Turning 20

The girl sighs heavily as she clears a pile of dishes from the kitchen table and moves them into the sink. There are murky, brown oil stains on her white gas stove and her silverware has been haphazardly swept into a half-closed drawer. If we were to peek into her refrigerator we would see that she has been eating well, despite the dilapidated conditions of her kitchen. Tupperware containers of all colors sit neatly, one of top of the other, their clear parameters exposing their contents: some leftover turkey slices here, two bites of broccoli there. Grocery bags sit smartly beside these containers, their tops rolled down three times to ensure freshness of the products inside; Whole Foods and Farmer’s Market, our girl eats healthy.

After clearing her tabletop of more debris (stray potholders, bills, school newsletters, a tangle of keys a friend forgot three nights ago, two new padlocks for the back and front doors, leftover salad from lunch and a packet of frozen peas that was defrosting), the girl sits down with a pad and pen in front of her.

Her name is L, as we shall learn from the birthday card tacked up on the fridge that reads:

“L– Happy 20^th Birthday! Sorry we can’t be there with you, but we are thinking of you always. Dad is busy with his toys. He got himself this gadget that lets him watch movies, listen to music AND store his photographs. I’ve been walking the dogs and watching my diet. The doctor’s cut out more food from my list! You won’t believe all the stuff I can’t eat anymore! Anyway, give us a ring when you’re not busy. We miss you. Love, Mom and Dad XXXXX P.S. I read your article on parasitic twins on your school website the other day! It was fascinating! Keep up the good work!”

The stark white color of the paper glares at her as she furiously taps her pen on it. She breathes in and then breathes out. She stands up and pours herself a glass of water that she doesn’t drink. She leaves the kitchen for a minute and comes back in with socks on. She stretches her back and cracks her neck. “Okay…. Okay,” she says out loud to no one. “Dear Mom,” she writes, “Thank you for your card. I know you were probably fretting about it getting here on time and I’m glad to be able to tell you that it came right on my birthday. After walking home from school and slipping twice on wet ice, it was nice to come home to something from you and dad. I miss you both very much. Sorry I haven’t called. You’re right, I’ve been busy with school and work. That’s right, I got a job! Two jobs, actually. I’m a shopgirl at a really nice store called Aviary and on Tuesday and Thursday mornings I walk this nice lady’s dog for $10 an hour. They are big Labradors, one yellow and one brown. They’re crazy little guys, every time they see me they jump all over me and give me big, sloppy kisses. I guess I’m not much different than I was when I was still at home—I still have dog hair all over my clothes all the time! Haha!”

L pauses for a moment, looking up as if she hears some small, quiet sound from far away. Her eyes pass over the countertops around her. “Tomorrow,” she says, again, out loud, to no one. She stands up and leaves the kitchen. If we were to follow her, we would see that she is walking the twenty-odd steps it takes from her kitchen to the bathroom and turning on the taps to wash her hands. She brushes her teeth, wipes her mouth dry with a plain white towel and then returns it to its place on the novelty hook; an elephant with a pair of tusks that protrudes from its face, clean and white, extending themselves eagerly as if they knew their sole purpose after sacrificing themselves to become ivory chopsticks for traditional Chinese families was to be holders of their owners' pink bra straps, cartoon underwear and, yes, white fluffy towels. The towel hangs by its label which has Japanese characters and the amounts “80%” and “20%” printed on it in blue ink.

She puts a hand on the side of the sink and leans against it, lightly suspending her butt cheeks inches above the white ceramic, standing on the balls of her feet. L has small patches of Eczema on the insides of her elbows and the backs of her knees. She doesn’t know this yet, but there is a small, pale pink dot forming under her chin, too. In another week or so it will have spread across her neck down to her absent cleavage. She kneels down on the cold floor and begins to empty out the clothes from her dirty laundry basket into a laundry bag. Tomorrow is Thursday and after walking Porkchop and Teddy, going to class and working her 3 hour shift at Aviary, she will go down to the Laundromat and wash her dark clothes (as it is winter and all she wears are navys and blacks).

L is not a clean girl, nor is she a dirty girl. Almost exactly half of the tiles in her shower are spotless. The other half has funny crust growing in between them. There is a scrubbing brush and a bottle of cleaner beside the toilet. Shampoo and conditioner bottles are jammed into a shelf hanging from some kind of rope off yet another novelty hook. This one of Jesus and his arms wide open. The rug adjacent to the shower is pink and made of terrycloth. It has ‘Welcome Home’ written in block letters across the middle. L looks up again, that same faded look on her face. The phone is ringing. She pushes herself up from the floor with the palms of her hands and walks back out into her living room-slash-bedroom, slightly tripping over a pair of black boots on her way out.

“Hello? Oh, hi Legs. What? Really? She didn’t tell me about that. Is it still themed? Because you know how I am with themed parties. It’s what? Dress-up? How old are we, Legs, five? No I’m sure the costumes will be a little different than when we were little, but do you want to bet there are gonna be at least ten playboy bunnies and twenty hot nurses? No, Legs. No. What? But I…. All right then. Well we can make it at mine tomorrow if you like–”

Let’s take a look around the apartment while our girl is on the phone. Her bed stands like a monument under the window. Its covers are a deep purple and sitting on top of it are four white pillows like clouds. There are at least four outfits on her bed and a large binder open to a page with a poem written in the worst of penmanship. Beside her bed is a small sofa that sits slumped, off to one side of the room. There is a not-so-low coffee table in the middle and five, plush cushions around it. By the front door, next to the shoe rack, we see a new, silver, dog bowl and upon further inspection, a leash and collar hang on the hooks beside three, thick coats behind the door. Is our girl getting herself a dog?

She is off the phone now. She walks back into the kitchen and takes her seat before the unfinished letter. She continues:

“I got the messages you left on my machine. Don’t worry, mom. I’ve been keeping the place clean and tidy. And yes, I still remember how to get the dirt out from between the tiles. It’s a little difficult for me to keep order in the kitchen since I'm always running in and out of the house, but I try. School’s school, but I love it. I’m thinking of taking scent classes next month if I can fit it into my schedule. You know, like, mixing perfumes and all the different notes and things. How is dad, by the way? Tell him I got the software he sent me and I’ve been using it to edit my photos. I moved some of the stuff around and put my bed by the window cuz I like to watch the people on the street when before I sleep. I don’t think it’ll throw my Feng Shui off-balance, mom. But if it does, I’ll move it back to the wall facing the west… but if I do that I’ll have to move the couch someplace else cuz, yeah, I moved some of the stuff around. Also, did I tell you I’m getting a puppy? Teddy, the brown Lab, gave birth two weeks ago, we are all waiting for the puppies to get old enough to leave their mommy so they can go off to their new owners. I bought a feeding bowl and everything. It will be nice to have someone to come home to at the end of the day. Don’t worry, he will not starve to death. And no, he will not rip up all my furniture or pee on my bed. I’ll train him, I promise. I have to go now, it’s almost midnight and I have to get up early to walk P and T! Oh and I know you are excited about coming down to see me, but please make sure you call before you do. I want to make sure I’m around when you come, so you guys won’t have to wait around outside for hours for me if I’m at work! I miss you. Love, L xx”

The paper cries out noisily as L rips it out of the pad. She folds it three times and then walks over to a drawer and magically pulls out an envelope from the sea of post-it notes and stray grocery lists inside. She puts her letter into the envelope, seals it by licking her middle finger and tracing it across the glue on the flap, turns the envelope over and scribbles a barely legible name and address on the front and tosses the letter on the countertop… on top of a stray potholder, bills, school newsletters, a tangle of keys a friend forgot three nights ago and two new padlocks for the back and front doors.

Tomorrow it is Thursday and sometime in between walking Porkchop and Teddy, going to class, working her three hour shift at Aviary, going to the Laundromat and making matching native American costumes for her and her friend Legs for a previously mentioned costume party, L is going to mail a letter.