I was about your age that night, in the third or fourth grade.
The house we lived in as awful. I don't believe in haunted houses but I'm telling you now that there was something wrong with that house, something evil. And while I don't believe in it now, I remember vividly what it was like to feel haunted in every room. We all saw things, things that the natural world can't explain. I'll probably never tell you about those things. I only bring it up because it's somewhat germane to what I'm about to tell you now.
The downfall of my nuclear family can be traced back to that house. When you're older, you'll probably want to know the when's and why's of our family, and our house on Donrich Ave will be important to that, although I'll never really ever to be able to explain why.
One night it all got to be too much for me. Grandma and grandpa are fabulous grandparents but they stumbled a lot along the way as parents. I wouldn't trade them for the world, mind you, I'm just saying that they weren't perfect. I suspect you know this already and I'll take this opportunity to tell you: none of us are. As much as we all want to be perfect, we're all flawed.
Anyway, on this specific night I needed some help with a paper I had to write for school. I wanted to get it done as soon as possible and have it be perfect, so I was trying to ask the adults in the room to help me. They didn't or couldn't, and I panicked. I can't speak for them now but, with the benefit of hindsight, I realize why no one wanted to help me with my homework on a Friday night. Grandma and grandpa were having a get-together with grandma's brothers and their wives. They were all drinking whiskey and playing cards and they had a right to do that.
I didn't understand it at the time. I do now. I suppose there have been a lot of nights when your uncle and I are hanging out at the kitchen table and you wonder why you're not allowed to hang out with us at that point.
I'll just say that one day, you and your brothers and/or sister will be sitting at a table playing cards and you won't want kids in the room with you; whether they're your own children or your nieces and nephews, it won't matter. You'll just want to have a night with your bros or sis and kids will interrupt that. You'll ask them to go to the other room. You won't love them any less, you'll just want to have some uninterrupted time with your siblings. Trust me, this becomes more valuable the older you get.
But, I digress.
Back to that night on Donrich Avenue.
I gave up on working on my paper and that distressed me a great deal. There was no way I could enjoy the weekend if my homework was hanging over my head like that. (I fear you've not only taken on this trait, but expanded upon it.) So I went outside and sat in a chair on the side of the house, staring out at the highway. I wanted to run away.
I'm not sure I can explain it now, but I'll try: I knew my family was going to be broken up soon. Grandpa wasn't home most of the time and when he was, he was grumpy and distant. He pulled all the drapes shut and the house would be dark. On those days, grandma would stay in bed most of the day. If we made too much noise, they'd yell at us. They used to never yell at us.
And your mom started to hate me. We weren't friends anymore. She fought with grandma and grandpa all the time and I resented her for that; she'd make them miserable even on the days when they were in good moods, when the curtains were open and the house was light. I stayed in the basement, in my room, writing poems or stories. If your mom saw me writing she would taunt me and try to take the notepad out of my hands so she could read what I was writing.
I felt lost, alone, and scared. I knew my family was changing and I wasn't changing along with it. I didn't want to change along with it.
So I decided to run away. I sat there in the chair planning my escape. I don't remember now what my plans were, I just knew that I was incredibly sad that it had come to that.
And then my Aunt Michelle came around the corner. "There you are," she said, as she blew a puff of cigarette smoke into the air. "What's going on?"
I kept my gaze fixed on the highway. "Nothing," I lied. "I just wanted to sit outside for a while."
She walked up to me, standing next to my chair, leaning against the house. She took a drag of her cigarette, exhaled, and asked, "You're not thinking about running away, are you?"
I was startled by this question. How did she know?
I denied that I was thinking about that but she didn't buy it.
She stared out at the highway with me that night, asking me very pointed questions, coaxing me into a conversation that I didn't really know how to have. As the night air started to get cold she talked me into going inside with her. When we went in, someone asked Michelle were she had gone; she looked down at me with a conspiratorial grin, then said, "I just needed some fresh air."
No one had noticed that I had also disappeared, and at that point I was okay with that.
I don't remember how that night ended. After Michelle pulled me back from the brink it became another unremarkable Friday night.
~~~~~
On Christmas Eve of 2014, I got to your house late, having driven back that day from Tacoma where Aunt Michelle had died. Grandma gave me a big, sad hug, then sent me up to your room. She told me you had been waiting very patiently for me to get there and could not fall asleep until I said goodnight.
She didn't have to tell me; I had already told Aunt B on the ride home that I knew you wouldn't sleep until I got there. I wanted to cry as I knelt beside your bed and kissed your forehead. It was a weird place to be. I just lost my aunt and felt completely torn apart, and here you were, waiting patiently for your aunt that you love so much. Wedged between two generations like that felt at once suffocating and soothing.
Later that night after settling in a bit, I laid on the couch next to my mom and cried, and cried, and cried. I haven't done that since I was smaller than she was, yet I still felt like a child in her arms.
That night sticks out in my mind because of what happened when I finally said goodnight to grandma and started to head downstairs. At the top of the staircase, a small hand grabbed mine. I turned to see you looking up at me with tears in your own eyes. You didn't say anything, you just wrapped your arms around my waist, put your head on my belly, and held on so tight that I couldn't even lean over to kiss your head, so i just stroked your hair until you let go.
Truth be told, I felt guilty about that. I thought you had fallen asleep. I don't know how much you heard, if anything. But I worried that it had scared you, seeing me cry like that.
I don't think you had ever seen me cry before.
~~~~~
I thought about both of these things as I drove from Central to Eastern Idaho last weekend. I thought a lot about Michelle- I am still grappling with her death, still somewhat in denial about her no longer being here.
And my thoughts about her always lead me to thoughts about you.
The last night I saw Michelle alive before her illness, we were all sitting around the table outside and at one point you sat on her lap.
This bothered me a lot, and even admitting this makes me laugh at myself. I didn't know if I was jealous of you for being in her lap, or jealous of her for having you there. Usually when I'm around you are attached to me. It was weird to see you like that with someone else. I made a comment about it and Michelle laughed, then told you about how I used to follow her around everywhere when I was a little girl. You thought that was hilarious. "I used to be Annie's very favorite aunt," she said. I smiled at her. "Used to be?"
"I didn't want to be presumptuous," she smiled back.
The thing is, that night on Donrich Ave wasn't the only time Michelle had just known that I needed attention. The self-critical part of me wonders if I do the same for you, but the part of me that is easier on myself knows that I am because I know you.
And on that long drive last weekend, I realized that you know me. You know me in a way that most people don't.
You're growing up so fast that sometimes I forget you're not a little child anymore; you're becoming a young woman. But you know me because in so many ways, you are me.
You're perceptive and thoughtful; you're kind and caring and you pay attention to others. You're also stubborn and self-critical and sarcastic and sometimes overly-sensitive. You're argumentative and if you don't get your way you're pouty.
In short, you're human. You're a beautiful, flawed human and I am in awe of you. We make an awesome team.
And one last thing: it's okay to cry, baby girl.