The Sound of People Leaving

by Jamie Holland

Midway through my first semester in college (1982), my mom wrote to tell me that plane tickets were too expensive, so I wouldn’t be coming home for Thanksgiving. Besides, she said, Christmas was right around the corner. My first thought was, So are my sisters allowed to go home? But I knew the answer. They were at east coast schools where they could easily hop on the train to New York. I didn’t think about the holidays when I applied to schools. My thinking was more like, Sure, Texas is far but by the time I’m in college, home won’t be something I need anymore.

But clearly, I did need it because for the past month I’d been counting the days until the Thanksgiving break. I could picture the whole thing: Mom polishing the silver and ironing the dinner napkins; my oldest sister, Beth, steaming the green beans and rolling out the crust for apple pie; Lisa, my middle sister, mashing the potatoes and grinding the oranges and cranberries for the relish. I’d chop onions, carrots and celery for the stuffing. Dad would be off at the wine store, stocking up for the holidays. I had so much to tell them about Texas—how the sky turned light green before a tornado (Mom would say, “Woooo! Can you imagine?!”), how people were allowed to drink beer while driving, how most girls on my floor started their days with hot rollers and foundation. Mom would ask if I still wanted to major in Art History (Yes). Dad might holler from the living room, “How about Econ?” (No thanks!). Lisa and Beth would hound me with questions about the Greek scene—Are you planning on rushing? (No.) They’d want to know about my roommate from Arkansas (Swim team) and if all the guys wore cowboy hats (No). I wouldn’t mention that ever since I stepped onto campus, I’d felt homesick, which was confusing because I was the one who chose to go far away.

Find alternate plans. It sounded so cold. I crumpled the letter and shoved it in my backpack. As I dragged myself across the quad, past the fountain where, a month earlier, three sorority girls had been caught topless at midnight, I ran into Debbie Duffy, a goody-goody pre-med Texas girl whom, for no real reason, my roommate Janet and I secretly referred to as Debbie Does Dallas.

“Aww honey, you okay?” In her southern drawl, the question stretched like taffy, sounded something like “Yu o-kai?” She blinked at me, her blonde hair blazing in the late afternoon sun.

“Did somethin’ happen?” she pressed, tilting her head. I could smell her perfume—jammy and soft. Or maybe it was hairspray.

“No, I’m fine.”

A silver Porsche whizzed by, honking twice, but Debbie was too fixated on me to wave or even look at who it was. Why was she so interested in me? We were total opposites—her in mascara, cowboy boots and a bright pink tank and me in Levi’s, my sister’s cast-off Talking Heads t-shirt and brown hair awkwardly growing out after my impulsive, pre-college “I’m gonna cut off my ponytail and see what happens” cut (Not recommended).

“Well, you look like shit,” Debbie said. “I mean, no offense.” She scrounged in the outside pocket of her backpack. “Lipstick?”

“Do I need it?” I wasn’t sure why I asked; I rarely wore it.

“You look like you could start crying any minute.”

I grabbed the frosted lipstick and smeared it on.  “Thanks.”

“Okay. Well… I’m right down the hall if…you know…” She shrugged lightly and meandered away, toward the student center.

But I didn’t know. If I needed to talk? But we’d never talked. Not until now.

I ambled back to the dorm. A breeze blew through campus, carrying with it the unmistakable aroma of Mrs. Baird’s Breads. Twice a day, the home-baked smell drifted through campus, hovering above, just out of reach.

Once home, I dove face down on my bed. Thank God Janet was at swim practice. I felt like I was five again and my mom was gently pushing me into the kindergarten classroom except now I didn’t plead with her to reconsider. I uncrumpled the letter to make sure I’d read it right.

I had.

 

Coming from New York, Dallas had been a bold choice, especially since I’d never been to Texas. We moved every few years (Dad’s P.R. jobs) and I was sick of being yanked away from friends. Our most recent move was from a snowy Boston suburb to a drafty Tudor house thirty miles north of Manhattan. At the red brick K-12 school where all the students still had their nicknames from kindergarten, I, the new 11^th grader, befriended a group of girls who smoked Marlboro Lights between classes and guzzled Michelob Lights on the weekends. Smoking made me lightheaded, but alcohol slid down my throat like honey. The numbing effect held my loneliness at bay and made me believe, if just for a night, that I was happy in the new town. I was certain that college would be different.

When I told my high school college counselor that I wanted someplace warm and welcoming, he said, “Ever been to Dallas?”

“Dallas, Texas?”

“It’s a kick. And nothing beats that Southern hospitality.”

Maybe he mentioned academics, but I didn’t hear it. I was picturing myself thawing on the bright green grass there, the sun melting the last drip of cold from my body. When I mentioned Texas to my parents (they were hands-off in the college search), Dad said, “Now don’t run off with some cowboy!” and Mom shook her head. “Don’t listen to him. You’re my adventurous one.” I didn’t consider myself adventurous. My thinking was that college was just another move, except that this time I would choose the place. When I called the Admissions Office to request an application, the lady with the soft southern accent purred, “I sure hope to see you on campus, hun,” and I decided right then—I’m going to Texas. She sounded the way I wanted to feel: Alive, sexy, free.

 

Ten days later, as I studied for an Art History test on the Impressionists, Mom called and asked about my Thanksgiving plans.

“I’m staying in the dorm,” I told her, picking up a flashcard that showed ballerinas stretching: Degas. I picked up another. Lilypads: Monet. Methodical brushstrokes: Cezanne.

“With some of your new friends?” She sounded hopeful like maybe she wouldn’t feel guilty if I said my plan was to spend the holiday with a bunch of dormmates.

“Everyone else is going home.” I waited for an “Oh no! You’ll be all alone down there?”

Instead, she clucked her tongue. “You,” she marveled. “So independent.”

I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t feeling independent at all, in fact I was feeling like a big homesick baby, and I was dying to go home, but she’d tell me I was being silly, that Christmas would be here before I knew it.

Mom and baby: Mary Cassatt. Paris street scene: Pissarro.

I heard Dad holler, “Study hard!”

He was probably on the dark green couch with a pile of work papers on his lap, half-glasses balanced on his nose, red wine by his side. One of the things he instilled in us, besides “Never pay retail,” was to hide twenties in our wallets for emergencies (“mad money”). I followed his advice, but college life was expensive, and I’d already dipped into my mad money, which would’ve incensed him. Little things added up, like renting a mini fridge and paying for textbooks. Laundry detergent. Long distance calls to Patty, my best friend from Boston.

I flipped through more flashcards. Naked lady at picnic: Manet, not Monet. Boating party: Renoir. Then I got three wrong in a row. I blamed my family.

 

“So where are y’all headed for the big holiday?” Kara, our R.A. asked us at our floor meeting.

Kara was petite with wide brown eyes and soft brunette curls that tumbled down her back. Each night she strolled through the hall in her long pink bathrobe and curlers calling “Night, y’all” to us. Janet and I both rolled our eyes when we heard her coming, but I secretly loved the ritual and the reminder that she was there each night.

Every single girl said, “Goin’ home” or “Me too” or “Yup! Home!” No surprise there. They all had cars and credit cards and families waiting in their driveways with opened arms.

A flight home on People’s Express (“the flying bus”) would cost $187, but I didn’t have extra money lying around. It would have been fun to surprise my family, though. They’d meet me at the front door, aprons smeared with cranberry and pie dough.  “We were just talking about how much we missed you!” they’d say.

Who would make my stuffing? Which family member was patient enough to peel and chop all those carrots?  Who’d dice the onions and not burn the butter? Lisa and Beth would be home soon, cracking pecan shells, making pumpkin bread, talking about college. Being a freshman, I could finally join that conversation.

Kara said, “So that’s everyone?” She scanned the faces, but lingered a second too long on mine until I joined the chorus of nodding heads.

She said if anyone’s plans fell through, they were welcome to go home with her, but no way would I do that. I’d figure out a plan. I’d stay in the dorm and just suck it up.

“Aren’t you so excited to go?” Debbie said to me. She looked dreamy and soft in her white sweatshirt and matching bottoms. “I mean, college is great,” she whispered, “but home is like… Well, you know what I mean.”

I nodded. “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

Back in my room, I fell into bed, staring at my gloomy, blue-toned Edward Steichen poster of the Flat Iron building in the fog. I’d bought it junior year, which made sense in terms of my mood at the time. But here I was two years later, not miserable but not as happy as I’d imagined myself to be, either. The girls on my floor fit in here. They spoke the same way: “Y’all” and “Yes, ma’am,” and “Fixin’,” as in, “It’s fixin’ to rain” or “I’m fixin’ to go to happy hour.” They all planned to rush second semester. Maybe the south wasn’t for me. Yet I didn’t like it up north either. Where did I belong?

I looked at Janet’s perfectly made bed, her navy and tan striped comforter skimming the floor. Some people would die for a roommate who was gone all the time.

I got up, put on my sneakers. The hallway was quiet. I smelled a burst of shampoo as I passed the showers, then a waft of coffee. A few doors were opened; some girls studied on their beds. I waved as I passed Becky, the red head from St. Louis, and she waved back, calling, “Hey New York!”  That’s what she called me. New York. I hated New York but I liked having a nickname.

Outside the air was soft and thick. The trees rustled in the wind. A car whizzed by, playing “Let it Whip.” At the student center, an orange and brown banner screamed “Turkey Drive!” Inside sorority girls sold cookies in the shape of turkeys.

Even though I’d already checked my mailbox that morning, I opened it again, imagining a late delivery, a large envelope in Mom’s rushed cursive saying, “Here’s your ticket! Hurry home!” but my box was empty.

Back outside I slumped down on a bench in front of the big fountain where Debbie had asked me if I was okay. I’d always thought I was good at hiding my feelings but maybe it was the opposite. Maybe with just a glance at me people saw everything I was trying to cover up.

It was only four days. Thanksgiving plus the weekend. It could be worse. It could be a whole week. It could be Christmas break! But four days was do-able, right? And, maybe in a weird way, it was kind of an opportunity. A challenge. I could do a lot in four days. I could get ahead in my classes, for one. And maybe I’d pull out my running shoes and hit the track. I’d get in shape! And without my dorm mates hogging the showers, I could finally enjoy a long, hot one. I’d read the novel that Patty raved about.

The wind picked up, carrying with it a spray of water from the fountain that misted my t-shirt and dribbled down my arms. With the next gust, the wind rearranged my misshapen hair all over my face as the fountain water added its final touches. I laughed out loud. I could do this. I could be alone for four days, no problem.

 

A week before the break, a chill fell over the campus. Students rushed through the main quad, their cheeks flushed with the cool air. “You leaving Tuesday or Wednesday?” seemed to be the big question in the hallways and classrooms. As I climbed the staircase to English class, I considered my family’s typical holiday meal. I’d been making the stuffing since I was eight. Year after year, the five of us turned out the exact same dishes, give or take an ingredient change.

In fifth grade, a friend introduced me to a different kind of Thanksgiving dish: sweet potatoes topped with oven-browned marshmallows.

Hopeful, I shared the idea with Mom, who nixed it in about three seconds. “We don’t need that sort of thing.”

“I’ll make it,” I pleaded.

But she’d made up her mind. Over the coming years I’d learn that “that sort of thing” was code for “too fattening.” Too sweet. Too many calories for her and therefore too many for us.

In the lecture hall, I plunked in the seat. It was one meal. One meal out of 365 meals. If I couldn’t manage missing one stupid meal, there was something very wrong with me.

 

“I can’t believe you’re staying here,” Janet said a few days later as she shimmied a Kool and the Gang cassette tape into her Walkman. “Don’t they close down the dorms?”

“I don’t think so.” I flipped through the copy of Less Than Zero that Patty had sent me. It was about a guy in college who goes back home to L.A. for Christmas break. Maybe California was where I needed to be. I was sort of a free spirit, wasn’t I?

Janet pulled her shiny, chlorine-bleached hair into a short ponytail. “What’re you gonna do the whole time?”

“Oh, I have tons to do.”

I hadn’t finalized my plan, but most likely it would go like this: Study in the morning, run in the late afternoon. Or maybe I’d run early—was sunrise too early? Run, study, read. No. Run, draw, study, read. Maybe I’d throw in a fast while I was at it. Sort of an Outward Bound solo minus the woods. I’d write an article about it for the Daily Campus and everyone would read it when they returned, satiated from all those home-cooked meals, and think, Oh God, I could never do that, and I’d think, Well I can.

 

By Wednesday campus emptied out. Packed cars zoomed out of parking spaces, blasting “Jack and Diane” and “Don’t You Want Me, Baby.”  No, I thought. My mom did not want me. And apparently neither did my dad or sisters because no one had even thought to call me.

Janet was long gone. A few girls poked their heads in and peered around my room for signs of travel. “When’s your flight?” I started to feel almost arrogant about my self-sufficient plan and judgmental about everyone going home to their families.

The sound of people leaving struck me. Since when had suitcase zippers gotten so loud? And why did people drag their luggage instead of using the handles? The worst was the final click of the locks, especially on certain doors that, all semester, had been swung wide open.

By Wednesday afternoon, all I could think about was my stuffing. The crunch of the pecans, the moist breadcrumbs. The way it tasted with a bite of turkey and a smear of mashed potatoes. But I had a great adventure ahead of me, right? Yes! I’d get so much done!

Becky ran past my room. “Have a good break, New York!”

I rushed to the door. “Is everyone gone?” The hallway was bare except for an empty, flung-open pizza box containing a curved piece of crust. Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered.

“Almost,” she called.

A sad howl came from my stomach. I was dying for a good meal. A homemade meal with enough leftovers for the entire weekend. This was the worst part, I told myself. The in-between space. As soon as the door closed behind the last dormmate, I’d stretch out on my bed and start my book. No. I’d go running. Wait. What had I planned?

A quiet breeze drifted through the slightly opened window. Mrs. Baird’s Breads was at it again, churning out loaf after loaf. I wondered if they made extra for the holiday.

I sat on my bed, my palms light on the comforter. A blast of silence throbbed in my ears.  Just get through it I told myself.  But getting through it meant holding my breath until Sunday night and I was pretty sure that would be impossible. No, it wouldn’t. I had a schedule, I just needed to stick to it.

“Hey.” Hey-ey

Debbie stood in my door frame. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in a perfect mess. Her blue eyes matched her luggage. “Need a ride to the airport? I go right past it.”

“Thanks, but I’m staying here.”

“Here?” She glanced around the room. “In the dorm?”

I shrugged. “It’s just a few days.”

“So, who will you eat Thanksgiving dinner with?”

“Probably just me.”

“Alone?”

“I don’t really love turkey anyway, so…”

“Oh, I do.” She brightened. “My daddy deep fries the turkey.”

My daddy, I thought but I didn’t feel my usual smirk.

The baking bread smell kept coming through the window. I didn’t want to smell it anymore. My hand went to the back of my neck, feeling the muscle that attached to my skull. I pressed my finger on it, rolling it over and over, creating arcs of pain.

Growing up, the silent expectation in our house was for me and my sisters to figure out things on our own. Mom would cook dinner, but we would not bother her or my dad with homework problems or friendship issues or logistics, like which day we were supposed to arrive at college. I flew down alone with my trunk, but when the cab dropped me at my dorm, the doors were locked. An older girl with Greek letters on her shirt told me that move-in day was the next day, not the day I’d arrived. She pointed me in the direction of a Hilton where she said freshmen would be staying. Luckily the cab driver from the airport had waited for me. I booked a room (mad money plus the three twenties Dad stuffed in my backpack before I boarded the plane) and lingered in the lobby, hoping to meet another lone student. When I didn’t, I bought a hot dog and Fritoes at the nearby 7-Eleven.

“And throw a pack of Marlboro Lights in there, too,” I said because cigarettes seemed like a cool thing to have at college. I lit one in the morning in the breakfast area where all the bright-eyed new students and their parents were eating waffles and hugging each other and planning the big move-in. I told myself I didn’t need one spec of that. I could do it all myself.

“It’s sure gonna be lonely here all alone,” Debbie said.

Earlier I’d kicked off my socks and shoes and now I focused on the embarrassed curl of my toes.

“But you’re strong,” she said. “I guess that’s a New York thing.” She pronounced it thang.

I looked up. Below her bottom lip, where her foundation had missed, was a faint scar I’d never noticed, stretching almost all the way to her jawbone.

“I’m not a real New Yorker,” I told her. “We’ve only lived there two years.”

Debbie half-nodded, then glanced over at my Madame X poster that I’d bought at the Met a few weeks before leaving for college. The day I moved into the dorm, smelling like cigarette smoke and hotel coffee, I unpacked everything in a fury, taping posters and museum post cards and photos of friends to my wall. It took me forty-five minutes to make my new home.

“You should go,” I said. “Traffic could be bad.”

“You should come with me.”

“Where?”

“Home,” she said.

I’d said the word a million times, but mostly it was in reference to rigid curfews and strict dinner times. Debbie’s version sounded like that sweet potato dish with the marshmallows on top. Still, I stood firm, the same way I did when my mom said, “Are you sure you want to fly down there alone?” and I said, “Yup. I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. I was furious with my parents for not helping me with the college process. I was devastated that they didn’t say, “You can’t go so far away. We’ll miss you too much!”

“Thanks, anyway,” I told Debbie. “But I have a lot of work to do.”

The skin around her eyes crinkled. Her head tilted.

“I have a whole plan.” I nodded, trying to convince myself.

When she didn’t respond, I said, “What?”

“You’re like one of those walnuts in our backyard that you just can’t crack, no matter what.”

I tried to smile but the corners of my mouth wouldn’t go up. It probably wasn’t meant to be funny, anyway, it was more of a comment about me and my I don’t need help vibe. Why couldn’t I just admit that I was dying inside? That I was desperate for my family to call and tell me they couldn’t bear being without me, that if I could just hop on the next flight home, they’d wait for me, they’d keep everything warm.

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” she said.

I shook my head. “No, no. It’s fine.”

And then I saw it. All of it. In my art history classes, the teachers projected slides of paintings onto a white screen. Renoir, Pissarro, Gauguin. We were supposed to recognize each artist’s work by just glancing at a painting. But now instead of paintings they were scenes of our Thanksgiving dinners. The time Mom screamed at Dad to put down that bottle and help with the turkey. When Beth yelled “I hate you!” to Lisa. When Lisa sobbed through the whole meal. And where I, at the sparkling dinner table, babbled on and on about how moist the turkey was and how well-seasoned the green beans were as I passed the Chardonnay around and around, filling up our glasses again and again until the pit in my stomach dissolved and someone said, “Shit!” and pushed their chair back against the wood floor and ran into the kitchen because the pies were burning.

The tiniest glance at a scene and I knew who’d said what and how many bottles we’d consumed. Each year I told myself it would be different. Mom would stop trying to make everything perfect. My sisters would get along. But year after year, nothing changed. We were all the same all the time.

“My family’s a fucked-up alcoholic mess,” I blurted out.

Debbie laughed. “Awesome. You’ll fit right in with mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jamie Holland‘s work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Antietam Review (Winner of the 1998 Literary Prize), Baltimore Review, Brain Child, Electric Grace: Still More Fiction by Washington Area Women, Flash Fiction Magazine (Pushcart-nominated story), Gargoyle, Literary Mama, Pithead Chapel, Scoundrel Time, Under the Gum Tree and others. Her coming-of-age novel, The Lies We Tell, can be found on Amazon. Her short fiction and personal essays can be found on jamieholland.substack.com. She lives in Washington, D.C. with her husband.