of Katherine

My grandfather's grandmother's name was Katherine.

Irish through and through, she had flaming red hair and drove a trolley in New York City. As the story goes, once when a male passenger harassed her, she simply knocked him out.

When I close my eyes I feel like I can almost picture her, strong and brave. I can see the way her jaw squares, the fierceness in her eyes.

My grandfather's grandfather's name was Edward. He was from Czechoslovakia, and he played the violin in the Czechoslovakian National Orchestra. I don't know what he looked like, but I can picture him too. In my mind he has dark hair, lovely eyes, and a soft, gentle face.

The orchestra traveled to New York City to tour the United States of America. And there, somewhere in the grimy, noisy streets of the city, Edward met Katherine.

Was it love at first sight? Did Katherine hear him play? Did Edward hop the steps into her trolley, violin case in hand? In my imagination, they are fire and water. What drew them to each other?

Regardless, they fell in love.

Katherine became pregnant. She had a baby boy. They named him Joseph.

The Czechoslovakian National Orchestra stayed in the United States for a long time. Long enough for Katherine and Joseph to travel around with them. Did Katherine give up her job? Did she leave her family? Did Edward promise her marriage? A respectable life?

I don't know. All I know is that at the end of the tour, Edward returned to Czechoslovakia without them. He had another family there. A wife. And children. A family he had kept secret.

So perhaps his face wasn't so gentle after all. Perhaps he was tall and arrogant. Perhaps he was irresistibly charming. Or perhaps he was simply an imperfect human being, drawn to Katherine's fire like a moth to a flame.

So Katherine raised her son by herself in New York City. She gave him Edward's last name, even though they had never been legally wed. I can see her, standing on a street corner, holding the hand of a tiny, dark haired boy. She is tired. She is a scandal. She is a single mother in a time when single mothers were regarded as whores. She is Irish in a time when the Irish where regarded as barely human. But she is determined. I can see the way her jaw squares, the fierceness in her eyes.

.............

We are driving through the city at night, windows rolled down despite the icy chill in the air. The Mr. is next to me, his arm extended out the window, laughing. My friends are in the front, and I can almost see the ghostly breath of their laughter in the cold air. Fall is quickly coming to an end.

I am wearing five layers, but I am still cold. Or at least, I think I am. The night has become a blur of whiskey and laughter, and my head is too light to worry about things like the cold. 

Or food.

I lean my head back against the seat and smile at them, these three people. They are three of the people I love most in this world. Their laughter is the best kind of medicine.

My gaze drifts to the window. I watch the people in their cars. The people on the street. I see homeless men and women, huddled in doorways, bleakness in their eyes.

They remind me of people I met in the hospital, and suddenly all the laughter in our car seems very far away. 

I wonder what their stories are. Where they came from. Why they stand there now, leaning against the closed doors of Barnes & Noble. Do they have family? Does anyone worry about them? Does anyone care?

I lean my forehead against the cold window and watch them fade into the distance. My head doesn't feel light anymore. It is heavy. Heavy like a millstone tied around my neck. 

You stupid fucking bitch.

I try to focus on the laughter again, but I feel so defeated, so worn. What has triggered this, this instant? Was it the reminder that I have everything? That I should not be anxious or depressed or broken? Was it seeing those people, so alone, when I am surrounded by people who love me? Was it the reminder that I still cannot love myself? 

You stupid bitch. You stupid fucking worthless bitch.

This echoes around in my head for the rest of the drive home. For the rest of the night. As I lay awake in bed, the whiskey haze slowly fading, it only grows stronger and louder. It makes me list all the food that I have eaten that day. It fills me with shame, with regret, with self-loathing that turns to hatred.

You stupid fucking bitch.

I am so easily shattered into pieces. 

I am nothing like her.