routine, unthinking and unfeeling for months on end, dreaming of a home
that could become a sanctuary for her, a place for new hopes.
Her longing for a home came from her high
school years. It was probably odd
to have been a good tennis player in as frozen a state as Michigan. But she was. When she was a little girl, in the humid summer months, her
mother hit balls with her against a wall behind the apartment building with two
racquets she’d found at a yard sale, and sometimes when she didn’t work
weekends, they’d play on a real court a couple of neighborhoods away. Her mother had been a local star, she once admitted, playing
statewide before she’d gotten pregnant with Celeste.
In her public high school in the inner city,
Celeste was the only student who could play tennis. She had teammates sometimes, whenever a kid from a warmer
state transferred into her district. But their families wouldn’t last long into the next winter, when the ice
got so thick on car windows that they’d have to pour hot water from a tea
kettle onto the windshield just to be able to see through enough to drive.
Her life opened up the Spring before her
mother died, as a diesel bus slowly took her to her first off campus tennis
tournament, far into the suburbs of Bloomfield Hills, to a private girls’
school where she was the lone public school entrant. She stared out the window as her transit bus crossed into a
greener world, past huge house after huge house, front lawns, trees bigger than
buildings in her neighborhood, giving her a sense of what she could wish for in
her own life.
That’s when she first really wanted a
house. A home. Walls that weren’t shared with
strangers. Quiet that wasn’t
broken by loud TV or other people’s fights.
But she also hated that bus ride because being
poor wasn’t something she had ever noticed. She got off that public bus and walked, passed by cars
driven by mothers with their blond dyed hair up in pony tails who handed juice
boxes over the seat to their kids who in turn stared out the window at Celeste,
walking alone on unused sidewalks, wearing her baggy t-shirt and gym shorts.
She had walked up the main path to the brick school
building that looked like all the mansions in the neighborhood outside the
school gate. She made her way to
the tennis courts, knowing that her mother had taught her the skills to deserve
to be there, and that she’d even taught her how to fit in, in the way that she
was always a little more comfortable with the people she served in her jobs
than she was with those with whom she worked.
The ride home was worse, even though she had
the 1 st Place Varsity trophy tucked into her backpack. Celeste walked back to the bus stop,
torn between her new dream homes and the terrible sorrow of being driven to her
own blocks where she had to watch for glass shards from broken liquor bottles
or dog excrement on the sidewalk. She went to bed quickly that night. Tightened her eyes to close out the memories, hardening her
heart to the trees and the lawns and the huge windows that did not look out onto
four neighboring apartment buildings. Someday, I want a home, she had whispered so silently that her mother
hadn’t heard, until she fell asleep and woke up the next day with the
comforting inability to fully remember the sorrow of the bus ride.
She leafed through the interior décor
magazines on the dinette table and a smile crept across her face, ah, the
still-fulfilling joy of seeing lovely comfortable places to call home. Somewhere warm all year round, she
thought, as she sipped the mellow sweetness of the grenadine in the rum of her
Mai Tai.
She considered calling Eddie and scrolled
through the contacts list on her cell phone until she saw his name come
up. She’d never phoned him, but
she did log his number in when he first asked her to. He was so sincere and yet vulnerable.
She looked at the bank screen
that could become a sanctuary for her, a place for new hopes.
Her longing for a home came from her high
school years. It was probably odd
to have been a good tennis player in as frozen a state as Michigan. But she was. When she was a little girl, in the humid summer months, her
mother hit balls with her against a wall behind the apartment building with two
racquets she’d found at a yard sale, and sometimes when she didn’t work
weekends, they’d play on a real court a couple of neighborhoods away. Her mother had been a local star, she once admitted, playing
statewide before she’d gotten pregnant with Celeste.
In her public high school in the inner city,
Celeste was the only student who could play tennis. She had teammates sometimes, whenever a kid from a warmer
state transferred into her district. But their families wouldn’t last long into the next winter, when the ice
got so thick on car windows that they’d have to pour hot water from a tea
kettle onto the windshield just to be able to see through enough to drive.
Her life opened up the Spring before her
mother died, as a diesel bus slowly took her to her first off campus tennis
tournament, far into the suburbs of Bloomfield Hills, to a private girls’
school where she was the lone public school entrant. She stared out the window as her transit bus crossed into a
greener world, past huge house after huge house, front lawns, trees bigger than
buildings in her neighborhood, giving her a sense of what she could wish for in
her own life.
That’s when she first really wanted a
house. A home. Walls that weren’t shared with
strangers. Quiet that wasn’t
broken by loud TV or other people’s fights.
But she also hated that bus ride because being
poor wasn’t something she had ever noticed. She got off that public bus and walked, passed by cars
driven by mothers with their blond dyed hair up in pony tails who handed juice
boxes over the seat to their kids who in turn stared out the window at Celeste,
walking alone on unused sidewalks, wearing her baggy t-shirt and gym shorts.
She had walked up the main path to the brick school
building that looked like all the mansions in the neighborhood outside the
school gate. She made her way to
the tennis courts, knowing that her mother had taught her the skills to deserve
to be there, and that she’d even taught her how to fit in, in the way that she
was always a little more comfortable with the people she served in her jobs
than she was with those with whom she worked.
The ride home was worse, even though she had
the 1 st Place Varsity trophy tucked into her backpack. Celeste walked back to the bus stop,
torn between her new dream homes and the terrible sorrow of being driven to her
own blocks where she had to watch for glass shards from broken liquor bottles
or dog excrement on the sidewalk. She went to bed quickly that night. Tightened her eyes to close out the memories, hardening her
heart to the trees and the lawns and the huge windows that did not look out onto
four neighboring apartment buildings. Someday, I want a home, she had whispered so silently that her mother
hadn’t heard, until she fell asleep and woke up the next day with the
comforting inability to fully remember the sorrow of the bus ride.
She leafed through the interior décor
magazines on the dinette table and a smile crept across her face, ah, the
still-fulfilling joy of seeing lovely comfortable places to call home. Somewhere warm all year round, she
thought, as she sipped the mellow sweetness of the grenadine in the rum of her
Mai Tai.
She considered calling Eddie and scrolled
through the contacts list on her cell phone until she saw his name come
up. She’d never phoned him, but
she did log his number in when he first asked her to. He was so sincere and yet vulnerable.
She looked at the bank screen
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