Myself Behind Myself
by E. Kristin Anderson
In my dreams I am a ghost. I enter locked rooms and watch a sleeping dog. The dog raises his head, barks at me.
But in my dreams my heart is not broken. I can fly without wings just by deciding I want to. I kiss whomever I want. January is warm in the very very north. I am covered in insects.
This is where I think I wake up and follow you to church even though I have no desire to know Christ, only you. And then I actually wake up and the beep beep beep of my broken alarm clock is the only kind of damning I can consider.
In my dreams I speak French and the language rolls off my tongue without nervousness or shame. I cut my own hair and it’s okay that I’m bald on one side because I know I’ll wake up with it in dark waves tangled on my pillow.
I still worry, though, about other things. Like your safety, like your sweet, sweet lungs that you’re always filling with smoke, like whether or not my first name sounds better with your last name or the name of the guy I’m with now. That this won’t matter in the morning.
Chapter One
People forget there are parts of Maine where you can’t see the stars—this is one of those parts. Maybe I drove here tonight to see those stars. But if I’m honest with myself, I drove down here hoping that maybe I’d run into somebody who told me, “We need to talk about something” three years ago.
I’ve parked my car up the hill and I sort of miss it—the comfortable smell, the worn seats. I feel safe there, locked doors on all four sides. No one can touch me. Still, I feel like I need to do something tonight. I need to be away from the regular people in my life who don’t understand what loss is.
Anyway, I know he won’t show up. I haven’t seen him since he said those words, then headed back to Iraq a few days later.
I hate when people open up a conversation with, “We need to talk about something.” It’s always bad news. Like, “Your cat’s sick,” or, “We need to break up.”
My phone rings, and a little picture of Cam pops up on the screen. My boyfriend. If he knows that a part of me still pines for Jake—his green eyes, his red hair, his crooked smile—he doesn’t show it. And I think I should keep it that way. If he knows, he’s a saint for giving me so much grace.
“Jody?” he says.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“Old Port.”
“You all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sometimes Cameron is almost too caring. A lot of girls might think, shit, how is that even possible, to have a guy who cares too much? Well, he checks on me a lot. He thinks I’m fragile. In some ways, yeah, maybe I am. But in other ways, he has no idea how fucking tough I am.
“Leesa said it’s been three years. I just know this is a heavy day for you.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Because I don’t. I wonder what Leesa was talking about, but not enough to actually call her.
“Fine,” Cam says. He sounds exasperated. Defeated. “Never mind. Are you headed home soon?”
“Yeah,” I say. I get up from my spot on the curb and start walking up the hill to my car. “Did you want to do something?”
“No, it’s kind of late.”
I look at my watch. Shit. It’s 9:00. It’s weird that my dad hasn’t been calling me, like, constantly for the last hour. There’s probably a Red Sox game on. Playoffs.
“Well I’ll see you at school tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah. Caldwell’s class.”
“Yeah. See ya.” I hang up, my stomach clenching at the thought of our history teacher.
School is just something I’m doing to get through. To get to the point where I can look beyond everything that’s happened. Maybe that’s the case for all of us.
~
At home I grab the kitchen shears off the counter as I walk in and head through the living room for the stairs.
“Hey, kid,” Dad says. “You been out all night; wanna catch the rest of the game with me?”
It’s Sox versus Yankees. Usually I’d say, “Yeah.” I can totally get into that, especially during playoffs. But not tonight.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “I’ve got a thing to work on.”
“All right, Jode,” he says. “Don’t stay up too late. I know how you are with your craft projects.”
“Dad!”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Your fine art.” He throws me a wink, then leans back in his recliner. “Your mom’s asleep; she has the early shift at the hospital. Keep the volume to a minimum.”
“Gotcha. ‘Night, Dad.”
“‘Night, kiddo.”
Doesn’t matter that I’m seventeen and drive my own car and am almost as old as he was when he married Mom. He always calls me “kiddo.”
I take the kitchen shears up to my bedroom and shut the door. I take my hair down. Messy curls falling to my elbows. I’ve grown to loathe the deep roots left by last summer’s chunky highlights. I miss my dark hair. Leesa put those highlights in for me. She’s going to kill me when she sees what I’m about to do.
I pick up the shears and start cutting. A big chunk of hair falls on the ground. I should have put a towel down. In the mirror I look lopsided, the left side of my hair just brushing my shoulder, the right side still hanging long. I consider my options and keep snipping away, starting with that huge chunk on my right.
Snip, there goes me caring that he broke up with me.
Snip, there goes every time he kissed me and stopped when I still wanted more.
Snip, there goes the fact that I can’t stop loving him.
I put the shears down and evaluate my work. It’s asymmetrical, messy, and perfect for putting Jake behind me. As if it were that easy. I run my fingers through my hair, feel them stop short just below the base of my neck. I’m so going to regret this in the morning.
~
“Missing Half”
Six days
after he left
I saw my face
in the mirror
and didn’t see
me. He was
missing, half my
image, my own
self split like
a pomegranate
and seeds spilling
red in the sink.
Chapter Two
In Caldwell’s class it feels like we’re meant to be her parishioners at the Church of American History. I’ve had her three times over the years—seventh grade, freshman year, and now as a senior in high school. And I loathe her. The one benefit? Cam’s in this class. When I walk in and take my seat, there he is. He shoots me one of his A+ smiles and gestures at my hair with a thumbs-up. I can’t help but feel a little tingly inside. For some reason, I’d almost hoped that he would hate it.
But once Caldwell’s lecture starts, I’m tuned out. I’ve got a couple of college applications in my History binder. I mean, please. We’re doing this whole extended Maine history unit, but I’ve been to the Maine museums in Augusta every year since I can remember. I know all about bears and moose and tourmaline.
“Now we all know that the English first came to Maine in 1607 as part of the Plymouth Company,” Caldwell drones. Maine’s “rich history” is very important to her. “But before they were here, this was Native American territory. . .” No offense to the Indians, but I’ve heard all this before. Abenaki, Penobscot, and Passamaquody—the three major Maine tribes. You can hardly drive five minutes in New England without running into a town or a river or a lake with a Native American name. And it’s not like our textbooks do the First Nations any justice.
I’ve got the University of Texas application halfway filled out when Caldwell comes up to my desk and rips it out from under my pen.
“You know, my husband went to UT,” she says.
“Um, really?” Honestly, it’s sort of difficult to imagine Mrs. Caldwell married, even though her name is Mrs. She has this ridiculous ‘80s hair, coffee breath, and, well, Leesa once pointed out that you only ever see one of her ears at once. I’ve been watching closely since seventh grade for the second ear, without success.
“Yes. And maybe if you paid more attention in my class you’d get the grades you need to get into that kind of school.”
“Ouch,” whispers someone behind me. I think it’s Nora Martinsburg, captain of the track team and the school’s queen bee. It’s the sort of whisper I’m meant to hear.
“Um, sorry?” I manage.
“Yes,” she says. “Well, here are the permission slips for next week’s field trip to the Longfellow House.”
Caldwell passes me a hot stack of photocopies. It’s the standard field trip permission slip, with Caldwell’s 1960s handwriting filling in the blanks. I wonder if my father saw this same permission slip when he was a student in this classroom. I wonder if he ever saw the second ear.
“I’ll need these back with your parents’ signatures by Monday,” she says. “And remember, this is the last of our field trips before we start working in earnest on our research papers.”
She says “we,” as if she’ll suffer the assignment with us.
And the topic for these papers? Maine Heroes. Maine is a pretty small state. A small state full of small towns. Sure, we’ve got some decent historical figures, but for the most part? I’m focused on getting out of here. As far away as possible. I want to go to UCLA, or UC Berkley or, if I must leave the country, McGill up in Canada. All these places seem far away, but, most of the time, I’m sure I’ll never be able to get far enough away from this town.
Chapter Three
“Shit, Jody, you look like hell. What’s going on with you?”
“Thanks. I knew you’d hate it.” I sit down next to Leesa at our table in the cafeteria. The odor of over-salted french fries lingers.
“Not your hair, dumbass. That looks fab. Very rock star. But do you frigging sleep anymore?”
I didn’t realize you could see it on my face. I thought maybe I’d covered it up. These last few weeks—sleep has been evasive, to say the least. And Leesa is brutally honest to the very last drop. I mean, I love her for that. She pulls a hair band from her backpack and pulls her shiny chestnut hair into a messy bun.
I shrug.
“Are you having nightmares again?”
Truth? Kind of. This weird dream where Jake’s mom won’t stop calling me. And then suddenly she’s in my house and I’m trying to get out. I doubt it means anything, but I always wake up sweating like it was some monster-chase dream. It’s so weird, though. I haven’t seen her in like three years. Maybe that’s why Jake’s been on my mind.
“I’m working on a new project,” I say. I hadn’t even considered this concept until just now. But it might show Leesa that I’m ready. Moved on. All that shit. And then the words are just coming out of my mouth. “I mean, I don’t want to broadcast this, but…” I look around. Still just the two of us at our table. “I think I’m going to write that ridiculous Caldwell paper on Jake.”
“You’re kidding.” Leesa raises one eyebrow, a skill she’s perfected over the years.
“Nope.”
“Come on, Jody. Forget that it will never fly with the Gestapo, but you know, I thought you were over him.”
Leesa spreads cream cheese on her bagel, then licks the plastic knife.
“I want to write this because I’m over him, Leese. It could be more than a history paper. It could be, like, a narrative nonfiction piece. Something innovative.”
Her face stays the same. Dour. I was sure she’d be more supportive. A sick feeling comes over me—cold palms, a rock in my gut. I thought Leesa would get behind me, the best backup a girl could ask for. Like that time my mom caught me with lipstick in sixth grade and Leesa pretended it was hers.
Maybe Leesa thinks this is a bad idea, like it’ll be too emotional for me or something. But I believe this paper might be the key to letting it all go.
“I mean, there’s a lot to think about,” I concede. Or at least that’s what I’ll let Leesa think—for now. “Who knows if I’ll go through with it.” I’m determined.
“Sort of like how we were going to go to Dunkin’ Donuts for lunch today?”
“Ha. Yes. Dunkies will have to wait for another day.”
Going off campus for lunch is something rebels do. Kids who can handle the trouble if they get caught.
I pick the crusts off my sandwich and consider telling Leesa that I saw Jake’s car outside school yesterday. But what will that achieve? A lecture on stalking? Ten reasons not to talk to exes? Leesa has whole essays on why boys suck in our journal. I suspect it’s her unrequited love for J.D. Dukes that made her such a junior man-hater.
“Jody. Hello. Earth to Newmeyer!” Leesa waves her hand in front of my face to catch my attention.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re such a space case. Early bedtime for you tonight.”
“Whatever, Momma Leese. What were you saying?”
Leesa sighs, rolls her eyes, and then starts with her latest plan. “What do all the best football girlfriends do?”
“Go to the games,” I say. Figures she’d be on about J.D. again. He’s a linebacker, so Leesa has become obsessed with the idea of being a football girlfriend. It’s not like our football team has won a game since 1978. I’m pretty sure that’s a fact, though I haven’t double-checked. My dad went to high school here, though, and he hasn’t contested it. Actually, my grandmother went here, too, but she didn’t pay any attention to football. She was a baton-twirler in the marching band or something.
“Exactly,” Leesa says. “You’re getting good at this.”
“I hear this plan almost every day, Leese. On with it.” This plan is also in the journal.
“Well, here’s what I think. There’s a game Friday. We’re going. We’re going to cheer louder than Nora and her friends and the cheer squad. J.D. will have to see that I’m not just a computer geek with a book review blog.”
“He so did not mean it that way! And if he did, it’s further proof that he’s a dick.”
Last spring J.D. told Cam that he wasn’t into books. I made the mistake of reporting this to Leesa in hopes it would turn her off her major crush, a guy who openly dislikes me. But I just ended up with my foot in my mouth—it only made Leesa feel shitty.
“Whatever. You should go to more games. You’re Cam’s girl. And J.D. will come around, I know it.”
“Football sucks.”
“Sometimes,” Leesa says, smiling, “we do things we don’t like for the ones we love.”
The bell rings. I jump, startled.
“Jesus, Jody. What the hell?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “You’re right. More sleep for me tonight.”
“You’re fucked up.” Leesa laughs. I think it’s a real laugh, not a judging laugh. But this time it’s hard to tell.
“You have no idea.” I say. I’ll be a good girlfriend on Friday, go to the football game, cheer for my guy. But in a few days I’m going to the library. My old favorite library in South Cove, where Jake used to live.
~
“Remembering”
I wrap this string
around myself,
Spinning
into the fiber,
each turn
a promise.
I will not
I will not I will not
look for you in
the corner
of my eye.
