Charlotte snaps her fingers, bringing me out of my reverie.
“Hello?” she barks, irritated.
I rearrange my face.
“You men. You’re all the same.”
“A rather sweeping statement, don’t you think?”
“I know you sit there, bored, disinterested,” she spits.
“You’re projecting,” I say, pinching my right leg.
She looks at me, scans my face for clues, but I’m giving nothing away. The pinch has me back on track. Focused.
Looking at my notes I clear my throat and slowly turn a page or two, buying some time.
“Last week we discussed how you felt dismissed by your father. How he ignored you. I wonder if something is being reenacted between us,” I say.
Charlotte looks down at her feet, battles with a tear attempting to escape. I imagine her trying to push it back into her cage of pride, not wanting to allow me the experience of her vulnerability.
“Bastard projection,” she says, “always fucks things up.”
I feel my earlier fatigue melt. She has me now: compassionate and feeling.
“So it does.” I smile.
Charlotte arrived at Glendown three years ago, clinically depressed and suicidal. Isolated, with limited contact with what remained of her family, she had a nonexistent desire for self-care, work, or any interests other than jigsaw puzzles. The emerging worlds from tiny cardboard pieces offering a regulating effect on her mind.
As a child, Charlotte lived on a quiet leafy street in Islington. Next door was a man named Tom, who lived alone with his three cats. The cats would roam from garden to garden, offering gifts such as mice and birds. Charlotte was very attached to the cats.
Slowly, Tom entered the lives of Charlotte and her family, offering to help out with the gardening, odd jobs, and, of course, babysitting. Tom was lovely. So friendly. The perfect neighbor. That is, until Charlotte refused to play his little game of musical chairs. Tom slipping his hand beneath and pulling at her underwear. Charlotte said no. And that was when things got nasty. If she didn’t play, the cats would have to be punished, Tom said. She allowed his thick hand inside her.
Charlotte’s parents called her a liar. An attention seeker. Tom was lovely, Tom could be trusted, what was she thinking? Her father ignored her. You’re imagining things, Charlotte’s mother dismissed. And Tom? Well, Tom eventually moved on, most likely to another quiet street, next door to another little girl. Lovely Tom.
What followed were a series of crimes where Charlotte fell victim to the abuse of those in power: a vicar who called on the house to “rid her of her lies,” a teacher who insisted Charlotte stay behind to help tidy the store cupboard, and several unsavory employers. Each time her story was dismissed. She was deemed an attention seeker. A liar. So she turned to the words of poets, writers, and activists for sanctuary—those who found voice and language to cover paper with mighty words. Charlotte told me that she’d once written the names of these people on the soles of her shoes: Alice Walker, Audre Lorde, bell hooks, Andrea Dworkin, and Rosa Parks, to name a few. Then she’d push her feet inside and stand, wondering what it felt like to walk in the shoes of strong women. To have them march with her, refusing the torment of patriarchy. Women who fought back.
“Their names transport me to a world of empowerment,” she said a year into our work.
“You’re also empowered,” I said.
She waved away my words of advocacy, looking down again at her feet.
I moved forward in my chair.
“The soles of your shoes deserve another name,” I spoke softly.
She looked up.
“Charlotte Lakewood.” I smiled.
Our session ended with me handing her a thick black marker while she paused, shoe in hand. Her thumb rubbing, repeatedly, its thin plastic sole.
“Go ahead,” I encouraged, watching. A single tear traveling down her cheek.
And with that, she scrawled her name, large and proud. Excitement uplighting her damp face as she added, with zeal, an exclamation point.
“There,” she said, embodied and firm. “That’s me.”
Her shoe offered steady like a gift, in both hands.
She leans forward now in her chair, stretching both tie-dyed sleeves to hide her fists. “So this projection,” she says, “how do I stop it? How do I not make you into my dad?”
“Good question,” I answer softly. “First we acknowledge our relationship. Our attachment. I’m not your father. I’m nothing like him. We separate him and me. Men generally. Not all men will disappoint and dismiss you, Charlotte. We’re not all the same.”
16
Alexa Wú
Evening. Anna clicks on the radio, adding a little sway and twist to her stand. She likes this song.
“Cheers!” she sings.
We clink glasses.
“So how’s it going at work?”
“Great,” I say. “I get my first paycheck next week.”
“How exciting.”
“I know, I’ll take us out if you like?” I say, joining her jig.
“Let’s do that,” she allows. “So what does Ella think about your new job? Is she pleased for you?”
“Kinda. I think she’s worried I’ll forget about her.”
Anna draws a deep breath. Her groove suddenly interrupted.
“What nonsense. Don’t let her guilt-trip you, okay?”
She’s right, Oneiroi adds.
I shrug, protective and accepting of Ella’s insecurity in equal measure. A longing felt that she’ll be pleased for me, eventually.
Anna leans against the kitchen sink. “So what hours are you working?”
“Ten till six. But Jack said I might need to be a little flexible, depending on the shoot.”
Anna raises her glass and whispers, “I’m proud of you.”
I take a moment to absorb her words, surprised and pleased, but also wishing they were my mother’s words. That she was still alive to see me working my first real job. Resting my glass, I reach for my camera, its weight familiar and comforting in my hand.
“You look lovely tonight, by the way.” I say. Click. Click.
“Stop that,” Anna says, smiling into her shoulder. Palm outstretched in fey protest yet secretly enjoying the camera’s attention. Her new highlights a little bolder than usual, a girlish bounce to her curls. I also note her choice of lipstick, a nod toward racy, a sly smear of kohl applied to the linings of her eyes.
“I’m having my friend Ray over later,” she says, seemingly aware I’ve noticed the extra effort she put in. “We met at work. He manages electricals.”
Click.
Anna has worked at a fragrance counter in a department store since I was thirteen. Before that she was a cocktail waitress in the West End.
“Can he get me a discount on a new camera?” I ask, resting mine now on the kitchen table.
“I don’t see why not,” she says, keeping her groove going with another glass of sauvignon.
Ask her to pour us another, Runner says, and I pass along the request:
“Can I have a top-up?” I ask, handling my glass.
“Sure.” Anna pours.
“Shall I stay out tonight?” I say. “So you and Ray—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Anna insists, throwing me a look. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends?” I tease.
She smiles, revealing neat white piano teeth. And I realize then that I haven’t seen Anna this peppy for a long time. My father’s abandonment of her spiking any desire for another man. Earlier self-worth collapsed like a deck of cards.
I remember how she sobbed when she found out. My father’s choosing of a much younger woman branding, pummeling, and screwing with her head. She crumbled; of course she did. Her lack of trust passed down to me like torn, misshapen clothing. An uncomfortable fit forced over my head and worn like a noose while I waited. And waited. Expecting someone to come kick the stool.
&nb
sp; Flash.
It’s hot. High summer.
The sound of lawns being mowed, hedges trimmed. Sprinklers are on. I’m lying in Ella’s backyard. Grass warming itself between my sixteen-year-old thighs.
Flash.
Grace dances past me in a modest gingham two-piece, clutching a pink Beanie Baby, a pair of lime-green goggles strapped tight to her head.
She hands me a saltshaker. “Come on, Alexa,” she says, tugging at my ice-pop-free hand, “I want to make a seaside in the paddling pool!” Shaker salt a little girl’s dream when money won’t stretch to a summer holiday. Ella is pumping up a dusty paddling pool with her bare foot. She bends down, shifts her red heart sunglasses to her head, and pulls on the green plastic hose. I watch it snake across the lawn.
My phone rings then.
“Hey, Anna,” I say, a picture of the Wicked Witch of the West flashing up on the screen.
Anna is sobbing. “You have to come home.”
I stand. “What’s wrong?”
“Straightaway,” she orders, frenzy tipping her voice. “It’s your dad.”
For a moment I wonder if my father has dropped down dead—had a heart attack, been struck by a car—but I know; I know in the pit of my gut what’s happened. Why Anna is crazed.
Flash.
Our curtains have been drawn like defeated eyes. Anna is sitting at her kidney-shaped dressing table, staring at her reflection, crying. She doesn’t seem to recognize the woman staring back and begins to do this strange wave, I guess to make sure it’s her. Sure enough, the woman waves back. Kinda creepy.
She turns to face me, a pack of Xanax in one hand and a tumbler of vodka in the other.
“He’s gone,” she says.
A pause.
“Who is she?” I ask, rage raining down. “I’ll hunt the bitch out.”
“Someone from the casino. A croupier.”
“A what?”
Anna doesn’t bother to explain, instead throws two Xanax at the back of her throat and gags on the strength of the vodka.
“She’s still in college,” she cries, “a college girl, for Christ’s sake.”
I feel my dread reawaken while Anna scrunches her body up like a small child. She draws her knees tight to her chest. Abandoned. Unwanted. Slowly she rocks herself forward and back. For a moment I actually sense overwhelming warmth toward her. Actual warmth, without any of the bullshit, any of the pretense. Something about her thin, brittle body, her vulnerability, and my holding of her while she rocks making me feel more akin. But I know it won’t last. Not the way I’d like it to, because I’m the kid she’s been burdened with now that my father’s shacked up with some fucking croupier.
She is in shock, I think.
Flash.
Tick-tock—
I, however, was not shocked. It made perfect sense to me. He had someone fresh. A college girl, for Christ’s sake. Anna was no longer wanted and I was old news.
Tick-tock—
“Fancy another?” Anna says, holding up the bottle of sauvignon.
Say yes, Runner says.
Oneiroi steps into the Light, covers the glass with our hand, answering on everyone’s behalf:
“No thanks,” she says, “I’ve got my last shift at Chen’s.”
“Oh.”
“And then Ella’s picking me up.”
“You girls doing anything fun?” Anna asks.
“Shaun’s having a house party.”
“Shaun? Shaun who?”
“Just some guy we met. I like him.”
“Do I get to meet him?”
“I don’t like him that much.”
Anna grins, shrugging off Oneiroi’s goofing around. “Want some food before you go? I’ve made—”
“No thanks, I’ve eaten. You need help with anything before Ray arrives?”
“No, nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Just keep yourself safe, okay?”
“Don’t worry,” I say, taking back the Light, “if anyone tries anything I’ll have them outnumbered.”
This is a standard old multiples joke that I heard once on a TV chat show, usually good for a laugh, but tonight Anna just squeezes my shoulder, saying: “Off you go then, don’t be making yourselves late now.”
Mr. Chen is cutting out a photograph of one of the Queen’s corgis from a glossy Sunday supplement. On reaching the corgi’s tail he sticks out his tongue in fixed concentration, wielding his tiny scissors with precision.
“Hey,” I say.
Mr. Chen looks up and smiles.
“Where’s that one going?” I ask, noting another three corgis resting on the counter.
“Over there”—he points with his tiny scissors—“on the kitchen hatch.”
“Why do you love the Queen so much?” I ask, realizing I’ve never asked before.
“She’s a lady,” he says, “and she’s good for the country. There!” He holds the fourth corgi up to the light as if checking an X-ray. Pleased with his handiwork—his pack of posh dogs—he tosses the magazine into a large wicker basket behind the counter.
“So. Your last night here,” he says, forcing the scissors down in his back pocket.
I nod.
“Thanks for everything,” I say. “If you ever get stuck, need someone—”
“No. No more takeaway and washing dishes,” he dismisses with a flick of his wrist. “You’re a photographer now.”
He hands me an envelope.
“For you,” he says, “to buy a new camera.”
“I can’t—”
“Take it,” he insists.
Stirred, I fling my arms around his back and squeeze. And while he remains composed, stiff as a board, I know Mr. Chen recognizes my thanks because the smile on his face widens. His eyes turning damp, the unsaid speaking: I’ll miss you.
“Here, look,” I say, unfolding a single sheet of newsprint and pointing. “I took that photograph.”
“You?”
“Me,” I say.
“It’s very good.”
“Thanks. This demonstrator was the focus. He’s one of the London Black Revs”—I point—“and this here is the burger joint that was snaring their workers. Reporting them to the authorities and having them deported.”
“Back home?”
I nod, noticing Mr. Chen’s face turn somber. Homesick, I assume, for Xining. His story of immigration similar to that of my father, who also found himself in England with hopes for a better life.
My father’s journey had involved two boat trips, an overnight sleeper, and a ride hitched with a man he didn’t trust. When he finally reached the island of Thatcher, Duran Duran, and fish ’n’ chips, my father continued on foot, garbage bags covering his feet, held tight with black gaffer tape. Money was tight and waterproof shoes were expensive. My mother told me she’d learned the tape was intended to keep out the weather but also to shape the plastic to look more like Western shoes. Not only were my father’s feet dry when he arrived, but stylish too.
My father used to keep his shoes in stacked immaculate brown boxes beside his bed, and one of my tasks as a young girl was to spit-clean and polish them. A skill he’d taught me himself. Every Friday night the shoes were lined up outside the kitchen door like shiny black oversize beetles.
“Scrub harder, Xiǎo Wáwa,” he’d say, checking for imperfections. “That’s it. Then be a good girl and make a start on my shirts.”
At the time I was pleased to have his approval, even if that meant being enslaved to a man who believed himself blameless and entitled. His words: I can and I will, notched up on his bedpost. A devious and tragic charm as he stood, smiling, watching, while I ironed and scrubbed.
Ella is standing on the opposite side of the street, leaning against her Fiat Punto.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I was born ready.” She smiles, handing me her spliff.
We dial up the music and wind down the windows: our night world alive, alive. Stirred by t
he neat high, I glance over at Ella—blow-dried and dark browed, a drift of foreign musk perfume. I hardly recognize this new sharp version of herself. Her clothes too, all tight and designer, just like a model’s. Spiky three-inch heels angling down on the clutch.
“New shoes?” I ask.
“Got them from the Electra,” she says. “They were in the girls’ wardrobe. There’s so much great stuff in there. I can get you something if you want. New jacket maybe?”
“No thanks,” I say, integrity holding me firm. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking it.”
I note a slight chill in the air. Our difference felt but not spoken. In my mind I try to make it not matter (too much) how at odds we are right now, and have a quiet word with myself not to judge (too much).
She’s just enjoying the perks of the job, I soothe, that’s all.
You’re in denial, Runner says with a look of disdain.
I know, you’re right, I confess. If I’m honest I hate how fickle and easy she is.
So tell her. Don’t turn into some friggin’ bystander like Anna. And make sure she knows this isn’t okay.
Don’t worry, I say, hanging my hand out the window to catch the night air. I will. And soon.
Ella and I top-body sway to the same song, yet I imagine we’re thinking entirely different things. I catch this thought, reminded of how painful it used to feel when she and I had clashing tastes, thoughts, or ideas. But now I try to accept our differences, my hope that our love for each other overrides any slavish trust.
“Fuck, I’m totally wasted!” Ella cries, revving on the gas, a fiendish half smile. She crimps her eyes. And while my denial plays out, part of me secretly knows this could turn into something unsweet, our friendship in danger.
I can hear the party as we drive up the shoulder of Broadway Market, pulling in at Jackman Street. A sound system lodged on one of the windowsills of Shaun’s warehouse apartment, filthy techno thumps while dozens of people pour onto the walkway. Crates of imported beer are piled on either side of the front door. A bowl of fresh limes balancing on top. I bite into one, a zing of zest waking my fried mouth.
The Eighth Girl Page 11
