Cry Your Way Home

by Damien Angelica Walters

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Nothing, I can’t get this fucking bolt loose, that’s all. I think the threads are stripped.”

  “Not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

  “You mean other than the shit about having a serial killer for a father? Or that he wants to talk to me about his kills?”

  “Is that it?”

  I stare down at my hands for a long time. “No. He keeps emailing me.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “I know, right? And get this, he opens the emails with Dear Daughter. Fucking ridiculous. No, I’m not answering the emails, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But you’re reading them.” No question in his words, but it’s there in his eyes.

  I shrug.

  “We have IT guys for a reason. They can block that shit.”

  “I know.”

  “This is what he wants, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of grease that makes me grimace. Shit smells like the ass-end of a man who hasn’t showered in a month, maybe two.

  “You know I studied a bit of psychology, right?”

  I nod.

  “They’re all manipulative bastards. He’s trying to fuck with your head, and it’s working.” He adds the last bit in a soft voice so out of sync with his usual cockiness, I can’t help but laugh—one quick bark.

  “I just want this shit to go away,” I say. “It’s like a bad reality show. Daddy Issues in Space or some shit like that.”

  His turn to laugh. “But he ain’t your daddy, little girl, just some guy who provided a bit of squirt.” He picks up the tube of grease, lets a little out to float in the air. I bat the glob away.

  “Nasty.”

  “But true. He’s behind bars. You being his kid makes for drama and he’s milking it for all it’s worth. What else has a man waiting to die got to do, especially a man like him?”

  “Sitting up here, saying nothing while the media goes nuts is making me crazy.”

  “So don’t say nothing.”

  “Harrison, you know I can’t do anything without their approval. Besides, I don’t even know what I’d say. I just hate letting it go, you know?”

  “What are they going to do, come up here and get you?”

  “No, but I’m already under contract to come back in another year. I can’t do anything to fuck that up.”

  He hands me back the wrench.

  “So you’re not afraid of me at all? Maybe worried that I’ll go sociopath on your ass and kill you with this thing?”

  He laughs. “Right. Get back to work, grunt.”

  “You don’t think I should talk to him about the other victims, do you?”

  “You don’t even have to ask me that to know my answer,” he says, his voice serious.

  * * *

  Downtime on the station: watching Sigourney Weaver take out a bunch of aliens with some kick-ass weaponry. The screen is tiny, the sound shit, but it’s better than nothing.

  From Harrison: “She’s the best damn character ever. Hardcore tough.”

  From Wallace, accompanied with a punch on the arm: “Like you.”

  Me: “And they still put in a scene with her in her underwear.”

  Harrison snorts. “It doesn’t take anything away. Shit, it’s just underwear.”

  Right. I’ve got grime under my nails that will never come out and I like it that way. Know why? It says I’m real, I have a fucking purpose. I’m not somebody’s tits and ass on display like a window mannequin. They did that shit to the baddest fictional woman in the universe. Hell, they even did it to the female marines in the second movie, but that’s sort of forgivable because the guys were in their skivvies, too.

  You won’t catch me in my underwear. I sleep in my fucking coveralls.

  * * *

  In microgravity, it doesn’t matter if you sleep upside down or sideways; it’s all the same. I’m in my sleeping pod, staring at the dark of my eyelids, but sleep refuses to come. I creep out, float like a ghost down the corridor to the commo mod. Bad idea, I know.

  It’s one of the late-night shows. An expert is talking about someone being a liability, about the press being too much for any PR firm to handle, about the likelihood of contracts not being renewed. It takes a few minutes before the reality sets in. They’re talking about me.

  I float back to my sleeping pod. Pretend not to care. Pretend to sleep. They can’t possibly terminate me over this, can they? It’s not like that man had a hand in raising me, and I haven’t been talking to him.

  A few years back, a pissed off ex-girlfriend of one of the Flight Commanders released a sex tape. Tame stuff, really, but the media went crazy. Know what happened to him?

  Nothing. When the press died down, he was already on the station orbiting Mars. His contract has been renewed without a hitch ever since. Men are forgiven for their transgressions; women crucified for theirs even if theirs don’t belong to them.

  Film at motherfucking eleven.

  * * *

  Dear Daughter:

  So how much time does it take to readjust to being back on Earth? Just wondering when I can plan on talking to you. I want to talk to you about a lot of stuff, not just the stuff I mentioned on television, but normal dad-daughter stuff.

  Delete.

  * * *

  I pause outside the commo mod when I hear the tinny sound of a broadcast.

  “Has she responded at all?”

  “No, she hasn’t. I’ve done all I can.” His voice is properly contrite.

  “Will you consider talking to anyone else?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t. I guess in some ways this felt like a way for me to atone to the victims and their families, to my daughter, to everyone.”

  “Is it true that your lawyers are filing for a stay of execution based on the potential new information?”

  “I really can’t comment on that.”

  The news flips to a legal expert, weighing in on the chances for a stay. Apparently, it looks pretty good.

  Whoopee-fuckin’-do.

  * * *

  When I come out of the toilet, the Commander is there. I step aside, thinking she has to use the shitter, but she touches my arm instead. I pull away but the microgravity kills any shot of it being a yank. Yes, we all fucking float up here, Mr. King.

  “We’re doing a broadcast on Friday,” she says in a soft voice. “If you wanted a few minutes with the camera, we’d all be okay with it.”

  I choke back a laugh.

  “I’m serious,” she says.

  “Do the boys up top know about this?”

  She smiles. “No, and they don’t need to until after the fact.”

  We stand there, just looking at each other.

  “You’ve gotten a raw deal. We all know it, but you need to take control.”

  Another laugh from me, but it sounds pretty damn close to a sob, too close to one for comfort.

  “Look, I’ve had to put up with a lot of shit to get where I am. I’ve had to keep my mouth closed more times than I can count, and I regret it. You have a chance to show them you won’t just do what we’ve always done.”

  “We?”

  “Women, especially women in male-dominated fields.”

  I bite my tongue. I doubt any other woman has a clue what I’m going through. A serial killer dad definitely qualifies as a unique situation.

  “And don’t think I’m just throwing you out to the wolves. I’ll support you in any way I can.”

  I find that hard to believe. Why the hell would she sacrifice her career for someone like me? “I’m not exactly feminist spokeswoman material, you know.”

  “And why not? Why not you?”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  She nods. “Good.”

  Her gaze holds mine for a little while before she heads back the way she came. Maybe the situation really doesn’t matter at all, but fuck,
I’m a mechanic, not anyone important or influential.

  * * *

  Another email from him comes in. I delete it without reading, then empty my trash folder so I can’t change my mind.

  * * *

  Harrison and I are sitting at the kitchen table with lasagna in foil packs—it’s tastier than it sounds—when I clear my throat.

  “Do you know about the broadcast?”

  He nods. “You going to do it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, maybe. Either way, I’m pretty sure I’m fucking done because of him and the media. Never mind that they recruited me. Never mind that I’ve been coming up here for ten years. Hell, I’ve spent more time here than down there.”

  “So, you going to sit around and mope? You’ve been quiet, hoping this will all blow over, right? And it hasn’t, so you need to protect your ass. Saying nothing makes you look—”

  “Weak?”

  “You’ve never been the shut up and stay that way type, you know? I get why you’ve been quiet, job on the line and all that, but this is your life, not anyone else’s. You’re a badass astronaut, woman. Shut that shit down. Shut it down hard. Be like Ripley.”

  I grin around a mouthful of lasagna. “Be like Ripley?”

  “Damn straight. Fuck the boys at the top. They’re trying to protect the company, but this isn’t about them. It’s about you. Ripley wouldn’t take any shit and you don’t have to either. What are they gonna do? Come up here and smack your hand?”

  “If I do this, though, they’ll never send me back up here.”

  “You never know. They might surprise you.”

  “It is so fucking unfair. I’m damn good at what I do.”

  “We all know that.”

  * * *

  On Thursday, Harrison, Wallace, and I rock-paper-scissors for the last trip outside. I win. (I know they made their choices a split-second after I made mine. Long enough, you know? They’re good guys that way.)

  After I check and tighten all the bolts that need it, I look over my shoulder. Earth. Home. I wish like hell I could stay up here for another twelve months, because then he’d probably be dead and some other drama would take over the news.

  I look over my other shoulder, out into the deep dark of space, my gloved hand on the locking clip that holds me to the station. No matter what, this is as peaceful as it’s going to get.

  I stay outside as long as possible, too long, but neither Harrison nor Wallace give me any grief about it.

  * * *

  Friday:

  Harrison grins when I come floating down the corridor. I can hear the Commander’s voice as she talks to the Earthbound.

  If I were a man, none of this would matter. They’d brush it under the rug, say whatever, he had no hand in the raising of said child and boom, media shitstorm over.

  If I do this, my entire career could very well be over. If I don’t do this, my entire career could very well be over. I didn’t ask for any of it, but fuck it. I’m not staying quiet and dignified. I’m not keeping my mouth shut.

  When the Commander finishes, Harrison swings the camera in my direction. I won’t ever tell him, but Ripley’s never been my favorite badass character. If you watch the way Vasquez walks around in her underwear, you can tell she really doesn’t give a fuck and, right now, it seems better to channel her instead.

  I straighten my spine. Take a deep breath.

  Let’s rock.

  Umbilicus

  Tess places the last of Emily’s clothes in a box, seals it with a strip of packing tape, and brushes her hands on her shorts. Stripped of its profusion of books and games and art supplies, Emily’s room is a ghost.

  The box goes into a corner in the living room with the other things earmarked for donation. In her own bedroom, she stands before the wall papered with newspaper clippings, notes, torn pages from old books, and turns away just as quickly, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.

  The small window air conditioning unit growls like a cat that swallowed a dozen angry hornets; a similar sound sticks in her throat. Everyone has to say goodbye eventually, her mother said once from a hospital bed, three weeks before her heart failed for the last time.

  With her mouth set in a thin line, Tess begins removing the thumb tacks, letting the paper seesaw to the floor, catching glimpses of the pictures—a school photo with an awkward smile, her own face caught in grief’s contortion, a stretch of beach—and the words—depression in children, somnambulism, unexplained juvenile behavior—and the headlines—Suicide? … Not Sleepwalking, Her Mother Says … Body Not Found, Presumed Dead … Presumed Dead … Presumed Dead …

  She drops the thumbtacks from her palm onto her dresser and rips the papers free, tearing them into pieces before she lets go. When the wall is nothing more than a study of pinprick holes in plaster and the floor a mess of tattered white, she grabs a dustpan and brush and a garbage bag. Sweeps everything in, refusing to pause even when Emily’s face appears.

  Utter madness to try and find reason in the unexplainable, and Tess knew, without a doubt, she’d never find an answer. Let the doctors claim Emily was depressed—ignoring everything Tess told them to the contrary—and committed suicide, but they weren’t there that night. They didn’t see what happened, the way the ocean receded—

  (the shape in the water)

  —the way Emily kept walking, murmuring a word too low for Tess to discern.

  She pulls a face. Ties a knot in the bag. Emily was only seven years old; the word suicide wasn’t even in her vocabulary.

  Tess tosses the bag near the front door on her way into the kitchen to wash her hands. On the television in the living room, a commercial is listing side effects for a medicine to treat high cholesterol, side effects the stuff of nightmares. Background noise, its only purpose to swallow the silence.

  “Mommy?”

  The voice is muffled, but Tess would know it anywhere. She whirls around, soap bubbles dripping from her fingers, her heart racing madness in the bone-cage of her ribs, and pads into the living room.

  “Mommy?”

  Now it’s coming from behind. Tess races back into the kitchen. “Emily?”

  Nothing but the rush of water, then she hears another voice, too low to decipher, speaking under—inside—the water. Her stomach clenches.

  Not possible, not possible at all—Emily is gone and all the pennies in the world tossed into a fountain won’t bring her back—but Tess grips the edge of the sink hard enough to hurt. “Emily?” she says, her voice catching on the second syllable.

  Only water splashing on stainless steel answers. Reason kicks in. Tess turns off the faucet and steps back from the sink, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Through tears, she glares at the boxes piled in the corner—a sandcastle built by sorrow’s hands.

  From the kitchen window, she can see a small playground just beyond the parking lot. Two children are on the jungle gym, their mothers sitting on a nearby bench. Occam’s Razor, Tess thinks. Sound travels in odd ways.

  * * *

  With one hand in her pocket and the other clutching Emily’s favorite teddy bear, Tess takes the narrow pathway leading to the beach. Her apartment, the second floor of a converted house, is far away from the tourist trade, and the night is quiet and calm.

  The soft whisper of her footsteps in the sand is masked by the susurration of the night waves kissing the shore. Once upon a time she loved the ocean, loved the feel of sand on her skin, loved the sound and smell of the surf—it’s the reason she moved to Ocean City the summer after her nineteenth birthday, why she stayed after David took off, leaving her with no warning, no money, and three-month-old Emily—but now it’s a thing to be tolerated, endured.

  She stops well above the water line, afraid if the sea comes in contact with her skin she’ll follow it in, screaming for Emily as she did that night a long year ago. Only this time she won’t get knocked back to shore. This time, the waves will pull her in, and she’ll let them.


  After a time, she lifts the teddy bear to her nose, breathes in, but it no longer smells of Emily, merely terrycloth and fiberfill. “I’m sorry, punkin. I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice hitching. “I love you.” She hurls the teddy bear as far as she can. It bobs on the surface for several long moments, and then the tide sucks it down.

  Clouds scuttle across the moon, turning the ocean black. The weight of the air changes, a pressure Tess senses in her ears. The thunder of the waves striking the shore amplifies, and a stabbing cramp sends Tess doubling over. Her vision blurs, the salt tang of the ocean floods her nose and mouth, and a sensation of swelling fills her abdomen.

  She staggers back. Presses both hands to her belly, feels the expected flatness there. The clouds shift again. Something dark and impossibly large moves deep in the water, and she flees from the beach without a backward glance.

  It’s all in your head, she tells herself. All in your head.

  When she gets close to the apartment, the bright end of a lit cigarette glows from the shadows of the front porch. Tess waves a still-shaking hand and the orange glow makes a responding arc, but neither she nor her neighbor say a word.

  * * *

  Mid-afternoon, Tess slides a box into the trunk of her car, wipes sweat from her brow, and heads back to the house. Her neighbor is sitting in her usual spot—the battered lawn chair in the corner of the porch—with a lit cigarette in her hand and a glass by her side. Gauging by the bright sheen in Vicky’s eyes, the liquid in the glass isn’t water.

  “What are you up to, lady?” Vicky asks, her smile turning her face into a tissue paper crumple.

  “Getting ready to go to the thrift store to drop off some stuff.” Tess cups her elbows in her palms, hunches her shoulders. “I finally boxed up some of Em’s things.”

  Vicky nods. Exhales a plume of smoke. “Good on you. It might help, you know?”

  “I hope so. I kept putting it off, kept thinking I should leave everything the way it was, just in case, but I guess I’m ready to try and let her go. That’s why I went to the beach the other night, to—