Welcome to Fall Folio, an online literary journal of recent work by the English Department’s Creative Writing students.
All semester, students in Creative Writing courses have been hard at work drafting, workshopping, and revising in the company of their classmates. Given the high level of talent and enthusiasm among these writers, it seemed fitting that we share some of their new works with the community. Students enrolled in a summer or fall 2021 Creative Writing course were invited to submit a piece they were particularly proud of, and after a final round of editing and polishing, those selections are published here. Fall Folio is a testament to the wide range of styles and voices in our program, and includes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction—work that is by turns risky, thoughtful, surprising, and always engaging.
If you’re a student reading this, I hope Fall Folio inspires you to sign up for a creative writing course in the near future. This academic year, the English Department’s Creative Writing offerings include Introduction to Creative Writing, Narrative Nonfiction, Reading and Writing Poems, Intermediate Poetry Writing, Writing the Short Story, and Seminar in Fiction. We’d love to have you join us. In the meantime, happy reading!
Julien Strong Adjunct Professor of Fiction December 9, 2021
I gaze over Sawyer’s head to our bedroom window. Swallows plant themselves on a stringy birch tree across the street, sitting stoically in groups of three. I wonder if they’ll move before Sawyer wakes up. If they don’t, I could tell him they’d been there since six. I turn over, my back leaning weakly against Sawyer’s. Our duvet, baby blue, stained from sex and age, hangs over my side of the bed. Sawyer runs hot when he sleeps and I tend to go cold. He learned that about me the first week we met; I was so nervous that I regurgitated indiscriminate facts about myself to fill the empty space. It was a hopeful emptiness, then. Not as much now. Sawyer sighs, rustling the covers as he searches sleepily for my hand. I don’t pull away when he finds it. The swallows had disappeared.
I close my eyes again, forcing out unwelcome morning light, until Sawyer has gotten into the shower. While I make coffee, I notice our neighbor pushing a baby stroller on the uneven sidewalk.
“I swear, she’s been pregnant since we moved here,” Sawyer says, making his way into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Seems like there’s no more than a two month break in between,” I respond.
I silently beg him to say anything else, offer up a witty joke to flaunt his intellect, force me to feel interested in him again. Instead, he only nods, taking a mug out of the cabinet. Before turning to leave the room, Sawyer flashes me an unassuming smile. He looks so gentle, standing under the door frame without even demanding a kiss goodbye. Suddenly, I’m fighting the urge to cry; a single, gasping sob.
I pull on my coat and head to therapy.
Lina, my therapist, has a small office above an expensive Greek restaurant. She didn’t feel comfortable doing meetings in her own home, so she’d settled on a dimly lit one-bedroom with a leather recliner and an armchair with a side table. Last week, when Lina watched me break down over my name being misspelled on my coffee cup, she asked if perhaps it wasn’t about the coffee. It’s never about anything other than Sawyer these days. I hadn’t really spoken to him in weeks, though not for a lack of trying; I just didn’t want to tell him about my days anymore. Sawyer works and makes more than enough money for the two of us——so how would the conversation even go? (“Well, honey, I bought some new fridge magnets and waited for the second coming. You didn’t miss it.”) Lina asked if I had an extra hour for our next session.
“It might be helpful,” she’d said, “to weigh your options by recounting it all.”
“Weigh what options?”
Lina didn’t meet my gaze.
“That’ll be up to you, Ella.”
Checking my watch, I see it’s eleven thirty five now; I’m a few minutes late. I stand reluctantly in the dark hallway of Lina’s office, knowing that I’ll love telling her about my relationship more than I’ll love returning home to it. Stomach flipping at the thought, I lift my hand to the bronze knocker. Lina opens the door before I reach it and beckons me inside.
“What are you, psychic?” I ask.
“So I’ve been told.”
I cross my legs awkwardly, as though I’ve never stood before. Lina watches me closely while settling into her armchair. She wants me to sit, but I won’t sit. I’m not ready to sit. It’s a whole ordeal, getting out of that recliner once you’re down.
“Take your time,” Lina says, unprompted.
◯ ◯ ◯
We settled in Chicago about three years ago when Sawyer received a generous offer from a top law firm. At the time, our relationship had recently exited the honeymoon stage. We hadn’t been fighting or bored of one another, even after a year in our supposed prime: the carefree mid twenties. I had an aunt who lived in Aurora and Sawyer found us a large apartment with lots of potential——or damage, depending on whether or not you’re a real estate agent. Our friends from Montana, where Sawyer and I were living when we met, insisted on a last lunch the week before we left. All seven of us sat around a circular table, exchanging wistful glances that were far from genuine. Jenna, an overly chatty nurse who was only part of the group peripherally, chose the moment that our waiter arrived with food to comment on renovating a home in a new relationship.
“It’ll either make you or break you,” she said.
The waiter stared at Sawyer. I think he must’ve been pretty perceptive, because Sawyer doesn’t openly display annoyance.
“Who had the Cobb?” he asked.
“Ella,” Sawyer said, rubbing my back as he answered.
Jenna took a generous swig of her white wine and puffed out her lower lip.
“See, this is what I’m talking about! Always touching her, right, Sawyer? You’re in a good place now, but just wait until you have to pick a rug. I’m not saying anything will happen, of course, it won’t because you two are solid, I’m just saying this so you know. Red rug, yellow rug, no rug, who really cares? You have each other.”
I recall feeling an all-consuming urge for Sawyer to throw our dishes to the side and fuck me on the table, right under Jenna’s dinky little nose. He had put his hand on my thigh instead, gripping it tightly. It was enough for me to get the message——we’d be fine. Sawyer began poking at my salad, picking out the bacon with his fingers. Our waiter, still standing with full plates in his hand, interrupted Jenna’s one woman show.
“I’m sorry, did you want that without the bacon? I can take it back for you.”
I looked over to Sawyer, still munching on tiny pieces of meat like a little mouse. I just didn’t like bacon.
“He’s got it,” I said.
Sawyer looked up suddenly, as though returning from a dream, and beamed at me. He used to be so easy to please.
By the time we finished dinner that night, Jenna had demolished a full bottle of Chardonnay and needed to be driven home. Sawyer tucked her into the back seat and opened the passenger door for me. We blasted the radio as we drove her home, a fifties station, in a desperate attempt to cover our spontaneous bursts of laughter. Burnt orange mountains blurred out the side of my window, the last shreds of sunlight kissing their peaks. I felt certain Jenna’s warning would be purposeless——and it was. The apartment didn’t break us. I’m not sure what did, exactly.
Our luggage got lost on the flight to Chicago. We arrived in our apartment, an open square space with one bathroom and no isolated bedroom, empty handed other than small carry ons. Every corner of the room was drowning in dust, leaving us sneezing all over the floor. I began to cry, as I did when I first arrived in any location I’d never been before. Sawyer was unvexed and began to pet the top of my head. It wasn’t particularly romantic or comforting, so I moved. He just stood there, arm outstretched with nothing underneath it, looking hurt. Realizing my tantrum had nothing to do with Sawyer, I slowly crawled back over to him, sliding back underneath his hand. He smirked, dragging his fingers through my hair and down to my hips.
Sawyer made a point of treating my body delicately during foreplay, as though there was a risk of it shattering before we got to a bedroom. When he kissed the side of my neck, I felt a drop of sweat seep through his t-shirt onto my back. I spun around, electrified, ready to kiss him properly. He caught me by my shoulders and pushed me away.
“We don’t have a vacuum,” he said.
I sat down on the floor dramatically, crossing my legs.
“And that’s what you’re thinking about right now?” I asked.
Sawyer crouched on his knees so that his nose was on level with mine. He inched closer to my ear.
“I’m thinking,” he whispered, “that if we don’t get a vacuum to clean up these floors, we’re going to be doing more sneezing than…”
I shoved the strings of Sawyer’s sweatshirt between his teeth before he could finish. He surveyed the room, gagged and silent. Across from us, there was a set of two towering windows that were caked in grime but still allowed spots of yellow light to trickle onto the wooden floorboards. Sawyer spit out the fabric in his mouth and spun me into a tight hug.
We let each other go gradually, taking our time until we were no longer touching.
Our meet-cute with the apartment was cut short when renovation reality set in. Stanley, our contractor, criminally ripped us off, extending his hours beyond what we’d planned or pausing work at random to convince us we needed a sink with a pasta handle. Sawyer and I were fed up with him only one month into his contract. We sat on the couch together, a modern maroon piece shaped like an L that wrapped around the room. Sawyer didn’t think we should start the termination email with hello, it was too friendly. I thought that starting with hello would be less aggressive.
“Why are you worried about being kind?” he asked.
“He knows where we live, Sawyer,” I said. “Who knows what he’d do with that information.”
Sawyer cackled.
“Return of the Contractor? Contractor’s Vendetta? Is that what you had in mind, Ella? I think the worst he could do is knock.”
I shot him a warning look. He stood up from the couch and locked the front door.
“Plus,” he added, returning to sit even closer to me than before, “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”
For a moment, I noticed the blue veins pulsing in Sawyer’s hands and believed him. He was just strong enough that I was protected but not so strong that I felt overpowered. It was a comforting balance. We sent the email to Stanley, flirting through faux-arguments about phrasing, and decided to tackle making some cabinets of our own. I gave him a handjob while we drove to Ikea.
Sawyer likes instructions, so he was a natural builder. He gave me the job of sorting screws——because if I were in charge, our cabinets would only be wooden slabs. I sat on the ground as he crouched, screwdriver in hand, underneath what would soon be a bookcase. Standing up, I went to hook my hands around his waist. He turned to me, holding his hammer weakly at his side and looking disoriented.
“You look good doing that,” I told him.
“And you’d look even better than me if you kept sorting those screws.”
“Maybe. I’m clocking out, though.”
It was getting late. I sauntered over to the kitchen, opening our drawers and fridge to see if there was anything left. Sawyer had a much smaller appetite than I did, so he could manage skipping dinner, but I had an awful attitude when I was hungry. I decided to spare him the sass and suggested that we go out for dinner. He dropped the screwdriver to the floor and ran his fingers through his hair.
“I have to finish this project now that I’ve started it. You can go without me; I’m not hungry.”
I’d eaten with Sawyer for so long that the concept of a meal was no longer a solitary one. I felt embarrassed at the idea of eating without being admired——and subsequently, embarrassed at my own discomfort. Turning away, I began to shove random items into my purse so I looked like I was doing something: old mints, uncapped lip-balm, a movie stub. When the bag was halfway full with junk, I decided to give up the act and be hurt.
“You don’t have to finish now. We could do it tomorrow,” I said.
“Yeah, I could do it tomorrow. But I’ve got briefs piling up and I know you can’t manage this on your own.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“That’s not true,” I said. “I’d figure it out.”
Sawyer beckoned to the room around us, empty other than our couch and a mattress in the corner.
“Like how we figured all this out? It’s been a month already, Ella, and this place isn’t anything. We need to move on from this stage, grow up a little.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t realized we were having a fight. I just didn’t want to eat dinner alone. His company was second nature to me, sheltered and unsurprising; I’d developed a dependence on it. Suddenly, I felt insecure about the pillows thrown hastily in the corners of the room. I couldn’t remember which one of us did that. Moving slowly toward the mattress, I started to pick each one of them up and line them against the wall. Sawyer came up from behind me, moving my hair to one side of my neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said, kissing my cheek.
◯ ◯ ◯
Lina sets aside her notepad and leans forward to look closer at me——I figure it’s a therapist tactic so I mimic her movement to make her laugh. She doesn’t. Instead, she stands up and begins pacing around the room, mumbling the timeline of my story to herself without actually asking if she had everything correct. When Lina returns to her seat, she tells me I look stiff.
“Lean back,” she says.
I oblige, begrudgingly.
“I may fall asleep,” I tell her.
“You might be more truthful half asleep than you are right now.”
I wasn’t actively lying. It was presumptuous of Lina to assume that I was glazing over crucial details—presumptuous and correct. Giving in, I shut my eyes and shove my hands into my pockets.
“When Sawyer and I started dating we made one another a list of our pet-peeves.”
Lina scribbles something down. I’m sure it doesn’t matter, but the pencil scratch makes me anxious, so I begin to frantically explain myself further.
“It wasn’t neurotic I promise, it was romantic. Sawyer didn’t want to lose me over loud chewing or knuckle cracking; he just wanted to know everything necessary to love me correctly. In advance of actually loving me, that is.”
“In advance?” Lina asks.
“I mean, we made those lists two weeks into dating. Love wasn’t exactly in the cards yet. I thought it was sweet how curious he was about me, so I played along and answered every question he could come up with. Having someone know your breakfast order can be nice but Sawyer… it was beyond that; it was like he wanted to remold himself for me.
Outside Lina’s window, the clouds are turning purple. I lay motionless for a moment, thinking about Sawyer eating dinner alone. Lina gestures for me to continue.
“Sawyer didn’t ask for my coffee order because he was curious, he asked for my coffee order so that he could bring me that drink everyday. He’s forced himself to like showering in hot water because I shower in hot water and how else would we shower together? I’m not just Ella anymore, not after someone has put in so much effort to align with everything I am. I’m still Ella, I guess. I’m just…”
“Ella of Ella and Sawyer,” Lina says.
◯ ◯ ◯
Decorating never really ends. We’d lived in the apartment for a year and I still felt there was work to be done. Sawyer insisted we were finished, everything looked beautiful. There was an emptiness that lingered, but it had nothing to do with the space itself; no corner was left untouched or unfilled. I started waking up in the middle of the night, shooting upwards stiffly and stumbling into the kitchen. In the dark, the room felt unoccupied; like Sawyer and I didn’t live there and no one ever had. Darkness rested comfortably over the curves in our furniture, blurring out all the details of the work we’d put in. With every passing evening, I’d wake up more gently, sliding out of bed in an oversized T-shirt to sit in the black. In early hour daydreams, I’d wander around our living room and pretend we’d never moved in——pretend we were new, still feeling nervous and learning where to kiss each other.
During daylight hours though, I’d made some friends. Kathy, the stocky blonde woman who lived across the street from us, bought me a coffee within the first week of our move-in. She had three kids (“we’re trying for another though”) and thought I’d get along well with her babysitter, Amira.
“Well, Kathy, I’m actually perfectly safe on my own. I promise I won’t use the oven when Sawyer isn’t in the house,” I’d joked with a patient smile.
Kathy nearly spit out her coffee when she laughed. It sounded like plastic—and I didn’t think my joke was so funny.
Amira and I did find each other eventually, though. She liked to drink a lot, and I took pleasure in watching drunk people. When we first met up at a skeevy dive bar around the corner from the apartment, Amira asked if I would ever get a tattoo. Her arms were full of them, cartoon characters and flowers marked permanently on her skin in ink. I decided to say that I would.
“Kathy showed me a picture of your boy,” she said expectantly.
I notice often that people not in relationships are unapologetic in requesting confidential details about those who are in relationships.
“He’s easy on the eyes. And a redhead! Does the carpet match the—”
“Yep!” I cut in.
Amira laughed excitedly. Her attraction to Sawyer didn’t bother me much. It was nice, though a little draining, to have someone who I could teach about Sawyer. Retelling all his idiosyncrasies with a girl who’d never known them before almost convinced me that I didn’t either. Amira got to live vicariously through me and I through her. When I came home that night, Sawyer and I broke what was almost a month long dry spell. He’d been busy with work. I thought about how thankful I was to have met Amira as he flipped me around on the bed.
◯ ◯ ◯
“I’m curious what event you’re avoiding,” Lina says out of nowhere.
I sit upwards defensively. She doesn’t make eye contact, keeping her head at her papers.
“From what you’ve told me so far,” she continues, “you’re experiencing a sense of identity loss which is a common crisis in adult relationships. It’s manageable, if you love each other enough to work on it. But it seems that you’re hovering around what made you realize your relationship with Sawyer wasn’t fixable.”
It was black outside now.
“I’d like to get to that,” Lina said.
◯ ◯ ◯
Sawyer and I had a big, oak dining room table in the far right corner of our apartment. It was an exorbitant purchase, but he was being promoted to senior associate at his law firm and we couldn’t think of anything to spend the money on. Each side of the table could be pulled underneath itself to adjust the size, and we said that we’d throw a big party solely to enlarge it. The guest list wasn’t actually huge: a few of Sawyer’s work friends, Kathy, Kathy’s husband, Jack, Kathy’s kids, Amira. Most of the guests were somehow connected to Kathy, which bothered me. We hired an obnoxious caterer who told us our plates were too small for the food and cleaned the apartment top to bottom. I pulled some chilled cocktail glasses from the freezer, suddenly feeling anxious about the smudges my fingers made on their edges. Kathy was the first to arrive, her whole crew stumbling behind her like ducklings, and brought a bottle of red and quinoa crackers. I saw Sawyer trying not to laugh when he put them away in the cabinet. Kathy’s children, a set of three year old twins and their six year old sister, were not nearly as irritating as their mother. Sawyer seemed to lighten as he watched them running around the apartment, bumping into corners and jumping right back up as though nothing had touched them. Amira planted herself on the ground during our dessert course, trying to quiet the six-year-old, Grace, when she was told she couldn’t have a macchiato. Sawyer bent down with her, dropping his napkin onto the floor.
“I have something better,” he told her.
Grace’s eyes widened; every adult at the table smiled at her tenderly.
“Ella and I have a special hot chocolate packet in that closet,” he said, pointing around the corner, “it’s like coffee but sweet.”
Kathy wiped her mouth to cover up a grateful laugh. Jack put his arm around her back. When Grace scuttled away, Kathy turned to Sawyer.
“Well done,” she told him.
Sawyer shrugged his arms and sat back next to me. There was still a small piece of souffle on his plate, which he picked up daintily and fed to me. I didn’t ask him to do it——but he knew I liked P.D.A. and made a point of reminding me I told him that. Honestly, I don’t care for it much anymore. Candles on the table were starting to burn low, leaving a mellow glow on everyone’s faces. Sawyer took control of the conversation, making sure that I was only in the spotlight when I wanted to be. A few hours passed by this way, wine bottles emptying and laughter getting louder, until life began draining from the evening. Jack had made some witty jokes and Amira kept her drinking to a minimum, which I appreciated. Midnight came around quickly and the guests began to leave.
When Sawyer and I were alone again, he made a point of attending to my needs. He turned down the bed for me, knowing that I would only ever sleep on the left side, and ran a bath with lavender salts. I was exhausted by too much social interaction. After every party or office event, Sawyer would baby me as though he felt awful I had to go out at all. But I should’ve tried harder to socialize with people that night, he should’ve forced me into the conversation more. I was just as complacent in this routine as he was, though. As I glided into the tub, salts crumbling against my skin, I realized that there were benefits to his awareness of me—but it couldn’t go on forever. Sawyer sauntered into the bathroom in a pair of briefs.
“Care for some company?”
“Always.”
He got into the tub as gracefully as possible, trying not to splash water onto the floor. Laying on top of him with my feet just above the water, I pulled his arms around my bare chest. Sawyer leaned his face on mine drowsily.
“I think I’d be a good dad,” he said under his breath.
My heart began to race. It felt like the water temperature had dropped.
“I don’t disagree,” I said. “But we’re not even married.”
Sawyer sat up straight.
“I know but… It’s been on my mind a while, actually. Seeing Kathy’s kids tonight sealed the deal for me a little. I’d be ready whenever you are.”
I surveyed the bathroom absentmindedly, trapped in the image of our living room after dark. Sawyer wanted a life with me, I knew that, but I wasn’t sure that there was a me anymore. I was an extension of him, more counterpart than lover. I got out of the tub, letting water drip off my cool body, and put on a threadbare robe.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I said, anticipating a chuckle.
Sawyer sat in the tub dismally, staring down as the water began to drain.
◯ ◯ ◯
“Can I sit up now?” I ask.
Lina nods and I push the recliner firmly.
She passes me a box of tissues from her side table. I don’t even realize I’m crying until dots start forming on my jeans.
Her office looks fuller than when I had arrived. The tall lamp flickering in the corner takes up more space, its off-white gleam touching every corner of the room. Lina’s papers, now strewn across the ground sloppily, decorate the floorboards. Everything feels more real, like I hadn’t actually been in the room until this very second. I wipe my nose and shove the dirty tissue into my jacket, watching as Lina waits for me to speak again. She seems sharp, surprisingly so considering how late we’d gone, with anticipation twinkling in her eyes.
“I think our time is up,” she finally says.
Lina stands up evenly and makes her way towards the door, turning the knob. I leave before I feel ready to go.
When I arrive back at the apartment, I notice that Sawyer has gone out but left a plate full of food in the fridge for me. I turn off the lights and eat it in the dark, waiting for him to come home.
*Loud honking* “STAY IN YOUR FUCKING LANE, DUMB BITCH!” I yelled at the top of my lungs through the closed window, hoping she would get the message. She didn’t. I opened my car window and stuck out my middle finger with my other hand against the wheel, still sounding off the horn. Veronica, my mother, had now called me four times to remind me that I’m late for Thanksgiving dinner as if three missed calls wasn’t enough. She has no other hobbies besides annoying me and my fifteen-year-old brother Aaron, the favorite child.
Aaron had been counting down the days leading up to Thanksgiving break since our parents dropped him off at boarding school back in September. I don’t know why they sent him to boarding school anyway. Homesickness has always gotten the best of him, which I couldn’t relate to. I couldn’t wait to leave the Massachusetts suburbs and go to college in New York City, where I could be whoever I wanted to be and do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted to do it. I was liberated.
I didn’t want to come home, but I missed my dad. He understands me better than anyone else in this house. What I don’t miss is overhearing my parents screaming at each other every night when I’m trying to go to sleep.
I pulled into our driveway, and my dad’s X5 wasn’t in his spot but was instead replaced with an old pickup truck that I hadn’t seen before. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he were also late. We were similar in that way. I went inside and was immediately greeted by my dog, Cooper, barking. It’s like nothing has changed around here. Then I walked into the kitchen, and this man who looked absolutely nothing like my father was sitting in my dad’s place at the dinner table. I make eye contact with him and ask, “Who are you?”
He smiled. “Nice to meet you too. I’m Troy. And you must be Olivia.”
I didn’t respond to that. I already didn’t like him, and I didn’t know why. The silence became too loud, and I asked him, “Do you know where my dad went? His car isn’t here, and you’re in his spot.” Suddenly, the oven starts beeping.
“VERONICA, THE CAKE IS READY!” Troy shouted. My mother came sprinting down the stairs.
“Olivia! What happened to you?” Veronica exclaims. I rolled my eyes at her.
“What do you mean what happened to me?”
“What happened to my daughter? Your hair is PURPLE?! And when did you get that nose piercing without my permission?!”
I laughed. “What happened to dad?” I respond. “And who the fuck is Troy?”
She ignores me and takes the cake out of the oven. “AARON!” she shouts. “Come downstairs now!”
Before I could blink, he was there. He’s at least two inches taller now than before he left, but other than that, he still looks like the same perfect child he has always been. Veronica takes the candles from the cabinet and puts them on the cake. I pull Aaron aside and ask him if he knows anything about Troy. He told me he didn’t know who he was either.
“Everyone sit down at the table, please,” Veronica said. Veronica takes out the knife and asks me to cut the cake. As I began cutting the cake, I found a hidden message written in red food coloring.
Image: “William Stott-of-Oldham – Awakening of the Spirit of the Rose”
Dear Emma,
It’s really fucking cold here. I’m regretting the move a little. I start work on Monday, and I’m excited to at least have some human contact. You know, get out of the house. I don’t know anyone and I don’t know how to know anyone.
I miss California, and you, and Teddy, and Mom and Dad, and the beach, and the house, and the bars. Oh my god I miss the bars. Can you believe that they’re only open until midnight here? Fucking unbelievable. I thought the 2am closing time was restrictive, but this? This is a crime. I’m going to write to the governor or mayor or whoever.
No I’m not. I’m going to sit here and stare at all these boxes until Monday. I haven’t even been to the bars. There might not be a reason for them to stay open later than midnight.
Love,
your sister to the east,
Alice
P.S. I found your note in my coffee maker, it made me smile
Dear Julia,
I’m not sure where to begin. Is it ok to start a letter like that? It feels awfully strange to start a letter like that.
Dear Julia,
I’m so lonely.
Dear Julia,
I’m not sure where to begin, and I’m lonely. It’s the middle of winter, and it’s after new years, so now all I have to look forward to is spring. The snow is beautiful… it just makes me feel so alone, especially now that the kids are back at school and Wallace is back at work. I’m so bored, and all anyone suggests is to pick up another hobby. I’m sick of hobbies. I crochet, I scrapbook for god’s sake. I’m stuck. I ran the dishwasher half full just so I could unload it.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
Monday came and went, and it wasn’t terrible. I’m surrounded by old ladies all day, and I couldn’t find a good place to get coffee, but I will definitely be busy. The Library needs work. It’s rough. They don’t have any events! Nothing happens here, it’s just a library. No community interaction. No book clubs or writing classes, not even AA. There’s old posters that I swear to god are from the 80s on the walls, and their computers are all like a million years old too. No Mac’s in sight.
One of the librarians gave me a nasty look when I took off my coat (which is unreasonably huge, did I mention its fucking freezing all the time?) and I’m trying to figure out if it was just the fact that I was wearing jeans to work, or if it was the ACAB t-shirt I had on that set her off. I’m having a hard time believing that she would know what ACAB stands for, so I’m inclined to believe it was the former. I need to go shopping.
How are things? How’s school? I hope it’s better than last semester, and I hope your roommate’s not ignoring you anymore. Tell Mom and Dad I say hi, and give Teddy a belly rub for me.
Love,
your SUPER young and SUPER cool sister,
Alice
Dear Julia,
I read Clare’s admissions essay again today, even though she submitted it a few weeks ago. She’s so bright and young, you would have loved her. She reminds me of you. She writes like you. I’m tempted to go up to the attic to try and find my box of things from college, but I don’t want the kids or Wallace to see it. There’s just too much to explain, and it makes me miss you. I like having some things that are just mine. That box is just mine. I don’t want to have to tell them your story, or show them the things you used to write for me. I don’t want their pity, or their confusion. Right now, the memory of you is so clean and clear, it’s just like the snow outside. I’m scared their footprints would ruin it.
You always did like a good simile.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
I had the chance to decorate my office this week, and I put up the prints you made for me last year. It felt good. It felt really good to decorate this space purely for me, instead of having to ask Paul what he thought. He wouldn’t let me hang your prints in our bedroom. He said they were too ‘busy’. Bullshit. They’re awesome. Good riddance.
Love and pride and appreciation,
Alice
Dear Julia,
The reason I started writing to you again is because I’m beginning to understand that I think I’m unhappy. Hear that hesitation? I’m scared to admit it to myself. But it’s true. I’m unhappy. I’m such a cliche. You would say I’m a cliche. We made fun of this cliche. The stay at home mom, fat and unhappy with her dull life, longing for something exciting to happen. It’s sad, but it’s true.
While I’m in the mood, I’m going to admit some other difficult truths. Wallace and I haven’t had sex in over a year. We haven’t even talked about it. It just happened. Or stopped happening. And the worst part is, I don’t miss it. I think I started the cold spell. Even when we were intimate it was never anything special. It always felt sort of transactional, with very clear goals involved.
I’m thinking back to when we were trying to have Jack. We were always asleep by 10pm.
Speaking of Jack, I love my kids. We love our kids. Wallace really loves our kids. They’re just really great little people, and I’m so proud of them. Clare’s going off to college in the fall, Jack’s starting high school. They’re both doing great things, and I get to watch them. They make me happy. Maybe I’ll talk to Wallace tonight.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
I wasn’t completely honest with you. I said good riddance. I don’t mean it, at least not all the time. I’ve come to accept that I never really loved Paul, he was just incredibly convenient. He cared about me so it was easy to care about him. I miss having someone care about me. It makes me feel guilty now, like I was using him for affection or attention or whatever. I thought I’d grown out of that. Apparently not. If I didn’t know I was doing it, is it wrong? There’s some freshman year philosophy for you. I hope that class is going well by the way, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.
I definitely still miss him sometimes. The stability and normalcy was good, but it feels sort of good to be alone. I feel like I can focus again, and I’m making plans for the library. The librarians don’t seem to hate me as much anymore, I baked them muffins and got a new coffee maker for the front. I also got a new wireless router and they were super impressed when I set it up myself. I hope they’re beginning to see the benefits of having someone under 50 working with them.
My first undertaking as director is to start some book clubs. I’m hosting a couple of children’s ones for different age groups (that I’ll put the librarians in charge of) and an adult one that I’ll take care of. I’m hoping to hold them at the same time, so the adults don’t have to worry about child care. Eventually there’ll be an after school program, but that’s going to take a while to set up. Sorry, I know it’s boring work stuff, but I’m really excited for the adult book club! Hopefully it’ll give me a chance to meet some people. At the very least I can get involved in the community a little bit.
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
I talked to Wallace. He said I need to get out more. I told him I was unhappy, and I brought up the intimacy problem, and he said I need to get out more. I pushed his buttons and he didn’t even react. It should have been a fight. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore either. Maybe we’re in the same boat.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
Tomorrow is the first book club meeting, and I’m terrified. We aren’t even discussing the book yet, it’s just to introduce myself and see who’s interested, and to pass out copies, but I’m so god damn scared. What if they don’t like the book I chose? What if they’ve all already read it? Oh, I chose The Awakening by Kate Chopin by the way. A classic. But what if it’s too, ya know, feminist leaning? Should I care?
Ok I care, but… I love this book, and I’m excited to share it with the community. It’s a great first book! There’s so much to discuss, and it’s easy, and relatable. It’ll be great. It’s going to be great.
Thanks for letting me talk myself off a ledge all the time. I need to remember not to swear.
Love,
Alice
P.S. I accidentally bought enough cheese and crackers to feed an army. I’m going to be eating them for a month. You should come visit and eat cheese and crackers.
Dear Julia,
Maryanne invited me to a book club meeting at the library. Apparently they have a new director, and she’s young. Maryanne told me all about it this morning when I dropped the kids off at school. She went on and on about her boots. Now I feel like I have to go just to see these boots. I should bring Clare, it would make her feel grown up.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
Success! Victory is mine! We had a crazy good turnout, I handed out all of my copies and I have to order more. We also made $500 in donations, and all the cheese and crackers are gone. It was insane. I met so many people! A lot of them are moms but still so many people! Em. I’m in with the moms. They liked me.
I did a little introduction of the book, and said that everyone should read the first five chapters for next week. I hope they like it. I really wasn’t expecting this many people to show up though, I’m a little worried about leading such a large group in a discussion.
Have you read The Awakening? If not, you should. I think you’d like it.
I’m on top of the motherfucking world!
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
I went to the book club with Maryanne because Clare didn’t want to go. It was surprisingly fun, even though most of the people there were just coming to see what the new director’s outfit would be. Her name’s Alice, and Maryanne was right, she’s very young. She wasn’t wearing boots though, and I was a little disappointed.
We’re reading a book called The Awakening, and I think I remember you mentioning it our freshman year. You probably told me to read it, and I didn’t. I wish I had.
I like it so far, it’s been a long time since I read something worthwhile. I have a few days before the next meeting and I’m almost done with the assigned reading for the week. It’s all about this Victorian Era woman named Edna who has this terrible husband who only wants her to look after her children. She’s pretty unhappy, but nobody can understand why. The husband sends her gifts and things, and everyone else is jealous, but they don’t see that she wants more than gifts.
I need something else to read in between the meetings. That box in the attic is calling my name, and Wallace and the kids are asleep.
It’s been 20 years, and I haven’t thought about that box this much since you died.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
Second meeting for the book club went significantly worse than the first. Way less people showed up, and I was sort of relieved, but those who did didn’t seem to be enjoying the book as much as I’d hoped. I thought it would reach these housewives more than it is. Apparently they all have perfect marriages.
One woman did seem to like it though, she stayed after the meeting to talk to me about it. Her name is escaping me right now, but she’s a mom of two and married. She offered to get a glass of wine with me some time. You know I prefer manhattans but I’d drink some wine with this woman.
Lol who am I kidding, I’d drink a glass of wine with anyone at this point.
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
I think I made a new friend. I tried to talk to Maryanne about the book, but she didn’t do the reading, and the discussion in book club was sort of disappointing. I felt bad for Alice because so many people didn’t show up for the meeting, so I stayed after everyone left to talk about the first few chapters, and I invited her to get a glass of wine with me sometime. She seemed really excited, and I am too. She’s so smart! And young. I feel bad for her. There aren’t enough young people in this town. She must be lonely.
If I’m lonely, she must be lonely.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
I got that glass of wine with Olivia. That’s her name, by the way. I learned she went to college on the west coast, and she studied English, and that she has a daughter who’s a year younger than you. We’ve actually got a lot in common. I think we’re friends? I have a 40 year old friend, but I like her. She’s a little shy, which is kind of sweet. She just seems really tired. We’ve decided to make it a weekly thing, getting wine the night before book club. It’s nice.
When are you coming to visit?
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
Alice and I had a glass of wine together last night, and it was lovely. We’ve decided to make it a weekly occurrence, to get a glass of wine the night before book club. I learned she’s from California, and she has a younger sister named Emma, who’s a year older than Clare. We talked about The Awakening and I told her a little about the town. I haven’t made a new friend in a long time. It feels really good to have someone young and new to talk to. She’s so pretty, the bartender was flirting with her the whole time. She’s oblivious to it of course, she’s too young to appreciate it.
I miss being in my twenties. I miss you. I miss having fun.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
I got more wine with Olivia, and we got a little drunk. She told me she relates way too much to The Awakening. I pressed her a little but she didn’t open up. Now things are interesting. I have an unhappy housewife for a friend.
I told her I email you all the time, and she told me she writes letters to an old college friend. She’s coming over next week for our weekly wine meeting. My apartment is still a mess.
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
I told someone about you. I mean not really, I told Alice I write letters to an old college friend, which is true. I just didn’t tell her you’re dead. It’s too strange. I haven’t even told Wallace about you. My parents know not to bring you up. Nobody here knows. It felt good to tell someone though, just that you existed.
I also told Alice that I relate to The Awakening. That’s scary to admit, even to myself.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
Funny thing, wine.
It’s been a while, I need to update you. Olivia’s been coming over every week, and each week she tells me a little bit more about her life. I can’t blame her for relating to the book.
She told me about her issues with her husband, who I still haven’t met. His name is Wallace, which I find hilarious. Can you imagine naming a kid Wallace? Just imagine a tiny baby named Wallace. Wallace! The issues aren’t funny, but the name is. I told her about Paul, and I feel guilty. I got to leave, she doesn’t.
She also told me that the college friend she writes to is dead. I don’t know what to do with that. She’s complex, dude. 40 year olds are complex. I’m glad I can be some sort of emotional release though, it sounds like she really needed someone new in her life. It sounds like she really, really, REALLY, needed someone to talk to.
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
What the fuck am I doing here?
Alice is rubbing off on me, I started swearing. I’ve told her way too much. I told her about Wallace, I told her about you. I hope it’s the wine, but I don’t think so. I don’t know what it is about her, but she just pulls things out of me.
Pulls is too strong a word. It’s easy. I know there’s no feasible way she can understand what I’m dealing with but she does. She’s like you.
Olivia
Dear Emma,
Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit. I know I don’t have to tell you this but dear god do not tell Mom and Dad.
Tonight, Olivia brought over these short stories her dead friend wrote. She said she hadn’t read them in 20 years, that she hadn’t shown them to anyone. I was honored. I am honored. I like that she lets me see things and hear things that other people don’t. I like having a window. But anyway, she comes in and we’re sitting on the couch, drinking this bottle of wine she brought from home and reading these stories that her DEAD FRIEND WROTE and she started to cry. I reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, and she just gave me this look. It was heartbreaking. Believe me when I tell you, I wanted nothing more in the entire world than to make that look STOP. We sat there in silence for a while, and then she said “I think I was in love with her.” I didn’t know what to do. I just reacted, Emma. I kissed this married woman. I kissed A MARRIED WOMAN ON THE LIPS IN MY LIVING ROOM. I didn’t even think. I just did it. I just leaned over and kissed her, and she kissed me back. And it was kind of awesome.
She got really quiet after that, and it was really awkward and weird between us, and then she got up, put all the stories in the box, and left. She didn’t even say goodbye. I feel terrible.
What do I do now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Love,
Alice
Dear Julia,
I made a mistake. I made a really big mistake. I never should have read The Awakening. I never should have gone to that book club. I should have just stayed in the house and unloaded the dishwasher.
Alice kissed me. I was crying, and she kissed me. I made the ridiculous decision to bring over your short stories, and read them with her, because I really wanted to, and she reminds me so much of you and I didn’t want to read them alone. Then, I made the ridiculous decision of crying in front of her. Then I made the even more ridiculous decision of telling her I was in love with you. And then she kissed me. And I kissed her back. I liked it.
What have I done?
Olivia
Dear Olivia,
I am profoundly sorry. I’m not sure what came over me, and I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. I value our friendship so much, and I made a terrible mistake that put that in jeoproday.
Dear Olivia,
I wish I could say that I’m sorry, but I’m not. It wanted to kiss you, so I did. Those are the facts.
Dear Olivia,
Please come over so we can talk.
Dear Olivia,
I’ve started this letter too many times, and I can’t figure out what to say. Please come over so we can talk.
Five senses. That’s what people say. Five distinct senses that each trigger a different part of the brain. They’re what we use to understand the world around us. Each is important in its own way. Touch, taste, hearing, sight, and smell. I consider myself lucky. I can experience each sense. Some people cannot. The brain is a crapshoot that way I suppose. You can never really know if you’ll be lucky enough to be born with these five super powers. For some, like me, these senses aren’t independent. They morph into one another, causing me to associate them together. This phenomenon is called synthesia and only 3% of the people on this rock have it. It makes the world a lot more interesting, but also much more overwhelming.
Smell. The sense that tickles your nose and turns your stomach. Smell and taste, obviously, work hand in hand. They’re connected physically with tubes and valves and complex systems that all work tirelessly in tandem to help the beings of the Earth understand each other and their surroundings. Smell, for me, is the sense that I would be willing to sacrifice first. I wish I could forget the smell of gunpowder. I wish I never knew the smell of alcohol on my best friend’s breath. I wish I never had to experience the gut wrenching smell of tears.
Sight. The sense that makes your heart stop and flutter. Sometimes, music is visual for me. I can associate certain music with colors and patterns. It is a beautiful mess of neurons that cause this, and I appreciate it. Seeing music makes me feel more connected to it. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata is a mix of dark blue and purple, swirling around one another. Queen’s We Are The Champions is orange and red, pulsing and swaying with the sounds. Bohemian Rhapsody is lime green and light blue. Sight is the sense that matters the most to me, and being able to experience music visually makes me feel unique. For me, the world wouldn’t be tangible without sight. Sight overwhelms me the least out of my senses. I never find my mind clouded by it. I never find something all that visually frightening. I can binge watch horror movies for hours and never need to close my eyes. There are times, though, when I have to cover my ears.
Sound. The sense that brings you to tears, or makes you laugh, or makes you afraid. This is the sense that frightens me the most. This is the sense that I cannot bear at high volumes. This is the sense that can strike fear into my heart. This is the sense that can make my stomach drop. Music is a colorful bounty of happiness for me, but when too loud can easily become frighteningly overwhelming. Loud noises can make me shake with fear, or cause instant panic attacks. Sound is the sense I fear most out of all others. It can be beautiful, but it can also be the most terrifying thing to experience. The sound of a fire alarm, for instance, is a bright white flash, constantly banging over and over again in my head. Whenever I hear one, my stomach clenches and my vision blurs.
Taste. An overlooked sense for some, but something that is usually quite strong for me. Taste is not the most overwhelming feeling for me, but there are aspects of it that cause my brain to malfunction. In my brain, tastes often have colors as well. Eating any spicy food, for example, will cause me to “freak out” a bit. It’s a bright red hot color that seeps from my mouth to my head in seconds. It’s almost painful sometimes, depending on the level of spiciness. Sour flavors are yellow and electric-green. Mint is royal blue and evergreen. Smoke is dark grey.
Touch. My enemy. Touch can be the hardest sense for me to experience. I am not a person who likes being touched. Personal space is vital for me. Claustrophobia is something I have struggled with before, and I find myself enjoying my time with friends and family more when each of us has her own space. Touch never blends with another sense, thankfully, because it is quite intense on its own. My skin crawls when I touch someone’s shoulder sitting next to them on the train. My palms sweat when someone hugs me for too long. Touch does not frighten me so much as it unsettles me. It can be just as overwhelming as any other sense, and often is. Weirdly enough, I find myself feeling insecure because of my discomfort towards touch. It’s the only sense that can be shared between multiple people, and yet I dislike sharing it. Maybe touch discomforts me because it’s the only sense that does not mix in with my other senses. Maybe it’s because other people scare me. Or maybe it’s because I’d rather be alone.
It’s frightening to think that every sense known to mankind is just simple signals being sent to the brain. These signals can be easily recreated and twisted. Is the world that I can see, smell, taste, hear, and feel nothing but signals to an over imaginative mind? Why am I part of that 3% who experiences things differently and more intensely? Is this sense-intensity what causes my various anxieties about ridiculous things? I may never know. But I am grateful to smell the fresh rain on cold asphalt. I am grateful to see the cobwebs forming around the corner above my bed. I am grateful to hear the birds cackling as they fly overhead. I am grateful to taste the sweat running down my lips after a workout. I am grateful to feel the first snow of winter tickle my skin. I am grateful to experience this world in the ways I do.
People in movies always seem to make death this beautiful yet horrendous thing that happens. Death isn’t beautiful. Not to me, at least.
My family lugged our sorrow on our backs through the damp halls of the hospital. I’d never seen a hospital so clearly before. Only in the tv shows where everything was bright and happy. Old flashing lights and tired nurses flooded the halls. I could feel myself dragging behind my family as we moved closer and closer to the room. The nurse opened the old creepy door and gestured to the six of us inside. The sunkissed yellow room opened up to us. It felt so dark in there though, almost like there was a grey haze over everything. I glanced across the room avoiding meeting her dampened body on the paper white cott in the middle of the room. I grabbed my dad’s hand in fear of what we were about to encounter. When I finally met her face, a feeling I had never felt before rushed through my body. Almost like a chill down my spine. I never want to feel this way again, I said to myself, but death is inevitable. Soon it will be my mom and dad’s turn, then my brothers, then me.
I bet you thought I was writing about my mother’s death, right? Nope. My Nana. She lived a long happy life, but when I was a little girl she was diagnosed with Alzheimers. That disease is heartbreaking. Look it up if you want, she pretty much forgets everything due to things going on with her brain. I don’t want to get into it.
My mother’s expression said it all. We had been dealing with Nana’s disease for years, but this day was different. We knew her time had come, and we didn’t want her to be gone. We mourned as we said our goodbye, holding her hand and telling her we loved her. The slow foggy haze of the machines surrounding us went unnoticed—we were too preoccupied with Nana and her well being.
My grandfather sat on the bed with her holding her hand, crying. He whispered into her ear the song “You Are My Sunshine.” I couldn’t take it, I hated seeing him sad like this. I wanted to go home and pretend everything was okay. Her deep contagious smile was morphed into a flatline on her face. No recognition or remembrance of who we were and why she was there in that cold empty room. Silent screams of the families lined up door to door cursed the halls of the hospice. Saying prayers and goodbyes to people they knew like the back of their hand. A singular tear streamed down my wet face, caressing my cheek as it fell to the floor. I squeezed her hand whispering, I love you, one last time. I looked back and saw her scrawny body laying there, knowing that would be the last time I saw her alive.
It has been a few years now. I think about her every day, wondering when my grandfather’s time will come. He has been so strong through his mourning. Putting smiles from ear to ear on our faces every time he walks into a room. Nana would have wanted that for him, not to endlessly weep away the pain. Family gatherings aren’t the same—I miss watching her dance all night long with my grandfather. The jitterbug was something notorious they did together on holidays, roaming around the living room of my aunt’s house, trying to teach the kids how to jitterbug too. We could never get it, which makes me sad, not being able to dance freely by my grandpa’s side.
I’ve decided I want to learn how to jitterbug to make him happy and to make Nana happy as she watches over us every day, whisked away by our laughter and joy.
Cadenza, Conn’s student-run literary arts magazine, seeks submissions for spring 2022!
Image: “Summer Succs” by Catja Christensen.
Cadenza is Conn’s literary arts magazine. Our club serves as a creative outlet for students, and we publish a magazine of students’ work at the end of every year.
In this magazine, we include a wide range of creative voices.
It can be creative writing: Poetry, Short Stories, Short Plays, Comics, Screenplays (you can also submit part of a longer piece)
It can be creative art: Photography, Drawings, Sketches, Paintings, Pictures of Sculptures
I never mean to leave things to the last minute, but somehow it always happens.
There is just something so sweet about the word tomorrow that rolls off the tip of my tongue.
The funny thing about tomorrow is that it never comes— it is always the next day, and the next, infinitely sprawling out across history until the end of time itself.
I remember in the third grade my teacher wanted to know where we were from, how our ancestors came to live here, in New England. She requested that we make a diorama, a scene of our family’s immigration, like a snapshot of our history; our history before we existed.
I thought to myself about the day they left Europe; that was a tomorrow at one point. Everything was tomorrow the day before it happened.
It was supposed to be in a shoe box, not too big or too small. She didn’t want parents to have to drive us to school, but she wanted our fat childish fingers to make something presentable. She wanted us to finish something we could truly be proud of.
I didn’t have a shoe box, nor did I need new shoes. Without a base, a structure to suspend the scene in, I couldn’t start. So I didn’t.
I’d tell myself that I’d worry about it tomorrow.
I don’t think I ever finished the project, but I also don’t believe it ever mattered in the first place. Everyone is here now, aren’t we?
In the eighth grade, things mattered more, or at least that is what the teachers said. They told us that this was the beginning of the end of our education, that we would graduate in a few years, and ‘play time’ would be over. Real life would begin.
They told us that if we failed a test, we would fail a class. If we failed classes, we wouldn’t be recommended for other ones that we wanted to take. If we didn’t take enough classes, we wouldn’t graduate, get into college, get a job… We would be a burden to society.
We would not be useful to them.
So we had to pull our own weight.
Just like that, our whole lives would depend on every exam, every assignment, but I wasn’t ready for my life. No one was.
Life was the kind of problem that you worry about tomorrow: never today, only tomorrow.
“If you work hard today, tomorrow will be better.”
I heard those words over and over again, ringing like an alarm, but you can never turn it off, only put it on snooze. They said it every day, as if we would forget. But the fabled tomorrow they sung about, never really came. Nothing ever got better.
It wasn’t long before I ran out of things to look forward to. Tomorrow no longer seemed like a relief, like the light at the end, but instead a list of task after task piling up. I had to become a forklift to keep pushing things out further and further, until the load began to cast a shadow over every iteration of today.
I would clear a path through my room every night to go to sleep, pushing the piles of dirty laundry and unfinished work to the sides of my bedroom. I knew that this was a fire hazard, but frankly, I didn’t care. They were all things to deal with tomorrow. Work tomorrow. Clean tomorrow. Brush my teeth tomorrow. Shower tomorrow. Eat tomorrow.
My therapist, the one my mom picked for me, wanted me to think of it like digging a hole. When you did everything you needed to do today, you stayed on the surface, on solid ground. But when you missed something, you would sink into the dirt and get stuck, and it would get harder every time you mess up, you would be deeper and deeper. It would take more and more to get you out, to return to a baseline.
I didn’t like that. It felt wrong to think of being overwhelmed as being beneath the surface. I didn’t like that if someone were to see me struggling, they would be looking down at me, peering into my dark, dreary hole.
Instead I wished that the world was built like a highway, and not some porous mountain of quicksand. When the interstates were built, cars weren’t as stable on hills and turns. In the face of obstacles, humans took it upon themselves to blow up the mountains that stood in their way. With a few stacks of dynamite, chronic problems could be solved, permanently.
I told her that life should be like that. We have the capacity to make things better and we choose not to so that others can know what it is like to struggle. I lamented over the audacity of adults complaining that ‘kids have it easy these days.’ Why would you wish hardship on others just because you had to deal with it? Shouldn’t people want better for their kids?
I began to wonder if the little people in my shoebox scene all those years ago thought I should have to cross the Atlantic again, just to prove I belonged there.
When I asked my therapist, she said that I should be the one to make it better for the people who come next. She said, “Maybe getting across the Atlantic was their battle, and living here in this world, making it better, fighting for the construction of the highway, maybe that’s yours.”
Why does life always seem to be about fighting?
Why can’t any one thing just be easy?
It wasn’t long before they told me I had an attention deficit disorder, depression, and a whole other laundry list of issues. I just think I’m human, but they wanted to fix me, make me better. Or maybe they just wanted to make me tolerable to them.
My treatment was constantly changing, but almost always featured many medications on unreasonably high doses. Cymbalta, Aripiprazole, Dexmethylphenidate, Bupropion, Fluoxetine, Trintellix, L Methyl Folate, often several together at once in what felt like hundreds of different combinations.
I had a few questions:
How is drugging me into contentment any different than putting off assignments?
Different from putting off my problems?
Different than pushing me to the side so you can move on to the next thing?
I didn’t want to be a problem for someone else to solve. It seemed I was their assignment to procrastinate. I didn’t want this, not any of this. I didn’t want anything.
I read the warnings in the little pamphlets that came with the bottles, and I read online that at my weight, with 10 pills I could be done. 1500mg… 1.5g. It would be a painful overdose, but all of it would be over. I could just abandon the whole concept of Tomorrow in both its glory and horror, and drift off into sweet oblivion.
I looked at myself in the mirror, until my gaze drifted to the bottle.
Tomorrow. I’ll end this tomorrow.
But I woke up with a fever, forgetting about my plans, and went downstairs like any day. I stayed home with my brother and watched episode after episode of The Promised Neverland. It was an anime about young children raised in paradise, but marked as livestock, meant to be eaten by tall grotesque demons who drew their intelligence from feeding on sapient brains.
In between episodes, we talked about how life felt like that sometimes; like we were alive for a reason, but it loomed like some horrible shadow. What was the point in contributing to a world that consumes us like products?
He walked me upstairs, and I got ready for bed.
I think on some level my brother knew I wasn’t okay, and that he felt the same way, the same dread for life ahead. I wished I could be there for him, but knew he would be fine on his own. He always managed to be okay in the end.
I looked at the pills…
Tomorrow. Definitely Tomorrow.
I woke up the next morning, and crawled downstairs, weak and sick.
The doctor said it was a very bad case of the flu, and that I was not allowed to do anything for two weeks.
I smiled and cried, coughed, sputtered and laughed. Free for two weeks. Free.
I went home and watched more TV, and my mother gathered all the blankets in the house and I burritoed myself. Burritoed is an amazing word, it captures the feeling of being contained, comfortable, and also somehow, delightfully, childishly free. Free.
We watched hundreds of episodes of Criminal Minds, a show about these super smart FBI profilers who use statistics and theories of criminology to understand why people do horrible things, and how to stop them.
I loved the episodes where I could see myself in the killer, not because I would ever hurt someone, but because of the way the profilers would approach them, and talk so softly and tell them that they had a choice. After all that they’d done, the hole they dug for themselves, they could still choose. And I loved when they chose to stop, to surrender. I loved that after everything they did, they could let go.
I knew that these people would go to prison, or a psychiatric asylum. And I knew their actions would haunt them for the rest of their lives, and that they would face consequences, but for a moment someone had looked at them and seen a human. A person, scared, traumatized, psychotic even, but still human.
At night I looked at the pills.
Tomorrow.
And the next night,
Tomorrow.
And like every other Tomorrow, it was undefined, abstract, hypothetical. I began to account for the pills out of ritual, a habitual confirmation that I always had an out. I could always escape, and that every day, I had the power to choose whether to be here or not.
I began to understand that in this world, how I got to live wasn’t under my control, but if I lived; that was something I could decide. And every night I chose to see one more dawn. I always chose to live another day.
I didn’t go back to school, not for a long time, even when I was better. A pandemic swept through the nation, and I watched the death toll rise, and knew that each number was a person, a person who could not control their fate the way I could.
Yet, I was grateful to stay at home—I studied when I wanted to, ate when I wanted to, slept when I wanted to. And all at once it dawned on me that I wanted something again, even if it was only to sleep and eat.
I would look at the pills every night, and what was once a pledge to die tomorrow became a consideration of maybe next week, next month, or even after this thing I’m excited for.
Despite my pain, I pushed off death every day of my life, because there were moments worth living for. I laughed with my mother and brother, and I dreamed of blowing up the mountains that stood in my way, so no one would ever have to climb them again, at least not alone.
This dream became a different type of Tomorrow, not one defined by an end, but a beginning. My romanticization of death was no longer associated with a day looming so close but never arriving. It instead took the form of a distant future, totally eclipsed by the aspirations of my new Tomorrow: the coming days, weeks, and months.
Tomorrow came when I took the envelope knife I once daydreamed about dragging along my skin and used it to open my college acceptance letter.
Tomorrow came when I smiled in that old mirror, seeing myself in graduation robes.
Tomorrow came when I packed my last toiletries for college, and I eyed that bottle for the last time. It was empty now, long since finished as prescribed, and never refilled. I picked it up and felt it in my hands.
I guess it’s okay that sometimes things don’t get finished, and sometimes it’s better that way.
I pushed it off the bathroom counter, into the trash.
It’s the strangest advice I’ve ever given, especially to someone trying to break into the mysterious and dense film industry. Yet my statement stands when it comes to the most precarious department on the film set— the dreaded COVID Department, a.k.a. the Health and Safety Department.
INT. MY BEDROOM – E. GREENWICH – T-2 WEEKS TO FIRST DAY
Would you like to be one of our PA Drivers? Would you be comfortable driving a 10-passenger van and/or a 16’ box truck? Could you come into our office or participate in a Zoom call with our Line Producer? Woah. Information overload. I need to break this down. Ok, 1. I just got a job offer off Facebook?! 2. I’ve never driven either of those kinds of vehicles before and I really don’t want to be trying to figure it out in downtown Boston, especially in the high-pressure job environment of the film industry. 3. I was really trying to get in as a COVID PA…
INT. MY BEDROOM – E. GREENWICH – T-1 WEEK TO FIRST DAY
“Do you want a job?” Emails to three people and two phone calls later, I almost can’t believe those are the first words I hear on the other end of the line.
“Yes, I would like a job!” With those six words, I seal my fate.
EXT. PRODUCTION OFFICE PARKING LOT – BRAINTREE – DAY 4
“Hey guys, let’s talk.” Steve leads us to the picnic table hidden behind the dumpsters and often obscured by big tractor-trailer trucks. “So, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumblings. The unions are meeting to revise the Return to Work Agreement so this will probably be the last show with a COVID Department. There are also mutterings about the new union contracts being negotiated and people aren’t happy so who knows, there might be a strike too. I’ve been assured we have job security, meaning that even if the decision comes back in the middle of our shoot that vaccines are enough to make our department unnecessary, we’ll still have jobs until the end of the shoot. So don’t worry.”
“Will we still be wearing masks and doing testing?” Alan asks.
“Yeah, we’re sticking to all our protocols since it’s such a short shoot regardless of any changes to the RTW,” Steve replies.
Damn, people aren’t going to be happy about that but it’s only six weeks. It probably won’t be that bad.
EXT. PARKING GARAGE – WATERTOWN – DAY 7
“Seriously, go sit in your cars and cool off. And drink water!” Steve says before disappearing towards set. It’s barely 10 AM and I’m dripping sweat. All I or any of my team has been doing for the past two hours is checking people in and helping the nurse label specimen vials for COVID swabs, so sitting in a parking garage in the suffocating New England summer humidity. Still, it’s not that bad compared to everyone else literally running around in it. No wonder they might strike— no one is getting paid enough for this.
Just 10 more hours to go. Plus a half hour for lunch. Once you rotate onto set replacing Tony, you’ll be in the air conditioning. At least, that’s what I have to tell myself. Heaving my backpack stuffed with masks, goggles, face shields, my water bottle, and computer onto my shoulder, I nod to Jason.
“God, I’ll never understand how this shit is so heavy!” I complain.
He laughs ruefully. “Right?! They’re just masks!”
I shake my head. “Well, I guess I’ll go relieve Tony from sign duty. I wonder what corner I’ll be shoved into this time.”
“Have fun!” “Oh, you know it!”
Thank all things holy for Jess and her brilliant advice to put not one but two layers of inserts into my shoes. I’m straddling a camera box, my left foot wedged in between another camera box and the one I’m standing over, my right foot next to my bag. Could they have found a narrower hallway to stick the stuff, at least two set production assistants, the cast when they’re not filming, the hair and makeup cohort, and me holding not one but two plastic signs that are probably a third of my size? Not to mention we’ve been filming the same scene for at least eight hours now. Everyone is starting to lose their patience, even the people who never seemed to get upset about anything.
“How much were we supposed to get through today?” asks the B camera 1st AC.
“Like five scenes. We’re fucked if we’re this behind this early in the shoot,” the B camera operator replies despondently. Grunts and groans of agreement echo down the hallway and I sigh along with them.
EXT. PARKING GARAGE – WATERTOWN – DAY 11
“I swear to God, if Davey doesn’t pull his fucking mask up—” Jason looks threatening.
“Dude, don’t get me started! We’re literally impossible to ignore,” I say gesturing to the way too large safety vest I’m wearing, “so the least he could do is pull it up when one of us is around.” We glare at his oblivious form from across the parking garage’s lower entrance where the producers had a monitor set up to watch the takes streamed from inside the apartment. He was chatting with one of the producers, who was wearing her mask properly, with his mask in its habitual position barely covering his top lip. I shake my head in disgust and look away, noticing a tag on the pavement from the costume department. I pick it up, noticing the date and notes were for the next day’s shoot. A slow, maniacal grin spreads across my face mostly obscured by my mask. “Jason, I’m gonna drop a mask in his lap.”
“Do it! He’ll be so pissed!”
“Maybe he’ll be inspired to actually wear his properly.” I shrug. “We can hope anyway. But now I have the perfect excuse to walk past him!” I say, triumphantly brandishing the costume tag.
As I breeze past Davey, I drop a mask in his lap before disappearing into the building to find Riley or Jill from the costume department. When I reappear after delivering the tag, Jason is beaming.
“He was so pissed!” he crows.
Julian, one of the assistants to the director, grins and nods in agreement. “He couldn’t figure out where it came from and looked at me so I said it was magic,” Julian says.
I burst out laughing. “This is my proudest moment yet!”
“When he finally figured out it was you, he was even angrier you hadn’t interrupted to tell him to put his mask on!” Julian laughs. I make a face.
“Because that makes sense.” I shake my head. “Well, before Ellen sees me and threatens to fire me for not ‘working,’ I’m going to resume my wander/hunt for people who aren’t wearing their masks.” I hitch my bag higher on my back, feeling my spine twinge in protest, before waving to Jason and Julian and heading towards crafty to grab a snack.
INT. OFFICE BUILDING – MEDFORD – DAY 13
“Can you do it?”
Part of me bristles when Ellen asks me essentially if I can handle making spreadsheets. Just because I’m the youngest person on set doesn’t mean I’m automatically incapable of being responsible or don’t know how to use technology. I taught Liz how to use Google Sheets. Her incompetence comes from her severe lack of organization. I’m too neurotic to ever get that scattered. And I’ve already been pretty much doing her job for the past few days. “Yes. Absolutely,” I reply, looking Ellen dead in the eye. She nods and turns back to Steve.
“We should go to the production office and talk to Liz,” she says. Sensing my part in the conversation about my promotion is done, I gather my stuff together and when both Ellen and Steve make moves to get up, I rise from the table and edge towards the door.
“I’ll meet you out there,” Steve says, releasing me from my purgatory of remaining in the same room as Ellen. I slip out the door towards an unused corner of this floor in the office building. I got promoted, I text my mom. She answers almost immediately; I’m sorry sweets. I’m sure you’ll still get time on set. I sigh and put my phone away. I’m doomed to a desk job now, aren’t I?
EXT. PUBLIC PARKING LOT – NORWOOD – NIGHT 14
“Alan, what the fuck?!” I mutter to myself, nearly pulling my hair out in frustration. His numbers are all wrong, which means the email outlining today’s testing costs that he sent from my email, because of course his computer was dead so he couldn’t send it himself, is wrong, making me look like the screw-up, not him. He’s supposed to be helping me, not making my job worse.
As I struggle not to hunt Alan down and throttle him, one of the producers, Serge, walks past my table. It’s still set up in the same place as the testing event earlier in the evening and is now only lit by a small floodlight my camping-savvy supervisor Steve always has in his car. He stops and glances around. “Did they leave you here?” he asks, meaning the rest of my so-called team.
“Yeah, it’s just me and my paperwork,” I say, smiling weakly. He nods knowingly.
“Ah, well enjoy this beautiful night!”
“Oh I will,” I reply, hoping I sound at least somewhat genuine. I was supposed to get set time tonight. Now I have to figure out where missing tests are on my list and send an updated testing event breakdown so I can finally finish this stupid carbon copy purchase order. Who still uses carbon copies?
My phone rings and I look up from the blurring names to see Steve’s name on the screen. “Hi, Steve.”
“What’s your twenty?” “Trying to figure out how our numbers got so messed up so I can finish this P.O.,” I say with more heat than I intended.
“You need help?”
“Yeah.” Five minutes later, Steve and I are cross-checking every single name between Alan’s list and mine, finding and fixing errors that should never have happened. Seven hours into my workday, I still haven’t managed to move past today’s testing event to be able to plan tomorrow’s. And I was promised time on set that is rapidly slipping away.
Mistakes finally found and fixed, the next day’s testing event lists finalized and sent to the nurses, and thirteen hours after I first arrived in this parking lot, I’m finally able to glimpse set. Naturally, it’s all the glamour Hollywood has to offer with the town square literally glowing with Christmas lights and decorations, as if I wasn’t melting in the June heat and humidity half a day earlier. When I find Steve, he tells me exactly what my sinking heart expected but didn’t want to hear:
“You’re already pushing fourteen hours… you really should go home.” I sighed. “But I did promise you time on set. Get to fourteen and get outta here, ok?” For the first time that day, I smile.
INT. MIDDLE SCHOOL GYM – CANTON – NIGHT 17
“Why am I getting calls at nine PM about testing when you said my day players who got tested Monday would be okay to work on Thursday?”
Hmm, I don’t know, Cara. Maybe the fact that today is a night shoot that started at 5:00 PM with a four-hour testing window is why you’re getting called at nine. But of course, I could never say that out loud.
“I didn’t say that someone who got tested on Monday would be cleared for Thursday.” Part of me is baffled Cara would ever think someone would be cleared to work with that kind of time frame. For people who test three times a week, like her day players and herself, if someone wants to work on Thursday, they need to get tested the earliest on Tuesday. That’s been the policy for the whole shoot.
“Then why is my second, Janet, telling me you had a conversation with her on Monday saying this was okay?”
“I remember having a conversation about getting people tested today to work tomorrow. Not getting tested Monday to work tomorrow,” I say as calmly as I can. Cue Janet. I guess I’m on speakerphone in the hair and makeup trailer.
“No, no. We sat down and had a conversation and you told me this would be okay. We get our people tested like we’re supposed to and you said this was okay.” “Okay, maybe at the time we had rapid testing capabilities, but given that there’s a national shortage, that’s simply no longer an option. Also—”
“No, you never said anything about rapid tests. You said they would be okay to work,” Janet cuts me off.
“Also,” I say, trying to fight down the waves of panic and anger threatening to choke me, “I have your day players on my testing list, so to me, the fact that I have them noted and on today’s testing list means our conversation was about getting them tested today so they could work tomorrow.”
“Then why did you have someone call us? Why didn’t you call them?” Cara again, clearly getting pissier, if that was even possible.
“I don’t have your day players’ contact information—” I start to say when Cara cuts me off.
“No, no, no. You should have their information. We gave it to Liz and she should have given it to you.” Oh good god, here we go.
“She never gave me anyone’s contact information—” “Then you should have gotten it from her! She hasn’t been around for weeks!” I glance helplessly at Steve, who is deep in a meeting with Ellen. “Let’s just call it like it is. You didn’t do your job,” Cara lands the second half of her one-two sucker punch. You have got to be kidding me. I’ve only officially been the health and safety manager on this show for five days. Liz is so scattered, she couldn’t give me her own contact information if she wanted to, so no. She was never going to be able to track down and give me the information I needed. I was set up to fail because I’m currently two weeks, the entire time we’ve been filming, behind. Not that Cara and Janet care.
“Okay,” I say after a pause. There’s just no way I can defend myself. They aren’t listening to me. I stop listening to what they’re saying, just tonelessly acknowledging whatever it is and waiting for the call to end. Finally, they hang up.
I promptly stand up and almost run out of the school gym that was doubling as our cafeteria and my “office.” As soon as the cool night air hits my face, I can’t stop the sobs that shake my whole body. I stumble around the corner, curl into a ball in the wet grass, and fully break down.
“You okay?” I look up to see Steve standing at the corner of the building.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, clearly not fine, my voice shaking almost as badly as my body. I tell him what happened.
“I already talked to Hair and Makeup about this. I’m going to have a talk with Cara.” I nod, unable to do much more. He strides back inside and I sink further into the grass.
“Hey.” Carolina, one of the set PAs, crouches next to me and pulls me into a hug. “Everyone’s pissed at hair and makeup and we already hated them but after this?” She shakes her head. “Just know we have your back.”
I give her a watery but genuine smile. Maybe I will make some friends after all.
EXT. BACK MALL PARKING LOT – CANTON – DAY 19
“I need to cool off, this is too much for me,” Tracy, our most often-recurring nurse, tells me as she gets up from the table. I’m focusing on not sliding off my chair because I’m so sweaty.
“Yeah, it’s awful out here,” I say. Today’s parking lot has been baking in the sun all day, so naturally, when we arrived to set up during the hottest part of the day and put up a tent, my workspace became a sauna.
“We’re just waiting on the last few people, come join me. Don’t mind the mess,” she says, opening the back door for me. It could have been stuffed with spikes and I still would have jumped into that air-conditioned back seat. We both sigh when she closes the passenger door and sit for a moment just letting the air blow on our faces. Neither of us gets paid enough for this.
INT. HOTEL LOBBY – BOSTON – DAY 21
“Since they’re filming upstairs now, they kicked us out of our room. Now testing will be in background holding, the church that’s a block away.” Steve is struggling to stay calm.
“Because that makes sense,” I bite out. Great. I trudge out of the hotel and half hope some idiot will blow the red light and hit me as I cross the busy Boston street.
As the room starts to fill up with background actors getting ready to break for lunch five hours later, Steve appears and pulls me to the side.
“So, I just heard that a show maybe a mile away from us just shut down because of COVID and we’ve been sharing background with them…” he trails off.
“Oh,” I say. “Good. Well, I’m not going to hang out in here when they’re eating lunch then.”
“Yeah, good call.” Once again, I gather my stuff and head out the door.
I bypass the hotel entrance and head towards the craft services station and their big box truck.
“Hey, Niko?” I call into the truck where he’s grabbing a case of water. He turns around and smiles.
“What’s up?” “So I’ve been evicted from the hotel and since we share background with the show that just shut down because of COVID there’s no way I’m working in holding while they eat lunch…” I trail off and he asks the question I’m avoiding asking.
“You wanna work in the truck?”
“Yes please!”
“Yeah, let me get you set up.” He opens a folding table and chair for me, gives me his iPad for a wifi hotspot, and points out the power strip next to the table. “Let me know if you need anything else!” he calls over his shoulder as he hops down from the liftgate.
“Considering I was working on the floor of a closet, in a potentially contaminated room, or melting in a parking lot, this is the best ‘office’ I’ve had on this show!”
EXT. CITY STREETS – BOSTON – NIGHT 26
“So,” Steve says hesitantly, “Patrick has some more POs he’d like you to fix.” I roll my eyes and groan.
“He mansplains my job to me every single time I see him and he has my number and my email, why can’t he talk to me himself?”
“I think he’s scared of you.”
“Ha!” I scoff. “Good and as long as I can strike fear into the hearts of middle-aged white men, great, but seriously these are our jobs. And I’m already doing a lot of his for him.”
I grumble my way to the production office the next morning, dreading the added paperwork Patrick is bound to give me.
“I need you to fix these POs,” he says, handing me a stack of five and an invoice from early June. Early June?! It’s now July! Why the hell are you just asking me to fix these?! It’s the last goddamned week of the shoot and I’m done when the shoot ends! “I also need you to look at the invoice from the past two weeks and fix these POs,” he’s saying handing me two more. I clamp my mouth shut to keep myself from screaming or growling or anything else that might snap the fraying leash I have on my rage. I nod. “Oh and always make sure you have backups of the testing lists. You don’t want to be like Liz.” Strike three. You’re out.
“Hey, Steve,” I say as soon as he picks up his phone. “Patrick once again insinuated I can’t do my job and compared me to Liz even though he’s having me fix her mistakes from June.” Steve sighs and anger tightens his voice as he responds.
“Ok, I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and take a deep breath, resisting my own urge to scream and punch a wall. I have paperwork to do.
EXT. RESTAURANT PARKING LOT – TAUNTON – NIGHT 33
“I’m done!” I crow jubilantly to Niko from the table I claimed in the back of his truck. I slap the last PO on the table and close the folder. “That’s the last one, I’m free!” I punch my fists in the air as he laughs at me from the liftgate. Smoke curls around his face from his cigarette and he takes another drag.
“And to celebrate, the food truck should be here in an hour or so.”
“Yes!! Now I get to distract everyone else from their jobs since mine is finally done! And I get free food!” I grin mischievously at him and he keeps laughing. “You’re going to regret giving me free food!”
“It’s just my job,” he grins back. “Speaking of which,” he looks over his shoulder to where his second in command is about to be overwhelmed at the crafty stand by the last wave of background actors who are still needed on set, “I should go help Ed.” I nod and pick up my loathsome folder of paperwork. “But hey,” he calls over his shoulder, “if the contract negotiations keep going the way they are now, people will be glad for a distraction from strike talk.”
“Well, I’m happy to be of service,” I reply with a mock bow. “I need to go make sure this gets sent back to the production office but I’ll be back!” We part ways for now and I look up at the sinking moon, knowing by the time we finally wrap and I can go home, the sun will have replaced it in the sky.
