Remembering Margaux
I remember when I was close friends with Margaux, my college roommate. We would smoke hookah and drink crappy wine together and talk about being Jewish. She was so excited to have a friend she could share her atheistic Judaism with. She was hilarious. I often wondered how she could be so funny. At a certain point, she decided she didn't like either Liz, our other roommate, or me. She'd wanted a boyfriend so badly and ended up being the only single woman in the house. I remember trying to talk to her like we had talked when we were close and how it felt to have your friendship rejected in one brief conversation.
I remember coming home one day in the summer, after school had finished for the semester, and closing my bedroom door-I seldom left it open. I heard Margaux in the apartment and two other voices. I figured out quickly that one of the voices belonged to Margaux's mother and the other to Margaux's friend. Everyone sounded very emotional. And then I realized Margaux was moving away, early, without telling either Liz or me.
I sat in my room and listened. I wasn't supposed to be there. I heard them walk down the hallway, through the kitchen, steps away from my room, and out to the back of the house. I peered down at the three of them beneath the carport. It was like a scene from any coming-of-age movie: the goodbye scene. As I watched, Margaux's friend got into the car leaving Margaux and her mother outside, sobbing hysterically. Margaux hugged her mother a last time, for a longer time than the other hugs lasted, and then, almost abruptly, climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door hard. The car sped off, heartlessly.
I watched as Margaux's mother continued to wave, even when the car was out of sight. And then it hit her that her daughter was gone, and she stopped waving. Her arm lowered to her side, and she just stood there dumbly and wept. I wept with her.
I remember coming home one day in the summer, after school had finished for the semester, and closing my bedroom door-I seldom left it open. I heard Margaux in the apartment and two other voices. I figured out quickly that one of the voices belonged to Margaux's mother and the other to Margaux's friend. Everyone sounded very emotional. And then I realized Margaux was moving away, early, without telling either Liz or me.
I sat in my room and listened. I wasn't supposed to be there. I heard them walk down the hallway, through the kitchen, steps away from my room, and out to the back of the house. I peered down at the three of them beneath the carport. It was like a scene from any coming-of-age movie: the goodbye scene. As I watched, Margaux's friend got into the car leaving Margaux and her mother outside, sobbing hysterically. Margaux hugged her mother a last time, for a longer time than the other hugs lasted, and then, almost abruptly, climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door hard. The car sped off, heartlessly.
I watched as Margaux's mother continued to wave, even when the car was out of sight. And then it hit her that her daughter was gone, and she stopped waving. Her arm lowered to her side, and she just stood there dumbly and wept. I wept with her.