A Changing Role

            by Sophie Meryash

 

It was the annual gift wrap day at Emerson school, the day I always dreaded. My classmates shuffled into the large elementary school auditorium and loud chatter filled the room.

I heard my friends whispering, “I wonder what she’s gonna be this year.”

“Maybe a gorilla, that would be cool.”

“I think she might be a fairy or something, with wings and stuff.”

            Every year my mother was chosen to be the advocate for gift wrap, an elementary school fundraiser. She got the crowds attention by parading her ridiculous outfits on stage in front of my teachers, my principal, and all of my friends.

The principal entered the stage, and the noise of the crowd softened. Her booming voice shook the auditorium walls as she told the students to quiet down. The intensity of silence filled the air, and my sweaty palms constricted into tiny balls.

“Karen Meryash, our speaker, is going to tell everyone how to sell the gift wrap and will introduce the prizes students who sell the most gift wrap will receive. So give her a big round of applause, and be respectful when she’s onstage.” 

A nervous wave spread throughout my body, my whole life was in the crowd and my mom was going to ruin it.

            An enormous bird appeared in front of the audience; its giant beak and highlighted yellow feathers stood boldly onstage. Its wings flapped and the crowd let out screams of laughter. Maybe no one will know it’s her I thought.

That’s Sophie’s mom, somebody yelled.

 And soon the whole crowd joined in on the newly revealed information. I was sweaty and red. It wasn’t my mom that everyone was laughing at, it was me. She danced around the stage flapping her wings and taunting me.

            My classmates dispersed as each grade was called. I stood alone, hands on hip, awaiting my mother.

            “Hey sweetie, what did you think of my chicken outfit? I think the crowd really liked it,” she said.

            My brows furrowed and my lips curled. I guess my look explained it all. She turned and walked towards the stage to gather her suitable clothes; yellow feathers fell off her suit as she collected her things to return home.

            “I’m sorry honey. I didn’t realize you would be so embarrassed.” She apologized, “no one will remember tomorrow, I think all your friends enjoyed it anyway. Everyone was laughing and having a good time.”

            “That was the problem,” I mumbled under my breath. “Everyone was laughing.”

            “They weren’t laughing at you sweetie, they were just having a good time,” my mom reasoned as she attempted to hug me.

            I pulled away from her grip. My eyes focused on the floor, trying to escape her comforting expression. She embarrassed me and she had to know how it felt.

I turned my back and walked towards the narrow hallways of Emerson elementary.

                                                            *          *          *

 

A small tutoring room, two stories above the Willard playground was where I spent the majority of my lunch.

“Gril,” I spelled out in sloppy letters.

“No Sophie, the I comes before the R in girl. Try and write it in a sentence and sound it out G-I-R-L.”

Girl, girl, girl, girl, girl, I said in my head. Why am I the only girl who can’t spell and has to sit in a little room all day to fix it?

 “G-I-R-L; the girl walked to the store,” I spoke in semi colons, each word had to be perfectly annunciated.

            “Great job Sophie”      

There was one lonely window placed next to the table covered in flashcards. I remember peering out onto the grassy field as the hot afternoon sun seeped through the crevices in the blinds, creating black bars across the window.

“Sophie, you need to be paying attention. You got an F on your last quiz, and if you don’t compensate for your dyslexia, you might never get a better grade.”

Defeated and tired, I retreated back home.

            I sat at my desk and stared at the ominously pale spelling sheet. Wrinkles formed around my mouth as my lips pushed together attempting to conceal my frustration.

“I made you some tea.” My mom said, as she tried to open my locked door.

“I’m fine. I don’t really want anything right now.”

“Are you sure? It’ll make you feel better, just open the door. I can help you with your work if you need it.”

            I got up and opened the door. My mom was holding a tray of chicken noodle soup, bread, and a mug of tea. Next to the neatly folded napkin, there where two roses side by side, I couldn’t help but smile.

            “I thought you’d like the roses, I got them down the street at the flower stand. They’d look great on your desk,” she said while placing the tray of food on my desk and over my homework sheet. “You have nothing to worry about sweetie, you’ll be fine trust me. I’m always here if you need me.”

            I knew she was there; whenever I needed somebody, she was there.

 

                                                            *          *          *

 

            We were driving home from my last Thanksgiving as a middle school student, and it had been a memorable one. The brisk air tickled my face, and traces of our breath were imprinted upon the glass. My sister and I winced as cold air shot through the front car window. My mother was the culprit. She smiled as the cool evening air struck her throat and tangled her short blond hair. The holiday was revived as my parents softly discussed highlights of our vacation. Roasted turkey…jokes and laughter…chewy corn bread. The car ride home was long, and the revivals of celebrations became blurred, the words became fuzzy, and my sight became plagued with sleep.

            Piercing sirens, yellow and red flashing lights, and the buzz of neighborhood chatter filled Stonewall Rd. My eyes shot open searching for an explanation but my parents had a giant question mark tattooed on their expressions.

            “I’m sure it’s fine. We shouldn’t worry about it. Let’s just go inside and we’ll figure things out in the morning,” my mother said.

            We left the street and went into our house. I lay in my bed as my body floated away on a cloud. The sirens blurted out spontaneous calls and prevented my mind from drifting off into sleep. I wonder if anyone is hurt. A bird rustled in the trees and an airplane flew overhead, causing the windows to vibrate. A loose floorboard indicated that someone was in my room.

 “Hey honey, you should try to get some rest, we had a long day today,” my mother spoke softly.

“Do you know what happened? I hope everything is okay,” I questioned.

“I’m sure it’s fine sweetie, just try and go to sleep.”

Her calming hands tangled my hair, and cradled my shoulder.

Dew formed in my eyes, and the sun piercing through my window told me it was time to get up. I stumbled down the cool linoleum steps, determined to get my morning bowl of cheerios and a cup of coffee. The kitchen was bare, and the coffee maker stood alone; its red lights flashed to indicate that the drink was ready. My mom entered the kitchen. Her hair was tangled and the tissue above her checks puffed out, creating pillows for her restless eyes.

“Did you just get up?” I asked,

“About ten minutes ago,” she answered.

“I had trouble sleeping last night too, did you ever find out what all that stuff was about last night?”

Her only reply was a slight nod. Maybe she didn’t hear me. The intensity of silence filled the air, and I studied my mother’s face. Her lips began to quiver and her hands began to shake, she turned to me and her face was illuminated by the morning light. I wanted to ask what happened, and if she was going to be okay, and if I could help.

 

But all I could articulated was a gurgled, “It’s gonna be okay.”

I moved across the kitchen and held my mother; her body was warm and light. I griped her hands and cradled her head. Her words were muffled by my shoulder but a few of them managed to escape,

 

“….Judith committed suicide.”

 

Her voice shook, and she pressed her face into her hands.

“It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay…,” I repeated.

            My words were for both of us. And as they continuously echoed throughout the room we were still and the calming buzz of the coffee machine sounded.

            My mother and I walked along the dirt path that snaked around our street, passing Judith’s house into the Berkeley hills. Judith’s dead, Judith’s dead, Judith’s dead. The words circulated through my mind. I wanted to scream them and extract them out of me, tear by tear. But then I looked at my mom, I saw the way her brows hung low, and the way the shadow of her frown was imprinted on her face. I had to keep composure, I had to be strong.

            “I am really going to miss her; she was a great friend to both of us,” I said as I kicked up dust.

            “I can’t believe it happened; I can’t believe she’s dead,” my mother spoke in soft whispers, as if suppressing the words would change the reality of the suicide.

My throat constricted as I heard her speak and I was forced to battle the tears forming inside my eyes.

 “She was such a wonderful person.” I said, “And I will always remember her; she was always there to help us, I just wished we had been able to help her.”

            But we both knew there was nothing we could have done to prevent Judith’s suicide.

The evening sun shown hard against our backs and the afternoon breeze tangled our blond hair.

            I went for a run the next day. The dirt track looped around a grassy field, and the dimmed sun created a pink afterglow on the western mountains of San Francisco. I ran four miles. Judith is dead and my mother needs me, she needs my help. My thoughts resonated and slowly morphed together as each lap was completed. I was exhausted, my throat was dry and my calves felt like giant pillars dragging in the dirt. I walked to the grassy slope centered in the middle of the track and laid in the grass.  The cool air knotted my hair and the wet soil hugged my body and cradled my shoulders. I laid there for an hour. My throat felt moist after resting and I had regained strength in my legs. It was late. Only the edges of the sun were visible over the hills and the track was now dark. I hoisted myself up and started to head home. My mother needed me, and I was ready to be there.