It is quiet, too quiet. For a city that never sleeps, New York is as close as it has ever been. Charlie stands at the living room window, gazing out upon an empty courtyard. The pigeons are to have no breakfast this morning. Neighborhood joggers have retired their spandex shorts. No one has the strength to be normal. No one knows what normal is anymore. Quiet is the only word spoken here. Fear is the unspoken word that lives within that quiet.
Charlie drops the curtain and turns to her sleeping companions. Sky is curled up in a tight ball, her back lined up against the space between the couch and the carpet. She has subconsciously positioned her body closer to Tabitha, to protect her. Tabitha’s brow is furrowed as though she is dreaming of something sinister. Her teeth grind against each other, slowly wearing down the points of her fangs.
Sadness washes over Charlie while she observes the comedian in her true state. The joker cannot perform in her sleep. The jester cannot hide her pain from behind her eyelids. Now Charlie sees Tabby in the light of a new day. The punk rocker is an ostrich among men. She buries her head in the sand to cry, believing that no one can see her if she cannot see them. This revelation and its significance are not lost on Charlie. She may not be a writer, but she is able to paint a human portrait when she sees one.
It is too quiet for Charlie to relax. Usually she requires silence to sleep soundly, but now she wonders if she will ever be able to sleep in silence again. She studies Sky and Tabitha, realizing that she will need to be stronger than she has ever had to be. Challenges have always been her motivation, but this is not a challenge. This is the dawning of enigmas beyond comprehension.
Airplanes are all grounded, transforming the better portion of North America into one enormous parking lot. The heavens are void of roaring machines, and overflowing with souls. Thousands of spirits are congesting the atmosphere, leaving little room for man made technology. Silence in the skies and quiet on the soil.
What if god were here right now? What if god is here right now?
Charlie’s thoughts are riddled with questions. Her faith in humanity is shaken, but what about her faith in god? Her initial emotions revolved around horror, fear, and profound sadness. The scope of those emotions have evolved into exhaustion, denial, and anger. This is not her city. This is not her apartment, and this certainly cannot be the work of her god, nor could this destruction have been done in the name of any god. Surely, she is dreaming. Surely, she will wake in her bed.
It is Sky’s job to question the existence of god. It is Sky’s past and upbringing that has formed her questioning. Charlie reflects on the words of her lover.
“What kind of god would kill an innocent baby, or befriend my mother?”
Up until this moment Charlie has been steadfast in her beliefs. Although she has always valued Sky’s opinion, and appreciated the significance of Sky’s questions, she has never herself second-guessed her own faith. A nice Catholic girl raised in a tight knit family of Eastern Europeans. Charlie observes every Christian holiday. She accepts Jesus as the savior of humanity. Jesus who died upon the cross so that the sins of man could be forgiven, so that the souls of good people may be accepted into the kingdom of heaven. She believes that the lord of all creation watches over the children, the ill, the needy. She has done all that she has been able to do. She prays in silence every day. She doesn’t feel that she needs to go to church every day, nor wear her faith on her sleeve in order to be in the service of god. She wonders if that is wrong. Perhaps she has done a disservice to her god. Perhaps her god is angry, or vengeful, or disappointed. Is this a form of punishment? Has mankind overstepped its bounds, attempting to overrule the rules?
Charlie has followed the rules, obeyed the word of god. She believes that she was created in god’s image, as everyone is. If god’s will has been to create all people equal, how can a few be more worthy than the rest? She thinks about her struggles with her own sexuality. She has been persecuted for it, questioned, and she has questioned her own image in the eyes of god over the years since she began being honest. In the end she decided that she has been created in god’s image, as everyone is. She tries to be a good person. She has never hurt another human being intentionally. She loves the people in her life to the best of her ability. She is generous with her time, with her possessions, with her heart. She has lived up to her highest ethical and moral standards. She has followed all the rules, obeyed the word of god.
Every person in those buildings, aboard those airplanes, lived separate lives. They had diverse beliefs, different backgrounds, individual aspirations. All people that died yesterday lived separately, yet they perished collectively. It does not make any sense, and there is no sense to be made of it. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Guilt has twisted trails of intestines in, around, and through each other into slip knots in Penny’s abdomen. She gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘heaving your guts out.’ As much as her body revolts. As much as her stomach muscles clench. There is nothing left to expel. Yellow bile bites at her esophagus, burning holes through the tiny bubbles of dried up foam that has been lying dormant behind her teeth. Nothing is left, and yet her poisoned digestive tract insists that it is not free of rancid intruders.
Shontai holds tight to Penny’s hair, a snarled mangle of dehydrated flower petals that has been stripped of everything natural. Bleached strings corralled by the elastic restraints of an unraveling tie and the tender palm of a dear friend’s hand.
Thoughts are as violent as retching for Penny. The fact that she is able to think at all has to be a small version of a larger miracle. Face down, gripping a padded toilet seat with two sweaty hands. Pushing her man made toxins of emotion out through the hole in her face.
Jill has been missing since yesterday morning. The very same morning that Penny was supposed to be serving coffee from her place behind the sneeze guard at the café in the trade center. The same morning that she was safe at home. The same morning that she was daydreaming about her two year anniversary celebration with her boyfriend Will. That’s the reason that she switched shifts. She wanted to make hotel reservations for next weekend. Will was supposed to come over in the evening. She wanted to keep it a surprise. All she wanted to do was make the reservations, and go to work a few hours later than usual. No big deal right? No big deal indeed. Now her coworker is missing, maybe even dead. How is she supposed to deal with that for the rest of her days on earth? Her stomach clenches again. Hot spittle dribbles from her lower lip.
Sentences elude Shontai’s brain. She cannot find the syllables to form a verbal thought. To see her friend suffering so badly breaks her heart, but there is nothing to say. She wishes that she could tell Penny that everything will be all right. She wishes that she could say these words. She wishes that these words could be true. The suffering in this room, in this city, in this country is larger than any splinter of optimism that Shontai may feel. For someone that is known for running her mouth, the marathon is over. One solitary action of her fellow man has thrown a steel bar in the spokes of her spinning tires. Her mind flying through the air where only a brick wall could stop it, and one did.
Penny wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt and looks up at Shontai, her eyes glazed over. “Tell me something good.”
“Something good…” Shontai has to ponder that for what its worth. Oddly enough it seems like an odd request, but she is trying her best to accommodate.
“That’s what my great grandmother used to say to me all the time. When anyone called her on the phone crying about the trouble in their life. My grandma would stop them and say, “Tell me something good.”
There is only one thing that Shontai can think of to say. “Oh, che`re amie, I love you.”
The hotel takes on a new look as Tabitha’s nightmare has transformed into a new frightening fantasy. This time the building is burning while she is inside. People and their ghosts are frantically scrambling to vacate the aged walls of this antique lobby.
This time she is not a trapped passenger on a claustrophobic elevator, nor is she pushing her way through the crowd in a panic. All is peaceful despite the madness beneath her feet. She is flying over the marbled floors, past the mermaid fountain, along the painted ceiling. A strange sense of peace washing over her floating body. She can see the struggle and panic around her, but it does not hurt anymore. Nothing hurts anymore. There is only serenity now as the soft yellow tide of flames travel toward a shore of souls.
Waking brings no comfort. Charlie is seated at Tabby’s feet. “Nightmare, Tabby?”
“Yeah. You could say that. Am I awake? Does this nightmare end?” Tabitha’s skin is covered in goose bumps, radiating from the back of her neck.
“I sure hope so, Tabby. I sure hope so.”
Omran kneels in prayer on the soft woven rug that he has traveled with since his childhood in Africa. He kneels and bends in meditation, praying for his fellow man, praying to Allah for wisdom in this time of turmoil. He was raised in a war torn country. He has witnessed the destruction of villages, of culture, of his brothers. He did not understand destruction then. He accepts that he will never understand it, but he will forever pray for peace among all of human kind.
Several times a day Omran participates in prayer, but this day is different. This day is all too familiar to him. He has prayed in this way before, and he had hoped to never have to do it, in this way, ever again. His home was a place of sadness. His family scattered across borders as a result of war, of cultural differences.
America visited Omran’s dreams during his childhood. A magical land, rumored to be paved in gold. He was told fantastic stories about America. He was told that everyone is rich in America. No one starves to death. There are no refugees, or warlords. No daily bombings, no civil wars. Everyone is accepted in the land of plenty. Every person is permitted religious freedoms, free of persecution. America is a place of opportunity. He wanted to be an American so badly. He escaped his homeland as soon as the opportunity arose. He left his mother, his family, to come to America. The melting pot of immigrants promised all of his childhood dreams, and it was everything that he had dreamed of and more. Now he questions the motivation of evil men once again. War has followed him. He is afraid that he may never be able to escape it.
Gary does not disturb Omran during his religious observances, as Gary understands the importance of religion in his own life. He may be Mormon, and his lover may be Muslim, but they understand each other as much as two people ever could. Perhaps this is why they love each other so much. After all, two religions couldn’t be more opposite. Two people couldn’t be more opposite. They both pray to their gods. They both pray for each other, and for wisdom, and for peace. In this way they are the same.
It has been forty-eight hours since the twin towers collapsed. Aimee opens her eyes to view the glowing neon red numbers on her digital alarm clock. “Nine thirteen. How ironic.” Downstairs, Aimee’s family is gathered in front of the television like desperately dyslexic children trying to read. Any update about the state of this new and frightening world is craved and feared. Each new development is more horrifying than the last.
Aimee cannot bare to watch anymore. Her body cannot take this much abuse, and her brain full of psychology is rendered useless. She may as well have just graduated from kindergarten. All of that mumbo jumbo about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder seems like a steaming pile of garbage. It can just float away on a barge somewhere as far as her own feelings are concerned. There is no magical answer for what is happening in the minds of others. No amount of reading could convince her otherwise. She is in fact traumatized. There is no doubt about it. She only wants to sleep, and hopes that when she wakes this will all be over with.
The news rattles on as background noise to fill the empty space, to quiet any private thoughts. If there is one thing that most people cannot stand, it is to be left alone with horrible thoughts. That is true psychology. To quiet the private thoughts of people who do not wish to think them. That is the difference between genius and insanity. A fine line. What will Aimee do now that she is traveling that line herself? What amount of training could be sufficient in the silencing of her own thoughts?
No survivors have been rescued from ground zero. No survivors in two days. The officials in New York City warn that the casualties may exceed the number from Pearl Harbor. Authorities order six thousand body bags.
The magnificent beach has lost its luster. Heavy raindrops dent the surface of a turbulent ocean, absorbed by the brotherly water molecules. The Pacific welcomes its relatives of the clouds. A cycle becomes complete this morning. The tides of time and of change pound their fists against the shore in protest. Nature has her own vengeance, and it is a powerful display.
Rainfall forces Yvonne to seek shelter in her carefully constructed house of glass. The brick and mortar that she has so readily thrown in the past is a thing of the past. The future intrudes as it always has. Even if she were walking backwards, time marches on in forward motion. It is useless to focus on yesterday. It does not exist. Yesterday is a notion of peace, but tomorrow is a mystery.
Her vacation will be cut short. She does not have the option of rescheduling her fight reservations. The airways are still sleeping silently, in wait. She makes train reservations. It will take her two and a half days to get back to Buffalo, but that is still a shorter wait than her flight in a week. She has to leave now. Waiting in silence is killing her inside. Not knowing anything about her friends, about her loved one’s is killing her. She wanted to take a holiday to escape, but her escape has quickly changed into unwelcome solitude. She is cut off from everything that she cares about. She has to get back to her city, to her love. Today is her nephew’s fourth birthday.
Tabitha searches desperately for her photo albums. She flings all of the boxes and black plastic garbage bags out from beneath her bed. “Where the hell is it. I know I have pictures here somewhere!” Her momentum is frantic. Her heart is pounding in her ears. “Damn it!”
“Take it easy, Tabby. Think for a minute. Where would you put them?” Sky is trying her best to maintain her own composure. It isn’t easy to watch her friend in this frantic state. Being the voice of reason has never been easy for her. What else can she do? There is a poster to be made. They need a picture of Vanessa to add to the growing mosaic of the missing in Manhattan.
“Why don’t we just use a picture of me. I’ll take all of the metal out of my face, and put on something nice. We have the same face…”
The desperation of the last forty-eight hours has clouded Tabitha’s judgment to the point of making such a suggestion. She realizes the weight of what she is saying. Vanessa isn’t just her sister. They share the same features. If one of them is dead, the other has to spend a lifetime looking at her face in the mirror.
Tabitha is now throwing things from beneath her mattress. A photo album spills out onto the floor, festive floral print against the carpet. The page exposed to sunlight reveals a still frame of two sisters with their arms around each other, smiling in a moment of joy. Gemini existing in the flesh.
Friday morning is the pinnacle of exhaustion. New Yorkers and the rest of a terrified nation begin to grieve in earnest. Shock is wearing down to a sharp point stabbing the hearts of millions. People are fighting in the streets about politics because they are all out of any other ammunition. Everyone needs someone to hate, someone to blame for their feelings. Iron workers are used to taking risks at great heights, but today they are sifting through the remains of skyscrapers and other people. They have never had to pick up body parts from city streets.
All of America’s grief has condensed in the clouds, the first clouds in days that are not the result of fire. The heavens cry along with the living. The rain doesn’t damper the generosity of surviving urbanites. New Yorkers are behaving in a way that has never been seen. Strangers are comforting strangers. Strangers are gathering in small prayer groups to sing ‘Amazing Grace’. Local charities are taking donations at the South corner of Union Square. Hundreds of neighbors are dropping off whatever they can afford to contribute, time, money, clothes, and food. If people cannot volunteer, they want to do anything to help. The difference in the city and its people is not subtle in the least. Now when neighbor passes neighbor they make eye contact. As if to say, “Are you okay? Am I okay? Will anything ever be okay ever again?”
Charlie and Sky fill two large plastic bags with anything that they can find to donate, anything that might be useful to someone. Material possessions that were important on Monday no longer carry that weight. Things are just things. People are more important than things. This is the message that speaks loud and clear from lowered voices in this city. Without a selfish thought in her mind, Charlie packs up every scrap of non-perishable food in her cupboard, several articles of clothing, batteries, toothpaste, bandages, and all of the cash from the cookie jar on her counter top. Without a word between them they exit carrying their bounty down crowded streets.
A girl is standing behind a table under a white tent labeled “Donations.” She is wearing the only smile to be seen for miles. She is obviously touched by the generosity of this mob as she swings bags and boxes over the barrier between her body and this public display of brotherhood. Sky lifts the hefty bags over the table to hand them to the good Samaritan, sharing that smile for one single instant. It isn’t on her face, but it is in her heart. “Is there anything else we can do to help, miss?”
“Can you give blood? They need as much as they can get.”
While Sky is chatting briefly with the girl gathering donations Charlie is distracted by a line of trucks driving by. The rescue workers that are making their way to the Southern tip of Manhattan have search dogs with them.
She turns to the girl to interrupt “I’m a veterinarian. I see they’re using search and rescue dogs, and I just realized that the pets in apartments down there probably haven’t eaten in days. What can I do?”
Omran has felt completely incredulous since he found out that Muslims were behind the destruction of the trade center. In his heart he knows that these accused men are not true Muslims. They couldn’t possibly be of the same faith as millions worldwide. No religious man would do such a thing. His heart is torn into two separate and distinctly different pieces. He understands the terrorist’s grievance with America’s foreign policies, but not their method of expressing those grievances. He has seen the effects of sanctions and political conflict within his own country. He has seen his fellow countrymen starve to death, be taken prisoner, or become refugees in a country that they would never even visit under any other circumstances. He has seen violence and war and death, but it has never brought resolution. Once again he is faced with the promise of war. Not just any war, a war between the religion that he is faithful in and the country that he loves so dearly. America has been good to him. Now he fears that she will turn her back on an entire religion because of a few radical souls that are bent on destruction for glory. He has heard it referred to as Jihad, but he knows in his core that true Jihad is the struggle of an individual with their own inner conflict. This act is not Jihad. These few men of terror do not represent Jihad, nor do they represent Islam.
Words are as important as acts in times like these. Omran is fearful of those words that are being used lightly. He is fearful of the impact of such words. Americans are afraid, and words can fuel the flames of hatred, even in those who had none.
Gary stands next to Omran under a black umbrella in front of the Mosque on 3rd Avenue. They both wear boxes around their necks to collect contributions for victims and their families. They stand together under the threat of violence. The Muslim woman to their right is arguing with a young white male about condemning an entire group of people for the actions of a few radicals. The young man is becoming more and more perturbed as the argument rages.
Omran speaks to his lover with sadness in his words. “It is sad that people do not know what to do with their fear. I am afraid. If you want to know the truth. I am afraid for everyone.”
Gary dares not speak his fears, but he must admit secretly that he takes comfort in the fact that Omran does not ‘look’ like a Muslim. As terrible as that thought seems to him, the fear for those who do ‘look’ Muslim is far worse. He grew up in a white community with white children. He attended white churches with white religious leaders. He went to white schools, and he understands the unspoken racism among white people. He knows and hates that about himself and about white people. Not many people are willing to discuss their bias in these ‘politically correct’ times, but the truth is the truth as ugly as that may be. Two things strike him simultaneously. First, the idea of all that secret bias surfacing violently in a diverse city. Second, his experiences within the gay community.
When Gary came out as a homosexual man he looked to the community to discover what that meant in the broad scope of acceptance, tolerance, and life in general. What he found surprised him. The gay community is jam packed with its own biases. There are subcultures within the subculture. There is racism, sexism, and separation among different groups of gay people. There is distinction between drag queens, transvestites, transsexuals, cross-dressers, fems, butches, bears, lesbians, butch lesbians, black, white, Hispanic, even young and old. A community that is fighting for the same cause, segregated in so many ways. He thought that the gay community would be more unified with a common goal, but instead he found several mini-communities that fought each other as much as they fought anything else. This concept bewildered him because in his estimation gay people should be the last to point their finger at anyone. Regardless, he understands the concept of being labeled due to the actions of a few. The media often portrays homosexuals in a narrow minded stereotype model. Therefore, those who ‘look’ or ‘act’ gay are persecuted more often than those who do not fit the stereotypical model of what a gay person is. Visual perception can be a dangerous thing, and he knows that fearful people will react to what they perceive, even if their perception is way off base.
The two misfits stand together to collect money for the lost misfits. Two religious gay men of different faiths, of separate religions, of conflicting backgrounds, just standing in front of a mosque in unity.
Charlie’s phone rings on Saturday morning. A stranger asks for her help, and Charlie agrees without hesitation. There is a veterinarian triage tent set up at ground zero for the search dogs. “I’ll be right there. Give me fifteen minutes to gather some supplies.”
Sky grabs her video camera and something to take notes on. “I’m going with you.”
The dogs at the triage tent look sadder than their handlers. They whimper, not from pain, but because they can smell death in the air. Charlie spends hours mending the split paws and cuts on the animal’s bodies from wondering through rubble in search of survivors or the deceased.
A police woman emerges from the dusty horizon carrying something in her arms. It appears to be a cat although it is as unrecognizable as anything else that has been pulled from the wreckage of this city block. The officer walks over to Charlie with tears in her eyes. “I found this little fella limping around St. Paul’s chapel. He looks pretty hungry, and I think he’s hurt.”
The dusty little mammal can’t even open his eyes because they are filled with soot. Surprisingly, he doesn’t struggle when Charlie squirts a few drops of saline solution into his big green eyes, nor when she wipes his matted fur down with a wet rag. “There you go, baby. Is that better? Huh? That’s a good kitty.”
It is obvious that this animal has never been outside by himself before. He must have escaped from a vacated apartment near by. When the gray coating is wiped from his body a beautiful shiny black cat appears. He is bigger than most, similar to a miniature panther with a strong masculine face, long body, and a slightly crooked tail.
Charlie notices that this little panther has a tag around his collar. When she wipes the medallion clean a lump lodges in her throat. It reads.
My name is: Spike
I belong to: Ms. C. Alekiewicz
Address: 1455 Maiden Ln. #42
Phone: 565-7839
“Sky…Look a this. He’s one of my patients.”
Sky aims her camera lens at the cat, zooming in on the tag around his neck. “Oh my god. That’s the cat that nearly clawed that poor woman to death when I was in your office that one time. Spike. Yeah, the woman said. “Spike is usually so well behaved.” He looks pretty scared now.”
“We should take him home. I’ll try to call Ms. Alekiewicz to return him.”
“What if…”
“What if she’s not home? We’ll have to take care of him then. I’m not giving him to a shelter. I’ve treated him since he was a kitten. He’s just a baby, and obviously quite the little survivor. Aren’t you panther boy?” Charlie holds on to the cat as a mother would hold on to her own found child. Oddly enough, Spike seams to reciprocate the affection from Charlie. The two of them need each other now, and Sky does not need to be a psychologist to understand why. All animals need love, especially in times of unrest.
“I’ll take him home and give him some food. It’s not safe for him here with all these dogs around. Don’t worry. We’ll get along just fine.” Sky has to practically pry Spike away from her lover’s clutches. “You have to let go, sweety. He’s safe. He’s safe.”
Finding a small spark of life among so much death is profound. The officer feels it. Charlie feels it, and Sky most certainly feels it. The tears that are shed now are a celebration of life, no matter how small that life may be. The only survivor in days is a cat. How precious that cat is to the morale of rescue workers like that officer is astounding.
Sky picks up some canned cat food at the corner market on her way home. The man behind the counter forgets the notion of any casual greetings. That part of daily life has changed drastically. There are no good mornings. Why should anyone bother to utter those words? It all seems pretty petty on a day like today. Sky doesn’t even notice the lack of conversation. She is still stuck in a perpetual state of shock. She is too consumed with questions to even consider what the answers might be. She does have a cat now. Spike made the day a thousand times better for her and everyone else who witnessed his rescue. Sky has a task to focus on, another living thing to care for. Any distraction is welcome.
“Here you go little Spike.” Sky dumps the open can of cat food onto a saucer for her new friend in Charlie’s kitchen. “I suppose I could talk to you for a while. I think we both could use the company. What do you say?”
Spike curls his long black body around Sky’s shin, rubbing his head against her in delight before devouring the food in front of him. It is amazing that even a cat is able to express gratitude before concerning himself with basic needs. He must be hungry, but he chose love above food. This is a display that surprises Sky. She wonders how she would react if she were a starving pet who was rescued from rubble, and in the home of a stranger. “That’s good stuff huh? Don’t worry young one. If nothing else, you will be loved.” She runs her hand down the grateful feline’s back. She is as grateful to him as he could ever be to her.
When Sky walks through the living room she notices her black phone book lying open on the coffee table. She has called everyone in it. That is except for one. She sits on the edge of the burgundy couch cushions, arguing with herself about what is the right thing to do. That spiteful part of her wishes not to pick up that phone, but her logical side insists upon it. She dials the numbers while clearing her throat.
The voice on the other end of the line is obviously shaken, but recognizable.
“Hello.”
“Mom. It’s me. I thought you would like to know that I’m okay.”
Dawn Madison has lost the ability to speak for the first time in her life. Sky only hears the faint whisper of crying.
It’s moving day for Sky and Charlie. Somehow their moving in together doesn’t seem like the big aphrodisiac that they had expected, what with the events of the weeks before. Not to mention, the fear that still grips most Americans. Just a few weeks ago this little corner of the world fell apart. Tabitha has been playing the tough guy as usual. She sits and smokes cigarettes on her rooftop, no longer feeling optimistic about her sister’s return. Vanessa is lost, now her family just waits for the phone call that they have found her body, or at least part of it. Penny has not heard from her coworker Jill. She is also lost. Spike is still residing with Sky and Charlie. Ms. Alekiewicz must have been a victim of WTC. Ms. Alekiewicz, Jill, and Vanessa are now among the 6,000 missing and over 300 confirmed dead in New York.
With all of the grief, fear, and confusion still clearly displayed on New York city streets it is difficult for two lovers to be concerned with the drudgery of moving. This was supposed to be a happier time. Sky and Charlie have planned this for months. They wanted to move in together so that Sky could move out of her dorm room, so that they could get a dog to share their lives with, so that life would be easier for both of them. Instead, they are hauling boxes in silence, and instead of a dog they have a cat.
Two buildings down is the destination for the beginning of lives shared for Charlie and Sky. A new beginning doesn’t feel so new because everyone around them is starting from scratch. The city is mixed into a new batter, the recipe of disaster, of loss, of hope, and of unity.
All of the emotions are still raging for a nation in disarray. There is a new war in Afghanistan, against Osama bin Laden and his terrorist group. Thousands of young men and women are called to serve their country overseas. All of them starting new lives, and some of them will not return. The loss of human life is a part of the recent past, and inevitably, the near future. A nation that has not yet processed the loss of thousands in an act of war now has to process the loss of troops in another.
An endless stream of daily blues stream from a national news channel as Charlie and Sky pile boxes next to their furniture. Neither one of them has turned off the news since September 11th. Everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everyone is wondering what will happen next. Fear is the driving force these days.
Charlie cannot stand to watch the news anymore, but she cannot stand not to watch it. The television runs day and night, and day and night. A constant barrage of bad news. That does something to the human mind. Charlie wakes up to reporters in the morning. She goes to sleep with them at night. She has an aspiring reporter in her own bed. She tries her best not to express her disappointment in the whole profession of journalism in front of Sky, but Sky knows it all too well.
Sky too is questioning the moral basis within the profession. She feels that it is important to supply the people with as much information as possible, but is a story more important than the feelings of others? She wonders if she could be so ruthless as to pry details out of grieving people after a disaster. She has never seen anything like this in her lifetime, and she hopes to never see anything like this again. This is a story to tell her grandchildren. It is not a time for media hype in her mind.
Sky gets no answer at Tabitha’s apartment door. So, she decides to look in the next logical place, the roof. The heavy metal door is held open by a cinder block, allowing the lingering smoke of the outdoors into the building. The smell is atrocious when the wind blows in from lower Manhattan. That smell is a constant reminder of death.
Tabitha is reclining in a lawn chair underneath her homemade shelter sketching something in her notebook. A cigarette is dangling from her lips, the long ashes teetering with indecision. Her legs are crossed at the knee. Two empty beer bottles are tipped over at her feet. Her hair is a complete mess, greasy, and tangled amidst tiny rubber bands. She looks as though she hasn’t slept in years. A much older Tabitha is sitting where a free spirited punk reclined before.
Sky observes her friend for a brief time before she is detected. “Hey, Tabby. I brought you some bagels and coffee from your favorite morning joint.”
“At least my favorite breakfast joint is still there. What ever would I do without fast Eddy’s brew? How’s it going sweetness? Where’s the hubby? You kids all sitchiated in the new digs?”
“Yup. Boxes are no match for the likes of me, but it just doesn’t feel right somehow…know what I mean, Tabs?”
“Some coffee would feel right. Have some. If loving caffeine is wrong then I don’t want to be right. Uh, thanks for stopping by every day. You’re a good kid, for a space case, that is. I’m okay, really. My mother always told me that the whole world labors day and night to make this great big shit pie, and everyone’s gotta take a bite.”
“That’s one big shit pie my friend. One big shit pie indeed! Hey, you drinking beer this early in the morning?”
“I was all out of o.j…just kidding. Those are from last night. Guess I’ve been up here fer a spell.”
The powers of disapproval have exited Sky’s range of emotion. Even if Tabby is drinking beer for breakfast it doesn’t really matter. Sky could use a drink herself. Who is she to point fingers at a friend who lost a sister. She can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like, especially for someone like Tabitha. The Spartan warrior was caught in fierce battle without her shield. It is raised now, raised right over her face to protect her from herself and anyone who tries to invade her private thoughts. Sky has to let it go. Digging for any deeper emotions could be a detriment to Sky’s health. Tabitha will express her grief in her own way. Sky decides that being a good friend is more critical to mending her friend’s wounds. She sits and shares a moment of silence over coffee. There is little more to do. Words have always been Sky’s master key to the universe, but she has stumbled upon a locked door that stubbornly refuses to open.
“Looks different, doesn’t it?” Tabitha stares blankly at the empty skyline in front of her. “I’ve been sitting here for days, and I can’t for the life of me, figure out what the FUCK just happened. I hate them. All of them. I don’t care who they are.” She sips her coffee as casually as she would on any other day. “Shit pie, baby. Great big steaming fucking shit pie! There’s too much hate in the world, kid. I hate to add to it, but what the hell. It’s my turn.”
“I know, Tabby. I hate all the hate too. Just a couple of hypocrites. That’s what we are. All that tree hugging, hippie crap just vanished. Now we’re all just really pissed.”
“Ahh. It’s all good. They hate us. We hate them. Even Steven, Pally. Let’s channel all that hatred. Pass me a bagel. I’m gonna kick it’s little ass!” Tabitha bites into the bagel like a hyena attacking it’s prey. “Take that you fucking bastard! Tempting me with all your doughy goodness. I’ll teach you to mess with me.” A giggle escapes her for the first time in weeks. There is nothing left for her to do but laugh at the absurdity of it all. She turns to Sky, her cheeks full of bagel chunks. “What. No cream cheese? I hate you too!” She laughs harder. She laughs until she cries, spitting wet crumbs into the air. It’s really not that funny, but she laughs anyway. Laughter is better than tears, and as of yet she hasn’t been able to cry. Whether or not it makes her feel better is debatable. For the moment it doesn’t matter.
Sky is forced to laugh along with her friend. This is the first taste of funny in her life in a long time. “No cream cheese for you! You ungrateful shit head. See if I bring you bagels again.”
The two of them snort with uncontrollable laughter until their sides ache, and Tabitha nearly chokes to death on a chunk of bagel.
“Easy girl. Why don’t you come over to the new place for dinner tonight? Charlie’s making a big pot of her famous chili. We could use the company. What says you, fair maiden? A romantic dinner in a room full of boxes might do you some good.”
“Sounds fantastical. I’ll bring my dancing shoes!”
“Try to get some sleep this afternoon. I’ll come wake you up around four.”
“Easy breezy, skeezy. See ya in a few ticks of the sun dial.”
Charlie is unpacking boxes in the kitchen when Sky returns from visiting Tabitha. “How’s Tabby doing today? Did you invite her to dinner?”
“Yeah. I’m picking her up at four. She looks like shit, but we actually had a few laughs this morning. Felt pretty good.”
Charlie stops what she’s doing to give her girlfriend a much needed hug. “You’re a good friend, Ms. Sky. It’s a good thing we all love you so much.” She kisses Sky’s forehead. “I had a thought while you were gone.”
“Oh yeah. What’s the big idea?”
“Well…I was thinking about Tabby being all alone. She doesn’t have a wonderful partner like you to snuggle up to at night, and Spike is all alone too. They both lost someone important to them. They’re both incredible survivors. So… I was thinking that they might be great company for each other.”
Sky is touched by the sentiment. She knows that Charlie loves that cat. She thinks about it for a second before throwing her arms around her lover. “You’re the good friend, Lenore. That’s why we all love you so much.”
November 28, 2001
Sky Madison
My history has a home across the farm lands of this state, but my new home is in New York. Now I have a history here that exceeds all that of my home combined. Over the last two months I have witnessed too many tragic events to list. It would be presumptuous of anyone to think that New York, Washington, or even America should ‘just get over it already.’ They do not know what daily life has been like for those of us traumatized, and especially not for those of you who have lost their lives.
I have decided that the only way for me to process any of this is by writing an open letter to the lost.
Dear lost souls:
I speak to you as both friend and foe. I am your friend because I have empathy for your plight. I am your foe because I have survived. Off the top of my head I can make a long list of those who’s feelings are similar to mine. My best friend Tabitha is at the top of that list. I would hope that you could forgive her for being herself, whatever that means. She tries harder than most mortals to understand the diplomacy of hatred, but I fear that she is also lost. If she wanders into your territory, I would appreciate anything that you can do for her. She is not dead in the true sense of the word, but I fear that she is dying on the inside. It isn’t like her to ask for help. Perhaps only another lost soul would be able to show her the way.
You see, Tabitha’s identical twin sister Vanessa is among you. You might recognize her if I give you a description. Vanessa was a stunning Hispanic woman of just twenty four. A real go getter. The type of woman who had the ability to dress for any occasion, and could maintain every ounce of dignity in a situation that would shame most of us.
Tabitha and I spent an entire days time plastering ‘missing’ posters of Vanessa all over Manhattan. Even as I taped those two dimensional portrayals of her to every lamp post and store front window I had this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew that she was lost.
We all get lost sometimes. People lose their way everyday, but thousands of people all got lost at the same time. For those of you who have traveled to the other side of life, I would like to say that you are loved and missed. Even though I did not know most of you, I mourn you just the same. I would also like to say that your departure was not for nothing. People just like me are realizing what is really important, and most of our priorities have changed. I have found that it is important to tell the ones you love that you love them every chance that you get. This is a lesson that I may not have learned without your help. Thank you.
For those of you who are still among the living, I would like to say that you are loved and life as we knew it will be sorely missed.
-Sky Madison
The holiday season crept onto the calendar this year. No one is prepared for it. This seems like a strange time to celebrate anything at all. Adults might consider abandoning the whole event if it weren’t for the children, limiting all holiday festivities to religious observances, or just a day of reflection. Children need more than that now. So adults push forward toward any form of normalcy for the sake of their young ones. They put up trees that they don’t want to look at. They buy extravagant toys and expensive gifts for their families. They try to smile. They try to sing songs. They bake those same stupid cookies that they make every year, but the same fears linger in the back of their minds, and some of them are still waiting for the ceremonial burial of people that they cared for. They try to smile for the children, but the funny thing about children is their ability to see right through an adult’s flawless façade of holiday joy. Perhaps this is sadder for the youth of America than it is for the pretenders.
Sky hated this time of year to begin with. The events of September 11th have compounded those feeling, leaving her with a deeper seasonal depression than she has ever had before. Her father’s death was a tragedy that crippled her emotionally. 9/11 was a catastrophe that tore away any leftover use of those emotions. Secretly she must admit that she is glad that the other people around her are not in the mood to celebrate anything either. She wishes that it could be under better circumstances.
Charlie and Sky decided not to decorate their apartment. This is a notion that does not bother Sky in the least.
Anger is the only emotion seething from Tabitha’s skin. She sits alone in her studio apartment chain smoking non filter cigarettes. Somehow the filters seemed to get in her way recently. She figures that she smokes anyway, why not quicken the cancerous process. It already feels like she has cancer, like her whole body is one big festering, oozing wound. As if she could peel away the top layer of her face to reveal a blackened ulcerous demon.
Tabitha isn’t just angry with the world, or the terrorists, or herself. She is angry with her sister for leaving. Vanessa always had to be the wonder child. She was always their mother’s ‘good’ child. The old good twin, evil twin theory comes to her mind without warning, nor permission. Good old Vanessa, the fucking relentless overachiever. It wasn’t enough for her to get straight A’s in high school. No, she had to graduate at the top of her class, the prom queen, the fucking valedictorian. She always made Tabitha look stupid in her shadow. Vanessa excelled at everything that she tried, and perfected everything that she ever completed. She went to college with full scholarships. Not like her lazy sister, who is destined to be a burden on their parents for the rest of their lives.
Tabitha pulls a huge drag of smoke from her cigarette, then pushes it out of her nose like an angry dragon hovering above a neighboring village. She is past all that pity shit. She wonders why she should mourn her bitch of a sister. She feels like she is the one that should be pitied. She’s the one left holding the bag. She’s the one that has to bury her sister, and deal with her parent’s grief. Vanessa left the planet without even the courtesy of a note. No fucking good bye’s, just a quick exit. Of course Vanessa would go down in a blaze of glory. Naturally, she would have to die in some big fucking tragic historical moment, shaming her sister even in the way that she died.
Tabitha has no chance of competing with that. She thinks that she’ll probably just die alone in her bed, left to whither into antiquity. She thinks that she will shrivel up and die some old forgettable corpse in a nursing home adjustable bed. It just seems so unfair.
No one is getting together to celebrate the new year. Even if they were, Tabitha doesn’t see the point. This is just a reminder that there will be so many years ahead of her. So many years to live without her sister. She sits and drinks alone. Smoking non filter cigarettes, and staring out past the night sky at the gaping nothing, now known as ground zero.
By February Tabitha has had her fill of intense emotions. A fresh tattoo of a black vine winds around her bicep, reeking of oily ointment. Drinking has become her new security blanket. She doesn’t have to feel anything when the depressant invades her veins. What happens when that’s not enough? What level is she willing to reach? How high can she get?
Alcohol wears thin in the numbing process as her birthday approaches. Pot only provides temporary lapses in reality. Reality is far too harsh to combat with cannabis. Piercing and tattoos arm her with brief euphoric adrenaline, but she can’t sit under a needle forever. Eventually the buzzing high of imbedded ink fades, and she is forced to survive without those much needed endorphins that her brain is no longer producing on its own.
Asking for help is not even a remote possibility. She wears her party face to interact with the outside world. Even Sky is under the impression that Tabitha’s depression is fading, but in fact, it is only creeping further into the realm of darkness.
Tabitha no longer cares about her personal appearance, hygiene, or her responsibilities. She’s blowing off her friends, and shutting herself in. She has always been a little irresponsible. No one really notices the change. She is still funny, and above all, fun at a party. Her new friends are far more dangerous than the old. Night club people provide Tabby with any non prescription antidote that she could possibly crave to silence her inner child from screaming in pain. She has borrowed money from everyone that she can think of. Her friends and family have been merciful about any payment dates, and they continue to hand over funds to the ‘poor suffering Tabby’. After all, she did lose her sister. It is good that people care enough to help her out financially. It is bad that Tabby is using the money to medicate herself with mystery street cocktails.
Sky stops Charlie on her way to the office. “Hey honey, did you set everything up for Tabby’s party? Is everyone coming? She’s doing better, but she seems kind of spaced out lately. I hope the party cheers her up.”
“You worry too much. Don’t you have an article to write or something? Everything is taken care of, but I can’t help but wonder if this is such a good idea.”
“Hey, I’m trying here. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe all her friends can talk her into going to counseling or something.”
Charlie stops in her tracks to shoot a disapproving look at Sky, the woman she has grown to know a little too well. “Sweety, you’re throwing a birthday party/ therapy intervention? This is what I’m talking about. We can’t bombard her like that.”
Sky knows in her heart that Charlie is right. Charlie is always right about this kind of thing, but Sky is determined to do something for her best friend. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought she might feel better if she knows that her friends care about her. I’m not as brilliant as you, Dr. Genius. I’ll see you later.” She kisses Charlie good bye. “I love you.”
“I love you too. You’re doing a good thing, baby. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
When Charlie and Sky show up at Tabitha’s apartment she welcomes them in her usual ‘Tabby manner’. “Howdy fledglings. What’s with the pop up party? If I knew you were coming, I’d a baked a cake, hired a band, or cleaned this rat hole up some.”
Sky tries to show some enthusiasm. “Don’t worry about it Tabs. I’ll help you clean up a little before everyone else gets here. Happy birthday!” She hands Tabitha a box wrapped in the Sunday comics with a yellow card taped to the top.
“Aww…you shouldn’t have. Well, it is my twenty fifth. So maybe you should have…brought me something bigger! Just fuckin’ with ya, babe. Thanks bunches you guys. You want a beer er somthin’.”
“Domestic or imported?” Sky follows the trail of sarcasm to its bitter end.
“Toilet water with barley and bubbles. What do you care, its free.”
March devours the city just like the lion that it is rumored to be. It’s raining depression all over Tabitha’s parade.
Tabitha peers into her smoky and smudged bathroom mirror with eyes sunken in the black quicksand of their sockets. Her skin is dull and lifeless, a pale shade of ecru. Her lips fall loose, parting slightly with grief and exhaustion. Veins pulsing with remnants of alcohol poisoning, a skull full of sadness and a crushing hangover. Her cheeks are drawn, giving her the look of bitter death. As if she has kissed the hand of the reaper, her lips are stained with her own demise. She is sick. She is defeated. Her body a sad mass of dead weight. The last spark of life has all but fizzled out in the vast depths of her soul. Her eyes are glazed over with clouded judgment and boundless indifference. She no longer recognizes her own reflection. There she stands, barely able to defy gravity. The shell of a June bug clinging to the bark of a tree, resistant to the wind, and yet, not part of a living thing. She exists by the mere fact of living, but sometimes living is not enough. Her bones are stiff with arthritis of the mind. A searing pain settles in her joints.
The mixture of alcohol and painkillers dance together in the empty corners of Tabitha’s heart. She has invited the devil into her house. Now she cannot find the strength to evict him.
Addiction comes in many forms. Some people have a weakness for chocolate, for others cigarettes. Yet, others find comfort at the end of a needle filled with euphoric heroin. Tabitha found her demon at the bottom of a bottle. She wandered through the black forest in search of salvation. What she found bared a resemblance to a troll living under a bridge.
Tabitha hasn’t left her apartment in a week. She has lost track of the days, the hours, the minutes. None of that matters anymore. Time is just a reminder that she will never see her sister again. Death has visited in the form of fiery embers that smolder in her core. She hasn’t eaten in days and her weight is steadily dropping. Making her body a collapsible piece of origami, paper thin and flammable. The folds of her form becoming more defined with the loss of needed body fat. Skin pulled over her bones, leaving little room for internal organs. A body that has turned itself inside out. If she loses two more pounds her heart may beat on the outside of her chest. Her breasts have deflated like the might of her ego. A paper tiger that has been outwardly powerful and inwardly weak.
She stares at the shadow of her former self with contempt and disbelief. Her eyes are unable to focus on the woman peering back at her from the layers of green glass. That empty space between her true self and her present self is filled with too much truth.
Tabitha sneers at the image, curling the left side of her lip up in disgust. She slams a cold bony hand against the glass with an open palm; blocking out the image with fierce rebellion. Her eyes sting from the tears that she had shed the night before and her tear ducts are as empty as her will. She drops her head involuntarily with her palm sweating against the glass. She is crying, but there is no proof. Her swollen eyelids pinch with the unfulfilled promise of tears. She has become a veritable desert. Her hand slides down the mirror with a squeal, leaving a steamed outline to evaporate slowly against the misery of the moment. She walks away leaving only her fingerprints as evidence that she is still alive.
It is early morning and beams of sunlight squeeze through the tiny slits between the window shades. Dusty streams of yellow light suspended in the stillness between the window and the floor. A brutal light that burns when Tabitha stares directly at it. She cannot bear to welcome the day. Life has become a chore and yet her chores are not complete. The apartment has the vapid likeness of a tomb. Empty beer bottles, clothes and dirty dishes are strewn about the space, narrowing the breathing room like a clogged bronchial tube. This coffin has consumed her and she patiently waits for burial.
Tabitha sits at her dining room table, holding her head up with her shaking right hand. She mutters out loud, “Why am I alive? Vanessa was the good one. We have the same face, but she was worthy of life. I am nothing.” Her body begins to convulse with dry heaves. She would vomit, but there is nothing left to expel. She exhausted any scraps of nourishment days ago.
Beads of sweat gather on her forehead from withdrawal or hunger, she isn’t sure which. She lazily wipes her face with the back of her hand then reaches for the bottle of whiskey in front of her. The warm liquid bites at her tongue before slithering down her throat. Tabitha gags and coughs, spewing tiny droplets of bitter alcohol into the atmosphere. She takes another swig to stop the choking. The bottle of painkillers rattles in her hand. She looks down at it with a welcoming sigh. With her last remaining strength she pushes down on the plastic top and twists it open. The first five pills are swallowed with ease. The next thirty are aided in their journey by massive amounts of alcohol. She finishes the bottle with four huge gulps, then wipes her mouth with the heal of her thumb and grunts, “That should help.”
A knock at the door nearly sends Tabitha diving under the table, “What the…Who the fuck is that!” She collects her weary bones and clumsily assembles them into a vertical position, feeling entirely too far from the floor. The loose ends of yarn sticking up from the carpet swirl together like a furry nightmare. Tabitha holds on to the chair with one hand until she is able to support her own weight. She has already forgotten why she is standing when there is another knock. It is louder this time and Tabitha becomes agitated. She yells at the nothing beyond her parlor door, “Go away! You bastards won’t let me die in peace!”
The person on the other side begins to pound on the door relentlessly. Tabitha shuffles over to the peephole and tries to focus on the fuzzy outline of a person standing in the hallway, “Sky? Is that…”
Sky replies, “Yes, Tabby, it’s me. Please let me in. I’m worried about you!”
Tabitha turns the handle on the dead bolt and opens the door slowly. Sky pushes against the wood with one hand to stop Tabitha from slamming it shut again. She looks Tabitha over with pity and rage, “Where the hell have you been! You look like a walking skeleton and…Are you drunk?” Tabitha tilts her head at the question, “Maybe. Are you drunk?”
Sky shakes her head at the pitiful creature before her. The woman who used to be vibrant and full of life, now exists as a shadow, lurking in the furthest corners of civilization. Tabitha refuses to make eye contact, but Sky can see the infinite sorrow that rests there. The plains of Tabitha’s face are sharpened like broken flint at the edge of a deep ravine, splinters of a shattered spirit. Her bones nearly piercing the skin.
Sky feels regret for her initial anger and realizes that her friend is in dire need. She speaks to Tabitha in a stern, but caring tone, “Sit down Tabby. I’ll get you something to eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”
Sky returns from the kitchen with a plate of toast and jam, “Here honey, start small. Your stomach is probably the size of a peanut, but try to take a few bites.”
Tabitha is slumped over in the dining room chair with her head bent down to her knees. Her arms are limp at her sides. Suddenly, she lurches forward with unrestrained rage. Her pupils constricting to the size of pinholes. With her nostrils flaring out like a stampeding bull she punches the bottom of the plate with a closed fist, sending the toast three feet into the air. The glass plate spins in the center of the room and crashes against the television screen before shattering into a thousand pieces.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do! You’re not my fucking nanny. I want to die and you can’t stop me!”
Sky steps back in surprise and fear. She has never seen Tabitha behave in this way. She stands with both her hands stretched out in defense, “Okay Tabby, I’m just trying to help. I don’t want to be your nanny, but you look like hell! You are my best friend. I hate seeing you like this. Forget the food. Let’s just talk.”
Tabitha stands before Sky, her fists loosening as the anger slides from her body. She flops back into the chair like a water balloon. Her head bashing against the wooden back and bouncing forward again, “I’m sorry…I just don’t…I can’t. I’m sorry.” Tabitha’s eyes are a void of icy detachment.
Sky leans forward, “It’s okay. I get it, but you need some help my friend. Please tell me what’s going on. I’m begging you. Please, Tabby, please! I don’t want to bury you. I know that your sister is gone. I know that you feel guilty, but she’s been gone for seven months now. She wouldn’t want this for you. You are alive. You are meant to be here. She loved you. I love you. Please let me help.”
Tabitha’s head rolls to the side, her eyelids heavy with the onset of death. Sky’s face blurs into a smudge of mismatched features and her voice trails off to an unrecognizable mumble. Tabitha’s vision narrows to a small circle of light in a blackened tunnel. Her ears buzz with white noise. She blinks once. Everything goes dark.
Tabitha’s body crashes to the floor. She is face down on the red carpet, her limbs twisted in an unnatural position. Sky jumps out of her chair, “Tabby! Tabby! Oh God!” She drops to her knees in front of Tabitha’s lifeless body, her voice shaking with panic. “Can you hear me? Tabby, can you hear me?” She shakes the girl’s shoulder. There is no response. Tabitha’s eyes are rolled back. Drool is leaking from the corner of her mouth. Sky tries to turn her over. Tabitha’s foot hits the empty bottle of pills. Sky picks it up to read the label. “Oh shit! She swallowed the whole fucking bottle! Tabby? Tabby? Please wake up!” Sky slaps the girl’s face, hoping to bring her around. There is no response.
The phone rings twice before an operator answers, “911. What is your emergency?” Sky pauses for a second; the tears are welling in her eyes as she glares down at her best friend’s motionless body sprawled out on the floor. “Hello, what is your emergency?” Sky speaks in a voice that is foreign to her, “My friend…she took a bottle of…um, pills. I don’t know how many. She’s not moving…I…Please hurry! She can’t die. I…didn’t know. Please!”
The operator replies calmly, “Okay ma’am. I’m sending an ambulance. Try to stay calm. Do you know CPR?” Sky’s hands are trembling. She tries to remember. “Um, um…yes. I learned at the Red Cross in Buffalo about five years ago. I…don’t know if I remember.” The operator says, “Okay, first check for a pulse. Use your pointer and middle finger. Place them on the inside of your friend’s wrist, just under the thumb. Is there a pulse?” Sky holds her breath. Her fingers pressing on Tabitha’s vein, “Yes. It’s very faint. Holy Christ! I’m loosing her!”
“Now check for breath. Put your ear up to her mouth. Is she breathing?” Sky bends to Tabitha’s face, “Faintly. What should I do? Please hurry!”
“Start chest compression’s. Put both hands on her chest, just above her stomach. Press above the bump at the bottom of her ribcage. Press five times. Then give her a breath. Hold her nose with one hand, then put your mouth over hers.” The memory of her training suddenly came back to Sky, “Yes, I remember this part.” She drops the phone on the floor and begins CPR.
“Ma’am, are you there? The ambulance is outside.”
The beige wallpaper in the room is splattered with tiny pastel flowers. A big white couch rests against the far wall, and tall black metal lamps give off an eerie glow above Tabitha’s open casket.
Pictures of family, friends, and Tabitha’s childhood pets are lined up neatly against the lid next to her resting body. The spiritless remains are cradled within the silky lining of the box, as a new mother would hold a child. Hands folded at her waist. She is dressed in black pants, a light blue blouse and her favorite boots.
Mourner’s shuffle by, pausing to whisper brief prayers for the lost youth. Sky and Charlie kneel together in front of their friend. Sky is trying to hold back the tears as she kneads the lining of the casket with both hands, “I wish that I had known. I’ll miss you honey. Why didn’t you let me help?
Charlie puts her arm around Sky’s shoulder. “You did everything that you could. No one could have helped. We’ll all miss her.”
Tabitha’s eyes vault open from the disturbing dream. Her brow is covered in cool sweat, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She surveys the room only to find that she is not at home. Soft fluorescent light casts a pale yellow circle around her bed. The space is decorated in the same beige wallpaper from the nightmare. Voices of news reporters’ filter through small speakers at the bottom of the television bolted to the wall.
Tabitha attempts to speak, but there is something in her way. She reaches up to her mouth and finds a tube inserted into her throat. It burns like paint thinner in her esophagus. She tugs at the white plastic with as much strength as she can spare, but she is too weak.
Sky leans over the bed, “Tabby, you’re awake! Don’t try to talk. You have a plastic tube in your throat to help you breathe. Do you remember what happened?”
Tabitha tries to focus on Sky’s face. She nods her head slightly, “ugghu.”
“I called your mother. I’m sorry about that, but we didn’t think that you were going to make it. The doctors were asking me what you took. I had the empty bottle of pills from the floor, but I didn’t know what else was in your system. They found multiple chemicals in your blood. I didn’t know what else to do. Your mom thought that it would be best if you woke up to my face. You’ve been asleep for almost two days.” She gently caresses Tabby’s hair, spreading her fingers as she runs them through the sapphire blue strands. “It’s going to be okay. We all want to help baby. I’m here. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. I love you, you’re stuck. Sorry. I’ll call the nurse in to take that tube out for you. That has to be uncomfortable.”
Tabitha cannot look directly at her friend. Instead, she stares at Sky’s waist, eyes heavy from sleep, poison, and grief. She nods weakly as an admission of guilt and a granting of permission.
When Sky’s back is no longer visible, the weight of the situation settles on Tabitha’s bruised skeleton. Her mind is sluggish. Thoughts set up at the starting gate, but they hesitate when the pistol is fired. Reality migrates slowly as she struggles to comprehend this cluster fuck, “My mom…she is going to freak out. She should talk. She’s the one who taught me not to cry. Son of a bitch.” She lifts her right arm to cover her forehead, sheltering her burning eyes from assailing light. Fuck. My head feels like it has cracks in it.”
Carmen Troy always had a way of making an entrance. Tabitha must have inherited this trait from her mother. The woman is a whirlwind in both joy and in sorrow. Given the right audience she can be both, or neither. Her concerned face is covered in yesterday’s makeup, leaving black clumps of mascara smeared below her eyes from lack of sleep. “Oh honey! Are you okay? You scared us half to death. I was worried that I was going to lose my other daughter. I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you. I had twin girls. Please let me see one of them grow old. Whatever the problem is, we’ll fix it. I just love you so much.”
Tabitha turns her face away from her mother’s statements. Her head is pounding and the mention of her sister pierces through her skull like a rusty dagger. Agony is roaming the labyrinth of tunnels within her body. Being conflicted about emotions is nothing new, but separating physical pain from matters of the soul has always proven difficult for her. She cannot make the distinction, or a part of her chooses not to. The suffering is unbearable, regardless of where it is coming from.
A heavy middle aged nurse with boyish bobbed chestnut hair enters the room on the leaden feet of an overnight shift, creating a disapproving triangle by putting her hand on her oversized hip. “Well, we’re awake. Okay, let’s get that tube out. I think you’re well enough to breathe on your own now. What do you think? Blink once for yes, or twice for no.”
This is anything but amusing for Tabitha. A joke from a nurse after a suicide attempt, and the fact that she is asked to blink in response seems as meaningless as life itself. She blinks once from under the bridge of her arm, compliance with thorough contempt. She is far too exhausted to fight the opposition. It is difficult to box when both of your hands are broken. Fragments of her virtue fall away as the gruff woman yanks the plastic from between her aching tonsils, leaving a raw path to and from hell. “Ahghe.” A faint whisper that is an even fainter plea as it escapes. Her utterance is strained and bleeding with a hint of hostility. “Damn. Owwe.”
Nurse Nightmare strides out of the room as quickly as she had come in. The rubber bottoms of her sterile white orthopedic shoes squeaking beneath her bulk. “I’ll send the doctor in to talk to you Ms. Troy.” Her baritone rumble trails off somewhere between the door and the hallway.
Carmen looks down at her wounded daughter with a mix of compassion and exasperation. “Would you like something to drink? Your throat must be sore. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
The water burns as it slips past Tabitha’s gums. She sips slowly to regain her voice. Then puts the Styrofoam cup down on the table with a limp wristed gesture as she flops her throbbing head back on the pillow.
Doctor Shania Parise is explaining her diagnoses and treatment. “Ms. Troy, you are lucky. When you came in we weren’t sure if we could save you. We pumped your stomach, administered charcoal, flushed your system intravenously, and inserted that tube to support your airway. You may experience some discomfort for a few days. I cannot administer any pain medication due to the nature of your admittance. I have recommended that you remain hospitalized until we are able to determine your status. Arrangements have been made for your transfer to the psychiatric unit for observation and counseling. I understand that you may not welcome this transfer, but it is my legal obligation to do so. This is considered an involuntary check in. That means that your release is subject to the discretion of your psychiatrist. You will not be able to sign out on your own. It is our responsibility to ensure patient safety. This action is as much for you as it is for those around you. Let’s hope that you are on the road to recovery.”
Words meander in the air before falling flat on Tabitha’s ears. She looks at the doctor with a blankness that is uncharacteristic. Her resignation is astonishing to both her and her mother. “That’s probably a good idea. I’m not sure that I could go home right now.” Her voice has a quality of inferiority that is borderline pathetic. “I must be sick man. Did I just agree to this shit?” She tries to focus on her mother’s face with blurred vision. “Mom, will you bring me clothes and stuff whilst I’m in the nut barn? I would be much thankful if…” Her heavy eyelids draw closed, coaxing her back into the realm of sleep.
The psychiatric ward isn’t nearly as bad as Tabitha had imagined it. In fact, it is almost peaceful in a way. When the phone rings it isn’t ever her responsibility to answer it. The metal mesh on all of the windows prevents people from climbing out on a ledge, and stops outsiders from coming in. The food is tolerable if nothing else, and she is able to sleep for more than one hour at a time. Quiet tranquility in the evening hours must be the thing that’s doing the trick.
Although Tabitha is comfortable in this environment, she doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the inpatients. She doesn’t suffer from Schizophrenia, mania, psychosis, delusions, eating disorders, or any number of personality disorders. She is here for one reason and one reason only…suicide attempt as a result of acute post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). At least that’s what the technical psychology books say about her.
She meets her very own personal psychiatrist, Dr. Menelak, on the third day of her transfer to the ‘special’ floor. Her physical wounds have been attended to, and now it is time to straighten out the mess in her head. She wonders if this Dr. Menelak is the right man for the job.
The doctor enters Tabitha’s small private room. He looks like the type that wouldn’t understand Tabby’s sense of humor. He is a stern looking man, obviously well trained in the art of reading books about psychiatric disorders. A cautious fellow who is as straight laced as they come. His brown tweed sport coat and loose turtle neck give him an air of sophistication, not to mention makes a blatant statement of his superiority. That is dependent upon his actual and imagined rank. He sits across from Tabitha staring down at her file.
“Good morning, Ms. Troy. I’m Dr. Menelak. I’ll be your psychiatrist during your stay with us. How are you feeling this morning?” The doctor’s voice is as mellow as water in a brook.
Tabitha is curious as to how long this fellow trained himself to speak in such a hypnotic way. “A’right, I guess. How’s the world been treatin’ you? This job must be a pain in the ass sometimes. Quick question, doc?”
“Yes, Ms. Troy. What is it?” He is still flipping through the typed pages in front of him like he needs a quick review before passing his final judgment down the pike.
“When you talk to folks with multiple personalities, do you have to schedule appointments for each personality…or is it pretty much a package deal?” Tabitha knows that curiosity killed the cat, but sometimes she just can’t help herself. She knows that this question is completely preposterous. The doctor’s reaction to it will give her a better idea of who she is dealing with.
Dr. Menelak looks at Tabby over his silver eyeglass frames, giggling despite his fear of being inappropriate. “It depends upon how many there are, and how much I can charge each one for an hour session. I do have medical school loans to pay back after all.”
Perhaps this doctor isn’t as bad as Tabitha had initially thought. He seems to know how to deal with her on a level that doesn’t make her want to run away. This is a good thing. He knows immediately that this woman is more than capable of derailing a serious conversation with wit and undeniable charm. He also understands that she is emotionally ill, and not truly mentally ill. This gives him leeway to joke as necessary. He continues to speak before Tabitha gets on some monstrous comedic roll to distract him from his job. “I have read your file, and I have had conversations with your doctors and nurses. You came to us in a very serious condition. Would you like to tell me what events led to your stay here?”
“Sure thing, but I work on a give and take basis. Since I don’t know you very well, I’d like to know something about you first.” Tabby decides to test the water. What could it possibly hurt?
“What would you like to know?”
“Why psychiatry? Did you go to school to figure out your own problems, or are you a true humanitarian?”
“The honest answer is…a little of both. Not every psychiatrist will tell you that, but I expect a lot from you. So, your turn.”
The chair that Tabitha is sitting on suddenly becomes more uncomfortable. She crosses her legs to relieve the pressure from her bony butt against the unforgiving wood of her seat. “My identical twin sister, Vanessa, worked at the trade center. She died. They never found her body. Is that a good enough reason to flip your shit, or what?”
“I would say so, but you could have sought help sooner. Why didn’t you?”
Tabitha has to ponder this question. She knows that it is completely valid for him to ask it. She knows that her friends tried to help her through it all, but a snappy comeback eludes her. “Not sure…always solved my own probs. Know what I’m sayin’ Dr. M. Just a street kid from Brooklyn and all. I guess I thought I could chase the blues away by myself. Always worked before.”
“Have you ever been in counseling before?”
“When I was ten they sent my mother’s second husband to jail. The judge made me and Vanessa see a shrink for a spell. Everything was just peachy after that little cluster fuck. He went away for a long time. We moved to New York with our mom while he was caged up. Man, that was a long time ago.”
“What was your mother’s husband incarcerated for?”
“Oh, you know, molesting kids and what not. Totally uncool, but I’m sure he got his in prison. Even criminals have a code of ethics you know. Robbing someone to survive is a whole lot different than being a predator. No one likes a rapist. Except maybe those whacked out house wives in some remote place that send those freaks love letters and shit. What’s up with that anyway? I mean, in your professional opinion, what would possess someone to flirt with a convicted sex offender? Blows my mind when I stop to think about it.”
“When you say that this man was a child molester do you mean that he molested you when you were a child?”
Tabitha sighs. She knows that he knows that she knows that they are both talking about the same thing. She knows his game as well as he does.
“You and I both know that’s what I’m saying. Now that the background check is over, I’ll tell you about something a little more recent.” Her cheeks are beginning to burn with red anger at this hesitation in the progress of their conversation. She doesn’t feel like she is here because of her distant past. “Here’s the deal. I tell you about my love affair with booze and drugs. I’ll tell you about my crippling depression since my sister died. I’ll even admit that trying to take the cowards way out was the stupidest thing that I’ve ever done in my life. Just don’t try to blame this on some other shit, okay. I’m a survivor. My sister wasn’t. Did you lose anyone on September 11th, doc?”
“Yes, but not a relative of mine.”
“Interesting. I wonder if you’re avoiding the topic then. I’m ready to talk. If you’re not, maybe I should see someone else.” Tabitha’s tone of voice is anything but humorous. She is dead serious about this subject like she has never been serious about anything else in her life. She thinks that she will not make any progress with a doctor if he is in the same boat she is. After all, who in New York city was not impacted by the tragedy. Maybe the hospital would have to call in a staff of psychiatrists from other states, or even other countries in order to help the traumatized family members effectively.
“Does that make you angry, Tabitha? Are you angry with me, or are you just plain angry?”
“The whole fucking thing pisses me off! So many people died that day. I don’t even have the right to bitch about one in three thousand. At least I’m still breathing right? BULLSHIT! Those mother fuckers almost took me out too. How could I let some deranged fundamentalist lunatics kill both of us? How fucking stupid is that? I should win some kind of award for being such an asshole!”
“No, Tabitha. Those people that crashed those planes were terrorists. Scaring people into submission is what they try to do. It isn’t stupid that you feel this way. It isn’t stupid that you’re angry. A lot of people are angry.” The doctor’s voice is as calm as it was in the beginning of this conversation. He understands that Tabitha is suffering from severe trauma. This reaction is normal in survivors, but not all survivors with post traumatic stress disorder attempt suicide. It is his ultimate goal to help Tabitha discover what it is within her own mind that made her behave in the way that she did. It is his duty to help her on the road to recovery. This will take some time to accomplish. One session is not going to be sufficient.
“Sorry I got all spastic on ya there. Guess I’m all fucked up huh? Better clear yer schedule for a while.” Tabitha feels immediate regret for her outburst, but she has held these emotions in for so long that letting them out is pretty freeing for her. She is lying to herself if she says that she is not an emotional person. Now her emotions are completely out of control. They change from day to day, moment to moment.
“It’s perfectly acceptable for you to express your feelings here. I’m here to help you through this.”
“Yeah, mom always said I was a handful!”
Tabitha has been confined for almost two weeks now. The funny part about it is that she has become far more comfortable than she had ever imagined herself being. The process is strange for her. At first she hated every minute of it. She wanted to conjure some grand plan of escape. Then she became accustomed to the idea that this place was the safest place for her to be. Now she is making friends, and can’t imagine going back out into civilization. This must be how prisoners become institutionalized. The only thing that Tabby really misses is smoking. There is absolutely no smoking allowed anywhere in the hospital, not even on the caged in porch.
On Monday morning nurse Karen strolls into Tabby’s room to fling open the curtains. “Time to get up. Vitals in five minutes. Breakfast in ten. I let you sleep in this morning. No excuses. I will dump you out that bed missy. Don’t make me do it.”
Tabitha opens one eye and grunts her displeasure at the idea of disturbing her slumber. “You always been so damn chipper in the morning, Karen?”
“Mamma always told me that sleeping when the sun’s out is like ice skating in July. She tossed my sorry rump out of bed more n once. You can believe that!”
“Geeze. You grow up on a farm or something?”
“No baby, the jungle. If you want to jump out the ghetto you gotta get up ‘for the lions. Shoot.”
“I heard that. What’s the mystery grub today?”
“Turkey turds n rain water. Just like Christmas. Saved you a seat up front so you can watch ‘ol Phil eat with his hands. Never seen a man eat like that.”
Tabitha swings her legs over the edge of the plastic mattress and puts her bare feet on the cold linoleum floor. “ Why do they check our vital signs every morning? I’m pretty sure my heart’s still beating.”
Karen puts her hand on her hip. “Why must you question everything. I swear you’re like a lil kid sometimes. If I told you the Earth was round, you’d hafta ax me why it idn’t square. Mmmm…never mind the inquisition. Just get your tail up outta that bed. I’ll see ya in the dining room.” Karen shakes her head as she walks out of Tabitha’s room, muttering something under her breath. No doubt it is some disparaging comment about Tabby’s narrow white butt resisting every step of the way.
“Yup, must be Monday. Karen’s bloomers are in a knot every Monday.” Tabitha takes a leak and brushes her teeth before throwing on her fetching blue linen hospital pants and green foam slippers. She looks down at the smiley faces staring back at her from the top of those slippers. “Are these little fellas supposed to make us nut cases feel better?” She realizes that she’s either talking to herself, or to the foam covering her toes and decides that she better stop that before the doctors prescribe a new pill to take every day.
Three new faces are seated at the dinning table for breakfast. They must have come in over night. Tabitha remembers that feeling well. That good old adjustment period in which a person looses all sense of their own surroundings. There’s nothing quite like disorientation immediately following your orientation. The ‘newlings’ give away their discomfort by way of transparent body posture.
Tabitha loves meeting new people. She is naturally the first freak to extend a friendly handshake to the pale girl with corn rows lining her head. “Welcome to the mystical cage of psychoanalysis. My name is Tabby, I’ll be your tour guide today. To your immediate right you’ll notice the lavish home of Mr. George Washington. To your left is a gentleman that is not the savior, but believes sincerely that he is Jesus Christ. Exits are here, here, here, and here. Unfortunately, you cannot use any of them.”
The girl glares at Tabitha in a manner that is only acceptable for surly disgruntled teenagers. Her face tells a story that is older than her physical form, and her lips are sealed shut in a permanent scowl aimed directly at the well meaning comedian. She manages to tell Tabby to fuck off without ever moving her mouth. It’s like some form of telekinetic ventriloquism. Again, an art reserved for the very young. If adults showed the world every emotion with facial expressions the unemployment rate would increase ten fold every day.
Breakfast is fairly uneventful until nurse Karen strolls in to deliver a message to Tabitha. “Tabby, you got a meeten in the lounge. Some people are here to see you ‘bout breaken outta here.”
Tabitha doesn’t recall hearing anything about any such meeting. She looks up at Karen in surprise. “Huh? Well, if it’s about breaking out I better start looking sane. These foam smiley face slippers don’t help my case, just in case you were wondering.”
“I’m gonna miss you. Lord help me, I have no idea why! Just don’t furget t say good bye ‘for the door hits you in yer narrow butt. You hear me girl?”
“Loud n clear, mine capitain!” Tabitha walks her empty breakfast tray over to the proper receptacle and shuffles across the hall to the lounge in her foam pick-me-ups.
Doctor Menelak is siting in the middle of a half circle with two other doctors and Tabitha’s mother. The very arrangement of this tribunal is enough to make any rat scramble for the nearest hole in the wall. Tabitha would like to think that she isn’t any other rat, but when it comes down to it, this little judgment day stresses her out instantly. She wonders what this panel is going to ask her after they instruct her to close the door behind her. Trapped in a room with all of the precise people that she would rather not talk to right now. Trapped and observed just like all the other rats in the maze. If only she could find that fucking piece of crusty cheese so they would all let her out of the laboratory before genetically splicing a human ear onto her back. She wonders if she will be able to answer all of the right questions, to say what they want her to, and do it all without making her mother cry. Predicaments come and go. This predicament is substantially problematic. Dancing has never been Tabitha’s favorite activity while performing.
“What’s up doc?” Tabitha is sure to put that certain spring in her step to make her appear less uncomfortable. That might not be the right thing to say, but after two weeks of sewing leather wallets, gluing little colored tiles into mosaics on hot plates, and playing basketball in a padded gymnasium she just might be crazier than she was when she got there. “This vacation has been nice, but I think I’m ready to skip on outta here folks. I miss my cat, my bass, my life. To be honest, I’m a little tired of viewing the world through tiny holes in metal mesh. Distorts the picture you know?” She sits down in front of the opposition in a casual position. Her position is strong, for what its worth.
All in all the trial goes exceedingly well. Freedom is granted to the caged bird, and Tabitha is free to fly back in the ceiling fan of her own existence unhindered by frigid winter winds. Spring is a fantastic lover to greet after an extended depression hibernation. The timing itself could not be more punctual, as if mother nature is in devilish cahoots with human evolution. Cycles of freedom and confinement seem to have a life of their own at times. One might be inclined to say that everything has a purpose for you when you have lost sight of all purpose for yourself. Natures way of telling us talking primates that we truly have little control in the midst of her magic wand.
The month of April is ironically the month of Aries. It is a conundrum as much as it is a contest, delightful to the subconscious among all consciences. The stars have aligned themselves in such a way to coincide with the season’s transition in the most subtly obvious way. Spring, the mistress of earthly delights is no doubt inclined to a fire sign. It all makes perfect sense if one takes enough time away from petty thoughts to enjoy the amusing mimicry of nature.
Our dear friend April is the sign most beautiful to gaze upon, but if one wonders too closely to her delights she may be inclined to administer a slight burn, marking the recipient with a distinctive blush. None the less, she is a true friend if undisturbed as she goes about her business. For April cares not for any disruptions in her carefully scheduled routine. As with all beautiful creatures, April is routine and upon occasion…quite moody.
Freedom granted to Tabitha is a grace given by the one and only April. It is clear to the punk rocker that she is to appreciate this beauty from afar, and it is in her best interest not to question the reasons that April has granted her mercy. Acceptance is the illusive piece of the human puzzle. As Tabitha is accustomed to questioning the reasons for rhetorical questions, she is just as accustomed to leaving well enough alone. Acceptance of her own fate, feebleness, weaknesses, and stubbornness is the first step as her boot laden foot meets the pavement beyond the hospital’s door.
As a prisoner escapes from Plato’s Allegory of the cave, Tabitha emerges into the burning sunlight to discover all the world she had been denied for so long. Now she realizes that her bounds and wounds have been of her own doing. Her hands were never bound, and she had the ability to escape at any time. However, April had the final word. With this she granted the awakening of Tabitha. The moment that the girl should realize that the power of discovery had always been granted to her. With that first step back into the hustle and bustle of society, Tabitha vows to make great changes that do not serve just her own selfish purposes. She is not alone in suffering, nor in joy. Both of these things are shared among so many, and since she has shared in suffering with so many others, she promises to do the same with all of her joy. As if in this moment her heart opens doors with a slight suggestion rather than brute force. The sun is exceptionally bright today.
“It must truly suck to be a black cat in the summer. What do you think my little Spikey poo?” Tabitha looks down at her raven pet as if he is inclined to respond. The cat peers back up at his fellow feline with little regard for what she is saying. Spike is far more interested in the food that Tabby is holding just out of his reach. This much is obvious as he raises his upper body to snatch the contents of his fortune in moist ash .
“That’s what I dig about you Spike old bean. You and I are two of a kind. You don’t seem to care about the things that you have no power to change, but I’ll tell you what…I have made a decision. Don’t tell anyone yet. It’s a secret. I’m going to college!”
Unfortunately, Spike is not the type to express his exceeding joy for a member of his pride, but Tabitha would like to imagine that it is there. Her dreams have to benefit someone other than herself. This is the first worthy decision that she has made in recent days. Someone has to understand the magnitude of it, but perhaps she is overestimating the reasoning powers of a cat. She decides that a creature with the ability to speak may be a better audience.
Something has to bring joy into Tabitha’s new life. She is no longer satisfied with the hum drum of the usual in her life. This new lease that she has signed with sobriety demands that she follow through with self-improvement. She also decides that her dearly departed sister had some excellent points relating to the abilities that Tabitha was unaware that she possessed.
During Tabitha’s brief vacation from the land of the wandering insane, she had some time to ponder her own desires. Something had to be done about her ‘go nowhere’ lifestyle. She sat and thought during her confinement, as there was little else to do. She thought about what she could possibly list on a resume were she to apply for gainful employment that does not involve frying or cleaning anything. She had time to dig deep into her own wishes to realize what she wanted to be when she grew up. It occurred to her that she may be able to combine her skills into an occupation that suited her passions and her personality. “I’m gonna be a music teacher!” Tabitha exclaims to the four walls around her and a black cat as he crosses her path.
Everything happens for a reason, or so she has heard it said that way. The fact that the one year anniversary of her sister’s death is closing in just might have everything to do with her inherent need for joyful distractions. It is not that she is completely healed from the ordeal, or that she is trying to avoid something. These actions were reserved for her expired life, which lives now only in the distant past.
Charlie holds close to Sky as they share a common reclining lawn chair on the porch protruding from their apartment. A rainy Saturday afternoon is best spent in the company of comfort. Droplets of recycled water produce a calming effect upon lovers with no particular place to be. These moments are all the more precious these days. An appreciation exists for time on Earth, where in the past each moment lacked value because both parties spent each precious tick of the clock concerned only with what they would do in the next. Love nests here in this sanctuary created mutually by two content souls.
Sky sighs a faint breath against the humidity of July air as she rest her face against her lover’s shoulder. “What a gorgeous day.”
Charlie caresses the short hair of her lover's resting head. “Gorgeous huh?”
“Yeah, baby. There’s nothing more beautiful than a day that lets us slow down a bit. I love the rain, don’t you?”
“I do now, Sky. When you put it that way…how could I not?.” Charlie kisses the girls forehead in constant amazement of Sky’s subtle observations about the world.
When the phone rings from inside the apartment Sky and Charlie look at each other in silent conflict over who is willing to give up their cozy spot to answer it.
Sky is the first to move, condemning her to the unpleasant duty. “Don’t move. I’ll get it.” She laughs at the fact that she just lost a silent argument.
Sky picks up the phone with a sigh. “Hello.”
Tabitha’s exuberance is stunning to the party on the other end of the line. “Hey there me gal! I just had to give you a quick ringy dingy to tell you some super cool news. I’m all a twitter and whatnot.”
“This must be good! I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that you were all a twitter before. By the way, when did you become English?”
“Not of the utmost concern, my little dollop of mashie peas. Bubbles and squeak are the least of my feasts these days, for I have bigger fish to fry as it were.”
“Okay, what’s the news then?”
“I’m enrolled in college for the fall! Can you see me teaching a bunch of high school freaks to appreciate the delicate cords of a musical instrument?”
Sky is amazed at this revelation as it had never occurred to her that this type of work has always been perfect for Tabby. “Excellent. I can see you doing just about anything where you’re able to entertain the masses in your quirky way. That is great news, honey. I know you’ll be great at it!”
“I suppose Vanessa would be content with this arrangement…”
“Yeah. I think she is, Tabby.”
Tabitha’s graduation is the best day of her life. It took her four long years to earn the privilege of standing on that stage to receive her Bachelors degree. She knows that there are many miles of road left to travel, but it all seems possible. She is halfway there and that is further than she has ever been before. Her eyes fill with warm tears as she sits through the ceremony, reflecting on all the things that have poll vaulted her into the arms of personal success. She realizes at this instant that success is not measured by what one has to show, but by what one has learned.
Carmen is practically bleeding pride all over the fabric seat in the auditorium. She sees her daughter for what she is, in whole, for the first time. The loss of Vanessa broke the pair of daughters that she had, but now it is as if the twins compliment each other. It is only now that Carmen is able to observe each daughter as an individual, knowing now that they always were.
Sky and Charlie are sitting along side Tabitha’s mother, sharing her joy with as much, if not more jubilation. The cameras are readied as the alphabetical list of graduates reaches closer to Tabitha’s big moment.
The woman on the stage voices recognition. “Tabitha Troy.”
All of Tabitha’s coordination escapes her, almost causing her the displeasure of not being able to stand. Her thoughts are frozen in the moment. Two minutes will be the conclusion of four years spent toiling in studies. Which by the way, she excelled at. Her GPA at the end of this short career was nothing short of a 3.8. She was as surprised as everyone else because according to her high school record all would assume her to be the greatest of underachievers. She has proven something today. That is the point at which she swells with pride. The tears have no hope of being detained.
Tabitha approaches the stairs to the stage by instinct alone. Due to the blurring of her vision she cannot see a thing in perfect clarity, that is, except for the success she can credit herself.
Time proves that Tabitha’s success as a music teacher is not the only success among the pack of friends spread out across the New York miles.
As for the Buffalo crowd, Aimee is in the process of completing her doctorate as a psychologist. Yvonne combined her talents as an artist with her love of children to become an illustrator of children’s books, and currently resides in Ithaca with her Baptist husband and their two young (Jewish) daughters. Scott is assistant director of the arts commission for the city of Buffalo. He too lives in comfort with his wife and their two- year-old son William. Monica is currently in a great relationship with her long-term girlfriend, Camille. They live in Amherst, and Monica opened her own hair salon after obtaining a business degree two years ago.
The success in New York City has also been abundant. Gary and Omran still live together in Chelsea. Gary is a manager at his New Jersey drug company, and Omran is a dentist at a hospital in Brooklyn. He works for the less fortunate by providing his services to inner city children that have no dental insurance.
Shontai is a librarian at Hunter college. She continues to act in the political arena and she still sings in a band. Smew discovered that being lazy could prove beneficial. The one idea that he had in his life earned him a patent on his first invention. He created new revolution in chair comfort with foam, plastic, and gel. This little invention pays him handsomely whilst he sits around collecting the profits.
Penny married Will in August of 2003. The couple lives in Long Island with their nine-month-old son David and their four-year-old daughter Sierra. Penny still has not tired of the ‘giving old Harry a bath’ joke. It cracks her up to this day.
All of the above made the trip to attend the wedding of Lenore Charles and Sky Madison in September 2004. Also in attendance were Charlie’s parents and Sky’s family.
In the year 2005 Sky completes the final line of her second novel Two Sisters of New York.
The End.