Left

by Tamar Ossowski

  He lived on the other side of town with his mother, but when she dropped him off at home he never invited her inside. The house stood out from the others on the block because every inch of it, including the trim and basement windowpanes, was painted a dark crimson red. She guessed that other people probably thought it was strange, but she thought it was sweet: a house permanently decorated for Valentine’s Day. Whenever she asked him about it, his skin would turn pink, and he would find a reason to change the subject. His behavior fueled her curiosity even more.

  Her biggest weakness was an insatiable need to uncover secrets. It drove her to search through her mother’s nightstand drawers, listen in on phone conversations, and open mail that was not addressed to her. She practiced softening the arch of her eyebrows and leaving her lips partially open so that her face looked gentle and warm. Girlfriends would confide their deepest hidden secrets and no matter how shocking or dull, she would remember to keep her face in the same position. It was delicate work, secret cracking, and she was positively consumed by it.

  Experience taught her that secrets hid behind discomfort. Instinct told her that Tim was hiding some big secrets. She stayed up nights plotting and scheming and understanding that she would not be able to rest until she saw what lay inside that house. Sometimes, when she knew he was at work, she would drive by and park across the street. It sat like a red jewel among the beige and white houses surrounding it and occasionally someone inside would move a curtain. She rarely noticed any other sign of life.

  She asked questions, first directly and then in a more underhanded way, tilting her head and fluttering her eyelashes slowly up and down. “Maybe after work we can go to your house and you can make me those meatballs you are always telling me are so delicious?”

  His eyes narrowed and his face got red. “How about I make them and bring them to you?”

  “A whole pot of meatballs? Don’t you think that’s silly?” She tilted her head in the other direction, making sure to moisten the bed of her lip with her tongue.

  “You aren’t coming over. Drop it.”

  So she did.

  The next day she was in the bathroom putting on lipstick and practicing her look. That was all she needed to break most men, but Tim was different. He was different in so many ways. Why hadn’t she realized what she was getting into that first day in the supermarket? She couldn’t stop thinking about his little house and that maybe in addition to holding his secrets it might also be the way into his heart. She stepped farther from the mirror to admire the red on her lips. The doorbell rang then unexpectedly, and by the time she came outside, no one was there. On the top step sat a pot full of homemade meatballs still warm from the oven.

  She decided it was time to have sex.

  She chose an afternoon that her mother was not home and he came over after work, his hands still dusty from unloading a shipment of Idaho potatoes. She hooked her thumb into the back of his jeans and playfully pushed him toward the kitchen sink until they were standing side by side, thighs rubbing.

  She pumped soap out of the dispenser and rubbed the white pearly liquid into the grooves of his hands, trying to look concentrated while she leaned over knowing that her breast was touching his chest. Still clinging to his hands, she slipped them under the running water and allowed the suds to pool in the corners of the basin. She stopped rubbing his fingers to make circles on the rough skin of his knuckles and he tilted his head back slightly.

  Therese leaned in and gently kissed the space that connected his neck to his shoulder. Surprised that his skin was so delicate, she let the tip of her nose rest against his softness. Suddenly, he grabbed her waist with his slippery hands. She felt spots of wetness forming on her blouse and seeping through to her skin, but when she pushed him away, he pulled her in harder. When he put his mouth on hers, all she could smell was the dirt she had worked so hard to cleanse him of. That was how it began—she would tease and he would restrain and then he would leap at her with such fury and intensity, she could feel the desperation in his movements. He drew her in with the same level of concentration that he used with his chocolate shakes.

  Every Tuesday afternoon they met at her mother’s house. It became their routine until she began making excuses for why they could no longer meet. Tuesdays passed like pages in a book and still she waited, hoping that his addiction to her would prove so powerful that he would relent and invite her into that little red house.

  Each day she waited, knowing that it was killing him inside, but still he held his ground. It seemed that keeping the contents of that house out of her reach was more important than any desire she could ignite within him. She felt angry and hurt, but trusted her instincts and knew that somehow the answer would come. Then, one day she woke and realized that the nauseous feeling she was experiencing each morning meant that she had finally won. She laughed at the simplicity of her situation. Then she plotted how she would share the news: She was going to bring his child into the world.

  She went to see him at the grocery store where they first met, coming up beside him, rubbing the underside of his elbows the way that he liked. Instinctively, he ground his back into her. She had clearly deprived him of a great many Tuesdays and enjoyed his sense of neediness. He went to the storeroom to get his things and together they walked to the Friendly’s across the street.

  They sat in their usual booth, and while Therese ran her finger along a crack in the Formica, Tim studied the menu with grave intensity. “Maybe the fish and chips? What do you think?”

  Therese sighed. She didn’t understand this ritual of his—why he had to insist on getting something different each and every time they came. It irritated her immeasurably, but she refused to allow it to taint the mood she was in. She could not wait to share her news and Tim’s culinary adventure was not going to deflate her enthusiasm. “I was thinking about your house.”

  The menu rose a bit higher until all she saw were his eyebrows. She had encountered this response many times before and, in the past, nothing she would do or say made any impact. Today was different because today she was getting inside. For some reason, a picture of the father she had never met flashed before her. She blinked twice and forced the image to disappear. She swallowed quickly, trying hard to delight in the moment. “I just thought that maybe you could show it to me so that we could decide to stay or look for one of our own. You know, for when the baby comes?”

  She couldn’t see his face. Instead, the menu loomed over her and all she could make out was a large smudge of brown sticky goop—the likely remains of a spilled Coke. Instantly her mouth filled with bile, but she swallowed it down, refusing to allow anything to ruin the euphoria of her victory.

  Finally, the menu lowered.

  She had won. She knew it before he said a word, by the way his shoulders sloped just a little bit lower. She knew it when he paid the bill, leaving behind cold fries and an uneaten plate of fried fish.

  The next morning, while still relishing her victory, a phone call interrupted her breakfast. Her friend Joan had taken a job as a clerk at the local hospital and often called with stories about who was leaving the gynecologist’s office or who was checking into the psychiatric ward.

  “Therese, are you sitting down?”

  “Yes, Joan. What is it?”

  There was a pause, which happened either for dramatic effect or because, in her excitement, Joan was gagging on her own saliva. Therese prepared herself to hear the latest update on who had just had a mammogram and waited for Joan to resume.

  “You know that guy from the supermarket? The one you’ve been seeing?”

  She pressed the phone so close to her ear that a dark red circle formed. “Yes,” Therese said. Her voice was sharp, like a hand slapping a face.

  “I was walking by the ER, and I saw him there. I overheard some of the nurses talking, and they said he was in a car accident. I think he’s okay, but maybe you should get down here. Anyway, I just thought you should know.”

  Was he
going to call her? Had she earned the right to be one of the people contacted in case of an emergency? She quickly dismissed any pangs of sentimentality and instead thanked Joan for the information, promised her a lunch, and quickly got off the phone.

  She went into the bathroom to fix her makeup and then brushed her teeth, her mouth waking with the motion and taste of mint. As she drove, she wondered whether her news had contributed in any way to Tim’s accident. She caught herself smiling in the rearview ­mirror, thinking how funny it was that things always had a way of working themselves out.

  Therese walked into the hospital and smiled at the man at the registration desk. She recognized him from the few times she had met Joan there for lunch. “I’m here to visit a patient.”

  “Patient’s name?”

  “Timothy Yaga.”

  She edged closer to his desk and smiled, shifting her weight to her left hip and tilting her head to one side. A strand of hair came loose from her clip and rested along the side of her face. She twisted it, slowly, enjoying the feel against her finger.

  “Second Floor. Room 212. Elevator all the way down the hall to your right.” He hesitated. “Why don’t you just go ahead and use the employee elevator. It’s closer and much less crowded. If anyone gives you a hard time, you tell them to come see me. Name is Jim.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  She started to walk away and then stopped and turned. She kissed the palm of her hand and, very gently, as though she was sending him a butterfly, blew in his direction. He grinned and looked down, but she had already seen the redness creep into his face.

  The second floor was busy with nurses carrying charts and orderlies pushing carts. No one paid much attention to her, and she found Tim’s room easily. She took a deep breath, fixed the hair that had fallen out of place earlier, and pushed open the door.

  He was lying in the bed with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His forehead was bandaged, and she could see him twitching beneath, so she knew he was awake and just ignoring her entrance. Her attention was drawn to the other side of the room where an enormous woman wearing a hot pink dress was sitting in a chair. Therese composed herself and extended her hand. “I’m Therese Wolley.”

  “Barbara Yaga.” She didn’t look at Therese and instead spit something into a paper cup. Therese was prepared for the various turns this meeting might take and the fact that Tim probably hadn’t mentioned her to his mother. “I’m a friend of Tim’s. He called from the emergency room when he was admitted. He wanted to make sure that you would be taken care of. He talks about you often. He loves you very much.”

  Her details about Tim’s relationship with his mother were basic, and she had to prevent herself from adding anything that would raise suspicion. “He asked me to move in with you for a few days to make sure you aren’t alone while he is here. He is such a good son. You must be so proud.” She watched Tim’s face for a reaction when she spoke to Barbara, and wasn’t surprised to see his eyebrows furrow in frustration. She’d lied and he knew it, but would he call her out in front of his mother?

  It was clear that years of smoking had turned the woman’s face a lighter shade of the tobacco she seemed to love. The large jowls that hung on either side of her mouth jiggled delicately when she spoke. “Timmy is a good boy.”

  Tim’s eyes were still closed, feigning sleep, but she could see his teeth grinding through the thin, pale skin of his cheeks. Therese couldn’t tell if he was furious or irritated or maybe just mildly impressed. He lifted the worn green hospital blanket up to his ears. While Therese began to work out the details of her new living arrangement, he pulled it completely over his head.

  Franny

  Leah walked over to a bookshelf beside the fireplace stacked with board games. She pulled out a familiar maroon box that was so old, the corners were worn soft as tissue paper. I followed her into her stark white kitchen and sat at the table.

  I opened the Scrabble game and ran my fingers across the wooden tiles, flipping them over and rubbing them between my fingers. Touching the letters made them feel more real than when they were just randomly floating around in my head.

  Leah let me go first. I took my tiles: Y-C-C-O-E-N-L.

  I was lucky and managed to use them all in my first turn—C-Y-C-L-O-N-E. I chose some more tiles and slid them into the rack.

  Leah used the E in CYCLONE and spelled R-E-D. New word opportunities appeared with each tile flip. After my fourth or fifth turn, I lost myself in our game and the next time I looked at the clock, I realized that two hours had passed.

  I guess it was odd that I didn’t break down in tears or try to find out if Leah had known all along that my mother was planning on running out . . . and leaving me behind. Maybe I should have demanded she tell me where my mother had gone, but I was just so used to things happening to me that none of these thoughts came to mind. Instead, after our Scrabble tournament, Leah prepared dinner and I went upstairs to change my clothes.

  I was alone in the room where I had last seen my sister only that morning. Her bed was unmade, but beside that, not a trace of her was left behind, like she had never even existed. I laid my head on a pillow and that’s when I felt it. Matilda’s journal hidden beneath the blanket. I opened it and ran my finger along the jaggedness the ripped pages left behind and then I saw it, scribbled quickly in the upper corner.

  “I will come back for you.”

  I pulled out the purple pen that was tucked into the binding and carefully traced over the words she left for me. I slipped the book under my mattress and that night, when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of fairies.

  When I woke the next morning, Leah was sitting on the bed across from mine.

  “Hi,” she said as she tucked herself under the blanket.

  Instinctively I buried my head into the pillow.

  “We need to run some errands. Why don’t you get ready and come downstairs.”

  I did as I was told and got dressed, but abbreviated my usual teeth brushing ritual. My mind felt numb and I didn’t want to give it opportunity to wander. Leah was in the middle of preparing breakfast when I came down.

  She wore a robe covered in fuchsia and canary flowers and the stroke of her movements against the white canvas of the kitchen looked like a living painting. As I ate, she sat beside me and calmly stirred her tea. Every few minutes her spoon hit the porcelain and it reminded me of bells. The room was quiet except for the sound of her tea music.

  “Is she coming back?” I mumbled.

  She slipped her lower lip into her mouth and sucked it. “I don’t know.” She put down her cup and left to get dressed. I reached over and picked up her spoon, dropping tiny amber colored orbs around the saucer.

  We got into her green car and I thought about the last time I was there and how drastically my circumstances had changed. As if on cue, Leah reached up and twisted the crystal glass hanging from the mirror and sprinkled me with hundreds of magical twinkling lights. The rainbow-rimmed circles bounced on the dashboard as we drove and before I knew it, we were walking into the entrance of a department store.

  I felt overwhelmed by the racks of clothes that stretched before us. I mostly wore Matilda’s hand-me-downs and, if not, my grandmother shopped for my clothes and brought them home for me to wear. Like she did at the museum, Leah took my hand and together we inched our way through rows of pants and shirts and prominent displays of white and pink underwear.

  Leah looked through the racks and pulled out things she thought would fit. I busied myself by staring at a tag hanging from the sleeve of a dress, rearranging the letters into different words in my head. After Leah collected an armful of clothes, she handed them to me and I went inside the dressing room while she waited outside. I tried on a gray sweater so soft it felt like a kitten. It had designs around the wrists that looked like O’s. I tried on a few other things and when I came out of the dressing room, Leah slipped her arm around my shoulders.

  Next, we went to the drugstore. She left me alone to browse
among the notebooks and pens and pencils. I loved the smell of new notebooks and the way the scarlet line kept all the words in their proper places. I chose three with different colored covers and then started thinking about going to a new school. A sick feeling grew inside of me and spread to my arms and legs, making them feel so heavy that I was scared if I didn’t move soon, I might be stuck in the stationery aisle of that drugstore for the rest of my life.

  She came from behind, warming me as though I had just come in from a snowstorm. Her hair tickled the back of my neck and I could feel her heart beating against me. She eased the notebooks into her basket and slipped her hand into mine. We walked to the magazine rack where she pulled her hand away only so she could throw something into the basket she was carrying. As we were leaving, I saw what she had chosen—a thick, soft-covered word search puzzle book. On the way back to the car, I realized that since breakfast, we had not exchanged a single word. I sat in the passenger seat with my word search book, curling the corner of the cover lovingly between my fingers.

  The next afternoon, I was busy working on a puzzle when the doorbell rang. Leah went to answer it. I was so involved in what I was doing that even though I heard her voice, it was so far in the back of my head that she startled me when she put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Franny.” Her fingertips brushed the back of my neck as she spoke. They felt cool, like autumn. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  When I looked up, my grandmother lowered her face close to mine. I didn’t realize how empty I was until her face was all I could see.

  “How are you, Franny?” Her hair was parted down the middle and hung like two big S’s on either side of her head. I snuggled into her chest, which looked like two cement slabs but was deceivingly soft. A whimper came up through my throat that I thought would stay hidden in the folds of her blouse, but she heard it and dislodged herself from me. She put her face to mine. “Franny, how are you?”