Calling Hours
A visitation
Pitbull’s “Timber” emanated from under the crack between the front door and carpeted dorm floor. Before I unlocked the handle, I noticed that Camryn had tacked up a neon pink bob wig on the bulletin board hung next to the entryway. It accompanied a picture of the man whose voice was blaring throughout the apartment, a baby-sized sock embroidered with a greyhound, and small printed pictures of me and Camryn before and after a night out of drinking (terrifying). I laughed at her new addition to the decor. She loved that wig.
Pitbull’s voice became exponentially louder upon opening the door and I found Camryn in front of the TV screen, Wii remote in hand, flailing around in the most horrible dance moves I had ever seen. She didn’t bother to greet me (understood, completely) and kept her eyes on the Just Dance silhouette vainly coaching her through the moves.
I raised my hands up and stepped farther into the room to the beat of the song, yelling “AYE, AYE, AYE, AYE, AYE,” over the music. The room was lit with colored flashes from LED strip lights as if it was a Saturday night and we were five drinks in. Leftover balloons from my 19th birthday littered the tiled floor, changing color with each flash of the lights. I started frat flicking and kept chanting ‘AYE’ to show my support for Camryn’s endeavors. She cackled amidst profuse huffing, but didn’t let up on her effort. This was typical Tuesday night behavior for her.
Finally the song ended and she was able to take a break. We both paused our movements and went silent, waiting for her score to pop up on the screen. With the sound of a twinkle, 3 stars shined.
“THREE STARS??? Maybe I am just really bad at this,” Camryn gasped. She actually thought she was killing the game. I laughed and agreed with what she said.
“Your pasta is boiling over by the way,” I told her. She defeatedly spoke an expletive, tossed her remote onto the couch, and shuffled to the kitchen. As she tended to her business, I stepped in front of the TV, sliding my swim bag down my arms behind my back and dropping it to the floor. I flipped my head over to put my wet chlorine-saturated hair into a bun on top of my head. Then, I picked up the Wii remote Camryn had abandoned.
I hit replay on the game and mentally locked in. It didn’t matter that I had just got back from practice because I had a mission to accomplish. With my feet out past my hips, I put my left hand on my waist and my right hand up in the air.
“My turn,” I said with a smirk. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, ready to one-up my roommate.
When I open my eyes, I’m standing in the hallway looking at all that’s happening through the closed door of the apartment. Camryn’s draining her pasta in the sink and I’m swinging my arms in circles to the game. The carpet smells the same certain way it always has. The hallway door I opened to get there creaks the same way it always has. The elevator crawls as dreadfully slow as it always has. My memory is thick and tangible. I can feel it all. I am here as if I never left.
Suddenly it’s hard to believe that I’m the same girl as the one giggling in triumph at a 5-star dance. My face falls from blank to sullen when I hear Camryn yell in frustration at my winning score. My eye bags go dark, my shoulders slump, my mouth frowns. I recognize the dancing girl as if she’s someone I used to know, not as if she’s me. She looks different, acts different.
My pry my eyes from her and they drift from the door to the bulletin board next to it. It’s empty, riddled with holes from thumb tacks. I can’t tell which holes are the ones that held up the wig. The sock and the pictures are probably in a landfill somewhere, separated and never to be with each other again.
I wonder why it’s so easy for me to remember Camryn’s voice. I haven’t talked to her in years. Haven’t laughed to tears with her in years. Haven’t danced in years. She’s someone else now, like I am. The girls I see through the door are merely ghosts; people who died and became new without each other. I’m not half as alive as I was then. Camryn probably isn’t either, but I’m not sure. I wonder if she ever sees ourselves the way I do.
A haunting injection of nostalgia swells in my chest and spreads up the sides of my neck, closing in on my throat. I feel defeated, sick, brittle, callous. Nothing is the same. I’ve kicked up dust during this visitation and now I’m bound to choke on it. No matter how many times I wash my hands or clean my clothes of it, I think the stain will last a while.
19 year old me can’t see 23 year old me standing at her door. Would she recognize me if she opened it? Would she notice my rounder face, my tired gaze? Would she feel my headache? How could I not warn her of what’s to come? I want to protect her, teach her everything I know now. Don’t trust her, don’t date him, they are going to hate you. I can’t help but pity her naiveté. Not much time has passed between us, but so much time has passed.
When my head falls into my hands, I decide it’s time to leave. I don’t bother looking at the girls again. I pick up my heavy feet and walk down the hallway, hoping to never come back. Laughs and squeals follow me as I go, pushing against my back as if I’m not wanted there anymore. As if I’m a creepy stranger peering into their doorway. At this point, that’s all I really am. And all the apartment is meant to be now is a grave.
It’s hard to think that time will always pass like this. Life keeps slipping away and when I’m 27 I’ll look back at me now, sitting at my computer, thinking of how much harder it’s all gotten. This is the cost of getting older: a heart falling to places I can’t go back to. How far, how far will it go?
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