Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim (14 page)

Tribute in Light, September 11, 2011

Loss cannot be shared, but grief can.

So when my friend Courtney invited me to see the Tribute in Light with her later that evening, I wanted to go.

Courtney is one of my dearest friends from home, we’ve known each other since sixth grade. Today, she works for the architectural lighting firm that designed and constructed this memorial light installation. Its twin pillars of light echo the footprint of the Twin Towers, they reach four miles into the sky and are visible from sixty miles away. Courtney had spent every night last week standing at different points in Manhattan and New Jersey with a walkie-talkie, helping to make sure each of the eighty-eight 7,000-watt lightbulbs was perfectly aligned for the tenth anniversary of September Eleventh.

In fact, I was with Courtney ten years ago, when the attacks first happened. I was sitting behind her in our tenth-grade chemistry class when a teacher rushed in and turned on the TV above the blackboard. I remember Courtney’s head tilted back and her shiny black ponytail touched my desk. Her pretty hair on my notepad was the last ordinary thing I saw that day. By the time my eyes followed hers to the television, the world had changed.

Now ten years later, I stand beside her at the foot of a memorial she helped create. I knew then that I could write about it. Even two kids from Pennsylvania, like my friend from San Francisco in the choir, could participate in this memory. We are a part of this now. We are a part of its light, and its voice, and its song.

That’s the thing about grief; it makes room—the room to be close to someone you’ve never met, and to mourn someone you never knew. Grief is a conduit—for love, for compassion, for healing, and for grace.

Time has not diminished the loss. We will never forget. But more will come to remember. Our collective memory burns brighter than ever before, and so united, we can send the rain back up in light.

Gateway Paint

By Lisa

I’ve become a pot addict.

No, not
that
kind of pot. I’ve never even tried that kind of pot. I stay away from all drugs except Crestor, which shows you the kind of party I am.

But now, I’m addicted to sample pots of paint.

No joke. I can’t quit, and it all started so innocently.

With gateway enamel.

Here’s what happened. I had just finished writing my next book, and if you’re a loyal reader, you know that as soon as I type The End, I have to begin something. And not something that’s work, but something that’s fun, like painting the family room.

A freshly painted family room is fun for middle-aged women. In fact, a freshly painted family room is orgasmic for middle-aged women.

At my age, sex involves latex. And not
that
kind of latex.

Anyway, after my last book, I painted the family room and I did it myself. But this time, I had started thinking that my office needed to be repainted, but I wanted it done right this time, which meant by somebody who paints underneath the pictures on the wall.

In other words, not me.

I also wanted to pick the right color, and I’ve learned from my painting mistakes. If you recall, the shutters on the house were painted yellow, which I hoped would be sunshiny, but turned out bright enough to be a source of solar energy. And it was too expensive a mistake to correct, so I had to live with it.

I’ve made other expensive mistakes, notably Thing Two, but luckily, I didn’t have to live with that one. Divorce is like remodeling your life. It’s not a failure, it’s a home improvement.

If you can change your family room, you can change your family.

I saw an ad for some high-end paint, and I liked the colors, but since it was expensive, I went online and ordered three sample pots, which is very unusual for me. I think the world divides into test-patch people and the rest of us. By this I mean, do you know those laundry bleaches, skin creams, hair dyes, and other scary things that tell you to test it on a patch of shirt, arm, or hair first?

Well, I never listen.

I go whole hog, right from the outset. I’m all in, from the jump. I say go for it and let the chips fall, which may be related to the divorce part, but let’s not tarry, I’m trying to change my ways. So I got the sample pots and started sampling.

I was pretty sure one of the blue shades should work, but when I got them on my office wall, they were too restful. If I rest in my office, I can’t afford to buy pretentious paint.

So the sample pots did their job, but I had three blue stripes on my office wall, which committed me to painting it, for sure. And by the way, I got a little crazy and painted some sample stripes on the second-floor hallway, so now I was committed to that, too. I went back online and ordered four more sample pots of a tasteful tan, then painted four more stripes, but again no dice. They were all too flesh-colored, and they looked like skin walls, which would be fine in Stephen King’s office, but not mine.

Still, I was having a blast. It was a rush to paint outside the lines, and the stripes morphed into blocks, blotches, then swirls. I understood the rush that an artist might get, even though I was just a lady in the suburbs, vandalizing my own hallway.

I went back online again and ordered three pots of reddish shades, but they were too bright, then I ordered two more greenish shades, but they clashed with the rug, then I went for two more pinkish pots, and before I knew it, I had become a sample-pot addict.

Now, my second floor looks like a demented rainbow, I’ve spent too much money, and am no closer to choosing an office color. In fact, I forget the name of the color I almost like, because I didn’t write down its name next to the sample blotch.

And I keep dreaming of ordering another few sample pots, of the lavender colors.

One is too many, and a thousand not enough.

Gateway Brownie

By Francesca

Drug memoir is popular these days, and I’m hopping on the bandwagon. James Frey may lie about his experiences to sound more extreme, but not me. My drug experience was so disproportionately horrible, it needs no embellishment.

I hit rock bottom with a brownie.

Like any good episode of
Intervention,
let me begin at the beginning.

I have never smoked anything in my life. Tobacco products hold zero appeal. I’ve seen cigarettes’ effects on my grandmother’s health, and I’ll never forgive them.

In high school, I was kept happily busy with schoolwork, sports, and singing, and drugs scared the hell out of me. In tenth grade, I sucked helium at a girl’s birthday party, and I was so paranoid about losing brain cells before the PSAT, I spilled a tearful confession to my mom the very next day.

Yes, I was a nerd.

In college, I was no longer afraid, but I remained uninterested. The potheads were entertaining only to other potheads. And while I had some vague awareness of cocaine use at parties, it was always taking place behind a bathroom door when I really had to pee.

Really girls, the ladies’-room line is long enough.

So at twenty-five years old, I had never tried a single puff of weed. I admit, sometimes I felt like I’d missed out on something. There was a whole swath of cannabis-related pop culture that went over my head. “Puff” was just a magical dragon, “Cheech and Chong” just sounds offensive. Blunt means lacking in tact. I love Bob Marley because he was a musical genius.

At least I’d always have something to lord over my future children.

Do as I say, and as I do.

And I could run for president.

I did not inhale, nor did I have sex with that woman.

But despite the occasional law abider’s remorse, trying marijuana was not on my agenda. After college, you’re really getting too old for it anyway. Remember that one friend in grade school whose parents were hippies—were they cool? No, they were unwashed and embarrassing. That’s why your friend always wanted to sleep over at your house.

But all that changed last winter.

After a month of constant working and living like a hermit, I had just turned in our third book to the publisher. The Eagles were set to play for the NFC Championship, so I had invited my best friend, my guy friend, and his girlfriend over for a playoffs party. Before they came over, I cleaned my entire apartment, ordered two pizzas, and got all the ingredients to make Eagles-green margaritas.

My three friends arrived at my place from an earlier game-day get-together a little gigglier than usual, but nothing that couldn’t be caused by a beer or two. So when my best friend produced a tinfoil-wrapped brownie from the last party, my only thought was:

Yay brownie!

“It’s a pot brownie,” the other said, sniggering.

“Oh.” I was genuinely disappointed. I imagined it would taste earthy and gross. Frankly, if it’s not going to taste sweet, it’s not worth the carbs. “No thanks.”

“Try it, they’re awesome. We each had like two at the party.”

“And you feel okay?” I asked.

The consensus was that they hardly felt it at all. I believed them, a) because they weren’t acting unusual, and b) because I had always guessed that hash brownies were something of an urban myth. It seemed like the Ouija Board of drug experiences, where you stir some herbal into your Betty Crocker mix and delude yourself into believing you can “feel it.” Baking takes precision; I didn’t think a stoner could pull it off.

Still, I wasn’t that into the idea of eating the brownie. I’d come this far without trying any drug, why start now? And soon, the pizza arrived, which they ate ravenously, and I hoped we could forget it.

But my friends would not let it go. I could barely focus on watching the game for all their teasing. They thought I was being weird, boring, annoying, and paranoid to refuse a delicious and harmless pot brownie. We went back and forth about it for nearly forty-five minutes.

“Fine!” I snapped. “I’ll eat the darn thing.” I took a careful bite.

It was surprisingly good. It tasted exactly like a normal brownie, which triggered the sugar addict in me, and I gobbled it up.

I was literally dabbing the crumbs from my mouth when my best friend sat back on the couch, her affect sour.

“I don’t feel so good,” she said.

“Me neither,” said my guy friend.

“Yeah, I’ve actually been feeling pretty nauseous for a while,” said the third. “I don’t know why anyone does this for fun.”

I thought they were kidding. “Ha, ha, very funny.”

The three of them sat silently on my couch, looking green.

“You cannot be serious,” I said. “You
just
convinced me to eat this!”

But they were all too baked to appreciate the irony or my indignation. Somehow, the very moment that I succumbed to their peer pressure was the same instant the high hit them, hard. Suddenly the mood was serious and they were all professing their queasiness. My friend’s girlfriend started freaking out, insisting she had “overdosed on marijuana.” I told her there was no such thing, but she demanded I Google it or call the police.

I can only imagine the humiliation of calling the NYPD to tell them you feel sick from a pot brownie. I opted for “Google it.”

But in the time it took me to locate online reassurance, there was a new demand being made.

“Change the channel, I need to watch something with a narrative!” she cried.

No one overreacts quite like an overeducated nerd.

“But, the game,” I pleaded.

But these pastry junkies were not having it. You don’t mess with someone tripping on refined carbohydrates. They wanted a movie and they wanted it now. Then they wanted glasses of water, which I fetched for them, and then blankets.

When one of them asked for a wastebasket, I knew I was in trouble.

Suddenly, it was surround-sound puking.

My one friend hurling in the trash can, my guy friend ralphing in my sink, and my best friend bolting for the bathroom.

She didn’t make it.

Remember that pizza I ordered?

My pristine apartment was now painted with it.

The worst part was, I sensed this Barfapalooza was just a sneak preview of my own impending doom. I didn’t know how much sober-ish time I had left, so I fought my own impending high to clean up as much as I could. With leaden limbs and unrelenting seasickness, I felt like housekeeping on an Italian cruise ship.

No one was going home that night, so my next step was getting these tweakers to bed, but moving them anywhere was easier said than done. My guy friend is over six feet and 200 lbs, so when he decided to cuddle up on the dog bed, Pip and I had no choice but to let him. And my best friend was so off-balance, she was crawling around on the floor like an extra in
Saving Private Ryan.

Somehow everyone found a place to lie down and sleep it off. The next morning, despite brutal headaches, we were grateful for our second chance. We had survived the world’s lamest drug episode.

Not one of us had a single positive effect from that abominable baked good—baked
evil,
more like it. It was harrowing and yet, humiliating. I always thought the upshot of a bad choice was a good story, but this was just embarrassing.

I mean, a brownie? Really?

I suppose the lesson was this: If you’re a square, embrace your squareness. Do a square dance. You have all the right angles. You’re well balanced. Great things come in square packages.

Just say no to bake sales.

Bittersweet

By Lisa

This Thanksgiving will be wonderful in some ways, and sad in others. In a holiday that’s all about food, this one will taste bittersweet.

Because we just lost our friend and neighbor Harry. He passed away the other day at age ninety, in his home, next door.

I was out of town when it happened, though when I came back, I noticed that his light wasn’t on at night, usually a warm yellow glow through the dark branches of the trees, jagged and bare now, like black lightning.

I suppose I should have realized he had passed, but I didn’t, which is the paradox of death. It always comes as a surprise, even when it’s expected. The shock arises from its very gravity.