Selena stood outside the door, ringing the doorbell for a second time. Her father waiting in his red burnt truck across from the stone-kissed house. Finally, Mrs. Tyler opened the door. Her brunette hair falling over her shoulders in light waves, her lips kissed in a shade of gloss too bright. She held a glass of red wine in one hand and the door in the other.
“Hello, Selena” she bent down to reach her height, “Oh, your father brought you here.”
Selena nodded, pressing the gift-wrapped box to her chest. Mrs. Tyler waved to Selena’s father, her lips pursed before dropping the smile and pushing Selena inside.
“I will take that,” she said, gripping the present in her arm as she took a sip of her wine, “Everyone is just down by the pool.”
Selena watched as Emma’s mother tossed the gift on the kitchen counter along with others. She then moved towards the sliding glass door that was left open. Out on the porch, she saw them all down below. Mostly everyone was swimming, playing with water guns and noodles. Some girls were lying on pink-colored towels, letting the sun hit their backs. Selena rolled up her long-sleeve One Direction t-shirt and walked down the stairs. Her eyes scanned everywhere for Emma, but she could not find her. Instead, Selena moved near some of the girls in her class and dipped her toes into the pool water.
“Let’s move over,” one of the girls sitting by Selena whispered.
She knew it was Jenny and her clique without having to look over. She pretended not to hear them, something she got very good at. Something her Ma taught her how to do. She always used to tell Selena when she came home from school, bluer than the sea that, “to survive in this life, you have to ignore some of the hurt.”
“Hey,” a voice said next to her.
Selena looked up, covering her eyes with her left hand and squinting to see who it was. Emma stood before her, wearing a floral bathing suit and a smile.
“Hi,” Selena stood up, wrapping her arms around Emma, “Happy Birthday!”
“Thanks,” Emma said, “My mom went a little all out,” she laughed, pointing to the decorations.
The patio was covered in balloons, probably a hazard, Selena thought. Mrs. Tyler had hung a silver banner around the pillars reading, “Happy 13th Birthday, Sweet Emma”. Little lanterns sat on the tables along with bowls of hummus and pita bread. Emma was always the healthy one out of the two of them. Her mother would pack her Ziploc bags of carrots and pretzels while Selena’s father would put in Lay’s potato chips or a cosmic brownie. She eventually told her father to stop putting snacks in her lunchbox after a few girls made comments.
Selena was used to this by now. But, those words still chipped away at her. She grew up with Emma. They met when they were seven years old and at the same theater camp in town one summer. Selena could remember how Mrs. Tyler would come early to pick up Emma, only to critique her singing or dancing. She remembered how her Ma would always be a little late, rush hour after working at the hospital and Emma would make her mother wait with Selena.
They spent their time outside of camp over each other’s houses—listening to music on YouTube, watching Disney Channel movies and riding bikes around their neighborhoods. Selena can remember the first time she brought Emma to her house. Mrs. Tyler had dropped her off, her Porsche lost in their driveway full of her father’s red truck and her mother’s broken down Honda Civic. That was the only time Emma had visited. Selena only went to Emma’s after that. She never understood why, until she overheard her parents one night talking after dinner.
“Can you believe the audacity of that woman!” Her Ma was saying, in a tone Selena had never heard before.
“Xiomara, do not let this rich woman work you up. We know who she is, and cannot change that.”
“But for her to make my daughter… to say that my daughter is living in…”
“I know,” her father had pulled her mother in.
Selena never asked her mother about that night. Instead, she kept going to Emma’s almost every day after school. But once they reached middle school, Selena didn’t go over as much. Ma was sick and her father had to work longer hours. So, she had to be home to cook and clean. But even if she could go, Emma was barely home anymore. She spent her time after school on the track team, in the school plays, taking art classes.
But still, they remained friends. So much had happened from sixth to seventh grade. And still, they were friends. Selena always thought Emma would drop her eventually. Not necessarily because of who Emma was, but because of who Selena wasn’t. Emma was beautiful, just like her mother. She had pin-straight brown hair, sharp blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She was tall and thin and confident. Practically every boy in seventh grade had a crush on Emma Tyler and every girl wanted to be friends with her. Selena was not popular. She was awkward, chubby and had a face full of acne.
Selena never understood why Emma stayed. This was middle school, after all. A time for survival. Selena knew that Emma would not remain at the top if she kept being friends with someone on the bottom. And quite literally, the bottom. Selena was not only the outcast in school, but in their Connecticut town. Her parents did not make much, she wore hand-me-downs from her cousins and her neighborhood was small and beaten-up. Emma, and the rest of her classmates lived in houses like the Barbie mansion. In every sense, she felt like the outsider even if she was on the inside.
“Selena,” Emma said, snapping her out of her daydream.
“Yeah?”
“Do you wanna swim?”
Selena looked into the water—Tommy and Joey were squirting the water guns, Sophia was lying on a blue raft while Alexandra and Katie did handstands in the shallow end. A few of the boys ran into the water and did cannonballs.
“Careful!” Mrs. Tyler said as she walked down the stairs.
Her husband carrying a Carvel box along with plates and a knife.
“No, I’m okay,” Selena said.
“C’mon, it’s my thirteenth birthday!” Emma smiled, running into the pool, water flying up to hit Selena.
“Emma!”
“Get in, Selena!”
Selena looked around: boys playing basketball in the driveway, girls with sunglasses tanning. She slowly took off her shirt and grey shorts, placing them on one of the chairs nearby before walking slowly to the deep end. She moved to the edge, lowering herself into the water while gripping her nostrils. When she came up above the water, Emma was there, staring at her. They looked at each other for a moment before Emma splashed pool water into Selena’s face. They laughed, splashing one another.
“Girls,” Mrs. Tyler shouted, “enough with the splashing!” She was sitting along the round, metal table next to Mr. Tyler who was smoking a cigar.
They were floating in the water, letting the cold hold them. Until Tommy and Joey swam over.
“Hey Emma,” Joey said, “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks Joey,” Emma smiled.
“Yeah, cool party,” Tommy interjected.
“Do you wanna play chicken?” Joey said to Emma.
“Oh my god, yeah!”
“Okay, get on my shoulders,” Joey said.
Emma started to swim closer to him as Tommy turned to Selena, looking her up and down. His eyes shifted to one of the other girls.
“Sophia, come play chicken with Tommy, Emma and I.”
Selena began to swim to the silver ladder before Emma interrupted: “No, Selena is playing,” she said, her arms wrapped around Joey’s shoulders.
Joey and Tommy looked at each other, laughter filling their chests.
“You think I can hold her on my shoulders?” Tommy said.
Emma looked to Selena, whose face went red. She could see the tears starting to prickle at the corners of her eyes.
“Shut up,” Emma said, swimming away from them.
“C’mon, look at her. She looks pregnant,” Joey shouted, inviting the others in the pool to laugh.
Selena gripped the ladder and pushed herself up, running to grab her towel and clothes on the chair. Emma rose from the poolside, grabbing Selena’s arm.
“No,” Selena said, “leave me alone.”
“Selena, I…”
“Everyone, come over! Time for the festivities to begin,” Mrs. Tyler waved.
Emma and Selena walked over to the table. Selena stayed at the back, her towel tight around her, clothes in hand. She watched as everyone sang to Emma, slightly off-key as Mrs. Tyler moved her hands as if a conductor. The cake was a little melted, candlewax dripping into the icing. Mrs. Tyler crouched in front of Emma, taking pictures on her Canon as her daughter blew out the candles. After the third try, Emma glared at her mother who realized her husband swapped out the regular candles for the trick ones that kept sparkling.
“Fuck, Richard,” Mrs. Tyler mumbled as she ripped the candles out of the cake and drowned them into a cup of water nearby.
“What, those candles are part of the fun.”
“Are you five?” Mrs. Tyler said before beginning to cut the cake into pieces.
The kids fought each other over the perfect slice. Everyone wanted the little gravel of chocolate at the bottom of the ice cream cake. They all sat, filling the table and chairs surrounding the patio. Except, Selena. She sat by the edge of the pool, shoving small pieces of chocolate into her mouth. Emma walked over, sitting by her side. The two of them sat there, eating their cake in silence. They listened to the rest of the world around them, splashing their toes into the water.
“Emma,” one of the girls called, “why are you over there? Come sit with us!”
When Emma turned to Selena, she was gone. Her feet moving fast against the hot pavement as she ran into the basement.
“One second,” Emma said to the girls, standing up and following Selena into the basement, closing the door behind her.
The only echo the sound of the AC running and Selena crying. She was sitting in the corner, her knees hugged to her chest.
“Sel…”
Their eyes met: Emma’s deep, blue ones and Selena’s puffy, dark brown ones.
“I’m fine,” Selena said, looking away.
Emma moved towards her, sitting so close their knees touched.
“You know, I just wanted to invite you,” Emma said, “But, my mom.”
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
“Lie? Why would I lie to you?”
“Emma, everyone out there loves you. I’m not like you. Everyone can see that. I don’t belong here. You’re, like, perfect.”
Emma turned towards Selena, gazing into her eyes.
“Sel, I am not perfect.”
“You are. Look at you and, and look at me!”
“I am looking at you,” Emma whispered, putting her hand on top of Selena’s.
They sat there for a moment. The world outside spinning, but the two of them here.
“You’re my best friend,” Selena said.
“And you are mine.”
Selena could feel all the anger and sadness dissipate at the sight of Emma’s smile. She felt safe here: wrapped in a towel and sitting next to her best friend. She felt like she was home. And then Emma leaned in, her lips locking with Selena’s. Their eyes closed as they kissed. Their first kiss. When they moved back, Selena saw Mrs. Tyler in the doorway. Her mouth wide, her hand dropping the glass of wine. Red spilling everywhere, shards of glass covering the floor. Emma turned, her face burning up. Selena was frozen, unsure whether to run or pretend she was not there. She was usually good at the latter.
“What the fuck is going on here,” Mrs. Tyler yelled, moving to them and grabbing Emma by the hair.
“Mom,” Emma began but Mrs. Tyler pushed her towards the stairwell.
“Get upstairs, now!” She said.
“Please, Mom, it’s not…” Emma’s eyes began to water as she reached for her mother’s hand. But Mrs. Tyler slapped it away.
“And you! Get out of my fucking house right now,” she pointed at Selena, who was gripping her towel so tight her fingertips were becoming red, “and do not ever come back.”
Selena looked to Emma whose eyes were trained on the cream carpet. She then stood up, walking quickly past the two of them and into the summer air. Music was playing from a stereo, a game of Marco Polo in action as Selena pulled her shirt over her body, shorts over her legs and walked back into the kitchen. She reached for their home phone and dialed her father’s number. He picked up almost immediately.
“Pa, can you…can you come get me?”
“I just drove around the block. I will be there in a minute,” he said, hanging up.
Selena moved through their house, her eyes moving over all the little things that made up their home. The portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Tyler on their wedding day that hung over the fireplace, the small ceramic elephant that sat in the corner of the living room, the plush blankets that they used to make forts out of when they were younger.
Selena gazed up the stairs, Emma’s door opened a crack. The light lavender color of Emma’s walls looking back at her. She thought of all the nights they stayed up: talking about celebrities, playing with Barbies, making music videos to whatever their favorite song was at the time, putting on fashion shows with Emma’s closet. She saw memories dancing around her as she stood there.
Finally, she moved towards the front door. Her hand reaching for it, letting the light pour in. She saw her father, across the street, waiting there for her. She wondered how long he was there, how many times he must have drove around the block. She walked down the stairs and towards his red burnt truck. He didn’t have to wait any longer, she thought to herself, she was coming home.
It was hot. The summer air tangy, thick. The hottest summer yet, they said on the news. Outside, the backyard was coming alive: bugs moving through the air, birds echoing in trees, flowers dancing against the breeze. It was like a picture painted by Van Gogh: colors blurred together, ones that felt like nostalgia. If you could even recognize nostalgia. If I was asked what nostalgia was, I would say this: my childhood backyard.
Mom was cooking to some Fleetwood Mac song, pasta boiling in a pot of salt and olive oil. The trick, she would always say. She had found a new recipe from some website, always eager to try something new and make all of us try it with her. She was not a bad cook, far from it, but over the years we tended to eat take out more and her food less. Seeing her like this: dark hair placed in a tight ponytail, hand on one hip, stirring some kind of sauce, felt like seeing a version of her I had not in a while. Not since the divorce.
She was bubbly, her shoulders dancing to the lyrics: Thunder only happens when it’s raining/ Players only love you when they’re playing. Her lips taking a small sip of Chardonnay. The sun was pouring into the kitchen windows, settling behind the trees. The sky turning a light pink. My brother clapped loudly from the couch where he was watching the Yankees game. It was all he talked about in the summer: Yankees, Yankees, Yankees. He was older than me by eight years, but developmentally he was much younger. It wasn’t autism, and there was no clear diagnosis given by any doctor. James just had special needs. Yet to us, it was just James. My older brother who sang too loudly, who never knew when to stop talking and who gave the best bear hugs.
Maeve was in between us in age, the wild child of the McMorrow clan. Her hair always dyed a different color and makeup something from the show Euphoria. Once in high school, she threw a house party while the three of us spent the weekend at the beach. Long story short, the cops came and Mom was not very pleased.
“Mom,” James’ voice echoed across the living room, “Mom!”
“What?”
“When is Maeve coming home?” James asked, turning his head to where Mom stood.
I sat across from him, trying to understand the game on the tv before me. I was never much of a Sports fan. The closest I came to playing sports was sitting on the bench in middle school during our basketball games.
“Um,” Mom turned to look at the kitchen clock and then looked back to James, “She should be home in a half-hour!”
“Why is she so late?”
I laughed, rolling my eyes, “James, she is not late. She’s still at work!”
James hated when one of us was not home. On the weekends when he went to see Dad, Mom would have to lie about where we were. This coming weekend she was going to Connecticut to see her brother, I was staying at my friend Kendall’s and Maeve was staying home to watch the dogs. In reality, we would all be home. But if James knew that, he would freak out. And that is not even me exaggerating, even though I am known to do that.
James would yell at Mom that he was not leaving. He would jump up and down, his hands shaking back and forth while his two hundred pound body held onto Mom. He never wanted to be without us, even though he liked spending time with our Dad. The thing is, our Dad would rarely see James and James needed routines. So seeing him after six weeks of absence did not always go over well.
His ocean blue eyes turned back to the tv. He was once more transfixed in the game. The only time James was quiet was when he was invested in a sports game or a Disney movie. Other than that, he talked about anything and everything. James watched the pitcher move his arm back and throw the ball forward. A bat swung, hitting the corner of the ball as it twirled into the summer air. The stadium lights shone down on the players like they were movie stars on the red carpet.
Today was a good game for James- his favorite player, Sanchez, was catching. James would throw a tantrum if Romine was catching instead. He would ask Mom to refresh the lineup to make sure it was the correct information. James would spend hours sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at the computer screen and convincing himself Romine was not catching. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Romine, he just picked Sanchez as his favorite and that was it. Well, maybe he didn’t like Romine. I am not quite sure. We sat in silence for a little, the Yankees falling behind in the fourth inning.
“They’re losing!” James said, his hand hitting the cushion next to him.
“It’s only the fourth inning,” I said.
This comment seemed to relieve some of James’ stress.
“Time for dinner!” Mom shouted to us, and that was all it took for the two of us to jump onto our feet and make our way to the kitchen.
She had already made James’ plate: pasta covered in marinara sauce and meatballs with garlic bread on the side. I went to the sink to collect the pasta from the strainer and poured some sauce into my bowl, mixing the food around. Just as I placed my bowl onto the granite table, Maeve walked in.
“Hey,” she said, throwing her bag onto the couch.
Her red hair was messy, name tag sitting crooked on her chest.
“Hey sweetie,” Mom said, “I made some pasta if you want-”
“How was work?” James interjected, his eyebrows raised towards Maeve, his eyes wide.
“It was good,” Maeve said, “Long day.”
“Have some food,” Mom said.
As Maeve walked to grab dinner, Mom reached for a napkin and wiped the bottom of James’ lips that were covered in tomato sauce. He pulled away slightly, shoving more penne into his mouth. Tomato sauce dripping onto his shirt, prompting Mom to sigh.
We ate dinner together, a rare occasion since getting older. But something about it didn’t feel unfamiliar. Maeve shared stories of her workday. She just began interning at a school for special needs children and always came back with stories that made us laugh: the kind of laughs you wish you could hold onto, those big belly laughs. Growing up with James, he rarely had behavioral issues but some of the kids at Maeve’s school will get into fights with their teachers or curse them out. Maeve also had a way of telling stories that made you lean in, made you want to hear every little detail. She got this from Mom- a trait I always envied.
“Joanie, the girl I was telling you guys about the other day,” Maeve began, “The one who said she would have Ronda, her caretaker fired for being a pain in the ass,” Maeve laughed, “Well, today, she told my manager Jim to fuck off and that he was ugly.”
“No way,” Mom said, “What did he do?”
“Well, he couldn’t do much. He just told her, like, you can’t say that to people. But I was thinking, “Yes, Joanie,” because Jim is such an asshole. And he is ugly.”
**
The sun began to fade further as night arrived. The sound of the dishwasher running moved through the house as we sat, watching the end of the Yankees game. Once they won, James stood, cheering and clapping. His claps were deafening. Everything he did was loud, actually.
“Woo-hoo,” James sang, his shoulders bobbing up and down.
He leaned over to high-five Mom on the couch. His lips formed an O-shape that he only did when he was excited about something. We all smiled, happy that his team won but also happy that the game was over so we could watch something else.
“Alright, hand me the clicker!” I said, taking it from James and putting on The Bachelorette.
“Do we think Luke will go home this week?” Mom asked as she took a sip of her wine.
“I hope so,” I said, “He is literally the definition of a psychopath!”
Just then, a bang hit the window. We all jumped, turning to see what all the commotion was about. Our dogs began to bark, running in circles around the coffee table. Mom and I walked to the door and saw it then: a bird, a striking blue, lying on our stairs. It was a baby, no bigger than the size of a clementine. It looked peaceful even as drops of blood surrounded it.
“Oh God,” Mom said.
“Is it- is it dead?” I asked.
She nodded, a hand covering her mouth. We both stood there for a moment, the door the only barrier between us and the bird.
“I guess, we should- should we bury it?” She turned to me, her light eyes looking into mine.
“But the nest must be nearby. What if we bury it and its parents are looking for it?”
We stood in silence, our eyes studying the baby: its chest puffed, beak cracked and feathers surrounding the concrete.
“I’m not sure what to do,” she said, “I don’t want to leave it for some-”
Before she could finish, a chipmunk scurried up to the stairs and took the bird in its mouth. We watched as it moved through our yard, running through the dirt and into bushes; until we could no longer see it.
“Holy shit,” I said, “Did that really just happen? A chipmunk? Chipmunks eat birds?”
We stood in silence for a moment. The night being swallowed in an eeriness. The bubbliness that cocooned us before was gone. Something about that scene lingered in my mind for the rest of the night. And for my mom, it did too.
**
It had been a few days since James went to see our Dad. Mom and I were in the kitchen, making eggs and toast while Maeve took a shower in her room.
“Did you text your Dad for father’s day?” she asked me.
“Not yet. It’s only nine.”
I began to butter the toast as the phone rang. No one really called us on our house phone anymore except for telemarketers or doctors. But, sometimes, James called if Mom did not answer her cell. And usually, Mom misplaced her cellphone or left it at the grocery store. Dad would dial the number, of course, but once he did James would snatch the phone and hold it close to his ear, asking all his repetitive questions. One of his favorites was: “What are you having for dinner?” Mom would always tell him pizza since he hated it.
I heard her answer the phone, “Hi lovebug,” she said. He would be home tomorrow. I thought about what I would say to him about my weekend. How I would have to lie about being with Kendall. Maybe I’ll say I went to the movies to see something scary--that way he wouldn’t feel like he missed out on anything. My daydream was broken when I heard the change in her tone. She was standing still, the phone glued to her ear.
“No,” she screeched, “No! Tell me this is some kind of sick joke. You can’t be saying-- this is my baby!”
I could feel my face turn colorless; my body stiffen. I knew without having to ask but still, my mind twirled thinking up scenarios, telling myself it was okay, it was okay. Mom hung up the phone and screamed up to Maeve, avoiding my questions and my arm reaching for her. She told Maeve to come downstairs, her breath shaky and tone something I did not recognize. Something I had never heard in her before. Her eyes were dark, blank as she met my gaze.
Maeve ran down, her neon pink bathrobe tied around her waist. I could feel my life shift, something break, something change before she even told us. I knew that this was it. This was the big thing that happened in each person’s life. The thing that changed them forever. And still, I didn’t want her to speak. I didn’t want her to say anything. I wanted to pretend I was still dreaming.
“I can’t believe I have to tell you this,” she said, “James, James is dead.”
**
The flowers began to wilt and the sympathy meals stopped altogether. Cards piled up on our kitchen table, but none of us could read them. I sat on the couch, staring at old photographs of the four of us. How quickly things change, I thought to myself. I peered out the window, letting my mind drift even as it always came back to him: to James.
It had been a month since the phone call. But it felt like just yesterday. It felt like just yesterday that he was here: watching the Yankees and spilling tomato sauce on his shirt. The house was quiet, the quietest it had ever been. I never understood what people meant when they said silence could be loud. Not until now. The quiet is a reminder. Another reminder of the loss.
My eyes moved to the world outside, the world that kept going even as mine had stopped. Not just mine, but Maeve’s and mostly, my Mom’s. How just a month ago, the colors were different here, the feeling was warmer, gentler, more tender. Now, I looked into my backyard, a place that once held so much beauty, so much life and saw a void. I watched how the sun was still burning into the tree branches, how the grass was greener than before, how the birds kept passing by and still did not feel a part of it. I never understood what it felt like to be alive but not really living, until now. My eyes moved across the yard and my thoughts circled back. If I was asked what I thought nostalgia was, I would say: James.
Mary Johnson was lying in her bed, listening to her bedroom window creak ever so slightly. She knew without opening her eyes what was happening. It had become somewhat of a routine, at this point in her life. Well, maybe routine is too strong of a word as such instances are interspersed. And differing in their aftermath.
The first occurred when Mary was full of youth— she had once been very beautiful, at least in a small-town way. Mary had shiny black hair and rosy cheeks that made it always seem like fall out. She saw him at the town mall: two stories, ten stores; mostly full of clothing stores that ended in “barn”. She was wandering in a shop filled with candles, scents of every season filling her nostrils. She scrunched her nose after smelling rustic backyard and was just about to reach for lavender lullabies when a hand grabbed it. She turned, seeing the man before her: tall, dark and handsome.
A gray-knitted scarf hugged his neck, his eyes closed as he smelled the candle. Mary watched him: how he took a deep breath, his eyes opening gently. And then looked down at her. He slowly moved the candle towards her, nodding slightly at the glass container. Mary reached her hands and took the candle from him: scents of lavender greeting her.
“This has to be the best one in the store,” Mary found herself saying.
The man laughed, taking the candle from her, “Then we must buy it, no? If it is the best candle in the store—maybe even in the entire mall?”
“Well, it isn’t called candle world for no reason,” Mary quipped.
They stood in line, two strangers and a lavender candle that was questionably pre-used: the purple candlewax slightly melted inside the glass jar. The cashier was young—maybe fifteen at most. Mary wondered if her working here was legal but pushed the thought aside, assuming that Candle World must be a family business. After all, there were so many candles. Even an international section with ones like “Parisian croissant” or “Irish folklore”. It must be quite a busy business if they import such candles from places that far from Oklahoma.
“Good afternoon, how may I assist you?” the teenager or tween said.
The man placed the candle down, gesturing to Mary and declaring, “I would like to buy the best candle in all the world, for this woman right here!”
She laughed, the cashier that is. Her greasy blonde hair pulled back tight in a ponytail, eyelids splattered in pink glitter as she scanned the candle.
“Have you smelled all the candles in the world?” she said, placing the jar into a small box.
The man looked to Mary and then back at the child. He nodded his head and was about to open his mouth when the kid’s laugh interrupted.
“You cannot just declare that one candle, probably the only candle you actually picked up is the ‘best candle in the world’. Especially, if you have not tried every candle in the world. Further, because that statement can never be a fact, but rather an opinion. One smell you may find to be pleasurable, I may find to be deplorable.”
She pushed the box towards them, her hand extended as she said: “$8.95, please”.
Candles became a tradition in their relationship. Soon after being in Candle World, Mary and the man whose name turned out to be Mateo, began dating. She asked him to move in two months into their love affair—they had already said the L word on their third date. Well, Mary did and Mateo said, “thank you,” in response but Mary knew he felt the same. She could tell in the way he always brought her little candles to display on her bedside table.
They would drink to late-night television shows, make love on the couch and eat a lot of Chinese take-out. Mateo loved the vegetable lo-mien, but he could not really use chopsticks very well. Mary always poked fun at him for this, but Mateo insisted on not using a fork. They talked about getting married, having babies that they would name only beginning with “M”. And they did. Well, not have children but got married.
They went to City Hall, as neither of them had good friends. Well, Mary did have her neighbor Susan who every now and then would ask her to watch her cat and they would talk about the weather. Mary liked speaking to Susan, but she was rather old and often smelled—as old people do. But, she felt weird inviting her to their wedding since her husband died years ago and seeing their love might make her feel uncomfortable.
Mary found a white dress at the town thrift shop, only for $33. Sure, it had some questionable stains on it, but she felt beautiful in it and Mateo also said she did. The store clerk told them it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before, but Mary laughed. They did not buy into that kind of paranoia. Mateo would even leave his opened umbrella by the front door, dripped in rain.
After the wedding, they celebrated with microwave dinners and the liquor store’s best bottle of champagne. They danced to Mateo’s favorite record, and sipped their drinks as they swayed into the night. Mary’s eyes met the table full of candles, thinking back to the day they met and smiling to herself that it was all over candles. Not just that, but the world’s best candle and now, she had met the world’s best man.
Three months later, Mateo left. He only left divorce papers on their wooden kitchen table, his signature neatly crafted. Mary was never sure the reason. But she had her assumptions. Probably another woman. Mary began to drink more. She threw out all the candles, wrote a Yelp review about Candle World warning people to never go, that it ruins lives.
Mary met her second husband, Ed, four months after Mateo left. She had been picking up cigarettes and a lottery ticket at the closest gas station, thinking either would change her life. Preferably, the lottery ticket but Mary never won anything before. Not even the tricky trays at the annual Christmas charity party. As she was smoking against her car door, she saw him. He was older than her, but not in a weird way. Not like a Catherine Zeta-Jones, Michael Douglas thing.
He was wearing his work clothes—his police badge placed on his chest, the blue of his shirt complimenting his eyes. He lifted up his sunglasses, eyeing her up and down.
A finger ran through his moustache before he spoke, in a voice that was oddly high-pitched, “you know, someone as beautiful as you should really quit the habit of smoking.”
Mary rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were a faded rose color. She took out the box of cigarettes from her butt pocket and handed him one. They stood there, smoking against her car, a silence moving around the two. He gave her his business card after a moment, walking back to his police car, turning on the siren and speeding out of the station.
Mary called that night and Ed answered. He showed up to her apartment approximately forty-five minutes after they hung up the phone. He brought a six-pack of beer and more cigarettes to smoke. They sat on her mustard colored couch and talked, as the news played in the background. He spoke slowly, Mary noted. Almost like a child, choking on his words. But still, she found him relatively attractive—minus the beer belly. But, she liked beer and since he brought it to her for free, could she really complain?
“I have worked as an officer for almost eight years now,” Ed said, “it is sad to-to see what things go on in our country, ya know? All the crime, murder even—have you ever seen a murder?”
Mary shook her head, leaning in closer on the couch.
“I haven’t either. We haven’t had a murder here since, oh God, the 90s perhaps. But me being a cop and all—well, I could see a murder any time, ya know?”
Mary took a drag as she listened to Ed speak. She wondered if he would ever actually see a murder. She could imagine a man like Ed would enjoy it. Not the actual murder, of course, but to be a part of something important. Something news-worthy. She could see how being a cop could be addictive, ego-boosting even. But then she remembered how much blood you might have to look at in such crimes and almost gagged at the idea.
“I already feel safer having you here,” Mary said.
Ed smiled, winking slowly at her. He leaned in then and kissed Mary. It was a slow, passionate kiss. She kind of enjoyed it, but, his moustache was too much for her. She decided she would tell him to shave, not now, of course. She just met the guy.
They were married within a year. This time, it was a bigger event. Ed was a very religious man, so he demanded they get married in the town’s church: Saint Pius. It was an old, beaten-up building with banners that stood on the untrimmed grass reading: “God hates abortion”. Mary tried to protest the site as the declaration of their love, stating that no one ever met God before, but Ed insisted. It was where he was baptized, before his parents tragically died in the church fires one Easter. But, the town donated money to help restore what was left of the church.
“It is in honor of my folks, ya know. I always told them I would get married here.”
“At eight years old?” Mary said.
“I was always a hopeless romantic.”
The church was filled with strangers. Well, friends of Ed’s. But, to Mary, barely anyone she recognized. Except, Susan. This time she invited her to the wedding, since she was now dating an older gentleman. She figured it would no longer make Susan sad to see other people’s love.
Mary walked down the aisle in her first wedding dress. Ed protested this idea, but Mary insisted.
“Second times the charm,” she said at dinner one evening as they discussed the dress.
“The saying is third times the charm,” Ed shoved mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Mary slammed her hand on the table, “Whatever, Ed. I look good in that dress, okay? And it cost me a fortune. I might as well use it for my real wedding.”
“I thought you said you got it at the thrift shop? Why do you even have it still if you got divorced?”
“Because, I look good in it! And, I can re-wear it. Kate Middleton is known to reuse her prior outfits.”
Ed laughed, cutting a piece of steak, “Yeah, I saw her at the grocery store wearing her wedding dress again.”
But, in the end, Mary won that argument. Mostly because she threatened to leave Ed if he made her spend other money on a new one. So, she walked down the aisle in the same dress, holding a bouquet of red roses. Ed met her half-way, walking her to where the Priest stood. They kissed slightly before the Priest coughed, looking at them.
“Save the kissing, please,” Father Murray said.
They celebrated at the community center. Some of Ed’s co-workers bought them a cake but it had raspberry filling and Mary was allergic. They danced until 4 am and then fell asleep until the mid-afternoon; Mary still in her dress.
They were in love Mary would say as she grew older. Ed was her love. Or at least, she thought out of all the men, he could have been. But, his work shifts became longer and his drinking increased. And they fought, a lot.
“I am here all day, by myself,” she yelled one night, “you come home late after getting drinks with the “guys” and I am here, waiting.”
“Well, you could make yourself useful at home. The dishes need some cleaning, the floor is full of dust and the fucking trash—do I really need to always be the one taking out the trash?”
“I make dinner every night. I clean up after you. I-I”
“You could use your time,” Ed sat at the dining table, his feet extended into the chair next to him, “reading some recipe books and ya know, making some improvements.”
Mary slapped him then. She said it was so hard, it left a red mark of her handprint on his cheek. Ed said it was like being slapped by a toddler, his skin untouched. They went on like this for a few years. Ed was never home and when he was, he smelled of vodka. Mary began to sleep with the Thompson boy, he was over eighteen but Mary didn’t really know his exact age. He lived across the street from their picket-fence house.
One night, Mary fell asleep after having sex with the boy. And, he did too. The two were tangled in the sheets, awoken by the sound of the bedroom door opening. Ed was standing in the doorway—his face pale, his fist curled. The Thompson boy was a track star in their town—but Mary really never saw anyone run so fast in her entire thirty-three years. Ed tried to chase after him, but he eventually gave up and returned to their bedroom: out of breath and full of anger.
“What the fuck, Mary,” Ed moved to where she was standing, sheets wrapped around her body.
He grabbed her arm and shook her. She pushed him away.
“I want a fucking divorce!”
Mary fell to her knees, reaching for Ed’s loose-fitting jeans and gripping onto them.
“Ed, please, no. I love you. It was a mistake, a mistake!”
“You just accidentally decided to have an affair with a sixteen year old?”
“First of all, he is at least eighteen. I asked him—“
“Get out of this house!” Ed screamed as he left the room.
Mary did not remarry for years after Ed. She moved to a new town, even smaller than the last. She bought a small apartment on main street and even got a job as a school teacher, even though she never went to college. But, they were just children. And more importantly, she could teach them life lessons. Shouldn’t they be learning about the real world and not about the past? Mary thought so. She would often spend her class hours talking to them about love and religion. Or even, the latest celebrity gossip.
“Should you be sharing all of this with us?” one of the students remarked to Mary one day, “Isn’t it against academic policies to be discussing your personal life?”
She was twelve, but what a mouth she had, Mary thought.
“It sounds like someone does not understand the spectrum of education,” Mary argued back, standing up from her desk, “John, you’re in charge. I’m taking a smoke break.”
He was a school teacher, her third husband. They became friends before lovers. Mary would spend her lunch breaks flirting with Joshua. Practically, everyone would. Mary swore that sometimes the children even took part in flirtatious banter. She thought about sending out an email to their parents or making a phone call, but she didn’t want to make it sound like Joshua took any part in their behavior.
Mary moved into Joshua’s apartment soon after they began dating. She learned all there was to know about him. Like for instance, he loved tea—especially green tea, but never drank it hot. He liked to blow on the steamy water and then drink it lukewarm. She also knew that he fell asleep early, like a little kid. It was rare that he stayed up late enough to watch Jimmy Fallon with her. She also knew that he didn’t love his parents, but still saw them every weekend in the elderly people’s home. He had an urging sense of obligation, Joshua. He was a loyal man. Mary never told him of her past marriages, as she knew this would upset him. She figured it was in the past any way. Plus, she liked the idea of being in her forties and having never found love yet. Maybe, that part was true after all.
They wrote poems together, the two of them. Mostly declaring their love. Joshua was younger than Mary—in the Catherine Zeta-Jones, Michael Douglas way. But, he did not care nor did she. Age was just a number after all. They dated for about five years, spending their summers at Joshua’s parent’s beach house in the Hamptons. They moved there eventually as Mary fell in love with the scenery and richness. And because Joshua did as Mary wanted.
It was not real love; Mary would tell you that any second. But, he was young and handsome and wealthy. And she liked his little jokes he made every now and then. But she knew for Joshua, it was love. His first, real instance of love. So, she said yes when he proposed on a sailboat that June. Their night filled with champagne and fireworks that danced over their house.
“I think we should get married next month,” Joshua said to her the next day.
They sat on their porch—the summer air heavy, Mary reading one of the Harry Potter’s. She honestly found Harry to be quite annoying.
“Darling,” Mary said, slowly dog-earing page six, “Why rush? I have rushed my whole life and-“
“What have you rushed, Mary? This is both of our first marriages, our first loves. Why not rush? Why wait? We will be married any way in a year. Why not get married sooner?”
“I just don’t want to miss out on what being engaged feels like.”
“You will have an entire month to feel engaged, to be engaged! And a lifetime to be married.”
Mary stayed up late that night, drinking the rest of the red wine that was gifted to them. She thought about her last marriages. How they were the ones to leave. She wondered if this is what they felt, this dread. Mary knew she could not spend a lifetime with Joshua. She did not know what it was, but he was just not very cute anymore. Maybe she saw him too much from different angles.
“You’re still up,” Joshua said, walking down the stairs.
“I can’t do this,” Mary stood, moving towards Joshua, “I cannot get married.”
The silence was loud between them. Mary tried to reach for Joshua’s hand but he moved back.
“But, we are in love.”
She shook her head gently, “I am not sure what love is.”
The police arrived thirty minutes later. Joshua’s body was lying against their brick patio. He had jumped from their porch after Mary told him she was married twice before. She meant to mention the Thompson boy, but forgot in the midst of Joshua crying and then of course, the suicide. Red and blue sirens covered her pale skin as police officers entered.
Mary moved once more, to an even smaller town than the rest. She bought a cheap looking house, covered in yellow and planted some flowers in the front. She mostly lived indoors these days. Watching the news, and ordering takeout. She only went outside when it was cold out, afraid to see anyone in the light. Her hair had begun to gray as time moved on. She often found herself thinking of her younger self, wondering how different her life would be if she just did one thing different; did not marry one man. But, she decided there was no use in these thoughts. She was the way she was.
Mary had been scrolling through her email that night when she came across the subject line: you are beautiful. Her eyes squinted to read what the email contained before reaching for her glasses. First, a picture of a rather handsome man. It was most definitely one of Keanu Reeves, but she let herself think foreign thoughts. Perhaps Keanu is tired of the fame culture, perhaps he wants to venture into dating ordinary women? Why was she not worthy of Keanu Reeves? Maybe he too was just trying to find love. She let her eyes roam over the text: need to meet you… dinner this week?... Looking for my future wife…
Three months later, the man that looked nothing like Keanu Reeves left in the middle of the night. Mary laid in bed, eyes open, watching him push his suitcase out the window. The wheels kept hitting the edge of the opening, him muttering a shit here and there. Then worriedly looking behind him to make sure Mary was asleep. She kept her eyes closed for a little, wondering if she should pretend to be asleep, fake snore maybe? Or should she toss in her sleep to frighten him? Maybe even pretend to have a full-blown nightmare while he was planning his escape?
He was just like the rest, she thought to herself. Always leaving, just this time, out the window. She wanted to ask him if he ever used a door. He kept struggling with his suitcase and at this point, the exaggerated noises and cursing he was making was keeping her from sleep. And all Mary wanted to do these days was sleep. So, she got out of bed and moved towards him. He froze, the suitcase falling to the floor. He opened his mouth a few times, but words seemed to fail him. Without speaking, Mary lifted the suitcase and pushed it through the window hole, letting it fall onto the grass. She then crawled back into her bed, placing the covers over her as he pushed his body through the window.