Memoir Rough Draft

Fried chicken, with its golden brown batter, I can see myself biting into it and the hot juices flowing and the powerful flavor on my tongue. The undeniable feeling of comfort food, the food I could eat every day of my life, made by my mother, and still never get sick of, but as I stared at the green plate, with the steaming food on it, I felt nothing but the hot, black tears, stained from mascara, on my cold, stunned face. The fried chicken and the most amazing mashed potatoes you could eat, steaming with butter. The broccoli, my absolute favorite, piled high on the plate, like a mountain I would usually conquer, with my outrageous ability to out-eat any grown man, even my father.

It’s funny how death affects people. A nineteen year old girl, with the appetite of a tiger, usually eats and enjoys her food, but tonight, even the greatest comfort food could not have made me feel any better.

The phone call came at night, around eight thirty. I can still feel my cold hands on my car keys and me about to jump out of my car and into my warm house, until realizing, while driving home from work I missed a call from a friend. Thinking nothing of it, I press 1 to hear the voice mail, “Danielle, call me back, it’s… it’s an emergency.” A million things pop into my head: one, normal teenage problems, a fight with a friend, a breakup with a boyfriend; two, a joke or a prank, but her voice sounded shaky, and scared, not like the usually bubbly, happy personality that I usually received from her. I immediately call her back, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what is wrong, and not knowing if she’ll answer. “Danielle, there was an accident…” her voice trails off, another friend, a beautiful, and funny, friend is in the hospital, with major head trauma.

If you knew Cayla, you would have first thought, wow, this girl is beautiful. Your second thought, if you sat down to talk would be, wow, not only is she beautiful, she is funny, and is a very caring person. She constantly had a smile on her face. She had a wonderful taste in fashion, and always had fun. She loved horses, and Juicy, and life. She would make me sing to her all the time, usually Adele or Taylor Swift.

Things weren’t making sense. I hang up the phone, letting my friend know to keep me updated. I get out of the car, not realizing how the cold stings my wet cheeks. I run up the stairs into the house, sobbing so loud, I scare my parents. My parents jump up to see what is wrong, I run into my mother’s arms and cry, loud, body-moving sobs come out. I explain. They don’t know what to say, and even if they said anything, nothing would fix how I was feeling.

I sit with that comfort food in front of my face. It looks disgusting, it smells disgusting, and I take a bite and it taste disgusting. I am so sick my stomach turns. My face falls into a crumpled frown, my eyes burn. More tears follow, angry tears, not only for what has happened, but I cannot eat. It sounds stupid, you are going through something tragic and it’s ok not to eat, but if you knew me, you know that is the last thing I would ever do, is to stop eating. I’ve always have had a pretty big appetite, and I am not too big of a picky eater either, especially when it comes to my mother’s home made dinners, every night, except for Fridays. She always expects me to eat and enjoy and that night, I just couldn’t do it. I cry and tell her that I am not hungry. Usually if I do this, I’m usually under the weather and she scolds and tells me to eat it, no matter how sick I feel, but tonight she sits there, and says,
“It’s OK”. This upsets me more, she isn’t one to do this, and she puts a lot into her meals and expects me and my father to eat them. If you can’t eat all on the plate, she insists that you ate too much for lunch or too big of a snack. Comfort food, isn’t it supposed to make you feel better? At a time as bad as this, you would think I’d be able to eat several helpings of it! I throw out the food that I attacked with my fork and knife, poor chicken, such a waste. Its fried batter was all over the plate, and chicken was pulled from the bones, nothing eaten, just picked and pushed around. I cannot eat; I think I am having a panic attack. I don’t sleep that night, because later, I find out that Cayla did not make it. She is gone and I feel just as bad as that chicken I demolished at dinner time.

                Days go by, if I eat, it isn’t much of anything, half a protein bar, half an apple, even my favorite chocolate ice cream cannot save me this time. I always have three main meals a day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and for days; I am eating hardly anything, if anything. I cannot sleep, and this behavior is so unlike me. My eyes are puffy and red, my usual put together look is now sweatpants and a messy bun, my usual bed time is changed to two in the morning, and I am not eating. I am not ok.

                My friend Alyssa, who was best friends with Cayla sits with me at my kitchen table. With a bag of chocolate donuts and frozen dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets, we eat. We are ravenous. First we eat the donuts, wait for the chicken to be cooked, and then eat the chicken with yummy fire red ketchup. After all this time, with so many of my mother’s comfort foods set in front of me, you wouldn’t think that donuts and tiny chicken t-rexes would be the fix. Empty white paper plates and messy napkins full of crumbs are all that’s left. After days of not eating we finally feel a sense of maybe things aren’t ok right now, but they are getting better. We are not only eating but we are living, and life isn’t stopping, even though it feels that way.

                The candle light vigil has passed, the wake has passed, and still I cry, not only for what has happened with Cayla, but for all of the people that have loved her so much, including me, but at the end of the day I sit back and look at my bare dinner plate that I just emptied and realize that life is so full of bigger and better things, we just have to live life to the fullest like Cayla did, and maybe make our stomachs just as full and happy as our lives.