The Optimist

by Sophie Kipner

  It was so obvious that she was the most luminous of lights for miles, but I could tell she was starting to see it fade. Instead of calming down and decelerating, though, she sped up, as if to counteract it, but it only depleted her more in the end. The thought of not being as dazzling as she’d always been terrified her, so she held on to Rainbow Dan’s magic carpet as tightly as she could. I supposed his attention and the hope of what it could become sustained her for as long as he gave it.

  ‘Are you in love?’ I asked, hoping to mistake the nervousness that made her hover for the effervescent effect of love, but the phone rang before I got an answer and she was distracted, coiled around his voice like the cord wrapped around her finger. But that was how she loved now; she loved in frenzy.

  Every day for a week, Rainbow Dan the deliveryman would show up on my sinuous street in the canyon with no shoes on and those aptly fit multi-colored pants, a loosely buttoned shirt and untamed hair, holding a pizza. No one knew if he had a home, which probably added to his mystery. He literally came every day, so that by the end of the week, pepperoni had taken on a new meaning. My mother, he told me, was addict­ive. She was that powerful.

  ‘You have two choices in life,’ he said as he passed me the box at our front door. ‘You can be a sheep, or you can be a lion.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ he said, throwing his head back in a surfer head jerk: think Keanu Reeves. ‘I’m a lion prophet. I’m a radical fucking lion.’ I already thought his shirt was pretty much unbuttoned but in one shocking move he tore the remaining fastened buttons apart and revealed a giant lion tattoo on his ribcage.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. Okay. It was all making sense now. That’s when Rainbow Dan reached his dirty hand out and touched my shoulder and stared at me with his stoned blue eyes.

  ‘Your mom?’ he added. ‘She’s a lion.’

  It all sounded like more of a bedtime story than what was usually read to me, so when I went to bed that night, I thought about what the prophet lion Rainbow Dan had told me. I realized we were part of a pride. I realized that it was okay if sheep don’t like me because, heck, are sheep ever going to like lions? No. Lions don’t care what sheep think because they are lions. Being a lion means taking risks, making things happen. Lionesses don’t wait for lions to show interest. They sprint and they leap and they pounce onto other lions because they’re confident and sexy and powerful. That’s how we fall in love.

  I gave Rainbow Dan a high five with my right hand because my left was still holding the pizza. I didn’t even care if it was pepperoni again; I had a craving for meat. Finally, someone knew what we were. I was going to go out there and own it. I was going to tear the shit out of love and it was going to be exactly what I’d been waiting for. Fuck fading. Screw settling: explosive love prevails! But after Rainbow Dan delivered his last pizza, about seven glorious days later, it became clear that I was back to the beginning: disillusionment had once again broken my mother. We didn’t understand how someone could, at one moment, see her as a lion, but at the next let her go. Some lions, I guessed, were just too wild to hold on to. Maybe it was her skittishness.

  Her massively romantic heart had slowed its beating, once again. She’d lived her life so fully that she hadn’t anticipated it wouldn’t work out for her in the end, and the encroaching banality of a life left alone had attached itself to her. I was surrounded by women, not just my sister and mother but seemingly everyone, single or taken, who had forgotten what they were looking for. They had lost their hope of butterflies because too many people had told them they weren’t real, and if they were, they certainly weren’t sustainable. I couldn’t possibly bear the thought of us settling though, because, well, look at my parents: when you settle, you can still fail.

  Dorothy Parker’s words were cutting at us, line by line, and I could see my mom couldn’t stomach the thought that they might be true. She lived by them, but like an atheist who begins to pray when everything is going downhill, she secretly clung to the possibility that Dorothy’s truths were fallible. I think deep down she’d just pretended to disbelieve in love, to be hard and aloof, because the way her eyes lit up with any new prospect indicated her hope was still kicking; it’s just that her recovery period was steadily expanding. I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d soon lose her.

  It wasn’t just my mother I was trying to save. It was everyone who’d become jaded. The only ones I knew who weren’t emotionally spent and stripped were at my grandma’s care home, but they all had dementia so no one would take any notice to what they had to say. One at a time, I would save women and the day would come when we’d all be drinking around a fireplace, laughing with full hearts and our dream men.

  Like fixing a symptom in lieu of the cause, I knew that before I could save everyone, I’d have to start with my mother. She was the first domino. And, if Brenda saw that Mom could find love, then she would believe she could, too, and it would start a domino effect, filtering all the way down to Mary. All I needed to do was show my mom that the best wasn’t over, that there were other men after my dad who could love her the way she’d always wanted to be loved before her teetering over the edge landed her at the bottom of the well.

  The biggest problem was that my mother and sister weren’t as optimistic as they needed to be; they didn’t try hard enough. They were still lions, like I was, but they couldn’t see it anymore. They weren’t near enough mirrors to see the reflections I did. That’s why I was going to do it where they couldn’t. My self-assuredness, my self-awareness, my un-yielding tenacity, my ability to self-reflect, the fact that I didn’t have dementia, that’s what made me the only one fit for the job.

  And it’s not that I hadn’t already been trying to help my mom. I mean, year after year, I tried. I spent most of my life pumping her up, helping her bounce back and stay optimistic while I was on my own separate path to finding love, because, well, I’d been searching all that time, too. I was busy collecting my own stories. But then I realized those two objectives were actually one and the same. All my years of encouragement didn’t seem to be enough, so as we all know that actions speak louder than words, I set out to accomplish my goal of saving my mother by finding love myself. Realizing that her happiness depended on my personal success, not only my encouragement, made my search for love the more fervent. It would be the only way she’d pay attention.

  I was okay with being the Braveheart; I knew the rest would fall into place. And when I thought about it, finding love didn’t seem too intangible a goal – there were billions of people to choose from.

  Turns out, it’s difficult to find even one. As each year passes, and as my mother’s hope slips away from her like she slipped off that magic carpet ride, I try even harder. The stars and the moon and that sky, how they know I’ve talked to them, how I’ve prayed. But, without much result and now at the pivotal age of thirty (an undeniable adult), I must become even more creative than I already have been. I must employ new tactics to look back at what went wrong in the past and integrate those lessons into my strategy going forward. And I better try really damn hard, because at this tipping point, it’s our last shot.

  It will work out, though; I’m an optimist.

  The Organist

  The first step in achieving my goal, naturally, is to get a closer look at myself. To take note of the current situation so I have an accurate baseline from which to judge improvement and success. But when I do, I notice too much. The lines around my eyes are pronounced now as I scrutinize them in the mirror. Maybe that’s why my mother and sister don’t look at their reflection anymore.

  The wattage of the light bulb in my bathroom is too high; the light is too light and it makes this small square feel like an interrogation room. I’m under this bright light but no one is watching, no one is surveilling, and it makes me sad. I’d rather be watched, I decide, and wonder if someone is on the other side of the mirror . . . a group of detectives, possibly, or a tro
upe of medical students studying me because I am the most interesting case they have ever seen. They are trying to understand how I remain so optimistic in the face of adversity. They wonder how I’ve had no luck in love to date because I’m so fascinating. I watch as my pupils widen and shrink back into themselves, the brown lining the green in varying measure as that said optimism rises and falls with my lungs. My gaze drops to the sides of my temples as I scan the rest of my face. I can’t count all the freckles; there are too many.

  The shape of my face is the same as it’s always been, except the balls in my cheeks have widened, giving me a round look. They used to think, in the old days, that a round face was one of beauty and health. It meant you could afford to eat, that you were rich and could indulge.

  Plump faces were also a sign of youth as the aged faces would sag and hollow. If I were alive one hundred and fifty years ago, I’d be a catch. Today, I’m just fat. My hair falls limply over my ears and down my back and it tickles me when I move. Sometimes it makes me laugh out loud, and I wonder if I’m being teased by an affectionate ghost. Then I wonder if my best lover will be this ghost.

  Speaking of ghosts, when I was five years old, my best friend was a ghost. She was an organist and her name was Heralda.

  Let’s just start from the beginning.

  Every night I’d wake up at 1 a.m., to the sounds of her playing the organ in my living room. She’d sing and play as I’d dance and we would just sip martinis together, bopping heads. I was too young to drink but that’s the benefit of having ghosts as friends. The pretend was real. I’d say, ‘Give me a twist, babe,’ and she’d hand me a double martini with a lemon twist while I’d do the dance move toward her. Our favorite song to sing was ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair’. Sometimes I’d wonder where the liquid would go because she was a spirit herself.

  She usually was quite up, quite bubbly. But one night, if I recall correctly, I noticed something was off. She was clumsier than usual; her chords were slipping.

  ‘Heralda,’ I said, exaggerating the emphasis on the A. ‘Too much Absolut?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, her spirit coy. Below Heralda a puddle of vodka collected at her heels. Her tolerance was uncharacteristically low. ‘I’m having a harder time than usual feeling the organ.’

  I wasn’t sure if she was using the word ‘feeling’ to mean ‘vibing with’ or because she literally couldn’t feel the keys. She just sat facing the organ with slouched shoulders. If she had bones, she’d have scoliosis. She was so sad it was annoying. I had to do something to help her; she needed real love. Everyone deserves it, even ghosts.

  ‘I’m taking you out,’ I announced.

  ‘What’s the point?’ she said, gloomily. ‘No one is going to notice me.’

  ‘I see you, Heralda! You may be transparent but I know a ton of men who would love a woman they could see through.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Most women are complicated! Are you picking up what I’m laying down?’

  She nodded, although unsure.

  ‘Wait,’ I added. ‘Can you actually pick up what I’m laying down?’

  I had been tearing up pieces of toilet paper in my hands throughout this entire conversation and letting them fall to the floor absentmindedly.

  ‘I’ve been playing your organ, haven’t I?’ And that lip? That was so Heralda. She’s the one who taught me about sass. My mother was witty; Heralda was sassy. In a perfect world, I embodied both because sass without wit is narcissism.

  ‘How is it that you’re able to play instruments or drink ­martinis when you have no body?’

  ‘It’s an energy thing. I can harness it, move things with it. And the alcohol, well that just evaporates after I digest it.’ She gave me a wink, ignoring the puddle below her. ‘Still does the trick though!’ Her ghost shape wobbled around the room in between short bursts of heel-hitting jumping.

  This would make finding her a man a whole lot easier than I had initially thought.

  ‘So what age are you looking for?’ I asked. ‘You must be what, one hundred and fifty years old?’

  ‘Try four hundred,’ she said, impressed with herself. ‘I ex­­foliate.’

  Of course I couldn’t really take her to a bar, because, well, I was five. But the best thing about Heralda was her imagination, so we’d pretend we were going and somehow we were there. When we got to the bar, which was in my kitchen, Heralda was very pleased to have her ID checked. I told her it must be because of that amazing exfoliator. I peered over the bar toward a heavyset bartender with a forest of chest hair sprouting from his shirt. His voice was dry and deep.

  Heralda searched the room with nervous eyes. ‘I’m having a hard time connecting with anyone,’ she whispered to me.

  ‘We just got here!’ I said. ‘You haven’t even tried! Jeez, have some patience!’ I looked around and spotted someone. ‘Okay, what about him?’ I pointed to the bald downtrodden pessimist slumped in the corner. He was balancing a rocks glass brimming with whiskey on his beer belly. It trembled precariously on his fat with the shaky-legged confidence of a hang glider looking over the edge of a cliff before the imminent jump.

  He seemed like a good romantic candidate because he obviously didn’t care about looks, but I was perplexed as to how this introduction would work. She could see him but he couldn’t see her. So I took her into the bathroom and mum­mified her in toilet paper. She had trouble walking but at least it showed her shape (men love to see some shape). She walked stiffly toward the roly-poly man at the bar and, with my encouragement, attempted to get onto the barstool. It took her a while to find the right angle because the toilet paper kept ripping. Her movements were so unsmooth. It was embarrassing to watch but I just kept smiling and waving to show I was right there, behind her with invisible bells on as her supportive wing woman.

  A cloak of equanimity fell over her as she settled next to Mr. Beer Belly in her seat. I could tell from the way the paper relaxed she was calm and confident. He turned to her and looked her up and down, not quite sure what to make of her outfit.

  ‘Are you a ghost?’ he asked Heralda, quite casually.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. When she spoke, he could hear her but could only see the ripples her breath would make on the thin paper around her mouth.

  ‘I have been fucking holes in toilet paper since I was a little kid,’ he said. ‘You’re like my dream girl.’

  Heralda almost fell off the stool. It made me so happy to see. Finally, she’d met someone who didn’t just think she was okay, or good enough. She wasn’t a ‘you’ll do.’ To him, she was perfect. It felt so good to help her, to help them both.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Tommy.’ He reached out his hand to her hollow paper and held it gently so as to not alter the shape. ‘My mama always told me the best things in life are the things you can’t see.’

  He motioned for her to leave with him, and she slid off the seat with considerable ease. She hobbled over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek goodbye. It took her about ten minutes to walk over to me because she had to take so many little steps. I almost lost my patience but she finally was out of the house and had a chance at love, so I bit my lip and waited. When she eventually got to me, I said, ‘Have fun! Remember to be safe. Wear a condom.’

  ‘Jesus, Tabitha!’ she said, smiling.

  ‘You’ve been out of the game a while. People have diseases now.’

  ‘I’m already dead, you moron!’

  And that’s how Heralda got her spirit back. I felt like a proud mother. Heralda had always been there for me, and now she was all grown up, ready to date, at four hundred, and it was time for me to let her go. Kern River tears collected in my eyes as they walked out of the bar together. She was gone. My drunken little see-through friend was gone.

  By the time I got home (just to the other room, since we never actually left the house), I was surprised to see her there in my living room, drinking mar
tinis all by herself.

  ‘What happened with Tommy?’ I asked.

  ‘It was all going well on the drive home,’ she started. ‘But when we got into his house he accidentally stepped on the toilet paper without realizing it. He went to grab a beer from the fridge to “relax and get into the mood” but the paper stuck to his shoe and he unraveled me. By the time he turned around, there was just a pile of goddamned Charmin on the floor.’

  Oh shit, I thought. I hadn’t anticipated it falling apart so quickly. ‘Did he call out for you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘We played Marco Polo for a good hour before he gave up and hit the sack.’

  ‘Men!’ I said, dipping my head back in emphasis.

  ‘Want me to make you one of these bad boys?’ she asked, nodding towards her glass.

  ‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’ My mom always said that and so I did, to keep the tradition alive, although it didn’t always make sense. Technically, she could sleep on her side, but I never pressed the issue.

  I did the twist towards Heralda. There we were again, drinking and laughing together, having a ball.

  I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair, Heralda sang. Usually she sang it for me, but tonight, she was singing it for herself.

  She stopped and looked at me. ‘Are you going to chime in or what?’

  I was so used to singing about myself I forgot it was ­Heralda’s night.

  ‘You’re gonna wash that man right outta your hair,’ I sang. ‘You’re gonna wash Tom-my right outta your hair.’

  All the drinking made me have to go pee, so I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I went to wipe, there was no toilet roll left. Just the brown cardboard.