Another Little Piece (6 page)

Turning off the oven, I took the plate of waffles and bacon out. They were toaster waffles, but she had pretoasted them for me. For some reason this struck me as funny. I laughed a little desperately, even as I shoved the food down the whirring garbage disposal. After it was gone, I dirtied a plate with a few strategically placed crumbs and a few dots of syrup, and then placed it in the sink.

Getting rid of the cigarette-smoke smell came next. After checking several times to make sure there was no sign of the boy, I flung the front door open. Using it like a giant fan, I swung it back and forth. When I was done, the sheer drapes covering the little window next to the door still stank like smoke if you stuck your nose right into them, but I could only hope the mom wouldn’t do that.

My last task was disposing of the manila envelope. I slipped out the back door, intending to bury it in the trash can. The cigarettes had lost their appeal at the same instant I’d gained a new scar. But there was something else still there at the bottom of the envelope. I feared that wrapped lump. The redheaded boy wanted to hurt me, that much was certain. The cigarettes were up-front about their dangers, a warning helpfully printed right on the package. That made them the lesser danger. The other thing would hurt more.

I’d had enough hurting; I wanted no part of whatever was at the bottom of that envelope.

I lifted out a few sacks of trash, until I found the perfect one, heavy and reeking with rot. Holding my breath, I carefully untied the bag and eased it open just wide enough to reach inside. With the envelope clutched in my fist, I plunged my hand into the heart of the assorted waste.

If I had uncurled my fingers, and left the envelope there, the whole thing would’ve been lost in a distant landfill within the week.

Cursing softly, I jerked my hand back out, and the envelope with it. It wasn’t the best time to be indulging my curiosity. It might’ve been the worst. Still, I couldn’t let it go without seeing what was inside.

I tore the envelope apart and stuffed it into the trash bag, and then the cigarettes and lighter went in too. That left me with a wad of paper towels, sealed with duct tape.

I gave it a squeeze. Layers of softness gave way and then stopped, where something hard and solid sat at their core.

As I stared down at the misshapen lump, red began spreading out from my hand, racing across the paper towels, slowly yet steadily consuming the white.

Blood. My whole hand was sticky with it.

I tore the red parts off, like I was unwrapping a cursed mummy, but the blood continued its advance. When the last bit of paper towel fell away, a single-edged blade folded into a wooden handle sat in my hand.

I recognized it instantly. This was the blade I’d given Annaliese. The one she’d used to cut me open.

Names were carved into the wooden handle. The blood still oozing out around the razor had filled the tiny crevices and outlined them in red. Eight names in all. Anna began the short list; Annaliese ended it.

The razor slid from my hand and fell to the ground.

Only then did I notice the deep cut across my palm. It wasn’t from the blade tucked away inside the handle. Instead, the culprit was resting at the top of the trash bag I’d opened—the jagged tin disk from a can of peas. I hadn’t even felt it slicing my hand.

“Are you okay?”

The question came from a boy. Or a man. A man-boy.

His face—the stubble on his cheeks, the lines around his frowning mouth, the bags beneath his gray eyes—all spoke of age. But his body, long and gangly, made up of limbs leaning this way and that, was like a foal just born and stumbling around on his new legs.

I might’ve smiled at him, despite my bleeding hand and everything else going on, if only to see what he looked like without the frown. It didn’t fit him. But dangling from the flexed fingers of one of his long arms was a video camera.

This was the boy from next door. The boy with one red eye, who liked to record and replay people’s screams.

When he noticed the direction of my gaze, his face went red beneath his darkly stubbled cheeks. “I wasn’t, I mean . . . it’s not what you think.” He shifted the camera behind a jangling leg.

“Okay,” I said. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’d been wrong about him. Then I could maybe be wrong about myself too.

I wanted to ask him questions and find out for sure, but there was no time. I heard the sound of the garage door opening. The mom was home.

Swiftly, I scooped the razor off the ground. And in that same instant I made a decision.

“Do me a favor?”

Before he could answer, I tossed the razor in his direction. The throw went wide and high but the boy’s free hand snapped out. Quick as a frog’s tongue catching a fly, he gripped it in his fist.

“Hold on to that for me, please. Don’t tell anyone you have it. Don’t show it to anyone. Just keep it for me.”

I heaved the open trash bag into the can, and then turned to the boy for his response.

His eyes, which had been watching me so intently, skittered away, focusing on the razor instead.

As I awaited his response, I felt irrationally anxious, like I’d just gathered my courage to ask him to the prom. Stupid. I clenched my still-bleeding hand into a fist.

After what felt like an eternity, he looked into my eyes. The hand holding the razor flew out at me, and I thought he was giving it back. But then the razor slid up his sleeve, leaving him free to simply offer a handshake.

“I’m Dex.”

Not wanting to press my bloody palm against his, I instead ran for the back door, calling over my shoulder, “I’m Anna.”

It was only after I’d sprinted up the stairs toward the bathroom—jumping into the shower before the water was fully warm—that my words had time to catch up with me.

“I’m Anna.” That’s what I’d said.

Anna was what the redheaded boy had called me too.

Anna was the first name on the razor handle.

Anna was me.

But how had I gone from Anna to Annaliese? And who were those other six girls in between?

Hot water poured from the shower and over my head, but I shivered and shook. No matter how hot I turned the water, the shakes continued. The burn in my thigh ached, and the cut across my palm stung every time one of my fingers had the slightest twitch. Clenching my teeth to keep them from clacking together, I stood under the burning stream until the water went cold.

EAVESDROPPING

Dear Annaliese,

I miss you. I wish I had a place to send this letter so that you could hear that . . . wherever you are. But wherever you are, I think (and hope) that you already know this. I also hope you can soon find a way to come home. I miss you. Oh. I already said that. Well, we both know that you are the talented writer in the family. Your father and I were both so proud when you won the Poets of Tomorrow contest. I know you thought it was embarrassing, but I still think it was beautiful. Maybe wherever you are, you have a bit of paper and you are writing your poems and they are helping to get you through. If you don’t have paper, maybe you could compose them in your head, because you need to get through, Annaliese. You need to get through, because I am here and waiting for you.

Love and hugs and kisses,

Mom

KISS IT

The minute I turned off the shower, before I could even reach for a towel, the mom was tapping at the door.

“You okay in there, Annaliese?”

And just like that. BOOM.

“Leave me alone!”

The words tore through my throat, leaving it raw in their wake. I could almost see them as they pierced the door and hit their target on the other side. And the mom so defenseless, her arms constantly held open.

As I toweled off, I heard nothing else. I imagined the mom knocked over by my words. Eventually, she would gather herself enough to crawl away, lick her wounds in private.

I didn’t give the mom enough credit. This was the same woman who’d attacked Rice Sixteen, with her hands curled into claws. I remembered this as I opened the door to find her standing ready and waiting for me. There were no red and teary eyes, or trembling lips. She wasn’t angry or prepared with a how-dare-you-speak-to-me-that-way lecture either.

What I got instead was more of the steadfast love and concern that flowed from a seemingly bottomless well.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I shouldn’t have left a note. But you were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake you. And I knew you wouldn’t want to be dragged along to the doctor’s. . . .”

It would’ve been easier if she’d yelled at me. Because that soft tone brought back the fear I’d felt when I’d woken up.

Not today, but the first time. In that little wisp of a building. And I was alone.

Where had she been then?

And when Annaliese lay in the dirt and dead leaves, losing her virginity. Losing her fantasy of love. Had the mom thought she was safe in bed? Had she even known Annaliese wasn’t home?

Or when Annaliese held a hot heart in her hands? The mom should have been charging through the woods, screaming her name, and ending the nightmare.

Where the fuck had she been then? Where?

“Maybe I did want to go,” I said. No, I shouted it—right into the mom’s face. “You didn’t tell me because you don’t want to let me out of this house. You want to keep me a prisoner here.”

It wasn’t what I meant to say. I wanted to tell her to never let me go. To let her know she’d allowed the redheaded boy in, and I was afraid of him. I was afraid of everything. Except at the same time that I wanted her to be my shield, I also wanted to push her away. It was like when she was there, I had to breathe for both of us. Or maybe it was her trying to breathe for me. Either way, there wasn’t enough air.

The mom’s hand went to her eyes. Not to brush away a tear, but to pluck at her eyelashes, pulling a few small hairs loose. It seemed to focus her.

“Annaliese, you are not a prisoner. If you wanted to leave the house, why didn’t you say so?”

She was so calm. So reasonable. It was absolutely maddening.

“I am a prisoner. You know I am. You won’t let me go to school, you won’t even let me check the mail by myself.”

She flinched, caught by this undeniable truth. It wasn’t enough. Not yet. She needed to know that she’d hurt me.

“This isn’t a house. It’s a tomb. You brought me home to bury me in here. And I won’t. I won’t.”

The mom shook like my words were an earthquake. She still wasn’t running though.

“Annaliese, sweetie. That’s not—”

“I won’t,” I said again, interrupting her.

She threw her hands up. “You won’t what? What is it you won’t do?”

I honestly didn’t know.
I won’t and you can’t make me.
That was the whole of it. But I had to give some answer, and so I held up my palm, showing the mom my wounded hand.

She gasped as if my pain was her own. And it was only when she pulled me to her in a trembling hug, her cheek pressed against mine so that our tears ran together, that I realized. This was what I had wanted the whole time. I hadn’t wanted to hurt the mom. I’d only been waiting for her to kiss it and make it better.

SPITBALL

“She needs to go back to school.”

“You told me so, right?”

A sigh. “I didn’t say that. Giving her an extra week was the right decision at the time, but now . . .” Another sigh. “For both of you, Shelley.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then another sigh. This time it came from the mom.

“She won’t tell me what happened this morning. That cut on her hand . . . I shouldn’t have left her here alone.”

It was his turn to sigh. “We both decided it would be more difficult, and complicate everything further, for her to be at the doctor’s office. To explain why we were there.”

“Maybe we were wrong. Whatever we do, why does it end up feeling wrong?”

He didn’t give an answer. It wasn’t a question that needed one. Instead, they sighed together, united in their wordless exhalations. Hers a soft sigh of sadness, his almost a groan of despair.

John and Shelley. Funny, it was the first time I’d actually heard her name. He was usually “dear” or “your dad.” She was “babe” when he was joking and “hon” when he was worried. She was “hon” a lot. Never did they use each other’s names as he had now. It was as if when they had a kid, they’d left their material lives and names behind.

The mom and I hadn’t spoken after our earlier showdown. Or meltdown. After we both caught our breath again, she put me to bed. Tucking me in, and sliding her cool fingers across my forehead as if she was taking my temperature.

“Sweetie, talk to me,” she’d said.

Confession is good for the soul, they say. I’d imagine this is true. But my sins were too convoluted. And from the little I understood—too damning.

I’d rolled over onto my side. Away from her hand and into my pillow.

She’d stood there a long time before finally leaving.

I didn’t sleep. My heavy eyes wanted it, but I was afraid of Annaliese. Afraid of what else I might dream. Of course, even awake I was fighting nightmares. So with the covers pulled up to my chin, and the afternoon sun streaming through the blinds, I practiced saying the alphabet backward. Over and over again I whispered the letters, until I could do it without hesitation. Until I could do it without thinking, which meant that my mind was free to think about the razor with the names. That was when I stopped.

After placing a fresh layer of breath strips on my tongue, I headed downstairs to find the mom. The basement/doomsday-bunker door was open, and as I prepared to call a hello, voices came floating up to me. I took one step down, intending to announce my presence, but somehow my legs folded beneath me and I sat on the top step instead.

I almost wanted the mom and the dad to discover me sitting there, eavesdropping. Maybe they’d tell me what the whole doctor’s office thing was about. It had to be something bad. Like that the mom was dying. Or maybe the dad. But probably the mom. That would be worse. I decided then and there I was glad they hadn’t told me, and I wouldn’t demand answers.

They didn’t come up though. They didn’t say anything else either.

Waiting, I stretched forward and let my head fall between my open legs, studying the dusty underside of the basement stairs. That was when I saw them. Three little balls stuck to the bottom of the stair. Chewed gum, I first thought. But no. Faint blue lines ran through them. I squinted, trying to see clearer.

It looked like notebook paper wadded up into spitballs. Almost as gross as chewed gum, but I reached for them anyway. A tiny tap was all it took to send them tumbling into my hand.

Carefully, I peeled the first one open. The wrinkled bit of paper was only a few inches wide and jagged on three edges as if torn from a notebook. Slanted cursive lettering ran perpendicular to the lines. And in the bottom right-hand corner were the initials ARG. Annaliese Rose Gordon.

It was a poem. They all were. Three little scraps of poetry. Three little bits of Annaliese, crumpled and hidden away where no one would ever find them. Except I had. The last bits of Annaliese. Maybe the truest parts of her. And they fit into the palm of my hand.

SPYING

I sat on the steps, learning the poems. Rote repetition had quickly turned a challenge like the backward ABCs into nothing but background noise, no more distracting than the hum of the refrigerator. The poems, though, became more insistent with every reading. I could hear Annaliese’s voice in my head.

I had forgotten where I was, and had thoroughly forgotten the mom and the dad still in the basement. A creaking noise and some wet smacking sounds brought me back to my surroundings. While I had been lost in Annaliese’s poems, the mom and the dad had stopped talking . . . and moved on to doing something else. They could be chewing, breaking into those Little Debbie treats, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t it. The mom’s next words confirmed it.

“John”—her voice was breathy—“we can’t. The door is open.”

“We can. She’s sleeping, you said so yourself. A nice long midday nap, probably the best rest she’ll have all week.”

“But if she wakes up—”

“We’ll hear her.”

“But—Oh! Jo-ohn.”

Covering my ears, burning red with embarrassment, I tiptoed away before I could hear anything else.

I kept going until I was outside, walking along the fence line, up our side, and then around onto the other. I almost expected the boy—Dex—to be waiting for me. He had a knack for showing up. But the only sign of him was the storm door I’d shouted down into before, cracked open, as if he were inviting me in.

I tapped gently. The hollow metal clanged loud enough for the whole block to hear it. No one came running though. And there was no response from inside either.

Anyone else would have left, and I especially should have, considering the things I’d said the last time I’d stood here. Having come this far, I found I was reluctant to leave. Besides, I reminded myself, he had my razor.

Boldly lifting the door, I called in, “Hello?”

Still nothing.

“Dex? It’s . . .” I wasn’t sure whether to call myself Anna as I had before, or Annaliese. All I could see were the cement-block steps leading into the gloom below. Cautiously, I stepped inside and then took one stair after another until I was underground. Unlike the mom’s bright fluorescent-lit basement, the only source of light here came from three glowing computer monitors lined up side by side at the opposite end of the room. They all ran the same screen saver, the words
free will
rotating round and round.

I spotted Dex in a little cubby space built into the gap beneath the stairs that led up to the house. A gigantic beanbag, covered in furry black fabric, filled and overflowed from the cubby, as if it were a growing thing that refused to be contained. And Dex was apparently involved in a fight to the death with the overgrown pillow. His body was hidden, seemingly being eaten, while his long limbs stuck out in all directions jerking and twitching as if in his final death throes.

But it wasn’t a battle. Feeling foolish, I abruptly called off my rush to his rescue. The world was a more frightening place than most people knew, but it appeared we were still safe from the scourge of evil pillows.

Dex was just dancing. Sort of dancing. He twitched in time to whatever song was being pumped from the iPod into the gigantic headphones clamped tight over his ears. His eyes were squinched tightly closed, as if to fully take in the music, he had to seal off all his other senses.

I stood watching him for longer than I should have. I actually leaned in, until I could make out his lips barely moving, forming little oohs and aahs along with the music. Inching a bit closer, until the fur on the beanbag almost brushed my shin, I could just barely discern a beat and a high voice singing, “MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

Even as I leaned in, wanting to hear more, recognition hit me.

Queen. “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

An involuntary gasp escaped. Not for the song, but because the world in front of me had lost its color. And then it faded away completely.

SEVENTEEN

I’m in a car. Sardined into the backseat with five others. We three girls have our heads pressed together, our Farrah Fawcett–inspired shags tangled one into the others as we croon the tragic verse to Mama about having just killed a man.

Maaammaaa. Ooooo-oooooo.

The boys, whose bony knees we balance on, would normally be playing air guitar, but here in the car they hold on to us girls—supposedly for safety.

Today I am seventeen, and we are celebrating. They don’t know how many times I have been seventeen. I am always fifteen going on sixteen going on seventeen. But eighteen never comes. And this song, from the moment I first heard it last week, makes me feel both the miracle and tragedy of that strange fact all in the same instant.

“Bismillah!” We all shout the word together. None of us know what the word means; maybe it means nothing at all. But for me it defines something inside myself, something I’ve never had a word for—until now.

“Jane,” the girl beside me whispers into my ear. “I think Darren really likes you!”

I don’t answer. Darren and I will end up together—we always do, even when he isn’t Darren and I’m not Jane. But I don’t want to think about that now. Instead, I sing louder.

“Bismillah!”

SORRY

Dex’s eyes flew open and met mine. I’d been as lost in the music as him . . . but in another time, and another place. His body stiffened and then went completely still, the music draining, as if I’d tripped some hidden plug.

Clumsy, my feet scraped against the cement floor as I backed away. Not quickly enough to evade Dex’s arm stretching out to grab my hand and pull me toward him. It was the hand I’d sliced earlier, now carefully bandaged by the mom, and I winced, waiting for him to squeeze. But Dex took it gently, not demanding at all. It was almost old-fashioned, like he might ask, “May I have this dance?”

Instead, when it was clear he’d prevented my retreat, his hand dropped away from my own. Our dance was over before it had begun.

Or maybe not. In a rippling move, Dex extricated himself from the beanbag chair and stood up, his mouth right at my eye level, reminding me that he’d yet to say a word to me. Or I to him. Funny, he hadn’t demanded to know why I was there, and I hadn’t felt the need to fill the silence with explanations.