Maple

They always think it’s exciting. “What’s an expat?” they’ll ask with puzzled eyebrows contorted upon their foreheads. It’s easy to forget that nobody knows what an expat is when you’ve heard the term thrown around since you were a kid. “It’s an expatriate,” I’ll clarify. “Expat is short for expatriate.” They’ll raise their eyebrows and tell me, “Oh, of course. That’s so cool!” Don’t try to act like you have any better idea of what I’m talking about. A placid stare in their eyes and the twiddling of their fidgety fingers reveal, every time, that they have no clue what I just told them. I used to be confused, thinking everyone understood what I meant by the term. When I got older, I realized I was the only one, and I began to sigh each time someone would try to mask their awkward confusion. Now I laugh. Of course they don’t know. They think a life of moving is perfect, which speaks to their unfamiliarity with the disruption of my lifestyle.

“An expat is someone who works in a country they’re not from.”

“Like an immigrant?”

“No. Like an expat.”

“Oh, that’s so interesting.”

“Yeah.”

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

When I went to preschool in Hungary, my parents would paint artworks of the places they’d traveled on the canvas of my clueless mind. I’d sit there, at the dinner table in my highchair with my Winnie-the-Pooh bib on, and my mind would illuminate with what I imagined these unfamiliar locations looked like.

“We went to New York for a few months after we left Belgium,” my mother would explain.

“New YORK?!”

“Yes! We could walk to Central Park from our apartment, do you know where that is?”

“What is Central Park?”

“We’ll bring you there sometime.”

“Okay!”

After those initial months, they grabbed a flight to California, where my brother was born and where my father still liked his job. As my mother described their home, atop the Palos Verdes hills, her eyes would drift as she lifted me with her on the clouds of her memories.

“There was a lighthouse just a few minutes down the street.”

“What is a lighthouse?”

“I walked there every day and watched the maple sunset above the ocean.”

I looked at my mother, confused by the specificity of the word maple, which I assumed would grow apparent to her from the exaggerated frown on my face. She didn’t respond to my implied question, however, because I had just lost her to the hypnotizing bliss of her past. Her lips hung slightly ajar as she grew silent, and I noticed, somewhere deep in the interstellar void of her pupils, the reflection of the sunset in her eyes.

My family frequently enjoyed vacations to the exotic countries of Europe. Each night before a break, I morphed into a rubber ball bouncing across my room. My arms would flail behind my back like paper streamers in the wind as I zipped from one corner to the next, packing my bags in anticipation and carefully wrapping my stuffed animals to ensure their utmost safety during the flight. They were required to stay intact, not only because I had forged a bond with them by sleeping with them every night, but because I wanted them to explore the mesmerizing views with me. I had gotten a taste of the sunset in my mother’s eyes, of the epitomical beauty of travel, and like a drug, I longed for more. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, my stuffed animals could help me sniff it out.

During my hunt, which went on for years, I was met with sights for even the sorest of eyes. Ancient buildings adorned with ornate patterns imprinted themselves into my impressionable memory in Florence; scents of crispy croissants in southern France melted into the thin lining of my nasal cavity; the outline of merciless mountain ranges in Switzerland burned itself into the lenses of my eyes. During each vacation, grins of delight would be plastered across the faces of my family members. A tranquil spirit emanated from our elysian surroundings; it forced our eyes shut and our backs bent as we submitted to its power, resting in our warm lounge chairs.

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

As the years went by, and I scaled the grades of elementary school, the dreaded day dawned upon me that I would be moving to Slovakia. I had not always dreaded this day, for I thought it would be just like traveling, like a permanent vacation, but as I neared the day of departure, the harrowing realization befell me that I would never see my friends again. Bonds with the very people I learned essential virtues of life with were going to be ripped from my heart. I would think back to the endless Nerf battles I had with my closest friends. We would pummel each other with foam-launching weapons of war and pulverize an extra-large pizza after each of us had perished several times in battle. It was with them, too, that I had suffered through morning detention for cursing at innocent high schoolers with words we didn’t quite understand. We hurt each other and we loved each other, and when the day came that I would drive away from school one last time, I didn’t dare to look into their eyes, for I felt a little trepidation at the possibility I would not be able to look away again.

Slovakia hit me like a train. Suddenly, our bags were packed, our house was empty, and we were driving with our final destination in mind. I kept my eyes closed on the highway. I wanted to believe that if I opened them I would be back in Budapest, getting ready for school to see my friends. I pinched myself in an attempt to end this nightmare, but when the car stopped moving, I opened my eyes to the sight of a modern house I didn’t recognize. Looks like this is it, huh?

The kids at school weren’t what I was used to either. When they looked at me, their eyes would not stop at mine, but they would dig deeper into my vulnerable soul and prod it with mighty swords to see if anything worthwhile resided there. “Do you even speak English?” one of them, a kid called Ruben, asked me. I looked up at him with slight confusion, “Of course I speak English,” asshole. He had searched my heart to find nothing useful, but a condescending nod told me at least my grasp of the English language rendered my worth slightly above that of a trash heap.

Months went by this way. Ruben and his friends sat in the back of the classroom. They threw paper balls at my head and squealed like pigs at the worst of jokes as long as they concerned me or any of my equally bulliable peers. Soon I came to find that the greatest warmth I would feel on any given day resided within the sacred heart of my bus driver. I would thank him when he brought me to school or to my home, and he would smile back at me with deep appreciation and utter, in broken English, “No problem, have a nice day!” Sometimes I wished I could twist the warmth of his benign disposition into a gentle flame, just so I could rekindle the fire that fueled my once fervid heart, to let it glow the way it did before the move.

One day I came home, feeling no greater or lesser solitude than any other day. I approached my room, and as I entered, I threw my bag over to my desk with the last fumes of energy I had to spare. It slid serenely across the hardwood floor for a second before slamming to a halt against the foot of my desk. I turned to my bed and fell backward into it as my knees gave in. My eyes aimed for the waffle-colored void of my ceiling, and I lay there in silent contemplation.

Well, this fucking sucks.

I paused. “You bet.”

D’you see how your bag slid across the floor just a second ago?

“It was kinda cool, wasn’t it?”

Man, that was a sick-ass slide.

I smiled gently and closed my eyes. I didn’t ask questions. Although I couldn’t see him, I understood that we were alike, but not the same. When the voice in my head smiled, its teeth gleamed with a brighter whiteness. When it spoke, its words were sweet as syrup, but its confidence punched with greater fortitude. When it opened its eyes, the dark hazel shields fell from its irises, revealing a glimmer of golden maple. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to raise my shoulders like him, to stare into someone’s eyes instead of having someone stare into mine. I chased that voice.

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

The days picked up their pace at school. Soon I introduced myself to the playground and was taught the basics of a game called foursquare. I picked up the strategy of the game and the playstyles of my opponents. Slowly, I began to leave my footprint on the gravel playing field as I outmatched both my dearest friends and my worst enemies. Fear crept into the skin of my peers; nobody dared to stop me. They gazed upon the godly being that stood before them with shivering knees. I may have been the prey of bloodhounds in the classroom, but on the battlefield of recess, I morphed into an apex predator.

It was an exceptionally hot day in late spring when I was crushing innocent souls on the playground, as had become routine. I was jumping around elastically when I lunged my leg forward in an exaggerated attempt to strike the ball. A loud tear emanated from the area of my groin and my body froze. I peered fearfully down to discover a deep rip in between my legs that exposed my bright blue underwear. Ruben’s eyes grew tenfold in size, and my entire audience burst out into maniacal laughter. My face flushed a dark purple and I stretched my shirt down over my pants as I rushed into the school building.

So this is awkward.

“What the hell was that?”

You gotta get yourself some new pants, bro.

“Right ‘cause that’s gonna help me right now, I still have two classes left.”

Guess you’re gonna have to really stretch this shirt out.

“You’re really no help at all.”

Not my problem either buddy, be glad I’m suffering through this with you.

“Not like you really have a choice.”

Maybe.

As fifth period neared, I crept out of my bathroom stall, and with a shirt that had now grown three sizes in length, I waddled awkwardly over to the classroom. Some of the kids who had seen me on the playground threw puzzled glances at me; others didn’t notice anything had happened in the first place. Hours seemed to go by until finally, the school day neared its end. I kept to the shadowed wall near the parking lot, still stretching my shirt, as I waited for my school bus. A girl from one of my classes walked by me.

“Hey, Tim!”

“Hey…”

“I heard what happened. I’m sorry, that must have been really weird.”

“Haha, yeah.”

“I’m sorry they all laughed at you. Don’t mind those boys, they’re stupid.”

“Thanks, Laura.”

“Bye!”

I waved at her with my right hand, tugging my shirt even harder with my left. She walked away with a smile across her face, a contagious one that pulled my lips upward at the edges and calmed my sporadic heartbeat.

She’s nice, huh.

“I wish she didn’t see me like this.”

But she was nice about it. Like she actually cared.

“Yeah, she’s nice.”

You ready for this bus ride?

“I swear if my bus driver sees this shit I’m gonna die of embarrassment.”

Yeah, I mean what if you just accidentally happened to pull your shirt up and everybody saw your ripped pants and your little baby blue underwear.

“Shut up, these are nice underwear, I’d be blessing their eyes.”

Do it then.

“Shut up.”

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

He was mysterious, to say the least—disappearing at will, reappearing to keep me company. It was almost impossible to pinpoint what he was. Our relationship molded and strengthened, but he remained a ghost. There was no getting to know him better. There were no play-dates. There didn’t exist a measure of our bond. He floated above me, an omnipresent god, and like some divine creator, he would step in when his creation malfunctioned. When my environment attacked me, he would stand there, holding me up with psychological crutches, and when I attacked myself, he gave me a pep talk, as if meticulously lubricating the gears of my mind. He kept me company until I asked him, “Who are you?” This question prompted a deafening silence each and every time. “Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”

Nothing.

“Does this happen to other people?”

I felt empty.

“Am I the only one with a disembodied voice?”

The emptiness consumed me.

I came to leave the voice unquestioned. Perhaps I would figure it all out later. Perhaps it would all make sense one day. I didn’t know when or where, but I hoped he’d give me some peace of mind one day.

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

After seventh grade, we moved to New York. This time, I wasn’t traveling alone. The few comforts I had built were, once again, ripped from me, but the voice in my head was there with me.

Somehow these kids suck more than the ones from your old school.

“At this point it’s probably just my fault, to be honest.”

There’s more to it than that.

After several weeks at my new school in New York, my voice and I began to contemplate together.

You know what I think it is?

“What?”

Well, they always post these pictures of each other as kids on Instagram. And by what we’ve heard, it sounds like these kids have known each other since birth.

“Right, who am I to them as a new kid in eighth grade?”

My point exactly, they just don’t need another friend. Nothing about you.

“Who cares, I have you.”

You’re weird, man, you know that?

“Yeah, maybe.”

I was weird. I had a voice in my head that spoke to me like another person. At times he felt like family, at others he felt like a stranger, but I trusted him. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he cared about me. What more could I ask for? We talked for long nights about my friends at school, at least the few that I was able to make.

Remember when you kicked that kid in the balls in science class earlier?

“Oh my God, what was I supposed to do? I was just trying to pack my bag and he yelled and scared the shit out of me. Only defense I had at the ready was my legs.”

You didn’t have to go for the poor man’s jewels, though.

“But it was kinda funny, and you know it.”

When he jumped back and fell face-first over a desk. Okay, that was funny.

“I almost feel bad for him.”

Naw, you were a king when you did that; the whole class thought it was hilarious. They were dying laughing.

“Haha fair enough.” I laughed for a second, then paused and asked again, for the first time in a long time, “So, who are you? Like, what actually is this, man?”

The room was cold. I shivered and quietly crept under the covers. A thousand eyes watched me in the dark. I shut mine and went to sleep. My legs shivered silently as my frozen feet dug uneasily into the mattress. I shouldn’t have asked. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to ask. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to answer.

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

Our family had been so busy with the move that we’d forgotten entirely to explore the renowned city we lived by. A sunny Saturday welcomed us to the train station, and before we knew it, we arrived at Grand Central Station. For minutes I stood in the middle of the building as I gazed up at the ceiling, then at the swarm of busy people, and finally at my mother.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? We should go to Central Park! It’s not far from here.”

We trod over to the park, and at the sight of it, a trigger hidden somewhere in my mind warped me back to my youth. Without warning, I was catapulted into my high chair, listening to my mother. Looks like they brought me here after all. I smiled at my parents and at the park, and in my mother’s eyes I caught a glimpse of that Californian sunset. The chase after that sunset felt like a distant dream. I had forgotten its existence, but now that I was reminded, the search for the epitomical beauty of travel set forth.

The years we spent in New York were filled with vacations. We traveled to the vast volcanic ranges of Iceland, the tumbling rivers of Patagonia, and the dry heat of the Southwest. I took thousands of pictures in the hopes that my camera would capture the sunset my eyes looked past, but I was never satisfied with my findings.

Over time, my motivation drained from me like water from a leaking faucet. Travel wasn’t what it used to be. It no longer refreshed me as it had in my past. No longer did beach chairs soothe my soul, or impressive landscapes excite my adventurous spirit, for the sunset I was looking for was nowhere to be found. I decided to conclude my search since confounding variables amplified my disinterest. School made me lonely, and repetitive work occupied my mind when I sought free time. My eyelids hung heavily above my eyes; never had I felt such strain in keeping them open as in the initial years I spent in the US.

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

This isn’t worth it, dude.

“What isn’t?”

This bullshit attitude of yours.

“What?"

Stop acting like the world is killing you. You’re smart, you’re strong, you know how to be social. Quit hitting yourself and just get up. People will like you if you don’t act depressed all the time.

On a random day in tenth grade, I decided I was done with it. He was right, this wasn’t worth it. So I traveled to the common areas of the school and began to talk to people I had met before.

“Hey Tim!” someone I knew from one of my classes yelled. “Look who crept out of his hole.”

“Haha, what’s up?”

“Here, let me introduce you to my friends.”

From this day forward I socialized with more people than I had in years. I came to be invited to parties after school and grew closer and closer with people who appreciated me for who I was.

Here’s our problem.

“Yeah?”

Sometimes you have to speak before they can ask you if you speak English. Sometimes you have to stand tall instead of standing once you’re asked to.

“I’ll show them who I am.”

That’s the spirit.

My voice became heard. In my classes, I would speak bombastically against others and my friends offered a reverence for my words that I hadn’t felt before. My shoulders grew sturdier, my words gained greater fortitude, my smile shined with a brighter whiteness, and when I looked anyone in the eyes, be it teachers, parents, or peers, I was the one looking into theirs, and no longer was the opposite true.

Slowly, the voice’s presence tapered off. I spoke for myself and no longer seemed to need him. Perhaps his creation’s malfunctions had been fixed. Perhaps I could steer the ship on my own now. At times, I forgot about him, until he popped back in to say hello.

⬨ ⬨ ⬨

Another spring was coming along, and my parents and I were discussing where we would travel to this time. My sister had just moved to LA and was building a career by herself, so naturally my parents suggested we go visit her: “We should visit Evelyn! See how she’s doing.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit California, and we haven’t seen her in months. I’d love to go.”

We booked a trip the same night, eager to get out of the house as always during breaks.

I found myself packing bags for the trip the night before the flight, scurrying from bathroom to closet to gather all the essentials. I was busy, as I often was those days. I realized I hadn’t been sitting still quite as much when, without warning, a wave of melancholy struck me and drew me to my bed. I stared at the tapestry on the wall next to me and blinked slowly. The air shifted. I could feel my breath. He was back again.

Seeing Evelyn’s gonna be pretty exciting.

“Yeah… I’m pretty stoked, dude.”

School’s been keeping you occupied.

“Sure isn’t what it used to be. Where have you been?”

I’ve been around, life’s going pretty good, isn’t it?

“It’s nice being known again. Been since elementary school or something.”

I know, I remember.

I smiled—that was my response. He was right, life was good.

The following day, we were on a plane headed for the other end of the country. I peered out of the window into the sponge clouds that floated atop the pastoral fields of the Midwest.

We spent days with my sister, learning about the subtleties of audio engineering and admiring the studio she worked in. Her fluffy white dog pounced on me when I entered her house and began to lick me.

“He likes you!” she told me.

“He’s adorable.”

“So how’ve you been?”

“You know? I’ve been good, Evelyn. Things are going really well for once.”

“You’ve grown since the last time I saw you. You look so much older!”

“I’ve been feeling older.”

She smiled, and I smiled back. There was a short pause in which the air filled with admiration. Then the dog bit my arm, and she yanked him away from me.

“We should get going, it’s getting late,” my father advised from the doorway.

“It’s been great seeing you guys!”

“You too!” we blurted in unison as we left.

I grinned to myself. We stepped into our car when my parents turned to me from the front seats.

“We’ve still got a bit of time, do you want to see our old house?” they asked me with excitement.

“That would be amazing, I’d love to see what it was like.”

Shortly after, our car stood parked atop the Palos Verdes hills.

“Here’s our old house,” my mother remarked.

It was a long, flat house with a pool by its side. In the distance I could see the ocean churning, and slowly I noticed the sun sinking deeper into the sky.

“Hey, remember that lighthouse we used to go to?” my father asked my mother.

“How could I forget.”

Within minutes we stood along a cliffside. To my right loomed a tall lighthouse, and behind me my parents sat down on a bench, holding hands with their eyes closed, feeling the fading heat on their faces. I sat down on a small hill and looked out in front of me. Streaks of sweet reds and oranges filled the sky. My camera hung around my neck. I didn’t need to take a picture because my eyes had finally found, and were certain they had found, the sunset they had been searching for since the day I found a lost treasure in my mother’s eyes. I felt as though I were back in my highchair once more. The blissful memory of my childhood sent a chill down my spine. Slowly my eyelids fell over my eyes, and before they closed, I was certain I felt the golden glimmer of the maple sunset reflecting in them.

Looks like you finally found it.

“Looks like we finally found it."

What’s the difference?

“Huh?”

Nevermind. Let’s enjoy the view.