I'm Still Here Page 3

  I hated my hair.

  Aster was blessed with silky straight hair that was the color of sun-kissed caramels. I used to love to brush and braid her hair when we were little. As I ran my fingers through it, I used to fantasize that it was my hair. I used to pray that I would wake up in the morning and our hair would have switched bodies. Aster did not like to do her own hair, let alone mine. Getting a brush through my hair could be akin to torture, so I never wanted anyone to touch it anyway (which, of course, propagated the cycle of tangles and torture). She was happy that I would take the time and effort to make her look nice so she didn't have to.

  As I got a little older, I discovered that there were hair products specifically for people like me. My mother, in her hippy, live-off-the-land lifestyle, didn't really believe in them. She made her own soap out of left over fat from cooking (which became even more interesting when she went through her vegan phase). This did not lend itself to being able to make my hair look attractive. By the time I was in high school, I was sneaking off to the drug store and using my lunch money to buy conditioner and frizz tamer. Aster sympathized with my plight and helped me keep my contraband toiletries hidden from Cheryl. Sometimes, she would show up with a different product for me to try. The ones she got were always far superior to anything I would purchase. After a while, I figured out that Aster was shoplifting them for me. She was terrible at managing her money and there was no other way she would be able to afford them. I think she also liked the thrill of committing that act. It was the first of many red flags about Aster. But like everyone else in my family, I stuck my head in the sand and ignored it for much longer than I should have.

  Anyway, I was there, relaxing in the doctor's office, knowing what horrendous thoughts the secretary must be having about my hair. I was pretty relaxed from the combination of Kevin's magic hands and the electrical stimulation machine. I may have dozed off, my head resting back against the wall. Next thing I know, Dr. O.K. is standing over me, clearing his throat gently. As my eyes flew open, my mouth snapped shut. Great. There I had been, sleeping, with my mouth hanging open like I was catching flies. Please, God, please let me NOT have been drooling or snoring.

  "You look like you could really use a cup of coffee right about now."

  "Do I look that bad?"

  "No, you look tired, and you just fell asleep sitting up. That's a rare talent."

  "That's me, rarely talented. Or better yet, barely talented."

  "I highly doubt that. I bet you are full of hidden talents and wonders." Why did his words give me flutters in the pit of my stomach?

  "Not so much these days." I stood up, smoothing my shirt down. Reflexively, my hands brushed my hair back up towards the wayward top knot and tucked the loose tendrils behind my ears.

  He seemed to be staring at my hair. I was wondering if there was something caught in it. I covered the top of my hair with my hands, praying that there was not a bug caught in it. I finally had to ask him. "Is there something in my hair?" continuing to pat it, searching for an inconsistency in the texture.

  He smiled. "No, not that I can see. Why do you ask?"

  "You seemed to be staring at it. It's, um, rather thick, and sometimes things get caught in it. Once, I went on a date with a guy who picked me up on his Harley. When we got to where we were going, my hair had apparently acted as flypaper for all sorts of critters."

  O.K.'s mouth dropped open.

  "Yeah, and my date was so unobservant that I went the whole night like that. I'm sure that the waitress and every woman I walked by saw them and laughed."

  "So I take it that date was your last with that guy?" O.K. held the door for me as we walked out. His legs were a bit longer than mine, and he walked with a hurried purpose. Probably trying to get rid of me as quickly as possible. In my half-asleep, still relaxed zone, I trailed behind him. Try as I might, I just could not get my legs to speed up.

  I laughed. "Oh, no. I married him."

  O.K. seemed to take that in stride. "Oh, so you're married?"

  I chuckled, trying to mask my huffing and puffing. "Not anymore. As if the bug thing wasn't warning enough, his name itself should have been a deal breaker."

  "What's his name?"

  "Dickie Cox."

  O.K. stopped mid-stride, causing me to run right into him. Too late, I put my hands out to brace myself, but they ended up getting wrapped around his midsection and were dangerously close to grabbing his package.

  His hands closed over mine and secured them at a more appropriate level. There was a split second when we stood there, me glued to his posterior, arms around his waist and him holding me in place. I wanted to exhale, you know like Whitney Houston, but that seemed creepy, even for me. Before I knew it, the moment was done, and he had turned to face me.

  "You married a man named Dickie Cox?"

  I tried not to notice that he was still holding onto my hand. I hoped I didn't have creepy-girl palm sweat, but was pretty sure I did. My mouth was dry for a moment and I couldn't seem to swallow. I nodded.

  "Why did you marry him?"

  "I asked myself that every day of our marriage. Probably because I was looking for love and acceptance. And you know how the song goes ..."

  "What song?"

  "The one that says I was looking for love in all the wrong places."

  That made him grin again. God, he was so adorable when he grinned. "How long were you married?"

  "About one year, which was about nine months too long." I swallowed again. This was my chance. "So, now you see why I'm so picky about knowing people's names. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover—for Christ sake, my name is Esther Comely-Cox, but I'm never getting burned like that again."

  "I know. I saw it in your chart. Never in a million years would I have pegged you for an Esther." He dropped my hand. The name did it every time. Just saying it aloud was repellent. It was a terrible name, and I swear I'm coming back in my next life with the most beautiful, melodious name I can come up with.

  "Yeah, Cheryl, my mom, insisted that I hyphenate. I've been stuck with the name now about six times longer than the marriage was. But now, when I use my first initial on things, it ends up being 'E. Comely-Cox,' which sounds like one of those spam porn e-mails that you get."

  We were walking again, reaching his car quickly. It was a Nissan Maxima, fully loaded. A nice ride with a lot of pep, but not the pretentious car you'd expect a physician to be driving.

  Once we were settled in the car, he said, "Kingston."

  Kingston? What did he mean by that? I wracked my brain for a possible clue. "Kingston? As in the first capital of New York state?"

  "As in my mother's maiden name. She was the last one in the lineage to have the name, so she gave it to me."

  "Okay, that makes sense, but I'm still not seeing where the O.K. comes in."

  "That would be because my last name is Cole. So, my name is Kingston Cole."

  I blankly looked at him. He glanced over at me and then put his eyes back on the road, his hands in a responsible ten-and-two position.

  "Kingston Cole ... King Cole ... Old King Cole."

  "O.K."

  "Yep. I've been stuck with O.K. since I was four."

  "Wow. Maybe my family doesn't seem as out there anymore." I paused for a minute. "You know, I think you should change your last name to 'Corral.'"

  He smiled in response. "Not the first time I've heard that one. That was my nickname in college. It's strange to have a nickname based on a nickname." He put the car in park. I hadn't even noticed that he had pulled up to a coffee shop in the local strip mall. I was confused for a moment. I must have had a quizzical look on my face because he replied, "You wanted to grab a cup of coffee?"

  "Oh, I didn't know you actually were taking me up on that."

  "Of course. It's my treat on one condition ..."

  I immediately became skeptical. I didn't like conditions. I had dealt with too many of them in my life. Warily I said, "What's the one condition?"
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  "You tell me how your family's names could possibly be worse than mine."

  Ugh. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my messed up family. I let the conversation drop as we entered the swanky coffee bar and got our respective drinks. O.K. was a gentleman and paid for mine, even though I told him he didn't have to.

  "You cannot hold this against me," I said as I fiddled with my cup, again filled with green tea. People laughed when I told them about my family. I laughed too. It was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous. Saying it made me sound ridiculous too. And for once, I wanted to be taken seriously. I was still new in town. I had only been here since March, and really only knew Jillian well. I desperately needed company and someone to talk to, hence the reason for my aborted speed-dating attempt that led me to meeting O.K. in the first place. But mostly, I wanted this man to take me seriously.

  I took in a deep breath, trying to tell my story without sounding like a complete and total flake. Never mind that I had no car, couldn't move my head all that well, and was dressed in yoga pants at this upscale, yuppie coffee bar. I knew that this story could put my ridiculousness over the edge. I swallowed and finally gained the courage to begin.

  Before I could get the first syllable out, I heard a husky voice say, "O.K., there you are. I've been texting you for twenty minutes to let you know I was in the back room."

  That husky voice belonged to a buxom blond. She had to be close to six feet tall and stood even taller in her fashionable heels. I didn't know designers by name, but I could certainly spot a quality pair of expensive shoes. She was impeccably dressed in a fitted-yet-classy navy blue sheath dress. She was even wearing pearls. O.K. stood up to greet her, suddenly embarrassed. Of course he was embarrassed. He was with me. Sweaty, messy, dressed in yoga pants in public, carrot-top Afro, no car, down-and-out divorced me. Oh yeah, with a spam porn name. Thank goodness I hadn't told him the family story. It spared me a small, albeit tiny, but still-tangible piece of humiliation.

  "Oh, Melissa, I forgot we were meeting here. This is—" he gestured quickly towards me, "a friend of mine who needed a ride home."

  "If she needed a ride, then why are you drinking coffee and tea?" She looked down at my cup and said the word "tea" as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  "Esther has had a bit of bad luck recently, and I was—"

  Before he could even explain, Melissa (who I was now referring to as Demon Melissa in my head) cut him off. "Well, we'd better get going. Our dinner reservation is in ten minutes. We need to get in so that we can get to the hospital for our shift. I can't believe you cut it so close." Demon Melissa then focused her attention on me for a nanosecond. "I'm a doctor as well. What exactly is it that you do?"

  Although being a social worker is nothing to be ashamed of, I knew no answer would ever be good enough for the likes of Demon Melissa. So I gave her something to chew on.

  "I run an internet porn site. We're always looking for older models for those fetish freaks. You should visit me at www.e-comely-cox.net."

  Her mouth fell open in horror and disgust before she turned sharply on one of her nude patent leather heels. She marched proudly towards the door. It was only a fleeting glance over her shoulder when she reached the door that made O.K. go running after her.

  He looked back over his shoulder and gave me a quick, "Sorry."

  I sat there in shock. Did he really just run out on me? Was he really with that beast? It was only a few minutes after he'd gone that I realized three things. One: I don't want a guy who is whipped. As far as I was concerned, I never wanted to see O.K. again. Two: Here I was, even further from home, with no ride. And three: the keys to my apartment were sitting on the center console of O.K.'s Maxima.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Going for a bus ride in five o'clock rush hour traffic was not what I had in mind, especially after Dr. O.K. had gotten my hopes all up for a more pleasant mode of transportation. I can't believe he ditched me. I can't believe I almost told him about the names in my family. Believe it or not, my family story was even more embarrassing than my hyphenated porn-star name. I thought it over as I rode the falsely fluorescently bright bus over to the hospital. I figured I'd wait there until Dr. O.K. came on duty. I hoped his shift started at seven rather than eleven. If it started at eleven, it would be a mighty long night. Waiting the two hours until seven would be long enough.

  Even to me, who had lived through it, the story of my family sounded far-fetched. Once upon a time, my mother, Cheryl, may have been relatively normal. I'd like to believe so at least. She met my dad, Dean, at a church retreat for incoming college freshman. They were both eighteen. Cheryl was studying to be a librarian. Dean, a civil engineer. They lived in Upstate New York and it was 1967. My mom got a hold of a relatively new book by Roald Dahl that discussed the materialism and lack of moral guidance in society. My dad got a hold of some LSD. After hearing him speak at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where he was in school, Dean religiously followed the Timothy Leary movement, and my mom followed Dean. One night, after some particularly potent stuff and a pretty trippy trip, my mom became obsessed with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a result, my siblings (in order) are Charlie Bucket Comely (who is a girl), Violet Beauregard Comely, Augustus Gloop Comely, and Veruca Salt Comely. Baby Mike Teavee Comely was the last of that bunch, until Aster and I gave Cheryl and Dean quite the shock five years later. It was a good thing for Aster and me that there were no more names of the ill-fated children with the golden tickets.

  Aster's full name was Aster Rain Comely. See what I mean? Even with the crappy last name of Comely, it sounded beautiful. It was melodious and earthy and rolled off the tongue. Her name conjured images of flowers, bathed in a light spring rain. Her spirit was infectious and could not be contained. Everything about Aster was buoyant and full of life. Her soul was as radiant as her beauty. She was my soul and the air I breathed. It seemed almost sacrilegious to be thinking of her and her beauty while sitting on this dingy city bus. I clutched at the physical pain that gripped my heart. I had not let myself think of Aster like this in years. I couldn't. It was simply too agonizing.

  Her story was not so uncommon. Always dramatic as a child, Aster's behavioral outbursts had often been attributed to being from such a large family. My parents were often immersed in their causes and often not immersed in the lives of their children. At least not by the time Aster and I rolled around. We were often left in the care of our oldest sister, Charlie, who was twelve when we were born. But I knew Aster's behavior was not simply a result of our flaky parents. I mean, I had pretty much the same childhood that Aster did. Sure, we were fraternal twins, not identical. But we shared the same room, sat through the same home schooling lessons until we begged Cheryl to attend the public school, did the same chores, lived through the same chaos.

  About sophomore year in high school, Aster developed this ever-so-annoying habit of waking me up in the middle of the night to talk. After a while, I realized that she wasn't really sleeping. She would pace around the room, and sometimes even sneak out just to go for walks in the dark. When she returned, she would wake me up and tell me about all these wonderful ideas and plans she had. Sometimes, she would tell me about how she had figured out that God was real and that she truly believed.

  And then as quickly as that phase started, it would stop. Aster would be so very depressed, barely able to get out of bed. She went through phases of self-injury. But Aster was clever, and hid it well from others. I could see it though. I could see the pain and emptiness behind her eyes that fell on her like a curtain when she was in one of her "funks." I saw the wildness and sparkle, the reckless abandon in her eyes when she was in an upswing. A manic phase. Because that's what it was. No matter what wonderful euphemisms we came up with, we could not hide the darkness that lived with us. Precious Aster was bipolar.

  Cheryl and Dean refused to accept it. They never sought advice, each feeling that their combined counsel was sufficien
t. They never told anyone the whole story. The high highs and the crushingly low lows. They never shared any of the gory details. Oh no, all they ever told was how wonderful Aster was. How creative Aster was. She was an actress. She was a producer. She was a dancer. She was a singer. She was a painter. She fronted a band. She worked with children. She worked with the elderly. She did it all. She was their all.

  They never saw that her flitting from one thing to another was truly a sign of her uncontrolled mental illness. Sure, the creativity that it afforded her was spectacular. For those of us left in her wake, it was devastating. She was unreliable, to say the least. She abused drugs, probably as a way to self-medicate. She destroyed her body by starving it and mutilating it. She was not a sister or a friend anymore. Being with her was nerve wracking. It was walking on egg shells, never knowing who was going to show up. Never knowing that moment when it would all change and she would begin to cycle down. Needless to say, dealing with her was stressful. I would ask her what she was doing or why she was doing something. Her standard response was, "You wouldn't understand." And she was right. I didn't understand. Not for a long time.

  It was not until I had taken many psychology courses and done some field work with mentally ill patients that I began to understand. Even when I had the name for what afflicted my twin, I was not allowed to use it. Cheryl and Dean had moved on to transcendentalism and believed that Aster's purity had been corrupted by society. I never knew what the hell they were talking about when they started transcendental-izing at me.