When I was younger, whenever I was in awkward situations I would imagine myself on the ground doing snow angels. Everyone else had the awkward turtle, but I had the awkward snow angel. I would see myself lying down, spread eagle, and instead of snow, I would be on concrete. I'd kick my legs and flap my arms: a concrete angel. I still use my concrete angel. It calms me when I'm anxious, sad, lost. Once in college, on one of those college nights, I really did lay flat on concrete, extending my arms and legs as far as they could reach. I did a real concrete angel. I was crying, and whiskey drunk. There were people with me, but I felt alone. I scraped my arms and caught my jeans on the rough ground. I made my angels over and over again; I thought maybe if I closed my eyes, I could fly. Eventually I stopped, got up, fixed my hair and wiped my tear-stained cheeks. My angel did not last; you could not see my hard work, my laborious flapping and kicking. All you could see was concrete, unchanged. I left it there, invisible.
Our house in Newport Beach is a very peculiar place.
My family has spent its summers in Orange County ever since my brother was a baby—nearly 30 years.
Downstairs, in our house in Newport, there is a guest bedroom, which doubles as the TV room (and at times, triples as the video game room.) There is the open living space, which holds a dining table, as well as couches and lounge chairs, and a large picture window displaying the house’s prized possession: the beachfront. There is the breakfast nook, and the small alley of a kitchen. In the kitchen cabinets are the floral tea cups and bowls my mother and I hand selected from Target. Upstairs there is my parents’ bedroom with a private bathroom, as well as my brother’s and my bedrooms: he has the room with the queen size mattress, while mine is the one with the twin. The two of us share a bathroom. There is the garage on the bottom level that not only contains my parents’ cars but also the extra fridge that is filled, not with food, but with soda. There is the porch in front where we keep our boogie boards. My mom knows where to step in the hallway so as to not make the old wooden floorboards creak. I know, and have known from a young age, where the alcohol is hidden. My brother knows the password to the internet, while my dad has figured out how to program the garage door to open from a button in his car.
Our house in Newport Beach is a very peculiar place—mostly because it is not our house.
Our house in Newport Beach belongs to a woman named Marcia Nordlund: we Lonergans are mere renters.
“Ahh! Hardwood floors!”
“Did you see—she got new carpet!”
“Oooh, blinds in the upstairs bedrooms!”
“Is that new tile?”
“Ew! Why is the fireplace white? Who paints brick?”
“Whoa—is that a thermostat?! Did she get air-conditioning? Ugh, finally.”
Upon every arrival at 5410 Seashore Drive, before we unload the cars, unpack our bags, take our bikes off of the bike racks, we do a round of inspections:
What has Marcia done to the place this year?
I am not sure how our relationship with Newport began—the onset having been prior to my birth. I believe it has something to do with a love affair between Marcia, the owner of the house, and my grandfather. This is the story I have stuck with since childhood. It is also a story I made up in my head—but I think it is probably better than any truth.
I never really think of Newport as something not belonging to me. It belongs to me just as much as Homewood, my true residence in Los Angeles, belongs to me. The only instances when I am reminded that Newport is not mine are when friends, who are obviously not in the know, suggest to go to my “beach house” for “the weekend.” If that weekend so happens to be during the pre-determined three-week time frame that annually occurs within the month of July, then my answer will be a, “Sure!” Otherwise, I can only respond with an awkward, “Erm…”
My home in Newport has a lot of “firsts” for me. It was there that I was first scratched by a cat (I was three); that I got my foot run over by a bicycle; that I had to go to the emergency room (I poked my eye with a ceramics tool); that I learned how to play Trivial Pursuit and Pictionary. It was in Newport where I received my first splinter from the house’s wooden gate.
Even though the actual ratio is 49:3, I feel as though I have lived half of my life in Newport.
As teens, my parents both lived in this Orange County city. My mom lived with her mother, a divorced single parent, in what is known as “The Numbered Streets,” while my dad lived on the bay in Lido Isle with his father, a widower.
Because we lived in California, we regularly had earthquake as well as fire drills. In elementary school and high school, we were all required to have emergency packs. At the start of every year we would submit a plastic baggy filled with phone numbers, a water bottle, a sweatshirt, and a flashlight, all “just in case.” My mom always added a family photo to my pack: a picture of the four of us—mom, dad, brother, and me, in front of the house in Newport. Now in college, my mother still sends the same picture.
Newport Beach is where my parents were married.
My family has gone to Newport every summer except for one: the summer of 2005.
I really thought I could make it. I kept reminding everyone of the date: “But my family and I are going to our beach house on July 8th—we go every year.” I stated this fact with such conviction. I truly thought that a week or, at most, a week-and-a-half, was all that I needed to undo the damage I had done to my body.
June was slowly creeping into July, but there was still no mention of my vacation.
“But what about Newport?” I would ask. I was becoming anxious.
“But, Barbara’s going to Italy next week…” I would remind anyone and everyone of the others that got breaks and vacations, the others that got to keep their summer plans.
Eventually, my doctor had to break it to me.
Through tears I insisted that my family could go without me. Why ruin a tradition just because I was unable to come along? They refused.
“But, didn’t you already pay? You can’t cancel now. Couldn’t Larry or Gwynne take it instead? Don’t not go because of me—that would be silly! It’s okay! Seriously, really, it’s okay.”
“Kelley—we are not going to Newport this year.”
The thought of missing a summer at the beach made me (and still makes me) cringe.
But I held on to hope. Every day during that three-week period when I was supposed to be on the beaches of Orange County instead of in a high rise building in Los Angeles, I thought that maybe (maybe) I would be released, that things would return to how they were supposed to be: nature restored. Those twenty-one days went by slowly, and with them came no such luck.
But we did go to Newport that year.
The staff at UCLA finally began to realize that the beach house was not just a vacation, not just a place that was an hour away by freeway, but that it was somewhere that meant something to me. It took two months, but finally, in mid-August, I was allowed a four-day weekend pass—with strict orders to go directly to Newport.
I had to pack three weeks into one weekend.
We stayed in a hotel—the Hyatt next door to Fashion Island. We had stayed in that hotel before, so we were still able to procure a sense of return, of reminiscence. We were required to valet-park.
Every day we would drive to our house. We would circle the block for hours, waiting for a spot to open up in the parking lot that was the nearest to our desired location. We weren’t just going to the beach—we were going to our beach.
I hardly remember those four days. I remember the franticness of trying to do everything. I wanted to complete every ritual, honor every tradition, make the short trip as long and normal as possible. I wanted to make up for the time in Newport that I caused my family to lose. They were false hopes that I tried to make so real.
The truth was we couldn’t do our customary raid of Pavilions, not only because we had no need for groceries, but also because we did not have a kitchen or fridge. We couldn’t have our much-anticipated family game night not only because we did not have board games on hand, but also because we couldn’t fit all of my aunts, uncles and cousins into the double guestroom at the hotel. We couldn’t do our annual bike ride to the pier, not only because we didn’t have our bikes, but also because, even if we did, I was not allowed to ride one.
We would sit on our designated spot on the beach, partly watching the ocean, partly watching the house. A different family was in it. They had the blinds drawn closed (something we never do.) These August renters excluded themselves from the view of the waves and sand, and simultaneously excluded us from the view of the inside.
On our last evening we packed a picnic to take down to the beach. We got take-out from a Chinese restaurant that is tucked into a strip mall in Costa Mesa, a place we commonly frequent, a place my mother and father have been going to for over thirty years. The true name of the restaurant is The Golden Dragon, but my family knows the establishment as Joe’s, the name of the owner.
“Ahh, a little bit later this year. How long you here for?” Joe asked us, as he customarily did.
“Just a short trip this time,” my dad lightly replied.
“I see, too much work! I know, I know.” Joe went into the back, brought us our food (we did not even have to order), and asked no more questions.
“You come back next year, okay? We wait!”
The four of us chuckled and nodded.
(Little did we know the Chinese joint would close its doors in 2013; we did not even get to say goodbye.)
We once again drove to our house. We carried our blankets, our sweatshirts and our take-out cartons down to the water, and set up quickly so that we could eat while watching the sunset.
Ahh, just another night in Newport.
As night darkened, we cleaned up, and headed back to our car. We said goodbye to the beach, to the house, to the city, and prepared ourselves for the drive back to Los Angeles.
Then came the summer of 2006. We packed and drove the 405 as usual, and without mention of the haphazard year that came before. We arrived in Newport, and it felt as it always felt: as if we had never left.
She would look at you and close her eyes slowly, purposefully, as if taking a picture. She would do this with her breathing, too. If you listened, you could hear her holding her breath for moments at a time. One second. Two seconds. She would just do it. It was as if she forgot what she were doing; it was as if she forgot, for an instant, how to live.
Weigh Days, Or a Typical Monday (or Thursday) Morning in the Hospital
We had to be in the dining room by 8 a.m. sharp. We had to be ready before then. On Mondays, and on Thursdays, we were weighed. We had to be weighed before we could eat breakfast. We had to be weighed before our day could begin.
I loathed getting up early—especially because it was the summer. It wasn’t even like camp because we had to make our beds. I didn’t make my bed at home. My mother didn’t make my bed for me, and I didn’t mind either way. What was the point? They made us make our beds, and I didn’t see the point.
Monday and Thursday mornings were different. I hated showering on those mornings, so I usually avoided it. We had to be weighed before breakfast at 8, and our hair had to be dry before we were able to be weighed. That meant getting up earlier. That meant having to check out a hair drier from the nurse’s station. That meant extra monitoring. If we wanted to have our hair dry before weigh day, that meant we had to be watched. The cord of the hair drier was considered a “sharp.” Tweezers were also sharps—as well as razors and compact mirrors. There was no time for vanity.
We were ugly girls.
Monday mornings were demoralizing. We lined up, all of us, to wait our turn to be weighed. One by one we would enter the nurse’s room. The nurses rotated every day, sometimes every hour. It was always a female nurse. The nurse would open the door for us. We were given a blue medical robe, and about two minutes of feigned privacy as the nurse turned her back for us to undress. Everything had to be off. Socks, underwear, bras—even hair things, and in my case, glasses.
“Okay,” we would say, and the nurse would turn around with her clipboard. I would clumsily hold the backend of the gown closed, though it didn’t matter—we were checked anyway. We usually flashed from the back. Only Joanne, most of the patients’ least favorite nurse, would flash both back and front. I hated it every time she pulled the collar of my gown to peek—exposing my chest, my pubic hair. Only Joanne did a front flash.
“Wait for it to zero, and then step on.” As if we didn’t know how scales worked.
Some girls had blind weight checks. Some girls chose to have blind weight checks. I couldn’t stand not knowing. I couldn’t stand not knowing while someone else did. I don’t think I had enough coordination to step up on the scale both backward and with closed eyes, anyway.
We had to “make sure to use the restroom” before weight checks. Sometimes I didn’t. And they always knew.
Using the restroom was an ordeal. You couldn’t just… go. You had to tell a nurse, or alert the staff. The bathroom doors were locked from the outside. It was one of our lost freedoms—the right to privately relieve ourselves. I never got over having to grab a nurse’s attention, declaring, “I have to pee.” For the first couple of weeks, I tried to hold it as long as I could; it was too embarrassing.
Some girls had to be followed into the actual bathroom stall. Before they were allowed to flush, a nurse had to check the toilet bowl for approval. When I first arrived, before the nurses got used to me and I got used to them, I was checked for vomit.
“I don’t do that,” I would say. It didn’t really matter. They didn’t really trust any newcomers. It took a week and a half before I was allowed to flush on my own.
I hated being sent to the bathroom during a weight check. It meant that I had to walk down the hall in my flimsy robe. It meant people had to see me. It meant people had to wait longer. It meant that when I came back, I would weigh two pounds less than I had five minutes before. It meant another week.
If Jessie could fly it would be fun. She could fly to South America, and she could come back again, and she is going to fly like a bird.
I opened a new document in Word six months ago. Opened a white screen, watched the blinking cursor, and went to Save As… “lastnightjessie.” Lastnightjessie.docx has been living on my computer for the past six months. Every day, the same routine: File --> Open Recent. Blank page. But, one day, little black lines filled the screen. Horizontal, vertical, horizontal, vertical, vertical—lines, letters, words. I wrote! And then I stopped. No more lines, no more letters. Six months. File --> Open Recent --> lastnightjessie.docx.
I didn’t know how to write about Jessie. Jessie was too writeable. Her life was out of a book—but did she know? Did she live that way on purpose? Or was her life really that… romantic? A Bildungsroman. That was it. Her life was a Bildungsroman, a hero’s quest. But she never returned home.
--------
--Where are you? Are you home? What are you doing right now?
--I’m in Venice. I’m a bit tired today, was going to go to bed soon haha you
--I just randomly got some cokeeee
--Kellllleeeyyyyy, I’m so tired. I wasn’t going to go out tonight.
--We don’t have to go out. Pleasepleaseplease
--Kelleyyyyy
--PLEASE
--Kelley! You’re such a bad influence!
--Hahahahahaahh okay I’m on my wayyyyyyyyyy
It was a Friday night when I texted Jessie. I was on my way back from what I thought was the most horrible place in the world: a disco sushi bar named Tokyo Delves. That place was the worst. It was a like a fraternity house with raw fish. The people who went there, the people who worked there--everything about that place made me angry. I had never done a sake bomb before, and I found out why—it’s disgusting. I was not happy. Never again could I be dragged there. Never again.
Dinner was over at ten, and, exasperated and resigned, I headed straight to my dealer’s apartment.
Life. This life. I didn’t know how to, forgive me, deal with it.
So, I visited my dealer, and I bought a gram.
--------
Jessie intimidated me. Jessie was c-double-o-COOL. First, she was from London. (No explanation needed.) Second, she worked at a thrift shop. Third and fourth, she worked at a thrift shop. She had a wardrobe that would make every teenage girl in the ‘90s weep. She wore floral button-down dresses with denim jackets, daily. She was a bleach-blond Angela Chase— with an English accent. She smoked, she rode a fixie; she had tattoos on the insides of her fingers.
Jessie and I were interns at a tutoring non-profit. We hung out with kids, so we were silly. We hung out with kids, so we were authority figures.
Jessie intimidated the shit out of me.
And, inexplicably, Jessie wanted to be my friend.
---------
Title: JESSIE
By Lizeth, age 8
If Jessie could fly it would be fun. She could fly to South America, and she could come back again, and she is going to fly like a bird.
---------
“No, Kelley! Don’t leave me!”
“But Jessie, I’m so tireddddd,” I said. It was nearing five in the morning.
“Just stay a little longer.”
The drugs were gone. The wine was gone. The last-ditch Bailey’s was disappearing.
We lay on her bedroom carpet. Both awake, too awake. We lay next to each other, listening to music: a happy song then a sad song, happy then sad, happy then sad. We were so close in that tiny bedroom that our legs touched and our hair became one, an amalgam of brown and blond.
We were tutors, mentors, authority figures. And we were also beyond strung out on the floor of a dirty Venice Beach apartment.
Our bodies were close, but our minds were so, so far away.
---------
It was a few days after a work event, when a staff member from the tutoring center texted me:
--Do you have time to talk?
Fuck. What did I do.
Do you have time to talk?
Whenever anyone asks to “talk,” something is awry, and the conversation is not intended to go well. If someone wants to talk, you are either being fired, or being dumped: there is no in between.
--Hey—I’m at my parents. No privacy. What’s up?
--Will you have time later to talk?
--Sure. Is everything okay????
My brother and I had a lunch date at the In-N-Out in Studio City. On the car ride there, Lauren texted me again.
--Can I call you?
“Lauren’s making me nervous,” I told my brother. “She keeps texting me asking to talk. It makes me feel like I did something. But I don’t think I did. I can’t think of anything that I did. Did I do something? There is nothing. I don’t think…”
At In-N-Out, we ordered, took our number plates, then sat a plastic table and waited for our food. I danced my fingers on my bended knees.
“I’m just going to go outside and call Lauren real quick. Is that okay?”
It was June, and it was the Valley. There were some punk-ass kids outside, and it was mildly warm, sticky.
“Hey, Kelley,” Lauren answered.
“Hey—what’s going on???”
“We wanted to call you, and let you know first. Jessie L------- committed suicide over the weekend.”
“What?”
“Jessie killed herself.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, we’re sure.”
“But she… but we… we just saw her??”
“Yeah…”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah…”
“Holy shit.”
It didn’t make sense.
---------
“Lizeth! Lizeth! Remember Jessie from Fashion Club???? She DIED,” Jose screamed, running through the writing lab.
He had found the tiny gold plaque inscribed with Jessie’s name. The tutoring staff were worried about the wording of the plaque, in case a student, like Jose, came across it. But as the L--------- family donated over ten thousand dollars in Jessie’s name to the organization, it did not matter how brow-raising the engraving’s language might be: the family picked the wording, and the plaque was placed.
“She DIED!” Jose said again, large-eyed, shaking his head up and down with the news he was imparting on his older sister.
And, how I wish she hadn’t, Lizeth looked to me, the adult, the authority figure.
“It’s true?” Lizeth asked.
“Yeah, it’s true,” I told her.
“See! I told you!” Jose boasted, then hurried away, back from where he came.
“What happened? She was sick?”
Not knowing what to say, I nodded. “Yeah, she was sick.”
“Is that why she hasn’t tutored in so long?
“Yeah.”
“How old was she? Was she old?”
“She was my age.”
“How old are you?”
“25.”
“She was 25?!” Lizeth yelled in disbelief.
“Well, no, I mean, she would be 25, but she was 24.”
“You mean… her birthday happened?”
“Yeah, her birthday was in September.”
“You mean… her birthday happened… and she was already dead?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s freaky.”
And then, like the eight-year-old she was, Lizeth went back to her long division.
---------
I drove to Venice Beach the day I learned about her death. There I met Lauren, Birte and Danny, staff at the tutoring center, the staff who knew Jessie. The four of us went to Abbot’s Habit, a local coffee shop. I hadn’t been there since I stopped interning in March, since Jessie and I stopped interning in March. I ordered a green juice; someone else ordered a Sprite. I took a sip of the Sprite when no one was looking.
We didn’t mention Jessie once.
Danny told us some story that involved bras and panties. We all giggled at having heard Danny, the boss, say “panties.” We had never before imagined we would be in a situation where he would have reason to say the word “panties.”
And we acted as if that were the strangest thing we heard all afternoon.
I followed Lauren’s blue Honda Civic down Venice Boulevard, staying with her until she turned onto La Brea. There was something comforting about driving behind her. I did not cry until after our Abbot’s meeting adjourned, when we each returned to our metal bubbles, our wheeled cages in which we could be safe, alone.
I listened to the Silver Jews. There was something so dead, so knowing in David Berman’s voice. He got it. He was also the only music uploaded to my iPhone at the time. I chuckled through my tears. Jessie was a silver Jew.
It made sense.
After Lauren turned left, I was once again alone. Uncomfortable, I stopped at an intersection, grabbed my phone, and texted her. I needed someone.
--What are we going to tell the kids?
Radio silence.
I turned the music up.
---------
I write titles before I write stories. Titles like, “There’s a Dog in the Room,” or, “How To Tell Your Drug Dealer You’re Going to Rehab.” “My Last Night with Jessie” did not end up being about my last night with Jessie-- it was anything but. Sure, the night was referenced, but nothing more than that. I waited for my words to match my title, but they never did. They never came, they never formed.
So then, what was lastnightjessie.docx about? Maybe it was about me. Or maybe it was definitely about me; about my still not forgiving her, my accumulation of guilt. Maybe it was about keeping secrets. Maybe there was no story, and maybe my last night with Jessie was just that—the last night I shared with Jessie. Just me, and just her. Our unkempt friendship. And maybe that is how it should be. In space, in the universe; those hours, that time, that relationship. It was hers, and it was mine.
And I wondered what else she was lying about. Was that her real hair color? Were her jeans real denim? Or were those lies, too. I wondered what her mother's middle name was, and if that had any bearing on her life, and who she was today.
Screaming. That is how I first met Barbara. Screaming.
She was. I wasn’t.
I was sitting in the dining room doing a weekly check-in with my designated nurse. (I can’t remember her name. Nita? Anita? Bita? There was a Nedya, I think, too.) The door to the dining room was closed as we sat at one of the large round tables. I could see out because the room had windows: I could be watched from the outside.
I first heard Barbara’s screams, and then I saw her shoes. Two white Haviana flip-flops hurled across the entry hall.
“YOU. CAN’T.”
One flip flop.
“MAKE. ME.”
The other flip flop.
“START. OVER.”
Feet pounding on the ground.
I had only been there two weeks. I had only started to begin to get used to it, and then came Barbara.
“Oh, poor girl,” the nurse sighed. I didn’t know whether or not to ask questions. “Barbara’s had a rough time.”
Without asking a question, my nurse filled me in on hospital gossip. Barbara had been in the hospital before; this was her second time. She had been in 2West for a while, but then moved up to partial. Apparently, Barbara was not doing well in partial (she was caught cheating, putting her almonds in her pockets instead of her stomach), so the treatment team decided it best that she return to a stricter environment.
We attempted to return to the routine check-in, but Barbara had started crying now. I could not see her, but it was impossible not to hear her sobs.
“All right, I guess that’s it, then.”
My nurse rose from the table, signaling an early end to our conversation. She opened the door for me to exit, then followed out behind me.
That is when I first saw Barbara.
She had white blonde hair, she was (of course) stick-rail thin, and she had a deep, deep tan. Later I would encounter her blue eyes, her perfectly whitened and straightened teeth, her designer wardrobe; but for now, she was hunched on the floor.
When I exited the dining room, I found Barbara sitting, her head down, her legs sprawled, as if she were physically dragged down the four flights of stairs from partial to in-patient. I would not be surprised if she actually was taken down by force. Barbara was throwing a tantrum, a full-on tantrum; she was acting as if she were four years old. Barbara was actually seventeen, and she was putting on a show—and she knew it.
That was the first day I met Barbara.
Barbara and I were very similar. We were the same age, same year in school. We grew up in the same circle, and so shared mutual friends. We played each other in sports.
Barbara intimidated me.
Barbara was nearly the epitome of the Los Angeles sweetheart. The way she looked, the way she spoke, her poise. She came across as innocent, but at the same time, extremely sexy. She was like Lolita, or a young Britney Spears, or some other unattainable figure. She looked like a little girl, but she spoke like a woman.
Barbara had perfect hair. Not only was it blond, but it was also stick-straight—the enviable type of stick-straight, too. There was never a kink to be found. She wore her hair in a ponytail most days. Her ponytail was hearty; it was thick, healthy, and it fell in a perfect, even line. At this time, I had long, thin, scraggly hair that I twisted over and over to make a bun at the nape of my neck. Barbara’s neck was free from such a heavy load. She had little wisps that stuck out; these wisps were like a baby’s hair: they were so fair and delicate. Barbara had bangs. I had bangs, too. My bangs refused to be even, parted stubbornly in the middle, and the ends stuck up in such a way I had to pin them back. Barbara’s bangs had no part, and they swept perfectly across her forehead. Barbara’s hair seemed to be so light that it floated.
Barbara had a chest that caved in. She was chestless. Barbara took pride in her lack of breasts. She flaunted her lack by wearing big, deep v-neck shirts. Barbara was simple: her shirts were always white, heather gray or black. No one could wear a white t-shirt like Barbara. Her shirts were always gaping. One could count the beginnings of Barbara’s rib cage through the top of her shirt. I craved those bones. I wanted Barbara’s chest. Her chest seemed so heavy. With every breath, her skin tautened, her shadows deepened. It nearly hurt to watch Barbara breathe. In reality, the first day I met her, I was probably thinner than she was. But it never seemed that way.
Barbara wore rings. I can’t remember any other jewelry, but I remember that she wore rings. She wore rings on her pointer fingers, her thumbs, middle fingers, ring fingers; she wore rings on both of her hands. For whatever reason, these rings made everything Barbara do seem more luxurious, more elegant. Flipping through a book, reaching for an object—any and every move seemed deliberate and careful. The rings she wore were big. Barbara wore delicate metal bands of silver and gold, but she also wore large cocktail rings—the most striking of which was the elongated oval-shaped turquoise stone she wore on her pointer finger. Barbara’s rings accentuated the boniness of her fingers. Her hands were so small, so spindly. Her fingernails were always cut short, and, if they were painted at all, were always painted a natural beige.
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