered me, the small spark you struck in my heart . . .
. . . and I think the agony of pursuing truth is worth the chance to do the same for someone I love.


So thank you, for your hand about my wrist, for your eyes locked with mine, for the truth in your words, . . . for being the image of Jesus to me.

who would have ever thought that I would write

I would like to write. I really would. I would like to write about the way the three year-old's blue eyes twinkle and spark when he laughs, about the warm soft white fur on the belly of my purring cat, about the distinct muscles in the legs of the mailman whose quickness and cheer make me want to match the laughter in his eyes, about the freckles sprinkling the five year-old's nose and cheekbones, about the pleasure of a well-worn sweatshirt, about the way scone-dough saunters out of the bowl into the baking dish, about the wild gap-toothed grins (just beginning to be filled out by grown-up teeth) of the girls as they tease me about my lack of getting-married, about the comfort of well-worn familiar music.

I would like to write. I really would. I would like to write about the drama of plane/train/car/bus trips, the angst and longing and tears that traveling awakens in my soul; about Mehane Yehuda shook, how it always smells of spicy loose-leaf teas and unrefrigerated fish and freshly-cooked food and dried herbs and ripening fruits all mashed together and swept into the dusty air of Jerusalem; about the constant dirt coating everything--my feet, my hands, my face--while I was in Africa, playing in a dusty courtyard with shining dark children who laughed and chanted and sang and danced in a language made joyful by hope I couldn't even begin to fathom; about the red dirt and green fields and familiar pines that made me fall in love with Prince Edward Island, even though my only "real" link to the place was a set of dearly beloved books; about the sweet comfortable bitter strangeness of coming back home after months away.

I would like to write. I really would.  I would like to write about the heartbreak and comfort of long-distance friendships, about the painful joy of knowing no one else really cares about how I look, about the loneliness of a church service filled with believers who are still strangers to me, about the depth and profundity of the theological thoughts of a five year-old, about the frustration of working an as-yet uncertain job, about the forced peace and the constant self-reminders that God hasn't stopped working just because I feel abandoned, about the contradictions that seem now to define my life.

I would like to write. I really would. I would like to write about the future; about my secret and not-so-secret dreams; about daily events that seem small, but touch a deep place in my heart; about my thoughts, wounds, feelings, musings, hopes.

I would like to write. I really would. But right now . . . it's just too hard. My power cord refuses to charge my laptop, I hate writing by hand, and writing on my family's computer--well, I feel like you should be able to figure out why a shared-amongst-five-people computer is a poor choice for any hardcore writing/editing. Plus, there is a really weird old word processor on this computer.

I would like to write. I really would. In the long spell of not-writing, my heart has become dull, as if without an ear to its words, it has stopped producing grace in language.

I would like to write. I really would. But it all seems somewhat pointless. And dreadfully hard--in fact, it is obviously much too difficult.

I would like to write. I really would.

But I'm too afraid.

waiting for my rocket

I'm angry a lot these days. I'm angry at the kids I work with; I'm angry at my political "representatives." I'm angry at my church; I'm angry at random rude people. I'm angry at the "Christian" community in the States; I'm angry at my family. Mostly, though, I'm angry at myself . . . and at God.

I want to scream--"You went to Israel and back, yet you can't make yourself live day-to-day life?!? You took initiative to travel the most volatile region in the world, and you refuse to go job-searching in your hometown?!? You're full of empowerment, confidence, and courage when it comes to navigating Jerusalem . . . but you're paralyzed and terrified when it comes to approaching your friends, people you love deeply, about the power and love of God toward them?!?"

And God. He took me there, He brought me to the place where His Word was written, where His people's history happened; He broke up the hardness of my heart and challenged me and grew me and stretched me to painful lengths and strengthened my spiritual muscles . . .

And then He dumps me back here. Like, unexpectedly, He stops the bus and chirps into the intercom system, "Here's your stop! Watch your step getting off the bus and don't forget your personal belongings! Thank you for traveling with us!"

"Wait, I wasn't quite ready for that," I want to tell Him. "I'm not done being on this bus . . . I want to go to the end of the line."

But no. Firmly, He pushes me off the bus, and I'm left standing here, feeling helpless and lost, with all the packed-up memories of the past twelve months piled around me; with no one to take me home, no one to tell me where to go; and with a horrible aching saudade burning a hole in my chest . . .

So I sit here, on my suitcases, waiting for my bus to come back (or a new bus to come in--I think right now I'd settle for either).

But no bus is on the horizon, and no one is coming to get me either. It seems that all I have left is the memories in these suitcases. For a little bit, that's okay; but eventually, every bag is opened and pawed-through and scattered over the parking lot . . . and I am still here, with nothing new and beautiful to pack into my bags.

And the road is still empty.

Is He just abandoning me here? Is this the end of the road for me? Am I as useless as I feel right now? I know the answer to those questions is no, and He will indeed be back, and He has lots of plans/life mapped out for me, and this waiting isn't as empty-nothing as it feels . . . but it's still hard.


I'm a bus-station orphan, dammit, and I don't know when this waiting is going to be over . . .

all things new

Today I decided that, once and for all, I was going to sort through my Israel journals, in order to figure out what exactly I wanted to put into the book I'm "going" to write about my four months there.

And then, suddenly, I was struck by the futility of such an undertaking.

For a good story, you have to have a beginning, middle, and end.
But where does my Israel-story begin? In a history lesson at age twelve? In the myriad conversations about fear and hope and courage during my last year at university? And where exactly is its end? In the wracking sobs at the Tel Aviv departure terminal? When I last glimpsed the Yad HaShmona sign, fading out of sight into the darkness? Or at the moment my passport was checked at Boston's customs?

In my opinion, actually, this story will never have a proper end until I am finally reunited with all those I knew and loved in Israel. And that reunion will probably never take place on this earth, but in a New City . . .

I think I'll probably write it anyway, and add an "epilogue" that drives Americans crazy.

(Did you know that Europeans and Middle Easterners and Asians and, well, probably everyone else in the world, have no need for their movies to end in a neat wrapped-up wedding-dress-and-honeymoon kind of way? Just saying. We've got a complex.)

condensing

Original (two hundred words)

            He had been hungry for as long as he could remember; even his first word testified to it—“more?” Born number four of eight, his father in and out of work, he’d never known what enough meant. His tearful mother made him leave at age sixteen, telling him that it was for his good and the good of the littler ones squalling in the house. It wasn’t true, and they both knew it, but he went with a cheerful goodbye and kisses for everyone.

            Now here it was, a chance at something different. He stared at the sign in the window, blinking to be sure it wasn’t another hallucination. The words seemed unreal— Work available. Pay: room and board. He swayed, light-headed just standing still, and his stomach cramped, demanding to be filled. He had to take this chance and risk his hopes being dashed again.

            With a deep breath, he opened the shop door and stepped to the counter, explaining to the owner that he had seen the sign. The next moments were all a blur. He answered the questions, signed his name over and over, but he left with the beautiful words ringing in his head—You’re hired.

***

Nineteen words

Hunger was always the master. “More?” the boy begged.
Now a man, he triumphed through new words. “You’re hired.”

Happy Hoarding

It happens whenever I pack, but I never expect it. I’m missing a green tanktop and have no idea where it’s gone. I sigh and leave my bedroom, avoiding the stacks of newspaper in the hallway. Leaning over the banister, I hear Mama in the kitchen, tapping back and forth in giggling rhythm. She sounds so happy that I decide not to bother her. Twenty-five years of living with Mama have taught me much, but I haven’t yet learned the pattern to this scene.

If asked about my mother, I say one thing. Mama is a disposophobic, a packrat. It’s the only constant in my tumultous life— my mother, joyous as a puppy-dog, tip-tapping around, stockpiling whatever catches her eye. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but her behavior traumatizes me and my daddy.

Daddy—at the thought of him, a lump rises in my throat. He’s been gone ten years, and died believing his inability to provide pushed Mama into “keeping,” as he called it. No matter what, Daddy could always cheer me, but now I’m alone with this woman. Over the years, Mama hears the diagnoses, listens to the suggestions, and changes nothing.

“Those doctors,” she confides to me. “Are very nice, but they know nothing about helping people.” She denies anything is wrong and dances on. I don’t blame her; sometimes I, too, disbelieve the diagnoses.

I grab a pair of jeans, then freeze. Along my wall lies a stack of newspapers. An exasperated sigh escapes me. I have one rule for my mother— no keeping things in my room. She remembers, until she fills her “normal” places; then things creep into my room. I keep the door locked when I’m gone, but sometimes I forget.

At the moment, I don’t have time to deal with the newspapers, since I have a half-hour to pack. My work demands frequent travel, which is fine. As long as I can be home monthly to check on Mama, I prefer being away. In the kitchen, Mama’s singing intensifies; I close the door.

#

In thirty minutes, I’m lugging my bags down the stairs.

“Mama?” I call. “I’m ready.”

“Just a minute,” she trills. I roll my eyes. Her “minutes” often become hours as she rearranges piles.

“No, Mama, now,” I insist. She sighs.

“Oh, all right. I’ll just leave this project.” I grin at her terminology, but my smile fades when she comes around the corner, beaming, and asks, “Now, have you seen my keys?”

“You don’t remember where you put them?” I gasp, and she looks bemused.

“Why, no,” she says. “If I did, would I ask you?”

Mama trips off to check the kitchen, living room, and entryway; I race to search the dining room, bathroom, and bedrooms. Rushing through the hallway, I play slalom with decorative doorstops. I tiptoe around precarious stacks of broken radios, fax machines, obsolete computers, and other electronics on the dining room floor. Shifting papers on the table, I find the warranty for an ancient refrigerator, a construction manual for a portable greenhouse, and French game instructions. I peer between the seventeen chairs crammed around an eight-person table and rifle through piles of Happy Meal toys. There are no keys, so I run upstairs, ignoring the seven motion-activated fish serenading me, but pausing to search the baskets along the steps.

I check my watch— fifteen minutes to get to the airport. Turning into the bathroom, I discover a mound of empty toilet paper rolls and five model ships, along with a myriad of old cleaning supplies, stuffed under the sink. A tangle of barrettes and expired medications greets me when I open the medicine cabinet. I find some lost glasses, but no keys.

It’s time to search the most dreaded place— Mama’s bedroom. As I touch the doorknob, I remember something. Months ago, I bought Mama a key-ringer that chirps to answer a remote. Both of us have a remote. I dash through the hall, wreaking havoc on the newspapers, fumble with my lock, and fling open the door. To my tearful relief, the remote is on my key-rack. I snatch it and run back. As I open Mama’s door, clothes tumble out, but I wade in and press the remote, straining to listen over my gasping breath. At Mama’s dresser, I glance through the mass of sticky notes and photographs adorning her mirror. Beside the bed, I hear a muffled chirp. Stooping, I push aside used tissues, empty hangers, and dirty socks. Then I see it— not Mama’s keys, but my lost green tanktop. As I grab it, something tumbles out. It’s the keys.

For a long moment, I am limp with relief. Then I glimpse the time. We have five minutes to make a twenty-minute drive. Flying to my room, I replace the remote and lock the door behind me.

“Mama!” I shriek, pounding downstairs. “I found your keys! Let’s go!” She emerges from the living room, surprised.

“So fast? Do you have everything?” I grab my bags and toss her the keys.

“Come on, Mama,” I urge, trying to be kind. “I can’t be late!”

I shove my suitcases onto the bottles in the backseat, and try to catch my breath. As Mama drives and sings, worries clutter my mind. I tell myself I should have left extra time in case of such emergencies. Inside, I seethe at Mama. Eventually, I stop both; it’s not helping.

We arrive at the airport forty minutes after I’d hoped to be there. Mama pulls to the curb and gets out as I yank at my bags. She smiles, and I look down at her, still annoyed. As I meet her gaze, though, I am struck by the sparkling beauty of her eyes. There I read her exuberance for life, the pain she’s borne, and the fear that haunts her. As I try to speak, she laughs.

“Go on,” she says, tiptoeing to kiss me. “You don’t want to be late.” I smile and tear up all at once.

“Bye, Mama,” I whisper, hugging her. As I let go, she pats my cheek.

“Stay out of trouble!” she calls as I rush to the door. I laugh and wave.

Next time I’m home, we will replay the frantic last-minute search. But right now, everything is okay. I’m at the airport, and Mama is happy. It strikes me that her joy has been another constant in our lives, and the thought is a relief. Until now, I thought of Mama as a hoarder who was somehow happy. Now I see my inaccuracy.

Someday, maybe Mama will see the truth and she’ll change. Until then, if asked about my mother, I’ll say three things. First, Mama is always happy. Second, I love her more than anything else. Third, she just happens to be disposophobic.

Ice Maidens

in-class writing prompt

“I’m cold,” she whined.  I rolled my eyes, trying to keep calm.
            “I could have told you that would happen,” I snapped, digging even deeper into the locker I was half inside.  “If you would have worn practical clothing, something warmer—”
            “You never said it’d be this cold.”  Her tone was on the verge of tearful, and I sighed, rolling back to squat on my heels.
            “Listen.  It’s been a very bad, very long day for both of us, all right?  Your complaining is not helping anything.”  As I ground out the last words, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at her.  In a few seconds, her face went from crumpled and weepy to furious.
            “Well, excuse me, Miss Grumpy,” she snarled.  “It’s not my fault that my poor excuse for a sister—”
            “Like you’re one to talk!”
            “—my sister drags me all the way out here, to the middle of God-knows-where—”
            “I told you where we were going!”
            “Whatever!  You didn’t explain worth anything!”
            “Lissie!” I barked.
            “Hannah!” she shrieked back at me.  Her voice was as piercing as it’d ever been.  “You’re the one with the brains, the education!  You know I don’t know peas about geography!  When you said you had to make a quick stop at Antartica, I thought you meant somewhere exotic on the European mainland!”
            “What?!?”
            “Well, excuse me.”  She made a juvenile face at me and crossed her legs.  “It is somehow my fault that I happen to work in a job where beauty is the most important aspect?”  Tossing her perfect hair back from her eyes, she pursed her lips.  “You’re just jealous.”  I felt myself flush as I rose.
            “Jealous?  Of what?  Of a sister who can’t support herself in a legitimate employment situation?”
            “Oh, please.”  Her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she heaved a dramatic sigh.  “Here we go again.  The Mama speech.”
            “Maybe if you’d listened to her, you’d be better off!”
            “I’m doing fine for myself, thank you!”
            “Lissie, no one in their right mind thinks that undressing for a roomful of strangers is ‘doing fine’!”
            “Not true!”
            “Yes, it is, and you know it, or you wouldn’t be arguing with me.”
            “I can’t believe your arrogance.”
            “My arrogance?  My arrogance?”  Everything about her enraged me.  “What makes you even say that, Lissie?  Shame?  You know as well as I do that if you hadn’t gone into your ‘profession’—”  I made exaggerated quote marks in the air.  “—if you had listened to Mama, to Papa, to me, that maybe – maybe- maybe Mama would still be alive!”  The last words slipped out of my mouth before I could reel them back.  I stopped, horrified, and stared down at my sister.  Her lips went white, then red, as she pressed them together.  I watched her eyes narrow as they’d done when we were children.  I braced myself for her wails, the tears.  Instead, my little sister got herself to her high-heeled feet, looked me straight in the eyes, and slapped me across the face.
            “That,” she said between her teeth, “is for looking down on me.”  She slapped me again, on the other side of my face.  “And that,” she snarled, “is for telling me lies and trying to shame me.”  My face smarted, but not as badly as my heart.  Lissie turned her back to me, displaying the long shining hair and slender waist that made her so famous in her profession.  “Did you know,” she said, apparently addressing the wall.  “That Mama called me before she died?”  I blinked, shocked.  “Oh, yes,” she added, turning a little sideways and sliding her eyes toward me.  “She did.  And where were you, Miss Hannah?”  She turned all the way around, her red lips curving in a mocking smile, revealing her perfect shining teeth.  “Off running some errand for the president, is that right, sweetie?”  She laughed, the sound beautiful even though I hated her.  “Yes, Hannah, your stripper sister was the one cooling Mama’s fevered brow and holding her hand in her last days.  Papa—yes, your papa!—even sat and talked with me.  Imagine that!  And you know what they said to me, Hannah, dear?”   She stopped, blinking her large green eyes at me.  I waited.  She waited.  The silence lengthened.
            “What?” I croaked, surrendering.  She nodded, as if proud of a puppy for learning a new trick.
            “They told me they were proud of me.”
            “You’re lying!”
            “Oh, no, Hannah.  They did express regret for the way my life turned at the beginning, but they saw that I’ve made a name for myself.”  She smiled, her eyes glinting with pride.  “And you, Hannah, darling?  When have you ever heard that from them?”  I was all too familiar with the disdain her face flashed at me, and I turned away, swallowing the lump in my throat and trying to hide the traitor tears that welled up without warning.
            “Lissie, you know my job is mostly classified.”
            “That’s what you say.  But I believe you do nothing of importance.”
            I was silent.  She took my silence as surrender and changed the subject.
            “I’m hungry.”  At the words, my stomach grumbled.  I knelt back down, sticking my head and shoulders back into the locker I’d been searching before our argument.
            “I thought there should be something in here.”  My voice echoed back into my own ears, but I kept talking, wishing to block out the snarling of the past few minutes.  “The doctor told me—”
            “The doctor!” Lissie snorted.
            “—the doctor,” I persisted,  “told me that the base tries to keep some food on hand at all times—ah!”
            “What?!?  What did you find?!?”  The eagerness in her voice was poorly masked, and I smiled to myself as I drew myself out of the locker.
            “Meat,” I told her, dangling a cage in my hand.  Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the situation.
            “Hannah, you can’t mean—”
            “Lissie, what else is our choice?”
            “But the poor little bunny . . .” Her eyes misted as she reached out a manicured hand, and touched the soft fur through the wires of the cage.  The pink nose, surrounded by gray fur, twitched as she stroked his fur.  I ignored her eyes and the rabbit’s.
            “We’re going to starve,” I insisted.  “We’ve been stranded here three days already, with no radio signal, no food, minimal water—”
            “This is all your fault!” She lashed out at me, and I felt a stab of satisfaction. My sister had always been in control of her life, perhaps, making it go how she wanted, but my secret victory was always being able to manipulate her.