when nora cries, or how i fear the l word

Nora's face began that elegant contortion that suggests the imminent onset of tears. I stood and walked with her, interlinking my arm with hers for the small comfort that contact can bring. My heart melted, pooling somewhere around where her tears puddled. She didn't get her loan, for one thing. And oh how I know the frustration and ache that money can cause. Luckily I have unshakable faith in my mom that told me Nora didn't have to cry over lost financing. Sure enough mom called within a minute to offer a check, only one question asked: how much? No, something else had to be hurting Nora. He's not talking to me. What?! I managed to make it sound soft and concerned though a beast in my chest was roaring for blood. Someone--not some indefinable source of frustration, but an actual person whom I could conceivably hurt--had wounded Nora!

I cannot stand to see those I love in pain. This week has already been difficult for me in that respect. I saw Emilie cry when I couldn't make it all better, her tears giving heat to my heart that made it possible to hate my second-best friend, if only momentarily. Then there's the now almost-constant shadows in Caitie's eyes. No, I don't mean under her eyes. I mean just what I said. Cassidy's sick and Debi is constantly struggling. And now Nora.

Nora is special. She tries to be so tough, so strong and indomitable, but really she is rather soft and brittle. When she gets hurt, truly hurt by someone she loves, she never views him or her the same way again. While she dances through life in a normal manner, her soul looks with large pleading eyes at the offender as if to say, why? Why did you betray me when all I wanted was to love you? Man, it rips your heart to shreds. Mom slapped her for swearing, with Dad it was when our family fell apart and he kept secrets from us, Heather moved out on her in Boston, and I didn't get her noodles. Now he, that boy (said with all venom possible), isn't speaking to her because he is angry.

Is it just me, or shouldn't it be a little shocking that the weekend after she flies to see him, after they exchange the L-word, he should suddenly transform into Mr. Angry? So why doesn't it shock me? Because that is what I have come to expect. Oh cynical Audrey, my good sweet optimistic and romantic self says as she shakes her head sadly, what happened to the happily ever after you just witnessed with your friend Tarythe? Surely you don't mean-- but here I cut her off.

I have witnessed too many friends use that word or have that word whispered to them only to have their hearts broken mere moments later. I want to ask, so what does that mean to you, the words "I love you"? Dictionary dot com has ten definitions, but I want yours. Does it mean that you love me forever even when you don't like me and that you'll make it your goal to try to make me happy all my days; or does it mean that you really like hanging/making out with me until such a time as real or imaginary offense is taken or given; or does it mean that you want to show that you're a sensitive guy by sharing how much it's going to hurt you to break my heart into pieces when you say Goodbye in about ten minutes? Really what does it mean to you?

As I say this I look almost challengingly at my softer self, demanding a response. Her eyes brim with tears, and once again I am saddened that someone is hurt, not able to do anything even though she is I. I hope, she whispers, showing yet again how determined she is to be good, I hope you're wrong. I see that she believes me; after all it is too easy to convince my vulnerable side to be afraid of never being loved. But I shake my head with fatigue. I hope I'm wrong too.

Wrong or right I am now facing time as the zealously protective guardian of my loved ones. It's not a role to which I have ever been assigned; it just kind of happens. Perhaps I am merely a defensive person, but honestly I try not to take offense at life and her offerings. When it comes to people I love, however, when it comes to Nora, I just won't stand for some things.

dashed plans and locksmiths

I had the weekend planned in detail--what I would wear, how my hair would be styled, where I would be and when--but I had absolutely no idea what the weekend would be like. My inability to predict the future is likely the cause behind my obsessive planning. I wanted as much control as possible. I think, however, that Higher Powers often laugh at my plans, taking great pains to unravel my carefully woven preparations. And He chose this weekend to do it.

The anecdote of the car is one which I can tell with great relish, but I find I lack patience for writing out the seven hours of frustration I went through. I will mention one point, however. As I waited for Grisly Old Locksmith Number 3 to gain entrance to my trunk, a kindly neighbor offered a prayer on my behalf. She then turned to where the man crouched trying to pick the lock of the Chevy Malibu (the Fort Knox of cars) and confidently assured him that now he would meet with success. I left my car in their hands as Kevin drove me to Tarythe's reception. I sat in the passenger seat without my hair done, with no makeup, no nylons and wearing borrowed shoes that happened not to match (of course everything I owned had to be in the car!) while he and I talked of faith in prayer.

I came to this conclusion: I have faith that everything will work out for the best in the end. Unfortunately, I cannot see which end is best or when it should occur. So while I had complete trust that Heavenly Father would take care of me, that gave little assurance that I would get back in my car before my flight the next day. I mean, had I had my way the miracle would have occurred when I tried to shut the trunk; maybe my purse strap would have caught blocking the lock from latching. I would have been spared hours of frustration. So would many other people, Kevin not least of which who sat with me for hours in the heat while my embarrassment prevented me from being my most poised and pleasant self.

Poise. The greatest of all casualties this weekend. Never once did I feel prepared for the situations in which I found myself. I didn't get off any pre-planned witty remarks, no clever jokes or speeches; I got bug-bitten and sunburned; I never got to see touristy Austin; none of my outfits worked, for one reason or another; my hair nearly always failed (no bobby-pin magic); and I never had a stitch of makeup.

Thank Goodness.

Given how (for lack of a better word) perfectly the weekend went, I can only be grateful that none of my plans came to fruition. I still don't understand the trunk incident, but I know it must have been for the best. I went into this trip with a million plans and absolutely no preconceived notions. How would it be to see Kevin again after a year of not seeing him, and months of not speaking to him before that? What would I say for my maid of honor toast to the bride? I didn't know. But I left Austin with sweet memories of the wedding. I am also maintaining a count-down for twenty days hence. I'll try, in good faith, to make no plans, a feat made possible by the knowledge that I don't have to pack and that a spare key to my car is just across town.

blast

I got an interesting email this week. Okay, the email itself was poorly written and so full of noncommittal small talk that I felt bored in the two seconds it took me to read the stupid thing. Hey. How are you. I'm the same. How's life. Mine's good. Ask Emilie, this is not an exaggeration. What made it less boring and more painfully annoying was the name signed at the bottom. Jon. I haven't heard from him in nine months, since the last time he sent an email entitled How's Life? Jon is a nice guy, a really good guy, but I have a complete lack of curiosity when it comes to him. I wanted to reply civilly to the letter, to prove that I too am a classy person, but then came the rub. Do you mind if I read your blog now so I can see how you're doing? No! You still cannot read my blog. The heat flared up again almost instantly as I recalled my anger at his intrusion a year ago. It's quite ridiculous, really, that I can't let go of past emotions. But isn't that what he's doing too? Why this fascination with my blog when we haven't spoken for a year? If he wants to know how I am, he can ask...or better yet ask Ted. He can ask Emilie who can ask me. She and I can have a nice chat, a quarter of which can be passed back up the line.

I'd like to call his curiosity annoying or to label him pathetic, but such a case of the pot calling the kettle black!

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.