Mosquitoland

by David Arnold

  “We read about a drug that was getting good results,” said Dad, looking at the prescription. “What was it called, Evie? Ability-something . . . ?”

  Mom crossed her arms and looked the other way. She had a fire in her eyes I hadn’t seen before.

  The doctor nodded. “That’s this. Aripapilazone is commonly known as Abilitol.”

  A pall fell over the room. A black shroud of disease and deathbeds and all the worst things from all the worst places. This mutant word, a tragic portmanteau, the unnatural marriage of two roots as different as different could be. And do you, Ability, take Vitriol to be your lawfully wedded suffix? I wanted to scream objections to the unholy matrimony, but nothing came out. My mouth was clammy and dry, full of sand. Dr. Wilson smiled ever on, rambling about the benefits of Abilitol while my father nodded like a toy bobblehead immune to the deepening shadow in the room.

  As they spoke, I caught my mother’s eye. I could tell by her face she felt the deepening shadow, too.

  Neither of us smiled.

  Neither of us spoke.

  We felt the shadow together.

  5

  The Sixth Letter

  I WAKE UP to the hum of cross-country travel, the late sun on my face, and Arlene’s heavy head on my shoulder. (If it weren’t for her snoring, I would swear the old gal was either dead or in a coma.) Wiping away the thin string of drool dangling from Arlene’s mouth to my shoulder, I nudge her head in the opposite direction and pull my backpack into my lap.

  Prone to unwieldy dreams, I’ve always found naps to be more exhausting than refreshing, and this one was no exception. I dreamed about a science project from fifth grade. We were given a map of the world and told to cut out each continent, then piece them back together as they were millions of years ago when there weren’t seven separate continents, but rather one supercontinent known as Pangaea. In real life, I did just that. But unwieldy dreams care nothing for the wields of life, and instead of cutting out continents in the dream, I decided to cut out the small state of Mississippi. Before I could do so, the page became actual land, and I found myself staring at the entire state from an aerial view: its tall boxlike shape with those sharp angles; the jutting jaw; at the bottom, a small neck running right into the Gulf of Mexico. Suddenly, Mississippi crumbled before my very eyes and sank into the water. No sooner was it gone than a mighty army of mosquitos took its place. Millions and millions of them, buzzing aimlessly, digesting hot blood, suspended in midair over the salty water. For a moment, they stayed in the exact shape as Mississippi, so it looked as if the state was still there—only buzzing, flittering about.

  And then the army, as one, turned toward me.

  That was when I woke up.

  Wiping sweat from my forehead, I try to find the breath I lost during the dream. The rolling timpani of the bus engine, the horn section of murmuring passengers, and the occasional rimshot of backfire somehow help. It’s a symphony of transportation, a soothing reassurance that I am closer to my mom, farther from Mosquitoland.

  I dab at the wet spot on my shoulder (courtesy of Arlene’s sleep-drool), and unzip my bag. Something about being hunted by bloodsucking devils compels a girl to double-check her resources. Popping the lid off the Hills Bros. coffee can, I count by twenty to seven hundred. The bus ticket cost one-eighty, so I’m—

  My heart flips over in my chest.

  What. Is. That?

  From the bottom of the can, I pull out a thin tube of papers wrapped in a rubber band. My epiglottis flutters out of pure fascination. What secrets might Kathy be keeping in her beloved coffee can?

  Arlene grunts, opens one eye, scratches the peach fuzz on her chin, then drops her head on my shoulder. I nudge it gently toward the aisle, where it lolls for a second before flopping right back where it was.

  Damn. Old broad’s persistent.

  Tucking the cash and coffee can back in my bag, I stuff the papers in my pocket, hold Arlene’s head up with one hand, twist around in my seat, and peer down at the cute couple behind us.

  “Wotcha, chaps.” For some reason people listen when you’re British, something I’ve witnessed firsthand from my mother’s undyingly cool accent. “I really must get to the loo pronto, yeah? Would you mind terribly if I climbed over into your seats? There’s a sweet old lady asleep over here, and I’m finding it rather difficult to get by.”

  Only I say the word rather like rotha.

  As their mouths curl into a smile, I decide to withdrawal the “cute couple” status, at least as it pertains to their teeth. Seriously. They could use a trip or seven to the orthodontist. And before the guy even speaks, something clicks in my brain.

  “Where you from, mate?” asks His Ugly Teeth.

  When your mother is British, you are keenly aware of fake accents in movies and on TV, which is part of the reason mine is so good. It’s also the reason I can tell this guy is, for sure, British.

  “Oxbridge,” I say. Damn, Mim. London, Cambridge, Oxford, Liverpool, Dover—I’ve even been to London. Twice, actually, for family reunions. But no. Oxbridge. Ox-effing-bridge.

  Her Ugly Teeth smiles at His Ugly Teeth. “Love, don’t you have a mate who lives in Oxbridge?”

  He’s holding back a laugh now. “Oh, yeah, well, Nigel used to, love, but he moved down to Bumlickton remember?”

  “Was it Bumlickton or Loncamdonfordbridgeton?”

  Unfortunately for me, they know a real British accent when they hear one, too. Laughing their monarchical asses off, they shift out of their seats to let me climb over. What with the overhead compartments, it’s a tight fit, but I manage. I make my way to the back of the bus (the jeers of the Brits still ringing in my ears), then slip into the closet-sized bathroom and slide the lock to OCCUPIED. A tiny mirror hangs above the sink, barely large enough to reflect my face, and for just a moment, I consider using the war paint. It’s been a while, right? Okay, fine, I just used it last night, but after the BREAKING NEWS, who could blame me? I stick my hand in my pocket, twist the tube with the little silver ring in the middle, and—

  Patience, Mary.

  Taking a deep breath, I push the lipstick farther down in my pocket, pull out Kathy’s covert papers, and sit on top of the plastic toilet lid. I pull off the rubber band, unroll the papers, and read. The first sheet is a disgusting love letter between Kathy and my dad, something I’d give a kidney to un-see. Half standing, I raise the seat and toss the letter into the toilet. The next six pages are letters, too, but far different from the first, and written in very familiar handwriting.

  Kathy,

  In response to your last letter, the answer is no.

  Additionally, please don’t pretend that I won’t beat this. How are things at Mary’s new school? Tell her father I asked.

  —Eve

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ••

  Kathy,

  I don’t have a television in my room, which doesn’t seem right. Would you mind checking on that for me? No one around here listens. And yes, I understand that it will get harder before it gets better. I’m the one who’s sick.

  —Eve

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ••

  Kathy,

  These damn people won’t listen. Did you call about the TV?

  —E

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ••

  Kathy,

  Feeling better. Please talk to Barry about an exit strategy.

  —E

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ••

  Kathy,

  Seriously. I’m going to die in here.

  Please help.

  —E

  The sixth and final letter is a haphazard scrawl, without salutation or signature. I read
it at least a dozen times.

  THINK OF WHATS BEST FOR HER. PLEASE RECONSIDER.

  Every ounce of Mim-blood rushes to my head, wraps its tiny little platelets around my brain, and squeezes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  I can’t.

  Mom has cancer. Of the breast, lung, liver, it doesn’t matter. Or typhoid, maybe. Do people still get that? I’m not sure. She could easily have contracted some deadly bird flu. I mean, they’re effing birds. They can get to anybody. But no, that’s silly. Or maybe not silly, but newsworthy. I’d know about it at least. No, cancer is the most likely suspect. People get cancer all the time. But why ask Kathy, of all people, for help?

  My right hand, almost without my knowledge, squeezes into a fist, crumpling the first five letters into a tight snowball. I stand and raise the plastic lid. The love letter has sunk to the bottom, a metaphor worth its weight in gold. I toss the epistolary snowball in after it and push the handle to flush. Turning to the mirror, I wipe away the grime and stare at my reflection. It’s anemic. Like a stick figure.

  Fucking Kathy.

  Before Mom’s line had been disconnected, I used to call once a day. Kathy said maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. She said I should give my mother some space, like we were talking about a cute boy or something.

  In my hand, the last letter feels like a bullet, and suddenly, a new idea occurs to me. What if these aren’t the only letters Kathy’s been hiding? Mom left three months ago; for the first two months plus, I received a letter a week. Then, three weeks ago, the letters stopped. But what if they didn’t? Kathy had made it abundantly clear she didn’t want me calling Mom, so why would she be okay with letters? Was there another hidden coffee can somewhere with three weeks’ worth of correspondence from Mom?

  I open my fist, reread the bullet.

  Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.

  Mom is talking about me. And what’s best for me is to be with her. But Kathy doesn’t want me to call Mom. And she doesn’t want me to write Mom. Of course she wouldn’t want me to see Mom.

  A new hate is stirring low, a chasmic, fiery loathing. I stuff the sixth letter in my pocket, pull out my war paint. Normally, this is a sacred process, requiring no small amount of finesse. But right now, my finesse level is hovering somewhere around “Velociraptor.” I am finesse-less. I have no finesse.

  Just before the lipstick meets the sallow skin of my cheek, the toilet behind me gives a low belch. Somewhere below my feet, there’s a rumbling gurgle, and for the first time, I see the sign under the mirror.

  USE TRASH CAN FOR PAPER TOWELS AND FEMININE PRODUCTS

  DO NOT FLUSH

  Suck a duck.

  The sound of rushing fluids comes from somewhere behind the toilet, and I know what’s next.

  First things first: my shoes. I tuck away the lipstick, and hop up onto the sink just as rusty-looking fluids begin to trickle over the plastic rim of the toilet. From my improbable nest, I watch in horror as the fluids spread across the floor. Having never given two thoughts to the inner workings of a bus’s sewage system, I’m left to imagine some giant stomach-like tank in the bowels of the vehicle boiling to its fill, an impending eruption triggered by the crumpled letters. One thing’s for sure: it’s starting to stink like, whoa. I scan the tiny cabin for something to fix this, anything to put a stopper on the seeping toilet: an emergency anti-flood lever, or a hydraulic vacuum, or some sort of ejection button to catapult me from the bus. But there are no levers, vacuums, or ejection buttons.

  There is only retreat.

  From the safety of my sink-seat, I reach across the room and slide the lock to UNOCCUPIED. By swinging my legs side to side, I’m able to gain enough momentum to get a decent hop off the sink, through the doorway, and into the aisle. It’s not a pretty landing, but my shoes remain unsoiled, and that’s something. I throw on my best who, me? smile, close the door, and make my way back to my row.

  “Everything come out all right, dearie?” asks Arlene.

  I smile like, who, me?, slide across her legs, and drop into my seat. Less than thirty seconds later, a loud commotion emerges from the back of the bus. Peering over my seat back, I see people wrinkling noses and waving hands in front of faces. A few are laughing, but it’s shock-and-awe laughter, not ha-ha how funny laughter.

  Looking down, I see the Brits staring at me with their shirts pulled up over their noses. Gas mask–style.

  So that’s the way it’s gonna be. I’m on a bus full of smart-asses.

  I fall back into my seat, look out the window with my good eye, and can’t help but smile a little. For the first time in a long time, I’m right where I belong.

  YALOBUSHA COUNTY, MISSISSIPPI

  (818 Miles to Go)

  6

  Sometimes You Need a Thing

  September 1—late afternoon

  Dear Isabel,

  I am a collection of oddities, a circus of neurons and electrons: my heart is the ringmaster, my soul is the trapeze artist, and the world is my audience. It sounds strange because it is, and it is, because I am strange.

  My misplaced epiglottis is Reason #3.

  About a year ago, my mother took me to the hospital because I kept throwing up. After running a few tests, the pediatrician told us that my epiglottis was displaced, an uncommon issue, but certainly nothing to lose sleep over. The thing is, when he said displaced, I thought he’d said misplaced, which hit me right on the funny bone. I pictured an absentminded Creator, scratching his head and turning the universe upside down in search of Mim’s misplaced epiglottis. The doctor prescribed something, but my infantile esophagus persisted with savage tenacity.

  More often than not, I have no control over where and when I throw up, but on rare occasions, I’ve been able to force the issue. Twice since the move, Dad and Kathy have left me home alone. And both times, I’ve helped myself to their bedroom. I stood on that horrible Berber carpet and observed their desks bumped up next to each other: a PC for the aspiring political blogger, a Mac for the aspiring romance novelist. Two desk lamps. One unmade bed. Two nightstands, one on either side, both with books and tissues. Half of these things, I recognized, half were foreign. And yet, there they were, mixed together as one, the familiar with the unfamiliar—the family with the unfamily.

  That was usually when I threw up. On Kathy’s side of the bed. The amount of sanitizer she’s gone through, you’d think she was cleaning a gorilla cage.

  But as I stated at the beginning of this entry, I am a “collection of oddities,” and one oddity doth not a collection make.

  The Great Blinding Eclipse is Reason #4.

  A couple years ago, there was a solar eclipse. All the teachers and parents were like, Whatever you do, don’t look directly at the eclipse! I mean, really, they were just going ape over it. Well, me being the kind of girl I am, I half heard what they said, half thought about it, half processed the information, and half obeyed it. I closed one eye and looked directly at the eclipse with the other.

  Now, I’m half blind.

  After the initial freak-out, I did what any rational person would do upon discovering a mystery ailment: I went online. Online gave my condition a name (solar retinopathy), a cause (what happens from looking directly into the sun for too long), and a time frame (usually, it doesn’t last more than two months). As I mentioned before, this happened a couple of years ago, so I suppose I’ve made peace with the potential permanency of my condition. (I just realized this paragraph is riddled with parentheses. I suppose I’m just feeling parenthetically inclined right now.)

  (Anyway.)

  So why do I mention all this? Why are my medical mysteries Reasons? I’m glad you asked. I’ve developed a theory I like to call the Pain Principle. The gist of it is this: pain makes people who they are.

  Look around, Iz. The Generics are everywhere: shiny people with shinier cars, driving fast,
talking faster. They use big words to tell fabulous stories in exotic settings. Take this kid at my school, Dustin Somebody-or-other. He talks all the time about his family’s “estate.” Not house. Fucking estate. His mother hired a butler/chef named Jean-Claude, who, according to Dustin, gives the entire Somebody-or-other family jujitsu lessons every morning at sunrise. (Followed by pancakes. Dustin never forgets to mention the pancakes.) Now—it would be easy for me to look at Dustin and think, God, what an interesting life! How I wish it were my own! Woe unto me!

  But there’s a quality behind Dustin’s eyes when he talks, a dimness, like the slow fade of a dying flashlight. Like someone forgot to replace the batteries in Dustin’s face. This kind of emptiness can only be filled with heartache and struggle and I-don’t-know-what . . . the enormity of things. The shit-stink of life. And neither enormity nor shit-stink can be found in a pancake breakfast. Pain is what matters. Not fast cars or big words or fabulous stories in exotic settings. And certainly not some French-toasted-sunrise-sensei-servant-motherfucker.

  I guess what I’m saying is, I’ve learned to accept my pain as a friend, whatever form it takes. Because I know it’s the only thing between me and the most pitiful of all species—the Generics.

  One last thing about being half blind, because I’m starting to get on my own nerves about the whole mess: I’ve never told anyone.

  Signing off,

  Mary Iris Malone,

  the Cycloptic Wonder

  ARLENE, WITH HER wooden box and assorted bouquet of early-bird aromas, and I, with my thoughts bent on the motivations of evil stepmothers, sit by the side of I-55, watching the Greyhound shake. (Carl, after a hasty pull-over, directed us off the bus, then waded shin-deep into what must be a week’s worth of sewage.)

  I stick my journal in my backpack and dare a glance around. My fellow passengers aren’t staring daggers at me, they’re staring scimitars: a trendy family of four in matching polos; a painfully ugly blonde, standing at least six-six; two Japanese men in heated argument; Jabba the Gut, his face in a starry sci-fi; the juvenile Brits; a little kid who looks like a Tolkien character; Poncho Man; and dozens of others, jabbering on cell phones, murmuring under their breath, each of them pissed at me for interrupting their super-important journey to Wherever.