Authors: Carmen Rodrigues
Dad says, “We’ll get dinner started. It’s early by Miami standards—typically we don’t eat until about eight—but we’re sure you must be starving.”
Soon the house is filled with the noise of their cooking. I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling fan whirring above me, the sounds of its blades both hypnotic and comforting.
This fantasy: y
o
u and me, lying
o
n my
b
ed. Reading.
Silent
b
ut secure.
BEFORE. SEPTEMBER.
The night before I went to Ellie’s house to ask her about the sketch pad, I stood in my empty bedroom and practiced what I wanted to say. Mom had taught me this trick when I was five and scared to death of show-and-tell.
Just stand here, Jess,
in front of this mirror, and say everything you want to say about that shell to yourself. Trust me.
It’ll help.
And it had helped me conquer my fears about public speaking, but it didn’t make it easier to stand in Ellie’s doorway and see the bored expression on her face.
She didn’t seem surprised to see me, not from the way she flipped the page of her magazine and said with a sigh, “Come in.”
I entered the room slowly and stood over by her desk.
“How’d you get in?”
“Your mom.” I pointed to my right, as if she might follow the invisible line that stretched between my finger and her front door.
“Obviously.” She turned the page. “But why are you here?”
I set her sketch pad on her bed and backed away, unsure of her reaction. But she didn’t react. She flipped a page and continued to read her magazine.
“I saw,” I finally said. “I know you draw pictures of me.”
That was an understatement. Ellie hadn’t just drawn a few pictures of me; she had drawn dozens, in various states with various mediums—charcoal, pastels, ink—and some of them dated back to at least a year before.
She rolled onto her back, the magazine above her. “Yeah? And . . . ?”
I didn’t know if I could trust my voice—my throat felt constricted, making it hard to breathe—but eventually I said, “I just think we should t-talk about it.”
She closed the magazine, twisted her long blond hair around her fingertips. Her head rolled toward me, her eyes rimmed with their usual violent black eyeliner.
I tried not to let her stare intimidate me, by focusing on what I had practiced last night in the mirror. This time when I
spoke, I didn’t stutter. “Don’t you think we should talk about how we feel?”
“How we feel?” Ellie’s voice was dry, still distant. She unfolded her small body from the bed and stared out the window. I watched her. She seemed more interested in the neighborhood than me.
A voice inside me whispered:
You could just go. You could just walk out of here and never talk to her again.
But then Ellie closed her blinds and said, “Get the door, okay?”
I took a deep breath. This was what I wanted—a private conversation with her—but it still scared the heck out of me. “What about your mom?”
“Jess, even if you were a boy, my mom and the asshole wouldn’t care. Really.” To prove her point, she pulled a pack of cigarettes and the lighter with—I was convinced—Mattie’s Hello Kitty sticker from her dresser. She lit the cigarette. “Well?”
“What about Sarah?” I asked, stalling.
“Please.”
Her tone was sharp. “I’m pretty sure she’s somewhere with her head up Tommy’s ass.” She paused, her cigarette hovering.
She actually looked pained, and I wanted to touch her arm or maybe even hug her, but I didn’t know how to close our gap. Instead I said, “I’m sorry.”
“About what?” Her gaze wilted into a glare. She brushed her hair over her shoulder. Then she walked toward me, gliding her hand across mine as she passed. She shut the door. When she passed again, our hands locked. She led me to the bed, where we sat, our jeans touching—hers faded gray, and mine sensible navy blue. She put her cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. “Close your eyes.”
The little voice whispered:
You can still leave. You could just go.
But another part of me, the part that wondered what came next, listened. I closed my eyes. Waited.
Her hand brushed my face, and, instinctively, I jumped. She laughed. “I like how you listen to me. You hear me, Jess,” she said, her breath heavy on my skin. The next time she spoke, her mouth was only inches from my ear. “Go on, talk. I’ll listen.”
I opened my eyes and stared at her. I didn’t want to say the words aloud. It was too hard to confess my feelings when I knew she’d never admit hers. She placed a hand on my knee and let it crawl upward until her fingers found the indent above my clavicle. After a second, she grabbed a strand of my hair and gave it a light twist. “Admit it,” she said. “You really like me.”
It was such an obvious fact; I didn’t know why she needed my confirmation. “I—I—” I began, choking on my own spit. I turned my head away from her so I could cough.
She scooted away, our thighs no longer touching. I felt this ache, like a crinkling in the center of my heart. I was starting to believe that all of this—from our very first kiss to now—was a cruel joke, a game to pass her time.
“Well?” she said, her voice indifferent. And I knew that if I didn’t say anything, I’d go back to just being Sarah’s annoying little sister, and months might pass before she’d acknowledge my existence again.
“I . . .” Tears of frustration pooled in the corners of my eyes and started to seep out. “I like you, Ellie.” The words stayed stiffly between us, and I realized that this was where it ended. She only wanted me to admit it, so she could turn on me the way she turned on Lola.
But then she looked at me, her face softer than before, her voice nearly gentle, and said, “You’re crying.”
I swiped clumsily at my cheeks, embarrassed by my tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” She knelt in front of me, pulled my arms down to my sides. “Don’t.” She traced the tears downward until her fingers rested on my lips. “I’m such a bitch, and you’re not. You’re so incredibly kind.”
“I just want you to stop pretending. I want you to see me,” I whispered, looking toward the square of bright light hidden
behind the closed blinds. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “I just—” Her hand slipped over my mouth and silenced me. She turned my face so that our eyes met.
She said, “I see you, Jess. I do.” And then, very slowly, she kissed me.
When I’m ar
o
und y
o
u, I d
o
n’t kn
o
w what I’m d
o
ing . . .
AFTER. MARCH.
Mom drives me home from therapy. I change the CD, compulsively roll the car windows up and down, and in my head it’s like my mom and I do this shuffle dance. We shuffle through songs. We shuffle through lights. We shuffle through the facets of our lives that are too disturbing for either of us to want to understand.
Mattie sits in the rear, belted into her car seat like some kind of porcelain doll with glass eyes that roll backward if Mom hits a speed bump too fast. I think Mattie is starting to understand. She’s starting to realize that Big Sister isn’t the same sister as before, and that even good families can turn silence into an art form.
“Your father will be home this weekend,” Mom says. She
makes a left on Cherry Hill Drive and halts obediently at a stop sign. She looks around and then at me like she wants to touch me, but she doesn’t. I continue to fiddle with my window. I roll it up and back down, wanting to drown in the sound of the wind coursing through her Ford station wagon.
“He wants us to do something as a family for spring break next week. Maybe take a trip. What do you think, Mattie? Would you like to take a trip?” Mom glances at Mattie’s reflection in the rearview mirror. I think she’s praying for some form of approval from the only friend she’s got here.
“Can I bring Ann?” Mattie lisps through her mountain of missing teeth—the ones she has sacrificed to the tooth fairy in exchange for cash. She holds up the Raggedy Ann doll that has been passed down from sister to sister for the last thirteen years. “She wants to come.”
“Of course, sweetie, of course. What do you think, honey?” Mom takes a deep, nervous breath. “Sarah?”
“I think”—my voice as distant as my heart—“the idea sucks.”
“Well . . .” Mom makes a sharp turn onto Belvedere and stops abruptly at the light. She seems unsure of which direction to take. “I think it’s a fabulous idea. Right, Mattie?”
Mattie says, “We like the cabin. Can we go to the cabin on the lake?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mattie,” Mom says.
“But why not?” Mattie says.
Mom is silent. She’s probably recalling that last year we took Ellie on our vacation there, and debating whether a return visit will be enough to push me to the edge, when the truth is I’m way past standing on the edge. Right now I’m clinging to it with the tips of my fingernails. “I’m not sure Daddy meant to go so far. The cabin’s a long ways away,” Mom says finally.
But I say, “I think I’d like to go to the cabin. It’ll be warmer there.” No ice. No snow. No Concerned Therapist. No Smith. No box in my closet digging its way to China.
“Really?” Mom says. “I guess it’s a nice place to have some family—”
“Can I bring Tommy?” I interject before she gets on the subject of family time, which is the opposite of what I want. I want silence, crickets, Tommy acting as a buffer between me and her.
“Well, I’ll have to ask your father about Tommy, but I think that’ll be okay. It’ll be fun. I promise.” She winks at me, trying hard to be cheerful, but her face must not remember these kinds of gestures, because it remains stiff, her lips spread thin.
It feels like months since I’ve actually looked at her. Her disheveled hair hangs in a ponytail at the base of her neck.
She wears yoga pants and one of my dad’s
SEMPER FI
T-shirts. I remember when we were young how she used to doll up—all high heels, trench coats, and patent leather purses. But lately, she is stretchy pants and running shoes. I wonder if she, too, had the ability to hurt her mother the way I always seem to hurt her.
“Are you okay, Sarah?” Mom is surprised by my gaze.
“I’m fine,” I mumble. I look out my window, ignoring the reflection of her curious face. Her wide eyes blink quickly, like she’s caught in a dust storm. “I said I’m fine.” My voice is terse, and I start again on the automatic windows. I push the button and watch the glass move up and down. Now the car is silent, except for Mattie in the back, singing.
“It’s going to be okay, Sarah” is what Mom finally decides on. “I just want you to know that.” She places her hand underneath my elbow like she wants me to turn to her. But I can’t . . .
I can’t because I’m afraid if I do, some piece of my heart will break open. And the things I want to say will spill out and hurt us all. So I wait, and Mom waits too.
The light flashes green, and only then does she let me go.
The m
o
rning you found out, y
o
u crushed me t
o
y
o
ur chest, and y
o
ur tears wet my hair. Later y
o
u stood
b
aref
oo
t in the
b
ackyard, a trash can in fr
o
nt
o
f y
o
u, a pile
o
f his cl
o
thing at y
o
ur feet, that
b
right flame licking the sky, all th
o
se white ashes rising up, swirling ar
o
und y
o
u, like an S
O
S.
AFTER. MARCH/APRIL.
At night, when the palm-tree fronds brush against the roof tiles, I let my mind wander. I think about what life would be like if I stayed here forever, enrolled in junior college, let my dad be my dad again. I picture us working in the yard, sweat glistening off our backs, beers cradled in our hands. I think about watching Liza grow older, about always letting her hold my hand.
For whatever reason, these impossible plans alleviate the pain, save me from the boredom of days spent mostly in my bedroom, reading books from the library:
Far from the Madding Crowd, A Passage to India, On the Road
.
I have made friends with the blue-haired ladies who like to spend their afternoons in the library. They say, “You’re too smart
for such a good-looking kid. Why do you read so much?” They say, “Even at our old age, we’ve never read all these books.”
The rest of my time is spent running past strip mall after strip mall. Some days, I walk the man-made canals that connect the housing developments with names like Panache and La Palma and Summer’s Cove, and I think about what this world with its peach houses and always-green grass might hold for me.