A Long Time Gone

by Karen White

  She slapped me so hard I was almost knocked into next week. I’ve never been hit by anybody my whole life, and it’s not something I’d want to experience again. And not even because it hurt my cheek so much. It hurt my heart even more, made me almost sick enough to want to throw up.

  I thought Bootsie might faint, because she’d lost all the color in her face, like she’d been the one who’d been hit, and it took Mathilda to calm us both down. I slammed my door and sat on my bed for a long time before Mathilda came in to make sure I was all right and brought me a little plate of supper. She put her arm around me and let me cry, the whole while repeating over and over that I just needed to give it time.

  But I know there’s not enough time left in this universe that will let me forget that my mother has never loved me enough.

  Chapter 13

  Vivien Walker Moise

  INDIAN MOUND, MISSISSIPPI

  APRIL 2013

  I awoke the following morning with the sure knowledge that I wasn’t alone. My face was once again flooded with sunlight from the uncovered window, and I was aware of a definite pressure on the mattress near my knee and warm breath on my cheek. I opened my eyes to find Chloe’s black-rimmed ones staring into mine only about two inches from my face.

  “Are you awake?” she asked.

  She lifted her head enough so I could slide up against the headboard, still blinking to clear my head. She smirked, then pointed her camera phone at me and clicked. “What are you wearing?”

  I looked down, vaguely remembering that I hadn’t unpacked yet and I’d just pulled something from one of my dresser drawers. “It’s called baby-doll pajamas. I think I wore these in junior high.”

  “It’s like something Lady Gaga would wear to twerk in.” She raised her phone again but I grabbed it.

  “Take another picture of me and you lose the phone.”

  With a heavy sigh she lowered it. “Are you going to stay in bed all day?”

  I stared at the blurry numbers on my bedside clock. “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost noon.”

  I jerked myself out of the bed, feeling dizzy from the sudden movement. “Did your dad call?”

  She shrugged. “How do I know? I’m not the one trying to reach him.”

  I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and checked it for voice mail. There were no messages, so I checked my texts and e-mails, too. Nothing. I’d already left Mark three voice mails. Either he was ignoring me, or he didn’t have a signal in whatever side of the world he was in.

  I scrubbed my hands over my face, needing desperately to wake up so I could say the right thing to Chloe. “I’m happy you’re here; I am. I’ve missed you. But I also don’t want to get into any serious trouble.” I stopped there, unsure of how much she knew about our acrimonious divorce.

  “You’re talking about the restraining order, aren’t you?”

  I tossed the phone onto the bed, wondering why I even bothered to filter any information from a twelve-year-old. She’d already told me she’d hacked into her father’s computer and Expedia account, so nothing should be a surprise. But it was.

  “Yeah. I could go to jail if I don’t get this straightened out with your father. But I promise I will try really hard to convince him that you’re okay with me, and that you’re welcome to stay.” I tried to smile. “And that I won’t give you any fried food.”

  With a heavy sigh, Chloe slid from the edge of my bed, then with a desultory stride walked over to the bookshelf that contained all of my childhood books. Like the wallpaper, the shelves had remained unchanged in my absence. The books had been my escape from an older brother who loved to put tree frogs down my shirt and cicadas in my hair, and from the constant reminder of the empty place at the dining table. Bootsie always set out a plate and tableware for my mother, as if she’d expected her return at any moment.

  My gaze strayed to the bottle on the nightstand, wondering if I could take a pill without Chloe noticing.

  “I’m not missing any school, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s spring break.”

  That had been the least of my worries. Harboring a fugitive child had pretty much topped that list, with going to jail for ignoring a restraining order right underneath it. “Well, that’s good.”

  She sat cross-legged in front of the bookshelf and plucked out a book with a black-varnished fingernail. She wore her usual black T-shirt and black jeans, but her feet were bare. Even though her toes sported matching black polish, her feet were still soft and round like a child’s, making me somehow grateful.

  “Why does this book have so many bookmarks sticking out of it?” She held it up for me to see.

  I recognized the cover and smiled. Time at the Top. “Because it’s my favorite book of all time. I read it for the first time in sixth grade and then about a hundred times since. I got it at a used-book library sale and it was out of print at the time, so I didn’t want to mark it up with a highlighter. I used the bookmarks at my favorite spots so I could go back and reread them.”

  “Sounds pretty boring to me. But I guess back when dinosaurs roamed the earth there wasn’t anything else to do.”

  I rubbed my hands hard over my face again, desperate to be shaken awake. “I’m only twenty-seven, Chloe. We had computers when I was growing up, and the Internet and cell phones. We had indoor plumbing and electricity when I was growing up, too. We just didn’t rely so much on all those gadgets for our entertainment, like a lot of people do today. I liked to read a lot, and to write.”

  She rolled her eyes, but I noticed she put the book next to her on the floor instead of reshelving it. Turning to the shelves, she focused on the sets of books with matching dog-eared spines, lined up like fence pickets.

  “Those are my favorite series—sort of like Nancy Drew books.”

  “Who?”

  I stared at her back. I knew she’d never been a big reader, but I thought the name Nancy Drew was ingrained in the brains of all young girls. “They’re mystery books for girls. See the ones on the left? Those are the Penny Parker mystery stories. I liked those because the main character is a reporter who solves mysteries—kind of like Nancy Drew. Next to those should be the Beverly Gray mystery stories. Those were Bootsie’s books that she’d had as a girl, and she gave them to me.” I smiled to myself, nostalgic about the Saturday afternoons spent reading under the cypress tree or in Bootsie’s garden while she worked.

  “You’re welcome to read any of them if you promise to be very careful.” I was about to mention my favorite reading spot under the old cypress but caught myself in time.

  “As if.”

  I didn’t say anything as she removed two more books from the shelf and placed them on top of the first one she’d set on the floor.

  She plucked a trophy from the shelf and examined it closely, seeing the cotton boll in flaking fake gold sitting on the top of the long white plastic column like an ice-cream cone. “What’s this?”

  I considered for a moment not telling her, but knew holding anything back from her was pointless. “It’s my Little Miss Cotton Boll trophy. I won the crown in 2000, when I was fourteen.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Like a beauty pageant?”

  “Yeah. And I had to twirl a baton, too.”

  Chloe stared at the cheap trophy for a long moment, her face impassive, and I wished I’d thrown out all of those stupid reminders of someone I’d once been but wasn’t too proud of.

  “Were you really pretty when you were my age?”

  I measured my words carefully, knowing her father and his quest for perfection that Chloe could never live up to. “I was probably more cute than pretty—but only after I turned thirteen. But I sure could twirl a baton. Can’t say winning that trophy made much difference in my life, though. That’s a weekend in my life I’ll never get back.” I smiled, but she wasn’t looking at
me.

  She shoved the trophy back on the shelf. “That’s so lame.”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  “Did you keep a diary?” Her voice sounded almost hopeful.

  I shook my head. “No. It wasn’t my thing, really.” I couldn’t tell her that the only reason I didn’t was because my mother had kept a diary as a girl. I’d never seen it after she came back, and I figured she’d left it behind, like she did with everything else she didn’t want.

  Chloe started scanning my room again, scrutinizing the drooping wallpaper, the various awards and trophies. With her back turned, I reached for the bottle and shook out a pill into my palm.

  “What’s in here?” She held up the box of watch and clock parts that Tommy had found tucked in the attic of his workshop.

  “Leftovers. My grandmother’s cousin Emmett used to have a clock and watch repair shop. Those are all the extra pieces he never wanted to get rid of. Tommy wants me to sort through them. You can help me if you like.”

  “Right. Sounds almost as much fun as reading a book.”

  I rolled the pill around inside my fist as I watched her replace the box on the shelf.

  “Your mom keeps calling me JoEllen.”

  My hand dropped to my side, my fist clenched over the pill. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. It was her best friend in high school. She married a man from Pascagoula who she’d met in college, and moved there. She’d come visit sometimes with her two boys when my mom was home.” I smiled at the memory. “JoEllen was always telling me how much she’d always wanted a girl, and I would ask her to take me with her. It always upset Carol Lynne. I think that’s why I did it.”

  Chloe stared at me in silence with the same concentration she’d given the wallpaper and my trophies, and I wished I’d held back that last part.

  “Well, my name’s Chloe, not JoEllen.”

  I stood and moved to my suitcase on the floor and began rooting through it for a pair of jeans and clean underclothes, wishing I knew what to tell her about why my mother couldn’t remember her name. Should we correct her? Wear name tags with the day and year written on them? I was unprepared for this—unprepared for pretty much everything that had been waiting for me upon my arrival back home. But to see my mother again, without the benefit of her remembering our shared history, was like showing up for a party at the wrong house on the wrong date. My anger and hurt were my own now, a loose thread on the hem of my life, and I had no idea how to knot it or cut it off.

  “I’m sorry, Chloe. She’s not herself anymore. I guess we just need to learn to be patient.”

  I thought she would argue, but she didn’t, making me feel like the child. Instead she said, “Where’s Carol Lynne going today?”

  I straightened, clutching a pair of clean jeans. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s downstairs by the front door sitting on two suitcases. I asked her where she was going and she just said, ‘Away.’ And she keeps asking me for a cigarette.”

  I dropped the clothes I’d already gathered back into my suitcase, then headed for the door, shoving the pill into my mouth when I knew Chloe couldn’t see.

  I stopped near the bottom of the staircase, right near the old watermark, and stared at my mother. Her hair was in braids again, circa 1966, and she wore bell-bottom jeans and the same floral top I’d seen her in before. Her long fingers plucked at the denim covering her thighs, something I’d seen her do whenever she’d decided to go cold turkey and give up her cigarettes. Her feet were clad in the house slippers, and she sat on top of an ancient mustard yellow American Tourister hardcover suitcase. I hated those suitcases, hated seeing them in the foyer, because it always meant that my mother was leaving. Or coming back.

  “Where are you going?” I asked carefully, praying that the pill would work a little faster on an empty stomach.

  She looked up, surprised to see me. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “It’s Saturday,” I said quickly, not even sure myself what day of the week it was.

  She frowned as she took in the pajamas. “I think those are too small for you, Vivien. You’re growing like a weed. I suppose we’ll need to make a shopping trip to Hamlin’s and find you something that fits.”

  I took another step down, wishing I’d remembered to ask Tommy what the appropriate responses would be, and praying that Cora Smith would walk through the door any minute.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I said as Chloe moved down the staircase beside me.

  My mother stood and walked toward us, her gaze focused on Chloe. I gritted my teeth, remembering what Tommy had said about our mother no longer having filters.

  She reached up and tucked Chloe’s hair behind one ear and then the other, and I watched in shock as Chloe let her. She was so prickly about her looks; any suggestions or comments I might have had for her always ended up with screaming and slamming doors. I suppose that’s what happens when one’s plastic surgeon father can only see you as a project to fix.

  Carol Lynne touched Chloe’s cheek. “You have the most beautiful skin, and I think the bluest eyes I have ever seen. I wish I could see them, but it’s hard to with your hair in your face and all that eyeliner.” She reached for one of her own braids and pulled off the rubber band that held it in place. “I’m real good at doing French braids. Come sit down and let me play with your hair.”

  Without waiting for a response, she took Chloe’s hand and led her to one of the Chippendale chairs that sat on either side of the demilune hall table. With a backward glance at me, Chloe went with her without comment and sat in the chair that Carol Lynne had moved from the wall.

  I sat down on the steps, mesmerized by how quickly my mother’s fingers worked through Chloe’s hair, moving the strands in and out with deftness and precision. It was odd to see, to know that she couldn’t remember Chloe’s name or that I wasn’t in high school anymore, but she could remember how to French-braid hair. When I was a little girl, she’d braided my hair as we sat at the dressing table in her room staring into the same mirror. My mother would lean over me, letting her hair fall over my face as if it were my own, and we’d delight in how identical the color was, and how we couldn’t tell where my hair stopped and hers began.

  I looked away, happy to feel the fog of the pill begin to slip into my memories and soften their sharp edges.

  The sound of a key in the front lock brought my attention to the door as Cora Smith let herself in, pausing for a moment to take in the suitcases, me on the steps wearing ill-fitting pajamas, and my mother braiding Chloe’s hair on the antique chair in the foyer.

  “Good afternoon,” she said cheerily.

  My mother glanced at her before returning to her work. “Hello, Mathilda.” Her fingers paused. “Is it time to eat? I think I’m hungry.”

  Cora glanced at me, as if to say that she didn’t mind the mistaken identity, and moved to stand next to my mother. “Let’s go on back to the kitchen and find something for you to eat.”

  Her fingers slid from Chloe’s hair as she allowed herself to be led back to the kitchen. Without thinking, I moved in behind the chair and picked up the braiding right where my mother had left off. I recalled which strands to hold back and which to tuck over and under, just as much as I remembered what it felt like for my mother to stand so close to me and touch my hair no matter how much I didn’t want to.

  When I was finished, I took the rubber band Chloe had been holding and wound it tightly around the end of the braid. I moved in front of her to see and smiled. Despite the fact that she still held a lot of her baby fat in her cheeks, pulling her hair away from her face made her newly emerging cheekbones more prominent. And now that she didn’t have her long, lank strands hanging in her face, I could see her dark blue eyes that I’d hardly seen since she was a little girl. “You look very pretty, Chloe.”

  She
narrowed her eyes suspiciously before jumping out of her chair to peer into the mirror over the table. She examined herself for a long moment, turning her head from side to side before leaning forward and blinking as if to make sure it really was her in the reflection.

  “Do you like it?” I asked with hesitation, never knowing what sort of response I might get.

  “It doesn’t suck.”

  Emboldened by her not completely negative response, I pressed on. “Do you want me to get some eye makeup remover and see what you look like without the eyeliner?”

  She turned on me with a scowl and I braced myself. I must have closed my eyes, because Tripp’s voice took me completely by surprise.

  “My, my. What a vision of loveliness. Your hair looks real pretty, Chloe. I only had a little inkling of how pretty you were before, but now I can see I was right.”

  I watched as Chloe froze, whatever she’d been about to say shrunk back into her throat.

  Tripp looked at her expectantly.

  “Thank you?” she said.

  His expression didn’t change.

  “Thank you, sir?”

  “Much better.” He turned toward me and his gaze meandered down to my toes, then back to my face. If it hadn’t been Tripp—who’d seen me wearing much less in my beauty pageant days and at the pool in my smallest bikini trying to get a tan—I might have been more self-conscious. Still, something flickered behind his eyes that made me wish I had a long jacket to throw over me.

  “What are you wearing, Vivi?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “An old pair of pajamas. Don’t worry; I’m not planning on wearing them outside of the house. And I wasn’t expecting company.” I stared pointedly at him.

  “I came in through the kitchen. Was hoping to snag one of Cora’s lemon bars.” He took a step toward me, looking closely at my eyes. Quietly he said, “You okay, Vivi?”

  “I am now,” I said just as quietly.