"Norwegian Wood" by Haruki Murakami
"Norwegian Wood" by Haruki Murakami
Looks cool. (at Museum of Fine Arts)
Lissie was amazing. #music #boston @amycahrens @roamingsheppard (at Brighton Music Hall)
The Great Gatsby
//F. Scott Fitzgerald//
Saw this over the weekend and I highly recommend it. It was glamorous and hopeful with a brilliant soundtrack, a great cast, and a plethora of glitter, glitz, and dazzled clothes. Plus, who wouldn’t want to see Leonardo DaCaprio in all those fancy suits?
I just love Lilly Pulitzer.
Thanks, PF Changs! I’ll take it.
I was fifteen when it happened. We were coming back from Florida, just the four of us. David wanted to stay home. Mom packed his bags the night before, but he refused to go. It took one fight, a couple sighs, and that was it. He didn’t go.
We spent four days in Orlando, one of them at Epcot. It was everything you expect in vacation: relaxing, entertaining, and freeing. For the first time, I let go of my cell phone for more than an hour while I showered. I left at the hotel when we went to the beach, when we went to dinner, and when we sat out back on the porch.
On the roadtrip back, I was anxious to sleep in my own bed, to see my friends, and to be home. Nevermind that we had only been gone for 6 days. In teenage years, it might as well be eternity.
When we pulled up to the house, Mom and Dad demanded we return to help unpack. Following my younger brother, I ran inside and up the stairs to my bedroom. I dropped on my overly cousioned bed and smelt the sweet vanilla plug-in beside my bedside table. I was dreaming of vanilla cupcakes when I heard my dad yell.
I was used to my Dad yelling. He was the strict parent, the one who wrote the curfew and the one who punished you when you didn’t meet the curfew. He was the loud one, so naturally I was used to his screaming. This was different. There was something unnatural about that scream.
"Lyyyyn" he yelled to my mother. "Lynn, get down here now."
It was strangely eery, but I didn’t concentrate on his words or what they meant. I just typed away on my cell phone, telling all my friends I was home. I was oblivious to what happened next.
My mother joined my father, and one minute later, she was on the phone with the police. All I knew was that my dad hadn’t yelled for me to help unpack. Surely something had to be wrong. I walked downstairs and I’ll never forget what I saw.
My mother was completely absent. Her body was there, but her soul had gone. I couldn’t see anything in her eyes; she had a blank stare. Even when she glanced in my direction, I felt invisible, as if her eyes were looking through me at something I couldn’t see. Beside her, my father was breathing heavily, his left palm resting on the kitchen counter. I thought he might faint. His face was white, but his eyes were racing back and forth. He shifted twice before he tried to speak.
He opened his mouth, but the words never came. It was my mother who said it.
There it was. I could feel the warmth growing in my cheeks. Surely she had misspoken. I stammered, “What?”
"David hung himself," she said flatly.
My body cringed immeadetly, as if a spider were crawling on my neck. Questions flashed through my brain: When? Why? What?
Then I pictured it, and my body crumbled. I imagined my older brother hanging from the ceiling and I wanted to vomit. His long legs nearly touching the ground, his head cocked to the side, and his blonde hair fallen over his eyes. I was overwhelmed and disturbed. My parents had seen it. It was still going on. My brother was hanging in the room below us. I wanted to run, to hide in a corner. It made me sick to be standing there.
They told my younger brother before the police arrived. He was shocked, to say the least. His brown eyes grew large and he couldn’t stop blinking. I wanted to pull him in, but I couldn’t move.
The rest of the day was a whirlwind of emotions. The police arrived to survey the scene, to take the body, and to clarify the death. I wanted to get out. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the accident. Our house had turned into a crime scene, and I wanted no part of it. After a few hours of talking with the police and meeting with relatives, I asked my mother if I could leave.
"Mom, can I go see some friends?"
"Now?" she asked, as if this was the most absurd thing she had heard all day.
"Please, I can’t be here."
"Just for an hour. We have relatives over."
Again, this seemed ridiculous, as if they were over for a party. This wasn’t the holidays. What was this? The day of my brother’s death?
I met up with three of my closest friends. They asked about my trip, about the weather. They told me I looked tan, and they wished they could be so tan. Then, I blurted it out: “my brother’s dead.”
To be continued…