Before 19, Volume 3, 2014
Safe Haven
Safe Haven By Sabrina Stanich I stretch my legs out, flexing my feet under three layers of warmth. My toes push against the taut sheet as I pull the comfortor towards my chest. It is thick between my fingers, and as I drape it over my body, it soothes me, instantly. It’s the color that your cheeks turn when your dad kisses you in public, the color of the streamers that decorated the handlebars of my training-wheel bike, the color of the vintage Sabrina movie poster (the original, of course, with Audrey Hepburn). It’s funny, of all the colors, my sister really is not a pink person. If I had to color-ify her, I’d probably go with navy. Not in a negative way— she’s just very serious, professional, commanding. Looking around her room, I smile at the irony of pink accents: a magenta lantern lamp, my stolen movie poster, a slouchy monogrammed chair, a flowered headband box, a rosy corkboard. The paint on the walls has faded so that it’s almost an off-white, but if you look really closely, you can tell that it, too, was once pink. I always wondered why she decorated it so…girly. She was never one for makeup or fashion— she prefers Margaret Thatcher to Bobbi Brown any day. I reach for her two teddy bears, Cranberry and Oatmeal, and prop them up next to me as I continue writing. They smell like lavendar and Chanel N. 5 and old cashmere sweaters. I close my eyes, clinging tightly to Cranberry and smelling my sister. A placard of Barack Obama stares at me from across the room, a campaign clipping promoting Change. Next to him sits a family tree of the English monarchy, a crimson and white University of Chicago pennant, scattered postcards from Provence and Scandanavia, and a photograph of Thomas Jefferson captioned, “Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle.” I smile as my eyes settle upon her bookshelf. Floor to ceiling, Leading Ladies in History hugs Invisible Man, The Giver wedged in between Too Big to Fail and Anne of Green Gables. Harry Potter embraces Nancy Drew, and Trixie Beldon meets the Hardy Boys. I love that they are almost all hardcover, because they make that firm sound when you shut them. They reek of aged yellow paper, SAT vocabulary words and Maddy’s pedantic mind. The fireplace across from her desk has never been used, though for years it was embellished with surplus J. Crew clothing and homeless history books. Now, the black brick gapes at me, harsh and empty.
I tuck the comforter under my chin, recalling the night I snuck into her room to have a secret sleepover. It was about eleven o’clock, and my parents had told us it was bedtime so they kissed us both goodnight in our separate rooms, and told us to stay put. Thirty seconds later, I perched myself at the edge of my bed listening to their footsteps against the creaky hallway floors, and staring at my clock. After exactly twelve minutes, I was sure they were asleep, so I spidermanned down my hall and crawled into my sister’s room. I remember tripping as I tried hoisting myself onto the bed. My leg scraped the wooden side and I would have started crying if Maddy hadn’t burst into giggles. We must have laughed about it for at least ten minutes, constantly shushing each other and slapping our hands over our mouths. We buried ourselves under the pink blankets, inviting Cranberry and Oatmeal to our sleepover too. I still remember what I was wearing— my favorite 3rd grade summer pajamas from the Gap. Three small palm trees decorated the tank top, with light green spaghetti straps, and the boxers were adorned with scattered palm trees to match. I remember because Maddy wore her matching set. Sitting on this bed, I remember her showing me her first bra and telling me that middle school is so much better than fourth grade. And there she stands getting ready for her first day of high school, as I sit on the bed, eagerly rating each outfit she tries on. I told her to strut like Beyoncé on our make-shift catwalk, our creaky wooden hallway, and she rolled her eyes in discomfort, saying she “couldn’t do it.” After a few minutes of confidence boosting, Maddy and I pranced around her room karaoking to “Love on Top,” swinging our nonexistent hips and giggling until our stomachs hurt. I can still feel the rush of excitement that rippled through my body when she did her seasonal “closet clean.” This was code for free new clothing for moi. But as we both stopped growing and settled into our various sizes, the closet clean and the excitement that followed became semi-annual, and now it simply fails to exist. I can still see her crumpled on the floor in total hysterics, incoherently whimpering how Ms. Woods told her she “wouldn’t get into college.” I remember how I burst out laughing even in the midst of her manic breakdown because of all the people in the world, there was no way in hell that Madeleine Stanich wasn’t getting into college. And I can smell the fresh rain dripping from her hair as she sits with legs folded, criss-cross apple-sauce style, her cheeks flushing as she tells the story of her first kiss. And I remember our 46,983rd
Before 19, Volume 3, 2014 secret sleepover, the night before she left for college. I had school the next day, but we stayed up until sunrise, whispering, giggling and crying the entire night. My dad likes to keep her door closed, but I like it open. Because even if she isn’t actually here, I can feel her presence as I pass her room when the door is ajar. Academia and intellect wander into the hall, warmth and support radiate from within. So, I settle down in her sheets and flip through my Euro textbook because I can envision her standing just a foot away, lecturing me about the Protestant Reformation. And even though that natural rush of defensive aggravation ripples through me as she preaches about Martin Luther, I am desperate to hear her condescending voice. Desperate to inhale the wealth of knowledge and insight that she emanates. I would never admit this to her because she would blush and reject my compliment, even though she knows that she is brilliant. Her posters and photographs confirm it; each gavel congratulating her on Best Delegate that lines the top of her bookshelf is physical validation of her intelligence. Every political quotation and historical timeline reinforces her passion for politics and love of international diplomacy. It’s funny, because she would never outright acknowledge her academic success, yet she feels the constant need to prove it to everyone around her, including herself. I guess that I am sort of similar in that way. I’ve always been the more social of the two of us. I’ve always had friends to go out with on the weekends, people to sit with at lunch, boys to text during family dinners. Glossy disposable camera pictures cover every inch of the giant corkboard above my bed—the photobooth from prom, laughing in the McKnight room, July sleepovers, Sushi Mike dinners, April parties. It is a constant reminder that I have friends, that people like me. It is the last snapshot I see falling asleep and the first image I wake up to. It makes me feel wanted, appreciated, loved. I find it ironic because to a large degree, it seems that the things that we are the most comfortable with are simultaneously our greatest insecurities. I can’t count the number of days and nights when I feel rejected, lonely, and left out. All it takes is an Instagram upload or Snapchat, and the irrational fear that my friends actually hate me creeps in. And yes, maybe excessive estrogen levels are to blame, but it is more than that. Because the feeling happens more than I’d like to admit, and it is in those moments, when I look to my wall and tell myself that I have friends, that I am loved, that I am wanted. I make up excuses, sometimes I cry, and then I move on.
Safe Haven I think it’s the same way for Maddy, with all the Thomas Jefferson and Barack Obama. They tell her what she wants to hear, what she wants to believe about herself. And as I discovered this, I realize now more than ever, why Maddy’s room is so appealing. It provides me with an infinite level of comfort, love and affection. She will never leave me. No matter how many times I spill my midnight bowl of cereal on her sheets or ruin her unworn birthday presents or steal her purple liqui-gel pens, she will always be there. I leave my phone in my room when I venture into hers. Exclusive Facebook pictures can’t hurt me when it’s just me and all her books. So I snuggle up in her bed and let the Sound of Music soundtrack put me to sleep. But as I close my eyes, Julie Andrews fades out and instead, I hear Maddy’s tone-deaf attempt at “The Hills Are Alive.” I giggle softly to myself, biting my bottom lip from crying. My hand grips the pillow tighter, my mind flooding with memories as lavender and old cashmere sweaters and Chanel N.5 permeate my senses. I shut my eyes tighter, so the tears won’t escape, and I imagine her lying next to me as I fall asleep tonight, Cranberry in one arm, and Oatmeal in the other.