Missy

I once had a friend named Missy. She was a fairly taciturn person and was always very terse with her words. Her father was a proletarian and worked for a pittance of what he deserved. Her mother, a solicitous woman, a boon to the family. Missy’s mother would joke that all her recipes were erudite due to her own mother being an Irish cook. 

Missy grew up in a loving household, with two older brothers, and a few dogs. Missy was a fastidious child and would constantly bring home stray dogs, searching for a home. She was very kind and generous. Her father used to say, “she doesn’t need a sweet tooth, she’s sweet enough.” 

Missy was an ingratiating child; she could never seem to assimilate to society, never mind her own family, which made school very difficult for her. She was wickedly smart, most of the time too smart for her own good. She could never relate to the kids around her and they never quite understood her. While everyone else’s friendships grew, Missy’s obsession with books dominated. She spent hours in the library and while we were in high school she got a job there. Her people skills did not ameliorate at this job, but it is where I first met her. She had just turned seventeen and she was struggling to grip with reality. But through that struggle, her light eyes still sparkled behind her thick-framed glasses.

I found Missy inscrutable and I think that is what drew me to her. I felt this need to protract any information I could out of her, just to better understand her. But Missy would only ever allude to the cataclysms of her past without much more than a single mutter. I never asked her to explain what she meant and I couldn’t censure her for not being more forthcoming.

“That’s where he’s buried,” Missy pointed out the window of the car as I drove past a cemetery, “my brother.” I quickly glanced over at her. I later found out, from a mutual friend, that Missy was sixteen when her brother died from an accident. Which was six months before we met. She had said once that, “my once very heterogeneous family was crumbling in front of my eyes and all I could do was watch.” I knew that seeing this apparent ostentatious man now quiescent quickly made her circumscribe her feelings from fear of appearing weak. Missy began to rescind the minimal plans she did have, saying that she was helping her parents, but she was falling into herself and trying to expunge her past.

Missy hated funeral homes. She would say, “When you die they hand you over to the mercenaries, dearth of emotion.” I was told by a family member that she extemporized her speech at the wake. Missy was always quite glib, due to her penchant for acting. She was able to bring the room to silence laconically. Missy became austere in her demeanor after that. 

She wore the stigma of loss like a noose around her neck. The air around her became heavy as she fell deeper into her grief. She spoke with brevity upon hearing platitudes from me. Our conversation grew shorter and shorter as the months passed and she drew more into herself. Missy began to make her decisions circumspectly, concerned her foibles would be lucid to all around her. I was still as fervent for her as I was the first day I met her. 

Missy’s vendetta with her own mind was her greatest flaw. She incriminated herself every day of narcissism and yet, she was the inverse of it. She began to lay in bed for days on end, speaking to no one and barely eating. She would tell me she had these quandaries about life. “It feels like something is just clawing to get out.” This was the most she had ever spoken about it.

“What do you mean? Like anxiety?”

“I guess.” I stared at her as she stared into her burger. I didn’t know what question to ask her to try and clarify what she meant. “I feel like I’m supposed to know something,” I was even more confused now, “but I don’t know how to figure out what it is I don’t know,” she continued to eat her burger not speaking more on the subject. I remember Missy laughing a lot that day, the most I had seen her in a while. It was a warm day for March and I had just gotten my car back from the mechanic. I wanted so badly to make her happy and later she would tell me that I was the one thing that gave her sanity. On the drive home I tried to work up the courage to tell her how I felt, to tell her that from the moment I first saw her I knew I wanted to be with her. I decided I would kiss her when I walked her to her door. I was sure she could hear my heart pounding. “This was the first good night I’ve had in a while,” she looked over at me, “thank you.” 

“Missy I-”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She opened the car door and stepped out, “Text me when you get home.” 

I swallowed hard and nodded, “Yeah, okay.” She smiled brightly at me and shut the door. I watched her walk up to the house with a sinking feeling in my stomach. A feeling that was all too discernible for me.

That was the last time I saw Missy for a while. I used to think it was something I did. Maybe someone had told her about my feelings for her, or maybe my feelings were salient in my actions. Either way, I was convinced she knew. I began to frequent the library more in hopes that I would see her. I began to pick up books that she would always mention, Dubliners, The Bomb, The Raven. I began to read every title I could remember. I began to construe my own thoughts on death and the trials of life. I began to understand Missy more. I began to understand her confusion in life and her hunger for knowledge. I began to understand my feelings towards Missy more and perhaps our paths were fated. Perhaps we were meant to meet so I could be sent on the new path of learning. Or perhaps I was crazy.

One day, towards the start of the new year, I caught a glimpse of the elusive nymph I had somehow fallen deeper in love with. I quickly walked over towards her determined to know where she had been. “Missy?”

“I was in the hospital,” she turned around to look at me, “I didn’t have my phone.” Her already pale skin had somehow grown paler and her once bright eyes now had a dullness to them. My anger immediately diminished and concern took over my features. “I’m okay,” she shrugged, “well as okay as I can be.”

“Did you find the answer to your question?”

“No, but I found more questions,” she smiled softly at me.

“Me too.” 

Missy handed me a book, The Things They Carried, “It’s one of my favorites. I’ve read it a bunch of times.” I took the book and flipped through the pages. “We can talk about it over burgers.”

I returned her soft smile, “I’d like that.”