Wintergirls (11 page)

I sneak down the stairs and put Emma’s boots on the tread second from the bottom. If Dad comes down for a midnight snack or to work, he’ll knock them over and give me a warning.

I head for the basement, lock the door behind me, and put in a couple of sweaty hours on the stair-stepper.

The loudspeaker yanks me out of Friday’s English in the middle of a practice test and sends me to Ms. Rostoff’s office. She tells me that my stepmother called and I have to leave school early for an emergency shrink appointment.

“Why?” I ask.

“Cassie,” Ms. Rostoff says. “Talking about it will help.”

My purse slips off my shoulder. It’s been doing that all day. “Talking makes things worse.”

She glances at her screen. “You’ll miss Physics.”

“Oh,” I say, hiking up the purse strap, “that changes everything.”

Dr. Nancy Parker smells like cherry cough drops. I sit on her fat leather couch, purse on the floor, and pull the hideous raspberry-colored afghan over me. She unwraps another Halls. I think she’s addicted to suffering from a chemical dependency on the red dye. She should explore that issue.

She turns on the white-noise fan and pops the drop in her mouth. “Your parents are concerned that Cassie’s death is triggering you.”

The couch faces a floor-to-ceiling wall of books. They are filled with crap. None of them is worth reading. There are no fairy tales, no faerie tails, no sword-swinging princesses or lightning-throwing gods. The pages of sentences of words of letters might as well be mathemati-cal equations marching to their logical conclusions. Cough Drop Nancy is not a doctor. She’s an accountant.

“I wonder if there might be two struggles going on.”

She kicks off her shoes and sits cross-legged. The wrinkles on her face say she’s pushing sixty, but yoga classes keep her body as flexible as a girl’s. “Confusion and grief about the loss of a friend, and the desire to keep your parents at a distance.”

She waits for me to fill the air with words. I don’t.

“Or I could be totally wrong,” she says, “and none of this is affecting you in the slightest.”

Rain pours down the windows.

. . . I started coming here after the first prison clinic stay
because Dr. N. Parker is a scam artist specialist in crazy teenagers troubled adolescents. I opened my mouth during the first couple of visits and gave her a key to open my head. Ginormous mistake. She brought her lantern and a hard hat and lots of rope to wander through my caves. She laid land mines in my skull that detonated weeks later.

I told her I was pissed because she was moving things around in my brain without permission. She booby-trapped me so that every time I had a simple thought—

like,
Physics is a waste of time
, or
I need to charge
my phone
, or
Japanese can’t be that hard to learn
—the annoying-question-from-hell popped up—
Why do you
think that, Lia
?

I couldn’t ask myself a question—
Why am I so
tired?
—without getting slammed by three or four shrink-supplied answers—
Because my glycogen levels are low,
or
Because I am experiencing an ill-defined sense of
loss,
or
Because I’ve lost touch with reality
, or the ever-popular—
Because I am a whacked-out nut job.

Once I got angry and mouthed off. I told her she was a pathetic loser and I bet she didn’t have any kids or grand-kids or if she did they never called and her husband left her, or maybe it was a girlfriend, you never can tell, and even her own mother gave up on her because she wouldn’t live in the real world with breathing people, she stayed sealed in this room with the fake books and the fan blowing and rain on the windows.

Nothing I said made her angry. I couldn’t even make her blink. She just asked me to stay in the feeling and keep talking. So I shut up.

I used to dream about bringing a knife to therapy and
slicing her into pork chop–sized pieces.

Ten minutes have gone by. As the couch warms up, I sink deeper into the cushions. The leather creaks.

“What words are in your head right now, Lia?”

Pissed. Pig. Hate.

“I’d like to hear them.”

Jail. Coffin. Cut.

“You have to work at recovery, Lia. Suspended animation isn’t much of a life.”

“My weight is fine. I can bring in Jennifer’s stupid notebook if you want.”

“It’s not about the number on the scale. It never was.”

Hungry. Dead.

Twenty minutes spin by. I weave my fingers in and out of the afghan. She is Charlotte, I am Wilbur

::Some Girl!/Useless!/Delirious!::

and this pink crocheted nightmare (polyester yarn) is her web. No, she’s not Charlotte, she’s Charlotte’s annoying cousin Mildred, the stupid one, whose webs always break. If my parents had let me invest the money they wasted on this lady, I’d have my own apartment by now.

Forty minutes. I have plucked stray hairs from at least seven different people out of the afghan: a long black one, a shiny white one, a wispy blonde, a curly auburn, a brown hair that was white at the root, and a short hair that could have been a guy’s—or a girl’s who doesn’t fuss with the way she looks. The hair of rich people who like to whine to strangers.

“You didn’t have to come here today,” she finally says.

“You could have used the excuse of a therapy appointment to get out of class and do whatever you wanted. I don’t report back to your parents unless you give me permission, so they wouldn’t know it if you didn’t show up.”

“What’s your point?” I ask.

“You chose to come.” She cracks the knuckles on her right hand and wiggles her fingers. “I think you want to talk about some of this.”

Yes, I’d love to tell you that Cassie’s voice is on the phone in my purse and she is haunting me because I let her die. If I do, you’ll give me even more drugs. If I tell you what I ate today, you’ll pull the alarm and send me back to jail. I lay all the hairs on the arm of the chair. “I keep thinking that if I could just unzip my skin, step out of this body, then I would see who I really am.”

She nods her head slowly. “What do you think you’d look like?”

“Smaller, for a start.”

The final eight minutes march past in silent formation until the timer on her desk dings.

“So, can I go to the funeral?” I ask.

She reaches for her shoes. “Do you understand why you want to go to the funeral?”

To make sure they bury her in concrete so she’ll leave me alone. “I feel that I need some closure about this.”

“And the funeral will provide that?”

Yes, that’s what I just said. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

The clock ticks by two bonus minutes. I roll the hair of the strangers into a ball.

“It’s a good idea.” She slips her shoes on and stands up. “But have one of your parents go with you. Nobody should ever go to a funeral alone.”

On the way home, I take the phone out of my purse and the memory out of my phone and lay it on the iron rail just beyond the railroad crossing near the mall. I place the phone itself under the left rear tire and drive back and forth over it thirty-three times. I pitch the remains in a construction site Dumpster.

Elijah opens the door to room 115 with the security chain still latched and presses his face into the small space. His eyes are sleep-swollen and confused.

“Emma?” he asks. “What’s up?”

I don’t know how to explain the name thing yet. “I brought you pizza. Free food.”

The chain rattles and the door opens all the way.

“What’s the catch?”

The warm mozzarella grease has soaked through the bottom of the box and is leaking into my fingers. I want to lick I want to throw the box away before it infects me.

“No catch.”

He leans against the door frame. “There’s always a catch.”

“It’s for helping me out the other night.”

“What kind of pizza is it?”

“Extra cheese and sausage.”

He smiles. “I can’t eat it. I’m a vegetarian.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A door opens at the far end of the motel and a man shouts in a language I can’t understand. The woman he’s yelling at laughs like a cartoon jackal. Tires screech on River Road and an engine races.

He rubs his face once and steps back. “Okay, I’m mostly a vegetarian. I’m a pizzatarian. Come on in.”

The room smells like cigarettes and clothes left in the washing machine too long. The only light comes from a small lamp on the table, squeezed between a stack of spiral notebooks topped with a dirty ashtray and a six-pack of beer.

He takes the pizza box from me and puts it on the bed.

Playing cards are scattered over the tangled blankets and thin pillows are piled against the headboard. “What time is it?” he asks.

“Almost five.”

“Damn. I must have fallen asleep. Charlie wanted me to fix the shelves in 204. Oh, well. He needs to accept what the universe gives him.”

“That’s a lame excuse for ditching work.”

“No, it’s not. Things happen for a reason.” He yawns and stretches. “You gotta accept that and let the flow carry you, stop resisting.”

“That’s crap.”

His eyes are brighter now, mischievous. “One guy’s crap is another guy’s fertilizer.” He waves at the walls.

“Ask them.”

The walls are covered floor to ceiling with pages torn from books, some highlighted with red or yellow or green markers. I lean forward and squint through the gloom to read. The top of the page says WALDEN
.

“What did you do—rob a library?”

“Something like that,” he says, walking toward the bathroom. “Emerson, Thoreau, Watts. Sonya Sanchez, ever read her? The Bible, a couple pages. The Bhagavad Gita. Dr. Seuss, Santayana. I put them up to create a force field of good ideas. They soak into my brain while I’m sleeping. Hang on, I got to take care of business.” He closes the door.

I pick up the notebook on top of the pile on the table and flip through it. He’s pasted random newspaper articles in here and drawn faces; he’s not half bad. Charlie at the front desk. A tired woman with her hair in curlers. There are more creatures, half human, half something else, like the thing on his arm. Some pages are filled with tiny handwriting that looks like ants marching across the page.

Elijah comes out of the bathroom holding a roll of toilet paper. “You know, the secrets of the universe are written in there. You should feel real special, being allowed to snoop like that.”

“Sorry.” I set it back on the pile. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

He tosses the toilet paper roll on the pillows, flips opens the box, and takes out a slice of pizza. “New Jer-sey.” He takes a bite and the cheese strings like a suspen-sion bridge from his mouth to his hand. “Want some?”

One bite, please, and then another and another, crust and cheese sausage sauce another and another empty is strong and invincible. “I already ate.”

“All the more for me.” He sits on the bed. “Want to play poker?”

“No, thanks.”

He scoops up a handful of cards: diamonds and spades.

“What’s your poison: Texas hold ’em or five-card draw?

How much cash do you have?”

“I said no. You just want to take my money.”

He folds the pizza in half and takes another bite.

“Damn right,” he says through the mess in his mouth.

“But you’ll learn a lot while I’m doing it. I’m one of the best cheats around.”

I put my left hand behind my back and dig my fingernails into my palm until the pain takes away that lovely wicked smell. “I don’t know how to play.”

“I’m appalled. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“You can vote and join the army, but you can’t play poker? Someone has neglected your education, young Emma.” He shuffles the cards like a pro. “Have a seat.

I’ll teach you.”

I take two steps toward the door, shaking my head back and forth and fighting a smile. “Sorry. The universe is telling me it’s time to go home. See? I’m going with the flow, flowing out to the parking lot.”

“Got it. That’s cool.” Elijah uses toilet paper to wipe tomato sauce off the face of the jack of diamonds. “Wait. I have a question. You know where I can find a good junkyard? Charlie claims there isn’t one in the whole state.

That El Camino out there is mine, but it’s not going anywhere without a new distributor.”

“You get parts for your car from a junkyard?” I ask.

“Don’t you? It’s the cheapest way to go, plus it’s recy-cling.”

“My dad might know.” I zip up my jacket. “I’ll ask him.

He’s good with cars.”

“Cool. Thanks.” He points to the box. “You sure you don’t want a piece for the road?”

Yes, of course, I do. “No, thanks.”

I stand there. And stand there.

Waiting.

“I thought you were going.” Elijah pops a piece of sausage in his mouth. “Need a good-bye kiss? I’m happy to oblige.”

“No.” I drive my fingernails into my palm again for motivation. “Look,” I say. “I have a confession to make.

That is not just a thank-you pizza.”

“I knew it!” He pumps a fist in the air. “You’ve fallen in love with me. You want to have my babies. We’ll get a team of horses and a covered wagon and we’ll journey to South America and raise goats.”

“Only in your dreams.” I clear my throat. “I brought the pizza to bribe you.”

“I can be bribed.”

Deep breath. “I need you to go to Cassie’s funeral with me. Saturday morning.”

He grins again. “See? You’re asking me out.”

“No, I’m not, you idiot. It’s a funeral. A horrible funeral and I don’t know who else to ask.”

He tears off a piece of crust. “What’s in it for me?”

“I just gave you a pizza.”

“Not enough. Funerals bring out the worst in people.

They have a very dark vibe.” He shakes his head. “Nope, I can’t do it.”

“You have to.”

“No, I don’t.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “How about a game of cards? If I win, you go with me.”

“What if you lose?”

I swallow. “If I lose, I’ll give you fifty dollars. But only on one condition.”