Part XIV: “Soup”

I wake up to a text from my dad. It reads: “Plz come down to dinner”. Frantically scoping the hotel room, I throw open the curtain to the balcony and plow through the bathroom door—soon realizing that my mom had left for dinner with my dad and Brooke already.

 All of a sudden, I feel a deep pit in my stomach. I know exactly what comes next, but nothing can prepare me for it. The next breath I take is small; it fills my lungs, but not with air—with something that feels like carbon dioxide. Within seconds my heart skips ten beats and a heavy pounding fills my chest. I can not only feel my heart race, I can hear it—a sound all too similar to that of a time bomb. Gasping for air, pools of fresh tears fill my eyelids.

It is frustrating to not know the cause.

Minutes later the panic attack subsides, but the uneasiness of my stomach prompts me to run to the bathroom. I sit on the ground in front of the toilet pressing on my chest. Nothing comes out. I sit there staring into the white toilet bowl and clear water for a few minutes, frustrated.

I reach for the cup of water sitting by the sink. After taking a few gulps, I set the glass down and feel a slight ache on my eyelids. I put my cold fingers against them. I look in the mirror to see how swollen they are, but the redness of my nose distracts me from the pain. Quickly, I turn on the sink and splash my face with cold water, wipe it off with the nearest towel, and put my yellow facemask over my nose and mouth and guide it around my ears.

I slowly crack the door open, do not see anyone in the hall, and make my way to the elevator. I hesitantly click the bottom button. I hear a ding and step inside the small space and hold onto the next ten seconds of solitude. The sliding doors jolt open as I approach the entrance of the restaurant and speed up as I pass by full tables of people and make my way outside.

I find our table, but cannot describe any of my surroundings because my head is down. Except for the table, I got a good look at the table.

The tears streaming down my neck make their way under my crew neck and onto my shirt. I wipe my eyes with my napkin slowly. 

My mom wiggles in her seat and chimes in with an overly cheerful tone, “Tomorrow’s going to be 80 degrees and sunny! What would we like to do?” I stare at the table in silence and catch a glimpse of her fiddling with her hands under the tablecloth.  

The waiter arrives and does not even ask if I want anything to eat for dinner; they don’t look at me to my knowledge.

People don’t know how to act around someone with red swollen eyes with tears shooting out of them.

I hear the talking and conversation of the familiar voices, of my sister and parents, and absorb it—but don’t process a word. Instead, the table receives my undivided attention.

The large, solid round mahogany table is illuminated in a perfect circle by an odd, brown lamp that resembles a vase. The light allows for a better view of the intricate white lines displayed across the wood revealing long, imaginary thin puddles against the dark frame. I scooch myself a few inches closer to the table and the lines vanish, forming perfect scab-like ovals.

Physically being with the closest people of my life, I feel like I’m at a table with strangers.

My soup comes. The tannish broth churns against the black backdrop and drifts perfectly inward around the tofu and scallions. A careful, but intricate sandstorm of broth dodges me as I place my spoon slowly into the bowl, watching it swirl. My mom always told me I was observant.

My hand shakes while I attempt to guide the white, deep spoon up to my mouth.

I look to the right at my rice and realize how tiny it is, wondering how many individual pieces there are. I think back to when I used to correctly guess the number of jelly beans in the jar in junior school.

It’s strange how a child’s mind will notice these things—the little details. Children notice everything. It is when I cry and look down that I begin to feel like a child again.

My dad looks up from his phone and turns to me, not one, not twice, but three times to ask me the same question: “is that [soup] good, Alyssa?”

It is interesting, though, that he actually engaged with me. Usually, he’ll act as though I am not there when I cry. 

When the gabapentin starts to kick in, or else that’s what I feel or tell myself, I start to look up a few times, raise my head in general—but only more of the table comes into view.

I hear the movement of the ocean and drown out the voices—occasionally hearing a few words or two. I still don’t know what’s around me besides my family, and that’s okay.

My sister must be mocking my dad again because my mom is having another one of her laughing fits where she laughs uncontrollably, cries and then cannot contain her laughter. 

Someone drops something and it makes a loud noise. Everyone looks but me. I do not even look at the baby my sister is waving at even though I love babies, even though she says it’s a cute baby. 

I look up when the baby laughs, but two little feet with tiny toes stick out behind the dad’s chair.

I make eye contact with the baby’s father and he smiles at me and I don’t even remember what I do with my face, and spend the next five minutes trying to remember. And I just let go of a singular tear.

Without hesitation, the parents of the baby rush to the baby’s side. The mother picks him up, takes the baby in her arms, and rocks him back and forth. The father shuffles through the tote bag of toys and pulls the baby’s pacifier out. By this time, the baby had already stopped crying. 

When a baby cries, the world stops and everyone attempts to make the baby happy again. 

My mom still fidgets in her chair. My sister stares at her phone, scrolling through Twitter. My dad, once again, asks me how the soup is. I feel a tear form in the corner of my eye, allow it to fall down my cheek, and watch carefully as it drops and rolls into the center of my empty soup bowl.