Left

by Tamar Ossowski

  Matilda

  Drawing circles.

  It was something I did when I felt lost. Little ones inside of big ones, with no beginning and no end.

  “Pretty,” Sara said as she shifted past me, order pad in hand. “Is Lavi supposed to meet you here?” She glanced down at her watch.

  I shrugged. I didn’t tell her I hadn’t spoken to Lavi in days. That I honestly had no idea what had drawn me inside the restaurant or what I was doing sitting at the counter. There weren’t many customers and once they had their meals, the room got quiet. Sara slid behind the counter, dragging her rag over a crack in the Formica.

  “Daryl and Lavi are still not speaking,” she told me and pushed the rag harder, making it squeak with each pass. I drew a medium-sized purple circle in the corner of my placemat.

  She cut me a slice of apple pie, then took a canister from behind the counter and sprayed a pyramid of whipped cream on top. “I can tell about you, Matilda . . . you are like me.”

  I drew a smaller circle inside the purple one.

  “We both follow our hearts.”

  I plunged my fork into an especially large slice of apple.

  “That’s why Daryl likes you so much.”

  Lightness filled my insides and I instantly knew that later—after I left the restaurant and walked all the way home, after I climbed in bed and shut off the light, after I got ready and left for school the next morning—I would replay the moment over in my head. She picked up the rag and concentrated hard on a stain that looked so ingrained, nothing short of a sandblaster would make it disappear.

  “That’s what it’s all about, Matilda. Finding the person that makes you feel special and never letting go. No matter what.”

  She dropped the rag and reached across to pat my hand. I smiled back at her. There was something so easy in her way of thinking and more than anything I wanted to believe what she’d said. She was different than my mother: committed to love, no matter the cost. I nodded my head in agreement, went back to eating my pie, and watched as she continued to scrub the spot, which we both knew held no hope of ever coming out.

  That night, it was the taste of baked beans that woke me. It rose from my insides like a geyser, leaving behind a burning pool of acid. I took a sip of water and the coolness made its way down until it reached a point beyond which it could not pass. I closed my eyes and laid back my head. Hot dogs and beans was my favorite meal to make when my mother wasn’t home. More acid came up, but this time it wasn’t because of the beans.

  It was the dream.

  The one I remembered having since I could remember dreaming, coming both by routine and surprise. I tried to shake the image, but it clung to me like a cold, damp towel. So I sat up, pinched my skin to make the likelihood of falling back asleep impossible, and decided to go downstairs. I needed to get away from that room, that bed, those sheets.

  The house was quiet and I tried to remember where she said she was going. I went into the kitchen and considered the sink, still full of dishes. The pot from the beans sat on top, crusted in dried brown goop because I forgot to fill it with water. The goal was to see how high I could stack them before my mother would relent. Before she would wash and dry and put them away so that the game could start all over again.

  I opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents: yogurt, grapefruits, and cottage cheese. In the freezer, behind a box of whole-wheat waffles, I found a small, forgotten container of mocha chip ice cream. In the dark, I stabbed at the hard, frosted ice cream with my spoon and then I gave up and tossed it onto the coffee table. The spoon bounced and landed on the rug. I kicked it underneath the table and then picked up the remote control and turned on the television.

  A cooking show was on and the host was excitedly demonstrating how to poach eggs. He made tiny tornadoes in the water and then slipped raw eggs into the tornadoes’ eyes. I watched as the white part swirled around its yellow center like a cloud surrounding the sun. The audience’s oohs and ahhs bounced around the walls of the blue-lit living room. I turned up the volume and wondered if I would be able to hear her when she came in. I turned it up louder and watched those pretty white eggs spin out of control in their hot water bath. I flipped the channel just as he sliced one open and the camera zoomed in on the bright yellow insides oozing out like blood.

  I flew past a few late-night comedy shows and two infomercials. Nothing held my attention so I turned the television off and stuffed the remote control under a pillow cushion. I walked past the front door, telling myself I was only peeking through the window out of habit and not to see if she was home. It was dark and empty and the silence vibrated in my ears, so I went back upstairs.

  Usually I liked escaping into my room, but tonight I felt restless and out of place. I sat at my desk, turned on the lamp, and stared at the dust particles floating through the air. Deciding it was better not to know how many ugly things were swimming around me, I flicked off the light. I got into bed and felt the sheets mold to my skin, as though they had a memory and were waiting for me to return, waiting to pick up where we had left off earlier.

  Dread made its way into my chest so I grabbed a pillow and tossed it where my feet usually went and switched my body on the mattress. It felt funny lying on the wrong side of the bed, so I put my pillow back where it belonged and turned around again.

  My hips sank down and my eyelids got heavy. I stared at my nightlight, willing myself to stay awake, but then the brightness got smaller and dimmer and before I could stop myself, I was back in the red, in the dampness, in the cold. Someone was screaming loud, shrill empty screams that became hollow-sounding the closer I got. I wanted to wake up. I wanted it to stop, but something pulled me down further and then it was so close I had to cover my ears. The lights flashed and the floor shook and in the streak of white I saw.

  The person screaming was me.

  When I opened my eyes, she was sitting beside me, stroking my hair and whispering that everything was going to be okay. She was wearing a white blouse with light blue buttons that reminded me of a doll I once had.

  “Where were you?”

  She stood up and I leaned into my pillow. She walked over to the mirror, bringing her face so close that it was almost touching. “I told you, Matilda. I had to work and then I went out for a late dinner.” She licked her finger and stroked her eyebrow into shape. “How was your evening?”

  I hugged the pillow tight and mumbled into the softness. “Perfect.”

  “Good.” She smiled, turning away from the mirror. “You were screaming when I came in.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Are you okay now?”

  “You went out for dinner?”

  She pulled her fingers through the back of her hair. “Yes.”

  “When are we going to get Franny?”

  A piece of her hair fell out of place.

  “Mom?”

  “Hmm?” The renegade hair was now back where it belonged.

  “When?”

  She reached out to touch my shoulder, but I batted her hand away and then the perfectly smoothed eyebrow arched.

  “Goodnight, Matilda.” She came so close I couldn’t help but breathe her in. Her eyes darted back and forth across my face, like she was reading a book. Then she whispered in my ear, making the hairs on the back of my neck sting. “You have been seeing that boy.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  I turned away, but not before she reached across and slapped me. The pain radiated quickly through my skin and then settled inside my mouth. I clenched my teeth.

  She stood up, walked to the door, and then turned back around.

  “I don’t care what you think of me,” she said. Her face turned white, like it was covered in chalk dust. I tried to sink further into the bed. “I only care that you do what I say. Do not go near that boy again.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Matilda.” She spoke my name, quietly even though her fists were drawn up at her sides. “Did you hear me?�
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  I nodded.

  “Then we understand each other.” She left the room without turning around again. I heard her walk into hers and slam the door.

  I got out of bed and peered into the mirror, tracing an outline around the faint red mark she had left behind. I leaned into it like she had, so that I was almost touching, and licked my finger. I swept it across my eyebrow, until it lay down in place, perfectly groomed and shiny from my spit.

  After that, I tried to keep to myself and stayed away from him. I took the long way home from school and every day I passed a picture of a boy staring at me from beneath a sheet of plastic. He was smiling and happy, as if somehow he knew that photo would one day be tacked up onto the tree that his car would crash into. Someone had taped flowers underneath, which disintegrated at my touch.

  “He was an asshole.”

  I jumped backward and fell into him. He snickered.

  “His name was Joe Devaney,” Daryl said.

  I started to walk because I didn’t want to know anything more. I just wanted him to be the smiling boy who stared at me from beneath a sheet of plastic.

  “Haven’t seen you around.”

  I didn’t respond and crossed from the main road to the edge of the forest.

  “Where’s Lavi?”

  I wasn’t going to tell him I had snuck out early to avoid her.

  “What’s going on?” He gave up trying to walk beside me and fell behind.

  “Nothing.”

  Dried twigs cracked underneath his feet as he kept pace. I knew he wanted to ask about my father, but he didn’t. He just followed, letting me take the lead. I found a spot under a tree, swung off my backpack, and sat on the ground. We stared off into the dark green like there was something there to watch.

  “My mom doesn’t want me hanging out with you anymore.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He lay down, put his hands behind his head, then reached up and grabbed the back of my shirt, pulling me down with him. The movement startled me, but I pretended it didn’t. Birds chirped, and every few minutes there was a rustling noise, and then all I heard was the sound of his breathing. Slow and steady and, even though I didn’t want to, I found myself trying to match it.

  “Your mother’s a bitch.”

  The ground was wet and the coldness seeped into me.

  “Bet that’s why your dad left.”

  “She left him.”

  I heard a crinkling sound and saw the familiar bottle of brandy come out. He handed it to me and I pushed it aside. He took a sip, then put the bottle back into a paper bag and packed it away.

  “Got anything more interesting in there?” I asked as I slipped my hand into his bag and found his notebook. This time he didn’t fight—just watched as I flipped through pages of his black and white undercover superheroes. He lay back down and closed his eyes and soon he was asleep. I couldn’t help but notice his features soften, erasing all signs of Mean Daryl.

  I lay beside him, on my back, listening to the sound of his breaths. He made a low rattling noise every few seconds that reminded me of my sister. Before I could prevent it, my eyes filled with tears and the trees whirled around me. My heart pounded angrily inside my chest and then I felt him slip his hand into mine. I held on to him because everything was spinning around me and I couldn’t help but be scared that I might suddenly disappear . . . and that no one would remember that I was ever there. I held on tightly and he squeezed back just as hard.

  Maybe he was scared of the same thing.

  When I woke, I felt disoriented.

  “I want to go home.”

  I brushed a leaf out of my hair. He didn’t answer. Just gathered his things and tossed them into his bag. We walked in silence and I felt unbalanced, like I had left behind part of me in the forest. When we reached the clearing, I could see the townhouses and I walked to my front door.

  He followed without hesitation.

  We went inside and, when I turned, his face was so close, his breath tickled my cheek. We stood seconds apart from touching, listening to the muffled voices of his mother and sister in the unit next door, but then something changed and he shook himself from me.

  “Got any milk?” he asked and walked toward the refrigerator.

  I reached into the dish rack and handed him a glass with a daisy painted on the side. My mother’s favorite.

  He opened the freezer and cracked the ice tray. Ice cubes crashed onto the kitchen floor and shattered like glass. He rummaged in the refrigerator until he found the milk and, after he poured some into his glass, lifted the carton to his mouth and took a sip. I watched as he gulped, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, hearing the backwash hit the sides of the carton when he finished. He closed the refrigerator door, leaving the carton out on the table.

  “C’mon.” He swirled the ice around in the glass and headed upstairs.

  He walked straight into my mother’s room and I didn’t stop him; I just stood in the doorway and watched as he put his glass on the dresser. He switched on a light, turning the room the color of honey, and then walked over to a chair that was piled with clothes from the day before. He lifted her blouse and dropped it so that it fluttered back down as if it had fairy wings. Her bed wasn’t made and he sat on it, pumping up and down as if he was testing the springs. Then he stood in the middle of the room, breathing her in and when he was finished he turned off the light and picked up his milk.

  He walked into the hallway and I followed him into my room. I sat on the bed and again watched as he walked around, looking at my things, sometimes picking items up to hold in his hand. He looked at a photo of Franny and then he walked over to the window.

  “When’s your mother coming home?”

  “Not till late.”

  He came over to the bed and sat at the edge of the mattress so that all I could see was the back of his head. He held the glass in his hands and stared down at the floor. The ice cubes must have all melted—there were very few clinking noises coming from the glass.

  The window was open and between the chirps of the birds there was quiet. Something pushed me to fill it. Maybe I had known all along or maybe I had just decided, but either way, I told him. “I’m going back.”

  He turned to look at me. Milk speckled his upper lip. “I know.”

  He looked like there was something he wanted to say, but then he didn’t. Instead, he went downstairs and the next thing I knew, he was gone and I was alone.

  I went into the kitchen and wiped the melted ice cubes from the floor. I washed the glass and put it back in the dish rack. I scrubbed the kitchen counter, trying hard to focus so that I didn’t have to hear his ­muffled voice coming from next door, and then I poured the rest of the milk down the sink, watching as it coated the basin, leaving behind a thin film of white that took several seconds to clear.

  As the days passed, I thought a lot about Daryl and Franny and how it was all coming apart and how I had no idea how to put it back together. One afternoon, I found myself standing in front of their door, pretending that I didn’t care if my mother caught me. It was unlocked and opened at my touch.

  Her lipstick was smeared and it looked like she had lost her balance. Sara grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside. “Come in.”

  She took a few sips from the paper cup she was holding and then licked her lips.

  “What do you think?” The bottom of her dress flared as she twirled. She held out her hands and cocked her head to one side and let out a squeal that sent shivers up my spine.

  “You like it?” She spun again.

  “It’s pretty.”

  It wasn’t. It was tight in the wrong places and looked like it was borrowed. Maybe it was. The dress flew over her head and landed on the floor. She stood in front of me in her bra and panties and I couldn’t help but notice the pouch around her belly.

  “Maybe this one’s better?” She grabbed a black one from a pile she had on the couch and pulled it over her head. “Can you help?”

  She
turned her back to me and I struggled with the zipper, but before I could finish, she pulled away and ran her hands down the front as if she was ironing out the wrinkles.

  “Better?”

  Her bra strap hung over her shoulder but, again, I just nodded. She walked to the counter and poured more of whatever she was drinking. “It needs to be perfect.”

  I leaned against the wall. The dress kept falling and she clutched it to her chest but then gave up and just let it hang. She found her purse and dug into its depths like she was searching for treasure. Out came a small perfume sample into which she dipped her pinky. She ran it across her wrist and then pushed her hand toward my face. The assault took me offguard and I must have cringed because, suddenly, she was back rummaging inside her bag.

  “Better?”

  She stroked more onto her wrist, but before she could get any closer, I nodded my approval.

  She smiled and took another sip. “I want it all to look right.”

  She picked up a shoe, licked her finger, and cleaned a scuff mark off the toe. I started to back out down the hallway, but she caught me.

  “Daryl will be home soon.” She winked.

  I imagined Daryl walking in, watching me watching her. She moved over to the mirror, the contents of her paper cup splashing out in an almost perfectly shaped circle. It seeped into the rug, disappearing as if it had never been there. I started to feel dizzy; all I could think about was getting out. I leaned against the wall, backing my way down the hall again, hoping I could make it out without her stopping me.

  “Where are you going?”

  More than anything, I wanted to run, but instead I came back inside. She walked toward me, still unsteady on her feet. She put her hand on my face and looked at me, but her eyes were wildly unfocused. Her touch sent fiery stabs down my back.

  “I told you, Matilda. You are just like me.”

  I don’t know why, but suddenly I felt like I couldn’t breathe, so I pushed past her and ran out of the room, out of the unit, and back next door to my home. Even though I closed the door behind me, I could still hear her laughter coming through the walls. I wiped the cold sweat that had wrapped itself around my neck and then I went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.