Living on the Borderlines

by Melissa Michal

  Gabriella put her mug down again. The chamomile tea tasted too bitter. “My teachers and parents pushed me to be a better person, a good student.”

  “There were too many of us to make it all work in that trailer.”

  “We had a dog, Spots, when I was little,” Gabriella said. “His chocolate-colored coat had one cream spot on the back. Don’t ask me why his name was Spots and not Spot.”

  “We never had pets. Too much else to do. That’s lucky.”

  Gabriella nodded. “I was lucky.”

  “She didn’t let go easily.”

  “They loved me.”

  Both women dipped their tea bags in and out and then placed them on the plates Gabriella had set out.

  Mia sipped her tea. Gabriella continued to blow on the water.

  “Well, now you’re here.” Mia peered straight into Gabriella’s eyes.

  Gabriella stood up. “I think I’ll go get some sleep.” She didn’t wait for Mia’s response.

  “That’s Mom’s room,” Mia called after her. “You’re sleeping in her room.”

  Gabriella’s back stiffened.

  In her bedroom, she sat on the quilt, running her fingers over the yellow sun shapes, and watched the moon cast yellow drifts of light along the yard and hills. Days grew less and less light filled. The voice whispered that night again. It traveled the room, becoming louder, then softer. Gabriella did not get up. As much as she tried, she could not decipher the words. She pulled up the covers and shimmied down under them, settling the layers to her chin. The humming began and lulled her to sleep again.

  Gabriella rolled her suitcase out into the kitchen. It thump-thumped over the ridges in the floor.

  Mia had breakfast waiting: toast, hash, and eggs. She placed some of everything on a plate and set it out on the table.

  “I’m not hungry,” Gabriella said.

  Mia picked the plate up and dumped its contents, returning them to pans. “You can always come back,” she said.

  Out the kitchen window, Gabriella could see the hills becoming pink in the early light.

  “The light, it somehow filters out the harsh colors when it touches those hills,” said Mia.

  They walked to the front door together.

  Gabriella turned to leave. She touched the doorknob, lightly, but enough to push open the door.

  “Hang on.”

  Gabriella waited.

  “Here.” Mia handed her a square box. “She wrote you letters.”

  Gabriella took the box. It was heavier than she might have presumed.

  “You know, she gave you that name,” said Mia. “Mom wanted you to have a good American name. To fit in.”

  Gabriella did not look back at her sister.

  “It means strength.” Mia’s voice broke on the last syllable. “Well, really, ‘God is my strength.’ Also American. But she wanted you to have strength, and so she gave you that strength.”

  The words entered Gabriella’s ears. She took them in, but her feet carried her out of the house, down the steps, and to her car. She couldn’t look at Mia. She just couldn’t. Her body shivered, a reaction probably to the chill in the air. Leaves crunched under her feet. Fall was moving on. Blankets of snow crystals would soon cover the sidewalks and the grass and each tree branch.

  She put the car in reverse and swerved around to face the driveway’s edge. Her hand on the gear shift, she worked it over to drive and let her foot off the brake and hit the gas. She switched her eyes from the road to the rearview mirror. The house and the driveway and the large oaks in the front yard slid away from view, each one inching out of her mirror much like the end of a movie panning the camera out.

  Then it was the road. Nothing but gray concrete and receding trees. She steered her car around a large curve, holding tight to the wheel and pushing down on the brakes. Rolling hills opened in front of her, dominating the landscape, and dipping her car in its changes.

  Towpath Lines

  Nebraska cold snaps against Carley’s face as she steps out the door. The wind shifts and works its way over her body and through her hair. She pulls the door shut with the required yank and bang. Frigid air sucks in the noise and dissolves sound. When Carley turns around, dry brown grass lies like a worn carpet. Snow doesn’t stay for long in the small city, although slices of ice and white drifts dot the hills and flats.

  From behind the gray, the sun moves in front of the clouds and momentarily calms the wind. Carley rushes down the stairs to the parking lot. With each footfall, warmth spreads up her legs and she acclimates to the cold. She inches her hat further down over her ears. Today she walks left toward the bike path. Stretching her legs out as far as they will go, she climbs the hill to the pathway.

  When squinting becomes the only method of seeing, Carley takes sunglasses out of her pocket. The round brown lenses make her look a bit Hollywood. Not that she wants to be Anne Hathaway or Kate Hudson. Not at all. But the glasses match her choppy haircut. And she loves how her long brown hair swings over her back and glistens in the light.

  The half-orange ball in the sky heats up her wool-wrapped scalp—resulting in one extraordinarily warm body part, and chills tugging the rest of her body. She picks up speed and creates more leg tension, mostly to forget her single status. The burn means no cottage-cheese thighs. Her frame stands an average silhouette that follows behind while she strides past each yellow dotted line.

  This path runs parallel to her apartment. It cuts through Lincoln’s center, but continues far enough away from downtown to be green (at least in the summer) and lined with trees. The light dims in and out as Carley passes the trees and two-story houses. Even though it’s winter and some trees stand bare, others still hold leaves in red and brown that cling to the spidery branches. She always thinks it funny that each house is surrounded by some kind of fence, either wood, green metal, or chain-link gray. She hasn’t heard of robberies or property damage, unless a storm blows. Back east, fences usually line the larger, upscale properties or maybe a backyard if too close to neighbors. She doesn’t always understand Nebraskans.

  The path winds around a corner, clear and ice free. These bare areas appear weeks after sun’s rays, which still never rid the air of breathtaking cold. People here walk these paths no matter the season, though. It may look like fall, but the bitter hurt cursing her throat speaks differently.

  Fresh out of college, she gets a job offer at a hospital as a pediatric nurse. Night shifts. Great job, but she often wonders why the first offer has to be in the Midwest. She doesn’t want to wait for openings.

  “Mom, I need the job,” she says before leaving.

  “It’s so far away … and so different.”

  “It will be okay.” She touches her mom’s arm. “Maybe there will be some kind of adventure to it.” This is her first time living on her own.

  “But your community is here.”

  That’s partially why she moves. She wants something different from the smallness she feels in Rochester—like the city closes in on her because she knows the area so well. And everyone in her community knows her. Knows the hand-me-down ribbon shirts that are always too big. Knows the time she throws up all over the table during a feast.

  Nebraskans being different is purely perspective. People are people. They are nice enough. Although the first time she sees the popular Huskers football shirt—“I SEE RED PEOPLE” in all caps—she balks. Indians? Turns out that “red people” are the red shirts on Saturdays. Crowds and crowds walk toward the stadium like a sea. But still. A large difference between Nebraska and Rochester is the weather, which this time of year creeps into her bones and they ache sometimes. At least it isn’t tornado season. That scared the bejesus out of her in August. All those low-hanging clouds you can almost touch. She realizes then that if one came, she has nowhere to go that’s a safe haven.

  A girl with a large faux fur–lined hood nods at Carley. Carley smiles back. She notes her half-zipped black jacket, shoulder bag, and creamy skin that gl
ows with youth. The girl, a young teen and probably barely leaving school.

  Two bikers call out, “On the left.” Their pants shimmer blue and hug their lines. Carley picks up her pace. Young male joggers run toward her with short sleeves and red cheeks. Heavy inhalations reveal their struggles breathing. The one nearest her turn up a dimpled smile. She catches his eye and returns a slow, deliberate smile.

  “Hello,” he says.

  “Hi,” she says.

  He passes by, without a look back.

  With school getting out, the rush to vacate anything school related quickens with the more teenage paces. A group of girls enter the pathway from the football field. They seem in their own world, their own time. Sometimes their gait slows, and they lean their heads in toward each other as if the secrets need to be kept alive with chatter.

  In high school, Carley likes a lot of activities and has a few close friends. It’s with those close friends that she remembers arching her head in the same way as these girls, laughing with the same pitch of giggle.

  Raina calls her last week. Her one high school friend she still talks to. They talk often, but haven’t seen each other since Carley moved there.

  “We miss you here,” says Raina. The “we” includes her husband, Shawn, a man Carley adores for Raina.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Come home soon.”

  After hanging up, she stands there staring at the glowing screen. When she finally lowers the phone to the coffee table, she notices the large darkening sky spreading out from her window to more horizon beyond. The apartment spreads out large and empty. This is home now. Making her own way. She wants it this way. But there’s no “Raina” here yet.

  Two tall, lanky boys stroll out of the trees and cross in front of her, her mental wanders disappearing. They keep their heads down and snicker. She can’t tell if that’s meant for her, or if they, too, hold private jokes.

  Most people she sees on the path are what she calls “winged walkers.” They speed walk with arms out flapping along with the beat of their sneakers. Calorie burn or not, Carley thinks it a ridiculous look. Today is no different. Two pass her all too quickly, one in neon purple, the other in gray.

  Her knees grow tired, and needlelike points spike up and down them. The early signs of her family’s osteoarthritis. Her doctor has told Carley that building muscle will help. Carley continues on. Pain doesn’t stop her.

  Her mother is on her second surgery this year. Deteriorated muscles from the arthritis has broken down her ligaments to almost nothing. Carley flies back, taking a few weeks off. Her mother doesn’t stay down long. A spunky woman.

  “It’s just the knee, Carley,” she says. She pushes her daughter away playfully. “I can pick up my own room. It’s been you and me for so long.” She touches Carley’s face.

  “Mom, you only got out two weeks ago.”

  “Those were some good physical therapy sessions.”

  “Was he cute?”

  Her mother blushes. “Too young for me. But it helped.” She laughs.

  Carley watches her mother make her bed.

  “Take me to the social tonight, Carley.”

  “Mom, are you ready for that?”

  “We go when we can. Right?”

  “Yeah. We do.” Carley crosses her arms. “I’ll be back for the holidays, you know.”

  “I know.” Her mother holds Carley’s arm. “It was good to see you. And I love when you come home. I do believe you should be here. But … sometimes, they fly the nest.” She pats her. “These feet need to dance, girl.”

  She dances for her mom that night, while her mom taps her feet.

  Afternoon turns into early evening in minutes with shifts of cloud and a denseness in trees lining the way. Cold drifts under Carley’s parka. She shoves her gloved hands deeper into her pockets. The stupid lining that protects from below-freezing weather doesn’t do a thing for her numbing fingertips.

  The thought occurs to her to turn back. But she has only been gone twenty minutes. She wants to walk an hour today. It’s pointless to brave the cold for anything less. Carley’s shivering causes her to stop and adjust her scarf and hat and draw up her hood. It was then that her head jerks up like a puppeteer tugging it on a string.

  No one moves ahead of her. The path lies empty except for drifting leaves. Noises filter down from above. A squirrel sits on a branch trring at her. She has invaded his home. She laughs. That has to be it. What weird sounds. This squirrel’s noises come from deep in the belly and vibrate along his brown fur. The tail arches with each guttural chirp.

  “All right, I’ll move,” she says. She tries to stare into his eyes, but he peers over her head.

  Carley’s hair tingles along her arms. A shadow of birds in a misaligned V flies over and beyond her. None of them make a sound. The air smells of Bubble Yum. Watermelon.

  The first blow hits her shoulder, knocking her to the trail. Yellow dotted paint fills her sight. Hands pull her arms back, straining her muscles to points she doesn’t realize she has. Raw searing spreads an ill feeling through her stomach, throat, and head. Carley tries to kick, but a boot pushes into her back. The lines and bottom indentations of the boot imprint her skin.

  She screams.

  Fingers invade her mouth and grip her teeth. Her head arches back, too far. And then, the body bounces once to smack her face into the cement. Heat pervades her body. Metallic fills her nose and mouth. No voice escapes her. Fists beat into her back. Through eyes wet with tears, the skinny trees look like round stakes with small arms placed haphazardly. They don’t sway or bend. The wind stops. She catches one glance from the side of the seemingly large body holding her. A big hood envelopes hair, and a bulky coat the body—one body.

  Carley covers her face, elbows out like the wing walkers. With each hit, she fades further. She does this by choice. She wants her attacker to think she has passed out, or worse. Maybe playing dead like the dogs showing off tricks along the trail will really work. Some deep part of her wants to truly be dead, or almost dead. Sounds disappear. And except for the vibrations of the blows, consciousness also leaves her body. Make it stop. Blurred images float around her. Or more like she floats and doesn’t see anything, doesn’t want to see anything, simply floats.

  When the fists cease their punches, hot breath runs across Carley’s face. Her attacker spits on her. The warm liquid stays on her forehead. A bristle brushes on her cheek, not from dripping wet, but from something soft.

  Carley hears the boots clomp away. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter and remains still. In that stillness, her frozen mind thaws and allows her to feel the throbbing radiating throughout her shaking form, up, then down. But that’s all that makes it through.

  For moments of time she cannot place, Carley lies on the ground. Increasing pain is over. But the event isn’t. It replays across the receptors behind her closed eyelids. She relives different variations, which she tries to simultaneously stop.

  She hears voices in the distance. Their timbres make her shift and roll, facing the trees. Above her, the call of the squirrel sound quieter this time, less deep. Carley pushes herself up. Shards of sunglasses fall from her parka. She dry-heaves multiple times. The pit in her chest hardens with a pain like a bad hiccup, only intense and powerful. She forces her nausea down with her thoughts and stands. Bitter vomit rises up, yet somehow stays down. Carley’s will.

  Carley checks her pockets. Her keys and ID are still there—the shattered glasses the only thing gone. Images in front of her throw lights and colors around her eyes, but she can’t make out shapes or actual objects. She squints. The light hurts her eyes, so the gray concrete below her becomes her clarity.

  A limp in her right leg slows her. She pulls her hat down close to her eyes and holds her hood down over her face. When the hood steadies, she hugs her stomach. The move causes her to gag. Carley can’t look at anyone. Only laughter or footfall reveal people on the path. No one stops to ask questions. Maybe they don’t
notice the blood gushing from her face and left hand, or the torn clothes. Or maybe they assume she’s some homeless person. How could the regulars not see me?

  She doesn’t understand.

  Why would someone single her out for this? But that thought proves too much along with walking.

  With her head down, she concentrates on her sneakers. Pink blurs into gray until she hits a path of cement with green markings. She stops long enough to see “Scttr or DIE” in curving spray paint.

  Carley’s eyes fog over and refocus on the path under her feet.

  She tries to push the moment out of her mind, but remembers feminine features, a small nose, and high cheek bones. And then she realizes, faux fur, faux fur feels soft, like the attacker’s hood.

  Carley pushes everything in her mind back.

  She limps home, head down, her average-framed shadow following her. The thought of any more walks numbs her brain. With the slam and shove of Carley’s apartment door, she falls to the floor, lying on the chilly tiles, sobbing.

  Crowding the Dark Spaces

  The black of the cave flowed into the lightless unknown. The space around it seemed bare of anything but rock and clouds along the skyline. Green had almost disappeared where the pines stopped growing, but scraggy leaves and bushes pushed through thin cracks.

  They each clicked the fasteners on their backpacks. The four boys looked serious, as if they were planning a drum session for powwow. Their heads cocked together, their fingers followed the map in her cousin’s hands.

  They understood those lines better than the words of the powwow song.

  He had talked her into letting the others come. Most of the time, she could refuse their involvement. This time, her cousin didn’t listen. They volunteered, no, more like forced their way on the trip. They liked the adventure of things off rez, but that was about it.

  Her cousin insisted on figuring the whole thing out—where to go, what gear to take, anticipation of the cave’s extremes. But she already knew all that he’d mapped out. She could feel the lines, no map necessary.