Standing in front of the sink under the bright yellow light of the kitchen, I can hear them. Mom and Dad and Grandpa and Grandma, and Uncle Charlie up from Alexandria. “Sh . . . she . . .” and I know it’s about me, it has to be about me, the way their voices are hushed, the way there is no other sound in the dining room, no clinking of glasses or movement. I wonder if Kay, if she was with them, would feel the same way they do.

The plate is heavy in my hand and the reflection of the light in the black kitchen window blurs. It is cold outside, a cold February Minnesota night, pitch black and below freezing, and family is over for supper.

And why would they not be talking about me? They’ve seen it, and are bothered by it. It bothers me myself: one moment snarling with rage, consumed with a fire I don’t know the origin of and don’t know how to stop; the next moment ashamed, sobbing because of my anger or some unknown reason. Then, smelling supper cooking or listening to a favorite record or doing nothing at all, happy. Then, realizing the pointlessness of it all, despairing, apathetic.

I am washing dishes now. Normally Mom and maybe Grandma would be in here cleaning up too, but they don’t get to see Uncle Charlie much. And tonight they obviously wanted to talk about me. So I am alone doing dishes.

(Someday, you know—) No.

They’re concerned. The “sh” sound of “she” stands out clearer than the rest, so that even though I try to make out other words or parts of words, all is muffled except for that one sound. “Sh.” She. My face burns. My heart races.

She what? Emotional. Too emotional. Out of control. Out of control? Am I? This came on so suddenly. But I’ve felt this way for years. Up, down. Up, down. I thought it was normal.

But is this normal? I’m hurting Mom, I’m hurting Dad. I’ve never yelled at them like this before. I’ve never alienated myself this much—and hated myself for it.

They think I'm a problem. Maybe they want to put me somewhere, and don't want me to know.

Out in the dark Minnesota night there are things happening, parties, sleepovers, dates and movies playing. My sister is in St. Cloud making a life for herself, an independent woman with her own room and own full-time job and own life. Kay is comfortable being with herself. She is comfortable with herself. She is herself.

Who am I? I am me. Who is me? I thought I knew that. But I don’t know. I’ve never known. Who am I?

The pain in my wrist is too great, and I settle the plate with a quiet thud into the sink. I can’t remember if I washed it. Is it clean? I’m not holding the dishrag. I must have just picked the plate up. Like all the other fancy plates we save for company, it has flowers along the edge of it; little pink and blue flowers and pale green leaves. It is an old plate; from the forties.

Back in grade school Mary and I played with dolls and tried on dresses and hats. We enjoyed that. She enjoyed that. I did too; I enjoyed Mary. She was a sweet girl and a good friend. Did I enjoy playing dress-up? I don’t know. I can’t remember. I think I did. I thought.

Then she moved to Minneapolis and Judy entered—Judy and I, the smart students, the slightly awkward ones, the quiet ones who preferred ourselves to parties. She is my friend. I am friends with her. I am like her, so I am friends with her.

Or is it the other way around? Am I friends with her and so I am like her? Who am I?

If I lost Judy, what would happen?

I would have no one. Well, I would have my parents. But they—at some point they will die. Everyone will die. My parents will die, my father with his big, calloused hands and tobacco-stained teeth and scruffy chin and warm flannel shirts and warm strong arms. My mother with her soft smile and never-ending wisdom and blue house slippers she loves so much. Everyone is going to die.

I need Judy. But Judy is away at school in Duluth. What if she leaves—forever? She likes Duluth. She might move there for good, never come back here. I think she likes the city, Judy.

I am comfortable here, in a small town, surrounded by trees and lakes and farms. What if Judy leaves?

The voices are gone now; the dining room is silent. I suddenly want to explode right out the glass window in front of me and run, run, far away. A certain familiar heat is bubbling up inside my chest and I want to smash the plate and break the window and run, and never return. Except the night is freezing cold and I’m only in my sweater and skirt and slippers, and I have dishes to wash, and the house is warm. And if I was going to leave, I would go somewhere no one else could follow.

Who am I? I don’t know. I never have known. I thought I liked school; liked learning. But I got tired of it. I didn’t want to keep going to school, so I didn’t. I got a job as a waitress in Grand Rapids. I knew I needed to do something if I wasn’t going to go to school like Kay. Do I really want to be a waitress? I don’t know. It’s a job. What do I want to do with my life? I will get married, eventually. I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure I want kids. Judy wants kids. She knows. I don’t.

I don’t think I know anything.

I only took dictation because I was good at typing. Did I like it? Do I like typing? Sort of. I only took typing because it sounded kind of interesting and—Judy was taking it.

I only embroider and crochet because Mom taught me when I was younger. I only like Paul Anka because Judy liked him.

Oh God, who am I?

I stare down at my feet. The voices are mumbling again, but the words are spaced out more, less urgent and rushed. No longer about me. But I am alone, here.

Someday it will end up like this, I will end up all alone—

My slippers are pink. I wear pink slippers. I wear a gray skirt and an orange sweater. I shave my legs, and I put my hair in rollers once a week. (My hair is medium brown and my eyes are hazel). I have medium-length, unpainted nails. I have freckled wrists, like Kay. I am a waitress at the Evergreen Diner. I am nineteen years old. I have never dated a boy. I have never gone out on a date. I crochet and embroider. I feed the dog. I go fishing with my father, though I have never liked killing the fish.

I always thought those things made me who I am. I don’t think so now. I think those things don’t matter. They’re just things anyway. They’re not me, me as a person. They are outside; external. What is on the inside? Who am I, really, inside?

That is the question to which I never have an answer. All that comes up is a blank; empty space.