“Let me out!” I kicked the door this time, which was an enormous mistake. Moving my leg so forcefully caused me to be ill on the spot. I was horrified by the mess I left.
After hours she finally relented. The lock gave, and seconds after pushing the door forward Mom caught sight of me and retched in the hallway.
I bolted for the toilet. Wept hysterically as my insides exploded and I sat facing my own reflection in the door mirror. Naked. Covered in shit. Vomit crusting my greasy hair. So thin even the cheerleaders at school would have commented on my appearance.
I could feel the wallpaper bound up, undigested, in my intestines. A giant ball, the paper fiber cemented by old paste. A desperate attempt at a meal that even Tippy refused to eat after her first taste.
Mom walked in, gagged, put pajamas on the sink. I understood this to be her peace offering of sorts. Later she filled the basin with magazines, towels, a thermos of soup.
My hunger was frantic, as frenzied as an addict without a fix in sight. The soup promised to satisfy my aching stomach, the smell of chicken overwhelming the noxious odors of the bathroom. I struggled to unscrew the lid from the thermos and almost cried with relief when it finally opened. Part of me wanted to cherish the soup, hide it somewhere, have it waiting in my room for the day my gut didn’t hurt so bad and I could enjoy it.
But I couldn’t help myself. I put the thermos against my dry lips, let the soup scald my throat as the delicious broth slid down, falling into the abyss that was once my healthy stomach.
Less than a minute later my feet were coated in noodles.
The violent thrust from my stomach made my ass explode as well. To my disgrace, Tippy stood in the doorway, watching me as I decorated the linoleum with several different liquids at once.
Slowly she got accustomed to the stench and eased her way into the room. Tippy didn’t even make eye contact with me, but hurried over to my toes and inhaled the chunks of chicken sticking to them.
“I get it now.” I nodded at my dog as she licked the broth off the bathroom floor.
“Get what?” Tippy stopped for a second and looked at me.
“You knew I’d get sick.”
“I told you I had a plan. I knew she’d let us out for a while.” She smiled, went back to chewing.
“Yeah. Good for you. I can’t eat at all.” My stomach rumbled and I almost hurled again.
“All the better for me,” Tippy said, not the slightest bit ashamed as she polished off my vomit. “At least you get a bath. Sometimes it’s hard staying in that room with you, you’re so nasty looking.”
“Thanks, Tip.”
“Thanks for the soup. This is delicious. Mom gave me some ham downstairs, too. I’ve been fantasizing about eating meat again. That mouse we caught didn’t do the trick.”
I was insanely jealous of Tippy’s new diet but couldn’t help recalling the day we had spotted the pest running along the floorboards in my room. She had nudged me out of my late-morning coma, looked askance at the tiny animal and gave me her hunter’s eye. My nod of approval was slight. Tippy leapt from our bed and was on the rodent in a flash, her teeth bearing into the mouse’s neck.
That was the most excitement I’d had in weeks. Tippy, full of energy. Her mesmerizing display of power.
She shook the field mouse until it was lifeless and jumped back up to offer it to me. After rummaging through my drawers I came up with some toenail scissors, and together we dissected the rodent. Cut the poor guy’s fur like we were stripping him of a suit and peeled it back from his body. A few months earlier, and Brandy and I would have squealed at such a thought. Funny how hunger made you immune to some things.
“I’m sure this would taste a lot better cooked.” I made my apologies to Tippy as I split the small bits of meat between us.
“This is better than silverfish any day of the week!” Tippy took the corpse and downed the remains in less than a minute.
Talking of our hunt sustained us for a week, and we constantly watched for another easy meal. Mom no longer routinely let us out. Tippy and I joked that our diet would at least be more consistent if Hitler were our parent.
“Well, get over being sick. You need to fill our water and come downstairs so you can eat.”
I thought of scrambled eggs, pancakes, slice after slice of bacon spread out on a plate. Orange juice. Tomatoes, green and fried like Brandy used to make. A beef roast simmered in the slow cooker from the time we left for school until dinner, the aroma an almost palpable treat.
A perfect memory of my sister rose and wouldn’t let go. Brandy in the garden, picking her tomatoes. Turning to face me, the sun strong behind her head, bouncing off her hair like a halo. Her dark eyes lit with joy. My older sister, trying to convince me that cornmeal mixed beautifully with her favorite vegetable and would make a perfect side dish for the ham steak she planned to cook.
“Oh, no. I can see them. Here come the water works,” Tippy moaned.
“Leave me alone.” I flapped my hand in front of her, tried to get her to leave the bathroom.
“What’s wrong now? Tummy still hurt?” She spoke in a softer tone.
“No. I was just thinking about Brandy. The old days.”
“Yeah, and they’re gone. You need to think about the here and now. I doubt Brandy’s lying around crying about you.”
“You don’t have to throw it in my face!”
“Yes, I do. Otherwise you’ll never see it. Now get cleaned up and come downstairs.” Tippy hurried out of the room. I could hear her nails clacking on the wood as she made her way to the kitchen.
I could barely stand. My legs wobbled, the walls swaying a bit as I clung to the sink for balance. I turned the corner out of the bathroom and almost fell when I saw my room.
The door was outlined in knobby white globs tied together and draped on the wooden frame. Garlic. I could smell it, even standing across the hall.
How had I not noticed it, living just on the other side of the door?
Mom had drawn on the walls as well. I stared at her creation, an amazingly detailed charcoal rendering of a farm house and a field of chickens. Half of the poultry had no heads. I couldn’t help myself and walked forward to touch her work. Outside of the house stood three children, also incomplete. Headless. Haunting the wall.
Her work must have taken hours. Days, even. Just the meticulous strokes used to form the feathers were daunting. I swayed, staring at her drawing. Never had I imagined that Mom had such talent, such an incredible flair. The chickens were everywhere. Now that my eyes were open I found them on every wall, crouched in corners, walking sideways along floorboards.
All of them watching me. Even the headless ones.
My sway became a swoon. I hadn’t the strength to endure the truth. Tippy and I had been starving, locked away for days at a time, sitting silent in our room while the snow danced outside. Waiting for Mom to let us out. To save us. To forgive our transgressions.
But she had been here all the time. Outside my door. On the backside of my wall. Sketching. Making a coop of the upstairs hall. Working diligently, quietly, not even speaking to me when she was so close. How nice it would have been for me to have her company, even her negativity. She could have opened my door and talked about her masterpiece. Let Tippy out to run around. Had me help her while she worked.
A slow, burning hatred ignited in me.
She had spent all of this time outside my door, while Tippy and I went hungry. While we snuck onto the roof to scoop up snow. While my carefully planned days of exercise and reading had dwindled to naps and the occasional bout of walking from wall to wall. Mom had never even said hello, let alone offered us a snack.
Tippy was right to have a plan.
I had been a fool not to develop one of my own.
Chapter 13
Joan
As I get older I realize there are parts of myself I have never truly known.
I’ve always been very reliant on others. People say that since I’m a singl
e mother and I’ve never really had a man around, I’m pretty independent.
Not so. I’ve spent the past fifteen years seeking my mother’s approval, praying for Alex to give me guidance. It’s been a pretty steady routine: go to work, come home energized and ready to conquer the laundry, step into the house and see you’re still there, endure the agony of a meal shared with you, go to my room where I can concentrate and discuss my day with my dead husband. Easy.
But without Brandy to keep my stage set, I’ve been free to bounce around through all the acts. Not that anyone is applauding, but it’s really opened my eyes. For instance, cooking. I’ve always hated standing in front of the stove. Measuring, timing, chopping things up. But recently it’s been necessary for me to pick up the slack and do it myself. What I’ve been missing! Call me Julia, I love the kitchen. I even bought a sifter the other day.
Last Sunday I skipped church and went to a movie. Ate two barrels of popcorn. Even enjoyed a game of pinball in the lobby before I drove home.
I’ve called in sick to work for the first time in five years, forgot to return my library books, and went home with some stupid redneck who bought me drinks down at the Huckleberry Inn. Yes, I was blinded a bit by the booze, but you’d think I’d have to be. I’ve not touched a man in over fifteen years. Let alone stayed at his house for three straight days, Jezebelling myself into oblivion.
And then there’s you.
God, to be rid of you. Even without looking at you, you ruin my good days. I can be whipping up a plate of brownies to share with the girls at work and then hear your footsteps overhead. An instant frown, the batter in the trash, a third glass of wine.
I don’t understand you. The last time I opened the door—after days of listening to you freaking out up there—your devil’s stench was so overwhelming I could feel it fire through my pores and try to attack my brain. You were a corpse with a little air in her lungs, floundering just to cross the hall and find the toilet.
And then I became someone I’m not. You always find my soft spots when you’re ill. I’m pretty certain that you manipulate me that way, see my weakness and make it your strength, slowly maneuver your way into my system. Poison me.
Mom didn’t answer. Alex wasn’t around. I listened to you hurling and could do little but wring my hands, pace my room, wait for a third-party intervention.
But when I saw the dog my heart melted. Poor Tippy. I had wondered where she was hiding, forgot she stayed with you in that horrible pigsty you call a room. She bolted when I opened the back door for her, but lost steam pretty quickly. Took her bathroom break and then petered out on the grass, her breathing labored.
I went outside to pick her up. The old girl couldn’t have weighed eight pounds, and I easily carried her into the kitchen. We shared some lunch meat while cuddling on the floor. After petting her ribs for what seemed like hours, I broke down and bawled. No animal should be treated this way. No dog should ever suffer like Tippy has.
“Mom.” You broke my silence hours later. Your voice was so hoarse it took me several minutes to interpret what you said.
“Yes?” I answered. I wanted to offer you a chair. Your wobbling made me uncomfortable.
“I’m so sorry for whatever I’ve done. I…can’t remember what I did to make you so angry with me. Please forgive me.”
Since Alex wouldn’t answer I looked to the dog for guidance. Her shoulder bones were evident, the skin sinking in around them. Tippy gave me a nod, understanding my dilemma. Her one good eye stared at me, unblinking.
“You can sleep in Brandy’s room.”
“Thank you. I love you, Mom.” Your smile was pinched, the sores caking your lips cracking open.
“Would you like some water?” I put on my best hostess routine and turned on the tap.
Tippy brushed against my legs, and I gave her some, too.
I wanted the dog to live.
Chapter 14
Lucy
I gained five pounds.
I watched myself in the mirror, the carcass, as I inflated. Tippy told me it was water weight; I didn’t care.
Once I was steadier Mom let me wash my room down. I stuffed Kleenex up my nose so I could work without getting sick again, put my bedding through the washer, mopped the walls. Mom had been so nice to me since my bad spell that I couldn’t help but sing while I worked.
“How can you be so happy?” Tippy asked. She rolled around on my bare mattress, her hair falling out in clumps.
“The door is open. What could be better than that?”
“Uhm…gee, I don’t know. Going to school? Knowing your sister is alive? How about being fourteen and NOT having to scrape your own crap off the closet door?” She barked for emphasis.
“Quiet down. You don’t want to ruin a good thing.”
“You call this a good thing? Really?”
“It’s the best thing I’ve got going. Unlike you.”
“And just what the Hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s just say that I don’t have hot dogs for breakfast. I get toast.”
We argued for most of the day. Tippy emphasized my ability to simply throw a dining room chair through the window and exit the house that way. I reminded her that I could barely walk from the kitchen to the bathroom, let alone the distance to the Hanley’s house.
“People do all sorts of things when their survival is threatened,” Tippy said while I smoothed over the naked patches on her coat. I didn’t want her to freak out over her own health and quietly gathered the wads of fur she had left on my bed. “Haven’t you ever heard about mothers who lift cars off their kids or people who cut off their own legs with a pocket knife to get out of a bad situation?”
“It’s so cold outside. How could I walk that far and not freeze to death?”
“Are you naked? Do you not have clothes in the house? Didn’t anyone teach you to layer?”
“I can’t do it, Tippy. I seriously don’t think I could even lift the chair.” I felt terribly ashamed of my weakness.
“Then you must have lost all desire to live. If I were a human I would have broken out of here months ago.”
“Fine. I’m a horrible person. But if you are so concerned about escaping, why don’t you just run off when she lets you out to pee? You could also go to the neighbors.”
“My name is not Lassie. And she’s not trying to kill me. Why would I need to run off?” Tippy jumped off my lap and stood at my feet, her back to me.
“Because dogs save people’s lives. Besides, she’s not really trying to kill me.”
“No? Then what is she doing?”
“I quit the swim team without telling her, remember? She’s punishing me.” I shrugged my shoulders as Tippy turned to face me.
“Sweetie, you are my best friend, but sometimes you’re just too stupid for your own good. What is a suitable punishment for your swim team offense? Being grounded a week? Okay, your mom is super strict, so maybe three weeks? Let’s review your situation. She beat you. Pulled you out of school. Locked you in the house, then in your room. For months. Deprived you of food, water, bathroom privileges. For months. ”
“I realize she’s gone off the deep end….”
“She’s been off the deep end for quite some time now,” Tippy interrupted.
“She hasn’t whupped me in a while,” I said, trying to be positive.
“Because she won’t open the door to your room. Would you please face up?”
“You know what? I’ll face up to the fact that I’m tired of you and all your negativity. Why don’t you go lay on HER bed for a while?” I stood up and tried not to gasp for breath as I pushed Tippy out the door with my feet.
I shut the door myself, from the inside. Listened as her nails clacked on the wood going down the hallway. Lay against the door, exhausted.
I was asleep before I fell across my unmade bed.
When I woke the room was pitch black and fear sped through my veins, directly into my heart. I could feel it throb f
rom toe to temple, a drum cadence to the only word my mind was screaming.
Locked! Locked! Locked! Locked!
My legs were noodles, my arms concrete. If Tippy had been with me I would have forced myself to stand so as not to disappoint her. But alone I was nothing. Alone the darkness consumed me, revealed the truth of Tippy’s words.
Hours later I finally stood. Conquered my terror. Walked to the door.
It opened, with ease.
My friend was waiting for me on the other side.
We tiptoed down to Brandy’s room and curled up in her bed.
“I’m sorry,” Tippy said as she put her head under my chin, her back to my neck. “I forget how young you are sometimes.”
“I missed you. Don’t ever leave me.” I kissed the top of her head and we both relaxed enough to fall back to sleep.
Chapter 15
Joan
1836.
Arkansas became a state. The Battle of the Alamo cemented itself in American lore. Samuel Colt developed the revolver.
And your cousin, at least eight times removed, devastated her Mexican village by poisoning the water supply.
Maria wasn’t yet seventeen, was pregnant with her first child and married to a man her father had arranged for her to serve. As a girl, Maria had been well behaved. Her mother and sisters cherished her laughter, the dark features that made her a local beauty. Within a year of marriage, Maria grew harsh looking, the beatings she endured causing her face such visible damage that the same people who had once been so drawn to her now looked away each time she neared.
But of course she didn’t complain. Maria was raised well. She simply survived.
Her husband, Eduardo, had accused Maria of cheating. Again. His repeated kicks to her belly sent Maria into an early labor, during which she lost her baby. This resulted in more violence. The rumor mill went into over drive after Eduardo dragged his wife through the main artery of their village, his filthy fingers like a vise around her hair, pulling her whether she was standing or not. He only took breaks to put his fist in her face. On one occasion it was said that he displayed her to the men in the tavern, let them take turns humiliating her as men are wont to do.
The Eye Unseen Page 9
