11.01

It doesn’t snow in Berkeley. Winter can only be distinguished from fall by the lack of pumpkins and the appearance of eggnog. But fall is different. The end of summer isn’t subtle; it’s immediate. The leaves seem to get crunchy overnight. The wind starts blowing, the air is crisp, the sun is warmer and despite the fact that everything is dying, the world seems more alive.

            I wasn’t born in the sweet cold air of spring. I didn’t greet the world wrapped in summer fog. Winter didn’t get to meet me for months. I was a fall baby. The day after Halloween I said hello to a San Francisco that was covered in leaves, candy wrappers, hobos and expired Jack-O-Lanterns.

            Sixteen years later it was fall once again. More importantly, it was my birthday. For fifteen years, festivities, sweets, and occasionally some family drama had surrounded this day. Until my mom walked through the door that morning, I was sleeping.

“Up up up! Get up,” she said. “I made you eggs and toast. Get up before it’s cold. I have to run or I’ll be late for work! I wish I could stay but you know I’ll see you this afternoon! Love you, happy birthday, get out of bed!”

She left and I could hear her making her way down the stairs and over towards the front door.

            Other morning sounds were making their way into my room through my doorway. Ma’ayan was opening a cereal box; Rebecca was reminding him to brush his teeth. And there was Maddy, yelling at Hannah to unlock the door to the bathroom. I rolled over in my bed angrily, smashed the pillow against my face and pulled the covers up around my ears to block out the noise. My bed smelled like shampoo.

            I finally got up. My tardy wouldn’t be excused because it was my birthday. No special privileges for a birthday girl at BHS. Though, when I thought about it, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Birthdays to me seemed like a very personal thing. Celebrations were nice and well deserved for the most part but it always made me uncomfortable when students paraded around school with balloons and cakes and such. Luckily, my friends thought the same thing and I doubted I would have to deal with anything like that.

            I realized how cold I was. I regretted leaving my windows open the night before. Everything was freezing. I envied my gecko. He was nice and comfy in his 85-degree aquarium. Seasons didn’t really change for him. I rolled back off my stomach and slid my feet out from under the covers. My toes were angry with me, I could tell. They willed me with all of their toey powers to turn around and get back into bed. I started shivering and hurried to get dressed. As the wind outside began to blow and my shades began to clank against my window frames, I stepped quickly out of my room, closing the door behind me. My eggs and toast were waiting for me, cold no doubt. I wondered what the day had in store for me and whether it would be a sweet 16 to remember.

The eggs were cold, just as I had expected. I chewed slowly and deliberately on the rubbery whites. The salt made my tongue tingle and I felt slightly nauseated. I swallowed and put down my fork. The soggy bread and goopy yellow streaks of yolk left on my plate were thoroughly unappetizing. I stood up and scraped the food into the green bin with a knife. The yolk wouldn’t come off. I stared at it for a bit before placing the plate in the sink and leaving the kitchen. Angry at the eggs, I trudged back up the stairs to my room. The stairs were cold and squeaky and made me even more exasperated. Why was I so angry? I shouldn’t be; I should be excited! It was my birthday. I could finally ride my new bike (my mom hadn’t let me touch it until that day) and that evening I could eat a nice dinner. I’d even have a strawberry tart for dessert.

            These thoughts cheered me up. I paused for a moment as I tried to remember why I was in my room. I realized there was no reason. This was strange but not surprising; I did it fairly often. Undeterred by the incident, I wandered toward the bathroom. I glanced down the hall and saw my two best friends standing by the front door. This was odd. I wondered how they had gotten into my house and why they had bothered. I stood at the top of the stairs confused. After a few moments Claire looked around and saw me.

“Rose! It’s Emily!” Claire shouted. Rose looked around too.

“Emily! Happy Birthday!”

“Happy Birthday!” Claire called out.

I smiled; I couldn’t help it.  Their presence in the house still confused me; if they only wanted to say happy birthday they could have waited until school. However I could see nothing wrong with it.

            Rose and Claire had started the walk up the hallway. Rose was carrying a box. It was large, flat and approaching in a very speedy manner. I held onto the railing in anticipation. I wondered what was inside. “Happy birthday,” they both continued to chant. They were grinning manically. Claire reached out to open the box while Rose held it in place.

            Cupcakes. I quickly counted sixteen of them. All were coated in thick chocolate frosting and sitting lightly in their crinkly silver cups. Multicolored sprinkles peppered the tops of the left half. The right half was covered in what looked like blue dinosaurs. I liked this. I really liked this. I beamed and thanked them. Wow. This was great. Cupcakes were amazing by default and because of Rose and Claire’s ingenious idea to bring them to my house I didn’t have to worry about carrying the box around with me all day. The morning seemed to be turning around.

            After they left, I carefully packed six of the cupcakes in a small container and placed them in my backpack. It was time to go. I made my way downstairs, ducking under the low and slanted ceiling. I turned into the garage and was overjoyed by the prospect of finally riding my bike.

            I wheeled it outside, leaned it against a tree near my driveway and closed the garage. I inspected my bike as I walked back toward it. It was beautiful. I felt unworthy. Even so, I didn’t think twice before swinging my leg over the back and sitting down abruptly on the seat.

            The bike ride from my house to school was enjoyable. Anyone looking would see me grinning from ear to ear, hair whipping wildly around my face. I was one of those weird bikers who always smiles for no apparent reason. Cars certainly seemed more inclined to avoid me that morning.

            School was uneventful until third period. The class was sitting in quiet concentration. We had a practice AP English essay and the time limit left no time for slacking. I was writing about penguins. I had written all of two paragraphs when the small voice of a pleasant-looking eraser bit sitting on the edge of my pencil distracted me. One thing led to another and I soon forgot entirely about my essay or even that I was in class It was one of those times when the smallest things pop out of nowhere and say “Hey there! Look at me!” then of course I look at them and all of the other small things want to have their share of attention until I’m so absorbed in this land of small pointless things that I forget what I was doing.

            A sharp twang of nausea interrupted my wandering thoughts and brought me back to reality. The sick feeling left as quickly as I had come but returned seconds later in an even more violent manner than before. I was surprised and unsure of what to do. I decided I didn’t want to be sick at school so I quickly assembled my stuff and left the room. I didn’t bother talking to my teacher or anyone else; they would slow down my mad dash to my house.

            The bike ride home passed in an awful haze. Cars came out of nowhere and horns were honked and no matter how often I blinked I couldn’t see much of anything. Then suddenly, it was over. I pulled my bike up to the stairs of my front porch. The world turned on its side. I realized that I was lying on my front porch, my bike tipped over next to me. I needed to get inside. I staggered slowly up the stairs to the door. The smell of sick enveloped me as I pushed it open. I looked around for the source of the scent. My brother, Ma’ayan, was 5 feet away and heaving. I ran down the hall to get away from it. I  made it to the bathroom, threw open the door and was surprised to see my youngest sister already inside. What was going on? It seemed that everyone my family was sick.

From that moment to a week later, my memories were blurred and confusing. There were spots: minutes or hours at a time when every detail of every moment was clear and vivid. They were bursts of color amidst mass stretches of dark.

After two days of sleep and oblivion I discovered that my entire family had contracted the flu. Even the dog was sick. He lay in a constant state of sulk by the front door and refused to move. Everyone was confined to the hot and smelly house. No one was well enough to clean so traces of vomit, towels and other bits of laundry lined the hallways and spotted the floor of every room. The dishes piled in the sink added to the stench of the overflowing trashcan.

I was the first to start my recovery. As soon as I could walk again I wandered around the house aimlessly. Each time I walked by the living room I would see the small pile of presents that I was supposed to receive days earlier. My tart sat in its white box on the table. Every day it would get another fuzzy blue mold spot. These small walks depressed and exhausted me. I would sleep for ten to twelve hours at a time afterwards.

For a week the only thing I could eat was the occasional soda cracker. They were incredibly dry and pasty. Only the occasional salt crystal split up the monotonous flavor of cardboard. This incredibly limited diet did not provide the nourishment I needed. Each day my ribs and hip bones became more and more pronounced and my muscles smaller. I wasn’t the only one with these problems. One by one every one of my family members grew to resemble a very pale skeleton.

I didn’t imagine the week could go anywhere but up. Sadly, it didn’t; we all had lice. Sheets were stripped from beds and put downstairs in a growing pile of fabric. Brushes, combs and clips were sanitized repeatedly in the dishwasher. Every human had to be treated. The mass amounts of laundry and the smell of the chemicals in our hair made us sicker. Laundry sat wet in its baskets and mildewed while we all took a sleep day. It had to be done again.

Two weeks after my sixteenth birthday our house was finally clean and we were lice and flu free. My mother went out and bought a new tart. Dinner was made and the table set. The presents were placed in front of me and the candles lit. I sat down at the head of the table, took a deep breath and blew out every one of those little flames. The smoke from the wicks drifted up through the air in silky tendrils. A small breeze blew into the room through an open window and pulled the delicate streams this way and that. We all sat in silence, entranced by the patterns formed by the smoke. Outside leaves swirled about in gusts of wind. An orange sunset cast a warm glow on the room and the smell of autumn was in the air.