Overtly tacky banquet halls always gave me some sense of ease. Banquet, as if there were ever anything worth celebrating taking place within the confines of this sleepy excuse for a city. Perhaps they’d have a quaint but effervescent pride parade- better yet the Irish Americans must get so jovial in March. Part of me wishes I knew where in the world I’ve been dropped off to speak, only for the sole purpose of avoiding it altogether. What I love most about these halls is the feigned idea of togetherness. People enjoy the facade of importance that a laminated name tag gives you.
Where am I? The downfall of tacky banquet halls is that they’re elusive, they all funnel into one image once blended into the creamy aftertaste of a memory. Dreaming especially complicates things, as it springs up unnecessary deja vu in a place I would never even want to step foot in. The trick of the mind is enough to induce a migraine. I was never great with geography. We must be someplace in the Midwest, but there’s people on our payroll that know that so I don’t have to. If someone were to barge in and pulled a gun out on me and said he’d shoot unless I declared where in the world we both were, I’d faintly smile and wait for the copper alloy.
The soft headache coming on intensified under the podium lights. Preluding applause reminded my how trapped I was, to push through and do my speech until the sound of clapping can free me of this excuse of a concerto. When I’m dutifully bored I try to project my speech with the belief that if I yelled loud enough, by some trick of humanity I could force the doors open. Unfortunately for me I’m inescapably human. Unfortunately for this crowd, I immediately became distracted on my internal pulse drumming away on the center of my forehead.
“Good Afternoon” I nearly slurred into the microphone that feels like a toy. The front row barely jostled in their seats.
“Good Afternoon. I know you all pre-registered to hear my testimonial, but as a refresher I am the daughter of climber Zora MacAndrew. MacAndrew was obviously my fathers’ surname, but
she kept it in the divorce. Everyone constantly thought she was Celtic...”
I begun to trail off, catching my mistakes before I could think up any more improvisation. Where did that come from? My body was defensively sprouting out unscripted ethos and for what? All I had to say was “I am the daughter of climber Zora MacAndrew, noted as the first climber of her nationality to scale the many peaks of our globe.” Simple. Digestible. A copy of notes scribbled and reworded with seven focus groups in mind so that I wouldn’t make mistakes. Some people smiled, most out of pity. It isn’t like they know this script, but my face must be marked with desperation. I could feel the redness expel through the dermis of my cheeks. I had stopped talking, long enough for the air to grow tense. I had to keep my eyes on things that wouldn’t disturb me: the dated carpet, the dust collecting across the projector light beams, my script. My script. The coin purse to my life. I cleared my throat.
“My mother was not as gregarious as the other people you may hear from or about today. Although she challenged the human body to literally reach new heights, she was far from an adrenaline addict. In fact, quite the opposite. When she wasn’t in active training she’d spend her days either in her prayer group or devoting herself to the role of overly involved mother. I can
back the latter with firsthand experience.”
Remember to smile.
“Her situation while climbing Mount Everest caused her death to be somewhat a spectacle within the climbing community. Her final resting position sits at the south face of the mountain, eight kilometers from the peak. She’s impossible to miss while completing this faces’ trail to the top. As she froze, her arms crossed her chest and her neck cradled inward, much like the artistic depiction of Mary. ‘The Madonna’ as they call her stays a veiled remembrance on the consequences of greatness. Had she have used an oxygen tank, Zora could remain not just an avid climber but all the other wonderful things I remember her for. Which is why we at SportsXO thank you for your interest in our mission to bridge safer parameters like accessible oxygen tanks throughout the world of extreme sporting. For more information, ask any of our representatives today in a SportsXO hat.”
I had my eyes straining on the margins when the threatening applause nearly knocked me back off the podium, the end of shift work whistle startling me to the point of grateful exhaustion.
...
From the stories you told, Grandmother was known to taunt. “You all talk so American. I don’t know who taught you all of that”. When she’d smoke and speak like this, someone wasn’t monitoring her cups. When she got like this you would grow into her jurisdiction of Mother, even amongst her accusations of infantilizing her. When she’d speak to you at this age, the same age I was when you left me, your brother took it to heart and went to see the world. Aunt Dotty heeled to her mother, perhaps in efforts to feel closer to her. But you abstained on her disdain. Her American daughter revolted. You knew this custody battle was impossible to save. If anything, you sought the views on the peaks of the world just to spite her.
...
Behind the triviality of showboating my trauma lies a major respite: The open bar. Guests are asked to leave the “talent” alone, for mingling was subjugated to dinner. I paired my migraine relief medication with an ample cup of gin over ice. My supervisor nestled her tall frame on the bar stool. She never parks by me unless she felt I needed discipline. Her shamrock tattoo atop her ankle felt like a punctuation on the tapping of ballet flats.
“What was that improv at the start?” She waited for me to establish eye contact.
“I was distracted, sorry.”
“Something distracted you?”
“I had my script up there. I could’ve looked at it.”
“You weren’t looking at it? What, do you think we need to change it? The script can still sound like you. Should.”
“It does. It was the door closing, it startled me.”
“We can talk over edits at the terminal, or before the dinner tonight if you’d like to find time-”
“Why do they call it dinner? There’s never enough seating, we’re expected to fill up on appetizers the whole night.” I looked into the clear liquid of my cup, hoping the obstructed glass would dole out a fortune.
“I don’t handle catering.” We both looked at each other for something to say. Finally, I cut in,
“They’re moving her.” My supervisor shifted up as if I had insulted her posture.
“Oh. Like from the mountain? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s an initiative. ‘Waste management’ is what they’re calling it, but that’s how they lumped the corpses up there with the oxygen tanks and human shit-“
“You must have some say in what they do to her.”
“I’d be wasting my time.”
“You should make a stink of it. Act American, make it some public suit. I bet the legal team would be happy to-“
“Can I skip dinner tonight?”
We had to quit the habit of interrupting each other with an ultimatum. I thankfully invested my time wisely while touring this leg.
“What? Oh, uh, of course. And we can talk about the edits later if you need to take more time on this. We really take this seriously.”
“Edits? The script is fine. And I wasn’t distracted by the news. It really was the door.”
“Okay.” She swaddled herself forward onto the bar edge, as if she were about to fall over in words unspoken.
“What is it Jessica.” She punched at her drink with a straw, agitating the seltzer.
“Does it ever get hard?” Her gaze wouldn’t break, as if she put on a mask of concern she had swaddled in her bulging bag taking up an entire seat beside her.
“I’m honoring my mother. There are worse things to talk publicly about.”
“Not that, the part where you’re talking about yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like how people put onto you all their baggage. They don’t even know you.” The straw lost color against her pressure.
“That’s just the destiny she paved for the both of us.”
....
I had a dream in between this place and Phoenix. Some sort of headache induced stress dream. I had experienced the trek up before out of body before. Within online simulations that take you on a scaled version of the peak. I was one of the climbers forced to look upon the busted remnant of humanity. True negligence by way of a corpse. Follow the south face akin to anyone who heads this direction. I’d encroach Madonna, oftentimes through blistering tears. Through my own process the dream followed the hauntingly disruptive cycle: treks painted in depressive hues of snowfall, jaunts of misplaced resentment in screeching winds. This time my weather was decent. A familiar windless night. I sat there by her, looking out with her on her final view. Nothing more. No words, no reanimated corpses. Her hood blocking her face, our hair in the soft breeze like flags. Just Madonna and child on top of the world, frozen in the image of becoming.