I wake up when my 5 am alarm goes off. It used to be harder to get up, but now that I've been doing it for a year, it's second nature. I love the feeling of the dawn approaching, creeping into the sky until suddenly, like the dimmer on a light switch, the sky transforms from a dark gray to a hazy blue.
The birds seem to be the only other souls awake. The world still dreaming, asleep in their beds; hanging on to the last threads of slumber before they fray away completely. I stretch as I stand up, shivering against the light breeze that blows in through my cracked window. I retrieve a pair of yoga pants from the pile of clothes that never seems to leave the floral armchair in the corner of my room, and pull them on. Changing into a sports bra and a tank top, I don my running shoes, and slip out the door.
Running is one of the best feelings in the world. That is, when you can actually do it. I remember back to a year ago when running became a necessity; when it was so hard to even run around the block without gasping for air. This makes me push even harder, and I can feel my brunette ponytail slapping against my back, hear the clap of my feet against the pavement. Running has a sort of rhythm to it, a steadiness you can lose yourself in. That must be why I dance too, I think. Every school night, five days a week. Modern, jazz, ballet, you name it. It's one of the few things in life that I can pour myself into and completely escape for a few hours.
When I get home the shower calls my name. I go into the bathroom and the huge mirror attracts my attention. I stare into my wide blue eyes. My mom says they're like the clouds on a stormy day. I like to think of that as the description of my soul. Stormy, dark, a little foggy, unsure of what it wants, ready to rip your head off one moment or blow over the next. People always say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, right?
My face is covered in a light sheen of sweat, my cheeks flushed. My pupils are slightly dilated and I almost don't recognize myself as I take in my reflection. Running always gives me a natural sort of high, and I can almost palpably feel my energy tingling around me from head to toe.
The cold water from the shower brings me back to my senses and I step out, wrapping myself in a towel and padding back into my room. The sun is now completely up and the earth has started to revolve again. For some reason I always thought of the earth as going to sleep at night too. Sort of chilling out and recharging it's battery for the morn to come; stop spinning long enough to relax before it's thrown back into the dizziness of the day. I can hear other noises now. Cars starting, dogs barking, buses screeching their way down the street. I remember, suddenly, that it's the first day of summer and replace buses with trash trucks. No more riding the awkward morning bus to school, where no one talks or sits too close to each other. I smile at the thought and hurry over to my closet.
I pull a clean pressed polo shirt over my head. Green today. That used to be my favorite color. The color of trees and grass and plants. The color of life. Not anymore. I frown. Now that I think about it I realize I don’t even have one.
I shimmy into a pair of cut-off denim shorts. The day already promises to be hot. With a comb I neatly detangle my hair and weave it into a braid down my back. Now, the standard white visor and lastly; my converse. They’re a must. I wear them every day.
These shoes, they are like walking pieces of history. They are faded and dirty and fit like a glove. Like one that belongs to a baseball player, melded so perfectly into the shape of their hand that it's like a second skin. Absorbing the impact of all the curve balls that life throws at me.
My house feels dead. Like it's gone to the grave too. A seemingly solid structure on the outside, but hollow within. Like opening the door could just send everything crumbling to the ground. So I creep down the hall, like a stranger in my own house, and quickly slip into the room adjacent to mine.
My sister's bed is like an island in the middle of a sea of books, clothes, paintbrushes; like everything was literally washed up from the ocean and discarded on the shoreline. I have to navigate these testy waters and unfortunately for me, there's no compass. I sidestep a couple of hard-bound novels and look up as a canvas catches my eye. There's canvases everywhere; lining the walls, the floor, stacked in piles. It's this one that stands out though. It's blank. Stark white and brand new, but my sister has it hanging smack dab in the middle of the wall. Why? I think. To be fair, it's not an honest question. I already know the answer. Sometimes a blank canvas is a lot more exciting than a painted one. It's the possibility of it.
I stop at the edge of her bed. She lays there, limbs in all directions, her sheets tangled around her. There's a sketchbook lying face down on the floor, directly beneath her hand which is limp from slumber, unable to hold anymore. I pick it up and turn it over. It's a drawing of a woman standing in the right corner of the page. She's reaching up towards the opposite corner, her hand outstretched, reaching as far as she can. But she being pulled by an opposing force, from bodiless hands they grab at her legs and the bottom of her skirt. In the upper left corner is another outstretched hand, reaching for the woman. A hand belonging to an elderly body with flowing hair and robes, although, unexpectedly the face is young. And from the back are two feathery wings. An angel. It makes me sad because as far as they reach they won't ever be able to grasp each other. I know I'm lying to myself though. I'm sad because I know who the woman in the sketch is. But I don't want to think about it.
I know now that my sister has been up all night again. I hate to be the one who brings her back to reality, when she's only just escaped it for a few hours. I gently smooth the hair off her forehead. It's so blonde that it's practically white, and pin strait. Normally, severely hanging to just below her jaw line, it is now splayed around her face like a halo. And for a fleeting moment, she's the angel.
I touch her shoulder. “Holly”. But my voice comes out groggy and soft, like I haven't used it a while. I clear my throat and try again. “Holly. Holl, come on you have to wake up.”
A moan bubbles out of her lips and she folds in on herself and I find myself facing her back.
“Holly!” I’m shaking her now and I try to rip the covers off. She aims a weak shove in my direction.
“No. Don't want t ...” her voice trails off, as she's caught in a limbo between sleep and consciousness.
I don't want to make her as much as she doesn't want to, but we both know it's what we have to do.
“Holly!”
I yell this time and her eyes snap open and she bolts upright. Her hand flies to her head in a burst of vertigo and I see her refocus on the clock that sits on her bedside table.
“Shit. Shit! It's seven-fifteen!” She stumbles as she throws herself from her bed and I'm already retreating to the door.
“Why didn't you wake me!? Jesus, Mere, now I'm going to be late!” She's frantic. I don't retort. It's not me she's really mad at. It's the unfairness of this whole thing. I know that better than anyone.
I am staring into my cereal bowl, watching the last three pieces float around in the leftover milk. I wonder if they're sad knowing that they're never going to be eaten. There's always those last few that I never finish and I think that maybe they're still holding onto hope that they will join the rest of their family. Or maybe they're happy that they escaped the fate that bestowed their kin. Or maybe you’re starting to lose your mind, I think.
I eat those last few in spite of myself.
My finger is absentmindedly tracing and retracing a long scar in the wood of the table, when I hear the back screen door creek open. I don't even have to turn around. I smell him before I see him.
Holly appears in the kitchen doorway, now dressed in her mandatory black slacks and white button-down.
“Where the hell have you been?” Her words are directed over my shoulder. To where my father stands, still dressed in the clothes he left for work in yesterday. He doesn't even answer, just silently sways and runs a shaky hand through his unkempt hair.
Holly stalks across the room in two large strides and snatches the bottle from his other hand and throws it into the sink. I hear the glass crack as it hits the bottom. My father involuntarily reaches for it, never mind the fact that we all know it is empty.
“Get your shit together, Hen.” She spits his name in his face scornfully. I brace myself for a yell, a slap, anything. Nothing comes. She turns her back on him, her white-blond hair spinning and suddenly the roles are reversed. She's the parent and he's the child. I wonder why it’s only now that I'm just seeing this. I'm not the only one. A barely audible, broken whisper comes from his lips.
“Angel?”
Who knew one word could be such a myriad of emotions.
Holly halts in her tracks.
“No. No, I'm not.” She looks at me. “Meredith, let's go.” And with that she's gone.
I get up to follow. When I look over at my father, the heartbreak becomes mutual. I cautiously approach him.
“Daddy?”
His eyes find mine, but I'm not at all sure he really sees me. I press my lips to his cheek and the scratchiness makes my nose itch.
“Go shower. There's coffee in the pot.”
And with that I'm gone too.
~
The trees dance by in a blur. I try to follow, but they're too fast. We're zooming toward the beach. The top’s down and the wind whips dark tendrils around my face. The sun prickles the hair on my arms and my whole body is filled with warmth. For a second, I close my eyes and breathe deep. Grass, sunscreen, salt water -I turn my head to the left and see my hair, only longer, flying backwards- her coconut shampoo, the crisp leather of our brand new crimson convertible. The radio drowns out the wind and it swoons with the sounds of ...'lovers stay and summer days'... She loves this song and she sings loudly, slightly off-key. She looks over at me through her olive-tinted aviators and I realize I've been staring. I smile and she throws her head back and laughs for no reason except that she is happy.
“We’re here.”
I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to erase the goose bumps that have formed there. Holly has the air conditioning blasting. If I had it my way, the top would be down and we’d be riding in the sun. But it never really is my way anyways. That much I’ve learned.
Holly’s already out of the car.
“Come on. What are you doing? Get out,” she shouts at me and then slams the door. I fumble with my seatbelt and squint against the glare as I step out into the already hot morning. I turn, with a hand on my brow to shield my face, and I see Holly’s boss across the lot waving in an agitated gesture. She’s already halfway there when she turns around and yells, “Sal’s?”
I nod. It’s what we always do. Every time we leave each other. That doesn’t lessen the fact that she needs my answer just as much as I need her to ask. We both need the reassurance. To feel like we both know what we’re doing, when actually we couldn’t be more lost.
Tick. Tick. Tick. As if I wasn’t already acutely aware of how slow the time is passing, the clock at the back of the Snack Hut has no problem reminding me. I check it. 8:04. It’s been a whole two minutes since I last checked it. I sigh.
Jasmine sits on the stool at the smoothie counter, scrolling through her phone even though it’s against the rules. She smacks her mouth together and blows a bubble with her gum. Even though that’s against the rules, too. I shake my head and stare back out at the silent, glistening pool. It’s too early for anyone. The only disturbance made in the smooth aqua glass is from two lappers, who tirelessly go up and down, up and down. And only then it’s a small ripple before settling back into its calm façade.
Because water isn’t really calm. It rages like the ocean and flows like the stream and likes to lap at your feet like a dog, until you go and play with it. But then again, I think, maybe it’s controlled just like everything else. Gravity, I remember, suddenly back in fourth grade science class. That thing that holds everything together, when sometimes all you really want to do is let go. Maybe the universe really does have all the control. And all we can do is go along with the tide.
One of the swimmers has emerged. His back is to me and I watch as he pulls a towel from a deck chair and musses his hair dry with it.
“Yo, bitch, I need the details.”
I turn around, but Jasmine’s only yapping into her phone, paying no mind to me. She cackles loudly and I just roll my eyes, facing front again.
He’s walking towards me. The tanned abs, tousled hair, wiry muscles. It can’t be. An apparition. I can’t breathe.
I’m just finishing restocking the candy bars when a deep voice makes me start.
“Excuse me, miss. I was unsatisfied with the smoothie you sold me. It was a little too …smooth, for my liking. Completely, not what I was expecting.”
I smirk at the familiar face.
“My apologies, sir. Perhaps, you would prefer a chocolate bar,” holding up the one in my hand, “Although, I have to warn you. It’s pretty chocolaty.”
He continues in his ridiculous mock baritone.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take something smoking hot. With a side of sexy.” He winks at me.
I smile.
“How about Frank?” I gesture to my pimply co-worker.
This makes him laugh and I join in. Frank pretends to be flattered and bats his eyes.
“Nathan!”
Mr. Ferguson is storming toward us in his usual blustery manner, his suit buttons looking as if they’re about to pop.
He raises his eyebrows at me, “Daddy’s coming.” I grin. “Better go before I get my tushy spanked. Or you could do that for me …” he adds impishly.
I shove his shoulder and he laughs. I’m about to say ‘bye’ when suddenly he’s so close, all I can smell is chlorine, sunscreen, and fabric softener. I feel his warm breath in my ear, “Meet me back here at ten.”
And then he’s gone, intercepting Ferguson in his war path and casually throwing his arm over the man’s shoulder.
“How you doin’ today, boss?”
“You should be at your post! Not fooling around with your female co-workers! Someone’s life could be in danger and you wouldn’t have the slightest …” Fergie sputters on and I can just imagine the spit coming from his mouth.
“You, know, have you ever thought about taking up yoga, sir?”
“Why, I …!”
They saunter off, and still keeping pace with the big guy, he turns around and blows me a kiss.
I can’t stop smiling to myself.
In the background, Frank is dramatically ‘throwing up’ into the water ice.