Left

by Tamar Ossowski

  Therese replayed the scene over and over in her mind. That day she forgot to answer the phone, open the mail, or lock her desk drawer when it was time to go home. Hours later, after agonizing over every detail of the exchange, Therese still wasn’t sure if the woman, who had fallen in such a jolting way into her life, was really only just a figment of her imagination.

  She began taking her breaks at 2:15 in the afternoon because that was when Leah finished teaching. They got mugs of steaming hot tea from the faculty lounge and found a spot to sit. Their favorite place was a small room off the main entrance that had once been used as a library. It was still surrounded by bookshelves and had a fireplace on one end that the janitor always remembered to light. The desks were replaced with large leather easy chairs and, on most afternoons, she and Therese had the place to themselves.

  The beginning of the friendship passed quickly; before they realized it, they were in the middle of it. Miscommunication or awkwardness did not exist between them, just the intimacy of connection. Some days they sat beside each other in silence, and other times they spoke over each other, finishing each other’s sentences. Almost always, they would sit close enough so that Leah could lay her hand on Therese’s belly. They talked a lot about babies and Leah confided how much she wanted to have a child. Sometimes there was desperation in her voice and Therese couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same way her own mother had sounded. When she tried to encourage Leah, all she would say was that she did not know if she was capable of caring for another person. Therese sensed the depth of her wounds and the stories came slowly, and affected Leah physically, almost as though she was reliving them with each word. They were about a father who, when Leah was nine, betrayed her innocence. The number rang in Therese’s head. Dressed to the nines. Nine lives. Cloud Nine. But for Leah, nine was when her world fell apart and, even though Therese had never met her own father, she felt an instant bond. Sometimes they would hold hands and not speak at all. Those moments were both the saddest and happiest for Therese.

  They spent a lot of time talking about the baby, and Therese confided that her favorite part of pregnancy was the frequent flutters she experienced throughout the day. Sometimes she wondered if she had swallowed a caterpillar and that a beautiful Monarch would float out of her instead of a baby. Leah sat close and Therese loved that she smelled like wild flowers. She laid her head on Therese’s shoulder and closed her eyes, smiling each time the baby kicked her hand.

  One day they were sitting in their usual position, the sound of crackling bark coming from the fireplace. Normally, Therese would stare into the flames, drawn in by the vibrancy of the colors, but today she was tired. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, sinking into the softness of the leather. It always seemed that when Therese was calm, the baby was energized, and today it was twirling and twisting and swirling and then, suddenly, Leah pulled her hand away. Therese jumped, startled by the sudden separation.

  “What?” Therese asked, looking alarmed.

  “Nothing,” Leah said.

  “Tell me.”

  “What is Tim like? I mean really like?” Therese lifted her body upward and, as she began to speak, Leah reached out to hold her hand, like a child about to cross a dangerous intersection. “I’ve told you. He works at a supermarket. He likes to cook. He is devoted to his mother.”

  “I need to know more. What kind of man is he? When you look into his eyes, what do you see?” Leah clutched her hand tighter.

  “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you asking me this?” Therese pulled her hand away and lifted the mug of tea that was sitting on the table beside her. The warmth that was so comforting moments ago now made her feel hot, suffocated. She tried to shake the memory of the first time she saw Tim—tried to erase the fact that she was so overcome that she neglected to spark him. She couldn’t admit to Leah that when she looked into his eyes now, she wasn’t really sure what it was that she saw, but that her instinct told her he was hiding something. And her instincts were never wrong.

  “Because I need to know that both you and the baby will be safe with him.”

  Therese began to unbutton her sweater. Her fingers felt clumsy and fat, but she finally managed to slip the last button through its hole. “What are you talking about?”

  Leah turned away. As she stared off into the distance, her body seemed to collapse into the frame of the couch. She looked small, like she might suddenly disappear. Her lovely golden curls were suddenly flat and limp and stuck to the side of her head. She closed her eyes and winced as if what she was seeing was simply too horrible to bear. When she finally spoke, her breathing was labored and her voice sounded like she’d just swallowed fire. “Just make sure you know who he really is. Because Therese. You are going to have a girl.”

  Then she laid her head on Therese’s belly and wrapped her arms as tightly as she could around her waist.

  Franny

  Dear Matilda,

  I’ve been trying to write every night. Sometimes I just write the date at the top of the page and draw pictures. Other times I write “Dear Matilda” and pretend that I will send you my letter.

  I named one of the fairies in my room after you. Leah told me the story of the night they came. She kept hearing a scratching noise in the room but every time she walked in and turned on the light, the noise would disappear. She looked around but all she could find was a small little hole that not even a mouse could fit through. So she turned off the light and fell asleep. When she woke up it was dark and she forgot where she was and she got up to turn on the light but then she got a feeling that maybe she shouldn’t. So she sat back down and she waited. And then she saw them.

  Flying all around the room coming from that little crack in the wall that not even a mouse could fit through. They flew past her nose and over her ­knuckles. She said it tickles when they fly close to you. The next thing she knew they all flew back to their spots on the wall and didn’t move again. I keep ­waiting for them to fly for me. After I finish writing I try and stay up for as long as I can but I haven’t seen them yet. One time I thought I saw the one ­closest to my pillow turn her head. That’s the one I named after you.

  I made a friend at school. Her name is Evelyn and I like having her around. I’ve told her about you and she wants to meet you.

  I know you will come for me soon because you never break your promises.

  Love, Franny

  Franny

  Ididn’t mail my letters.

  I believed so strongly that my sister would return, I simply copied them into her journal to save. But as the weeks passed I started to worry. Was she really going to come back for me?

  Maybe Leah sensed my concern because even though she was spending more time at the college, she started taking me with her on weekends. The art building was my favorite and she let me look inside the rooms. I poked around the storage closets and she would let me have an eraser. They were different than the hard pink ones I was used to because they were gray and stretchy and fun to roll into different kinds of shapes.

  She took me into the art studio where students were working at their easels. It always got quiet when she walked into a room and some of them looked at her with the same expression that Matilda had when she first met Leah. The studio had a center area where Leah told me the model sat. Easels were clustered together in different groupings and the light was the kind that made the dust flying through it sparkle like glitter. I liked the quiet of the art studio and how even if there were people inside, they were too engrossed in their work to notice me. The sound of pencil moving across paper calmed me.

  One day we walked down a hallway and I smelled something that seemed familiar, but was different than the smell of charcoal and paper that I had grown used to. I was so curious that I couldn’t help but peek inside the room I assumed it was coming from. Immediately, I felt a waft of warm air hit my face and then my eyes focused on an enormous shimmering rectangle.

  A swimming pool.

&nb
sp; I had never seen an indoor pool before. The possibility of being able to swim any time you wanted amazed me and the whole rest of the day, I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up that smell.

  The next afternoon, Leah was late getting home. When she walked through the door, she handed me a brown paper bag. Inside was a bathing suit with the tag still dangling from the strap. After that, we went once or twice a week. A modern athletic complex had been built several blocks away so the pool at the college was almost always deserted.

  It didn’t take long for us to develop a routine. Leah always brought her sketchbook and sat on the bleachers watching me. The first thing I did was slip in up to my chest, holding my breath and feeling the funny sensation of being half wet and half dry. I liked running my hands around and making big angry circles and then lifting them up high to let the water drip down, making tiny splashy ones. My hands looked softer and cleaner underwater.

  Once my body got used to the temperature, I would flip over on my back so that I could tilt my head and let the water fill my ears. The bathing suit Leah had chosen for me was turquoise and I would pretend that I blended into the pool so well that no one would ever be able to find me. Floating was easy and soon my lips would stop spelling and then it would get so quiet that I could forget that I was in a swimming pool in a room in an art building in a place far away from my sister and mother.

  I would stay submerged for as long as I could.

  Leah didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t tap her foot the way that many of the grownups in my life did. She looked up at me from time to time, but mostly she was busy with her sketchbook.

  One day I stayed in for so long that every fingertip on my hand shriveled. Leah was engrossed in her work and didn’t notice me coming out of the water. I sat down and watched her draw and then for some reason started thinking about oranges—specifically the one she was working on the very first time we met.

  “Why do you draw things so big?”

  She looked up for a minute then back down. “Because not everything appears as it is and if I draw really big I know I won’t miss any of the details. It’s my way of getting to know something.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t like surprises,” she added.

  I nodded because I completely understood and then I looked over at her paper. The sketch was of a young girl being pushed on a swing and, aside from the drawings of my mother, it was the only image of hers that I had ever seen that wasn’t blown up to enormous proportions.

  “That’s me.”

  She nodded.

  “How come you didn’t make me big?”

  She smiled and then whispered so softly I couldn’t be sure that I heard correctly. “Because I already know you.”

  That night I didn’t write a letter to my sister and it made me feel happy and sad and confused, so the next morning as Leah and I were eating waffles, all I wanted to think about was the maple syrup that drenched each bite.

  “Can you say the alphabet backwards?”

  “What?” I mumbled, enjoying the sweetness that filled my mouth.

  “The alphabet. Can you say it backwards?”

  I contemplated another bite but instead took a breath.

  “Z Y X W V U T S R Q P O N M L K J I H G F E D C B A.”

  Leah was quiet.

  “That’s amazing, Franny. How do you do that so fast?”

  “I see the alphabet. I see letters. In my head.”

  My cheeks got warm and I felt like I had opened the front door without first asking who was there. I had spoken too easily and without thought and I wished that I could take it all back.

  “You see them? In your head.”

  I wondered if she was teasing me. But it was Leah. Leah with a silent H at the end of her name and she would never tease me.

  “You are an incredible person, Franny. You see details that no one else notices.”

  I drew circles in the maple syrup. “What was my mom like? I mean . . . from before?”

  She lowered her mug of tea. “Therese has always been determined.”

  “Were you good friends?”

  “There is nothing I would not do for her. Nothing.”

  “Why did she leave me with you?”

  Leah looked down and then shifted in her seat. “It’s complicated, Franny. One day I will try and explain it to you.”

  I mashed the leftover crumbs of my waffle into the syrup. I probably should have stopped asking questions, but it was almost like they were sitting inside my mouth and I had no choice but to spit them out. “What about your parents? What are they like?”

  Up went the mug. “I don’t speak to them anymore.”

  Was Leah like me? Did her parents leave her, too? I couldn’t look at her anymore so I looked down.

  Leah laced her fingers around the mug. There was a pause before she spoke again. “My father hurt me, Franny. He hurt me when I was a little girl.” She looked like she wanted to say more but instead took another sip of her drink. “It would be great if everyone was like your letters. That way you could always predict what they were going to say and do.”

  I nodded and looked back down at my plate. It had designs around the rim. Little yellow flowers that looked distorted under the film of syrup.

  She reached over and took my chin in her hand, tilting my face so that my eyes were on hers. “You are a very special little girl.”

  I turned away from her because the one thing I did not want to be was Special. When teachers at school told me I was special all it meant was that I had to be taken out of the classroom to sit in small offices to talk about why I was special. It made me feel different from the other children when all I ever really wanted was to blend in and disappear so that no one would notice me. So many times I wished I could be invisible so that I could make the world stop moving so fast, stop sounding so loud, so that I could just spell to my heart’s content. One time I heard two of my teachers talking about me and they used the words “on the spectrum.” Later, I asked my grandmother what they meant. She said that a spectrum is a beautiful band of colors like a rainbow and that was a perfect description of me and, even though I wanted to believe her, I didn’t. Deep inside, I was pretty sure that being special was the real reason my mother had left me behind.

  She probably said it to make me feel good but it didn’t. It made one whole side of my body go numb. For the first time in a long time, I started to feel it on my lips. I shook my head, trying to make it stop but I couldn’t. The letters slipped past and I let it happen. I let them pour out of me, too overwhelmed by the moment to make them stop. They popped out of my mouth like gumballs dropping out of a candy machine. Big, ugly letters. Steady, mean, constant, and loud enough for Leah to hear.

  S-P-E-C-I-A-L.

  That afternoon I tried ignoring the Things that were swirling inside of me. Things that used to have color but were now so muddled they looked like the paint water I used the first day I met Leah. It felt like the closer I got to her, the farther I moved from my sister. And no matter how I tried, I could not seem to think of one without the other.

  I am not sure why I decided to do what I did. I don’t think I realized the consequences, but moments are so fleeting that sometimes it’s hard to know their value. If I had, I never would have taken such a risk.

  Leah was working later than usual and Evelyn was engrossed in a school project. I felt a little ball bouncing in my stomach and as the afternoon wore on, the ball got bigger. I tried walking into different rooms, but that only made it bounce more.

  Not only did I miss Matilda, but I missed my mother.

  I was dreaming of her at night. Quick little visits. She never spoke, and when I reached out to touch her, she turned and walked away. Some nights I would wake up to the sound of random letters spilling from my lips, shaking me from my dreams. The sadness came so slowly that I didn’t notice until it was too late and then it was all I could feel.

  I was alone in the house that afternoon, the bounc
ing ball in my belly so loud that I could hear it in my head. I went into Leah’s room and sat on her bed. Then I crawled underneath and pulled out the maroon portfolio. I unhooked the string that held it together and pulled out the drawings Leah had made of my mother. I sat on the floor and spread them around in a big circle so that everywhere I turned I saw a different image of her. I pulled my knees in close, wrapped my arms around myself, and rocked back and forth until the bouncing ball finally stopped. I collected the drawings, put them back inside the portfolio as neatly as I could, and slid them back under the bed.

  Things would have happened differently if it hadn’t been so cold that day. I was wearing my big gray sweater, the one Leah picked out for me with designs around the wrists that looked like a bracelet made of O’s. I slipped the portfolio under the bed but one of the loops got caught on something. I struggled for a few minutes, fumbling to pry myself loose, and that’s when I felt it. A second manila envelope stuffed between the slats of the bed. I don’t know what compelled me to loosen it from its hiding place but that’s what I did and then I opened it.

  More drawings. But these weren’t of my mother.

  These were images of Leah.

  Her features drawn with amazing delicacy, as if the artist didn’t want to press too hard against the page because doing so might hurt her. Lovely, clean lines that suddenly disappeared when it came to her hair and then the gracefulness was replaced by angry thick black strokes that crept toward her cheek like the hands of a gloved robber. They were random and brutal and frightening and in the corner of each drawing was a name. Lionel. LIONel.

  The bouncing ball started bouncing again. I wished I had never opened that envelope. I quickly stuffed the drawings back in, but the bouncing got bigger. And when I looked up again, she was there, standing in the doorway.

  Looking through me.

  She didn’t say anything that night, but her eyes were different. They were dull, diluted. Like when my grandmother mixed too much milk into her tea. It was as if something inside of her was frozen and I wished I could take her out into the sun, like a grape popsicle melting and running down my arm, but nothing I did made it any better. She still took me swimming, but didn’t bring her sketchbook. Instead, she sat on the bleachers, legs crossed at the ankle and hands folded in her lap. She stared vacantly down at the deck of the pool, counting squares, towels, puddles, I did not know. I did what I could to make her smile. I jumped and splashed and made silly faces. She turned to face me, but it never seemed like she saw me. I didn’t know what else to do so I stopped doing anything.