Chapter 16
'...when we sit together, close..we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.'
--Virginia Woolf
MARK
My grandmother used to tell me stories about Poland and the ghettos. About having to line up for bread and soup. About having to leave her warm apartment with its wood floors and soft furniture for a leaky roofed house of a dead stranger that she shared with two other families. Later, when I was older, and she was dying, she told me about watching her three sisters die, one after the other, and then her mother, her father, her Bubbe. She told me about Auschwitz, and twig thin bodies piling up in corners. She told me about SS officers who looked like fallen angels with their blond halos and leather trench coats. She had a way with words, my grandmother, she could make you smell the rich, slightly bitter smell of the leather. You could almost hear it creaking slightly as they moved.
Sara has the same power as a story teller. She doesn't use the precise descriptions of my grandmother, punctuated with Yiddish or Polish when she wanted to make a point, instead she speaks with a quiet despondency, as if this is another girl's story, and a very old one, and the telling is worn and faded. I know in the back of my mind that this would make an amazing film, just her on the sofa, unraveling her past, looking at it and holding it up to the light. Oddly though, I don't want to film it. It's one of the few times in my life when I don't even want to have my camera, when I don't feel like I need to hold it. Like my grandmother's stories, I know I won't have to film this to remember it.
"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have told you all that."
"I think you needed to tell someone."
She shrugs and sniffs, "The Waves, I've read that."
For a second I'm baffled by this abrupt change of subject, but then I notice the old book with the bent cover and yellow pages on the coffee table.
"It's Mimi's. I haven't read anything by Virginia Woolf since high school."
"I read it when I was thirteen. I stole it from the public library. I had this boyfriend. Not Eric, I think his name was John Roberts. Anyway he was really smart and I guess I wanted him to think I was too. I took that book 'cause Virginia Woolf was so famous, and then I started reading it..it's the best book I've ever read. Seriously."
I quirk an eyebrow, "Seriously?"
"Seriously." She glares at me over her cup of cold tea, "I'll prove it. Here," she snatches the book up and rifles through it, "okay, I've got it. Just listen; 'I love...and I hate. I desire one thing only. My eyes are hard. Jinny's eyes break into a thousand lights. Rhoda's are like those pale flowers to which moths come in the evening. Yours grow full and brim and never break. But I am already set on my pursuit. I see insects in the grass. Though my mother still knits white socks for me and hems pinafores and I am a child, I love and I hate.'"
COLLINS
I'm half asleep when that dark haired girl comes back, mascara making black trails down her cheeks, "Can I talk to her?" she croaks. "In private?"
I nod and lever my self out of the hard chair. Mark's leaning against the wall outside, once again camera-less.
"A miracle." I say, gesturing toward his empty hands.
"Shut-up." he chuckles.
"What's she doing?" I ask.
"Making her peace."
I swallow hard. I wish there were more time. It seems that lately things have been rushing past me so fast I can't hold onto them. Days, months, years, hours, they're all one and the same. It's like trying to hold sunshine in your pocket. I just can't see where all that time's gone.
"Ang?" the girl whispers from the room, "Ang I'm so sorry. I know I've said it all before, but I am. I really, really am. I never meant none of it, I was just so angry at you, but I never should have said it, Ang. You were right about Harmony, you know, I couldn't take care of her. I didn't keep her at the squat, I-I gave her to Eric's parents. She'll be happy, right? She's got a mom and a dad and she'll be okay. I couldn't get rid of her before she had a chance, though. So I guess we were both wrong there, but I was wronger."
" 'Wronger' ain't a word, sweetie." Rasps Angel, and suddenly we all stiffen. I start to make for the room, but Mark grabs my arm and hold me back. The girl sniffles and laughs.
"Hey, Angel."
"Hello, querida. I heard you, you know."
"I knew you could. I really meant it. You don't have to forgive me if you don't want to. I just wanted you to know."
"Querida, I forgave you long ago."
"But-"
"I should have come to see you, should have said goodbye properly. I'm sorry."
"Oh, Angel..."
"Don't cry, silly, it ain't the end of the world."
"Feels like it is."
"Don't say that, Sara, please don't say that. It isn't and you know it. We've been through Hell and back, and we've lost friends before and life keeps going."
"Not for you." whispers Sara, "it's not fair."
"It *is * fair. We all gotta die some day, chica. I won't lie, I'm scared stiff, but I also think it's gonna be okay. I really think it is."
'...when we sit together, close..we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.'
--Virginia Woolf
MARK
My grandmother used to tell me stories about Poland and the ghettos. About having to line up for bread and soup. About having to leave her warm apartment with its wood floors and soft furniture for a leaky roofed house of a dead stranger that she shared with two other families. Later, when I was older, and she was dying, she told me about watching her three sisters die, one after the other, and then her mother, her father, her Bubbe. She told me about Auschwitz, and twig thin bodies piling up in corners. She told me about SS officers who looked like fallen angels with their blond halos and leather trench coats. She had a way with words, my grandmother, she could make you smell the rich, slightly bitter smell of the leather. You could almost hear it creaking slightly as they moved.
Sara has the same power as a story teller. She doesn't use the precise descriptions of my grandmother, punctuated with Yiddish or Polish when she wanted to make a point, instead she speaks with a quiet despondency, as if this is another girl's story, and a very old one, and the telling is worn and faded. I know in the back of my mind that this would make an amazing film, just her on the sofa, unraveling her past, looking at it and holding it up to the light. Oddly though, I don't want to film it. It's one of the few times in my life when I don't even want to have my camera, when I don't feel like I need to hold it. Like my grandmother's stories, I know I won't have to film this to remember it.
"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have told you all that."
"I think you needed to tell someone."
She shrugs and sniffs, "The Waves, I've read that."
For a second I'm baffled by this abrupt change of subject, but then I notice the old book with the bent cover and yellow pages on the coffee table.
"It's Mimi's. I haven't read anything by Virginia Woolf since high school."
"I read it when I was thirteen. I stole it from the public library. I had this boyfriend. Not Eric, I think his name was John Roberts. Anyway he was really smart and I guess I wanted him to think I was too. I took that book 'cause Virginia Woolf was so famous, and then I started reading it..it's the best book I've ever read. Seriously."
I quirk an eyebrow, "Seriously?"
"Seriously." She glares at me over her cup of cold tea, "I'll prove it. Here," she snatches the book up and rifles through it, "okay, I've got it. Just listen; 'I love...and I hate. I desire one thing only. My eyes are hard. Jinny's eyes break into a thousand lights. Rhoda's are like those pale flowers to which moths come in the evening. Yours grow full and brim and never break. But I am already set on my pursuit. I see insects in the grass. Though my mother still knits white socks for me and hems pinafores and I am a child, I love and I hate.'"
COLLINS
I'm half asleep when that dark haired girl comes back, mascara making black trails down her cheeks, "Can I talk to her?" she croaks. "In private?"
I nod and lever my self out of the hard chair. Mark's leaning against the wall outside, once again camera-less.
"A miracle." I say, gesturing toward his empty hands.
"Shut-up." he chuckles.
"What's she doing?" I ask.
"Making her peace."
I swallow hard. I wish there were more time. It seems that lately things have been rushing past me so fast I can't hold onto them. Days, months, years, hours, they're all one and the same. It's like trying to hold sunshine in your pocket. I just can't see where all that time's gone.
"Ang?" the girl whispers from the room, "Ang I'm so sorry. I know I've said it all before, but I am. I really, really am. I never meant none of it, I was just so angry at you, but I never should have said it, Ang. You were right about Harmony, you know, I couldn't take care of her. I didn't keep her at the squat, I-I gave her to Eric's parents. She'll be happy, right? She's got a mom and a dad and she'll be okay. I couldn't get rid of her before she had a chance, though. So I guess we were both wrong there, but I was wronger."
" 'Wronger' ain't a word, sweetie." Rasps Angel, and suddenly we all stiffen. I start to make for the room, but Mark grabs my arm and hold me back. The girl sniffles and laughs.
"Hey, Angel."
"Hello, querida. I heard you, you know."
"I knew you could. I really meant it. You don't have to forgive me if you don't want to. I just wanted you to know."
"Querida, I forgave you long ago."
"But-"
"I should have come to see you, should have said goodbye properly. I'm sorry."
"Oh, Angel..."
"Don't cry, silly, it ain't the end of the world."
"Feels like it is."
"Don't say that, Sara, please don't say that. It isn't and you know it. We've been through Hell and back, and we've lost friends before and life keeps going."
"Not for you." whispers Sara, "it's not fair."
"It *is * fair. We all gotta die some day, chica. I won't lie, I'm scared stiff, but I also think it's gonna be okay. I really think it is."