The Wastepaper Basket

In many ways I think my true life goal is to weasel my way so deeply into someone’s life that I am indispensable. I had to google this to find the exact word I wanted; indispensable. I think I’m actually getting stupider the last few years. This sort of thing has been happening more and more often. But though I forgot the word, I knew the feeling well. Of course I will always be making things, art, little songs for myself, 3 part novels, pastries, and blanket forts. I will always create, connect, craft. Making memories, friends, what is being human without these? Making friends is a guarantee in my little life, but I am not the constant watch and worry…

My great-grandmother has been dead for– oh, I’m not even sure. Maybe six or seven years now. Alzheimers had a grip on her since my very very young years, so there’s very little memory that’s not clouded by that misty hand. I can tell you that she is the most beautiful ghost– of course everyone gets reverence after they pass on, but Ruth– (and I’ll confess, I haven’t changed her name here. Ruth gets to stay Ruth. An honour earned, among many others) ruth has reverence, but she has something else that I’d like when it’s my turn. Even though her name is rarely spoken anymore, she still gets a seat at the table. There are fingerprints and echoes of her, in stories and recipes, holiday memories. Photographs of her likeness are gently touched, like icons held in some safe and secret parts of the home. Even now, there is something of her still present.

Do you ever have the feeling that no one has ever really looked you in the eye? I have the awful habit of fantasising someone or other showering me with pity. I weave this not-so-secret wish into my novels, and blatantly talk about it in these writings. I’m self aware enough to be a little ashamed of this self-absorbed, self victimizing hunger, but I also surprise myself when I;m finally granted that little moment of genuine pity. As often as I fetishized the idea of someone “really seeing me,” I absolutely brush away any crumbs of sympathy that come my way. I can admit this now, but I squirmed whenever my therapist worried about me. I’ve made a therapist cry before, not on purpose.  But that’s the nature of dreams; you craft pictures so perfect that reality taints it by by coming so close to what you wanted. It’s better to ignore the real thing until it matches your expectations.

I’ve told the london family that i’ll be leaving early, 3 weeks early, to be exact. One week of pre-christmas childcare, then i’ll only have to be with them for 2 weeks after they get back from their holiday. I’ve been trying to stop fantasizing about leaving in the middle of the night, the end is so close and tangible. There are just so many THINGS that i’ve collected, i would be a shame to abandon them just because of a nervous breakdown. The eldest has begun really attacking me now, in worsening degrees. Last week she came at me with a tricycle, chasing me around the kitchen Jack Nicholson-style. I had to warn her mum that if there’s a repeat performance, I’ll be packing my bags. Gia hasn’t stopped hitting me, but she’s ceased to use weapons. I’m glad I stood up for myself, but I know even if I did get beaten up like this again… my roller blades cost a lot. And my mother mailed me an advent calendar, a german one, with toy dinosaurs instead of chocolate. Plus I’ve brought that glass fish ornament, my first personal christmas ornament, from the shop in Wales. I don’t have a christmas tree, but I thought it would be nice to buy my first ornament for the future. It’s a victorian-looking thing, and I can’t wait to use it. It would be a shame to flee and leave these behind.

Mariah and I have a plan, hopefully for next Christmas. We both know our family isn’t really attached- rooted- like it should be. Someday the family will be in a place where this can be openly admitted, but at the moment we’re so dysfunctional that it’s like this great big secret between Mariah and I. Mariah and I alone make a more complete family than all the siblings, grandparents, aunts and cousins combined. And it’s not so bad– it would be worse if there were absolutely no family connections at all. Last Christmas, when Dove was very sick, it looked like Mariah and I would be left alone on Christmas day. Our parents went from room to room, whispering, then raising voices, debating whether they would cancel Christmas  to drive the four hours to sit beside Dove’s hospital bed. Mariah and I were huddled in a corner, waiting for the verdict, when they decided to hop in the car and make the trek. Not much was said– the two of us sort of just glanced around, obviously nervous about Dove, but staring at the christmas tree, wrapped presents, stockings hung with care and such. It was less than an hour later when the phone rang; Mom, telling us that Dove had called and told them not to come. Dove said they would be fine, they didn’t want to be fussed over. Mariah and I heard this, and stared at each other before hanging up. It was she that spoke first-

“You know, she said, in confidential longing. I knew it before it left her lips. “I was sort of hoping it would just be us for Christmas.”

I smiled at her. “Yeah,” was all I could reply. “Someday-” but I bit my tongue. Was it so awful to plan for melancholy? “Next christmas we should have one together.” I said.

She looked at me curiously. “I mean it,” I said. “Even if the family does still get together, you and I should find a way to have our own christmas.” The glow that shone form her beautiful face is one that I still try to recreate. If I could make her that happy every day, i would. “Who knows,” I shrugged, “i could make it to england and you could fly over and see me.” It seemed possible, but stupid then. One year later, I’m in london, Mariah with our parents. She’s being toted along to a trip to our grandparents in Florida. Dove is visiting for a day, despite the recent upheavals. They hate everyone more than ever now. Isaas promised them they wouldn’t have to sleep over at our parents. My mother was baffled by this negotiation, and still is. Her confusion aches in my chest. Mariah keeps calling, sometimes twice a day, and I check to see how she feels about travelling by car to Florida, just her and our parents. “They’ve gotten worse,” she told me last night. Her voice crackles, not only from the miles and miles of distance between London and Missouri. “They can’t go ten minutes without arguing.”

It seems hopelessly naive now, but yet again, I swear to myself that next Christmas, Mariah and I will be together- even if it means flying to the states and sleeping in what’s now my father’s office. Since my return is earlier than expected, the walls will still be bubblegum pink. Mariah will be back at school, and with luck, I’ll pick up my old retail job. “I’ll see you on weekends” is the name of the bandaid Mariah and I slap on this near reality. If we had been twins I would have lugged her around on my travels, but as her older, flakier, confused sister, I can only sketch out plans to hang a fish ornament on a tree I’ll buy for the two of us. Today, at this moment, I can’t tell you where the tree is going to be. But everything is a home when Mariah is around.

We talk a lot about buying a cottage by the sea, but the seashore is currently undecided, and the money to buy it is non-existent. I think even if this never happens, and the gulf of ocean continues to keep us apart, the idea itself won’t be a waste. There’s no telling when I’m going to pass, or if I will have collected my own family to miss me. But I’m sure if I go, Mariah is going to make sure that my ghost is beautiful. That’s a tender enough thought to keep me going.