by James, Ella
I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door: a trek that takes me through the office that adjoins my room, then the den—where the cabin’s front door is—through the kitchen, and into the laundry room beside the breakfast nook. The place reeks of gardenias, which are potted and blooming on every spare surface, including the top of the washing machine. I inhale deeply as I slip out the door and into my garage.
The radio in my Mini Cooper (code-named Anderson) is set to NPR, and after deliberation that lasts about the length of my long, twisty driveway, I decide leave it there, distracting myself with an interesting discussion about transgender elementary schoolers before, about two miles from my destination, I call Jamie.
“Are you thereeee?” she asks, in lieu of a normal greeting.
“Not yet.” I sigh.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “Are you still going to do it?” She sounds perhaps skeptical. I can’t tell for sure. She’s got this thing she does where even I can’t read her intonation. Tricky whore.
I sigh again. “I guess maybe. Probably,” I modify.
“You can do this.”
I sink my nails into the leather of the steering wheel and glare out at the traffic.
“It might help,” she says.
“Might.” I attack the stitching on the wheel’s side with one dark purple fingernail and make a turn toward the courthouse.
“I wish I could be there,” she says in a sympathetic tone. She’s got the weirdest accent—Southern and phonetically proper, all at once—and something about it always reminds me of Scarlett O’Hara.
“It’s okay. I know you can’t be, and it’s no biggie.”
Jamie’s a publicist for country music stars, and one of her mouthiest, most trouble-making clients is filming an interview with CMT in two hours.
“It’ll either go well or it won’t. I’m trying to prepare for either way.” I sound a lot more chilled out than I feel.
“Keep me posted. I’ll say a prayer,” she says.
“Thanks.”
I roll into the Sevier County Courthouse parking lot five minutes late, but still take the time to reapply my red lipstick before exiting the car. It’s an attitude thing. Once I feel as if my ’tude is cemented safely in place, I allow my eyes to linger on the left side of my mouth. I try to see myself the way they’ll see me. The way I saw me the first day I woke up in the ICU.
I can’t, though. Not after this long. I just look like me, and I know that’s probably a blessing: that my eyes can’t see my face with horror.
I lift my chin and practice what I used to call the duck face, back when I modeled. Eyes slightly wide, lips pressed into a pout so subtle there’s no way anyone would actually call it that. The look is requested so often by photographers in shoots because it could be anything: pouty, sexy, innocent.
The look makes me feel pouty and hopefully appear innocent—even slightly victimized—so I hold it as I walk briskly past the Dolly Parton statue in front of the building and up the steps.
I hold my shoulders up straight and even use my model walk as I make my way through the crowd and to the elevator banks.
“Shit.”
There’s a sheet of paper taped to the closed doors.
“OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE USE STAIRS.”
I inhale deeply, keeping my face neutral even though I want to scream. There are people all around me, people I believe are staring at me. Probably because they saw my picture in that newspaper article that ran a little while ago. Judgy people. The Southeastern United States may be beautiful and friendly, too, but people here are judgier than Saint Peter.
Shit. I’m late and now I have to take the stairs.
My mood plummets further when I see how freaking packed the stairwell is. Some guy huffs and puffs behind me, and I swear I feel his greedy eyes on my ass. Kind of makes me want to turn around and snarile at him.
As I’m nearing the door that opens onto the third floor, a white-haired woman lunges out in front of me to get the door.
“Thank you.” I smile slightly before stepping through.
“Anything for you, dear. You know, my mother’s mother worked in a traveling circus. Dancing bears.”
It’s a good thing the last few years have trained me not to smile—that would be snarile: the one-of-a-kind smile + snarl my paralyzed mouth makes when I try to smile—spontaneously because the way she lifts her brows with circus bear pride makes me want to laugh. Some people are just too clueless.
“Oh?” I say.
Before she can answer, we’re crossing a hall and entering a set of open doors, moving into a room that may actually qualify as hell. Hell is other people. This many of them is probably the central zone in the Ninth Circle of Hell, which as you may know happens to be a freezing place. Shudder. (I have a special hatred of cold places).
At the far end of the awful, sweat-scented, sardine can known as the county commission meeting room, a short, black-haired girl catches my eye and waves. It’s Jenny Lin from the Gatlinburg TV news station. I stretch my mouth open a little—my substitute smile—and hold my hand up in what I hope is a friendly wave.
Jenny is nice. She’s on a short list of semi-strangers that, under normal conditions, I’d give my snarile to willingly; unfortunately, this room is just too crowded for such a display.
Besides, I need to save the snarile for effect.
My stomach rolls.
I stand against the whitewashed, cement-block wall at the back of the room as the county commissioners seated at two long desks work their way through the minutes, until at last they start to talk about the zoning subcommittee’s recommendation to re-zone Mr. Frank Haywood’s property on Blue Moon Road.
My heart jackhammers as the commissioners start thumbing through their notes on this subject. One of them, Nancy Stein, the bitchy owner of a luxury car dealership, gives the crowd a recap.
“Mr. Haywood wants his residential property re-zoned so he can sell it to a developer who would make the home—quite a large home, I believe it is—into a bed and breakfast. That developer, as it happens, is here tonight,” the councilwoman says in her crisp, schoolteacher voice. “Her name is Ms. Carolina Burns. From Nashville.”
A tall woman with gray-blonde hair rises halfway in her plastic chair near the front of the room, giving a little wave. Bitch.
“The property is eighty acres and a large home,” Ms. Stein continues. “It’s been for sale since March of this year, following the death of Mrs. Haywood. Mr. Haywood has been unsuccessful in finding a residential buyer. Since he voluntarily re-zoned several years back as a favor to the bear sanctuary next door, he wants the zoning back the way it was before that time.”
She clears her throat, as if her high-pitched voice is tired already. “The controversy here—if we may call it that—is that re-zoning the property could put the bear sanctuary in jeopardy. Animal sanctuaries in the state of Tennessee cannot share a property line with commercially zoned properties, even low-traffic ones such as the bed and breakfast would be. The sanctuary’s owner—” her eyes flicker to me, cuing the rest of the room to look as well— “would have to make an appeal to the state environmental board, asking that board to make an exception on this requirement. And she—Miss White—has written our commission two letters stating she doesn’t think they would agree to let her keep her sanctuary open. Did we research this, Bert?”
The councilwoman shifts her gaze to Bert Hayes, a short, pot-bellied councilman with a shiny head and wire-rimmed glasses, sitting two chairs to her left.
He nods from behind his little microphone. “It is true that Ms. White, the sanctuary owner, could run into trouble. But what we have to consider her,” Mr. Hayes says, “is that both Mr. Haywood, the property owner, and Ms. Burns, the potential buyer, have offered to
help Miss White with the appeal. Ms. Burns, who owns several Mountain Valley Retreats around the state, has even offered to purchase some land from her would-be neighbor, Gwenna White, the owner of the Bear Hugs Sanctuary.”
My stomach drops down to my knees. She what?
Mr. Hayes, head of the rezoning subcommittee, gives me an earnest nod.
I want to shriek. My land isn’t for sale! Not unless I have to shut my doors…
Another woman on the commission who sits beside Mr. Hayes at the long table, a blonde whose name I can’t recall, holds her hand up. “What are the particulars of the enviro board situation with the sanctuary? So what I’m asking is, what did they say? Can we read the sanctuary owner’s letters corresponding with that board?”
I inhale slowly, deeply, then project my voice. “I’d like to address the commission myself—if that’s alright.”
Mr. Hayes’ face scrunches as his cohort, the nameless blonde—my new bestie—nods enthusiastically. “If we’re going to potentially shut down an animal sanctuary, Bert, we need to do it knowingly. And with good reason,” she says.
Luvah.
All eyes in the crowded room shift from that angelic blonde to me. I realize, after a second of listening to my pounding heart, that now is the moment I should probably step forward. I draw another deep breath and, with my face schooled into a look of nervousness—one I hardly have to fake—I walk down the small aisle to the dais where the councilmembers’ tables sit alongside a battered wooden podium.
I focus on my breathing as I step onto the dais. My boots click on the wooden floor. My head feels heavy and hollow all at once. My left eye twitches. Can I do this? I stand behind the podium and look out at the crowd.
Holy hell, this place is even more crowded than I thought. I spot familiar faces—the Gatlinburg city planner, a man from the city’s wildlife club who is supportive but fairly ineffectual, two newspaper reporters and a male TV reporter. For a moment, when I see his big, black camera, my whole body goes ice cold.
Is this being filmed?
I take a big breath through my mouth and blink once. Steady, Gwenna. Poker face.
I hold onto the podium with both hands, the way I learned in my college public speaking course.
Then I take a half-second to look from the left side of the room to the right, gathering my thoughts, seeing all the faces. I spend so much time alone… This many people…
I swallow again, and when I hear my own voice, loud and clear, I almost jump.
“My name is Gwenna White, and I’m the owner of the Bear Hugs sanctuary.”
It’s an effort not to cringe; ever since the accident, I hate the sound of my voice, with its slightly lazy “w”s and “o”s and “q”s.
“First I’d like to say, it’s true that it’s a firm rule of the state environmental board that animal sanctuaries not be located in direct proximity to commercial property. In my informed opinion, no amount of appealing is going to change that. They want to protect the bears. That’s the enviro board’s main job. So if the property next door to me is re-zoned, within the next month, the state board will shut me down.” My voice goes a little weak on those words, so I stop again. I blink out at the crowd. My eyes land on a tall, broad-shouldered man whose face is shaded by the bill of a dark ball cap. He’s too far toward the rear of the room for me to see him well, but I imagine his shadowed face looks sympathetic, so I focus my gaze on one of his shoulders and keep going.
“We do some charitable outreach, Bear Hugs does. We give free teddy bears to kids at St. Jude’s and we go there dressed in bear suits to cheer up the ones who are sick or having surgery. We have school groups come out. But other than that, we’re pretty quiet. I don’t get out as much as I should.” I swallow hard. I feel a stinging flush, starting at the crown of my head and sweeping all the way to my feet.
“See—I had an accident in 2012. I injured—a lot of things. My leg, my head.” I swallow spastically, then lick my lips. “Before that, I had been a pre-med student. I had done some modeling. My real dream was becoming a singer. I had signed a record deal.” My eyes water. Holy hell, emotions. Really—here? I blink and carry on. “That accident changed things for me. Big time. My mouth lost some mobility on the left side, so I couldn’t speak clearly. For a while, I couldn’t. If you listen, you can hear it’s still not perfect. But it’s better.
“I didn’t want to leave my house after I got hurt, but my parents made me. My dad would take me to the zoo early in the morning. After nine or ten o’clock, too many people were there. I was too self-conscious to go when it was crowded.” Sweat trickles between my breasts. “When I smile, my mouth doesn’t turn up on one side. As a former model and performer, I was embarrassed and ashamed of how I looked. Of course, the animals didn’t care.” I give the crowd a small snarile. Several people smile back.
THEY ALL SAW.
I inhale slowly. Exhale.
“The reason that I’m telling you this stuff is that I wanted to explain how a place like this, a place that might not seem very special, really can be. After my accident, I bonded with an injured bear. Working with bears gave me a sense of purpose. Animals can do that for a lot of people.”
I see a few nods and feel bolstered.
“Caring for injured animals takes a lot of coordination. I have lots of grants. That’s how my sanctuary runs. You can’t just move the bears without some consequences. I guess all I’m saying is, this is my livelihood. And I guess what bothers me is, there are other plots of land. There are other places this retreat could open.”
My pulse races, and I feel my cheeks redden with my strong emotions.
“Mr. Haywood’s property has been for sale for less than a year. Not being able to sell it in that time—that’s not all that unusual. If the property is rezoned, my business will close. I don’t care if someone buys some of the land from me. I won’t be able to do what I do for business on the land I own. And why? So a house can sell faster? So a developer can open a new business? That seems so pointless.” My eyes sting, but I make sure my voice stays steady. “As humans, it’s our job to watch out for animals and help them. Please consider us as you make your decision.”
I give one last snarile: calculated; awful. I hold it a second longer than usual, so everyone in the room can see the paralyzed left side of my mouth. So maybe someone will feel pity. At this point, I’ll take anything.
I walk quickly back down the aisle, which feels much longer now. I get a few smiles, and some averted faces. A few outright stares. I look for the man wearing the dark hat, but he’s gone. Another man—a shorter, sterner one wearing a suit—is standing where the tall one was. His lips tighten as I come to stand against the back wall.
God, I wish I could just go now.
I hear a “bless your heart” from my right and turn my head to see a short, elderly woman with huge, magenta reading glasses hanging off the end of her nose. “You were in that movie. With the retirement community, and the brother-sister duo. End of Day.”
I nod.
“You’re still a very pretty girl.” She pats my forearm.
You asked for this, Gwen. You just asked for pity. Suck it up.
I blink, keeping my face still. “Thank you.”
She pats my shoulder and I want to run. Instead, I stay and listen to the developer, Carolina Burns, talk about her plans for Mr. Haywood’s land. She swears she won’t build anything within two hundred yards of the enclosure. She says if she gets this development up and running, she’ll buy some more land in the Gatlinburg area as a thank you to the commission for their “faith” in her.
My awesome blonde councilwoman asks why Ms. Burns can’t buy other land now, and she says, “I can’t find anything that works. Now is the time I’m looking to buy.”
She talks about how she’ll put up a new building or two to the right of the Haywood house, on the opposite side from where I am, and prattles on about how she’ll hire a staff of “only” ten or twenty.
“This
is such a beautiful area,” she croons. “And you guys, let me tell you, my clients are the quiet type. They want to relax. They are educated people. They are respectful of the environment and would be more than happy to be located next door to an animal preserve. If it helps, I even know a woman who works in the environment board’s office. Based on what I hear from her, I genuinely believe Miss White is wrong. She’s nervous, maybe, and I get that, but we would be a very conscientious neighbor.”
The discussion drags on, with the commission members squabbling over local precedent, then over what’s the “right thing” to do since Mr. Haywood “so kindly” did away with his own plans to make his home next door into a B&B to help “a new person in the community” bring the sanctuary here.
“He did that out of the goodness of his heart,” says Mr. Jacobs, an influential African-American realtor who is a friend of Mr. Haywood. “Now he’s asking for the same thing. You know his wife died there. Owning the property is painful for him.”
I’m contemplating the look on Mr. Jacobs’ face after catching one of my jump-front kicks right between his legs when the male TV news reporter with the camera appears in front of me and asks if he can see me outside the room.
“We’re using a clip of your speech on the ten o’clock news,” he tells me when we’re in the hall. “I think it’s inspiring, that story you told. Would you want to do an interview with us? To raise awareness? I saw that movie you did… End of Night?”
It’s End of Day. Middle of Knight released last year; another redhead played my part.
I can feel my pulse pound in my tight throat. “Thanks for asking, but I don’t think so.”
He spends the next five minutes trying to sell me on it. I can’t help notice, he doesn’t once check out my tits or ass. His eyes avoid them just as they avoid my mouth. It’s how a lot of guys act toward me now.
I hear the meeting room shush and lean in through the doorway just in time to see the vote. I see several hands raised in favor, but I can’t see the blonde woman’s, so I’m not sure in favor of what exactly. Then her hand raises, along with another man’s. My chest aches.
