Hourglass
Tears and Textbooks
A door quietly clicking shut, quiet footsteps, silent breathing.
I sit up with a start. The clock on the mantle claims that it’s just after two in the morning. I must have fallen asleep on the coach. My back cracks as stand up, blinking. The apartment is dark and still. A stifled sob sounds from the landing. I peer into the darkness, my eyes glazed with sleep. Silence again. Confused, I stumble towards the door. Another sob.
“Shit!”
My foot grazes something hard and angular. I pick the object up, hobbling towards the light switch, my toe throbbing. I squeeze my eyes shut as the lights flicker on, little black circles imprinted on my third eye. “Shit!!” I bend over, coughing, the sharp corner of the object jabbing my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I hold the object up to the light. A book. Grey’s Anatomy. The gold letters catch the light. That stupid kid must have left it there. I leaf through the pages. Pictures of organs and muscles, cells and bones. The pages are soft and dog-eared. Page 378 bears a large chocolate stain. The words on page 409 are obscured by suspicious looking orange blotches. There are notes scribbled in the margins in round, sloppy letters. My handwriting. Puzzled, I flip back to the title page.
I thought you might find this interesting, Natalie. Every aspiring doctor should have one. Happy Ninth Birthday!
Auntie Susan, 1981
I close the book, letting it fall to the floor. A doctor. That was what I wanted to be as a little girl. There, the answer to Noelle’s question, written right in front of me, in perfect cursive. I sink into the couch, closing my eyes. That was so long ago, long before I met Andrew, long before I became Natasha Steel, long before the mascara and the cigarettes, the love and the betrayal…
Another, louder sob echoes in. I stand up and make my way to the door, opening it and stepping out of my apartment and into the landing. A small child is huddled in the corner of the hallway, crying, her head lost in her puffy white jacket. Noelle. Something tells me to stay away, close the door, smoke a cigarette, go back to bed. No chances. No risks. Instead, I tiptoe forwards, laying a hand on her back.
“Kid…?”
She looks at me, her pigtails bunched up around her head, her eyes red and watery. Her lower lip quivers as she chokes out some words: “I-I should not cry, only–only babies cry.” she smiles, a smile too knowing for her age and buries her head in her furry collar. I wrap my arms around her pudgy little frame. “Models,” I say, my throat aching, my eyes stinging, “models never cry. It makes your makeup run.” I laugh, a forced, shaking laugh. The hallway flashes, red, green, white. A sliver of moonlight cuts in, falling at our defeated feet. And for the first time I can remember, I allow a little tear to skate down my cheek and draw a dark circle in my shirt.
We sit in the hallway, Noelle and I, crying, as quiet sets in all around us.
I sit up with a start. The clock on the mantle claims that it’s just after two in the morning. I must have fallen asleep on the coach. My back cracks as stand up, blinking. The apartment is dark and still. A stifled sob sounds from the landing. I peer into the darkness, my eyes glazed with sleep. Silence again. Confused, I stumble towards the door. Another sob.
“Shit!”
My foot grazes something hard and angular. I pick the object up, hobbling towards the light switch, my toe throbbing. I squeeze my eyes shut as the lights flicker on, little black circles imprinted on my third eye. “Shit!!” I bend over, coughing, the sharp corner of the object jabbing my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I hold the object up to the light. A book. Grey’s Anatomy. The gold letters catch the light. That stupid kid must have left it there. I leaf through the pages. Pictures of organs and muscles, cells and bones. The pages are soft and dog-eared. Page 378 bears a large chocolate stain. The words on page 409 are obscured by suspicious looking orange blotches. There are notes scribbled in the margins in round, sloppy letters. My handwriting. Puzzled, I flip back to the title page.
I thought you might find this interesting, Natalie. Every aspiring doctor should have one. Happy Ninth Birthday!
Auntie Susan, 1981
I close the book, letting it fall to the floor. A doctor. That was what I wanted to be as a little girl. There, the answer to Noelle’s question, written right in front of me, in perfect cursive. I sink into the couch, closing my eyes. That was so long ago, long before I met Andrew, long before I became Natasha Steel, long before the mascara and the cigarettes, the love and the betrayal…
Another, louder sob echoes in. I stand up and make my way to the door, opening it and stepping out of my apartment and into the landing. A small child is huddled in the corner of the hallway, crying, her head lost in her puffy white jacket. Noelle. Something tells me to stay away, close the door, smoke a cigarette, go back to bed. No chances. No risks. Instead, I tiptoe forwards, laying a hand on her back.
“Kid…?”
She looks at me, her pigtails bunched up around her head, her eyes red and watery. Her lower lip quivers as she chokes out some words: “I-I should not cry, only–only babies cry.” she smiles, a smile too knowing for her age and buries her head in her furry collar. I wrap my arms around her pudgy little frame. “Models,” I say, my throat aching, my eyes stinging, “models never cry. It makes your makeup run.” I laugh, a forced, shaking laugh. The hallway flashes, red, green, white. A sliver of moonlight cuts in, falling at our defeated feet. And for the first time I can remember, I allow a little tear to skate down my cheek and draw a dark circle in my shirt.
We sit in the hallway, Noelle and I, crying, as quiet sets in all around us.