Mel's Story Compilation

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I refuse to tell my story in exactly that order, but I guess this one only makes sense if I start at least somewhere near the beginning.
It starts with a puddle of my own vomit. I'm 15 and I'm pig-headed and determined to become a psychologist and believe that the answer to every question I've ever asked or will ever ask in the future lies at the bottom of this bottle of Jose Cuervo I've stolen from my mother's cabinet.
Except that's a lie because my mother doesn't drink.
There's a cute boy in a flannel jacket and all I'm worried about is making an ass out of myself in front of him, so I'm trying to play it cool and say something off-handedly funny, but I'm too inebriated to completely form a syntactically correct sentence. The shirt I'd worn has come partially unbuttoned, my stomach is burning so my mouth has turned white, and he has this look of disgust-slash-amusement across his face and oh God, do I really have to tell this part of the story? Let's just skip it.



- - - - - - -

"C'mon, Mel, you used to love to throw down!"
He hands me a luke-warm beer and a smile.
I don't know his name, and after searching my memory I realize that I never did. He was a thick build, a rough dresser; but his face was kind. Inviting.
Well whoever he is, he doesn't know me too well either; I hate beer.
I hand the beer back to Thick and give him a quick kiss on the cheek as I walk through the entrance and into a sea of partially wasted twenty-ish year-olds.
Grabbing something cold, clear, and bottled from an oversized ice bucket I head towards the music.
I start small talking a girl from my psych class - Kim, or Katie or something like that. Honestly, I was just glad to see a familiar face, because so far I'd only recognized a few one night stands and a cat-fighting frienemy or two.
I wasn't feeling comfortable enough yet, so I headed back for a second bottle. As I struggled with the cap for a moment I felt a gentle hand on the small of my back and a husky but sober voice at my ear.
"What's your name, babe?" He half-yelled into my eardrum (the music level had been steadily increasing).
"Stacy," I lied to him,"you?"
"Evan. I think we had a health class together, yeah?"
Wrong. Evan looked a lot like that one guy off of Greek - the one that started off really geeky who was that one girl's brother? Evan smiled confidently and used a little too much eye contact. There was an innocence to him though, possibly fake, but it was a little difficult to judge character in such a crowded apartment.
"Right, I remember! You sat near the front." I smiled a reassuring smile that had him confused.
Apparently he's a back-row sorta guy.
I held out my drink for him to get me another; I figured that way he'd have a little extra time to plan out his next move.
My stomach was feeling a little cramped & upset, but I knew if I just drank a little faster it'd eventually wash away. Alcohol never did settle with me well.
"So what's your major?" Evan asked as he fought his way back through the crowd with a red plastic cup in his hand.
Original question, Ev. "Biochemical Engineering." I lied again.
"Ouchhhh. I'm pre-law myself, so one day I'll be able to arrest you for being so damn beautiful."
I rolled my eyes and shook my head out of embarrassment for him. He knew it was cheesy from the giant grin he was sporting, but he'd gone for the kill anyways.
"Let's go dance, Evan." I grabbed him by the hand and gulped down the last of whatever he'd put together. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't drink drinks that someone else made after a friend of mine got roofied, but Ev didn't seem like the kind of guy who even knew where to get roofs, let alone slip me one.
I danced so close to Evan that I could tell he wasn't comfortable. He'd given me a funny look after I'd swallowed down that last drink so quickly. I pressed my hips to his and he smiled a surprised but knowing smile.
"Let's find someplace quieter...to talk." I yelled in his ear halfheartedly. I've played this through so many times that I pretty much had it scripted. I grabbed a few jello shots from a passing tray as I led Evan away.

(Incerpt somewhere in first few chapters)
The city pushes its way reprehensibly through the billowing night fog. It's just me and a homeless man who smells like piss and a bit of cigarettes, but the cigarette smell might be me. When I'm too drunk in the middle of the night I always end up on this same bus, with the same disheveled-looking old lady driver. Either that or there's fifty bus drivers in this city who all look nearly the same. She always smacks her gums at me disapprovingly as I stumble onto the bus, trying to convince some Neanderthal that I'll definitely give him a call in the morning, absolutely.
Everything about this city is trivial, it's almost nauseating. Old stores, old gas stations, old shut-down gas stations, mom-and-pop diners; like swallow's nest, it's a mixture of feathers from dead animals, mud, and sticks and spit.
This city has no heartbeat.


 Melanie's Story Part I

Quietly, he spoke.

"Well then I can't see you any more."

I searched his face quizzically, trying to figure out where exactly this was coming from. Definitely not his backbone, that's for sure.

"Then open your eyes, Craig! This - this isn't something you can just run away from! I can't run, and you're tied to me. Life isn't a three-legged race, Craig. We have to take this slow, together, okay? Step by step. Together."

"I can't, Mel. I just...I just can't."

I pressed a hand against my stomach. Apparently it was as sick of his bullshit as I was.

"I didn't do this to myself! WE did this! We made this...this..."
"-mistake."
I couldn't believe the word he'd chosen to finish my sentence.

"To be honest I was going to say 'baby', but apparently I was way off base. It's too late for the alternative, Craig. WE HAVE NO OPTIONS. We're just going to have to roll with the Goddamn punches."

The look he gave me said everything. He was always the kind of person who would just get frustrated when he couldn't move his emotions from his heart to his mouth, which is where I came into play. I felt incredibly calm, which so surprised me; I was picturing a complete meltdown.
"I know that you don't love me; not anymore, at least. To be honest, Craig, I'm not in love with you either. Your fingernails are way too long, and you only wash your hair like twice a week. Not exactly attractive."
I sighed a defeated sigh. Maybe this kid is going to be a superhero, because I have no idea where my strength is coming from.
"I don't have the money, or the time, and neither do you. But combined, maybe...maybe we can be our own little dysfunctional family."

He was pacing back and forth, slowly and deliberately. I stepped in front of him, staring him in the face.
"Craig, maybe we can do this."
Pressing both of his hands to his forehead, Craig slowly shook his head.

"Well. I'm not gonna lie, that's disappointing."

Together we just stood there for a second, kicking at the ground and staring off into the distance past the lakeshore. Words just kept coming out of my mouth, even though I knew I should probably keep to silence.

"You know, in third world countries like Cambodia or Somalia or whatever they used to have these things called "menstrual huts". When women were on their periods they would be exiled to just sit in these huts, because men in like the 1400's thought that the shedding of uteral lining was witchcraft voodoo or Santaria or something. Except they probably didn't actually CALL them "menstrual huts" at the time seeing as how they thought it was some form of really icky, evil magic."

Probbbbably not the best conversational topic.

Taking an embarassed second to clear my throat, I decided to wrap things up.
"Wellllpp, you've got about what?, five or six months to find your balls? So, if those two little bundles of fertile joy show up and you decide to do something halfway valiant by being a father to your own child, why don't you shoot me a text or facebook me or something. I'm probably not going to want to talk to you or see you, so impersonal communication is most likely the best route to take. But hey, what do you know about the best route, right? Have a good life, asshole."

I had a feeling that things would turn out this way.
Take a little advice from me and listen to your gut.
Mine used to be full of good judgement, but now it's probably got something in it that looks like a newborn panda surrounded by placenta goo.

 Pregnant
Walking through a grocery store makes me anxious. I'm afraid to make eye contact with any of the passersby. I mean, should I smile? Should I nod a bit? What if someone asks me a question, what if they don't look back, what if they know just by looking directly into my eyes? The thought alone makes my breathing all uneven and it feels like I'm sipping through a straw for air, so I keep my eyes glued to the floor.

Plums boil down to pulp, cranberries dry on thick rolls of parchment and yellow squash bursts into flames. Numbers fly through my scalp and all I can think of are bank statements, diapers, formula, and the bite of whiskey that I miss so fucking much.

It's an off day and I don't have as much concern for her as usual, and it makes me sick to my stomach with guilt. Also I'm just plain sick to my stomach. I hold her from the outside of my shirt, hoping she can't hear my thoughts. We walk slowly, trying to make a decision that we haven't quite figured out the two sides of yet.
I look at the cellophane bags of bread and I feel my stomach filling up, the grumbling lining absolutely stuffed full of toy trucks and glitter crayons and Barbie dolls with their hair all chopped off. Her little plastic feet carve their way into my esophagus and I'm sure I could probably go for weeks without eating.



 Melanie's Story, Part II
It's been two months since the talk, and I'm still pathetically hopeful.
I mean, hey - everyone always says a woman is always a mother, a man is a father once he sees his child. Maybe...maybe he just needs to see her.

I took a deep breath for both of us.
The whole school knew by now, and all of my friends were still deciding. Still deciding if they should stay, or run, or just drop off a gift at my baby shower and then pretend like they don't know me the next day. It's a very subtle thing they're doing; trying to be supportive but also slowly giving me more 'space' until they finally stop visiting altogether.
I don't blame them, I wouldn't want to associate with me either.
I'd been taking a walk through the city's park, which is always empty on a Thursday. I stopped to take a rest at one of the benches closest to the water, holding my little girl from the outside of my belly.
I closed my eyes and just let my mind float between my thoughts, slipping around the corners of my ideas, weaving in and out of them.

Ezra. Ezra...something.

I've always adored that name. In Hebrew it means "help", and I always thought that was so fitting for a newborn - especially an unexpected one. Most new parents are so freaked out by the time that their kid is almost ready to be born that they are just about to kill each other. When their baby arrives, it soothes them into the nurturing mothers and fathers they need to be. The baby helps their relationship.
In my case, however, Ezra's going to be a different kind of help.
God willing, she's going to keep me sane.
Hugging my belly, I got comfortable and started to tell my Ezra a story.
"Once there was a sailor whose lover was The Sea. As soon as he was old enough to work on a boat, he got a job as a laborer. He soon became the captain of his very own ship, which he happily sailed all around the world until he was an old man. Every night he would go to his cabin below the deck and let the beautiful songs of The Sea lull him to sleep, his lover only seperated from him by a few inches of wood and metal. As an old man, one night the sailor became completely despondent. Do you know what that means, baby girl? That means he was so heartsick he couldn't fight any longer. He sat on the deck of his glorious ship, drinking bottle after bottle of wine, toasting to the health of his lover The Sea. Out of his mind with both heartache and liquor, the sailor tied a cannonball around his ankle, and climbed over the railing of his ship. Declaring his love for The Sea, he begged her to let him love her. He explained that he'd never wanted one being so much in his life. Never felt so connected; so connected that the mere inches of distance between them was so painful he couldn't bare it."
Taking a few moments to push the tears back down my throat, I continued.
"The Sea, feeling his pain and realizing her own feelings for him, sent a giant wave towards the sailor's ship, sending the man right into her loving embrace. To this day, if you listen closely enough, you can hear their laughter in the crash of every wave."



 Ezra is born
I looked into her small sticky eyes for the first time, felt her tight, tiny hand around just my ring finger, and my heart exploded. The bits of my heart floated up my chest and then out of my eyes, heavy tears of happiness convincing me that she was all I'd ever fucking need.
Her skin was a painful reddish purple but I could already see her tan and smiling into the sun, a wealth of brown curls falling down the back of her cotton sundress as we plant tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers. She'd smile into the sky, absolutely joyful just to be living, to be. I'll teach her all about how the seeds grow and why we have to wait for them to be ready to eat. I'll tell her lots of fairy-tales instead of the specifics. Like how when a Borrower takes something of yours you have to write an itty bitty note asking for it back, otherwise they'll be insulted if you use human sized paper.
I'll tell her all of the vegetables are just shy when they're seeds. That she'll have to sing to them and tell them all of her deepest, gooiest secrets and dreams. Only then will their little ears reach up, up, up out of the ground to hear her songs even better.
That's what I'll tell her.

 Finale.

She reached at the grass and pulled out several blades, as if digging up her memories from the earth itself. The sun warmed the freckles across her nose, her frizzy blonde hair full of barrettes and braids and happiness.

A woman with endearing eyes sat across from Ezra, sharing the same snack of string cheese and boxed apple juice.
"It's alright," the woman whispered carefully, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

Ezra shook her head cautiously and gave one of her infamously carefree smiles.
"No, it isn't like that. It isn't like that at all. My real mom is my adoptive mom, and I know that. My Mel wanted me to know that. See she gave me a Silly Sad box before I could even think my own thoughts, and whenever I'm sad I just open it and talk to her through it. It's full of photos and letters and CD's she made, and even some of her singing to me. It's a magic box that turns all of your sad thoughts into silly ones."

The woman put her pen and paper aside, interested in the unusual tone Ezra had. For an adopted child, birth parents are usually a touchy subject once they get older, but Ezra spoke with forgiveness and understanding that she'd never felt come from a child before.

"So how do you feel about her, your birth mother?"

"She doesn't like me calling her that, and neither do I. She's My Mel. She taught me a lot of things while I was in her tummy, so that when I was born I'd already know them. Like how to pick a good pair of shoes and how to make plants grow. She gave me a new home so that I could share my knowledge and my love, she said. She felt like I was just so special that she had to share me with the world, even if that meant we couldn't see each other for a while... but I've got a mission, you know?" Ezra stood from her spot and placed her fists against her hips. "Somedays I have to reassure the sky that she's beautiful so that she won't fall down, and occasionally I get to teach dogs and cats get along with each other, but mostly I just like to help. It doesn't matter how. My Mel told me that's my gift, and that you're supposed to give back what's been gifted to you."

Ezra spoke with such assuredness, such fortitude that the woman wasn't sure what to say. In fact, she wasn't sure if she should say anything. All she knew is that she really did believe her, and her My Mel.