Part One - 4 "Slipping"

Slipping

Wynnewood, USA

November 27, 2008

10:00am.

The morning hits my eyes with forceful brutality, pushing my eyelids inwards so that they stick to my eyeballs. I can feel the heat of Chiqui’s body still curled up at the bottom of the bed, but I cannot open my eyes to her today. I want to stay with my eyes closed for the rest of the day, for the rest of the weekend. I cannot face the possibility that I will have to cook today, that I will have to be with food, and specifically with a recipe whose inception causes me so much pain.

My face is burning; I can feel the stinging tears still clinging to the debris in my sinuses, in my throat. I feel as though I have set fire to my insides, that my body has shriveled up onto itself and is now nesting in the shame of what I did last night.

I feel empty. I’m hungry, I want food.

NO! NO I DON’T!

I know that I cannot wake up today. Just the thought of dragging my exhausted body down the stairs boils the anxiety now living in the hollow cavity where my heart used to be. 

If I eat anything, I’ll throw it up. I know I will.

The breakfast food that I know is in the cupboard dances in front of my still closed eyelids. I push on them with the palms of my hands, as if to banish the image to the back of my brain. I pull my hands down over my face, and scratch the outside of my eyelids with my nails. I am possessed by a fury at myself that twitches in my fingernails and reverberates throughout my muscles.

You got through the entire day, the entire FUCKING day, and you couldn’t even last!

Worthless.

…nooo…

The angry voice booms inside my head and I am squatting, crawling around, looking for a place to hide from it. The judgment dripping from its vicious fangs lands on my face, sticks to my eyes. It slips into my throat and forces me to gag It eradicates any attempt I could make to strengthen myself up, to make it through to day.

I’m sore. My body is aching and cracking. My knees are screaming from the pressure I put on them yesterday by leaning my overfilled stomach on them as I threw up everything I could. I try to shift my head over so I’m not facing the window. The heaviness of the sadness pressing on my eyes pushes me further under my blanket, which I am holding tightly over my head, as I lay curled up, hugging my knees.

“Yuuhuuu, are you awake up there??”

Chiqui bounds off the bed at the beckoning tone of Mami’s voice, and I groan some sort of acknowledgement. Mami hops up the stairs and I pull my covers tighter around my head.

Where is the evidence from yesterday??

Panic heats the space behind my ears for a second until I remember that I took the necessary precautions to hide it before the morning. The evidence typically consists of wrappers, peels, crumbs, or anything left uneaten shoved into a plastic bag.

“Come on, wake up, let’s go downstairs”

I don’t want to move. I’m not ready to go downstairs. I can’t face food right now.

Ohhh, but it will make you calm down…

The emptiness inside of me, where I used to have organs, makes me want to fill myself with food, and then throw it up. It is my mind’s way to grieve over what it has lost; it is my way to punish myself for everything that I deserve to be punished for. It’s the easiest way to suffer without feeling. I am so angry with myself; I wrap the blanket around my throat, cutting off my breath for a few seconds. When colors begin to flash behind my eyelids, I let go and breathe. I swing my legs off the bed, the momentum of which forces me up right. The room takes a few seconds to right itself, all of the walls settling back into the positions into which they have been built.

The blood rushes to my feet and settles in my soles. The carpet prickles, as if the nerves in the bottoms of my feet don’t know how to process it, rendering into static snow in my mind. I pick up my book and shuffle down the stairs, rubbing my sore, swollen eyes into some type of normalcy before I reach the kitchen. Danielle is already sitting there, lazily eating her cereal and browsing through a comic book. I grab a bowl, fill it up to a portion bigger than one I know I can eat, drown it in milk, and begin to absentmindedly add almonds, and banana pieces into the mix. My breakfast bowl of cereal is nearly overflowing, but I don’t really notice. I perch myself atop of the counter and begin to shovel it in, barely pausing to breathe. My mind is focused on the book in front of me, and I am not conscious of what I am eating.

I finish before Danielle does, and I immediately feel the rush of sadness, guilt, and disappointment at the fact that the cereal is done.

I need more…

The monster in my head is rubbing its slimy dirt-colored belly greedily, dragging my eyes to all corners of the kitchen, showing me what the next thing is that I could eat. I settle on more cereal, it’s the easiest since it is what I have already started on. Mami is still outside with Chiqui, so she wont’ know how much I’ve eaten anyway.

When she comes back in, I have already finished my second bowl, and Danielle has already gone to some other part of the house to occupy herself. I pour myself some coffee as an excuse to remain in the kitchen, and grab a handful of nuts. I hide them under the flap of my book to munch on unencumbered. My stomach is hurting; its shriveled up walls are being forced to stretch now beyond what they can hold after the trauma of throwing up. Normally, I don’t let my stomach rest between binges, so it remains flaccid, and I can refill it; but because I slept, it means that it has had some chance to heal.

The way I am treating it now is as if I were to rip out the stitching from a recently sutured surgery. I don’t care. I sneak in as many morsels as I can, pushing all consciousness away from the moment along with them. I don’t even notice the words that are supposedly rising from the page and into my mind.

I’ve slipped. I know I have, and I am continuing to roll down the jagged hill, barely even trying to grasp at roots and rocks in order to stop the slide. The thought that I now have to create a social circle out of no one, a life out of nothing pushes me further down, makes it much easier for me to ignore my feelings and just stay with the cycle of my illness.

“How about you go do something else?”

Now that the truth has emerged in its entirety, Mami is not as aggressive as she used to be when she suspects that my behavior isn’t up to par. I shrug my shoulders; I can’t move anyway because my book is concealing the nuts that I still have to eat.

Mami shuffles out of the kitchen, and goes to the living room to watch football. It is after all, Thanksgiving day. I slide up to the door of the sitting room, to see that she’s concentrating. She looks almost sad, and she’s been unusually quiet.

“Hey, Mami, what’s the matter?”

She looks at me with a searching gaze, and definitely forces a smile. I should know, I’m the queen of forced emotion.

“Oh, nothing, I just miss your dad. What’s up with you?”

“oh, nothing…”

She turns her attention back to the game and I take this opportunity to sneak down to the basement bathroom. When I walk into it, I notice that I have successfully erased the smell of half digested food from the night before, and I turn on the shower water, as if I am going to step into it. Instead, I raise the toilet lid, and heave the contents of my extended breakfast inside. It only takes a few minutes, since most of it has become liquid.

I step into the shower, dizzy, and already exhausted. I don’t wash my hair because, really, what’s the point? The heater in the house is broken, and the water is quickly growing cold as it flows over my body. I stare down and hug my wet, sore stomach. I crumple to the floor, and sob into my dripping, and now freezing knees.

I step out of the shower and wipe the steam away from the mirror with my forearm. My eyes are red, swollen, and show traces of blood vessels about to burst. My face has broken out in some angry red lesions, from the acid that has splashed on to it.

Well, there’s always tomorrow…

I slap myself on the forehead, hard.

 You idiot, how many tomorrows do you think you’re going to have left like this?

The admonition hurts more than the heavy emptiness that is again settling inside of me, I walk out into the newly renovated basement and collapse on mattress that is currently this room’s single item of furniture. I don’t think anyone has even noticed that I’ve gone anywhere. I can hear Danielle playing with Chiqui upstairs.

I put the same clothes that I was wearing back on; I didn’t wash my hair so it doesn’t even look like I showered. I can do this same thing again if I want. I go upstairs, look in on Mami in the sitting room, and call out to Danielle,

“Let’s go, I want to dye my hair!”

Someone once said to me that when you change your hair, it means that your life is going to change. I can’t remember who said this, not even after I shake my head a few times to try and jar my memory. It must be someone important because the thought is laced with heaviness in my heart, one that sinks into the already heavy vacuum I feel inside.

We ride to the pharmacy; the only place open on Thanksgiving, and I blast techno music and supportive songs by angry female vocalists into the still suburban neighborhood. We take the long way there, driving around and passing all of the houses that my friends from high school used to call home. Most of them are there now; we do have our reunion tomorrow.

I wonder if I’ll see anyone?

My hair is a dry, multicolored mutt of all the colors I’ve dyed it in the past two years and I’m craving some naturalness to it. I want it to be brown again. I want to be me, not the some fake version that I pour over myself. I pick something that looks the closest to my natural color and we head home,

“Can we take the long way again!?!”

My head is pounding from the music and the seesaw my stomach has been riding on in the past twenty-four hours.

“No. I want to do this before we make dinner.”

Danielle looks disappointed; I think she has something to tell me, so I concede to take the back roads back to the house.

“I’m worried, Yali.”

Shit.

“What are you worried about?”

Danielle picks at the door handle absentmindedly lifting it up, and letting it drop,

“I’m worried about Mami and Papi. Mami is really mad at Papi.”

Phiew…it’s not about me. Another bullet dodged.

“Why is she mad at him?”

“Well, ‘cause she feels alone. I think she really misses him. She’s mad that he’s not here.”

Oh.

“Well, don’t worry, there’s nothing that we can do about it, you know that. Just…whatever, don’t take it personally.”

That’s why Mami has been so tense. That’s why she seems to be in a constant state of disappointment. Damnit. Now what do I do? How am I supposed to fix this!

“Oh...well, I guess you’re right, Yali.”

Once back at home, I find myself in the bathroom again, this time to dye my hair. I mix the ingredients together in the bottle; shaking it vigorously, far longer than the required 30 seconds. The forceful back and forth movement cramps my arm and I like this feeling of tension, and the way it releases when I put the bottle down, and stretch out my fingers.

The instruction sheet always has some convoluted way to arrange your hair so you get an even dye, but I just dump the whole bottle on my head and rub it in like shampoo. The color gets there anyway. It splashes as I scratch my scalp with the force of my action, and hits the walls like the splatter of blood from a shooting victim, like the splatter of vomit when I throw up.

I’m anxious and excited at the change, and the effort I have to muster to sit with it for the time it needs to settle in is more draining than I would expect it to be. I have my book in front of me; I know that it will take about 50 pages for the dye to be ready. When I get there, I wash out my hair, reveling in the dye pouring out with the water, reminding me of the blood in the dentist’s office. I run upstairs to dry it, and when I look in the mirror, my eyes shine brightly against a dark curtain, my hair. It’s still dry, but at least now it’s dark, at least now I feel like I’m a step closer to being whole.

“Heyyy, wow, it looks so good!”

Danielle is standing behind me while I am still competing in a stare-down with my reflection in the mirror in Mami’s room.

“Wow, it really brings out your eyes!”

I pull at my hair, and hide my eyes with it.

“Eh it’s still dry and ugly and too short.”

I pull it back in a ponytail and see that I have spots of dye on my ears and some of my neck.

Whatever

“Let’s go make Thanksgiving dinner.”

Danielle follows me down the stairs, still telling me that my hair looks good, trying to make me happy with it. I call out to Mami to put the chicken into the oven while I prepare my ingredients.

“Now? Right now?”

She calls out from her riveted position in front of the television screen; the Eagles must be winning. Or losing.

“Yeah, Americans have their Thanksgiving dinner at 4pm, we might as well do it like that too.”

We ready the ingredients, and while I’m mashing the spices into the goat cheese, I picture the last time that I did this. The smell of borscht cooking nearby wafts into my nostrils, but the borsht is from more than three weeks ago. Here, in this kitchen, there is only a chicken in the oven and raw pumpkins waiting to be stuffed.

My fingers are covered in the goat cheese, I have given up using a fork and have decided that this is the better way. When I deign the mixture done, I pull them out and examine them; they look as coral does when it has absorbed too much carbon dioxide: white and brittle, with large chunks coming off of it.

Come on, eat it…

I can’t. I wash it off in the sink instead, and wait around for the chicken to be cooked long enough so I can put my pumpkins in. When the dinner is prepared, we set up a makeshift buffet on the kitchen bar.

I don’t like the way the pumpkins look; they’re lopsided, they’re not stuffed all the way, they’re ugly. The ones I made before were better looking. I feel like I want to cry, but it would be strange to do so here. We pile our makeshift Thanksgiving meal onto our plates. Mami and Danielle exclaim at my recipe,

“Wow…it’s so yummy! Great job!”

I don’t believe them. I think that they are just saying it to make me feel better. When I eat what is on my plate, I can’t taste anything. Maybe I should just eat more, then I will taste. Soon enough, I find that I have eaten more than what I am comfortable with and I search for a way to go into the bathroom again. I mentally search the three bathrooms in my house. There’s the bathtub upstairs, I can pretend to be taking a bath. I wait around with Mami and Danielle for a few more minutes, helping them clean up the plates, and when they are both sufficiently occupied, I go upstairs, and run the water.

Relief…

This time, I am no longer ashamed, I am furious, I am absolutely seething at the thought of how I am wasting this weekend. These rare opportunities that I have to bond with Mami and Danielle, and I’m blowing them all away, wasting them like the food I consume, like every minute of my life that has been flushed down the toilet.

When will I stop?? When will I stop??

I heave out into the toilet again. This time, it isn’t on purpose.

PART ONE - 3 "Everything Comes From Something"

Everything Comes From Something

Fontainebleau, France

July, 1994

I’m standing by the lace covered glass door that serves at the front door to our house. The morning settles over our pebbled driveway as the reflection of the cloud spattered sky grows brighter on the car’s windshield. For the moment my hair is agreeing to stay in the colorful barrettes that Mami hastily put on me this morning, and my tomato colored backpack is full and ready for me to grab it and go. I am marching back and forth in front of the door, throwing surreptitious glances at the stairway curved across our dining room, waiting for Papi to come down and take me to day camp.

Today is Wednesday morning, and they are giving us chocolate cookies and the jus de menthe, the mint flavored drink that I love to get second servings of. I can hear my little sister, Danielle, running around our two-room upstairs, refusing to put on her pants. I know that once she gets to her nanny, she loves being there, so I don’t understand why she always has to put up a fight in the morning.

Mami usually takes me to day camp on her way to work at the travel agency, but today she left before my crispy rice cereal had the chance to exhaust itself in conversation. Today, Papi is taking us to where we have to be for the day, and he doesn’t seem to be able to catch my sister. I sit down by the door and hug my knees onto my chest and rest my head between them so that I can feel, on my ears, how soft my pants are. My feet are jittering, tapping on the maroon colored tiles that cover the entire floor in the downstairs rooms, and I can still hear Papi scrambling to get Danielle to stop eating her left sock.

I can’t sit still anymore, so I get up and begin to tap out a song on the glass panes of the front door. I walk to the plastic covered table where Mami keeps her papers, and where lots of pens are scattered around, easy for me to reach. I pick one up and scribble on a paper, drawing circles and swirls that intersect. After a few jerky strokes, I step back and decide that I don’t like my drawing, so I scribble over it. I look to my left and see that the light is on in the downstairs bathroom and is projecting shadows over the green colored wallpaper that make it look as if it’s moving. I go in, stick out my tongue in the mirror, and turn off the lights. When I step back out, I can still hear Papi and Danielle upstairs, and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I am convinced that I am going to be late. I run over to the bottom of the stairs and call up to the noise coming from the room above,

“Papiiii! They don’t like it if you’re late!! Hurry up!!”

           

If Mami were here, we would be on the way already. Frustrated that he didn’t answer, I emphasize my complaint in a higher voice that mimic’s Mami’s

“I don’t want TO. BE. LATE!”

I bounce up and down on the bottom step to emphasize the extended vowels, and I can hear Papi’s obviously frustrated maneuvers upstairs, but he doesn’t answer, because he wants to get Danielle dressed so we can be on our way.

“We have to go, NOW!!!!”

His harried face appears at the top of the stairway; his face is scrunched in annoyance, his big square glasses threatening to slide off his long nose and shatter on the stairway.

“Your whining isn’t helping, Yali.”

Fine. I’m making things worse. I swallow hard so that whatever is stuck in my throat lands with a thunk in my stomach. I pace back and forth between the stairs and the tiny microwave cum fridge with sit in the corner of our dining room.

The time on the microwave’s display blinks from 09:12 to 09:13. I’m late!

I let out a loud breath. I know, that as usual, I have to do something alone if I want it to be my way. I walk around the dining room table, past the half-wall, which divides it from the front room, and put my backpack on. I march to the door, and tug on the doorknob. The door is locked. I pull on it repeatedly so it shakes the glass panes. I want their rattle to reach all the way upstairs.

I wait a few seconds but nothing happens. My breakfast crawls back into my throat as in three determined movements I unlocked the door, thrust it open, and slam it shut behind me. The early morning sunlight pierces my eyes after leaving the dimly lit house. I step to the rusting metal railing separating me from a steep drop down to our driveway and stare out at the car. I stick my face between the bars, and hesitate for a minute; maybe I should just wait for them to be ready. I’m late anyway.

From somewhere in my back, I feel a push that tells my body that I’m supposed to just go. I trudge down the stone steps to the driveway and stubbornly sit myself down in front of the metal gate. I throw a few pebbles from the driveway at it so that it makes a repetitive clanging noise that reverberates up towards the clouds. Nothing happens. So I throw a few more, and wait. Nothing happens again, so I decide to take a few handfuls and just chuck them at the gate, just to hear the noise. Still, nothing happens, and my eyes are stinging with the mixture of frustration and dust from the pebbles. If Papi isn’t going to notice me, I am just going to leave.

I stand up and pat my legs to remove the dust from the driveway. I pull open the gate. The noise from the road rushes towards me and I can feel the energy of the morning traffic through my toes. It climbs into my legs and torso, down my arms and into my fingertips. I rub my hands to get rid of the tingling feeling that has settled in my palms.

I know the way to the camp by heart—when Mami drives me there, she lets me pretend to give her directions, so I know which way I have to walk. Hiking my backpack up towards my shoulders, I take the first few steps out onto the sidewalk, and then stop. I turn around and look back at the house twinkling in the sunlight. The thought of the mint flavored drink and the annoyed faces of the camp counselors if I get there late nudge me forward.

I walk up the hill towards another main road and then turn to take the road in the woods towards camp. I know that I shouldn’t cross too many streets alone, so this path is the best way to go. My shoes crunching sticks and my arms are folded upwards as they hold my backpack firmly at the top of my shoulders. I keep my gaze down on the ground. When we drive, it doesn’t take very long to pass by these woods, but now, my legs are cramping and it makes me feel like I’ve been walking for hours.

It’s not supposed to be this far. I know it’s not. Panic spills out from my heart into my lungs. I feel like I’m choking. I breathe hard on purpose with fast, rattling breaths, and hug my arms tight around myself.

I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry

The tears cascade from my eyes faster than I can stop them and I sit down on the dusty ground with my legs folded in front of me. I slip my backpack off and cradle it on my lap and bury my face in it’s the rayon. I’m shaking with my sobs and I’m crying out, but no one can hear me,

“Mami!! Mami!! I want to go home! Mami!!”

When I look up, all I see around me are trees pointing at me with their long, gnarly branches. They are mocking me for being too stupid to keep walking on my own. I swallow hard a couple of times, sniffle, and angrily wipe away my tears. I’m uncomfortable sitting like this; my left leg is falling asleep. I hate it when it gets that prickly feeling; it makes me feel like it’s going to fall off. I get up and throw my backpack over my shoulders again, making sure that it stays steady.

I push myself up and start to walk faster until I am ultimately running, wincing as sunlight filters periodically through the rows and rows of trees. Holding the straps of my bag tightly within my fists I run through the woods, jumping over roots and avoiding tripping on rocks until I get to a clearing that I recognize. I drive by it with Mami when she takes me.

There are three huge fire trucks parked in the clearing. The firemen are crowded around one of them. Some of them are leaning on the truck, others are kneeling, but all of them seem to be waiting for something to happen; for a fire to erupt somewhere.  My shirt became untucked while I was running, so I stop to fix it. I have to walk by them without their noticing so that they will leave me alone. I step out into the clearing, holding my breath somewhere in the middle of my chest and stare straight forward as I get closer to them.

I can hear that they’ve seen me because one of them calls out to me,

“Hey! Petite fille! Are you okay? Little girl?”

I scrunch my eyes tightly together because it’s becoming harder to walk when I’m holding my breath. Maybe it’ll be safe to breathe out a little bit, and I try to just let a little bit out. As soon as I open the airway a crack, however, all the air rushes from my lungs as well as the sobs I didn’t know I was still stifling. Without thinking, I put my hands up to my face and start walking faster, away from the fire fighter with the big bushy moustache and the worried expression in his eyes.

“HEY! STOP! Are you lost?? Come back!”

I’m running again now, but my hands in front of my eyes are making it hard for me to see. I don’t see rock on the floor and I trip, falling onto my already tired knees. I give up. I crumple around myself and let the tears fall from my eyes.

The fireman comes close enough to me now so that when he kneels in front of me, I can feel his breath on the hands that still cover my face. I can hear that the has a woman with him because she asks,

“Sweetie, are you okay?”

I answer by sobbing even harder,

I just didn’t want to be late! I just didn’t want to be late!

The thought is clanging between my ears so loudly that I have to strain to hear them when they’re asking me where my parents are.

“…Mami…”

I whisper it so softly that it barely sneaks out from behind my hands. Both of the adults are kneeling by me now, and I can feel that others are standing behind me. I pull my hands slowly from my face and I am staring at kindly brown eyes in a leathery, wrinkled face. It’s the fireman. He’s wearing a blue uniform with suspenders, and he’s sitting in front of me, supporting himself with his right knee and left hand on the ground. Next to him is the woman, and she is also wearing blue, but not the same blue as the fireman’s uniform. She has short, gray hair, and she’s holding her hand out to me so that I can take it.

I fold my arms across my chest, and I stare up at them both; even though they are also on the ground, they are still taller than I am.

“I want to go to Ma Maman.”

I don’t want to go to the camp anymore. The woman helps me to my feet and the fireman calls over one of his truck-mates. They whisper something to each other in low tones, something that I can’t hear.

“Where does your mom work?”

The woman’s voice is sweet and makes me think of the honey we bought at the bee farm at school last year. Her face looks like it’s usually stern because the lines of kindness she has on there now look like they are on a temporary visit.

“She works at the travel agency in the University by the woods.”

Apparently, they’ve agreed that the kindly fireman will take me in one of the trucks. He kneels down to my height again. In a soothing voice, he tells me not to worry and that they will take me to my mother. He points at one of the trucks. I don’t care how I get there; I just want to get there.

The woman waves at me from the window as we drive out of the clearing and I suddenly very proud of myself, sitting in this truck, so high off the ground. I look out the window and see the drivers of the cars much lower to the ground and I think about sticking my tongue out at them, but I don’t because I’m supposed to feel ashamed for having cried.

It only takes a few minutes to get from the clearing to the University where Mami works. I had actually traveled half of the way there from my house. I hop out of the truck and start walking because I know where her office is. I think that he can leave me alone now, but when I look back, he’s walking right behind me.

We walk up the stone steps outside of the glass-encased library where Mami has her travel desk. I feel like my insides are shaking. I’m scared that Mami is going to be angry with me. Once we are in the library, I quicken my step towards the travel desk, because maybe I can get there before the fireman has a chance to say something. His steps are wider than mine, and we get there at the same time.

A mixture of shock and fear spreads in Mami’s widened green eyes as she sees me with the fireman standing in front of her desk.

“We found her in the woods.”

He doesn’t even give me a chance to explain, and the anger forces the tears from my eyes again. Mami doesn’t do anything for a minute, but then comes around the desk and takes me in her arms. Water is coming out of my eyes, and my nose and I hide my face in her shoulder, sobbing. I can’t hear what they’re saying to each other, but when I pull away from Mami’s shoulder, the fireman is looking at me through smiling eyes.

“You’re a very smart little girl, but next time, don’t be so stubborn.”

He winks at me, and then shakes hands with Mami before leaving the library and going back to his truck. Mami takes my hand and tells me to sit under the desk until she’s done with a call. I don’t know if she’s angry, because I don’t think she knew I was missing from my house. Under the desk, I pull at the wires that reach up towards the phone and other electronic things on Mami’s desk, just to see which one of them is loose. When I look over at the feet of the other woman who sits at the long desk next to Mami, I see that she is wearing sandals, but is missing two toenails.

When she finishes her call, Mami pulls me out from under the desk and searches my face with a worried look. She puts her hand through her black hair, which she wears relatively short, as the other one is holding on to my shoulder. I try to give her what I think is a smile and she pulls me in close to her. She strokes my head with her hand.

“My heart hit the floor when I saw you walk in with that fireman. Don’t ever do that again.”

I nod a few times because I don’t really know what she wants me to say. I kind of want her to let me go. I know that I get to spend the rest of the day here so maybe I can play in the bookshelves. She pulls out a few coins from her pocket and hands them to me,

“Why don’t you go and get yourself some hot chocolate from the machine.”

A burst of light rushes through me and I take the coins from her hand, and stick them in the pocket of my pants. I know where the best hot drinks machine is and I skip down the hallway towards it. The machine towers over me, but I can read all of the drinks, I skim over the coffees and get to the section that I like: Chocolat Chaud, Soupe de Tomate.

I don’t want hot chocolate, I want tomato soup. I put the coins in one by one, waiting to hear the clinking noise that means they’ve landed safely inside the machine. I push the button for the soup, and stand back, watching excitedly as the little cup plops into the compartment behind the plastic protector. The steaming red liquid splashes into the cup and the air fills with its velvety aroma. I never have the patience to wait until the cup fills up. I open up the compartment to watch the last of the soup pour into it.

I pull it out of the compartment and flashes of pain fly up from my fingers into my brain. It’s too hot! I drop the cup and jump back so it doesn’t hit me. A red puddle spreads out from the upturned cup, staining the blue carpet in the hallway. I look around me, and no one is around. I don’t want to tell anyone, so I pick up the cup and roll it around the puddle to pick up some of the stain, and then I throw it in the garbage. I go to the end of the hallway and look left and right. I step out only after I see that there is no one there.

I linger on my way back to Mami’s desk, looking into classroom windows, and pulling books of off shelves in the library to look at them closer. When I go back to the desk, Mami is on another call and I crawl under the table with my backpack. I take out my coloring pencils and a notebook and scribble with the red, the yellow, the orange. I think I’m making a sun, but then I add brown and it’s not really anything anymore. Mami pokes her head under the desk, and looks at me quizzically,

“Where’s your hot chocolate?”

I look up from my drawing and I notice that her eyes have some brown in them too.

“Oh, I drank it already.”

She smiles, and goes back to her work. I go back to adding more colors to my drawing that don’t really make any sense. They’re pretty though, and I like them.

***

A few days later, it’s Sunday and I love Sundays because it means that Papi and I get to drive to the bakery to get the baguette while Mami stays home and makes lunch. Usually Danielle doesn’t come with us, and I like this because it means that I get to spend time with Papi alone.

Today I’m going to wear my favorite sweatshirt that my grandma Lea bought me. It’s the white one with the colorful pictures of hats and shoes. I skip down the stairs with my pink sandals in my hand and rush towards the door to put them on and wait for Papi. He is sitting at the desk by the door, bent over some writing, and I go up to his shoulder to see what it says.

I can never read his handwriting, it’s so loopy and fancy that it must mean he’s very smart. All the smart kids in my class have loopy handwriting, and even though I could write before all of them, mine is messy and slanted, and I always get points off on my homework for it.

“What are you writing, Papi?”

He mumbles something at me and I wait for him to finish his sentence before asking him again. Mami’s voice filters in from the living room where she is talking to someone in Hebrew on the phone. Probably my grandma or my aunt Michal. Michal is my cousin Maya’s mom. Maya is three years younger than me and after the day camp ends this summer, I’m going to get to go to Israel to play with Maya again.

Papi folds the paper he was writing on into an envelope, and pats me on the head. He looks around on the floor around him for a few seconds He finds his shoes under the desk and pulls them on like envelopes for his feet. He strides over to the door and pulls it open for us to go outside. Whenever I go out with Papi, we check on the spider that lives in the rain gutter on the side of the house. We saw her there once together, and we named her “La Groghte”.  I don’t really know what it means, but it sounds funny. If we see her there, it is my job to crawl on the ground and find ants for us to feed her. Mami really hates it when we do this because I always get dirty.  I skip over to look for her. Her web is there but she is not. I stick my head closer and call out to her,

“Groghte! Groghte!”

Papi stands behind me, still holding the paper that he was writing. When I look back at him, he has a smile on his face but his eyes look sad. He pushes his glasses up just as the wind rustles through his hair that is the same color as Mami’s. Danielle looks like them; she has dark hair and bright green eyes. Sometimes I think that I came out by mistake, because I have blue eyes and blond hair.

“Ok, Yalush, let’s go.”

He wraps my hand in his and we hop down the stairs to our car. It’s the same green as the mint drink from day camp and it has this really cool button that makes it rise off the ground before we can start it. When I’m inside it, I pretend that I’m on an airplane and I’m going to Israel.  We pull out of the driveway, and I close my eyes so I can keep pretending that we’re flying through the clouds.

“What’s in the letter that you have in your hand?”

I’m leaning as far forward as the seatbelt will allow me to. I always have to wear a seatbelt in the car because Mami always tells me that once, when I was three, I took it off and almost flew out of the windshield.

“It’s a letter to the nice fireman who brought you to Mami on Wednesday.”

The excitement in my heart shatters with a fireball and sinks. It sends debris flying inside my body. I feel hot in my face, and I rub my cheeks.

“Why did you write him a letter?”

Papi carefully maneuvers the steering wheel, taking us to the bakery. Usually, I get to pick a treat. Every week he makes it seem like it will be a surprise, but I always know exactly what I’m going to get.

“He was very nice to take you to Mami. Today, instead of buying you a treat, we’re going to buy him something and take it to the fire station.”

Oh.

The heat in my face spreads down my neck now, and I want to say that it’s not fair, but I know that I can’t because I guess this is my punishment for running away. I slump back into my seat and tuck my chin into my chest as tears burn their way down my cheeks. I stay quiet for the rest of the ride, and when we get to the bakery, I don’t want to come out.

Papi goes into the bakery alone. I stare anxiously from the car window, waiting for him to come back. I can see him through the windows of the bakery; he’s buying a baguette and something small. For a moment, I’m excited again; maybe he’ll feel bad and buy me the treat too.

When he comes back, he just has the baguette and a little packet. He settles into the driver’s seat, and puts both on the passenger’s side. Usually, I get to hold everything, but today I don’t even get to do that. I feel angry, but I sit silently and stare at my feet, and I hate them. Papi tries to make me laugh by singing to the radio in a horrible high-squeaked voice, but I don’t feel like laughing.

“STOP IT! It’s not funny!”

When he stops at a light, he turns around and squeezes my leg with his strong hand, trying to reassure me. I don’t want to be reassured. It’s not fair; it was his fault that I had to leave alone anyway. I sit in silence for the rest of the ride. When we get to the fire station, I see the man that found me in the woods. He still has that big brown mustache, and he’s still wearing the blue uniform. Only this time, he’s also wearing a hat. Papi makes me get out of the car and puts the sweet smelling package and the letter in my hand. I have to go and give it to him.

I take a few steps and try to force myself to smile, and my cheeks hurt from it. When I get to him, I feel like my voice has evaporated.

“Monsieur, it’s for you.”

It comes out in the softest whisper, but he saw me and he kneels down to accept the gift. His eyes are still smiling at me. I force my smile to be even bigger and stick my hands in my pockets after he takes what I was holding.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,”

He stands up again and Papi shakes his hand, while I stand awkwardly between them. Papi is wearing a cream colored sweater that looks too big on him. It’s weird that we’re wearing sweaters. In Israel, the summer is always hot, and here, it’s even a little cold. I tap my feet impatiently. I can tell that Papi wants to leave by the way he is smiling and by how many times he is saying,

“Merci”

After what feels like hours of thanking him, we leave the fireman to his truck and his treat - the one that was supposed to be mine, - and we get back in the car.  On the way home, Papi doesn’t say very much. I just stare out the window, connecting, in my mind, the stains where a couple of birds have pooped on the car.

When we get to our house, Papi has to get out of the car to open the gate first. I watch him as he carefully unlocks the metal doors. We pull the car into the driveway and before he gets out, he turns around to face me,

“Yalush, I’m sorry you thought you were going to be late.”

I don’t answer him. Instead, I sit with my arms folded across my chest and my face scrunched into a grimace of disappointment. His apology doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have a treat in my hand.