it was right there in her final breath, the last beat of her weakened heart, that it ended. she was quiet. i was loud. she was somber. i was angry. forever closed were the doors to the super secret birthday barbie club.
in the summer of 1987, i turned 5. my parents, a mere 26, having mastered the challenges of boys in their early childhood, returned to the lives they had before my brother and i entered the yearly family photo at sears. they returned to softball. i returned to hell.
as a fastidious child with princely aspirations exceeding his pauper birthright, i was not the most popular child at the ballpark. kids didn't understand my lack of enthusiasm with regard to the sandbox, tire swings, and dusty dugouts. mothers, while envying my clean nails and clothing, wiping muck and grime from their own spawn, eyed me with sidelong, slightly suspicious glances. fathers, well, fathers could have really cared less.
regardless, i was lonesome. left to my own devices. uninterested in the game. even more so in the other children.
monica, however, was interested in everything. she devoured the softball game with famished eyes. she wanted to know every other kid's name and favorite color, favorite food, what tv shows they liked, and who their favorite character was on jem.
unfortunately, no one else was interested in her. where i chose to be an outcast, monica was given no choice.
she had muscular dystrophy, and no one was interested in the retard.
except me.
admittedly, at the age of 5, i did not immediately recognize how she was different. i only knew that she was and that for some reason i liked her. in hindsight, i realize it was one freak seeing himself in the other. monica's differentness on open display for the world; mine hidden in an emotional knot that would take years to unwind.
at that time, though, only upon hearing that she was 11 did i know that something wasn't right. still, i did not care. afterall, she had the rainbow brite zip-up carrying case, full of dolls and doll shoes and doll clothes but more importantly doll shoes. did i mention doll shoes? it was fantastic. she let me carry it all night long, and my mom was suddenly and surprisingly eager to let me (and monica) play with its contents.
soon after meeting monica, destiny brought her family across the street. once mere ballpark friends, we now could be full-blown besties. we spent all of our time together. a red wagon full of barbies. imaginations at full blast. and cartons and cartons of fresh blueberries. indigo-tinged fingers forcing midge into her latest purchase at barbie's store.
i enjoyed that i was allowed to play with dolls, and i'm sure she enjoyed having a friend treat her like she thought normal kids were treated. she would ask me what it was like to go swimming. i would ask her what it was like to know jerry lewis. she would tell me about how bad her school aide's breath was. i would tell her about the rabbit that kept pooping in our sandbox. we never spoke of our friends outside the super secret birthday barbie club. to this day, i am certain it was because neither of us had any.
we spent hours each day living out the lives we thought we should have had through barbie and her friends. in her bedroom, monica became a tall, busty blonde with long (working) legs. she could drive a car. she could swim and dance. she could go on dates with a boy. likewise, i became a bubbly redhead, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose. the fashion icon, so long held inside, ran free. i was royalty and exhibited the spending power one would associate with "the princess of europe". in her bedroom, we were ourselves. the selves no one else ever got to see. our needs sated. our weaknesses exposed. our secrets shouted.
monica and i only fought once. it was the last time i remember talking to her. i am certain it had something to do with shoes. doll shoes were like gold to us. we'd have given up kool-aid for a year to get new shoes for barbie and midge. there was something cathartic about seeing shoes you could never use doing your bidding via the doll. as a boy, i'd never get to wear heels. as a semi-paraplegic, monica would never do them justice.
perhaps, she stole a pair of mine, or maybe i hid a new pair from her, but i know the fight had to do with shoes. after 3 years of intimate, undefeatable friendship, we fought over doll shoes.
i stormed out of her house. she slammed the door on me. i yelled at her from my window. she slammed her window on me.
furious, i swore into my pillow that i would not see her again until she apologized.
tuesday morning, i saw her for the first time in 15 years.
during the funeral, my mom would, from time to time, lean over and remind me of little stories from my childhood with monica. the smell of fresh blueberries. the sound of a red wagon jostling down a sidewalk. the touch of infield dust on our cheeks, where it kissed a glistening of summer perspiration. the taste of salty sunflower seeds and cherry snocones.
she brought up what she called one of her favorite monica stories, "the big fight". she recalled in perfect detail the argument and slamming of doors and windows. then, she added to the story... she said, "and then, not five minutes, not five whole minutes after she slammed that last window shut, she opened it back up and called out to her mom, 'do you think little brett can come over to play?' and baffled, her mom asked 'didn't you just fight with him, monica?', then monica, well, you know her, she said, 'yeah, i'm sorry about that, so do you think he can?' that was just like her."
it was, and i had never known. somehow, the message never came back to me, and i never went back to play at monica's.
she couldn't hear me when i said i was sorry, too.
i had gone to the funeral with every intention of making my peace with monica. this revelation made it all the more important. as i looked down at her, giving my apologies and smiling about the fun we had had, i gave them to her. two, small black shoes. a pair of tall heels with an open toe.
perfect for dancing.
posted by brett @ 2:08 PM
6 Comments:
you shouldn't make your roommate cry at work. it isn't becoming of a young lady to be tear-ridden at her little desk. sadness
Many many many hugs to you.
wow, brett, wow
that was really, really powerful
nothing really else to say
wow....
thanks for all the kind words, kids. i really appreciate it.
lots of love.
and god damn am i going to be eating a lot of ice cream this week.
you shouldnt make your roomates brother in arizona cry at work either. A hug from mol goes along way. :)
I too am crying at work. Very touching, Brett.
CF
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