Memory Documentation

chapter twelve | documenting all my lucky stars

Gone were the kids' teasing echoes in my head. I replaced them with sounds of home, letting the familiarity of it all consume me completely. It was loud and crowded and messy and hard, but it was more of a home than the one I was raised in. More than how I felt in Suzie house, but akin to how I felt once I moved back to New York with Papa.

Suddenly, arms encircling my waist caught me off guard. I yelped and turned, only to find myself practically nose to nose with Chris. His smile made my heart enlarge tenfold.

"Finally! C'mon, we're going to be late," he said. "The others are waiting for us at the museum."

I didn't protest. I let him take my hand and guide me out the front door. The warm kiss of California sunshine didn't greet me again as I bounded down the steps of the orphanage. Instead, the coolness of New York City did. The air was so crisp that my teeth began to chatter, and I inched closer to Chris for warmth. He wrapped his arm around me tighter.

And that was all I could remember. Awake now, lying in bed, I couldn't help but scrunch my face. Museum? Neither of us have expressed an interest in visiting a museum, so I'm not sure why my unconcious would slip that into the narrative, but I understood the rest of it.

I hated California. I love New York. I missed the girls. And Chris made me happy. Very happy.

Despite the orphanage uprooting itself to California, placing itself on the very spot of Suzie's home, this dream didn't feel like a dream at all. The pain and anger I felt because of those kids and their cruel, immature words felt very real. I wonder if their hearts and minds ever opened up. I wonder if they ever realized how wrong it was to rip someone apart over things they couldn't control, or for situations that were not shameful to be in. Honestly, I just wonder if they ever grew the hell up.

But the damage was done. Their words haunted me now, despite the time that has passed, despite the miles between us. Yes, the pain and anger felt real, but the joy and tenderness I felt as I entered the orphanage also felt real – and it was overpowering. Slowly, though, my feelings all boiled down into one thing: complete and utter sadness.

Imagination could never let me down if I willed it to, but reality always finds a way. Now that I was awake, reality hit me like a ton of bricks to my chest.

"Oh, Sylvia," I whispered mournfully into the darkness. She was the last thing I thought of as I drifted to sleep last night, and she was the first thing I thought about when I opened my eyes. Just like last night, the tears came, and I let them fall silently down my cheeks and temples. I cried and I cried until I had no more to give, until I was laying still and quiet on my tear-damped pillow case.

Click, click, click. I listened to the steady sound of my wall clock, but watched the time go by on my phone screen.

6:07.

6:10.

6:21.

6:35. 

I waited for more tears to come, but it seemed I was all dried up for the moment. The tightness in my chest loosened each time I cried, as if my system was flooded and needed the release. But I knew, in a couple hours, it would refill, and the tears would come again.

Tonight and tomorrow, I'd find solace in the darkness and let myself cry. But for now, feeling empty and numb, I kicked off the covers and headed to the kitchen to start my day.

Hints of sunlight were just barely peeking over the buildings by the time I'd gotten breakfast underway. The green digital numbers on the microwave shone back at me, letting me know that it was nearing seven in the morning. I should be getting ready to head over to my AP Literature class, but instead I stood in my dimly lit kitchen, eyeing the batch of pancakes I was cooking on the stove, as well as the light on the waffle maker sitting on the counter. I had to make both, since Papa and I have long ago agreed to disagree on the "which is better, waffles or pancakes" fight. Though, obviously, waffles were superior.