Storied Past // Notes on Moths

(TW: mention of rape)

We sat in a coffee shop and I could feel my eyes wide in my sockets.  The leather chair beneath my body was tucked into a windowed corner, overlooking the edge of campus.  Concrete steps and brutalist architecture surrounded us.  We sat in contrast to the harsh angles and hard surfaces: bleeding warmth amidst a starkly frigid landscape.

She told me the latest story: how she had gotten into a car accident that weekend.  How her clunker car was finally totaled.  She continued on, telling me about her bike ride to work that morning.  How she fell, yet again, down the slick, grassy hill outside the dining hall.  She raised her hands to show off the road rash: red gouges in her pale skin.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” I whispered. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”  She brushed it off, bravely.  I admired her for that—the bravery.  Did she ask me about my life then?  I don’t remember.  But inevitably the time came for us to go our separate ways and I wished her well, uttering a silent prayer as I watched her leave.

. . .

Was I the opposite of a fair-weather friend?

. . .

I kept suggesting that she write a book, to tell the world all the things she was telling me.  Her life truly seemed to be one unbelievable event after another, walking some line between adventure and insanity. When I said that to her, though, I can’t remember: did her expression falter?  Did she change the subject?  In those moments, what did I fail to see?

. . .

Months prior, a mutual friend had introduced us.  He said she needed some female friends to ‘love on her.’  That was one of those phrases we threw around at the time.  As in, ‘to heap love upon someone.’ Anyway, we took her in as if she were some sort of stray animal in need of a home.  There was backstory that I didn’t know about until later, yet my little ministry-molded heart was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. 

Early on in this new friendship, a few of us got a call.  It was late and we all had class in the morning, but she needed help.  There was alcohol involved, without a doubt.  Possibly other substances as well.  We drove across campus under the stars.  The car was left to idle illegally in the parking lot, risking the ever-vigilant tow trucks, as a foot chase ensued. After we knocked on her door she somehow snuck past us off a balcony. 

. . .

Or, at least I think that’s how it all went down.  I don’t mean to mix the details—but has been over eight years since that night and these events. Those memories sit strangely in my sleep-deprived memory. But also, I have to remind myself: it was hard to keep all the details straight, even then.

. . .

In the days that followed, we were informed that this binge was prompted by a traumatic event.  She confided in us that she had been raped.  Understandably, she did not want to go to the police or file charges.  I scrambled to do what research I could for her, in case she changed her mind.  I made a visit to the women’s center on her anonymous behalf, making time between classes.  From my meager savings I bought her a pregnancy test, just in case.

With her consent, I left the pregnancy test outside of her door.  Hours later she informed us that it was positive: she was pregnant.  Presumably with the child of her rapist.  This led to a wider circle of people involved in the frenzy.  Potential adoptive parents and scheduled doctor’s appointments. Research and conversations.  All the while, the semester continued on. 

Against the guidance of our ministry leader, she made an appointment with Planned Parenthood. The matter was settled. After a while, the entire situation dropped from our minds.  

Well, as much as something like that could be forgotten, I suppose. 

. . . 

That was all at the beginning.  That was before the late-night darts in my bedroom or the dress shopping.  That was before the talks of fruit dehydration and long before the texts from her roommates or the calls from the rehab. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  The summer after she graduated, I received a call from her.  I was driving my little blue Corolla and she was on speaker phone.  She told me about her summer.  About some volunteer work she had been doing at a hospital involving legal aid.  She told me about this child she was helping in an abuse case. She built up the story with gut-wrenching detail.  She described this feeling she had that things just ‘weren’t quite right’ with the case, or with the child’s guardians.  She decided to sneak the child out of the hospital to safety.  It played out like a plot to some movie.  Dodging personnel and feeling out the back exit.  Driving off with the child and being chased by the police.  Being accused of kidnapping.  Luckily, she said, she got off scot-free because she made a deal with the police.  They said that the charges would be dropped if she agreed to help the cops bust a criminal ring.  So that’s what she did.  And that’s why she hadn’t been returning calls or texts recently, she said.  That’s why she bailed on a camping trip.  It was top secret stuff so she really couldn’t say more, she said.  But they got the bad guys because of her.  She said. 

I was driving down the road and that sense she described of things feeling ‘not quite right’—a sense that had been building below the surface for years—suddenly felt all too relatable.  “Wow, that’s remarkable,” I said aloud, feeding her what she wanted.  “Sounds like you need to add that to the book!” I said, desperately wanting to cling to the belief in my friend. 

. . . 

Wanting to see the best in people really does blind us to reality, doesn’t it? 

. . . 

Years later, after one final visit to her new post-college city, I was settled into a nannying job that I adored.  The little one was napping and I was checking my phone. There were some odd texts.  We hadn’t been in touch for a long time, but the messages were from two people claiming to be “her new roommates.” They had some questions as they were trying to piece some things together and “could we talk?” 

A few of us involved in her life during college coordinated with these new roommates.  As details were shared and information was swapped, the truth, or at least a sliver of it, had become obvious.  

Journals and empty bottles in hand, the new roommates confronted her.  Her mentor may have gotten involved too, if I remember correctly.  She went off to rehab and I secondhand wished her well.  I sent no silent prayers this time. 

A week or so later I received a call.  A rehab employee, pushed to the brink, was forced to break confidentiality agreements for the sake of the patient.  “Can you corroborate any of this information?” he asked. 

“I can,” I responded. 

She was lying to everyone at rehab, it turns out. 
She was lying to everyone, period. 

Was it always that way?  Was it ever a mixture? 
Truth coated in lies? Or lies wrapped in truth? 

Or was it always solidly deceit, through and through? 

. . .

I just remembered: the conversation on the chairs in the campus coffee shop—that was when she told me about the cancer, not a car accident. Stage 4.  Something rare and difficult to research.  There was the possibility of an experimental treatment at a hospital in a nearby city. 

“You’re taking this better than I expected,” she said.  Had she wanted me to cry?

Is it worth going back to fix those details?  The story I’m telling is not meant to be fiction, yet it remains riddled with it despite my best efforts.

. . .

I so desperately wanted it to be her, writing this into a book.  Because I so desperately didn’t want to believe that she was lying to me.  To my face. Over and over again.  

And I didn’t want to face the fact that I had believed her.  Over and over again.  I twisted my brain into knots, justifying.  Lying to myself, while she lied to me.

The worst part of it was, I genuinely thought I was helping. 

She filled herself into every crevice I had in my over-scheduled life.  Her roots wound their way in and I kept pouring the water, egging them on. 

I was feeding the little moth-monster inside of her, drawn to the flames of attention and adoration.  Drawn to a place where she could tell stories and someone would listen. 

And she was feeding the little moth-monster inside of me, drawn to the flames of the ‘needy’ and ‘hurting’.  Drawn to a place where I could feel important and useful. 

Together, we created a whirlwind of drama and lies and so much hurting.
Or maybe, she created it, and I was simply sucked in.  

Either way, after all this time, I’m still not sure: 

Am I the only one with wings burned?

Parch: Futures & Friends

“But all adults hate their jobs right?  Even if they do something they used to love, once they have to do it every day in order to put food on the table, they all grow to resent it, right?”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true, Parch.  My mom loves being a detective.” Xan was careful with her next words.  “I can see how your dad might want you to think that though.”

Parch sighed, looking resigned. “Yeah, no kidding.  It’s definitely in his best interest for us to think that being miserable is just the norm.” 

“So here’s the thing though.” Xan shifted positions, extending her legs out in front of her. They were sitting under a tree in the park, waiting for their friend Caldra to finish up at the library.  “Once you don’t live under his roof anymore you can do whatever you want, right? You don’t have to become an accountant. Or do anything related to the family business. Once you’re out you can decide for yourself if you want to go to music school. Or be a bartender. Or a lumberjack.” 

Xan watched her friend’s face as she said this, hoping for a smile. Parch couldn’t help themself. They smiled. “Me? A lumberjack? You’re right. These muscles really do scream tree-cutting-extraordinaire.” They flexed their arms with mock bravado.

“Exactly!” Xan said. “Plus we both know how you feel about dirt and nature. And you’d look just fabulous in flannel.” 

Parch let out a hearty laugh as this, as they thought about one of the last times the whole gang was together. Caldra had begged everyone to go exploring down by the creek and Parch didn’t realize until they got there just how much they appreciated the comforts of city-living.  Paths to walk on, allergy-aggravating flowers contained to window boxes, spider webs kept to a minimum.  Normally pretty go-with-the-flow, Parch definitely made their displeasure known that day and their friends teased them for weeks afterward because of it.  Annoyed at first, they had grown used to the light-hearted jabs and Parch found this one to be genuinely humorous. 

“Ah, yes. You know, you’ve convinced me. Lumberjack it is. You should probably change your path to go into career counseling,” they jabbed back, golden eyes sparkling in the sun. 

“I’m always giving the most sound advice, it’s true. If only I could follow some of it myself…”

“Oh, speaking of which, did you decide what you’re doing about the auditions?” 

“Nice try buddy, we’re talking about your life problems right now, not mine.”

Parch shrugged. “Worth a shot.” They continued, “You should go for it though. I think you’d be awesome as Imogen.”

“Imogen?! That’s the lead role! I can’t even…” her eyes narrowed as she caught herself falling for the diversion. “Nope! Not falling for it!” Xan’s bright blue hair swayed as she shook her head.

Parch smirked.  They glanced over Xan’s shoulder, hoping to see Caldra walking toward them, but no such luck. 

“Okay, okay. I see you looking for rescue. We can be done talking about it for now if you want to be.  But one last thing. Maybe just think about having an exit strategy.  Obviously we’ll all help you however we can, I mean, duh, we’re your friends. But even if you crash with one us for a bit while you’re figuring things out we can’t like, get you into music school.” 

“Or pay for music school,” Parch said, back to being glum. 

“Ya, unfortunately none of us are that loaded,” agreed Xan. “Well, Eb’s family might be, but that’s beside the point.” Xan trailed off and sat quietly in thought for a minute.  The wind rustled the leaves on the trees overhead.  A squirrel jumped between branches with an acorn in its mouth.  Parch looked up. It really was a beautiful day out. 

“What if we all got summer jobs?” Xan said suddenly.  “Started saving up for all the stuff we want to do when we finally get to choose? We could apply to something simple that we could all do together, like serving sandwiches. Or you could see if any of the music shops are hiring and–”

“You know my dad would never let me do that.” Parch interrupted. 

“—anddd, if you’d let me finish, your dad would let you do it because you’d tell him that you’re going to job shadow their accountant.  For practice or experience or whatever.” 

Parch didn’t look convinced but at least they looked intrigued. “And what do I do  instead? While I’m lying to my father.”

“Whatever it is you do at music shops! Sell instruments. Clean instruments. Copy musical scores. Teach kids how to make less terrible noises on those things, I don’t know! You could even do something related to the bookkeeping if you really don’t want to lie to your dad. At least you’d have your foot in the door and could start making connections and stuff.”

Parch made a non-committal noise and stared off into the park where a kid was trying to throw pebbles into the fountain. 

“Just promise me you’ll think about it?”

“But what if he says I should just ‘job shadow’ my aunt?  She’s their current accountant so he would probably want me to learn the family’s way of doing things.” 

“You could tell him that you wouldn’t want to slow her down by asking a bunch of questions. Orrr, you could tell him that you heard it’s good to get different types of experience because diversifying leads to… efficiency or something.” 

“Diversifying…leads…to efficiency? I don’t think that’s a thing, Xan.” 

“Well, maybe don’t say that exactly, but we’ll workshop it. We’ll figure something out.” 

Parch looked at their friend with affection, feeling lucky to have her in their life. “Okay, okay.  I promise I’ll think about it.” 

“Think about what?” A voice came from off to the side. They turned to see Caldra striding toward them, a stack of books in her arms, and one of her many quilted skirts hanging from her waist.  

“Parch is going to be a musical lumberjack and the rest of us are going to apply to work at Drethro’s to make sandwiches this summer!” 

Caldra laughed. “Perfect! I’m in! We all knew the musical lumberjack thing was going to come up sooner or later so I’m glad you finally decided on that.” 

Parch shook their head as they tried to hide their grin.

on a train

I feel trapped and surrounded yet disconnected and aimless. Like I’m on a railroad going nowhere, alone in a train car full of people. Backpacks packed with stuff that I can’t access or use. People I know but not people I can talk to. The view outside is a blur but somehow it’s also blurry in here too. I took my glasses off, I don’t wear glasses. The train engines are hard at work and my legs are tired from constant running. I remember getting on this train but I didn’t choose to. I could get off if I wanted, but have no power to stop it.

I move to the conductor’s car but all I find is a mirror and a note that says “don’t touch” written in familiar handwriting. I look around for something to touch but only my face is visible, hollow eyes staring at a point behind my shoulder. I reach out for the glass, cold and contoured under my fingertips. Sliding into the canyon below my chin the train lurches and I grab the collarbone with a death grip, a parent as their child learns to drive. We’re falling and my stomach rushes up my throat. It bursts from the lips of the reflection, rests unmoving on the floor. I stare at it. I return to my seat.

Hard orange plastic sticks to the back of my thighs as I rest my head against the window. The man behind me starts to breath audibly, panting, hot air filling up the car. The others join, their humid breath fogs the windows, condensation drips into my eyes. It slides down my cheeks. Into my mouth. It’s salty and sweet. It burns like acid and as I stick my tongue out I see holes forming, blackened at the edges.

I rub my forearm on the window to clear a portion and look out. Electrical wires run parallel to our movement, pen lines running smoothly over an impressionist painting. They buzz and spark. The holes in my tongue start to ache. I close my eyes and go to sleep. 

I dream of a restaurant I went to once in the city. The waiter is an ex-lover dressed in black. She sets a pitcher full of ice on the table. There is no water. When the food comes it is piled high on platters—fresh, colorful, appetizing. I know that my fingers, if I reach out, will pass right through every morsel so I lean my face down, like those cows I saw at the edge of a river on vacation. About to take a bite I glimpse the flutter of a bird wing from the corner of my eye. Turning my head I realize the table next to me is occupied by two ravens, tearing into a carcass. I look back at my food, beautiful and alluring. Silverware glints beside my plate. I reach out and the metal sears my skin, pain radiates up my arm, frying every nerve, and wraps around my heart. I wake up screaming.

I’ve been here for weeks now, huddled in a luggage compartment. An announcement came over the loud speaker, mentioning tickets, and I knew I needed to hide. Yesterday a child came looking for their backpack. Her eyes slid past mine easily as she pulled out a yellow bag covered in black birds. I couldn’t help but wonder if that bag had, shoved into its lining, memories of a life before this one.

Xan: Death of an Author

A sharp crack. A slow drip
drip
        drip.

“I never imagined this would be so damn difficult.”

The ink pooled on the paper. 

“Coming up with a story, writing from someone else’s perspective. Writing fiction.” 

Eyes, unfocused, watched the droplets without seeing. 

“I should have taken theater. Or calculus.” 

“Calculus?!” a voice across the room exclaimed.  “Calculus rather than creative writing?! Dude are you high?” 

“No Caldra, I’m not high…” they responded, feigning exasperation. “But if I had taken theater I might have had that option right now.” 

An affectionate eyeroll and an amused scoff were emitted across the room, causing a half smile on the sullen teenage face, resting on the desk next to a notebook now covered in ink.  “I probably shouldn’t have broken this pen… but this ink does look like the blood of an author or something and that’s kinda cool in a dark sort of way.”  

“Maybe start with that for your story?” The girl’s voice, switching to be theatrically deep, went on like a gothic nature documentary,  “‘The writer’s blood, inky black, ran down the table leg.  A morbid sight to behold and definitely one that was going to lead to someone getting grounded.’” 

The teen at the desk whipped around, chucking an eraser across the room, exhaling sharply in mock horror. “How daaaare you!” they gasped, holding back a smile.  “Threatening me with grounding! Mom will never know about this office supply homicide unless some snitch tells her!” The girl on the bed stuck her tongue out in response. 

“I’m just saying Xan, you’re leaving a lot of evidence.  Very messy scene of the crime.” 

“Ya, ya, ya. I’ll clean it up.” Xan swiveled back to face the mess. “We should probably get ready to go out anyway.  I told Eb we’d be at the park by noon.”  

“Is Parch coming too?” 

“Ya, their dad’s out of town this week and their mom is working a booth at the festival so hopefully none of the usual weekend bullshit to deal with.” Their eyes met and the girl, Caldra,  gave a knowing nod.  “Sweet, well that’ll be good to get the whole gang together.  Been a while since we’ve done that.”  

“Agreed. But first…” Xan lunged suddenly at Caldra, arm extended. Caldra’s eyes widened as she tried to dodge but she was too slow. A thumbprint of ink smeared across her cheek.  Xan cackled. “Muah ha HA! Now there are two suspects to investigate!”  

“Excuse me, you’re framing me now?! You invite me over, make me listen to you complain about your homework, and then implicate me in a crime?! Wow, dude. Some friend you are,” she said teasingly.  Xan winked and lightly pressed their index finger to her nose.  “Oh babe, you should know by now, if I’m going down I’m definitely taking you with me.” 

three dozen eggs

She grabs her purse and rummages through it, checking for the essentials: phone, wallet, keys, mask, hand sanitizer.  Two large eyes stare up at her, excited.  “Sorry, Marley.  Nothing exciting, just gotta run some errands.”  She checks the clock above the stove and wonders how busy the store will be on a Saturday evening.  Grocery shopping used to be such a predictable outing, almost a science.  Sometimes it was even enjoyable. Now she is filled with the same low-level anxiety that has been buzzing within her for the past…three, four, how many months? Grabbing the shopping list from the counter she heads to the car, after brief goodbyes to her family, and a reminder to take the dog for a walk.  As she drives, her mind turns to the fall, to school, to all of the unknowns.  Her kids seem restless and she wonders if all of this fuss is worth it… If only we knew what to expect in the coming months.  She knows her family is very fortunate: to have a steady income, to be healthy.  To have wi-fi for online schooling and an emergency fund if things get worse.  She tries to focus on the gratitude, to push away the anxiety and frustration.  She needs to be strong and level-headed, if not for herself, at least for the sake of her kids.  As she pulls into the parking lot she sees a masked elderly man pushing his grocery-laden cart to his car and she thinks about her parents, making a mental note to call them soon. Her fingers hook the elastic ends of the mask around her ears and she glances at her reflection in the rearview.  “At least I remembered to put on mascara today,” she thinks to herself.  After wiping the handle of the cart she zips through the store, following the arrows on the ground, keeping her distance from the workers stocking the shelves, picking things up along the way, consulting her list as she goes.  Thankfully it’s a pretty quiet and she makes another mental note: Saturday evening is a good time for grocery shopping. Most of the items are simple enough, potato salad, English muffins, peppers, oregano. They don’t have cherry pie – her daughter will be disappointed.  Down the dairy aisle she compares the ice cream options and grabs a package of provolone. She sighs, realizing this is going to be another expensive trip.  Nothing seems to be on sale these days.  “Just the eggs, back to the drink aisle to get the ones I missed, and then checkout.” She sets her list down as she inspects three cartons of eggs for cracks. Her mind wanders to her son and she vaguely wonders how many cartons of eggs they’ll be buying when he hits his teenage growth spurts.  When will his sports teams resume practices? He’ll need new cleats soon, he’s been growing so much. Will he be able to try those on in the store? She walks off to the drink aisle, distracted, tired, and ready to head home.

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(This is a short fictional story based on this handwritten list I found perched on the egg cartons when I was grocery shopping yesterday evening.)