Sole Holder of Memories

“Remember when we were standing on my back porch in Jamaica, drinking Red Stripe at night, and that cockroach flew in out of nowhere and smacked me right in the face?”

We’d both laugh, incredulously. I hated the things, we both knew. The memory is sweet and makes me smile inward. It’s getting harder to remember the sound of your laughter.

It had happened so quickly that I didn’t even have time to react before it was over. I processed it myself after the fact and we’d both laughed it off.

When people serve in the Peace Corps, it’s not actually a two-year term like most people think. It’s two years and three months. It’s two years at your ‘post’, but before that you spend three months in country training, before you’re cut loose. Within those three months, you become bonded to your fellow volunteers, somewhat out of necessity.

You didn’t get to pick your captives, but if you get lucky enough, each one will become utterly unforgettable; irreplaceable. Our group was tightly bonded.

When you get your site assignment, that’s when the nerves really kick in. What site did you get? Did you get a more urban setting like you requested? How close are you to the airport, the ocean? What route will you take into town to visit the office? But most importantly, who in the hell is somewhat close to you, and are you happy with who that is?

I lucked out in getting the placement I did, in St. Ann’s Bay. At least I think so. I was right on the north coast; 2 blocks walking distance from the ocean. The bus ride to town would only be about 3 hours. I was an hour from MoBay and 20 minutes from Ochi, a huge tourist destination. Ochi would become my respite when I was overwhelmed. Could always go to Ochi and blend in. Until I’d go into the shop to buy a pack of Cravin’ A’s, or haggle down an American-taxed taxi fare.

“You’re not a tourist; you live here.”

“You’re right” I’d say, “Tanks. Ya (h)ear?”

“Alright, yeah, yeah. Bless.”

Each group ‘on island’ shares the island with the previous group. I was in group 82. Jack and Cindy were in group 81. You came later. You were in group 83. My first year was shared with group 81, and boy did they take good care of me. The initial meeting was such a sigh of relief. Finally, a chance to ask a fellow and further seasoned volunteer what the heck I was supposed to be doing.

“How do I pay my electric bill?” You could always text. Phone credit in Jamaica is not cheap, but all volunteers had free call and text to each other within the phone plan that was worked out thankfully by the US and Jamaican governments. This would become invaluable.

Most of the other interactions were at small gatherings at one volunteers’ post. We’d all just party, and usually had had way too much to drink because all of us were nervous and had no idea what we were doing. “You remember when Charlie did X?” I’d hear an 81-er say.

“Who’s that?” I’d ask.

“Oh, that was a 79-er.” they’d say with wistful nostalgia. “He was awesome.” I don’t know who that is. I likely never will.

I remember when Cindy took me to the market, to “her girl”. Now I knew where and how to buy my produce. Another sigh of relief. Now I knew how to flag a taxi, and how to ask for a stop where I needed to get off.

“Driva. One stop up a Middle St.” I’d say, ignoring my ridiculous accent. The car barreling forward at 80 mph would stop at Middle Street like I asked, and people would make room for me to climb over them to exit.

After my first year, Group 81 finished out their service and went home. I remember the last hangouts, the last hugs, the last drinks, and the last tears. Re-integrating into American society is harder than integrating into your host country.

Ten-fold.

No one back “home” knows the first thing about you anymore, or how to relate or how to talk to you. Everyone’s moved on; lives have changed and rearranged. Your ‘place’ no longer exists. So you have to try to make a new one.

When group 83 came, I was leery. “Who are these people?” I’d ask myself.

“These aren’t my people. I’ll have to start all over again! But whoever it is, whoever I get in my town I’ll have to take care of. I have to. It’s the right thing to do. 81 did it for me. They’ll be my responsibility.”

And in this lonely foreign place, I welcome that. I looked forward to meeting you.

When I met you, you weren’t at all what I was expecting. You were a bit younger than me and were beautiful with long dark wavy hair. You had the body of a model, and I was intimidated. In my head I thought, what brought you here? You don’t seem like a misfit or a reject like I often felt. You must be one of the well-adjusted volunteers who’ll have an easy time, but never leave their house, only talk to other Americans, and keep up a stock pile of Nutella in their cabinets.

I don’t know what you thought of me, but I probably came across as cool and experienced and safe. That’s how I tried to be. That’s how my friends in group 81 appeared to me. Through you I learned that even the pretty girls have problems. An obvious thing. I never realized how immature I was until I lived in Jamaica. And while there I was on a collision course. I was a mess, just a ball of action acting, without much thought. That was my strategy; that’s how I survived the incredible mind f*ck that it is to try to assimilate into a completely foreign culture. You’ll start to think you get it, then realize you know absolutely nothing. I make it sound horrible. It’s not horrible, not all the time. It is amazing, and eye-opening, and utterly lifechanging. It is also singlehandedly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Growing pains.

I loved coming over to your house, Jack and Cindy’s old house. I felt such comfort with you, and through our walks and talks we built our bond, and I began to love you. I still remember the day you told me I was your best friend. I didn’t realize the gravity, the weight. I didn’t realize the honor.

I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry you got stuck with such a horrible influence and disaster of an elder volunteer. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong. I’m sorry I stayed with a man that did the things that he did, which caused us to fall out, and for me to have my last 8 months in country taken from me, for my own safety. I’m sorry I let any of that happen. I’m sorry I left you alone.

I’m sorry it took me so long to learn. I’m sorry it seems like you may have followed in my footsteps. I’m sorry that I couldn’t sort through my trauma quicker; get over the resentment and anger I had over my service coming unexpectedly to an early close, over something that was done for me but instead felt like a punishment. I felt like a failure. In a lot of ways, I still do.

We do stupid things when we’re isolated, lonely and confused.

I reached out to you; you didn’t want to talk. I don’t blame you. I said things I wish I hadn’t. I was hurt and took it out on you. I was disrespectful. And the next thing I knew? You were transformed. You were no longer the same person. The girl who didn’t believe in marriage was suddenly married. The girl who didn’t believe in God was now a devout church goer with their husband. I wasn’t mad at you. Of course, you weren’t the same. None of us were. I never expected you to be.

I was just so happy to read your words, that you began speaking to me again and wanted me back in your life. And you were back now, in the US! You moved to Tennessee. You were a teacher. We had so much to talk about. We made plans to arrange to talk on the phone, to catch up. I wanted to hear everything, every insignificant detail, every perception you made, every conclusion you had drawn, every situation you had deduced. You were SO smart. You always were. I was still deep in my trauma, but a part of me came back to life when I read your email that you forgave me. I couldn’t wait to talk to you again.

The call never came to be. When I found out you passed away, I was at work, with my students. I remember reading the headlines: twice.

“Your husband passed away? That's awful! I must move up our phone call; reach out!” My brain flat-out refused to process what I was reading correctly. I messaged a mutual friend. “Stephanie died?”

“Yes.” She said. “It’s awful.” Time suddenly stopped. And then my mind began to race.

Even though you were safe back home, you were in Jamaica when it happened, which somehow feels fitting, and somehow makes it hurt even more. It was a car accident. You likely died instantly.

_________________________________________________________________

“I never want to die.”

Words you told me years before. We were sitting in your living room, listening to the sounds outside.

“Really?” My clinical depression asked the question.

“Yeah.” you said. “Life is awesome. If I could live forever, I would.”

I thought this was childish at the time, but I heard your words again in your voice while I read that headline.

I miss you so much. I think about you nearly every day. You were my best friend too, though I didn’t realize it at the time, or have the words to say. I can’t think too long, or the pain becomes just too much to bear. And I feel responsible. I know that’s illogical. But I was 82 and you were 83. And I wasn’t there.

So now I hold onto those memories, our memories, swimming in the ocean, our walk into the shopping district through the back way, through the hospital and the horse club. The drinks on your porch and mine. You dyed my hair, we cried over boys. I hold those memories tight; I cling to them as if they will no longer exist if I let go. For I am the sole holder of those memories, you were the only other one there. And they’re so precious to me; I’ll tell you again one day, when I’m there.

“Remember when we were standing on my back porch in Jamaica?”

We’ll smile to ourselves.

Life is awesome. If I could live forever, I would.

It’s getting harder to remember the sound of your laughter.