Before, After, and Somebody In Between

by Jeannine Garsee

  “I already did that,” she says with her mouth full.

  “I mean for Great Lakes.”

  The donut stops in midair. “I thought we settled all that.”

  “Zelda said—”

  “I don’t care what Zelda said. I said you could take lessons, and you’re doing that, right? What more do you want?”

  “God! I want to go to that school, Momma. That’s what I want!”

  She bangs down a fist, squirting chocolate across the table. “Jesus H. Christ, I am so sick of hearin’ about that school.”

  “And I’m sick of you screwing up my life!” I scream back.

  “Oh yeah? Well, living with you ain’t exactly a piece of cake, missy.”

  “Ha! Then maybe you’d like it better if I dropped over dead.”

  “Oh, don’t go startin’ that psycho crap on me. You wanna die so bad? Stop whining and go do it.” Wham! Out she slams.

  Grabbing the donuts, I throw them on the floor and then jump on the box and kick it across the room. Forks and knives and spoons fly through the air as I jerk the silverware drawer out of the cabinet. Pawing though the mess, I search and search, but the most lethal thing I come up with is a rusty potato peeler. I even go so far as to poke it at my wrist, but I’m too much of a wimp to even nick my skin.

  I fling it at the wall and sink to the floor, wishing I had the nerve to do something so horrible it’ll haunt her forever, for the rest of her life. But then I think about my cello and how Momma’ll sell it on eBay, or maybe trade it for drugs if I drop over dead, and I know for a fact: I will never let her do it.

  …

  When Momma’s not back by chow time, I refuse to worry. I help myself to a beer, burrow into the couch, and skim through the few lousy channels we have. I do find a chopped-up version of Blue Hawaii but it hurts too much to look at Elvis’s sulky, gorgeous face. Damn Danny, anyway. He even ruined Elvis for me.

  Twilight Zone’s on, and a lady named Nan is driving her car cross-country. Somewhere along the line she gets into a crash, and from that moment on, everywhere she drives, this strange-looking hitchhiker pops up ahead of her. Problem is, only Nan can see him, and the more she runs into him, the more creeped out she gets.

  Well, it turns out Nan died in that accident and didn’t even know she was dead. But what’s truly bizarre is, after a few beers, I start to wonder if that’s what happened to me. Did the cops really blow me off the fire escape that night? Did I imagine everything that’s happened to me since?

  Maybe I never lived with the Brinkmans. Maybe I never met Danny at all. Maybe Bubby’s alive, Shavonne likes me, and Jerome is still my geeky best friend. Maybe my whole pathetic existence from the second I was born has been nothing but one endless Twilight Zone marathon.

  I hunker down on the couch, trying to put a name to this funny sensation. I know what I must look like, sprawled on the couch, chugging Momma’s beer, trying to analyze the whole point of my pointless life. And then when I think about Josh and what we did in the van, I’d like to rip every inch of skin off my face. What was I thinking? How could I do something that stupid?

  Easy. Because I was mad. Because I was sad.

  And because, like Momma, I just had to get high.

  The doorbell jangles, knocking the scary thoughts out of my head. I lurch to my feet and kick the empty cans under the couch. It might be Zelda. She’s way overdue for a visit.

  I open the door and nearly fall over from shock.

  “Hi, Gina.” Nikki’s hair is now chin length, pale and smooth. And get a load of mine: tangled, overgrown, with an inch of dark roots. I should be standing in flip-flops in front of a trailer, roasting wienies over a rusty oil drum. “Is this a bad time?”

  I trip down onto the stoop, shutting the door firmly behind me. “Yeah. Kind of.” My flesh blisters with embarrassment as I watch her eyes roam, taking in the details of the yard and the front of my house. Overloaded trash cans. Screens dangling from the windows. Newspaper tumbleweeds hurtling across the lawn.

  She spots the headless statue. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Bathtub Mary.”

  “What happened to her head?”

  “She came that way.” Along with the rest of the decor, of course. Nikki’s yellow Mustang is parked at the curb, and I’m happy to see she left the motor running. Clearly she doesn’t plan to hang around very long. “What do you want?”

  Nervously, Nikki plays with her hair. “Well, I was gonna write you a letter because I have some things to tell you, but my sponsor said I should do it in person. I’m in AA now, you know? And there are these twelve steps we have to follow, like—”

  “I know what the steps are.” I don’t need a whole dissertation.

  “You do? Oh. Well, I’m trying to work through my ninth step. To make amends, you know, to all the people I hurt.” I wait, saying nothing, wondering where this is going, and why, oh why can’t somebody fix those damn screens? “Well, I want to apologize for some of the stuff I said.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I hear myself say. “Although I never did appreciate you calling me a slum rat.”

  “I’m not doing it for you, Gina. I’m doing it for myself.”

  Yep, same old Nikki. “Fine. Go for it.”

  “Okay, I’ve got four things to say. First of all, I’m glad you called my dad when I got, um, sick that night. Yeah, I was pissed because you promised not to tell, but, well, you did me a favor. So, thanks. I mean it.”

  Somehow “you’re welcome” seems incredibly lame.

  “Okay, number two. Do you know why my dad made you leave?”

  “Duh. You told him to.”

  Nikki nods. “I was so mad at you for turning me in. Plus, you were right, I was kind of jealous. I mean, you’re always so sure of yourself, so strong, and everyone liked you so much.”

  Me? Strong?

  “Especially my mom and dad,” she continues, cheeks pinking up. “I mean, I kinda thought they loved you more than me because you were like all they cared about for a while. Kinda like Rachel, you know? Daddy always loved her more even though he’d never admit it. That’s what it felt like, anyway.”

  I remember the fury on her face when she caught me and Claudia singing in the kitchen. “Well, I would’ve had to go anyway,” I mumble. “Not like I had a choice.”

  A typical Nikki sigh of impatience. “Number three: what I did to you and Danny. Okay, I know he liked you, but you were just faking him out, and—well, it was wrong for me to tell him all your personal stuff. That should’ve been your decision. And I’m sorry it hurt you.” She halts for breath. “It hurt Danny, too.”

  Hurt Danny? My muscles grow rigid as I remember our last date. Danny knew all about me before he even picked me up that night. He made me sit through that crappy movie, wondering what was wrong. Then, instead of asking me point-blank if what Nikki had said was true, he just tap-danced around it till he had me backed into a corner. Why didn’t he dump me when he first found out? Talk about fake outs.

  I shift to the other foot. “So what’s the fourth thing?”

  Nikki snakes her French manicure through her hair, and glances around, probably expecting a mugger. “This is really, really hard, but—well, my dad never told me about you. You were right. I lied.”

  She stops and waits, and I wait, too, wondering why I’m so astonished at this last piece of news.

  “When that friend of yours from that picture showed up, I knew you were lying. I even tried to get back into your trunk, but you’d locked it by then. So I looked around your room, and found this.”

  She reaches into her sleek white clutch, and drops Shavonne’s mood ring into my hand. My eyes bug out. Funny, I never missed it.

  “I’m the one who found it in Daddy’s car, in the backseat, so I gave it to him so he could give it back to Mrs. Addams. Then when I saw it in your room, I was like, God, that was you I saw in the car that night!” Pause. “Hey, pretty good costume.”

  I squiggl
e the ring onto my finger. Almost immediately the black stone turns orange, and I hold it up to the sunlight, wondering what it means.

  “Anyway, I was gonna ask Daddy about it, but I knew he’d never tell me. So I poked around in his office and found some stuff out about you, and—well, he leaves his computer sometimes, so I went into it, looking. It wasn’t hard to find out who you really were. But he never said a word to me. Cross my heart.”

  Why did I believe her? How could I not have known?

  Avoiding my chilly stare, Nikki draws an invisible line with the toe of her woven sandal. “I heard Daddy tell Mom what you said to him that day. All those names you called him? You really hurt his feelings.”

  “So? He hurt me first.” But without any venom, the words mean nothing.

  “It’s my fault he hurt you, so don’t blame him. Blame me.”

  I sneer. “So now what? Is this the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘Aw shucks, Nikki, thanks, I feel so-o-o much better!’?”

  Nikki’s flush deepens. “No. But if there’s something you want me to do, something to make things right, will you let me know? ‘Cause I’d still like us to be friends.”

  I almost do it, I almost say okay. After all, this must’ve been positively hideous for her. But why put it all on me?

  “I gotta go,” I say instead. “And you better get out of here before somebody rips off that car.”

  Before I can slink off, Nikki steps forward to pull me into a hug. She sniffs once, then twice. “Gina. Are you drunk?”

  I shake myself loose. “Bye, Nikki.”

  “Wait! You, like, reeeek of beer!”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, Miss Queen of the Ninth Step?”

  “It doesn’t help anything, okay?”

  “It makes me feel better!” I shout. “It doesn’t change who you are.”

  “Hey, it just so happens I know exactly who I am. Now do me a favor and get your stick-butt off my porch.” I swing open the door, but she grabs the handle.

  “You think you know who you are? So who are you, huh? Just think about it for a second.” As I force the flimsy door out of her grip, Nikki’s own hot antiseptic breath hits me through the flapping screen. “Oh, and that cello he gave you? He’d never let us touch it.” Her lips curl in a fierce knot. “Not even his precious Rachel.”

  I slam the door, knocking loose that last hinge. I force down another beer, hoping to pass out and wake up when I’m twenty. Instead, I keep replaying that scene in Zelda’s car: Traitordrunk-murderertraitordrunkmurderertraitordrunkmurderer! How I told him I hated him, that I wished he were dead.

  For once it feels good to let myself cry, to make all the noise I want without anyone hearing me. Rejuvenated, I jump up and march to the fridge, and snatch out every beer, every wine cooler, anything I can find.

  My mom’s an addict. My dad was an addict. I may suck at statistics, but one thing I know? The chances of me growing up to be exactly like one of them are a whole lot better than me winning that scholarship.

  Every bottle, every can, I pour down the drain.

  I won’t let it happen. I swear on Bubby’s soul.

  57

  Momma’s been AWOL for two days, and now I’m spazzing out. Is she back in the hospital? Was she busted for drugs? Is her dead, battered body stuffed in a sewer pipe? There could be a thousand reasons why she hasn’t come home and none of them any good.

  Zelda leaves a note on the door while I’m at the library: Just wondering how you are. I’ll stop back soon. Then children’s services pops up on the caller ID. Zelda again, but what do I do? If I answer, I’ll have to fake my way through a lie. If I never pick up, she’ll get suspicious for sure. I let the machine take over, and she leaves message after message, commanding Momma to call her back ASAP.

  Emilio leaves a few jumbled thoughts of his own, wondering why I haven’t shown up at any meetings. But I’m too afraid to leave the house, even for my lessons. What if Momma comes back while I’m gone? What if she’s hurt, or in trouble, or deathly ill? Not only that, but I’m running out of food and the smell from Mamma Mia’s makes me want to crawl into their Dumpster and scavenge for leftovers.

  I hate, hate, hate this! And I hate being alone.

  The third morning, Zelda tries again. “Lou Ann, this is Zelda. I got your message.”

  Message? What message?

  “Are you there? Hello? Um, Gina?”

  Now she remembers my name, now that pigs are flying.

  “Well, please, one of you call me back as soon as you get this, hmm?” She leaves her cell phone number, and it’s easy to remember because the last four digits make up the year I was born. A minute later, though, she calls back. This time her tone is sharp and her accent even sharper. “Never mind. I will be there by noon. I want to know what’s going on, and one of you had better let me in!”

  I don’t budge, I just stand there, my brain sharp as glass and vibrating with ideas. Can I hide under the bed and wait till she leaves? Unless, of course, she brings legal reinforcements. I picture myself on Cops with my face fuzzed into tiny cubes, hustled into a cruiser, news cameras flashing. I can’t go to Emilio’s because I don’t know where he lives, and all he’ll do anyway is start spewing that prayer.

  No, that’s not fair. At least he has more sense than me.

  Ten fiftyfive on my digital clock—one hour and five minutes till Zelda shows up. Would Josh help me out, let me hide in his van? Maybe. But how will I have to pay him back?

  WhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo? Will it be a group home again? Another foster home? I highly doubt that the clown house wants me back, seeing as I didn’t exactly leave there on the best of terms.

  Bang! Momma stumbles through the doorway, a jug of Jack Daniels in one hand, a bag of goodies in the other. Her filthy entourage follows close behind.

  “Hey, Lou Ann.” One biker dude—Virgil or Verne or possibly Vermin—jiggles like a kindergartner who can’t find the potty. “You said we’d get the place to ourselves today.”

  “What are you doin’ here?” Momma seems truly, incredibly, undeniably stunned to see me, and that’s when I know—she thought I’d be gone! She’s the one who tipped off Zelda, hoping Zelda might pick me up before she got back.

  I crunch my teeth. “I live here, remember?”

  “Lou Ann!” Vermin whines impatiently as the other maggots set up shop on my perfectly polished coffee table. I see a huge vintage bong, tidy plastic Baggies loaded with, well, whatever, cigarette lighters, homemade pipes, and—

  I stop my mental inventory when Momma hisses in my ear, “Go somewhere, you hear me? I got stuff to do, and I don’t want you around.”

  “Better listen to your momma,” says a familiar voice behind me. With a knot of dread, I spin around and bump smack into Satan.

  “Hey,” Wayne greets me, looming unsteadily in the doorway. “Long time, no see.” I stick my arm out to send him a seriously significant finger, and he cocks his head in surprise like, oh gosh, I hurt his feelings. “Aw, c’mon. That any way to greet an old friend?”

  Momma slaps my arm down. “I said beat it, Martha. Now!”

  “Make me!”

  As her mad-dog eyes glaze over, I dash for the stairs, knowing she’s too sloshed to follow. Breathing hard, I hover in my puny room, thinking and thinking, and then gather up all the spare change I can find. I flip open my black trunk and pick out my most recent journals, jamming as many as I can into my backpack. If Momma decides to throw another bonfire in my honor, at least my latest memories will be safe.

  I peer back at my alarm clock—11:03—and stick my feet into sandals, sling my pack over my shoulder, pick up my cello case, and move slowly back downstairs. Everyone’s huddled around the coffee table, smoking and snorting and doing whatever else professional stoners do. I think of all the beer I’ve had over the past couple of days and how great it made me feel, at least for a while. Now it scares me to death, only because I can see why they do it.

  F
or one second I’m tempted to smash their bong into the wall. Ha, what could they do? Call the cops on me? But the expression on Momma’s face is the one thing that stops me. Leaning into Wayne, who already has a greasy hand on her thigh, she sucks in smoke, releases it, and then shuts her eyes with a dreamy, satisfied smile.

  I can’t make her smile. But she’s smiling now.

  She mumbles when she senses me standing by her shoulder. Something like, “You still here?” Or maybe it’s, “See you, dear.” But she never calls me dear. Only sugar pie.

  Momma, Zelda will be here in less than forty-five minutes. Hide the drugs! Make everybody leave! You’ll end up in jail, and then they’ll put me someplace again, and you can’t let that happen, you can’t, it’s not fair!

  But I don’t say it out loud. I don’t even want to try.

  With my free arm, I hug her clammy neck. “I love you, Momma.”

  She answers vaguely, not bothering to look up, “Why, I love you too, sugar pie.”

  Leaving the house, I hit the sidewalk and walk block after block, street after street, on and on till I lose track of time. At one point I notice a stray dog with one ear, and I think of Luther Lee Washington and his missing mutt, Ole Marvin.

  I whistle once. “Here, doggie, doggie.” That one ear pricks up as he dangles a happy tongue, but he won’t come any closer. It’s just as well.

  I continue my trek till I’m almost downtown. The clock on the tower of the West Side Market says 1:33, so whatever was going to happen must have happened by now. Hoping nobody sees me and thinks I’m planning to jump, I study the muddy water of the river as I trail across that same Bob Hope bridge. How far would I fall if I jumped—maybe a thousand feet? And do you really get to see everyone who died ahead of you? Are they surprised when you show up, or were they waiting for you all along? Watching you your whole life, knowing exactly when it would happen.

  I never thought I’d say this, but if I see Emilio again, I think I’ll tell him about Bubby. Then, while I’m at it, I’ll let him know that, yes, I’m gonna do the twelve steps after all.