Notes on a Near-Life Experience

by Olivia Birdsall

  The cashier, tired, mumbled something in support of my mother, who snapped another picture when Allen put the last bag into our cart.

  “Nice apron,” I said, gesturing to the worn crayon green uniform he wore. “Can I borrow it sometime?”

  Allen ignored me. “Have a nice day. Thank you for shopping at Stater Brothers.”

  Sometimes I still go in, just to tease him.

  My mom has been working a lot more lately. She used to do part-time consulting, but it's starting to feel like full-time. Anyway, the other day when I stopped in to say hi to Al at Stater Brothers, I was thinking about his first day, and I wondered if my mom will have time to come in and take pictures of me on my first day of work.

  KEATIE WANTS TO PEE LIKE BOYS DO. SHE'S BEEN TRYING TO do it for years, ever since she was being potty trained and she found out that Dad and Allen got to pee standing up and aim at things. I'm willing to bet that Keatie has tried harder than any female in the history of the world to figure out a way for girls to pee standing up. She used to practice in our front yard until my mom realized what she was doing, and then she was relegated to the backyard, so as not to disturb the neighbors. Allen thinks it's great.

  Her best friend, Chewy, who lives down the street, thought it was weird that she always asked him questions about how he peed. At that point, he might not have realized that she wasn't a boy, either.

  Sometimes I wonder if Keatie should have been born a boy, like those people on talk shows who say they're women trapped in men's bodies. She wears boys' underwear—maybe that goes along with the peeing thing, though. She's really into boxer shorts right now; before that, she liked briefs with superhero graphics on them. She doesn't have any friends who are girls because she thinks they're boring, and she's always trying to be like Allen—she plays soccer and video games like he does, likes the same foods he does. She even hangs around and hands him tools while he works on his car. They look a little bit alike, too: Keatie has this messy flaming red hair; Allen's is less red, more brown, but they look more related to each other than I do to either of them. I have straight brown hair.

  Anyway, Keatie may just have an overactive imagination or an obsession with the identities of other people. Chewy has a Japanese exchange student named Toshi living with him. Since he came to stay, Keatie has been taping the sides of her eyes back to try to get them to look like Toshi's and using my mom's mascara to blacken her red hair. Which looks pretty hilarious, like she's in a neopunk band or something. Chewy's mom says that Keatie spends more time with Toshi than with Chewy these days, asking him questions he can't answer about Japan and Mount Fuji and samurai.

  I don't blame her, really, for wanting to be somebody else.

  I HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH JULIAN PAYNTER SINCE I WAS NINE. Every crush I have ever had has borne some resemblance, at least in my mind, to Julian. It's beyond pathetic. He moved in three houses down from us when I was in third grade and became Allen's best friend instantly—they're the same age, they both liked soccer, and they quickly decided that the only entertainment that came close to the exhilaration of the game was making fun of me. Sometimes I let them do it because I was willing to put up with just about anything to be in Julian's presence.

  When I had braces and I had to wear headgear at night, I'd hide in my room whenever Julian came to sleep over so he wouldn't see me. When Allen figured out what I was doing, he and Julian busted into my room with aluminum foil on their teeth and coat-hanger contraptions wound around their heads, talking in lispy, spitty-mouthed voices and doing dance and cheerleading routines.

  Julian's father left when Julian was seven—one of those guys who went to work one day and never came back, which doesn't usually happen around here. People in Yorba Linda get messy divorces or live in separate parts of the house and make each other miserable for years.

  Now Julian's mom works a lot, so he spends a lot of time with our family. He even comes on family vacations with us. Sometimes my romantic fantasies were challenged by things like my mother's talking in front of Julian about how I needed to wear a training bra, or Julian and Allen's telling me to leave them alone so they could pick up girls at the hotel pool. Still, I hold on to the dream.

  The three of us, Julian, Allen, and I, are almost friends now. The teasing has stopped, at least, and occasionally, they'll let me catch a ride with them to a school activity or a concert or something, but Allen never fails to tell me that the only reason I am allowed to tag along is because of his goodwill toward me. He loves to remind me how Julian's mom, Hope, used to make them invite me to go to the movies with them when we were younger so I wouldn't feel left out. Back then, I'd try to pretend Julian was my date, but that became difficult when he and Allen would make me sit at least three rows away from them, a practice that continues, though unspoken, to this day.

  I gave up the dream of Julian being my first kiss in sixth grade when I had to kiss Billy Chin during a game of Spin the Bottle at Julie Scudelari's thirteenth birthday party, but I still harbor the insane hope that one day Julian Paynter will fall madly in love with me. Sometimes when Allen's at work or busy, Julian and I will end up hanging out together because he doesn't like being home alone, and I find myself pretending he's my boyfriend.

  I don't think he notices.

  TODAY JULIAN IS AT OUR HOUSE PLAYING VIDEO GAMES WHILE Allen is at work. I am pretending to do homework while secretly watching him.

  He shouts at me from the game he is playing, “I still haven't died. Can you believe I've gotten this far on one man?”

  “I cannot believe that,” I say, trying to sound genuine. I hate video games; they seem so pointless.

  My goal is to do two math problems every five minutes. If I do them fast enough, I can stare at Julian for two or three of those five minutes and still get my homework done before Al gets home.

  “Aaaaaahhhhh, nooooo!” Julian yells. “So close, so close.” He turns off the game and turns to look at me. “I let you down, Meezer. I was going to win that game for you, and I died. Will you ever look at me the same again?”

  “Never,” I tell him. He's never tried to win for me before. Does that mean something? I'll have to ask someone who knows about the symbolism of video games in the male psyche.

  “Cool. How will you look at me, then?”

  “I will see a three-toed sloth every time I look at you.” Why do I say these things?

  Julian looks confused, or maybe embarrassed. “Do you want to go and take all the carts out of the cart corral at Staters and see what Al does?” he asks.

  “Nah, I've got homework,” I say without thinking.

  “Oh.” He almost looks disappointed.

  And before I can take it back, before I can straighten out my brain and say “Yes! I will go anywhere you want me to go!” Julian is putting his backpack on and heading for the stairs.

  Sometimes I get confused about where the dividing line is between the world I actually live in and the dream dimension where Julian could see me as something other than his best friend's annoying little sister.

  THE FIRST TIME I EVER SAW MY MOTHER CRY, OUTSIDE OF A movie or an art exhibit—you know, cry about something of her own—was when I was eleven. She had planned a surprise weekend trip for the two of them, her and my dad. They were just going to San Diego, which is only like an hour away, but she'd gotten my aunt Laura to come over and babysit, and she'd promised to bring us back presents if we behaved ourselves. She had this little suitcase all packed. Dad had said he'd be home by seven. Seven came and went; then eight, then nine. Mom sat on the couch, waiting. She called Dad several times, but he didn't answer his phone.

  “He must be caught in traffic,” she kept saying, more to herself than to us. “He may have had a last-minute meeting …”

  At nine-thirty she put us to bed. While she was saying good night to me, she stopped suddenly, was quiet for a moment. In the dim light of my room I watched as she tried to catch her breath and covered her mouth to stop any sounds from escaping. I saw
her wet, crumpled face and I felt helpless. I couldn't say anything. I pretended that I hadn't noticed anything, which made me feel worse, but I didn't know what else to do.

  My dad came home later that night, and when we woke up in the morning, they were gone. On Sunday night they came home with presents for each of us, as promised, and my mom's face glowed, no trace of hurt or sadness in it.

  There's something about that moment in my bedroom, though—her face, seeing things I wasn't meant to see—that haunts me. I can't think about it without feeling scared and old.

  MY PARENTS HAVE BEEN ARGUING A LOT, BUT THEYO'VE TRIED TO hide it from us. Most nights after Dad comes home, Mom follows him back to their bedroom. I guess they think that shutting the door provides some kind of soundproof barrier, that it isolates them and their fight. It's true, we don't hear much of what they say—not many words, at least—but it's difficult to miss the general feeling of anger and hostility that emanates from the room along with the muffled sounds.

  When they begin to yell, when Mom begins to yell, we catch little snippets of what they are saying.

  “Why can't you just…”

  “Did you ever stop to think that…”

  “I'm doing the best I can here!”

  “You never…”

  “We never…”

  “I don't …”

  Mom's yelling usually starts Dad yelling, too, but they always catch themselves and lower their voices before they finish a sentence. Mom usually leaves the house to “run some errands” after these “discussions.” We act like everything is fine, but we know something is going on. Dad has started leaving for work early in the morning and rarely comes home before we are asleep. He shows up for dinner once in a while, but he camps out in his study with the door shut as soon as dinner is over. Mom seems to be working more, too; at least, she's been home less and less.

  Like I said, they keep us out of whatever's going on, so when Mom brings up an unfinished argument during dinner tonight, I am surprised.

  “So what's your excuse this time? Some big deal that you had to finish up? Cocktails with a client that you couldn't miss?”

  Dad isn't too excited about having his meal interrupted. “Maggie, I don't want to discuss this here…now…. Can we please just eat in peace?” He shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth for emphasis. Some of the lettuce doesn't make it all the way in.

  “You don't want to discuss it anywhere; that's the problem. You don't want to discuss it with a counselor—at least, you don't show up for most of our appointments. You don't want to discuss it with me here in the house, so you stay away from home. Tell me where you would like to discuss it. I don't think the place exists.” Mom puts her fork down and pushes her chair away from the table.

  Counseling? Missed appointments? What are they talking about? Or not talking about? What are they supposed to be talking about? And why haven't they talked to us about it? I look at Allen for some sign of what we should do—stay at the table, leave, ask questions, keep our mouths shut.

  “Mom, how long do I have to wear my braces? They aren't doing anything. My teeth look exactly the same as they did before,” Keatie whines, baring her teeth for emphasis.

  If Allen or I made a comment like that, it would probably be an attempt to change the subject or steer my parents away from an argument and toward a less volatile line of conversation. However, I don't think Keatie has any such motive. She refuses to believe that there is ever anything very wrong with the world. She sees those commercials on TV about starving kids and honestly believes that somehow they got that skinny between lunch and dinner. When my parents fight, it worries me; Keatie thinks it's normal, that they're not really fighting at all. And the question about when she's going to get her braces off? She's had them for three weeks.

  “Keat, they've told you a million times that it'll take at least another year,” Allen snaps. He knows all about Keatie's orthodontia because he takes her to most of her appointments. My mom started working again shortly after Al got his driver's license; he got his car in exchange for agreeing to drive Keatie and me around. When I get my driver's license, I, too, will have the privilege of driving Keatie to the orthodontist, violin lessons, and soccer games.

  Mom ignores the orthodontic conversation and addresses Dad. “I'm asking you if you are willing to work… and compromise… make some changes…do something for this family. Do you care at all about what's going on here?”

  There is a pause, too long and very awkward, between Mom's question and Dad's reply. In the four seconds it takes Dad to come up with his answer, we've heard something else. He doesn't know, not for sure; maybe he doesn't care. I'm not sure what he and Mom are talking about, exactly, but it feels like we're all involved in it somehow.

  “Of course I care. What kind of a question is that?”

  But it's too late. Dad's answer doesn't feel like the right one, the one Mom wants, maybe the one we'd want if we knew what her question meant. It feels like an answer we shouldn't have heard. My chest tightens. I feel like I'm suffocating. My face feels like it's on fire. It's strange how sometimes you can understand an answer without even knowing the question, kinda like on Jeopardy! Dad's answer tells me that something is broken in my family and that it's probably something I can't fix, especially since I don't really know what has fallen apart.

  I get up from the table as quietly as I can and mumble something about great dinner and homework to do; Allen does the same, dragging Keatie along with him, leaving Mom and Dad alone at the table.

  I go to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror, looking for a change in the way I look, any indication that I'm defective, that I'm part of a defective family. It's difficult to focus, though, and I wish I could just close my eyes, make myself disappear. I feel weak and tired. A wave of nausea hits me. The toilet is too far away, so I aim for the sink and I throw up—spaghetti and Caesar salad from the dinner I've just eaten. The dinner where Dad's pause made us wonder whether he loved us enough to “compromise” or “make some changes.” The dinner where Keatie complained that her braces weren't moving her teeth fast enough. The dinner where my life began to parallel a bad soap opera. I drink water straight from the faucet, trying to rid myself of the sour, acidic taste in my mouth.

  After a few minutes of puking and rinsing, I feel clean. Like everything bad has been emptied out of me. I focus on this feeling. I want to hold on to the sense that what's happened is over. Gone. A temporary bad taste.

  I spend the rest of the night in my room, staring at my math homework, then my English homework, then my social studies homework, then the math again, my cell phone turned off, my stereo turned up.

  After a few hours, Allen knocks on my door. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just wanted to check and see.”

  He stands in the doorway, waiting for me to say something. I don't.

  “I think maybe they're going to get a divorce. They've been fighting a lot lately,” he says.

  I don't say anything. For some reason, I'm mad at Allen for suggesting that they might be splitting up; it feels like he's giving up, making it happen by saying it.

  “Well, good night,” he says.

  “Night.”

  I WANT TO KNOW HOW ADULTS DECIDE WHEN THE TRUTH IS necessary and when it isn't, and if there's some kind of an age requirement for it. Like, does getting a driver's license or the right to vote also mean it's time for you to know why your aunt Lucinda was in that hospital for two months when you were eight, or what really happened to your dog when it mysteriously vanished three weeks after its fourteenth birthday?

  The strange thing is that the truth has this way of seeping through, leaking out, even when you build walls and dams and work as hard as you can to contain it. It's like even when no one tells you what the truth is, somehow, eventually, you just feel it. Even if you don't want to.

  SATURDAY MORNING. JULIAN, ALLEN, AND KEATIE ARE UP-stairs playing video games; I'm in the basement wor
king on the piece I'm choreographing for a competition. I go up to my room to find some different music and Dad emerges from his and Mom's room with a suitcase.

  “Allen,” he calls, “come here and help me.”

  I grab a mix CD from my room and pause at the staircase to see what's going on.

  Al comes down the hall with Keatie following.

  “I want to help, too,” she says.

  “I don't think I have anything small enough for you to take,” Dad tells her.

  “What are you doing?” Al asks Dad, eyeing his suitcase.

  “I need your help getting my things into my car,” Dad says.

  “Why?”

  “Allen, please. Take this out to the car.”

  Allen doesn't say anything; he turns and goes back down the hall, leaving Dad with the suitcase.

  Dad drags the suitcase down the hall. Keatie and I watch without saying a word. We go to the balcony and look on as Dad struggles to load it into his trunk.

  I feel like I'm dreaming, like this can't be happening, because you're supposed to be able to feel things like this coming, but I didn't. Or maybe I wouldn't, or just didn't want to? I wonder if this is how all families come apart—so quietly and unexpectedly that you are numb by the time the biggest blow hits. I decide it's probably better not to feel anything at all than to feel everything at once and break under the weight. Like this girl Tracy at my school: her parents split up and she stopped wearing makeup and doing her homework; she fell apart.

  Allen wanders out to the driveway, watches Dad pack up, pretends to practice footwork with his soccer ball. Julian comes out, helping Dad carry the remainder of his suitcases and boxes from the house to his car. When they've finished, Dad thanks Julian and shakes his hand.

  Keatie rushes out to the driveway, hugs Dad, and asks, “Where are you going?”