Although the Quiet Time and Bible Talks have been cutting into my studies, I really look forward to them. My QTs, the solitary periods of reflection and prayer, leave me centered in a way I’ve never experienced before, and I like the challenge of the BTs, the study guides staggered with blanks, and the slippery sound the onionskin pages make as we search for the answers. When a verse interpretation confuses me, Heather guides me to its true meaning.
Heather practically lives in my dorm room now. We’ve even started meeting up at lunch, sometimes ditching the cafeteria for the food stalls at Quincy Market, trying something new each time. Since I met Heather, Boston has become an exciting city I enjoy exploring, but it also feels more like home—something I never expected to feel.
I look up the next image as Heather struggles with the zipper of the suede skirt. I smile at the goofy way she’s contorting herself to get it to zip. I’ve never met anyone with more determination than Heather.
“Just wait until you hear him speak,” she says, as she closes the stubborn gap with a quick zip.
“Who?” I’m looking at my notes again, suddenly overwhelmed by the stress of having to memorize more than one hundred images in my art history book, which is open to a full-page reprint of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus.
“Um. Earth to Emily?” Heather turns around to shoot me a disapproving look. “The Leader,” she answers. She pulls the top over her head, and then frees her hair from its neckline. Maybe it’s my fatigue, or the utter desperation to cram for this exam, but in that moment, Heather’s reflection looks eerily similar to Botticelli’s redhead perched atop the half-shell in my textbook. Only a nineties version, clad in Ralph Lauren.
I smile as I look back down at my list and write: Heather = Venus, then place a check mark beside the word Botticelli with a small wave of relief.
Heather begins digging through my closet again. She pulls out a green and pink floral-print Laura Ashley outfit, the kind with a Peter Pan collar and balloon-shaped pants. “Nooo, no, no,” I say, remembering the day I got the outfit in the mail. The note said, “I thought this would look so cute on you. Love, Patti.” I also remember how Sadie had walked into our dorm room just as I was trying it on, and then proceeded to laugh at me periodically for the rest of the day.
“Oh, this will match the green in my outfit perfectly, though,” Heather says. She hangs it on my closet door and stands beside it. “See?” she pleads.
I picture my stepmother watching this unfold with a tight-lipped smile, her eyes sparkling approval. Oh, Emil-eeeeee, she’d say. It just makes me so happy that you liked it. Maybe I’ll mail Patti a picture of Heather and me together to appease her two nagging concerns: bad fashion choices and lack of friends. “All right. Fine,” I say, determined to get back to my notes.
I have exactly two hours to finish studying if I want to get a decent night’s sleep and wake up in time for my QT before the exam. I try to block out my other assignments and the packed calendar of looming deadlines.
“It’s settled, then,” Heather says. She peels off the skirt, pulls her jeans on, and looks down at her watch. “Oh! We almost forgot about our BT!”
My face turns numb with panic. “Heather. I’ve got to study for art. I’m scared I’m going to fail this test.
“I have an idea,” she says, grabbing an index card off my desk. “We can have a shorter BT … without Bibles.” Her eyes flicker defiantly.
I sigh. “Okay, as long you promise it will be quick.” I sit up and re-clip my hair—still hesitant but grateful for her concession. Heather hands me an index card and leads me to my desk chair.
“Okay. Close your eyes.” I do as she says and breathe in. “Think about your frustrations. Think about specific things. Like a list. What frustrates you more than anything? It could be people, places, situations, anything. Just think about it, and then write it all down on this card.”
I open my eyes and scoot my chair up to the desk. My mind begins spewing frustrations faster than I can write. Exhaustion. This dorm. Noise. Deadlines. Papers. Exams. Not enough time to roam museums. Sadie. Sadie’s friends staring through me. ANGER. (Why am I so angry?) My mother will never see me graduate from college. Or get married. My mother will never know me at all. I will never know her. Dad.
Rage creeps into my hand as I write. Then a wave of sadness overlaps the anger.
“Are you done?” Heather is smiling at the success of this activity, but her tone changes when she notices my expression. “Trust me, you’ll feel better in a sec.”
As I look at my card jam-packed with scribbled words, I feel gutted and exposed. “Are you going to read this?” I ask.
“Of course not. This is just between you and God. Fold it in half if you want.”
I fold the card over and press the edge back and forth.
“Just focus on one thing: your life without any of these frustrations. How would it feel? Kneel on the floor and close your eyes, and then hold your card in your hand.”
I follow her instructions.
Heather moves around as she talks. “Think about your life free of every single item on this card as you rip it up.”
I tear it slowly. It’s a satisfying sound. I stack the halves and tear through them again. And then I rip it into over and over. I look down at the shredded mess.
Heather goes to my window and yanks it as far as it will open. The traffic noise drifts inside as the wind gusts into the room. I inhale the cool breeze as she looks at me expectantly. “Now pick up those pieces and let them go.”
Gathering the paper fragments, I approach my window. In the distance, the surface of the river reflects a glittery patch of buildings. Down below, people stroll in every direction. I fling the pieces out the window, where they disappear into the night like secret confetti. As the fragments of words fall toward the sidewalk, I imagine one falling into an unsuspecting passerby’s bag filled with mundane necessities, carried too far away to ever be recovered. It feels like the words on that list don’t even belong to me anymore.
Heather slams the window shut. “All gone,” she says with a wide smile. “See how easy?”
I stare out the window into the blinking night. A sense of peace overcomes me. I can’t remember ever feeling this free. For years I’ve been carrying burdens that no one ever noticed or bothered to care about—until now. People I’ve only known for a few weeks have shown me more kindness and care than people I’ve known for my entire life. I look to Heather, a comforting and supportive smile on her face, and I can’t help but believe that maybe this really is the way.
love bombing: the use of attention and affection to influence an individual; induces a social high and instills a deep trust; can lead to physical attraction
A Place You Miss the Most
The first one is delicately perched on my Art Appreciation desk.
I haven’t seen an origami animal since elementary school when a classmate’s mother showed my class how to make them. We were given squares of thin, bright paper and a list of instructions for folding it in specific directions. I still remember the mess I made of my attempt that day, but this one is a perfect swan with an elongated neck made of notebook paper. It sits on my desk like an elaborate question mark.