by Cathy Lamb
I would like to climb aboard you. “I need to walk.”
“There is always tomorrow for walking.”
What would it be like to wake up to him tomorrow? He was so huggable. “I need to walk tonight.”
“And I need a beer. The sooner you’re in the car, the sooner you’re home and I’m having a beer.”
I thought of him drinking a beer naked. I liked his body, liked that thick hair, liked those sharp gray-blue eyes that did not miss a thing.
“Here. I’ll escort you.” He held out a hand.
I smiled, couldn’t help it. I put my hand in his and there it was: fire and electricity, all blended up together. He blinked. I saw his eyes change. They were friendly at first, now there was something more.
Mutual lust. Hello, mutual lust.
I kept smiling at him, couldn’t help it. Sparks were careening off him, to me, back to him. Whizzing, dizzying sparks.
I climbed in the car when I could gather myself together.
He closed the door, walked around to his side, and climbed in. For a moment, I didn’t move. I could feel him, feel all of him, so close to me.
I turned my head away and did not look at the man who was trouble. He would be warm in bed. I bet I could forget a whole lot with his arms around me, my legs around him, mouth to mouth. Yep, I could forget for a few minutes.
And then I’d be where I am now.
Was it worth it?
Maybe. Maybe not. Would it be worth it to him?
Probably not. “Dang it.”
“Dang what?” He had not restarted the car.
“I mean, dang . . . uh, I forgot to do something at work. It came to me that second . . .”
“Ah.” He asked it first. “Meggie, are you married?”
That hurt. I winced. I tried not to show it. “No.” I waited in that thick silence. “Are you?”
“No. I was once, when I was twenty three. Lasted two years. I was in the army, and we hardly saw each other. It would be me to blame for that. She found someone else who was home.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was a great lady, no I am not still pining for her, and we were way too young.”
“Do you still talk to her?”
“No. We divorced, and that was it.”
I knew that he was noting that I had offered no explanation of my own marital status.
We were quiet for a while. He was waiting for me to speak. I could tell he was comfortable in the silence.
“What do you like to do, Blake?”
“I like to kayak.”
That sounded fun.
“I like to fly-fish. I like to camp. I like to be outside. I like to ski.”
Ah, skiing.
“What do you like to do?” he asked.
“I don’t like to do anything at this particular moment, but I’ll try to think of something and tell you another time so I can make myself sound interesting.”
“You don’t like to do anything?”
I shook my head. “Not much. I work.”
“That’s not a good sign.”
“It’s a poor sign. People should like to do things.” I did not tell him that I think I would like to hophop into bed with him.
“Why don’t you like to do things?”
I used to like to do things. I liked to film, travel, meet new people, shop for ethnic food and ethnic clothes in whatever country I was in for my work. I liked to explore. I liked hanging out with my family, skiing the fast runs, and walking through the woods. That stopped after him.
“Have you ever felt like you’re wrapped in black?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that your life is wrapped in black. It’s heavy, it’s dark. You’re trying to find the one pinprick of bright light, but you can’t. That’s about where I am.” I stuck my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. I had no idea why I’d even said that to him. Why on earth had I told him, the giant, the neighbor, a man whose car I’d bashed, that? Why?
“Okay, you can drive now,” I told him. “Please do. Or I might yet again regale you about black and tiny lights.” I rested my head on my hands, then brought it back up. No need to look totally pathetic.
“Yes,” he said. “I do know what it’s like to have a life wrapped in black.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “And I know what it’s like to be searching for light in there, too.”
“Did you find it?”
“I did. Eventually.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He wasn’t smiling now. His face was serious, contemplative. “I think it’s a good question. I can relate to people better when I know that at some point, or at many points, their life was wrapped in black. The black brings depth.”
“Yes, it does. Only I didn’t want quite this much depth.”
“Why are you wrapped in black now?”
“I think I’ll save that splendid story for another time.”
“I have time now.”
“No, not now.” No, never will I tell it. From you I want only a short and brief affair and then I’ll move on. No need to add a whole bunch of emotional entanglements that I can’t handle and you shouldn’t have to attempt to handle.
“Later?”
“Actually, no.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to talk about it.”
We were silent together. The night wrapped all around the truck, soft and secretive, as the moon glowed.
“Maybe you’ll want to someday.”
“Nope. I won’t. Thanks for the ride.”
He took the hint. He drove to my tree house.
I opened the car door when we arrived, wanting to charge up the steps and hide inside by the trunk of my maple tree. He grabbed my hand, gently. I turned back.
I could tell he was going to say something, then changed his mind. “Don’t walk so late at night anymore, Meggie. It’s not safe.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Thank you. See you soon.”
See you soon?
I sucked in a breath, then turned and, none too gracefully, dumped myself out of the car.
I did not look back because I didn’t think I could handle staring at that handsome, tough and square-jawed, high-cheekboned face anymore.
I could crawl on that man’s lap and enjoy him for hours, but I could not handle any more problems in my life. I could certainly not handle a relationship. It wasn’t even fair to him to inflict myself on him. I was a mini tornado of emotions, out of control of my own self.
The moon lit the way to my tree house.
He found me hiding in the bathtub. I was under the boiling red water, hoping he wouldn’t discover me. He yanked me out, studied my wet nakedness, then lifted me up and wrapped my legs around his body. He kissed my neck, then moved lower to my nipples and back up again, biting me here and there.
When his lips reached my lips, a rat climbed out of his mouth and into mine and bit my throat. The blood flowed, and I tasted its hot violence. He laughed.
“I won’t let you go, Meggie,” he whispered, his mouth on my ear, caught between his teeth as he tried to bite through. “I can’t.”
I struggled to get away, but he held me tight, until I was inside of his body, trapped, invisible, even to myself. His body filled with smoke and blood, choking me, then a black feather floated down and that’s how I knew I was dead in the blood.
My own piercing scream woke me up. I struggled and fought, the comforter wrapped around me like a cocoon. I tried to run, couldn’t, tripped, and fell straight down. When I realized I had endured another ragged nightmare, that the black feather wasn’t there, I stumbled back to bed, panting, sweat dripping off my forehead.
I tasted blood and wiped my lip where I’d bitten down too hard. I used a Kleenex to stop the flow, then put one hand on my heart to slow its racing beat. I ran a hand down my body to make sure I was in one piece. I was losing it. Totally losing it.
&
nbsp; Through the skylight I could see the moon, full, almost orange, the maple tree leaves floating in the shadows. I tried to still my breathing.
I sleep naked.
I didn’t used to, but I do now. I don’t even have pajamas anymore. They feel too tight, too restrictive. My nightmares squeeze me enough.
And I sleep alone, too.
Always alone.
I heard the knock on my door at six o’clock on Sunday night. I was wearing my ripped University of Oregon sweatshirt and blue sweatpants. I had on one pink sock and one red. I couldn’t find a matching pair. My horse-tail hair was wrapped in a messy bun on top of my head.
I peeped through the peephole and smiled. It was my fifteen-year-old nephew, Regan Donnelly. Regan, named, obviously, after Grandma, and Donnelly for his dad’s mother’s maiden name.
Regan is fifteen, six feet tall, and a total jock. He is an outstanding athlete. His green eyes are exactly the same shade as my mother’s and my grandma’s. It’s absolutely uncanny.
Regan’s a mess. His blond hair’s a mess, his clothes are a mess, and he usually wears mismatched socks. He’s disorganized and often seems confused. Lacey has said many times, with worry, that Regan is “not too smart. He has a light, but it doesn’t shine too bright.”
Yet somehow Regan can pull it together on the field. He’s always the starting quarterback. He always plays most of every basketball game. He hits home runs in baseball. It’s effortless. He loves sports, he loves his family, and he loves animals. Not in that order.
“Hi, Aunt Meggie. I want you to meet my lizard. His name is Mrs. Friendly.” Regan held up a lizard. I was nose to nose with it. It stuck out his tongue.
“His name is Mrs. Friendly? He’s a boy?” I opened the door, and he and the lizard came on in.
“Yes. I renamed him Mrs. Friendly.” He pushed his hair off his forehead. He was sweating, probably ran here from his house. He runs even when he doesn’t need to run.
“So why the Mrs.?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t know. It’s confusing to me, too. A friend of mine is moving to Alaska and his parents say no lizard, so I took him. You’ll like him. I think you’ll be friends.”
I looked at the lizard. I didn’t think we’d be friends. “Want some cookies?”
“Yeah. That’d be good. I need to be fed. Today I’ve only had three bowls of cereal, four eggs, half a pizza, three oranges, and lasagna. I’m starving.” Regan settled down at my kitchen table, still holding the lizard. “Aunt Meggie, I’m glad you live here again.”
“Me too.”
“I missed you in my heart.” He pointed at the lower right side of his chest.
“I missed you, too, Regan.”
He got up and hugged me, Mrs. Friendly hanging in one of his hands. I tried not to touch Mrs. Friendly. Regan sniffled, then wiped his nose and tears on his sleeve.
“These are good cookies for my belly, Aunt Meggie.” His voice wobbled. He is so dear. “Did you make them?”
“Uh, no. You know I’m a terrible cook. Cassidy made them for me.”
“Yeah, you are.” He stopped, caught himself, eyes wide in alarm. “No, no. No. I’m sorry. You’re a good cook, and I have a problem.”
“What’s the problem?”
He sniffled, one more tear slipping out of his green eye. “Mom says no more pets since I already have . . . uh . . . I already have a couple.”
“Four cats, three dogs, two mice—except I heard that one escaped and you can’t find it—two hamsters, one hamster is missing, too—your mom told me that maybe it’s with the mouse—and a rabbit.”
“Uh, two rabbits, a gang of frogs, and also we have a bunch of tropical fish, too, but they don’t count because you can’t hug them.”
He said this in all seriousness. I did not laugh. “Only animals who are huggable count, then?”
“All animals count, but fish aren’t furry and can’t give love, so they’re different.” He straightened his shoulders and looked hopeful. “How about it, Aunt Meggie?”
“How about what?”
“I mean, I think Mrs. Friendly wants to live with you.” He held the lizard up so we were face-to-face again. “I think you’d like his company. He’s shy and kind and loving and friendly, and I think the tree house is the perfect home. There are a lot of leaves here he can look at, and I think he’ll like those white lights you have hanging from the ceiling. He’ll think they’re moons.”
Moons? Why would a lizard care about moons? I shook my head. “Hang on, you want me to have Mrs. Friendly?”
“Yes. It’s a gift. From me to you, Aunt Meggie.” He rolled his lips in. I could tell he was about to cry again. “A patient and smart lizard for you. Mom and I think you’ll like having Mrs. Friendly.”
“Does your mom even know you’re here?”
He squirmed. “I’ll tell her tonight, but I know that she thinks that you’ll uh, like, uh, like having Mrs. Friendly.” He choked out, “Please Aunt Meggie, I don’t want to give Mrs. Friendly up. He needs a home and I can’t have more pets and you’ll be a good mom to him. See, you can hug him and stroke him. He likes the attention.”
I stared at Mrs. Friendly’s nose. Or his snout. Or his pokey thing, whatever you call a nose on a lizard.
“See? He smiled at you! He smiled!” Regan declared, peering down at me through his messy blond hair, those mom-grandma eyes so devastated at the thought of giving up the lizard.
I sighed. I have a hard time saying no to my sister’s kids. “Okay, Regan. I’ll take Mrs. Friendly.”
“You will? Oh, great!” He practically tossed Mrs. Friendly at me. I caught him in semi-midair. “See? You’re already best friends! Thanks, Aunt Meggie! I’ll go get the cage. I left it on the ground.” His floppy feet thundered out before I could change my mind.
“You’re welcome,” I said to Mrs. Friendly, nose to nose.
He stuck his tongue out at me.
He didn’t seem that friendly.
5
Over the years, I made many different documentary films.
One of the films that seared my heart the most was about homeless kids in Portland. They told me why they left home, almost all bone-shaking stories that will make the hair on the back of your neck not only stand up but actually want to walk off your skin.
They told me what life on the street was like: cold. Hungry. Lonely. Dangerous. Preyed upon by criminals, pimps, addicts. Many were addicts themselves or seemed to be struggling with a mental illness. So many were able to articulate, pinpointing to the finest detail, their struggle. One girl compared it to being a whisper. “A bad whisper. No one wants to hear us. We’re invisible. We go away after the whisper is over.”
She had stringy hair and was smoking a cigarette. “I think that life is supposed to be more than me wondering if I should jump off the Marquam or the Fremont Bridge, and seriously debating with myself which one would be better.”
In the following years I filmed what life was like in a Haiti orphanage after the quake, profiling the kids but also the staff members, their hope and hopelessness, their despair and joy, their unrelenting struggles and their cherished goals for the children.
I filmed nuns in San Francisco helping the poor. Praying with the dying. Teaching school. Serving meals to the homeless. I interviewed them when the Vatican was critical of their work. The pope and the bishops told them, via a letter, that they needed to be inside more, praying, and should spend more time speaking out against gays and gay marriage.
I juxtaposed the nuns’ work against the extraordinary wealth of the Catholic Church, the opulence of the Vatican, the priceless art within it, the white pointy hats and red shoes.
“Jesus would be with the poor,” one nun said. “We’re to stay inside and pray more? Can we not pray as we’re counseling women in shelters? Can we not pray as we hold the hands of the sick? Can we not pray as we tend to the children from broken homes?”
Another nun said, “I have worked all my life for Jesus, t
o follow him and his teachings, am I now to stand up and rail against homosexuals and gay marriage? Jesus loved everyone. He says nothing about gays. I want to follow Jesus’s love. I want to stand for what he stands for: love, not hate, patience, and forgiveness. Where does the Bible say it is my place to judge?”
Another nun was blunt. “Are the pope and the bishops, with their pedophile priest scandal, in any position to moralize to nuns out in the trenches and tell them to rail against gays?”
Filming was my life. I took people’s journeys and lives and gave them a voice. My goal was always the same: connect people. Share what life is like for others. Inspire, encourage, emotionally move someone, change their way of thinking, their perceptions, maybe their prejudice.
And, most important, bring invisible people forward, invisible issues forward, to be visible.
If you could see what I see, I would often think when I was filming.
If you could see what I see.
I heard my grandma’s heels—tap, tap, tap—before she strode into my office the next day.
She was in a sleek black dress, her white hair pulled back. The baubles for the day? Blue topazes. Striking against the black.
“I’ll do it, Meggie. Part of me thinks it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever thought of and the stupidest thing I’ll ever do, but the other part of me, probably the part that’s swimming in the dementia I don’t yet know I have, says that it’s time I talk about the rainbow, the leprechaun, and the owl.”
I stood up and hugged her. “Okay. I’ll bring my cameras in.”
“Good. Can’t give those up, though I still haven’t forgiven you for deserting me for that other career, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“I think the story of your life is important, Grandma.”
“Don’t give me that pseudo–psycho–ego-stroking crap. My story is no more important than anyone else’s. You’re going to film the other employees then, too?”
I nodded. “Yes. The ones who have been here the longest. I’m going to ask them about the bra they were wearing during an important moment in their life. I’ll put the stories up on the website. I think it will make our company more personal to our customers. They’ll feel like they know us, as we always try to know them.”