Forbidden Highway

In honor of what would have been my brother Pete's 45th birthday yesterday, I'd like to share something I wrote about him four years ago.

Forbidden Highway 

The thing I remember most about Pete is his laugh. It always reminded me of a brook, bubbling. And his eyes would just dance, alive with some kind of mischievous energy, sparkling, glittering even. So bright! He was alive, too. Every move he made was quick and athletic. He went through life with a tense readiness—anticipation—for what the next moment would bring.

Pete was an avid Hot Wheels collector. By the time he was fourteen his collection had reached over two hundred cars, all catalogued and organized in official collector’s cases. No one was allowed to touch them but him. Especially not me, his three-year-old little sister. Sometimes, if I was lucky, Pete would let me come into his room and he would show them to me. He would tell me all about each one, the make and model of the car, how much horse power it had, where it was made, and what it would cost new on the market right now. I would listen to each word, awed by his knowledge. Sometimes when he was at school, I would sneak into his room and open up the cases and peek in, but I would never touch them. I always had a feeling he would somehow know if I did.

Once, my fifteen-year-old brother Matt and I were roughhousing when I fell into a wooden footrest, and my front tooth came flying out of my mouth. I cried a lot. It hurt, of course, and there was blood everywhere. Poor Matt felt sick, and my dad didn’t know what to do. His little princess was in pain, and was going to have to spend the next three to four years with a gaping hole in her smile.

Somehow Pete was the only one who knew how to comfort me. When my mom had cleaned me up and calmed me down as much as she could, Pete walked over to where I was sitting on the couch icing my gums. “Gina,” he said, and I knew something was about to happen. “Would you like to come play with my Hot Wheels?” I thought he must be teasing me. Looking up into his eyes I expected to see myself reflected in the joke in them, but they were calm and kind. I nodded.

I followed him up the stairs, expecting him to change his mind. He didn’t. We walked into the room he shared with Matt. I looked around at this other world that was always mysterious and impressive to me. The footballs, the large globe in the corner, the posters on the walls that I didn’t understand.

Pete set me up on his bed, careful not to bump my arm as I clutched the damp paper towel up against my bleeding gums. He smiled at me. His eyes danced. I watched, wide-eyed, as he took car after car after car out of its case and handed it to me, allowing me to not only look, not only touch, but play with each one. The bedspread became a forbidden highway I had magically been given access to, and I laughed, and quickly sucked in the blood and spit mixture that tried to spill out of my mouth. I felt so grown up! So special. So loved. I know it must have delighted him to see me so happy, even as he planned to carefully wash each car as soon as I left the room.

That day marked a vital shift in my self-concept. My big brother, who could pour his own cereal, tie his own shoes, and ride a bike, valued me, even more than his Hot Wheels. He couldn’t fix it—he couldn’t give me my tooth back, or even make my mouth stop hurting—but he could let me know how important I was. He could let me see that cheering me up was worth anything to him.

Life got a lot more complicated as I grew older. A few years later, my Pete was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I watched as his illness changed him, and his behavior became more and more erratic. He would have manic episodes where he designed cars he actually believed would fly, and steal cars and wreck them into trees. I knew that the Pete that was acting this way, making my mother cry, disappearing for days at a time, using cocaine, abusing alcohol, was not the real Pete. And I would remember sitting on his bed playing with those cars, and know he loved me. I found a peace in that memory. A peace that even though I didn’t know if everything was going to be okay (and honestly at times, it really didn’t seem like it would be) I was okay. I was loved. And so was he.

July 30th was my sixth wedding anniversary. It was also the first anniversary of Pete’s death. He had a heart attack last summer while camping in the mountains with my dad. Twelve days after his fortieth birthday. When my parents asked me to say a few words at his funeral, I knew right away that I wanted to share the story of his great love for me, and remind everyone who he really was under the complicated layers of his illness.

I’m not three anymore, and life is messy. There aren’t enough toy cars in the world to ease the pain of losing him. But just like the memory of his mischievous grin and glittering green eyes, the lesson he taught me about love all those years ago stays with me. I often find myself looking for ways to show my husband and two little girls the kind of love he showed me, the love that gives without concern for personal cost. So simple. So hard some days.

Pete and me, Easter 1985

Thank you for reading.  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Saying Goodbye

“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

 -A.A. Milne

On Wednesday, my sister-in-law (and best friend) Danette and her two kiddos, Theo, age 3 and Maeve, age 2, walked out my front door and drove away to catch a flight to Houston to join her husband Micah.  To live.

If I’m being entirely honest, I have to admit that I have a little bit of an inflated ego about my friendship with Danette.  Sometimes, if I’m having a rough day or feeling insecure about something (especially meeting new people), I’ll remind myself, Well, Danette likes me, so I must be pretty cool.  She’s the kind of person who makes everything more fun.  I’ve often caught myself looking over at her at social functions and thinking, If she wasn’t my friend I would want her to be.

We went to MOPS together last year, and when a speaker said something funny or moving I wouldn’t even have to look at her to know she knew what I was thinking.  Even if we’re not exactly on the same page, I can be pretty sure she knows what page I’m on.

We’ve been friends since she was thirteen and I was sixteen, and even though I was dating her brother when we met, she and I stayed friends after he and I broke up.  I wasn’t about to lose her over a boy.  She came to visit me every year in college and I went to visit her when she moved out of state for a summer job.  Later, after things got patched up and A. I were getting married, it seemed just too good to be true that my sister-in-law would also be my best friend.  And it has been.  Absolutely too good to be true. 

In the last seven years, through three moves between her family and mine, we went from living the distance of a five minute drive from one another, to a seven minute walk, to a seven minute drive, all in the same small town.  We saw each other at all kinds of extended family get-togethers and birthday parties. Danette would bring her kids over every Thursday, and we would drink too much coffee and eventually let the kids watch an episode of Kipper or Curious George or Little Bear while I made my famous macaroni and cheese for lunch.  You probably didn’t know that my macaroni and cheese is famous, did you?  Well it is.  I can’t take all the credit, considering I make it out of a box, so Annie gets some of the credit for sure.  But as far as the kids are concerned, it’s all my doing.  I’m okay with that.

Danette told me that a while ago, Theo was talking about how he sometimes feels shy.  He said, “But I’m not shy for Auntie Gina.”  And then later, “She makes me macaroni and cheese.”  Oh, Theo.  I’ll make it for you when you come to visit, okay buddy?  I promise.  The other day, I stopped by their house (when it was still their house) and he ran up to me, looked me right in the eye, and excitedly asked me to play superheroes with him.  I happen to love superheroes.  Um, yeah, I’ll play superheroes with you.  Anytime.

And then there’s Maeve (rhymes with brave, and she is).  I can’t even describe her.  She’s two, and such a powerful little person.  Every Thursday, as soon as she gets to my house, she asks me to hold her.  I think she can tell it’s my favorite thing to do.

I’m not sure I’m going to like Thursdays very much anymore.  Honestly, if this first Thursday with them gone is any indication of what the future holds, I know I’m not going to like Thursdays anymore.  I woke up in the worst mood.  Nothing seemed fun anymore now that Danette was gone, and I was listless and irritated by basically everything.  Frankly, I was not unlike a toddler who just needs to take her blanket and her teddy bear and have a good nap.  That might have helped me, but you can’t nap at 7:00 in the morning when you have five kids to take care of.  So instead I did what I needed to do, and wallowed in self-pity the whole time. 

Waking up last Tuesday and Wednesday with them here was way more fun.  They stayed two nights in my guest room because their house was empty and Micah was already in Texas working.  It was magical to see the cousins wake up and eat breakfast together.  They all play so well with one another. 

Tuesday night I stayed up way later than I should have; it felt like if I never went to sleep then they wouldn’t have to leave.  But Wednesday morning still came, of course.

Before they left, Maeve had me hold her even more than usual.  She climbed in my lap before I finished sitting on the couch and she stayed there until it was time for them to leave.  At one point, her soft hair brushed up against my cheek and it was so sweet, I felt a searing pain run through my core like when you touch something so hot your skin begins to blister instantly.  When the doorbell rang and it was time for them to go to the airport, she spun around and buried her little face in my neck like she knew it would be a long, long time until we were together again.  When I gave her to her mom so they could leave I noticed that her hair was wet with my tears.

I walked into the living room and sat on the couch.  My eight-year-old daughter climbed up next to me and put her arms around my neck.  We cried until our eyes were tired and sore.

I know I should be happy for them.  (And I am, really.)  This is a great opportunity for her husband’s career and an adventure for their family.  I’m so proud of Micah.  I should be thankful that I can visit, and that the pain of saying goodbye to them as they move is nothing compared to the pain of saying goodbye forever through a death or a broken relationship.  And I am thankful, but…

In college, my friend Karis used to say, “Don’t should on yourself.”  I needed to hear that then, and listening to it now, I feel an urge to let go of all the ways I “should” feel, and just be sad.  Because, darn it, I’m really sad.

A few hours after they left on Wednesday, I pulled up in front of their house.  Knowing it was completely empty inside made it almost feel like a different house, and yet it felt the same.  The memories were there.  I could picture Theo and Maeve sitting on the front porch, playing in the yard.  I felt like I needed to cry but my eyes were dry and itchy.  It was pouring rain outside, and I watched the raindrops slide down the driver-side window, blurring my view of the house.  It was as if the raindrops were the tears I couldn’t cry. 

The achy, needing to cry feeling has lingered through the week.  I know Danette and I won’t have any trouble “staying in touch.”  I’m already planning to go visit her in September and they’ll come home for Christmas and vacations in the summer.  We talked on the phone almost every day when she lived practically down the street, so I know we’ll still talk all the time.  She’s going to have an amazing time in Houston, and I’ll be okay here.  But I reserve the right to feel a little sorry for myself every Thursday morning, and to be really sad about having to say goodbye.  Because I don’t want to say goodbye.  It's so hard.  I am so lucky.