The Story of My Life

Every morning, I rise with the sun, tie my long white hair into a graceful knot atop my head, feed the cats, pull a warm knit shawl around myself, and go out on the cobblestone patio to tend my flowers. The birds sing, the freshly green trees glisten with dew as they rustle in the light breeze, and the sunrise paints the clouds low above me in shades of orange and gold. My flowerbeds have no weeds. My roses have no thorns.

--Good morning, he says behind me.

I smile. –Good morning, I say. He’s there. Even with my colorless hair and worn shawl and slippers that have been mismatched ever since the tabby cat gnawed a hole in a purple one and the neighbor’s dog buried a blue one.

--It’s beautiful, he says. I blush.

--I’ll make you pancakes and bacon, if you’d like.

--Thank you.

I go inside to fill my watering can at the faucet. He watches me. I watch him watch me as the can fills and the pitch of the gurgling water rises against the quiet of the morning. The wrinkles around his eyes don’t change a thing. They are as bright as they were at fifteen. The watering can overflows; I lift it, dripping, and move back outside.

--Our daughter called, he says.

--Oh? I say.

--Last night, he says. She wondered if we were free on the thirtieth of May.

--Our anniversary, I say.

--Our fiftieth, he says. She and our son are planning a party. Our presence is encouraged.

I laugh a little. –Which son?

Silence.

I turn around to look at him, but I find my vision is a bit blurry. Which son?

-----

I watch him sleep. He has dark curls and already a president’s strong nose. Just like his father. Peter, I think, observing him. James. Peter James. He is in his crib, nestled among pastel blankets and stuffed tigers. With each breath, a butterfly’s wing flutters. I kneel on the floor and lean on the wooden bars. I could wake him if I wanted. His long lashes would flutter apart and one sharp eye would peer back at me, the other buried in the mattress. He would reach to me and grasp my face with long fingers and a damp, wrinkled thumb; my smile would be met with a dancing giggle.

Sunlight filters through the thin satin curtain; he sleeps. Our son. Before long, he will take his first tottering steps. I’ll dress him in shorts to admire the wobble in his virgin knees, unblemished by encounters with stairs or sidewalks, and small sneakers that grip fast to our hardwood floors. His rosebud lips will bloom as he says mama – me – and close around a silver spoon. Soon, we will fit a backpack to his soft shoulders and help him step onto the school bus. He’ll come home a small man, full of character and ready for responsibility. We will pack up his things and wave him off to college, proud. One day we’ll dance at his wedding, and then he’ll watch his own son sleep.

But now, he is mine, in footed flannel pajamas.

To think that ten years ago, he was already in my dreams. And still one year ago, he was only in my dreams. John and I would stay up late into the night planning our future together: our children, our home, our honeymoon, our wedding….

-----

We are married.

--Rachel.

Married. I examine the new ring on my finger for the thousandth time and barely hear my friend as she approaches.

--Rachel! I reacquaint myself with my surroundings: the dimmed lights, the low-ceilinged room; the chandeliers, the white-clothed tables; the drained champagne glasses and the emptying dance floor. Guests are smiling, laughing; the light buzz of excited chatter hovers and mingles with the leftover smells of roast beef and iced cake. The day had been clear and the sky had been blue; the ceremony had been understated and the flowers had been many and bright and fresh. My beloved little brother had sung an angelic tenor solo with my favorite Aunt Judy at the piano. Mother and Papa had gotten along magnificently from opposite ends of the pew. His eyes were sincere and he said “I do.”

Anne is in her simple pink bridesmaid dress, looking like porcelain with her gold hair in ringlets. The starched bow of her sash hangs limply.

--Rachel, in all the excitement I haven’t congratulated you yet! Give me a hug, Mrs. Parker.

I smile and stand for her embrace. –How long are you staying in St. Louis?

She shakes her head. –I’m flying back out tonight. We need to catch up quickly.

I glance around for John; he sees me from across the room and nods in greeting. Something in my middle turns over. He is surrounded by back-slapping young men in coats and ties. –Have a seat, I beckon Anne, sweeping folds of my white dress off the chair beside me. There’s no time like the present. What have you been up to since high school? Last we really talked, you were getting your degree at UCLA in….

--Yep, graphic design.

--Graphic design.

--I was offered a job with a construction company three weeks before graduation.

--Congratulations!

--Thank you, I’m satisfied for now. But look at you! Y’know, it was alluded to in speeches and in passing but I still haven’t heard the full scoop on you two. Seems like John has changed a bit since I knew him?

--Changed? I don’t think so. At least not anything important.

--I guess I just hadn’t seen him dressed up. Or with a bit of a beard.

--Ah. I notice that he has excused himself from his circle and is heading towards us.

--So tell me about him!

My throat constricts, and I look at the bows on my shoes. He arrives and rests his hand on my shoulder.

--May I join you, ladies? He’s perfect, I think. He loves me, I think. Together, we laugh at nothing, we’re comfortable with silence, and anything we say is understood, and anything we don’t say is already known. I think, and I’d like to tell her, but I can’t imagine speaking. I look up at him and he sees. That’s all that matters.

She shifts awkwardly. –I see at least you haven’t changed at all. But there has to be something to talk about. How about the proposal? Everyone likes telling that story.

--Of course! We… he starts. Then stops. I frown.

--…Y’know what, I understand, you’ve had a long day, Rachel, I’m sorry. You must both be worn out.

-----

We are lying on a blanket in the park, and a wave of contentment crashes over me with every fiery burst. The gold streaks that screech towards the stars send shivers up my spine; the red bundles that crackle and flicker compliment the tingle in my senses. This is why we’re alive, I decide. To have my head on his shoulder and dry summer grass like pinpricks against our backs.

Our day had begun early, when he knocked on my door and suggested a bike trip. His housemate had gone home for the summer, leaving a vacant room to be sublet, and I was expected to be out of my dorm for the season but felt more at home on campus than with either parent, after three years at my own school. My logical course of action was to take the empty room in his house, though when my mother demanded to know what plans kept me in St. Louis, she was adamantly and morally opposed. I thought you were smarter than this, Rachel, she said.

I’ve done it anyway, and I haven’t regretted it for a minute. He is taking summer term courses, so I bide much of my time on the couch with a book. When he comes home, he asks about it; sometimes he’s read it and we discuss it late into the night. Other times I read to him. He tells me about his classes, how x equals b-prime minus sodium, and how Aristotle mistook the anatomy of the heart. Sometimes I wonder if he knows the whole makeup and story of the world, from atom to zygote.

The bike trip had become a whirlwind tour of our city, including a visit to the Arch and three meals in the three classiest restaurants in town. A fourth, to our amusement, had refused to admit us for our bike shorts and muddy shoes.

A purple star bursts. Couples and families coo their admiration.

He shifts.

--John, I mumble mindlessly.

He is looking at his watch. –Just a minute, he says.

--What’s going on? I ask.

He doesn’t respond for a minute, but his eyes twinkle with unnatural blue. –Don’t watch me, look at the sky.

I obey, curious, his odd nervousness contagious.

A gold heart.

A dozen red roses blooming above green tails.

A silver diamond.

I look at him, bewildered. He retrieves a tiny velvet box from his coat pocket.

--How did you…? and then it doesn’t matter.

--Do you remember our first date? He asks.

--Of course I do, I manage.

--You told me you liked—

What did I like?

-----

His license arrived in the mail only last Tuesday, so he tells me, but he drives coolly, gloved hand out his stuck-open window. The wind nips my cheeks red, but I don’t mind. I can’t mind; I’ve been dreaming of this evening for most of forever.

--You cold? he asks.

--I’m great! I say.

He laughs. –Your teeth are chattering.

I clamp my jaw shut.

We arrive at the center of our little town just as the event begins. Towering Christmas trees are covered in gaudy tinsel and glittering lights; the ice rink is illuminated by every bulb the hardware store had in stock. Once parked, we make a beeline for the refreshment stand. John hands over two dollars for two Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate. –You like marshmallows? he asks. I nod, and he fishes his out and into my cup with a plastic spoon. –Sweets to the sweet.

I want to dance.

--Do you skate? I consider this. The truth is no, or badly. Although I toy with the appealing possibilities that lie in tempting gravity and lack of friction in favor of a display of heroism, the quite unattractive likelihood of making a fool of myself stands in the way. I shake my head.

--No problem, he says. I have two left feet. I’d need a third to keep my balance. This is the only reason why I study; the sports teams won’t have me, and I need something to fill my time.

I laugh – quite merrily, as ‘tis the season. –Then why’d you ask?

--It seemed like the thing to do. I don’t want to bore you. My skating would at least be entertaining.

For a moment, the white snow is instead a cloud. –Let’s take a walk, I say. It’s safer for both of us.

We stray away from the lights and the crowd, though I only notice their noise when it fades, leaving the frigid air empty but for clouds of stale breath.

--So, I study, you study…how have we not crossed paths earlier?

--I’ve seen you in the library, I say, but that’s not really the ideal social arena.

--I guess not, he says.

--What are you interested in?

As I hear myself ask the question, an image of him replying, You, flashes through my mind. I banish it instantly and with an iron fist, but I have a hunch he’s heard it anyway.

--I’m not sure, he says. Maybe science.

--Botany? I ask.

--Not particularly, he says, amused. I realize that was a decidedly stupid question. –But who knows. This is sort of what school is for, right, to find out what we’re interested in? Why, what do you like?

--Similes, I say. Metaphors. Foreshadowing.

He raises his eyebrows. –That’s new.

--Kind of dumb, I know.

--No, kind of cool. I mean…why?

--I dunno. Maybe because they’re bigger than life. More dimensional. Almost spiritual.

--Wow.

--Kind of creepy.

--Creepy?

--Yeah, all the hidden meaning.

--In literature?

--No, in life.

--I didn’t know you were like this.

--Sorry, I’m weird.

--It’s not weird, it’s interesting.

--You sure?

--Sure.

--Can I tell you something?

--Shoot.

--I’m going to become my mother.

--What?

--I’m just like her. I look like her. I talk like her. When she was sixteen, she got 89 on her biology exam, barely enough to scrape an A-minus in the class. It happened to me yesterday. It’s all foreshadowing.

--And this is bad?

--Now she’s alone, and she’s mean, and she’s miserable.

The air freezes around me. This is too much. Far too much. I wish for a rewind button.

---

I am drinking at the fountain.

--Good morning.

Startled, I turn around. He is waiting to fill his water bottle. –Good morning.

--We missed you in Latin last hour.

He knows who I am?

--

I look up from my library book as he pauses at a nearby shelf. His index finger brushes past Hemmingway, Homer, Hugo.

--Hi, I whisper.

He looks down at me, eyes bright. –Hey.

--

He is in front of me in line at the cafeteria. We both reach for a carton of white milk.

--Hi, I say.

--Hi, he says.

--

I crash through the orange and gold leaves that cover the sidewalk, heading home. He is waiting to cross the street.

I wave.

He nods back.

--

It could never happen, I know. I couldn’t do it.

If I don’t fall asleep soon, I will oversleep Latin class after all.

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Author's note: I've been notified that the plotline of this story is much more vague than I'd intended it to be, but I hesitate to make drastic changes and change the tone. The formatting is intended to remedy the confusion, but since I've known what's going on all along, I don't know to what extent it's successful. If you're inclined to do me a favor, kindly establish your idea of what just happened a moment now; and then read the summary below and let me know what came through and what didn't.

Summary: Rachel is a 15-year-old girl lying in bed, imagining a future for herself that's better than her mother's. She begins with a perfect scene that entirely contrasts her divorced parents: herself with her ideal husband, old and still in love. But as she goes on with the scene, she realizes that she's missing vital information about her "history," and her mind wanders "back" to another perfect scene, and so on. As she gets closer to her present age, her own character starts seeping into her perfect fictional self; at the same time, she develops a fictional character for a boy in her class that she's never actually spoken to.

The title is supposed to emulate 1) the literal "story of her (imagined) life", 2) the idea that because of Rachel's character, this train of thought is something she develops often, and 3) the phrase, "(Oh my god,) story of my life!!" that you've probably heard teenage girls declare upon hearing something they can relate to, since I imagine many teenage girls can relate to this story.