by Pamela Ribon
Someone meets you…
But you assume he couldn’t possibly know you. You haven’t given him enough time. She seems too busy. You are too busy. Maybe that person surprises you with a gift in the mail. A message on your voice mail. You bump into each other at the store and she asks how your cat is doing. You forgot that you told her about your cat’s cough. It’s almost nothing to you now, but she’s been thinking about it. Someone outside of your world has been thinking about you. You’ve made an impression. You are a part of her. You let him in. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe all of this attention makes you uncomfortable. Maybe you decide you don’t have enough time. Everything didn’t come together just right. He wears too much cologne. She keeps shortening your name when you hate being called that, even after you told her not to. Maybe he’s too perfect. Maybe if you know him much longer you will fall in love and you don’t want to. Perhaps you don’t want to put in the time. Sometimes you can be selfish. This is one of those times. Or not. Sometimes you get closer despite trying to stay away.
You know someone…
And you’ve known him forever. You know how he works, how he thinks. You know what he’s going to do before he does it. You know all of her jokes before she says them. You know that scar right under his earlobe, you know the name of the dog that did it, and you know why it was his own fault it happened. You know the songs that make her cry. You know when he’s in the other room crying and he knows you know. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you. A gentle reminder of each other, like when you visit your parents and the same stair creaks under your feet. A reminder that something larger than you remembers you and knows when you are around.
Someone knows you…
And you can say anything. You can wear whatever you want in front of him or nothing at all. You can laugh your stupidest laugh—she’s heard it before. You can discuss the things you’re ashamed of because you are safe. He will be honest with you. She’ll cry for you. She ignores your Simpsons collection. He puts up with your ABBA obsession. He never runs out of coffee. He listens to you. He has a way of holding your hand that makes you shiver. He can ignite your entire body just by brushing his fingertips between your shoulder blades.
You love someone…
And it is the hardest and most rewarding thing you’ve ever done. You ache with love. You cry sometimes, because you know two things: You know that you’ve never felt this good before. You also know that it couldn’t possibly last forever. You want it to. You want it frozen. You want to stop time, right there, as she hands you your toothbrush, or as he pulls you back from the curb of the street for one last kiss good-bye. You want to be able to pull them closer than the hug, into your body, so you can keep the smell of them inside you, next to you, all around you.
You love someone and it hurts. You love someone and it’s very, very good. Not only do you feel better about yourself, you feel better about people, life, animals, and the color orange. You find yourself doing ridiculous things. You clean under the bookcase for her even though she probably won’t see under there. Just in case. You could end up in a passionate embrace by the CD player and she’ll pull you down to the ground and you will know it’ll be perfect. If you die right there with her, it will be clean. It will be clean for her.
You know yourself…
And you know your limits. When she says the last thing you ever expected to hear—do you stop? When it becomes painful, too painful, do you let him go? When she’s gone too far, or she’s not doing enough and you’re exhausted from dealing with her. When he doesn’t return your calls and you’re hoarse from trying to be heard, talking into nothing, screaming into nothing. Or maybe she quietly, very quietly, walked over and stabbed you in the heart. Or the back. Or right between the eyes. She waited until your guard was down. Or maybe not. Maybe she knew you were looking. Maybe she did it because you were looking. Maybe you knew enough about her that you should have known better. Maybe you both knew that. Maybe he wanted to see if he could do something you didn’t expect. He might have been testing his limits. He wasn’t thinking. Maybe he was trying to know someone else a bit more, just for that instant, just for a little while, just to be known by someone else, to know someone else. Maybe he doesn’t want to know you anymore. It might hurt to know you. Maybe all of you are hurting. She’s still getting to you, even when she’s not around. He’s still hurting you, even when he hasn’t said a word to you in years.
You know everything, and you know nothing…
And in that there’s this: You will always learn something new. About him. About her. About yourself. And in learning the bad, the uncomfortable, the messy—it’s what you take away that counts. What will you do with that knowledge? Will you leave? Pull tighter? Ignore it? Use it to fall in love even deeper? That’s when you learn more about yourself.
You aren’t a bad person. You’re a complex person. You’re dealing with complex people. And there’s always more to know.
Love until later,
Anna K
000063.
Mom looked tired. She didn’t talk much and had brought a book to read. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” she kept repeating.
“Mom, you’re not trouble,” I insisted again as I brought a cup of tea to the table beside the futon. “I’m very happy you’re spending Christmas with me.”
It was two days before Christmas and 82 degrees out. A bizarre heat wave had hit Austin the day before and was predicted to hang around just until after the Christmas holiday. Everyone wore shorts and wished for a winter wonderland.
“And you’re not upset that Meredith came too, are you?” Mom asked. Meredith had decided to come at the last minute and Mom had bought her ticket as a Christmas present.
“I’m not upset. I wish she hadn’t made such a big stink about it though. She acts like she’s doing us this giant favor having you buy her a ticket.”
“Will you let the middle child have her thing?” It was unlike Mom to comment on Meredith acting out, but as she stared at me, her face showed nothing. She looked smaller. Her hair was grayer. Her clothes hung on her strangely, her tiny legs sticking out from her shorts. Her kneecaps seemed lost in pale, sad flesh.
“Sorry” was all I could think to say through my wave of guilt.
The front door opened and Meredith stomped into the room, the weight of the world in her last suitcase. “Where are we all staying?” she asked.
“Shannon is going to stay with Dale and Jason. Mom’s taking my bed. You and I will share the futon.”
“Lovely,” Meredith moaned. “Oh, shit. I forgot about the cat.”
Shannon walked in from the bathroom. “You aren’t switching with me. I love Dale and we’re already making slumber party plans. Besides, I’m helping Jason with dinner.”
“Fine. I’ll just be swollen for Christmas. I hope one of you put an inhaler in my stocking.”
We called it an early night, Shannon walking straight over to Dale’s. We spent the next day on our own doing last-minute Christmas shopping. That night after we’d wrapped everything and placed our gifts under my small Christmas tree, I found Mom drinking tea on my balcony. She was looking up at the stars.
“This was a good idea,” she said. “I don’t think I could have survived the first holiday in that house without him. It’s good to get us out of Hartford. And cheaper for you and Shan.”
“Are you coming to bed soon?” I asked her. “Santa can’t come until you go to sleep.”
She smiled at hearing the phrase she always used on Christmas Eve. “I don’t think Santa’s coming this year,” she said.
“Mom,” I moaned, dropping to the ground next to her. “That’s so sad.”
“I’m very sad, Anna.”
“I know.” I put my head on her knee. She ran her fingers through my hair.
“I’m out of cigarettes,” she said. I lent her one of mine. I was back to a pack a day since Pittsburgh.
“Thanks,” she said as she exhaled a stream of smok
e. “Never get married, Anna. If you do, you’re going to end up alone.”
“Ma, don’t talk that way,” I said.
“Maybe it’s different for you. You girls are all so independent and want your own lives. When I met your father, things were different. You got married and you became one person. You became a couple. My life became your father’s life, and his life became mine. We eventually didn’t see any other friends because we were too busy raising our family.”
She was crying. A tear hit my arm with a small pat. I looked up at her.
“I don’t think I’m good at being alone,” she said. “I’m really lonely in that house.”
I pulled her in for a hug. “Maybe you should take some time away from there. Go stay with Meredith, or come here.”
Shannon walked outside and lit a cigarette. “Oh, are we all crying? I’ll cry.”
She plopped down next to me. “Mom, are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Mom said as she folded her hands in her lap. “I just miss Dad.” I thought how strange it was that people lost their real names once they had kids. They no longer referred to each other by their first names. Everyone called her “Mom.” He was “Dad,” even to his wife.
“I miss him too, Mommy,” Shannon said.
Mom wiped her tears with the side of her hand. “When I first met your father I didn’t want to date him because I knew he was the man I was going to be with forever. I wasn’t sure if I was ready. I was young and I thought that I might do some traveling. But your grandmother—your father’s mother—loved me and kept asking your father to bring me around the house. One night he called and asked me to do him a favor and eat dinner with them that weekend so she’d get off his back. I knew that it would be the last time I accepted a date from a boy.”
“And Dad proposed a month later,” I said, finishing the story I knew so well.
“He certainly did,” Mom nodded. “And I said yes.” It was quiet before she added, “And now he’s gone.”
“I think he’s still here, Mom,” Shannon said, playing with the cuff of her jeans like we were in kindergarten. “I talk to him sometimes.”
“I do, too. He helped me hide all of your presents here in Anna’s apartment.” Mom grabbed my hand and said, “Remember how your father and Ian would try and find all of their presents days before Christmas? Used to drive us nuts.”
I laughed, remembering the time Ian accidentally locked the keys in the trunk of Dad’s car when he was searching for presents under the spare tire.
“Ian is so much like your father,” Mom said. “How is he doing?”
“Again with the Ian,” Shannon said. “Give it up, Mom.”
“Well, he came all the way up to Hartford when your father died. Obviously he cares very much about her.”
I didn’t feel like explaining to my mother that these days the thought of Ian made me exhausted, so I excused myself and went inside.
I went to bed hoping that Santa was going to bring me a simpler life for Christmas.
000064.
Tiny Wooden Hand
(So Much Joy at Xmas)
27 DECEMBER
This was the first Christmas that my family gathered without my father. My friend Dale tried to fill in as that missing male figure, which was sweet, but he was way too silly to carve a turkey with a straight face. I enjoyed the change of having Christmas in my own home, with friends and family traveling to be inside my doors. I liked decorating, talking in my Martha Stewart voice as I lit candles and made marshmallow treats.
Dale fell in love with the stocking stuffer I gave him. It’s a wooden backscratcher. It’s long, and at the end it has a tiny wooden hand shaped just for scratching. I’m sure you’re thinking: “Oh, I have one of those, I love it too. It reaches all of the right parts.”
Well, this wasn’t exactly the same kind of love. Dale found this thing to be the funniest object in the world. It was his new best friend. I really cannot describe the love here. You see, the hand extends and retracts, and it does look just like a tiny hand, so it has become the source of great amusement. Perhaps you might want to get one for yourself. I had no idea how many possibilities were loaded into one tiny wooden hand. Why, you can:
• high five with a tiny wooden hand.
• grab objects from across the table with a tiny wooden hand.
• caress your lover’s cheek without having to move from the couch with a tiny wooden hand.
• scratch your chin like an intellectual with a tiny wooden hand.
• pose like The Thinker with a tiny wooden hand.
• put a tiny wooden pinkie to your mouth and say “one million dollars.”
• scratch the cat with a tiny wooden hand without getting fur on you.
• smoke a cigarette with a tiny wooden hand without having to bring your hand all the way to your mouth.
• drive like a low rider with a tiny wooden hand.
• brush back your hair with a tiny wooden hand.
• rough someone up with a tiny wooden hand.
• “raise the roof” with a tiny wooden hand.
• smack the back of someone’s hand with a tiny wooden hand.
• give secret tiny wooden handshakes.
• have the world’s smallest wooden hand stroke the world’s tiniest penis (don’t ask).
How could I possibly think of all of these uses for such a seemingly simple creation? Why, put the tiny wooden hand in a room filled with friends, family, and a pile of beer, and watch what happens! And if it’s on a Friday night of a holiday weekend during a weird, humid, sticky heat wave? Well, then, my friend, be prepared for the height of comedy.
You can pay for pizza with a tiny wooden hand.
Somehow during the course of the evening, Dale put on Ian’s old engineer’s cap, some aviator glasses, and coveralls (Shut up. What’s in your coat closet?). We had ordered pizza earlier. Of course, in our state of wooden hand giggles, the next logical progression was to share the love of the tiny wooden hand with perfect strangers, so they too could see what a genius invention it is. The scenario:
There is a knock on the door. Everyone hides in the kitchen, except for Dale in his outfit, tiny wooden hand in…well, hand, and I’m on the futon with an engineer whistle in my mouth. Everyone is silent. It is amazing how well this is going to come off. Dale opens the door—the pizza guy doesn’t even bat an eye. He apparently delivers to train conductors each and every day. He stares at Dale and starts to hand him the pizza. Dale flicks out the tiny wooden hand, which has the money in its tiny wooden grip. The arm extends, and the hand reaches out to the pizza guy. This is too much for Dale, who is well aware of the comedic power of the tiny wooden hand, and he begins to giggle. He giggles right in front of the pizza guy, who now just wants to leave.
Dale invites the pizza guy inside with a creepy “Hi. You wanna come in?” This forces me to hide my face in the futon. I mean, come on, Austin’s a small town, and I’m a performer. This pizza guy could be at my theater in a couple of weeks and yell out, “Her and her freak train conductor boyfriend tried to seduce me with a tiny wooden hand.” Dale eventually closes the door and the party comes out of the kitchen laughing and blaming Dale for ruining what would have been “The Ultimate Pizza Guy/Tiny Wooden Hand Joke.”
See, you probably thought that the lives of actors and writers were very glamorous. All Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin. Full of beer, drugs, sex, wild parties, interesting people. We get home drunk at the crack of dawn, thinking about how great the thunderous applause was that night on stage. But in reality we all sit around on a Friday night thinking up new tricks for the pizza guy. And while we do go home drunk at the crack of dawn, instead we think about how great the look on the pizza guy’s face was when we extended a tiny wooden hand with a twenty-dollar bill crammed into it at his face.
It’s been a hard holiday season for my family. It was really nice to see my mother laugh again.
Love until later,
; Anna K
000065.
The letter came a few days later in a thin envelope and was very to the point: “Miss Koval, we’re afraid we cannot accept this submission. We don’t normally accept unsolicited material. Regardless, this particular piece does not fit our standards. It appears to be ripped from the pages of a teenager’s diary and isn’t something we’d find suitable for our readers.”
Assholes. How’d they know it was from a diary?
The reality hit me: I wasn’t a writer. I was a girl with a webpage. Anybody could do I what I did. In fact, thousands of people did what I did. How did I think I was special? How was I an appropriate writer for a real magazine with editors and standards and people trained to write real essays? I wasn’t a novelist. I wasn’t a celebrity.
I just wrote a diary.
The letter was short, but strong enough to put me back in my place. I didn’t want to bother those grown-up magazines ever again.
There was a box outside my door as well. It was addressed to me in Ian’s handwriting. I was sure it wasn’t a Christmas present from him.
I opened the box. Inside were a few of my books, a sweater, and a stuffed animal that he must have forgotten I’d given him as a gift. I found an envelope at the bottom. Nothing was written on it. Inside was a card, the front of which was a naked baby holding his arms out. “Baby, It’s Another Christmas!” it said inside.
Ian found cards that lacked a sense of humor to be incredibly funny. This was the perfect find for him, mixing naked babies with “baby” puns and a holiday greeting. His favorite card ever was a Valentine’s Day card where a rabbit ate a carrot and on the inside it read, “I wanted to make you laugh, but I wasn’t feeling too bunny. Happy Love Day.”
Ian’s handwriting was scrawled along the inside. “I’m sorry it’s been such a shitty year.”
I’d been wasting so much time. There wasn’t anything wrong with me. Ian just didn’t know how to love me.
