In the first waking hours of October 15th, 1989, a new and fragile baby girl was born. That little bundle of screeches and life was I, Jessie Allison Lovell. Even though it is impossible for me to remember such an instance, I imagine it to have been quite a surprise. It’s not usual for a baby girl to be born on her mother’s birthday.
Our family lived in Gloucester, Massachusetts, in a quiet house, shaken only by great rushes of blizzard winds, with a striking view of marsh, and ocean trickling through the marsh. I had two brothers, a father, and a mother. This ocean-view luxury soon had to come to a “financial-scream-of-help” stop, and renting prices finally became our reason to move. I had only been three thriving years old, and I stuck beside my family loyally, continuing to contain my toddler energy, as we moved to my all-withstanding house in Rockport.
When you have love gently surrounding you and safely carrying you through your life, it turns into the oxygen you breath, the blood pumping throughout your body, or the tasting, touching, seeing, hearing, or smelling that we can take for granted. But I was confident and knew I had the greatest fortune or treasure in the world—the understanding from my family.
At our house in Rockport, I was very lonely as the only girl-- and as the spunky six or seven year old. And if I was six or seven, this means my youngest brother, Robin, was born. The night my parents went out to the hospital to give birth to Robin, all the kids fixed up the pullout couch and watched TV, waiting for the call of how mom was. I just knew it was going to be a girl and that I was going to have a sister. My oldest brother, Sean, picked up the phone (which hadn’t rung more than once) and told us the news as the receiver was hung up. “We have a new baby brother!” I cried and cried and told my brothers, “ I don’t want another brother!”
From that moment on, I was determined to find creative things to do to satisfy my want for a sister companion. At seven or eight I realized not even my mother wanted to play Barbies, and I got frustrated and tried to do my brothers’ activities. But playing with them and their friends didn’t make anyone happy, always ending in a tantrum, a disagreement, or a whole day of misery. It took little time before my parents decided to get a pet. A pet that we could play with, blame, get mad at and the pet wouldn’t mind (not hit or hurt), and that I could feel satisfied with without them having to give birth to another child.
We knew of a woman who bred dogs, and sold cats as well, and lived nearby. We drove over, uncertain of what we would say, ask, or determine once we got there, but we were desperate. As my mom knocked on the door, I heard scrambling inside—dogs barking, birds chirping, and a woman shushing them. The door opened and a disheveled woman threw her arm back to invite us in. I was so excited that I could hardly think properly, and all animal noises came to a stop. I stood, waiting for someone to say something, but then as the woman called “kitty- kitty- kitty”, a beautiful, bouncy Tonkinese kitten stepped out, answering with a questioning meow. As they talked it over, I wasn’t sure if this charming kitten would ever want to come home with us. By the end of ten minutes, Malcolm was in the car with us, with no idea of his fate at the Lovell’s house.
Four weeks before Christmas of 1998, our family was getting ready to travel from our eastern Atlantic Ocean home to the western Pacific Ocean home in California. From the time we had brought Malcolm into our house, we had brought a sweet black cat, Midnight, from a shelter and a dog, Meggy.
We shot over to that known friend of ours who bred dogs, and we sat in her living room filled with a roomful of hand-sized Dalmatian puppies. There were all kinds of fresh Dalmatian puppies: spotless ones, girls, blind ones, boys, and hand count more. Couldn’t we take them all home? Not an option. Finally when we became doused with too many decisions to make, we asked our friend if she had any encouraging advice so we wouldn’t have to make the painful determination of our future house pet. She pointed out a puppy that she stated was just as calm and kind as her mother, and she recommended her. Her face shined and glowed, and the woman continued to get her attention by saying, “Come here, Meg” or “Hey, Meg!” So as we carried her home with us in the car, Meggy was her name.
So, as we were getting prepared for the trip to California where all my grandparents lived, a dog and cat were added into the family. Not only did we have a teeny house with all the people packed in like sardines, but also we had a few animals to stick in with us. I packed all my things and double-checked my backpack to see if I had enough things to do for the long six-hour plane ride. I exhaustedly plopped myself down on my bed and stroked my gorgeous Malcolm, who was only a mere eight months old. He purred and stared into my eyes with his loving, brown, warm eyes. I said, “ You’re such a cute kitty” with a ga-ga voice, and took my hand away to stand up to go eat my dinner.
After dinner, I went upstairs into my room, wanting to settle the food that was churning inside me, and my loyal friend lay asleep on my bed, as he was before. I gave him a swift kiss on his soft head, but his tiny body just continued rising and falling, and he slept.
The next morning, I was gently woken by my mother’s hand smoothing tenderly across my shoulder at three o’clock in the morning. I awoke and no sun warmed my face, and my companion lazily slept on. I was slow to rise, but as I thought about going to my grandparents’, adrenaline rushed more quickly and I was the first ready. As everyone was soon ready, I went to Midnight and pat him, but he walked away. Meggy was sniffing here and there—the patrol dog— and made sure that we all had our share of licks. I walked to her and scratched her sides, but she wanted to go greet my mother. I searched around for that friend of mine, and he soon pranced down the stairs into the living room with his head high, and I scooped him up and cuddled him in my arms. He was so toasty from sleeping the longest out of all of us, and he buried his delicate head into my coat. I gave him a peck, and we brought our bags into the car. We were on our way to California!
We got there sleepy-eyed unready and unexpected to make an effort to be polite, and so laid our tired bodies down to sleep.
One week before Christmas, our family and grandparents were eating our tuna salad sandwiches, potato chips, and sodas outside on the patio. I finished my food and decided I was still thirsty, and I announced I was going to fill my cup with some water. Everyone else decided they should go in anyway, so they followed me back to the house. My dad wanted to check his e-mail, and everyone else went off to do, as they wanted. My brothers stayed with me to gulp down some water, and my mother stayed beside my dad. My mother gasped. What might have happened? I thought to myself. My mom crept over to me and said, “ Come with me, sweetie”. She and I went alone into their guestroom and we sat down on the twin bed. She said, “ I’m sorry, honey, but I have some bad news. Auntie Jen just e-mailed us to tell us her story. She said that Hannah [our cousin] had let Malcolm out to play outside. At 5:00 p.m., she said that Hannah had called for Malcolm, but he wouldn’t come. Finally, they found his body in the road. He had been hit by a car and was dead.”
As the words hit my ears, each one shot like nails on a chalkboard. I was frozen in doubt, not confusion, and I wanted to rewind the trip just to see him one more time. My mother and I held each other in our arms, and we stayed that way for a long time. My best friend disappeared from me, and I hadn’t been there.
When we returned home in January, I opened the door, as I had time and time again in the past. The house was cold—no one had been inside this house for weeks. I sat down on the couch, uncertain of what I should do, or if I should just sit. No cat galloped out of hiding to greet me. I stared ahead, not thinking, and just felt a sadness sweep over me. I started to cry—I just couldn’t help myself. I curled up into my coat and held it tight. I closed my eyes that pinched the tears, and imagined Malcolm’s warm, brown eyes staring back into my own. But then a tear came and washed him away from me, and he was gone-- my loyal companion, and cheerful friend.
As I grew older, the love I received and gave, strongly and weakly, thinned out. I began to expect love more from others than I expected to give affection and caring, because I was experiencing difficult changes. Therefore, others needed a little more effort from me to enjoy looking after me and helping me. More understanding and returning what was given was what I needed to show to others.
Sometimes I sit down and watch videos and flip through pictures of our once (if not still) laid-back, mismatched, and thrown-together family and think about how I actually fit in with all of them, how I fit in with these past routines shown in the pictures: my mother constantly holding a tiny baby on her hip, almost glued for good, or my dad resting his aging body on his faithful green chair, aging along with him— warming memories that I know I was a part of. My brothers crunching carrots in my ear or, I, being the girl in the dress in sneakers climbing the rocks with them-- these are all things that my mind will search for in my last years of living, and they will give me peaceful comfort, comfort in youthful simplicity. I take each day as a growing day, not a continuing day or another day, because tomorrow holds many reasons for growing and progressing.
