by Penny Reid
As well, she and I hadn’t spoken yet about my decision to take a semester off school, and I was glad. When I brought it up on a mid-October call, I’d tried to explain and defend my position. She told me to wait.
My mother had said, “You need time.”
And she was right. I’d needed the time to figure things out without dwelling on the fact that I must be a disappointment.
“Is your mother going to make Tofurkey again?” I asked Sam.
Her only response was to make a gagging sound.
I chuckled at this. Her mother was a strict vegan. Sam loved steak.
“Hey Sam, do you think I could get a job at your restaurant? Not as a server of course, since I don’t have any experience, but maybe I could bus tables or wash dishes.”
I was re-enrolling at the university in the spring, but now as a music major. I’d applied and auditioned for the music program, probably setting my graduation date back by two or more years. As well, this meant likely losing my academic scholarship. My dad had offered to pay for tuition; therefore I was determined to get a second job, pay for my living costs, and pitch in for the school expenses.
“I can ask…” She peered at me for a long moment, biting the inside of her lip as she considered me. “But have you thought about maybe applying for a job at The Bluesy Bean? I hear the lady there only hires musicians as baristas because she makes them serenade the customers.”
I chuckled. “Ha ha, that’s funny.”
I tossed a stack of papers into the paper bag I’d set aside for recycling and then shifted my attention to the bookshelf. I had so many textbooks. I thought I’d need them for reference; I should have just sold them back for cash. The room fell into silence, which wasn’t unusual for us these days.
Which was why I was surprised when Sam blurted, “So, I think it’s time that you talk to me about what’s going on with you.”
I glanced at her over my shoulder, and found her watching me with her hands on her hips.
“What do you mean?”
Her jaw was set, her eyes narrowed into determined slits. “I mean, you didn’t speak to me—or anyone else—for months, until you got that job with the band last July. Hell, even when we picked out this apartment it was like pulling teeth trying to get you to voice an opinion. And don’t get me started on the weird, angry acoustic guitar music.”
I gave her an apologetic half smile. I knew this conversation had to happen eventually. Sam had been so patient with me. I was better, so much better, and now was as good a time as any to bring everything out into the open, to clarify my headspace over the last few months.
I faced her, crossing to the bed. “I know. I’m so sorry about the angry acoustic guitar music.”
She continued like I hadn’t spoken, as though some dam had broken and she needed to get all her thoughts out. “I know you don’t like me mentioning his name.”
I rolled my eyes at my dramatics from months ago, when I’d told her I never wanted to speak of Martin Sandeke ever again; but it also made me realize I’d been greedy with my thoughts.
“And then you joined the band and started drinking Red Bull. Next you decided to change your major and take a semester off school—which I’m totally for, by the way. It’s just that you never talk to me about anything. You’re in your head all the time. And I want to know, it’s been almost eight months since the two of you split and I think it’s time for you to tell me. Are you over him yet? Is Kaitlyn back? Is it okay for me to ask you questions and voice my unsolicited advice?”
I took a deep breath, gazed at her affectionately, then patted the spot next to me on the bed. She eyeballed me, then the bed, then plopped down beside me.
“Okay,” I started, trying to figure out how to give her a Cliffs Notes version of what I’d been going through. The words would be difficult, so I decided to use terminology with which I was most comfortable. “Let me start from the beginning, with the solid state of matter.”
She lifted one eyebrow at me, her chin falling and issuing me a look of disbelief. “Solid state of matter? What are you talking about?”
“Let me finish. So, after M-Martin and I broke up—”
“So we can say his name now?”
“Just listen. After Martin and I broke up, I admit I did not take it well. I was an immovable mass of low energy. I kept thinking that if I didn’t think about it, then I would never have to deal with it.”
“So, you were in denial.”
I laughed a little at her apt simplification. “Yes. Basically, I froze everyone out. I was a solid. This lasted for a long time, because I’m stubborn. As well, you know I like my pity parties and self-recrimination soirées.”
“Yes, it lasted two months. You went to class, sometimes you went to your jam sessions, but mostly you just hid in the closet.”
I cleared my throat, remembering this dark time, and grateful I’d moved past it. “So then this brings us to the liquid state of matter. You know how I started loosening up once we moved into the apartment?”
She nodded. “Yeah, but you still wouldn’t talk to anyone. You just sat in your room listening to Taylor Swift’s angry-girl music.”
“Yes, but I was angry. I wasn’t frozen anymore, I was just really, really pissed off. I think the new apartment was the catalyst for my shift in state from solid to liquid. It felt like a new start. Away from the dorms, away from the college atmosphere. It was a reminder that life existed beyond school. I was only nineteen—almost twenty—and, I realized that I have decades left on this planet. I couldn’t keep hiding in closets…”
I reflected on my feelings at the time. Yes, I couldn’t keep hiding in closets, but this thought made me angry. I’d been happy hiding in closets before Martin had ruined everything and scratched my itch.
I hated him for it.
During my liquid state I’d redoubled my efforts to avoid all mentions of, or references to, Martin Sandeke. I wasn’t ready to accept he existed in the world, and yet might as well be Hercules as far as I was concerned. I would never see him again—never in person—but maybe in a magazine or in the news. Our breakup had been my choice and it was the right decision, but it still pissed me off.
As well, I wasn’t ready to accept that I certainly no longer existed to him.
Sam sighed. “So, this angry phase, this liquid state as you call it—this is when I tried to get you to read that fitness magazine interview Martin gave over the summer?”
I nodded. “Yes. Sorry for snapping at you about that.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. I get it. So, if I recall my high school chemistry correctly, the gas state comes after the liquid state.”
“That’s right. Though I like to think of it as the nitrous oxide, aka laughing gas, phase—otherwise known as the I-don’t-give-two-poos phase.”
“Oh! That’s when you started drinking Red Bull and boxes of wine. I still can’t believe you’re drinking the demon liquor even though you’re not yet legal. Shame on you.”
I tried to give her my best girl, you crazy face. “Sam, you’re the one who buys me the boxes of wine. You’re my supplier. But I make no apologies and I have no regrets. I’ve discovered I like my boxes of wine and I’m not giving them up for the next six months before I turn twenty-one. They’re stackable, like Tetris. All beverages should be stackable.”
“I agree, beverages should be stackable, it saves on shelf space. And it’s not my fault I’m older than you are and enjoy enabling your illegal activities, especially if it means I’m not drinking boxed wine by myself. But back to you and your states of crazy, the boxed wine phase was when you started going to those music meet-ups. I remember that phase.”
“But, if you remember, it was around this time that I decided to take the fall semester off school and switch my major to music.”
“And you started hanging around those druggies at the Fourth Avenue bar. But that only lasted a week.”
“Yes, it only lasted for about a week.” I studied Sam fo
r a beat before continuing, marveling at how perceptive she was and how lucky I was to have her as a friend. “I’d made a deal with myself: I would be carefree and act my age. If I were carefree then I would forget about Martin and be happy.”
“The boxes of wine do seem to make you happy,” Sam agreed.
What I didn’t say, because it was difficult to admit my irresponsibility, was that everything became a joke. I didn’t need Martin. I didn’t need anyone. I could live outside the closet of obscurity just fine on my own. I needed nothing.
“You’re right though, it wasn’t sustainable for me. I’m far too practical and reclusive. Firstly, Red Bull tastes like excrement.”
“It does! Right?”
“And secondly, as much as I enjoyed the time I was actually playing music, I had no patience for druggies.”
Watching people actively choose to destroy themselves felt like watching Martin choose revenge over living his life free from his father. It was during this time I recognized revenge was Martin’s drug and he was an addict.
“So, solid state is denial. Liquid state is anger. That makes the gas state the bargaining stage.”
I cocked my head to the side, studying Sam. “What do you mean?”
“The five stages of grief,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Next is depression.”
I looked at my friend for a long moment, realizing she was right. She was so right. The next state was depression.
“Oh my God, you’re right.” I gave her a sad smile. “Yes, otherwise known as the plasma state of matter.”
Sam’s gaze became sympathetic as it held mine, her features softening with compassion. “Toward the end of the summer, when you started crying again.”
“You heard that?”
“Yes. I heard the crying. And the sad music you were composing in your room. It’s beautiful, by the way. Much better than your Red Bull-slash-gas-slash-bargaining phase music.”
I gave her a soft smile. “Thank you. It was very…cathartic. It allowed me to reflect on the months that came before it. But mostly I think I was trying to wrap my mind around how and why I’d allowed one week—one solitary, singular week—to completely change the course of my life.”
Why had I given Martin Sandeke so much power over me? And why was I continuing to give him power? I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that terrible day on campus. He hadn’t once tried to contact me, but I hadn’t expected him to try.
And yet…I missed him. I thought about him and our week together all the time.
Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners and she gave me a sincere and sympathetic look. “Kaitlyn, you fell in love with Martin over that week. You trusted him…you slept with him.”
I nodded, glancing down at my fingers. “I know…”
I know I missed the depth of feeling, the loss of control, the surrender to passion, the being lost and found all at once. Being seen. He was still wrapped around my heart and I had no way to evict him. I wasn’t sure I could.
I added, “I know that, before Martin, before our week together, I’d been repressed, stuck without knowing it. But then after we split things were even worse.”
Sam pulled me into a hug as I continued my confession. “He became my compass, my beacon. And before him, I’d been a girl desperately trying to follow the footsteps of expectations even though the shoes didn’t fit.”
“And he helped you see beyond family expectations?”
I nodded against her shoulder. Over spring break I’d started to become a woman who was excited about forging her own path.
I pulled away from my friend, but continued to hold her hand. “Then I left him and he left me. We abandoned each other before I’d discovered what I wanted or who I was. My compass was gone. I couldn’t go back to hiding in closets even though I tried.”
She chuckled at this, adding, “Boy, oh boy, did you ever try.”
I smiled at her. “But the closets don’t fit anymore. Nor do I know how to move forward blindly. I want to be something else, someone else, not Kaitlyn Parker who hides in closets and does what everyone expects.”
“But not everyone has the benefit of a compass or a guide. Most people go blindly into their future.”
I nodded again. “Yes. I figured that out.”
I’d figured out that people did this by trusting their heart.
“Well, we’ve already covered denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Does this mean you’ve moved on to acceptance?” Sam gave me a wide, hopeful smile that made me laugh.
“Kind of.” I shrugged, my gaze moving over her shoulder as I focused my thoughts. “Think of it this way. The fifth state of matter is a theoretical state—”
“Really? We’re still using the chemistry analogy?”
I continued as though she hadn’t spoken, because the word acceptance didn’t feel quite right. “One could argue the fifth state of matter isn’t theoretical, that it’s a class of states that occur under unusual or extreme circumstances, like Bose–Einstein condensates or neutron-degenerate matter.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, but returned my gaze to Sam. “But for the purposes of my stages of grief, I’m going to label the fifth stage as quark–gluon plasmas. It’s a state of matter that is believed to be possible, but remains theoretical…for now.”
“Theoretical?”
“Theoretical because my fifth stage of grief has to do with me getting over Martin, which I admit hasn’t happened yet. And it also centers on finding my purpose, but using only myself as a compass.”
“You can also use me as a compass, you know. I’m very good with the aforementioned unsolicited advice.”
If I hadn’t realized it before, I realized now that Sam was a singularity of awesomeness. “I know, and I will. But it’s more than just moving on from Martin. It’s a stage where I become comfortable in my own skin, happy with where I am, what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it with.”
“So, it’s theoretical.”
“Yes.” I nodded, finally returning Sam’s hopeful grin. “It’s still theoretical. But it’s possible.”
***
-Eight months post-breakup-
I found my mother in the garden.
She was home for the Congressional Thanksgiving recess. Growing up, I’d always thought it funny that the US government took a recess, like little kids took recess in primary school. I imagined the Speaker of the House hanging upside down on monkey bars and the majority leader shaking down junior senators for lunch money.
I knew we’d be seeing each other because it had been on the Sunday agenda for the last month. I’d been mentally preparing for this meeting. She’d said I needed some time before we discussed my months-long absence from her life and my decision to take a semester off school.
But the time had come. I needed to talk to her about it, even though it was messy and unsettled. I needed her to listen without trying to fix.
When I found her in the garden, I announced to her back, “I want to be a musician. I want to pursue music and major in it and I don’t want to be a scientist or a politician.”
My mother turned as I spoke, stared at me for a beat, her forehead wrinkling slightly, probably because I wasn’t prone to outbursts. Then she nodded and said, “Okay.”
I waited for her to continue, maybe add a, But you’re on your own… or But when you come to your senses… or something similar. She didn’t.
When she just continued looking at me, my suspicions burst forth. “You think this is a phase, right?”
My mom took a deep breath, glanced briefly at the ground, then returned her gaze to mine. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You’re disappointed in me? Because I took off this semester? Because I’m not following in your footsteps? Because I’m—”
She held up her hands and cut me off. “Kaitlyn, stop. Stop. Stop putting words in my mouth. I’m not disappointed in you. I’m disappointed in myself.�
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I frowned at her, studying my mother in her navy pants suit, and light blue shirt, and the little United States flag on her lapel. Finally I asked, “Why?”
“Because you obviously need my support and I have no idea how to give it to you.” She crossed to me, her eyes searching, then pulled me into an unexpected hug.
When she spoke next I felt her chin move against the side of my head. “I’m not…I’ve never been very good at being maternal.”
I laughed, partly because I hadn’t expected her to say it and partly because it was true.
She squeezed me. “I’m good at being rational, methodical, and solving problems with logic and analysis. But, try as I might, I’ve never been able to figure out how to provide the comfort that you’ve needed. And I’m sorry.”
Every one of my internal organs flooded with the warmth of relief that accompanies hope. I squeezed her in return, unable to help myself. “You’re forgiven.”
She stepped back, but her hands remained on my arms. She was clearly frustrated. “I don’t know how to help you or be what you need, Kaitlyn.”
“Can you listen?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Without trying to problem solve or find a superior solution to my issues?”
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, looking incredulous. “You mean, just listen?”
I nodded.
She stared at me, appeared to be firming her resolve, then said, “For you, absolutely.”
***
-Nine months post-breakup-
“Are you ever going to go out with Fitzy, or what?”
I let my befuddlement show on my face by widening my eyes and looking from side to side.
All I wanted was a bottle of water.
“What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
I enjoyed asking my bandmate this question, mostly because his name was actually Willis. Usually no one my age had any idea that the question was a reference to a 1980s TV show I used to watch with my dad called Different Strokes.
Willis glanced over his shoulder to where Abram the bass player, Janet the lead guitarist and saxophonist, and Fitzgerald our singer and second guitar—aka Fitzy for short—were finishing the sound check. Since Willis held my water bottle hostage, I followed his gaze and found Fitzy watching us. When he saw our attention focused on him, Fitzy averted his blue-eyed stare and began messing with his mic stand, his shaggy brown hair falling adorably over his forehead.
