Writing Practice, June 1 2015

Kate Foley couldn’t wake up. The noise in her house was boisterous. Thirty people packed into the tight bungalow, two floors with two rooms and a hallway each, packed with people, even in her own room, which she shared with a brother. Her brother, mother, and two of her aunts stood over her. Her brother shook her. 
“Sis, Jesus. It’s noon. Everybody’s here.” 
It was a Saturday in May, and it was Kate’s birthday. She was eight years old. 
Kate stirred, but then fell back in. She dreamed of a great storm. It pulled her in. It didn’t let go. And she couldn’t believe its power. She didn’t see. She only felt. Her body shook. 
“Jesus, is she okay?” Her mother asked, in a way that didn’t at all sound like someone’s mother. 
Kate felt a hand on her shoulder. A hand on her hand. It pulled her up, away from the bottom of the ocean. 
Her mother once told her that sadness is sadness, grief is grief, and despair is despair. Nobody hurts more than anyone else. There is just hurt. There is just pain. She told Kate that we have to think of it that way because we can’t really know what another person feels. They can tell us, she explained, and we can monitor them with machines, but it’s all external. It’s all just a story, and not all stories are true. There is only the pain. There is only the abyss. 
Kate had no idea when her mother told her this, and she didn’t know why she remembered it. But it helped later. 
Her brother stuck a wet finger in her ear, and through her hair. This, of all things, is what got her to open her eyes.
“Aw, Geez,” she said. “What? I’m up, I’m up. You don’t have to be gross about it.” 
She blinked. She saw everyone. 
“Oh,” She said, apologizing. 
“Happy Birthday, sweetie darling,” her mother patted her on the head. “Now come down. Everyone’s waiting to give you pretty things.” 
Kate Foley was eight years old. She still had all her freckles. She hadn’t yet grown into her eyes. What she saw were a small horde of impatient family members, eagerly waiting the center of attention. 
They left her room for a moment, and she was alone. She saw all her things. Kate’s room was stuffed, partially with stuffed things, partially with partially-completed mysteries. When Kate was not running, or playing soccer, she solved mysteries. Some of them came in boxes. One of those was scattered on her table, all over the place from a frustrating moment. But most mysteries she made up herself. They were muddier mysteries, without any neat solution or even necessarily clues. This was the nut of her imagination. Everything became a mystery without a solution.
Kate put on the dress her mother laid out for her. It was fluffy, pink and purple, with a ribbon for a belt. The shoulders were poofed. She felt like a doll, and she hated the outfit, so she convinced herself to treat it like a disguise. She would roam the party looking for a solution, but a solution for what? What was the mystery? 
She was hungry. 
Kate left her room and was guided by the hand by her older brother, who was ten and knew what had to be done at birthdays involving lots of people. 
“The trick is to introduce yourself and make it seem like they’re the first in the list. You have no time to chat, you’ve got to keep moving and saying hi to everybody. Now some cousins have come from a long way so you’ve got to pretend that’s a big deal, even though that car ride must have been awesome because I heard they had a Game Boy. I wonder if they brought it?”
“Roland, slow down,” Kate said. “You’re hurting my arm.” 
He paid no attention to her request, pulling her through the crowd until they reached the front door, where Kate’s Aunt Helen stood, taking off her jacket. 
“You don’t even know,” he said, curt and spitting. “This is going to suck large for both of us. Do you know how many people are coming? Do you understand? Of course you don’t.”
The mystery Kate had to solve was how to ditch her stupid brother. He was so annoying. 
“I’m hungry,” Kate said. 
This distracted Roland. “There’s so much food. But it’s not all done. The cousins are in the kitchen.”
Roland began introducing Kate and himself to various family members. It was 1991, and nobody dressed the same. Kate watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” last Christmas and loved how everyone wore fancy clothes, even when just at home. Most of her family wore tshirts, golf shirts, and Hawaiian shirts with orange leaves and neon lines. The women wore dresses, but not the kind from that movie. These dresses were plain, mostly muted colours, and they were covered mostly neck to toe. Kate felt funny in a pretty dress around so many dull ones. 
Kate met cousins, distant cousins, cousins-in-law, second and third cousins, and friends of the family. Many were happy to see her, and impressed that the two children were so enthusiastic about shaking hands and taking hugs. Kate heard the words “happy birthday” so many times it blurred. A great aunt had a holder for her cigarette. Most everyone smoked. That part was the same as the movie, at least. Kate wanted one. A great uncle drank a beer, and when he shook her hand she felt the condensation mix with hot, claustrophobic sweat. It was the first cool handshake of the day. 
Roland pulled Kate aside and said, “I’m hungry, too. Let’s get something to eat.” 
They found their way to the kitchen, greeting people along the way. The adults all had drinks and smokes. Music played from the tape deck, one Whitney Houston song after another, her mother’s favourite singer. Finally, they fit through the tiny hallway that connected the family room to the kitchen. Kate saw four women in the kitchen, and one man grabbing a beer. The women peeled vegetables, chatting about how old their children where and what trouble they were in their various sports. 
“Jacob is in the banting league now, he’s doing so well, but I wish he wouldn’t get his jersey so dirty.”
“Boys will be—”
“Bernice, I swear to god.” 
“What? I’m just saying, boys will be—”
“It’s just soccer, Morissa, he’ll grow out of it.”
“I love soccer,” Kate said, interrupting. 
Without a skipped beat, one of them, probably Bernice said, “Of course you do sweetie. You’re very good at it, too.” 
Kate was not sure she’d ever met this Bernice lady. But she just agreed with her. 
“It’s my birthday,” Kate proclaimed. The ladies continued to putter, clean, cut, and toss away things. 
“Of course it is,” Morissa, presumably, said. “You’re the reason we’re all here. Do you want to help? Here, take this peeler. Help me with the potatoes.” 
“Um, okay,” Kate said, not really wanting to help but trying very hard to not seem like she didn’t want to. She wanted these women to like her, or at least introduce themselves. But that had been the case with nearly everyone she’d introduced herself to with Roland’s help. Nobody particularly seemed to know her, and if they did, they did not treat her like any sort of big deal. It’s not that she was, or at least it wasn’t that she felt like it, but if they were all here for her, if this was her birthday and it was in her house, she figured more people might want to take notice. She didn’t think this was unreasonable, but then again, she didn’t know any of these people, either. Maybe she had to treat them like a big deal first?
“What’s your name?” She asked the woman next to her who’d handed her the peeler. 
“I’m Morissa. I was married to your Uncle Luke but not anymore.” 
Kate didn’t know how to do this particular kind of math. But she peeled a potato and said okay. She wanted someone to compliment the dress, even if it wasn’t her favourite. It was her mother’s, though.