Purple Glue Sticks

There are only five things Molly would miss if she killed herself. She would miss her vape. She’d miss the taste of its hazelnut coffee-like pulls and the exhaled clouds that take up more space in a room than she ever could. She would miss reality TV. She would miss her cat’s soft paw gently tapping her sleeping face, pleading for breakfast only three hours after he’s had dinner. She would miss making a grocery list for the week, the god-like control of sitting down on a Sunday night and promising herself she will be here for at least seven more days. She treasures the moments when Saturday Night Molly is eating the meal designed by Sunday Night Molly, and they look at each other and say we did it. She would miss the feeling of warm rain on her uncovered arms.

She probably won’t ever do it though. She makes plans with Death the way she makes plans with old friends she sees on the train: we have to get together soon. 

She’s getting ready for a funeral. The last funeral Molly attended was her mother’s. Her mom still pays her phone bill even though she’s been dead for three years. She’s not sure how, and she worries about it before sending a nude. The family plan lives on even though she’s an orphan. Maybe this is her inheritance: mommy issues and unlimited data.

With a swipe of her hand, hair shavings fall from the bathroom counter into the sink like dandelion spurs in the wind. She makes a wish. She wets a piece of paper towel and wipes away the leftover shaving cream from her face. She swears her five o'clock shadow is already starting to surface like an omen made of Turkish coffee grounds at the bottom of a porcelain mug. The laser treatments seem to be as effective as sex ed in the Midwest. The other day Molly asked a girl at the laser spa if it ever stops hurting, and the girl said no. 

She wonders if she’s earned enough womanhood points to wear a dress to a funeral without being a distraction. Feelings of inadequacy plague her. Her mother taught her how to know when you’re not enough, but never how to know when you are. She wonders if she’s even allowed to go to this funeral. Marjorie had been a client of Molly’s, so it’s a gray area, but the more she thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes. Marjorie would want her there. Marjorie would want her there in six inch heels. So she grabs her coat and heads out the door.

Molly first met Marjorie at a non-profit community center for queer older adults, Sylvia’s Place. Molly was the new social work intern. When she walked in on her first day, the monthly drag brunch was just beginning. Her only instruction was to meet the members, and she had no clue where to sit. 

She scanned the room and eventually made eye contact with a woman who sat with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. The woman squinted her eyes and pursed her lips, sizing Molly up, and Molly remembered how it felt waiting to be chosen in gym class. Finally, the woman caved. She nodded her head to the left, signaling for Molly to come take the empty seat next to her. Molly crept over to the table as a drag queen took the stage. 

With her eyes on the podium, the woman leaned closer to Molly.

“Name’s Marjorie,” the woman whispered.

“Molly,” she replied.

“I didn’t ask,” Marjorie whispered before settling back into her seat.

Marjorie managed to keep a straight face, but when Molly looked over at her new friend, she swore she could see the slight twitch of a stifled smile. 

Marjorie was sixty-five, and Molly was twenty-five, but those forty years didn’t seem to matter. They became fast friends, and before either of them knew it, Molly was graduating. The social work intern was transforming into a full-fledged therapist. Molly was instructed to discuss the termination process for at least a few months leading up to the end, but each time she mentioned it, Marjorie would cut her off and bring up something existential and philosophical like God or climate change or how much time Dolly Parton had left. 

Even during their last meeting at Sylvia’s, Marjorie refused.

“Marjorie,” Molly said, “I know you know this, but my two years here at Sylvia’s are coming to an end, and I—”

“I think my daughter might be pregnant,” Marjorie said, slumped back in the office chair.

“Wow, well we can definitely get to that, but we need to—”

“She hasn’t even told me. Her own mom.”

“Marjorie, we’re going to get to that, but I—”

“I’m not talking about it,” Marjorie snapped. “If you’re going to leave then leave. I don’t need to kumbaya about it.”

Molly hated when Marjorie got like this. Stubborn and cold and staring at the wall. The box fan hummed a song about it being the hottest day of the summer. A bead of sweat dripped down Marjorie’s forehead, but she refused to wipe it. 

“Okay,” Molly said, sighing. “What makes you think Jane is pregnant?”

“A picture she posted yesterday,” Marjorie said. “That or she’s drinking again. She has a pooch.”

“I thought she blocked you?”

“I have my ways.”

Marjorie spent fifteen minutes venting about the ups and downs of her relationship with her daughter. A relationship that Molly understood deeply. The timeless tale of mothers being mean to daughters and daughters being mean to mothers. The endless saga of mothers who needed better mothers.

“Not telling your own mom that you’re pregnant with her grandchild? Can you imagine?”

The truth was that Molly could. 

“You have every right to be upset,” Molly said. “I wonder if this might be a good time to reach out to her.”

“Absolutely not,” Marjorie said. “And I’m not upset. I’m just tired. Tired of her and tired of this heat. I’ve had enough of this summer. I’m ready for the fall.”

Molly let silence happen.

“Do you think that’s how real old people feel when they’re ready to die?” Marjorie asked. 

“What do you mean?” Molly said.

“Summer’s been nice, but I’m ready for the fall?”

Molly smiled. “I like that.”

And Marjorie smiled back.

***

Molly wishes she’d worn pants or at least some fleece-lined tights as she waits for the MetroNorth at the 125th Street station. She shivers and hugs herself and reminds herself that this is for Marjorie. Her dear friend, Marjorie.

Ten months after leaving Sylvia’s, Molly had received a call from her supervisor at her new job. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said, “but someone showed up at the front desk saying she needs to speak with you or she’s going to kill herself. She says her name is Marjorie.”

Molly rolled her eyes and said she’d be right in. She hadn’t spoken to Marjorie since that last conversation at Sylvia’s. Graduation happened, and then job interviews, and then suddenly she was working full-time at a clinic with a caseload of forty clients. But despite how much time had passed, Molly knew one thing for sure:

Marjorie was not going to kill herself. 

Sad? Yes. Lonely? Even more so. Suicidal? No. In fact, Molly couldn’t think of someone who was less likely to kill themself. Marjorie had been sober for just over twenty years at that point, but the one vice she never planned on giving up was living. She lived like a smoker smokes. She burned through her days one after another. As one day came to an end, she’d already be craving the next. And like a smoker, she was always saying it was her last one, but we all knew it wasn’t. Every winter she spoke about suicide like it was Hawaii: Sounds nice this time of year. I think I’d love it, but is it even ethical? I feel like my friends would be disappointed in me. 

When Molly walked into her office that day, there was Marjorie leaning back in Molly’s chair. With her gray-speckled, shoulder-length brown hair, plaid shirt, vintage Levi’s, and a pair of black combat boots, she was a vision in butch.

“I’m looking for a therapist,” she said. “Know any?”

Marjorie had been Molly’s client for six years before she died. During their time working together, their relationship shapeshifted constantly. Therapist and client. Client and therapist. Mother and daughter. Daughter and mother. Old friends. Sisters. Strangers. But who are they to each other now that their relationship has ended? The conductor announces that there is one stop until Goldens Bridge. Molly doesn’t feel ready. She’s barely processed that Marjorie’s dead.

The biggest role reversal of all was when Molly’s mom died. She’d taken the week off to mourn and orchestrate the funeral which felt like facilitating one giant group therapy session. She returned to her office numb and shaken, and when Marjorie walked in for her session, it felt like a hug. 

Molly started with her usual, “How have things been?” 

Marjorie stared at her for a moment, squinting her eyes and doing mental math. 

“Can you tell me about her?” she said.

And Molly broke. She’d not shed a single tear the entire day of the funeral, but there they were. Molly told Marjorie about their brief estrangement during the year leading up to her mom’s diagnosis. The bomb that was 2016. The way her stupid family put on stupid red hats and turned their backs. Not her mother though. Her mother just watched. Her mother’s only response was starting every sentence with “at least”. At least they still love you. At least they still support you.

She told Marjorie about how she had needed more from her mother. An advocate. A defender. A protector. But every time her mother got the chance to perform, she forgot her lines. She told Marjorie about how it had always been that way. Jealous of other kids who said their moms were their best friend. How her mom used to lie and tell people that she and Molly were glued together at the hip. How Molly wanted to believe that lie so badly that she rubbed half a glue stick on her side before climbing into her mom’s bed one night. How she chose the purple kind that dried clear so that she could be sure it was secure. How it didn’t work. How it only got her yelled at and ruined her pajamas.

Marjorie listened the way you do when you want to make sure someone’s breathing. She listened like that for the whole session until Molly stood up, signaling that their time was up.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Marjorie said as she stood up. “It wasn’t about you.”

“But sometimes,” Molly said, “ I wanted it to be.”

Majorie stared at Molly, and Molly stared at Marjorie. Marjorie stepped forward, outstretching her arms slightly before dropping them at her side again.

“Can I?” she said.

Molly nodded.

Marjorie wrapped her arms around Molly and pulled her into her chest.

Molly cried then, and she cries now, and the conductor announces that she’s arrived.

***

The service is nice overall, but it’s not what she would have wanted. Molly looks around and sees ordinary people in ordinary outfits. Back in the day at Sylvia’s, those queens and kings made a random Thursday breakfast feel like New Year’s Eve, and Marjorie would have wanted that energy here. She would have wanted 70s music. She would have wanted more eyeshadow. She would have wanted Patti Smith and glitter. She would have wanted tequila and wigs and poetry. 

Marjorie’s daughter, Jane, makes her rounds after she says some words. Molly does her best to avoid Jane as she stands in line to see Marjorie in her casket, like a museum-goer waiting patiently to step up and observe the latest installation. Molly knows too much about Jane to have a normal conversation. It would be like meeting a character from a book series she’s read multiple times.

Molly feels her heart rate quicken as she gets closer to the front. She’s not sure why she’s even doing it. She hates this part. She only ever did it because her mom would make her, and her mom’s not here, but for some reason she still feels like she has to or she’ll get in trouble. There’s only one person between her and Marjorie now. She decides to abandon ship. She steps out of line and turns around and smacks straight into Jane and her cup of coffee. They spew apologies, and then Jane freezes and stares.

“Molly, right?” Jane says.

***

In the bathroom, they stand in front of the mirror, blotting their soaked dresses with cheap paper towel. 

“Sorry, I know this probably is strange with confidentiality and everything,” Jane says. “My mom had a picture of you guys in her living room. From Sylvia’s. She talked about you a lot.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Molly says, smiling through the awkwardness. “That’s really sweet of her. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Jane says. “And I’m sorry for yours.”

As they continue their dabbing, Molly sneaks a look at Jane in the mirror. She looks nothing like Marjorie. Maybe she looks more like her dad. Jane’s dad died ten years ago, and it hits Molly then that Jane’s an orphan now. Jane looks up and catches Molly staring and smiles.

“My mom loved you,” Jane says, tossing the wet paper towel into the trash. “You really helped her so much.”

Molly grins.

“She loved you too,” Molly says. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but she talked about how much she loved you a lot. 

Jane smiles faintly, nodding but not believing it. 

“Honestly, I think your mom helped me more than I ever helped her,” Molly says as she throws away the wet paper towel before rinsing her hands. 

When Molly begins drying her hands off, she hears sniffling. She turns and finds Jane wiping away a tear. 

“Sorry,” Jane says, dabbing her undereyes with a tissue. “It’s just that all day I’ve had people telling me all the things that my mom did for them that she never did for me. What am I supposed to do with that? You know? What am I supposed to do now?”

Molly freezes. She’s not prepared for this. Jane blows her nose into the tissue, and the sound is deafening.

“I don’t know,” Molly says. “I—”

“No,” Jane says. “No, sorry. Forget I said that. You’re not on the clock. It just happened so fast, and I feel like I’m trying to catch up. The doctor called about the pneumonia and she was gone before I even got there. And now we’re here, and it’s like…”

Jane does the hand motion of something exploding. Molly nods, and an overwhelming sense of relief washes over her.

“I talked to her on the phone for a little while,” Jane says. “While I was driving over. I knew she was losing it because kept saying that she was sick of summer. That she was ready for the fall. And I kept saying, ‘Mom, it’s literally February.’ But leave it to her to be so emotionally removed that she’s trying to talk about the weather on her deathbed.”

A lump forms in Molly’s  throat and her eyes begin to sting. Jane shakes her head and takes a deep breath. 

“Sorry,” Jane says, exhaling. “Let me let you go. I don’t want to hold you hostage anymore. I’m going to hide out in here for a bit longer.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Molly asks.

“Yeah,” Jane says nodding.

Molly steps toward the bathroom door. She pauses and turns back.

“Hang in there, okay?” she says. “It gets easier.”

Jane nods, and Molly steps out.

***

On the train ride home, Molly replays her interaction with Jane over and over. 

What am I supposed to do now?

I don’t know.

Molly wishes she would have said something else.

She wishes she would have said something like look for it somewhere else. Find that love and approval and acclaim somewhere else because it’s not going to come from your mom. It’s not hiding inside the memories of her either, no matter how many hours you spend searching for it. She wishes she would have said something like you might get a sliver of what you’re looking for from that friend you made at a job you hated but kept for three years. You might get a small fraction of what you’re seeking from that relationship with that person who was never going to be the one but felt like something close to it. She wishes she would have said you might not ever be able to let go of that need, but you can have it met, even for a moment, if you hang around long enough to find the right someone, somewhere, or something.

She thinks about this the whole way back to the city and back to her apartment and back to her desk in the window where she sits down to write her grocery list for the week.