Amatha

            by Judith Joy

 

            I suddenly awoke. The red lights of the clock blinked 11:30 pm. I guess Amatha had gone downstairs when I fell asleep. I tried to close my eyes, but I couldn’t do it. I was too afraid. I tried for another three minutes, wrapping the blankets over my head, squirming around and trying to find a comfortable position. By 11:33 pm I was out of bed, and creeping downstairs. I could feel the bass of Amatha’s radio downstairs. My heart was racing; I hated falling asleep alone. I had finally made it to the second floor- one floor to go before reaching her room. I snuck across the floor, my tiny feet patting the ground with my heart setting the pace. I reached the stairs and looked down, her door was cracked open, the light inside blazing through it. At that sight my heart began to slow down to a more comfortable pace, I was no longer alone. I slowly tiptoed down the stairs and sat hugging my knees next to her door. The sound of her footsteps, the beats of Biggy Smalls on the radio, and the sweet smell of her incense made me feel safe. I finally fell asleep.

            Amatha applied to be the tenant who was to live in the downstairs of my house. After looking at all the applicants my mom decided the composed Cal student would be a perfect candidate to live with. My mom soon realized, however, that she could not afford to pay the monthly rent and therefore, decided to make a fair agreement with Amatha. She was to pay my parents back by providing my childcare. Little did they know, however, that she would be the one giving me every memorable experience throughout my elementary years. Amatha gave me the childhood people dream about. She was my competitor in Junior Monopoly, my sidekick when I played Batman and Robin, my costume designer for Halloween, and my bedtime storyteller. She taught me how to draw a hippopotamus, how to color inside the lines; she painted my face and let me scribble on hers, she gave me time outs and playtimes. Most importantly, she showed me the true meaning of love.

            Even as a nineteen year old, still in school and out for the first time to live on her own, she truly stuck with me. I can’t tell you what was there in that downstairs room before her, because I don’t remember a time in my childhood without her. She used to let me take hot bubble baths in her room. She’d turn on her music, light candles and incense, and put soapy suds and bubbles in her big tub. Although I was young and my small body sank in the deep warm water, I felt so old with all the candles and smells around me. She would even let me have my privacy like a big kid would when taking a bath.

            “You can do it yourself, you don’t need my help or supervision,” her words echoed in the bathroom as I submerged into the tub. I would hear her voice and music as I stroked my hands through the water, making tiny splashes. “I’ll only be outside the door,” she knew I got lonely, and after all, the bathtub was in her room. After my time in the tub, I yelled out for her to come in to help me out and dry me off. I’d put on my pajamas, and lay down on her soft carpet floor and as she’d do her homework, I’d read her teenage magazines and listen to her teenage music. She was my best friend.

            After school Amatha became my number one playmate. Despite the many phone calls she’d receive during our times together, she’d always put me first like a real friend would. She’d pick me up from school and take me to get frozen yogurt on Telegraph, sometimes meeting up with her own friends and always introducing me to new people. My body felt weightless as I swung side to side on her arm, jumping around in my excitement. After we ate the cool frozen yogurt, we would walk down the busy streets and go shopping. I’d squeeze my fingers tightly around hers as millions of large and strange looking people crowded the sidewalks. We walked into stores blaring loud music that didn’t make any sense to me; we’d see people with tons of black makeup and silver spiky jewelry and Amatha would smile with her plain white t-shirt and jeans and walk past them. Amatha introduced me to a world I could only look up at with open eyes and an open mind. If Amatha liked these people, then so did I. It didn’t matter if they were like her or not, as long as they were nice to her then they too could be my friend. She would quickly sort through the racks of used clothing and grab a few pairs of jeans. I’d follow her into the small curtained room and sit down on the dirty floor, waiting as she tried on the clothes.

            “What do you think? They’re too short on the bottom, huh?” she’d ask me.

            “I like them!” I’d beam back at her. She seemed to value my opinion, despite my third grade sense of fashion. Amatha gave me so much confidence and showed me the true feelings of importance; everything was great. My childhood was perfect.

            Looking back now though, I see that there were some times for her that were a lot less than perfect. There was one foggy cold night that we went up the hill to play on the tennis courts and pass around a ball. She never played tennis, but the courts were nearby and she knew how to use her resources well; we would have fun whether we were good at it or not, because we were together. It could have been midnight, or it could have been eight o’clock at night, the hours meant nothing to me. I could only wish for an endless time with her. She pulled my dad’s old station wagon into an empty lot and together we skipped towards the tennis courts attempting to keep ourselves from freezing to death. Amatha looked around for her boyfriend Chris, who was supposed to be meeting us at the courts. As we got closer to them, I could see his silhouette, tall and strong in the one streak of light shining down. He looked ready for business; his shoulders back, his muscular arms clutching the racket. I have to admit, it was a scary sight for someone my age. Our feet finally reached the wired gate, and then thumped along the dark green floor.

            “Here,” he said passing me the racket, “Go long!” With that, the neon tennis balls began flying. After missing them a few times we soon gave up, running around in the dark seemed more appealing. Our adventure at the tennis courts seemed to pass by quickly and before I knew it, it was time to head home. My slow walk back to the car was interrupted by harsh paced words between Amatha and Chris. Suddenly, I felt myself being grabbed and pulled into the car. Amatha threw me in the back seat, quickly clicked my safety belt, jumped in the car and started the engine. It was a matter of seconds before we sped away from the yelling, angry Chris chasing after our car. I remember the silence being disturbed by her tiny whimper and the reflection of her shiny wet cheek in the rear view mirror.

            “What’s wrong?” I said, confused. I didn’t know that big, mature, women ever cried as small girls like me did.

            “He says I have to grow up, kiddo,” she said quietly, reflecting on the minutes that past before her. “I have to grow up; I can’t spend the rest of my life living like this.”

            The car slowed down as we descended into my driveway. She stopped the car and waited in the silence. I wanted to say something to help her like she would say when I was upset. I didn’t understand it though, what was so wrong about her life? She made my life perfect, was I not giving her perfection in return? I stared at her reflection as she took a deep breath and wiped her tears from her pale cheeks.

            “Let’s get you to bed now, it’s getting late,” she said putting back on her usual smile, “You must be tired, huh?” I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I had never felt more awake in my life. She got out of the car and opened my door as I jumped down onto the pavement and walked into my garden, this time following slowly behind her.

            “Can I sleep with you, tonight?” I said, realizing that the house was now empty because my parents were out of town.

            “Of course,” she said, “but you go upstairs and get ready for bed, I need to make a phone call. I’ll let you know when I’m done and then we can go to sleep.” I pushed myself up the stairs and into my room where my pajamas were. I slowly put them on and went and got my toothbrush. I waited with it at the top of the stairs, trying to listen to her voice. I didn’t even care to hear what she was saying to the person on the other end of the line. She finished up quickly and walked outside her door to find me staring down at her. “Come on, let’s get you to sleep.”

 

            When I had finally reached the double digit age of ten years old, I had gained a sense of myself, all because of my experiences and growth with Amatha. It was after I had turned ten years old that she really told me, “You’re mature enough now to be on your own.” Every experience with Amatha was a lesson in what it meant to be mature. She taught me that maturity was losing in monopoly and not crying about it. Maturity was smiling at strange looking people and yet not talking to strangers. Maturity was the relaxing bubble baths, and fun goofy face paint. She made me feel mature; ahead of my years almost.

            “It’s time for me to learn about myself too, though” she said. I didn’t understand what she could have possibly meant by this. Amatha was my role model because she knew who she was. She was unique; she knew herself and she helped me learn about myself, too. How could she say she had to learn about herself? She was reaching her late twenties at this time, however. I guess it had been ten beautiful years of childhood for me, and ten beautiful years of childhood relived for her. Recalling these events and looking back at the past, I realize how incredible it was that she stayed with me for as long as she did. She started college coming home to my house at night, and graduated with me waving in the audience. She was my Amatha, my playmate, my childcare provider and my home. I never thought of the life that she strived to live outside of our own world. The world of Judith and Amatha was amazing, but I guess everything must end sometimes.

             The night before Christmas I came up to my mom’s room to find my mom huddled on her bed and upset. My mom never let me see her cry. She clung tight to a letter written with tear drops and black ink.

            “Judith,” she whispered, “we need to talk.” As she started reading it to me, my want to comfort my mom became lost in my own confusion; the words didn’t make any sense. I didn’t hear her when she said she was really moving out. I didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t do that to myself, I couldn’t imagine a life without her by my side. Christmas was the last night she slept at my house and the following morning she left. I remember waking up to a cup of tea and a great big hug from Amatha. I didn’t cry, I didn’t even really say a real goodbye or thank you. I let her walk out as if she’d be back within the hour. I didn’t want to believe that she had really just left. Since I didn’t accept it, I never got to tell her how much she really meant to me.

           

            Time passed and I grew older without Amatha. I was almost out of elementary school, with a new sense of freedom and a new tenant downstairs in Amatha’s old room. Everything was so different. I no longer needed to invade the personal space in the downstairs room to keep me occupied; I now relied on phone conversations with friends. When I’d hang up the phone I’d spend the rest of the night aimlessly walking through the empty rooms of my house, wide awake, thinking about the boy I liked or the friend who had hurt my feelings that day. Wrapping myself in the petty life of a 6^th grader proved to be a great way in ignoring the discomfort I felt without Amatha. Amatha would come and visit every once in a while. When she came, it was her turn to come into my room and sit on my floor. We talked like grown ups now, “How was your day? You excited for middle school?” She used to know everything going on in my life before I did, but now she was no longer my other half, but this whole other person staring back at me. She sat next to the new tenant while I perched on my living room couch watching them. I saw the royalty in her eyes. This was her territory, and yet for some reason she seemed to be so above it. The connection almost seemed to instantly fade- I’d watch her and for some reason not feel the same comfort I had always felt in her presence. I was beyond all of that now; I had to grow up too.

            Her visiting hours seemed to grow shorter and shorter, and pretty soon they became a rare occurrence. The last time I saw Amatha she knocked on my door and stood on our porch for a while before finally entering the house of her old life. She sat with me for a while and we casually talked about the current events in my life and hers, until my mom came home. Amatha had been waiting for both of us before she could share the news: “I’m moving to Hawaii,” she proudly stated.

            After a moment of silence, rekindling the moment of truth when Amatha had first left, my mom finally choked out, “How exciting! When are you leaving?” I remember looking up at both of them and not saying a word. I maybe let out a shy smile but inside I just didn’t understand it. She was moving to Hawaii? Wasn’t that the place you go when you want to get away for a while? Relax? Summer vacation, even? It had been almost year, making it nearly winter, and Amatha was trying to tell us that she was moving to Hawaii. Amatha, who was the most reasonable person I knew, the most comforting, the most amazing; my Amatha was just not making sense to me anymore. The next thing I knew I said goodbye, felt the wrap of an uncomforting hug, and the door was shut without another word. It then really hit me; she’s gone.

            The next few months passed by with floods of flowered and tropical post-cards celebrating Amatha’s new and improved lifestyle. Every other week or so, I arrived home to a house excited by a much waited post-card from Amatha. She was great with the updates, always checking in and telling us what was new and happening in her life, despite the miles and ocean between us.

            “Living on my own is wonderful; I have the beach nearby and a nice supportive community. I love it here!” She was my first and only pen-pal, I was able to grow confident and comforted once again. I realized that maybe I hadn’t lost my childhood hero; she was just a little south, red ink and a postcard away.

            “It was hard to leave and start anew,” she wrote me, “but I’m happy here and hope to visit Berkeley as soon as I can.”

            A few weeks passed and my house fell disturbingly silent. I guess the mail was late, her letters were lost; either way, she hadn’t responded to my letters. Every week I walked with my mom and my dog up our steep driveway and collected the mail, sorting through the ugly bills and worthless advertisements, eager to find that sunny beach and red ink. It just never came. With more news to keep Amatha posted with, we kept writing her, as if there had been no change. The day of discovery came when we opened the mailbox to find month’s worth of letters written to Amatha, all of which indented with a “return to sender” stamped on in smeared, red ink. It wasn’t the red ink with news from Amatha we were hoping for. Chilled and confused, we called her mother, who lived nearby the Bay Area.

            “Uh, hi, is Christine there?”

            “I’m sorry, the woman you are looking for has passed away, how can I help you?”

            “That’s awful,” my mom said under her breath, “Well, do you know anything about her daughter? Has Amatha visited or anything?” my mom questioned in disbelief.

            “I’m sorry I’m not the landlord, I’m just the new owner of the house, and I really have no idea.”

            It was as if everything good in my life which once put me sound asleep at night had been distorted into a huge nightmare, bearing down in my shattered dreams. The pictures of Amatha became lost; the letters are now kept hidden somewhere in the mess of my mom’s belongings, as if she never existed. I thought of Amatha as the paragon of perfection, she gave me more than any other person has ever given me; a sense of belonging and a feel of importance. I haven’t seen, nor heard anything of Amatha since that last post-card, but for some reason every time I look downstairs, I can’t help but feel her comforting presence. About a year ago, I saw a familiar looking face glaring at me at Andronico’s. Luckily, the man and my mom knew each other immediately. It was Chris, “You seen Amatha lately?” he questioned us.

            “Haven’t heard from her in years, she kind of disappeared after she went to Hawaii,” my mom said, solemnly.

            “Typical Amatha, always running away and disappearing,” Chris said; his wounds from Amatha still open and without protection. He’s wrong though, Amatha didn’t run away; I think she just ran toward a new life for herself.