Day Thirteen — Easter

April 16, 2006,

Dear Lunch Buddy,

Today was, by far, the best day I’ve had in a long time. I woke up early and showered and then made shrimp and chicken kebobs to take to my mom’s for Easter. After they were prepared, I came in to my room and saw that Sister had sent me a message over MSN. She told me that there was more on the Nieces (T & D) front. D had actually defecated in the bathroom sink in the spare room and had left it there for my mom to find. She had, of course, claimed that she had been dared by T, and it was, therefore, not her fault. I knew it would be an interesting day following that news.

So I dressed. I wore that black skirt you like so much; the one with the slits up either side. I wore that pink sweater that I haven’t worn in months because of a rust stain across the breast (I found that repeated applications of lemon juice and salt make a very affective rust remover). I also wore the boots that you refer to as my "fuck me" boots and black tights under those. I was looking pretty snazzy, if I do say it myself.

It rained most of the way to my folks’ place. It was coming down pretty hard, actually. I was listening to the audiobook of Little House on the Prairie. I haven’t read those books in ages, but they always brought me comfort in difficult times. Listening to them has been bittersweet. I love the strength of the stories; of how the family worked together to make their lives comfortable and pleasant. But I hear the description of Pa with different ears than I once did. Pa built a house as quickly as he could so that his wife and children would have shelter from the wind and wolves. Pa would not be happy with an earthen floor; so he hewed each board himself and laid a floor and smoothed it so that no splinter would violate the foot of one of his children. Pa took his daughters to an abandoned Indian camp and when they discovered Indian beads in the dust, he crawled around on the ground with them and helped them hunt for those beads.

It was not until my thirty-second birthday that I realized that I’d never had a provider or a protector. I had parents, yes; parents whom I dearly love. But they were not who they are now, and they were selfish then. Their needs came before those of my siblings and myself. And there were plenty of hurtful situations that they not only did NOT protect us from, but to which they indeed exposed us.

You are truly the first man in my life who has ever made the effort to make me feel protected and provided for, even in the extreme limitations of our relationship. I never realized how important such a person is in ones life: that person who makes you feel balanced and safe, and for whom you do the same.

When I arrived at my parents’ house, my sister was already there. D seemed very excited to see me, and she ran up and hugged me in the kitchen in front of everyone. I knew she was waiting to see how I would treat her, as she knew she would be getting a scolding from all of us. But I hugged her, and kissed her head. Then I told her that I had heard she’d been behaving like demon spawn, lately. She laughed and nodded. "Are you proud of that?" I asked her, sharply. "No," she said, more somberly. Then she went outside to play.

I gave my mother the wind chimes I had gotten her for her birthday, which is tomorrow. She loved them. Then, throughout the rest of the morning and afternoon, we proceeded to act like the village necessary to raise children.

Mom told me that D hadn’t written the apology letter to her teacher that I had instructed her to write after getting into trouble on the last day of school. I told her she better get her butt in gear or she would not be hunting Easter eggs when the time came. So she begrudgingly got some paper and sat at the table to write the letter. "How long does it have to be?" she whined. "Long enough to say what needs to be said," I told her. She wrote a couple of sentences and started to bring it to me. "I know you’re not done already," I told her. She sat down, quickly and scowled at her paper.

After several minutes, she brought me what she had written. "I’m sorry I was rude to you. It won’t happen again. I pinkie promise." She gave me a sweet smile and I handed her back the paper and told her to erase the pinky part. It’s only cute when you mean it. She gave me a dirty look and sat back down. "Why are you sorry?" I asked her. She gave me some weak answers and finally Step Sister came over and said, "Is she sorry? Maybe that’s why she can’t come up with a good answer." Good point! "Are you sorry?" I asked. D looked at me with a confused expression on her face and said, "I don’t know what you mean." I told her that being sorry means that you feel bad that you’ve done something. I asked her if she felt bad about what she’d done. She said she did, and I said, "Ok, then why do you feel bad?" That’s when she wrote the following:

"Dear Mr. 4th Grade Teacher, I’m sorry for being rude to you. I really really am. I promise I will not do it again. I know it’s hard being a teacher because my Aunt is a teacher. I know it’s hurtful having mean kids like me in your class. I’m very sorry. Love, D.

So after that was done, Mom, Sister and I proceeded to fill Step-Sister in on all the details of the T and D drama. Shortly after that, Foster-Sister arrived, bringing T and some other friends and family with her. T was very apprehensive about coming into the house. I think she knew what was coming, so she was very stand-offish and quiet. She was wearing sun-glasses in the house and that really bugged me, but I didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually she came in and sat down with us. Foster-Sister’s mother-in-law and another friend of hers were sitting at the table drinking sodas and T was sitting with them. Finally I said, "the teacher in me wants to rip those glasses right off of your face." Tessa gave me that dirty look that teenagers give adults who act like asses, and I was embarrassed for having said that to her. I could have approached that a few other ways that would have been less confrontational. So I let it drop with her eyes rolling.

But this started a whole new conversation. Foster Sister’s friend, whom I will refer to as Dorka, from this point forward, said, "Oh, you’re a teacher? What grade?"

"High school and adult ed, but I sub in middle school sometimes."

"How can you stand it?" she shouted, and that set me to telling my teacher stories, which I love to do. One of the stories I told was the story about the kid who lied to get out of my class and then claimed I’d taken the class to a homosexual assembly, so that his dad would come in and get him out of trouble. When I was setting the stage for this story, I mentioned that there was a large population of gay kids at that school. Dorka shouted, "how disgusting!"

Everyone laughed uncomfortably and I stopped, unsure of where to go with this story. Finally I said, "are you serious?" At which time my mom and my sisters all laughed loudly, realizing that we were all taken aback by her reaction. She apologized awkwardly and asked me to continue with the story, but I told her it sort

of lost its momentum after that. I got the impression that she wasn’t really a gay hater, but that she was just trying to fit in with what she thought was the mood of the room. I kind of feel sorry for her, but there’s no excuse for that kind of ignorance. Better to say nothing than to say something like that. (Later my mom patted me on the back for calling her on that, instead of just letting it go. Her best friend is a 65 year old gay man who would have been there today had he not been ill).

So after a while, the room cleared and a space at the table next to T opened up. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her for a hug. I apologized to her for saying what I had said. She said it was ok, and I said, "No it wasn’t. I could have asked you to take them off, but instead I said something nasty and unnecessary." Then I asked her to please take off the sunglasses and told her that when she looks at us over the top of them, it’s very disrespectful. I told her that it also felt like she was hiding from us and didn’t want to be a part of the conversation. She admitted that she kind of was hiding from us, because she knew she’d be getting an earful. She took them off, put them away, and was much more comfortable in the room.

Sister wouldn’t let either girl move without reminding them of their crimes. Every time someone said the word "shit" she would make some comment about D and the sink. I thought it was a little brutal, but certainly not undeserved.

One of the persistent complaints that Sister and I have had about D is that her belly is always showing. She’s a chunky child, because my parents don’t regulate what she eats and she eats nothing but garbage. In any case, it’s not that she’s showing a little belly because her shirt is short or her pants low cut. It’s because she doesn’t pull her pants up over her gut, AND she wears shirts that don’t go long enough. At one point, she stood in front of my mother so that I was looking at her profile and I saw that belly hanging over her pants and out of her shirt. She started to walk out of the room so I pulled my skirt down so that my belly hung out, and pulled my sweater up high and called her back. To my great surprise and pleasure, my sister followed my lead and did the same thing; and she has post-baby belly. When D walked in, she was mildly stunned; but then Mom iced the cake by pulling her belly out! (My mom is a VERY large woman, so that was a chore, and I laughed out loud!) D laughed, embarrassed and ran out of the room. Next time I saw her, she was wearing a cute, zip-up cardigan that covered her belly.

At another time, just Mom and I were sitting at the table with D hovering near. Mom farted, and excused herself quickly, but D grabbed on to it and made a huge stink (pun intended). "Grandma, that’s gross!" she said, among other things, and she proceeded to poke and scold. My mom just looked at her seriously and said, "I’ve never shit in a sink." D’s next words were, "wow, it looks like the sun is coming out!" I laughed for a long time over that one.

The day progressed with food, fun, and laughter. There were deviled eggs, chips and dip, ribs, shrimp and chicken kebobs, hamburgers, tri-tip, vegetables, and more chocolate than one can imagine. I played with baby Nephew throughout the day, rocking, feeding, burping, and changing him. His smile just makes my heart scrunch up and his laugh is precious music.

My family had gathered around the big table in the garage, out of the rain. My brothers and their families didn’t make it this year, but Sister and her kids were there. Foster Sister and her husband and children were there. Step-sister and her husband and baby were there. And there was my mom and my dad and D. I was so happy to be in a room full of people who love each other the way that we do, and then suddenly I felt so empty and alone. They would all go home with someone, tonight. Every one of them would be sleeping next to someone: a spouse, a sibling, a child. Every one of them but me. So many times today I wanted you to be there. I thought, "Lunch Buddy would have lots to say about that!" or ""Lunch Buddy would get a kick out of this."

My baby would be 5 years old. She’d have been right there in the midst of all of that joy. And when I came home, tonight, I’d have let her sleep in my bed, next to me, and we’d watch some TV together before going to sleep.

I just want someone to exist for. When I lay here in my bed typing these entries, the TV my only company, I feel so pointless. What is the value of a life lived alone.

I know my life has value. I know I have a place in the world, and I think I’m doing something toward making the world a better place. But I want someone to care about me. Yes, of course my family loves me. My friends love me. You love me. But I want someone to think of me every day. I want someone to look forward to my arrival home. I want someone to think of me daily. I want someone to need me.

I’m lonely, Lunch Buddy. Really, truly lonely.