August, 2020

Brookline, Massachusetts

The fan overhead churns the thick heat and humidity with lethargic indifference. My sofa has morphed into a giant sponge, now on the verge of developing its own ecosystem. Wearing only loose gym shorts and a camisole—all the clothing I can stand—I’ve abandoned that clammy couch for the bare hardwood floor. I lie here, playing a sad game of 'connect the dots' with water stains on the ceiling. My breath hitches as I try with limited success to keep my sobs on lockdown. A tear slithers from the edge of my eye, mingling with the sweat sheen that’s turned me into a human slip 'n slide. 

            I clench my eyes closed, but there’s no shutting out the stifling realities of my 42-year-old life. The universe is dishing out lemons to me at mach speed. I’ve been laid off my set-design job because of COVID closures; my roommate of five years has moved out, leaving me solely responsible for the rent; and my boyfriend Nick has abandoned me. It’s as if the world has conspired against me, stripping away every semblance of stability and security I once had. 

            Nick … that asshole Nick … vanished without any warning, like he’d entered the Witness Protection Program. Left nothing but a text message that glowed from my phone screen, mocking me. The text blathered on about how he couldn’t afford his rent any longer after being laid off, so he was moving to Maryland to live at his mother’s. Then he ghosted me. Not another word from him—nada, zilch.

            Reading that message had shaken me to the core, its last two sentences a painful punctuation point: My feelings about us haven’t changed at all. I still love you, Hallie.  Yeah, Nick. When you love someone, you just up and leave them without warning, deny them the courtesy of an actual conversation. If that’s love, it’s some unknown, cruel kind that scorches everything in its wake.

            Christ! I really can't take the mugginess in here. It’s like an overzealous hug from a sweaty sumo wrestler. I grab a couple of crumpled tissues from the soggy pile next to me and sop at the heaviest rivulets trickling down my face and body. Morbid curiosity lures me into a quick sniff-check of my pits. Oh, good lord! Like a zoo during a heatwave!

            My inner critic trolls me. Nice, Hallie. Aren't you a well-put-together person! Really coping well here! Taking good care of yourself, girl! Maybe a shower this month would be a good idea, eh? I call this charming little self-disparager “Halloway.” That’s my middle name, the source of my nickname. Halloway’s the authoritative, proper, stern me. She’s the Gordon Ramsay of self-judgment. I hate her. You would, too. What does she expect me to do? Dance around this apartment in a gingham pinafore singing happy show tunes? ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning / Oh, what a beautiful day, I’ve got a wonderful feeling / Everything’s going my way’?

            Shut up, Halloway. Don’t you realize my life is shit? It’s not just Nick. My financial situation’s also a gaping sore. Sure, I got Massachusetts unemployment benefits after the theater laid us all off, but now those funds are about to expire. And the COVID stimulus money? A band-aid on a compound-fracture, not even enough to cover rent and groceries. 

            I release a sigh and curl up like a wounded fawn hiding in tall grass. I try to empty my mind, but my worries are hungry coyotes, patiently circling me, ready to pounce any second. Plus, it’s hard to shut out Halloway, who’s still doing her monologue, giving me a report card of straight F’s—chronicling my every flaw and failure, flop and foul-up. The weight of her criticism presses on my chest, making it even harder to breathe in this sauna. I want to scream, Halloway, you miserable c—

            Before I can finish hurling my favorite vulgarism at her, a shrill ring from my phone slices through the heavy air like a bullhorn in a monastery. With a groan worthy of a B-movie monster, I peel myself off the sweat-slicked floor and shuffle toward the sound, trying to locate the phone. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I coax, then spy it buried in a graveyard of empty takeout containers on my kitchen table. I swipe away crumpled paper plates and soggy napkins until my fingers close around the device. 

            “Hey, Maria,” I murmur into it, enjoying the cool of the metal and glass against my moist cheek. A couple styrofoam boxes lose their purchase on the table and topple to the floor. I bend to pick them up, knocking over still more in the process.

            “Hallie? Tudo bem?” Maria’s voice, with its Cape Verdean lilt, is like a cool breeze through my messy life. “What are you doing?  Sounds like you’re excavating King Tut’s tomb!” 

            “More like exploring the ruins of Hallie's Once-Great Civilization.”

            “A promising mini-series, for sure! I’ll alert the BBC. What's the drama, amiga?" There’s a clatter on her end. Probably unloading the dishwasher. Multitasker that she is, she may be replacing the refrigerator motor at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she juggles chainsaws when making that exquisite cod soufflé of hers. 

            “Where to start …” My gaze sweeps across the living room, landing on remnants of a work project halted mid-stream: scattered sketches, little pieces of foam board, an X-Acto blade, tubes of glue and paint. It looks like a craft store threw up in here. “Let’s see: the theatre has laid us all off; Sandy moved out, went back to Indiana; and Nick … he left me, via text. Then vanished in a puff of smoke.”

            “Oh, shit … that’s really tough. I’m so sorry, Hallie. You sound like you’re at the end of your rope.” Maria’s the perfect audience. She’s been my closest friend for over twenty years—ever since we met during our college years in Providence—long enough to know that sometimes I just need her to listen, without judgment or advice. 

            After I’ve laid out the details, like an oncologist explaining unhappy test results, I come to my peachy prognosis: “So, yeah … with no income, and Sandy no longer contributing to the rent, I won’t be able to stay in this apartment.” I fight back the tears. Damn, I don’t want to cry right now. “Feels like the universe is telling me it’s time to pack it in. I’m thinking of going to live with my brother in Los Angeles. He has room in his house, and I know he’d welcome me, but ...”

            “California's a whole different planet, Hallie. You sure you want to do that?” 

            I let out a hollow laugh. “Am I ever sure about anything? … I don’t know what else to do, Mar! And maybe it’d be good for me to go someplace where my past isn’t part of the décor.”

            We chat for ages, eventually winding down like an old clock. She signs off with, “I’ve got your back, Hallie. Sempre.”

            After disconnecting, I take a deep breath, the knot in my chest a little looser now. Talking with Maria is like chicken soup for my train-wreck soul, refueling me just enough to tackle the chaos around me. I mutter, “Alright, Hallie, let’s make this place less ‘crime scene,’ more ‘adult living space.’” I start by attacking the takeout containers as if they're evil minions. They’re an easy foe, unlike the kitchen sink, which overflows with crusty dishes. A  stubborn patch of dried spaghetti sauce stares at me like it’s a Hatfield and I’m a McCoy. I stare back at it for a while, then realize my withering look alone won’t be enough to vanquish it. I launch a vengeful attack with soapy hot water and a scouring pad. I fall into a therapeutic, Zen rhythm: wash, rinse, repeat. Each cleaned plate and bowl marks territory regained, an occasion for a tiny victory dance.

            Again, the phone screeches, jerking me out of my cleaning trance. Suds splash all over as I grab for a dishtowel and then the phone. Back for more, Maria? I squint at the caller ID. It’s her alright, her name flashing like a neon sign. 

            Maria’s voice crackles with urgency. “Hey, Hallie. Listen, I couldn't just leave it at that. You shouldn’t have to run away to California. Not when you have people here who care about you.”

            “Maria, I—"

            “Wait, hear me out." There’s a rustling sound, like she’s pacing. “I’ve just had a chat  with Mike. We insist on adopting you. We’ve unanimously voted you onto our little island. Jolivia’s leaving for the fall semester next week; her room will be empty, so you’re moving in with us. And this isn’t charity, okay? It’s what friends do. Plus, you’ll be doing me a favor, helping me stay sane and have some fun. Just think of it: Sunday cachupa feasts, mocking Mike’s terrible Creole … Priceless! What do you say?” 

            A smile cracks through my gloom, tugging at my lips. Leave it to Maria to bulldoze my pride with her no-nonsense generosity. I can practically see her in a superhero pose, eyes blazing, a red spandex bodysuit with ‘Operation Save Hallie’ across the chest.  A force of nature in human form.

            “Maria ... I’m speechless.” 

            “That’s okay. If you can still make guttural noises, try these: wye, eee, ess. Piece of cake.”

            My chuckle is brittle but real. “It’s tempting, it really is. I just ... don’t want to impose.”

            “Imposing is showing up unannounced and expecting five-star treatment,” she retorts. “This is an invitation.  Plus, if you’re not here, who’ll save me from my own feijoada disasters?”

            “Can't argue there. Your feijoada is a culinary calamity,” I tease, feeling a surge of warmth that’s different from the room's sauna vibe. Maybe this could be my life raft, a chance to regroup without totally capsizing or uprooting my entire life. Now come the waterworks, my voice wobbling. “Thank you, Mar. I don’t deserve this. You have no idea how much it means to me.” 

            She bursts out laughing. “Oh, drop the melodrama, you twatwaffle.” I grin, knowing that when she throws any of my favorite insults back at me, it’s her way of giving me a hug—and, in this instance, telling me everything’s going to be alright. She adds, “That’s exactly the kind of drama-queen thinking we’re going to flush out of you, ASAP. Starting tonight at 6:30. I’m thinking wine therapy, intravenous style, stat. Be here or be sober.”