Story Girl (21 page)

“I can imagine.”

“But then something magnificent happens – a grace, and you realize that no time is ever wasted, and that it all gets us to exactly where we need to go.”

“I’ve never been able to talk this way with my mother.”

“Because you’re her reflection. And when she looks at you, she sees all the parts of herself that she couldn’t trust.”

“So she looks in the mirror, and I’m the flyaway strands?”

“She looks in the mirror, opens her mouth, and speaks with a different voice.”

“You’re sweet, Mary.”

“I’ll also say this, Tracy – you’ve been thinking that she wants you to change, but you’re also hoping that she’ll change. Just mirrors.”

“If that’s how it works, then I need to be careful,” I said. “Because I want to see my own freedom reflected in James and vice versa.”

“Is that why you’re afraid?” she asked.

“I just never want to force him into any sort of mold just to make me feel safe. I want to feel safe on my own.”

“Me too.”

I nibbled my Swiss cheese square into a circle, “Remember the time you were babysitting Jenny and me, and you woke us up in the middle of a school night to take us driving along the lake – all because the moon was so huge?”

She nodded as if she only half remembered.

“It ignited all that was unknown. You told us that all the mysterious creatures of darkness would be cast in silver, and that neither
of us would ever have to fear the wolves or the boogeymen again – because they were all really friendly, just woefully misunderstood.”

She looked amazed, “You remember so well.”

“As soon as we came home, I went upstairs and wrote my very first short story.”

“Really?”

“Yep – so I have you to blame.”

“What was it about?”

“It was about all the monsters that live under beds and in closets – how they really aren’t so bad. It was called, The Bagman.”

“That was the one you were most afraid of.”

“Until I looked underneath.”

“I’d love to read it.”

“It’s probably up in the attic somewhere. Might actually make a pretty good script today – like an anti-horror.”

The breeze had suddenly turned to wind and the ducks were gone. We carried our picnic remnants to the car and I realized she wanted me to ask her something.

“Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have secrets?”

She lifted her head to the darkening sky and exploded with a laughter that was filled with irony.

“I have demons.”

chapter
30

I
WAS FEELING
bad about a million things.

Mary and I were sitting in the new lodge by the lake – the same one used to lure my mother to the bingo hall. The restaurant overlooked one of Minnesota’s thousands upon thousands of lakes.

I was heavy, but the weather had lightened up.

Looking out at the green glass water suddenly made me feel like a jerk, “I wish we’d had the anniversary here. I should’ve helped Jenny plan something.”

“So bring your mother here for dinner sometime.”

I watched the shadow of a floatplane make its way across the lake.

“Maybe you should call him.”

The smell of fresh cut timber filled my nostrils. I ran my hand over the smooth log wall beside me, “Why?”

“Because you’ve been thinking about him all day, and at the very least you could practice your communication skills.”

I carefully dipped a fry in mayonnaise and then twirled it in ketchup. James was the first and last person I wanted to call.

“His parents have a ton of money.”

“Good for them.”

“I can’t relate. What if he never has to work?”

“Free as a bird – remember?”

“Right.”

“Stop putting so many roadblocks in your own way.”

I thought about
Space Boy
and the fact that I hadn’t even finished it yet. How could I ever pitch something that wasn’t complete? Would I just trail off in the middle of a sentence?

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s gonna be alright.”

“But what if it’s not?”

“Life moves, Tracy – that’s the theme.”

But I wasn’t so sure it was the theme of
my
life.

“Sometimes I fantasize so well – it’s like I don’t even need real life.”

“You’re probably not alone in that.”

There was just no way she was going to be able to pick up my pieces.

“I really
really
suck, Mary.”

“Where the heck did that come from?”

I was shocked that I’d ever admit such an excruciating tid-bit to a family member, especially one that I admired so much; but I was disappointed that my fears were back in the driver’s seat.

“Because it’s true. All I do is sit around in a room and pretend that I’m some sort of writer.”

“You’re not pretending.”

“There’s been nothing but a solid wall of rejection, and I keep banging my head on it.”

“That’s part of the process – doesn’t mean that you’re not a writer. All it means is that you have tenacity.”

“I can’t even sell a B movie about zombies who get stoned.”

“Well, that’s okay.”

“To a production company that purchases B movies about stoned zombies?”

“All it means is that you’re not meant to be writing about zombies. I think you want to go deeper.”

“I have gone deeper,” I said. “I’ve written about people who screw-up their suicide attempts, children that go to war, the final days
of our sun. I’ve gone deep. I’ve stayed light. And how is this for deep? I’m knee-deep in rejection letters – I could wallpaper my apartment.”

“Maybe you
should
wallpaper your apartment. Every day you could stare at your walls and remind yourself that you’re not a quitter – that you’re committed. Every letter is like a badge of honor.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re like the Energizer bunny – you just keep on going. And if you run into an obstacle, you just pound your drum, turn, and move off in another direction.”

“How do you know all this?”

“The determination is carved right into your face – it’s there between your eyes.”

“So I need Botox too?”

She didn’t answer.

“I shouldn’t give up is what you’re saying?”

“How would you feel if you ever really gave up?”

“I don’t know, because I’d be dead.”

“See – that’s the only thing you pretend at – you pretend that you give up. But it is your distinct reality to never give up.”

“What if I end up homeless?”

“You won’t.”

I stared hard at my grandmother, wondering how she could be so sure of everything, “You’re the only person I can admit this to. So will you promise me something, Mary?”

“Yes, anything.”

I tied a knot in the stem of my maraschino cherry.

“Will you give my eulogy?”

“Your
what
?”

“I mean, if I should die before you do. If I should finally succumb to my disappointments?”

“That’s a little outrageous, don’t you think?”

No, I didn’t think it was outrageous at all – and I really had to make it through this request without breaking down.

“It’s just that – ”

“What?”

“You seem to get me. And I’d want you to say something specific.”

“What’s that?”

I looked out the window and all I could see was the face of my mother.

“Here lies what was once Tracy Johnston. And she was a dreamer. But she was a person who tried – and then tried again.”

“My goodness.”

“Maybe you’ll even be able to say that she tried her heart out.”

Mary stared down at her beer, “You bet I can say that. But I very much doubt that I’ll have to. And you know what, Tracy?”

“What?”

“I just spilled a tear in my beer.”

And then laughter brought all sorts of tears, as if all emotions were actually only one. She handed me a man’s handkerchief and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

“Was this Grandpa’s?”

She nodded.

“You must really miss him.”

Her eyes lit up as though she’d been slapped, and I watched her hand tighten and release around her mug.

It was an uncomfortable moment and I felt strangely guilty, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’ve upset you, though.”

“It’s okay. You never knew him, Tracy. He died when you were still a baby.”

“Farm accident, right?”

“Initially, but he didn’t die from that. He lost his hand and part of his arm under that horrendous machine – like giant razors. But it was the infection afterwards, and his leg never got better. He never really gave up though – just slowly wore out. And those last years between us were nice, in a very odd way.”

“Weren’t they nice before?”

“They were just different. I was a farm wife – the work was never-ending. And there was never enough money – especially when the weather didn’t turn out and the crops failed. It was stressful and he didn’t always handle it well. Neither of us did.”

I looked back out at the lake – the green glass was darkening.

“But after the accident, all he could do was be still. And it changed him. He was a very forgiving man, Tracy.”

I nodded my head and put two more fries through the condiment routine.

My grandmother looked as though she was struggling to tell me something.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing at all,” she said. “I was just… I guess I was just debating.”

“Debating what?”

“Remember when you asked me about secrets at the pond?”

“Just don’t tell me I’m adopted. On the other hand, that might not be so bad.”

“Of course you’re not adopted. Besides, you look exactly like your mother.”

“Was my
father
adopted?”

“No one was adopted.”

She closed her eyes tight, either conjuring or fending off the images of the past. My nerves were waking up – one by one. I pulled the cocktail menu out from behind the napkin rack, wondering which martini would best complement a chocolate shake.

“It’s so hard to talk about this,” she said.

“Maybe it’s too personal.”

“I think it’s meant to be – you know – that we’ve come to this.”

The familiar tingling had started ever so slightly, warning me to settle down or risk the revolting splotches in a public place.

“As crazy as it is, I feel that you should know this about me.”

While she stared at the now blackish water, I scratched violently at the palms of my hands. The soles of my feet were starting
to burn and my eyes were watering. My pores were portals for the coming persecution.

“What’s wrong, Tracy?”

“I’m sorry, Mary – my immune system’s ridiculously sensitive.”

“Tracy?”

“I’m getting hives. We have to go home.”

“But – ”

“Now.”

She put a fifty-dollar bill on the table, and led me by the hand all the way to the passenger seat. She sped home while I practiced holding my breath. I couldn’t even look in the visor mirror because touching anything made the itching so bad I would have happily scraped off my skin with a vegetable peeler.

We pulled into the driveway, and I leapt from the car before it stopped moving. I raced into the house and up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom. These suckers felt far more determined to crack me open, something inside hell-bent on escape.

I started a freezing bath after discovering that hot water only helps them spread. I’d already gobbled up my Benadryl supply – as a precaution against any possible feeling that might ignite this suicide-craving itch – but as a small miracle would have it, my mother’s ancient box of cornstarch was still under the sink.

I slowly sat in the icy water and dumped the box of powder over my head, hoping to at least alleviate some of the agony, but all I really managed to achieve was a coughing fit.

As I coughed, I could almost see James in the dust. He was watching me hack my lungs dry in a glacial pool of gooey paste – just one more vivid reason to steer clear. But it didn’t matter anymore.

All that mattered now was that I didn’t scratch. That was all that had ever mattered or would ever matter again in the future.

chapter
31