18 October 2000 ~ You stunned him (the sea, the grave under the sycamore tree, and what I don't deserve...)

Dreamed we were at the beach -- a beach I'd never seen, but not one entirely unfamiliar. My family had rented a hotel room, and invited two guests: Jo and Norman.

In my dream, we'd all brought a small trunk of clothing and a pail to bring home shells in. We had a few hours left before we had to head home, and I wanted more than anything to join Norman and my brothers romping in the ocean. I'd changed into my swimming suit, found my towel, and was about to rush out the door of the hotel room and directly into the surf, when Jo stopped me...

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked harshly, thickly. Her tone was a pressing one: not "pressing" as in "urgent," but "pressing" as in, it felt as though she was pressing on me, squashing me.

"Going out to the sea," I said. Honestly, I don't think I've ever used the word "sea" in actual speech, but everything, down to the letter, seemed important in this dream.

"You're not going anywhere, Helena. We've only got a few hours left before we have to go, and you're going to help me pack my things."

"But you didn't bring much, did you? Why don't you pack it yourself?" Even as I asked, I could see that Jo had INDEED brought much. As a matter of fact, a dresser in the hotel room was covered with Jo's family photographs. Her clothing, her CD-player, a weird series of little statues, books, CD's, boxes, cartons... Jo had moved into the hotel room. And now I had to help her pack her things instead of joining Norman and my brothers, who were waiting for me.

I glanced out the door of the hotel room, a big sliding glass door. I yelled Norman's name. "Your brothers went to look for seashells," he yelled, and held up in his own hands a huge pink conch shell. He was standing chest-deep in the ocean, and I could see every muscle in his torso, every drop of water sliding down his face. He looked like a merman. His eyes were green, dark seagreen. I wanted nothing so much as to run to him, splashing, and throw myself into his arms. I could see him, every part of him, every color; I rarely see things so clearly, so vividly, in dreams.

Jo's voice from behind me, "come on now."

So I began to help her pack. With every carton I filled, it seemed there was one more.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The dream changed. I was standing with Meg on a street corner. I think we were on Murray Street.

"He's dead," she said, smiling, and holding out a photograph to me. It was a picture I'd seen before: a beautiful girl, maybe my age, maybe a little older: a girl I'd never met. She looked tense, but lovely. "I saved this for you from his things. She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"He's not dead," I replied, smiling a secret little smile. "You just don't know where he is. But I do."

"Helena, he's dead. You missed the funeral. Nobody thought to tell you, because no one thought you were very close..." Throughout the dream, we used nothing but pronouns, never proper names.

"Meg, he DIDN'T DIE. I swear it to you."

"His mother was there, and..." She waved the photo around in the air. "...she was here."

"His mother?"

"Yes." And Meg handed me another picture, this one of an older woman with chestnut hair and a tense mouth.

"I know where he is. He didn't die. He just didn't want you to know where..."

But she cut me off. "The funeral was two days ago. It rained. He's buried in the cemetary a few streets up."

"What cemetary?" I asked. "WHAT cemetary?"

Meg's hair looked like shit: ratty and stringy and unwashed. She was wearing an old white sweater that fit her too tightly. She was standing in a pile of wet fallen leaves, and she was wearing white and purple LA Gear sneakers, the kind I had when I was eight. She looked almost dead herself. Yet, she was smiling.

"He doesn't BELONG in a cemetary!" I screamed at her, realizing I was talking nonsense, even through the dream. "He doesn't belong in a cemetary; he isn't DEAD! I don't believe you! I want to see his body! There is no body!"

"You're right," she said. "There is no body. It was an accident, a bad accident, and they didn't find the body."

(And in my dream, I remembered the part in "Twin Peaks" when Pete finds out his wife died in a fire, but they hadn't found the body. "I don't know exactly WHAT we'll be burying..." he says.)

"He'll come back," I promised Meg. "He didn't die. I told you, it's just a trick or something. There is no body."

"Helena, everyone knows he's dead. Even his mother. And..." She waved the picture around again, the first one, of the beautiful girl. "His grave is in the cemetary on Chapin Street."

"There IS no cemetary on Chapin Street!" I screamed at her. And suddenly, we were on Chapin Street, and I could see in the distance a cemetary. "NO! This was never here before! This was never here! This was a vet's office or something! This wasn't here! He isn't dead!"

She led me to the rows of graves and flowers. The grass was covered with gold and red leaves, and I could feel my feet getting wet. She extended her arm out, the way a cartoon character from the 50's would, fluidly, saying everything she needed to say with one gesture: "be my guest... see for yourself..."

"Under the sycamore tree," she smiled cruelly.

"I don't know what a sycamore tree looks like!" I called, but Meg was already walking away, was halfway down the sidewalk, was walking herself home in her white and purple LA Gears. "It's not really under a sycamore tree! You're just saying that. We don't even HAVE sycamore trees in Binghamton!"

(I don't know if we do or not. I have no idea what the fuck a sycamore tree looks like...)

She'd taken the photo of the girl with her. "MEG! I want the picture!" I screamed, but Meg was already gone.

I stared at the tombstones in front of me, trying to collect my thoughts. And suddenly, I was no longer on Chapin Street, but in front of Binghamton High School, picking little red flowers out of their garden and poking the stems into a tiny green bottle, planning to find the correct grave and leave my makeshift vase there. Then, there was Meg again. "It's unmarked," she said. "Buy you a cup of coffee later?" And walked away.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The phone rang in the dining room and woke me up. I didn't answer.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I'm looking out my window. The ground is wet and there are yellow leaves smashed against the lawn. The light on my answering machine is blinking: two messages. But I've already listened to them. Feels as if something is out-of-place, discordant. I'm looking around my apartment to find out what it is, what's been moved, what's been changed, whose energy is here that wasn't here before... Nothing. Everything is the way I left it before bed last night. My applesauce is in the fridge; Peter's empty ice-cream container is in the freezer; a stack of mail is waiting in the middle of the floor to be opened. Nothing wrong. Except it's too quiet in here. I'm going to put on some soft Ithaca-like music with drums in it, and hope things start to feel a little better.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I suppose I'd better explain things about Jo...

On September 12th, I got a call from the Binghamton Police, saying that my housemate was threatening, and/or trying, to kill herself. A couple of phone calls later, I found out that the police had broken into the house and that Jo was being taken to the local crisis center, and then to a hospital in Oneonta.

I have not seen Jo since.

Jo belonged to the Rainbow Pride Union on campus, as did I, sort of. She showed up to all the meetings. I showed up to a few of them occasionally. Not to bad-mouth the group, but it's a well-known fact, inside AND outside of the group that the RPU is a breeding ground for gossip and drama. It's also been, at times, a nice place to go and have dinner and conversation with friends, but the gossip-and-drama thing is undeniable.

Naturally, then, word of Jo's predicament spread like wildfire. I received four telephone calls in the wee hours of the morning on September 13th, asking Jo's whereabouts. Because I had to wake up early the next morning -- ie, four hours later -- I was not very pleased to be struck with a sudden onslaught of care for Jo.

Thus, I emailed the RPU list-serv: Jo is NOT here, she's in a hospital in Oneonta, she has been depressed (as everybody freaking knew; Jo felt no need for discretion with regard to her mental problems) and apparently tried to kill herself. Thus, she has been taken to blah blah hospital, and someone gave me blah blah phone number, so please send well-wishes THERE, rather than to my house, where she's not going to receive them.

The next day, Kevin, the co-chairperson of the RPU, called and told me I'd misused the list-serv. He wasn't any more specific.

Kevin and I had had a minor falling-out (do you see the drama here already?), which included me refusing to have sex with him, and him refusing to speak to me without a rude tone of voice. During this time, I had a brief intimate relationship with Kevin's best friend/arch enemy Chris, which caused Kevin to say some rather nasty things about me, including (and I quote only what I've heard, so its accuracy is questionable, although it definitely sounds like something that could come out of Kevin's mouth): "Chris, if you're going to go out and try to get yourself an STD, at least do it with somebody who's worth it." I didn't speak to Kevin after that.

...Except to call him, after his comment that I'd misused the list-serv, and say, "Kevin, I don't need your bullshit, and I have no intentions of using the lis-serv again anyway, nor do I have any intentions of returning to the Rainbow Pride Union."

HE called me back, and said, essentially, good, you're not welcome here anyway, and no one will give a shit if you never come back. And that he was kicking me off the list-serv.

So... now that THAT part of the story is out of the way...

Jo didn't contact me. Some other people emailed the list-serv with detailed information about her number, address, and visiting hours. I didn't call. I was angry at Jo.

...backtrack again...

Just prior to the incident with the police, and Jo's admittance to the hospital, she was absolutely incapable of saying a nice word to me. She told my dear friend Aaron that his life was worthless and that he ought to die and make the world a better place. She was rude to me when I invited Chris over from time to time, even though he never stayed more than an hour or two, at the most. She was rude to Chris, although I'm not sure he always noticed. She said or did something that made Norman unwilling to come to my apartment lest Jo be there. She yelled at me when I took my bird out of his cage, because she didn't like him near her, and she once swatted him against a wall. To say nothing of the constant reminders that I was a shitty housekeeper, that the dishes weren't done and the floor wasn't vacuumed immaculately. I admit, all of that was true, but to make a life-crisis out of a sink of dirty dishes? To make an attempt at ruining a friendship over a small number of semi-unsanitary practices? It's not like I wiped my butt with my fingers before cooking her macaroni and cheese; it was usually just that the floor wasn't mopped, a habit that I don't believe warrants yelling and belittlement.

So, when Jo was admitted to the hospital, I won't say I was happy, because I did care for her, and I was genuinely worried about her health and stability. However, I was angry that so many people came to ME for information, that I was supposed to take care of the loose ends of Jo's personal affairs, even after she'd alienated at least three of my friends and constantly harassed me about my habits.

Jo did not personally let me know where she was or how she was or what had happened. She let me find out through emails from other people. And I did not call her. Why should I? I was angry. I didn't want her to die, and I didn't want her to suffer, but I didn't want to call and pretend everything was perfect just because she'd tried or threatened to kill herself. I'm not Jo's best friend just because she's got problems, and I'm not going to save her just because she might want someone to. I'm not that nice, and I'm not that fake.

I got an answering machine message from her mother, saying she'll be out of the hospital soon, transferred to another hospital in Binghamton, and released in mid-November. It said one of Jo's friends would be dropping off rent-money and picking up Jo's mail. The voice wasn't very pleasant. I can only imagine what Jo's mother thinks of me. But perhaps she simply isn't a pleasant-sounding person; I suppose I shouldn't jump to conclusions.

I got a message from Jo, emailed to the RPU list-serv. (Kevin didn't actually kick me off, and I've not found a way to de-activate my email address...) She thanked all of her wonderful friends for sending her well-wishes and cards and flowers. She thanked all her visitors. She included a postscript to me: to the person who told my predicament and phone number (it was a payphone, for gahd's sake!) to the entire list-serv rather than inconveniencing yourself with a few answering machine messages and telephone calls, I hope all the love you've shown me comes back to you tenfold. It's all you deserve.

THAT made me angry. After taking Jo in, when she felt she had no other place to go; after putting up with her moods and the anger that seemed to rest solely on me; after assuring several friends that they were, indeed, welcome (to no avail); *I* was the one in the wrong? Other people had emailed specifics about her location and status, and they were glorified as being wonderful friends! I tried my best to give Jo what she seemed to want, and it wasn't ever good enough! My friends angered her, my pet angered her (I've had my bird much longer than I've had Jo as a friend, by the way!), my housekeeping angered her. It angered her when I went to work, it angered her when I was home. It angered her when I was on the computer because it tied up her phone line, but she paid no attention to the long hours she spent online or on the phone. It angered her that we live in a horrible neighborhood, although I consider this neighborhood quite safe, if not exactly upper-class. She had complaints about everything, never once thanking me for taking down her messages, letting her pay rent late, cleaning things up so as mot to bother her... She acted as if she hated me. How was I SUPPOSED to love her? I had loved her. I had cared deeply for her. She was my friend, and at one time, she was one of my closest friends. I visited her in the hospital the first time she was admitted here in town, several times. I trekked to the convenience store to bring her Diet Pepsi. I bought her soda with my last dimes and carried it home to her because she didn't feel like going out. She never thanked me, never reimbursed me, and I know damn well she wouldn't have done the same for me.

I hope all the love you've shown me comes back to you tenfold. It's all you deserve.

I deserve friends who don't act as though they hate me.

I deserve friends who don't hate my other friends, or can at last be cordial and take it upon themselves to leave if situations are uncomfortable, rather than bitching to the high heavens about how unwelcome they are.

I deserve friends who do not depend on me to pick up the pieces of their lives, and who do not get angry when I am busy trying to keep my own from falling to pieces.

I deserve friends who do not tell a list-serv I am a bad friend and that I don't deserve love.

I deserve to live my life happily without being weighed down by anger and an actual reluctance to go home.

This is the end of things with Jo. When she is released, she can pack her things, and I will tell her that. I don't care where she goes; she has enough other friends so that I know she won't go homeless. And other than being assured that she is alive and not on the streets, I'm going to hand her over someone else and not look back. So that someone else can destroy her life. This is the end of any friendship that we ever had.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I have to go to work now. Wish me a better day.

~Helena*

"He's not dead... You've stunned him..." --Monty Python