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“Oooh, cookies!”, as the yelp penetrates my consciousness. Crap.
“Um, those are digestives,” I say.
“What are digestives?”
“You know, healthy cookies. With bran in them.”
“Gross!” She drops the cookie like it is dog poop and runs off. Whew.
Like I said, I’ll be more careful with my personal belongings.
* * *
October 27, 7:30pm
David leftto drop off the kids at their mom’s house. Strangely, he drives for both pickup and drop off. The kids seem to prefer it. I decide I do want to go to the dive bar. The one that’s only a couple of blocks from the house that I found during my first week. I know what you’re thinking, but when I was abroad, we’d go to the bars during the work week. It’s culturally ingrained in me, now. Plus, I don’t drink much. I just like to have a place to sit for a couple of hours and read a book on my phone.
Tonight, since it’s Friday, I even put on a little makeup and prepare to go out. I don’t usually wear any (thank my parents’ genetics for naturally good skin!), so I’m not very good at applying the stuff. I do look better with it, but not enough for me to care. Plus, I don’t want people telling me I’m “tired” or asking me if I’m feeling okay on days that I decide to skip the makeup routine. I squint at myself in the mirror.Hmmm, I think this looks okay. I try to balance between looking like a clown and using enough that it’s at least noticeable (unlike the time I tried to dye my hair red, but didn’t want to bleach it, and nobody could tell I’d even done anything). I wish I were better with the sparkly, fun stuff, though.
It’s about nine when I finally work up the energy to get out of the house. David is sitting on the couch, next to the front door. Oops. I feel a little like I’m sneaking past my dad. Oh, well. He just gives me a brief smile and nod as I leave. The air is crisp, and a soft wind blows some leaves along the sidewalk. Very picturesque. Even the moon is cooperative, hanging large and low above the rooftops, soft and pale.
I like dive bars, nice and cozy. Makes me think of dramatic film noir scenes and raspy voiced detectives that seduce women in sparkling red evening gowns. I can play darts or pool and maybe chat with someone. I’m not very good, but I’m good enough to play and enjoy myself. I can hit the dart board, so good for me.
It’s quiet, too, which I love. Hardly anyone is ever here, though, and when they are, it’s mostly Russian mafia. Probably, anyway. They give off that vibe. At any rate, they mostly speak Russian. I speak a few words, from spending a summer with my friend in Moscow. I can read a few words. But that’s about the extent of it. It’s friendly, which is all I care about. I spend an hour or two there most Friday evenings, chatting with the lovely bartender. She’s from Poland and so sweet.
Tonight, it appears, I’m the first one to arrive. The bartender smiles at me when I walk in. She tends to be quiet but has warmed up to me. Her name is Kasia. Such a pretty name. Tonight, she asks how my day has been. As per usual. The same question everyone asks you, but with her it’s sincere each and every time. Her dark grey eyes smile at me. I tell her that it hasn’t been too bad.
“How has it been here for you?”
“Quiet here,” she says, “like usual.” I ask for a lemon drop martini. Sugar and spice and everything nice. That’s my drink of choice. I sip on it and browse the news. What is happening in the world today, huh? Mostly drama. Why do people love drama so much? Maybe my privilege is showing.
The first time I walked in, I felt as if I didn’t belong. I don’t know what it was about the place. But — I rather needed a drink. I don’t say that often. Drinking isn’t my vice, not that I judge those who have a liking for the stuff. My parents let my sister and I drink at home, when we were growing up. A glass of wine (small!) or a sip of margarita. Neither of us wanted to, though. We thought the wine tasted nasty and that our parents must just like gross things, like all adults did. The margarita was okay, but what was with the salt? Gross. I mean, I like it now as an adult, but back then I thought it was super weird. Deer lick salt, not people.
So, yeah, drinking is not really my thing. But where else was I going to go? It was late. The restaurants were closed. I did not want to be in the house. I hadn’t really looked anything up before I left, and I didn’t know the city well enough to wander.
Plus, my inner introvert was already kicking in. What if I went to a busy bar and a guy wanted to talk to me? Ugh. I didn’t have the energy to tell him to go away. This place had a pool table and alcohol and hardly any people. So even though I felt a little out of place, I stayed. I am glad I did. Because of her. I sensed her kindred spirit.
Okay, so sue me, I believe in that which I cannot see. I swear I have a guardian angel looking out for me. She appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in college. She’s been by my side ever since. And this girl, I sensed was someone with whom I should connect. I don’t meet all that many like that, and I think I’ve met a fair amount of people. Even in the relatively short time I’ve had to meet anyone.
I feel warm, even while it is a bit chilly out. As I sit here in my favorite spot, I sip my concoction and I talk to my friend. The hours slip by, and I realize it’s past midnight. I am Cinderella, and I want my bed and comfy (not glass!) slippers. I bid Kasia a good night and walk back out into the night.
She feels like the first piece of…something I feel like I’m weaving together, I don’t know.
Something magical.
3
The Ghosts of Kitten’s Past
My mother is beautiful, kind, and generous. At least to the people she believes are deserving of her beauty, kindness, and generosity. But that’s something. She’s a narcissist, which can be difficult for a child to deal with, but actually it’s easier than you think. My fake mom you had to really talk to and work through problems with to earn her love. My real mother, or perhaps more accurately my first mother, you just had to smile and say, “Mom, I missed you soooooo much!” And smile and agree with whatever she said. It was pretty easy, really.
My first mother loved me. I never doubted that. She was practically obsessed with me. She’d always say, “I was always there for you.” And it was true. That was the problem. When I was little, I loved stuffed animals. She always bought me so many stuffed animals. For my tenth birthday, she bought me a giant purple unicorn. You know the kind you win at carnivals? I always wanted to win one of those, but I never did. It was bigger than any of my friend’s stuffed animals. All my friends were so jealous of Lollipop. She was so soft and comforting. I held her to sleep every night. She was my favorite toy. But then my fake mom bought me a crate full of stuffed animals for my 12th birthday, and when my first mom found out, she got really upset. She told me I was too old for dolls and stuffies. But I was used to that kind of thing by then.
I never begrudged her what she did for me. Not really. She always thought I wanted her to spend more money on me. That I wanted her to take me to more amusement parks or buy me enough cotton candy. Of course, I wanted those things, I was a kid. But she never understood what I wanted, any more than I understood what she wanted. I think we just weren’t that compatible. The mother daughter bond is strong, yes, but sometimes the stork drops the wrong baby in the wrong house, you know?
Not that I ever saw the appeal of the stork bringing a baby. Loud, dirty creatures. Reminded me of geese. Ugh, geese. Evil ducks, that’s geese for you. When I was young, I thought a goose would eat me every time I visited my grandparents. Have you seen a goose? My grandparents lived in front of a park. Next to a serene lake, or it would have been serene without the stupid geese. You think bats are terrifying? Try venturing out to the swings on your six-year-old legs, chased by devil birds with beady eyes and scissor beaks. Geese. What a stupid word. Mice doesn’t become “meese.” Besides, even the word geese implies the existence of more than one goose. And who needs that?
I don’t blame my mother, for what it’s worth. My mother was diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder. So, it’s not really her fault.
