SYLVIA PLATH.
Some paranormal story.
After the worry, there was 4th of July weekend. With the nowhere creep in the nowhere woods, where we ran away into nowhere. And the last time I laid completely down, I think. On a Saturday night. It was in the Holy Spirit's room and, in the middle of the night, the cold crept in from nowhere, and I felt you pull the covers over me. That night I dreamt about solving equations and cleaning out my desk. You covered me up, and I wish, I wish, I wish. I thought I must be headed for the morgue. And then, the wine glass. Where I was resurrected under the 8, the infinity sign, in the hall.
I remember sitting in the hospital one morning, staring out the window, waiting optimistically, watching a hawk and a vulture riding the thermals. I would have cried, but the story never ends, so it's never sad.
And after that, the pledge of allegiance, the moment of silence. No popcorn, no cracker jacks. I asked to come to you, as I tend to do. You told me, "No."
It's Christmas, and my Christmas wish is hidden somewhere in this stuff. I know it.
I'll start this way . . .
I realized recently that I know my favorite day.
I want to describe it in detail, one last time.
It was late June. I was out of town, visiting you, and we were about to have our first argument. That night, we put Kate Bush on, turned the volume on the boom box way up, and went outside with our 40's. We started talking about South America. I asked why you didn't want to go there together, but you couldn't explain. The iPod was on loop. It was awfully annoying. Especially the song with the bagpipes. It ruined the beauty of my sadness to hear bagpipes, and I started to cry. I was sitting on the water tank that connects to the well behind your house, and you were standing in front of me, staring like you wished you could absorb the whole world through your eyes. I didn't know how else to phrase the phrase, and we were both lost in that stupid saying, and looking for a way to Heaven. You tried, as you sometimes do, to find words. It was like watching and waiting for an old car to crank, and finally the engine roars, and then you realize you've got nowhere to go. I watched you say that if you didn't care, you wouldn't be standing there, right in front of me, and that it had never been done before. First woman on the moon, I thought. But then I foolishly let myself wonder, Now what?
So you went inside, said you needed to take a shower and wash all the allergens off. So you did, and I finally got Kate Bush to shut the fuck up, and you came into the kitchen with wet, goofy-looking hair parted down the middle, stupid baggy denim shorts. 7-Up shirt. We sat not talking, feeling each other's eyes with our eyes sometimes. We went to bed when you were ready for bed. I asked where the Benadryl went, said I bought it. You said you'd taken the last 4.
In your brother's room, we went through the ritual. You arranged the fan to point at the bed while I put on my pajamas, then you get in on the left side, and I get in on the right side, and you lay on your back, and I lay on my left side with my head kind of against your scrawny white right arm. I told you I was sorry, I said I'd think about bears to get myself to go to sleep, and I fell asleep.
I had one of those experiencing-R.E.M.-sleep-too-early dreams I have when I'm abysmally terrified of the future. It was a very short and simple out-of-body experience. I didn't even leave the room. A hawk flew out the window. A fox ran into my body and told me, "Be gentle." And a big, shiny, blue-black raven sat at the window sill, inside the room with me, and showed no indication of wanting to leave.
Within 20 minutes of falling asleep, I woke up. Sleep paralysis. When I could move again, I stared at your shoulder, wondering whether or not you'd fallen asleep yet. Then I remembered the 4 Benadryl tabs in your stomach and I couldn't sleep. At 5 A.M., I went outside and sat on the front porch. It was chilly for June, and I was exhausted, but I tried to see how many bird songs I could identify. Eastern Bluebird. Mourning Dove. Some crows. I saw an Indigo Bunting near your mail box. I watched an owl flying north-northwest. I was in awe, so I went inside and got back into bed.
You woke up around 6 and noticed I was awake. You got straight out of bed, saying you'd had the most amazing dream. Picking up your sketchbook from the floor, beside the bed, you rushed into the dining room. Your grandmother's house is small. I laid in bed, watching the sun change the color of your skin very subtly as you sat hunched over, writing, for long enough for me to get cold. I went in the kitchen. Got some water. Stared out the window. Sighed a few times. Went back to the bed. Wrapped myself in a sleeping bag. You got the message. Picked up your stuff, brought it with you, and propped yourself up in the bed beside me. I stared at your hands until you were done.
It was the dream where you saw a unicorn. With me watching you hang curtains, and your teeth falling out as always. And the school bus we didn't get on. And you running off to a party, seeing your mom when she was young, and your mom not knowing who you were and not talking to you. And then, in your dream, spit out all your glass teeth and flew away, into the night, like you always said you like to do in dreams.
You read your recollection of this from your sketchbook once you were done writing, and I feigned enthusiasm as I tend to do, and we paused there for a moment before going out to smoke cigarettes.
We smoked in silence. We watched a vulture. I went inside to take a shower, to rub in all the allergens.
When I got out, you were cutting open and gutting a plush wolf, and turning him into a hooded cape. I insisted upon taking a few pictures of you doing this. We hadn't eaten at all the day before, and my car started making funny noises the day before, so we had to make a trip out of town to get my car worked on. I followed you, and we agreed to stop and get breakfast.
The city we ended up in was an image from my daydreams. We ate at a restaurant that reminded me of my grandmother, so I ordered a grilled cheese. Some lady complimented the color of my hair. You and I didn't say much to one another, but we exchanged knowing looks regarding everything around us.
After we dropped off the car, we had an hour to spare. You said we could drive around, so we did. We found my dream road.We listened to The Cardigans. We laughed at a rooster. It was perfect. And when we reached the main road again, we still had some time to spare, so we went for coffee.
I ordered one, and you ordered one, but I didn't drink mine, and you drank yours. You got all jazzed on caffeine, as usual, and we tried to find a new pair of shoes for you. No luck. Better luck next time. And you wanted to go explore the graveyard across the street. I could tell. But I was tired. Exhausted. And I was trying to get back to Memphis before dark. So we picked up my car and drove home.
I remember I listened to "Billie Jean" on the way. I thought to myself, "God is Michael Jackson ever good!" Something about that moment seemed deep and sticky. It was mid-day.
Back home, I knew we'd have to go through the usual Kelly-is-about-to-leave ritual. I threw my stuff in my bags. I wound up my computer cords. I moved it all to my car. And I came back inside to help you clean, followed by a few cigarettes, and then our straight-up-and-down hug, me closing the car door, you walking inside, and Long Lane.
Instead, we did the cigarettes first. And something about my exhaustion and all the rituals and "Billie Jean" and the caffeine in your system and your stupid, blunt colored pencils and the vulture and the owl and Kate Bush and "be gentle" and sweat bees and the ants crawling up the side of your grandmother's house just ... CAVED.
Our second argument ended when I stepped on a nail that was sticking up through a piece of white tin from the roof, that had been laying around and skillfully avoided until that moment. I suddenly believed I hadn't had a Tetanus shot in centuries. I hopped, one-footed and crying, into the kitchen to wipe the blood from my foot, and you followed me. I snapped at you. I told you I didn't need your help. I pouted on my own while you cleaned the house. During this time, you tried to explain your feelings for me. Selfishly, I didn't listen. I hopped to the front porch to call my mom.
Mom said I'd received a Tetanus the previous year, as it was suggested by my doctor in preparation for my trip to Mexico City. I pulled myself together again, went inside, and said I'd leave. But I insisted you and I get slushies before I go. You didn't want one, but you said you'd ride with me. I didn't want one either.
In the car, you requested I put on "We Have A Map of the Piano". You started to cry. And you cried like I've never seen anyone cry. Moaning, between sobs, about how you didn't want to lose me. And I touched your arm and told you I'd be around.
I didn't drink my slushy. I left it for you, and we gave our straight-up-and-down, no-nonsense hug, and I got in my car.
My head throbbed. Feeling like Death. I drove about 20 miles before calling you to tell you how much you meant to me, but you weren't listening. You said you had been recording yourself sing, and were busy. So I hung up. 5 miles later, I called back and said I couldn't do it and was turning around.
When I got back, you didn't meet me at the door. I walked in. You didn't greet me. I sat down beside you. You ignored me. Finally, you asked some inane question and I retorted with something wry and insensitive. We both ignored each other then, until I moved into the living room and curled myself into a ball on the couch. You were singing along to songs we both liked, and I suddenly felt too awake for my own good. I arranged my arms, with some difficulty, to my liking, and I made myself fall asleep thinking about the fox who told me, "Be gentle."
When I woke up, it was cool again, and the sun was setting. You were staring out the kitchen window, and I came and sat beside you. You asked if I enjoyed my nap. You were smiling so I said "yes", and we smoked cigarettes and decided to go to Pizza Hut for dinner.
On the way there, we saw a dead fox by the side of the road. I didn't know how to properly respond. I felt partially responsible, somehow ... Earlier that very week, I'd sat down at your dining room table and drawn a dead fox in a graveyard. I knew it was my fault, and I knew I'd pay.
But Pizza Hut was fucking amazing. We were both starving ourselves for no reason at all. We both talked shit about the cashier who was yelling at everybody, and then went home. I felt reborn, and you felt relieved. I could tell. I blew a kiss to the dead fox as we passed it on the way home. Your cassette player sung "Hey Venus".
That night, it was hot. I can't explain the temperature change. We moved the fan into the living room and watched The Sixth Sense on VHS. We both were imagining Haley Joel Osment's character as our son. Usually, I'd lay down on your arm while watching a movie with you on the couch, but I didn't that night. So we put in another movie. Bicentennial Man. I made fun of Robin Williams, and you laughed at the stuff I was saying, until a strange car pulled over right in front of your house.
This car sat there, perfectly in our line of sight through that particular window, for over half an hour. Inside, the dome light was on. There were people sitting inside the car, doing nothing. Just sitting with the light on, pulled over in front of your house, right outside of the window we were sitting next to.
We paused Bicentennial Man and snuck to the bedroom window to get a better look at what was going on outside. We could see. We couldn't tell. We talked in whispers and crouched below the window, plotting something. We went out the back door, and ran on tip-toes through the cool, wet grass. We peeked around every corner of the house, but we still couldn't figure it out. So we went back inside and sat down on the couch, still as statues, and un-paused Bicentennial Man, but neither of us were paying any attention.
Then, a knock on the door. You got up and answered it, and I jumped up and followed you, staying beside you, out of sight, holding a lead baseball bat with my eyes wide open. You were very polite, as usual, but the first thing you said to the stranger outside was, "Hello-oh my God, what happened to your face?!"
So I peeked around the door frame. And there he was. A man in a white wife-beater and camouflage cargo shorts, whose face was torn up and down, chin-to-brow, covered in blood. He said they'd gotten a flat, and were waiting for someone to come pick them up, but were wondering if we minded them leaving their car there until they could get it fixed. You said yes, he thanked you, and we shut the door. Locked the door. All the doors. Drank some NyQuil. Moved the fan back into the bedroom, put on our pajamas, got under the white blanket, and fell asleep wondering what had just happened.
Your phone woke us up the next morning. While your mom went on and on about you needing a job or this-that-and-the-other, I noticed the car was gone. And you hung up the phone, and we laid back down. The phone rang again. Your mom again.
Something about something. Likely more nagging. Something about the dog. And then.
"Michael Jackson is dead?"
That's why your mom called back.
To wake us up that way.
And to think . . .
This could only happen one time.
I heard you say it.
I shot up, like I had to make this vertical.
My mouth hung open.
I pulled my knees up close to my chest.
I pulled the white blanket over my head and stopped moving.
Nowadays, at your new place, you once fed me popcorn. And it was the good kind. And when the bowl was empty, I took it to the sink and let it die.
'Cause this is Thriller.
The End.