Reminds me of this story my dad told me once about how, in law school, he used to live below this woman who was up all night, every night, playing “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number,” over and over on the piano, right above his bedroom. Dad said he’d lie awake in bed, three, four in the morning, finally done studying, and night after night, just as he was drifting off, the piano part would start, and he’d shout at the ceiling: You have got to be kidding me! So, finally, one night, my dad had enough, and he got up and went upstairs to tell the woman to stop playing that song or he was calling the cops.
So he starts pounding on her door with his fist, demanding she open up the door, and turns out, the woman had cancer. She couldn’t sleep because she was in so much pain, and looking at her, with a scarf wrapped around her head, totally gaunt and pale, my dad couldn’t even speak. He looked at the poor woman, and then he turned and sulked back to his bedroom, completely ashamed.
The point is, I can’t even yell at my mom, really, because it’s so pathetic. I mean, come on, I’m the teenager—at long last, I made it to fifteen, right—and she’s ruining it for me. I’m not kidding: every time she does it, I’m just like, Now how am I ever going to spend an entire day, locked up in my room, listening to the same stupid sad song over and over again, feeling sorrier for myself than any girl in history, without thinking I’m just like my mom? See what I mean? Ruined.
Even worse, she’ll start smoking again, chain-smoking. Like Friday night, she’ll decide she can have one cigarette with her vodka and cranberry or whatever, just one or two cigarettes, and by the next day, she’ll be up to half a pack a day, easy. So of course she’ll lose a ton of weight, and then, like clockwork, she’ll break down and call Rain Man, because she hasn’t eaten in days, so she’s not thinking clearly, reassuring herself he’s left a sufficient number of messages for her to dignify returning his call. And of course he’ll tell her it didn’t mean anything, whoever it was he was screwing on the side, or on his desk more like it, whatever.
I know because I hear it, every word. Every time they fight, I hear her in the next room, not all the words, necessarily, but the tone of her voice, all pleading and needy, and it’s sickening. It is, that she needs so badly and doesn’t believe she can do any better than Raymond at this point in her life, and it makes me so angry with her. It’s hard because I know she did what she had to do, moving us here, because it was the first job she could get, and it wasn’t about what she wanted, and I know that. But any confidence she used to have, it’s gone. But more than that, sometimes I look at her, all curled up on the couch at night, drinking and smoking, and I’m like, What is wrong with you? You’re supposed to be the strong one: because you’re the mom, remember? Then I’ll say something cruel, cutting, provoking her, because it’s all I can do to get it out. And there are lots of ways to cut yourself, you know?
I remember this one time when she hadn’t talked to Raymond in two weeks. It was the longest she’d ever gone, and I was so proud of her, but of course Ray kept calling her. So one night, he tried her cell phone first, and then he got bold and left a message on our landline. Bold because he knew I could hear him, and obviously he didn’t care what I knew about him anymore. So, yeah, I heard his entire message, because we were watching TV, and he goes, I know you’re home, Renee. Please, babe, pick up the phone? And you could see my mom twisting inside, like she was enjoying it so much that he kept pursuing her, and it would be a total mistake to speak to him, but, on the other hand….
Don’t, I said, looking her in the eye. Don’t do it, Mom. Not this time. You ever think why he keeps making the same mistake? Maybe because you forgive him every time, I said, and she goes, I know you can’t understand, Thea, and I go, Mom, you’ve been through this so many times now, so why do you keep going back to him? Do you really need a guy so badly? It was mean, I know, but I wasn’t even that angry then, and she goes, I want someone in my life, Thea. Yes, she said, I do. I go, Yeah, well, me, too, but not someone who screws around on me. Do you enjoy being treated like you matter so little to him that he’ll—. That’s enough, Thea. She’ll pull it together enough to put on the mom voice with me and say, That’s enough, and I go, You said I can’t understand, so explain it. Why do you keep going back to him when you know he’ll just screw you over again? She goes, We aren’t having this conversation, and I go, Fine. Call him back then, kiss and make up. But that’s a hell of an example you’re setting for me, Mom, thanks, I said, and I got up and went to my room.
I’m sorry, but I can’t forgive him, even if she does. I mean, you want to know how she found out that time? She found out because she walked in on them—Ray and this girl, having sex in his office. And to have to think about my mom walking into some redneck commercial real estate office to find her loser fucking boyfriend going at it with some chick he’d picked up on his lunch hour, I have to block it out. Because aside from everything else I have to censor in that picture, to see the look on my mom’s face at that moment? No, I can’t. After everything that happened with my dad, I can’t do it.
So I was mean to her, instead. Because I was afraid. Scared of the idea that you can spend half your life trying to figure out who you are, and just when you figure out who that is, that person is destroyed. Scared because if something like that could happen to my mom, it could happen to me, too. And I couldn’t let that happen to me. I’m sorry, I love my mom more than anything, but it’s just really hard to have to sit and watch her turning into this woman who is so much less than she used to be.
You know she was beautiful once, my mom. More beautiful than I’ll ever be. And when she was in college, like when she met my dad, she was gorgeous. I’m serious, you look at pictures of her, and then you look at my dad from back then, and you think, God, you got so lucky, dude. I used to be really proud of her, proud introducing her to people. Saying, This is my mom. But when I look at her now, I think, Who are you? How do I even talk to you anymore?
Now, when I see her sometimes, turning her head in the aisle at the grocery store or getting out of the car at night, for a second, I see the beautiful woman she used to be, almost like this ghost that slips out for a second. And whenever that happens, I can’t help thinking about those people, you know how parents say things about when adolescence hits, it’s like aliens have abducted your children or something like that, right? The thing is, that can happen, no matter how old you get. Except in my mom’s case, she wasn’t abducted by aliens; it was just life.
THURSDAY, MAY 12, 2011
(SIX WEEKS LATER)
3:30 PM
Jenna Darnell: I knew the second she opened her mouth. Hello, Thea, she said, standing above me. I’d gone to Silver Top so I could be alone for a couple hours; I was trying to draw, but mostly just staring at the white pages, left side, right side, empty, and the bell rang above the front door. May I sit with you? she said, and I nodded. Okay, I said, not having much choice, really, but at least she cut to the chase.
She reached in her leather bag, pulled out a big envelope, and put it on the table, between us. I thought you should see these, she said, taking out a stack of color pictures. You know there’s been a rash of vandalism in this town, she said. Between this, and the videos we all know about, and the vanishing tire tracks in the field, she said, looking at me like she was waiting for some response, but I didn’t give her one. I had nothing to say. Thea, I can’t help but wonder if this is all related, somehow, to your boyfriend, Cam, she said, tilting her head and giving me one of those sympathetic newscaster looks, but I stared at the table. I had a feeling she’d catch me in a lie if I said anything, so I didn’t say a word.
She waited until it became uncomfortable, and then, finally, she said, Whether there’s any connection between these events, people are very interested in your story, Thea—they want to hear what you have to say, and I hear there’s even talk of a lawsuit involving some pretty big companies. But if and when you’re ready, I would like to talk to you. I’m staying here now, in town, so we co
uld meet anytime, she said. Her voice turned soft, sympathetic, and she leaned forward, across the table, and said, I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you, Thea, and I want to hear your side. I wanted to ask her what she was talking about, big companies, but I shook my head no, I have nothing to say, and she waited, staring at me. Thea, I’m running a story in the next couple days, and I thought you might want to take a look at these; she spread out all the pictures—graffiti from all over town, and I got the chills: What would Socrates do? tagged on a wall of the elementary school, right behind the jungle gyms. I’M NOT LAUGHING!!!!!!!!!!!! tagged across the front porch of the senior citizens home. Worst of all, 3%, tagged on a brick wall in the tunnel where Cam took me that night.
I have to go, I said, grabbing my bag and sliding out of the booth. Here, let me give you my card, Thea, she said, turning toward her leather bag. I said, That’s okay, you already gave me your card, and she smiled, looking up at me: Yes, well, she said, in case you lost that one, here’s another. Put it in your wallet, she suggested, smiling, and I left a few dollars on the table, walking away. But just as I walked past her, Jenna touched my shoulder, stopping me: Thea, there is a big, big story here; I can feel it, and I’m going to find out what that story is, she said. She wasn’t threatening me, but she knew, I could tell; she smelled a story. So I said, Good luck, looking at her hand, then she let go of my arm and said, You, too, Thea. You take care, she said, but I’d already reached the front door.
I called my mom and asked her to pick me up at Knox’s house on her way home. I knew Melody was at physical therapy, so I called Knox to tell him that I had to see him. When I got there, he opened the door and he was wearing a heather gray Jets shirt and his dad jeans. Friday casual already? I said, walking in, and before he could say anything, I told him about Jenna Darnell, cornering me at Silver Top, that she had pictures of all the graffiti that’s been popping up, while he led me to his office at the end of the hall. I just got the pictures, he said, taking a seat at his desk. When I walked over, he had a still from a surveillance video onscreen: I’M NOT LAUGHING!!!!!!!!!!!! I shivered, seeing it. He knew, too, even before he asked, but he asked anyway. He said, Thea, have you seen this before? I nodded and said, Yes, and then I pulled out Hubble, flipping to the page where I’d written that. I was going to hold the page up to the computer screen so he could see it was exactly the same as my handwriting, and just when I found the page, my notebook slipped, and I caught it, but the page tore.
Ope, Knox said, turning from me to his computer. What’s wrong? I asked, and he shook his head. Nothing, I just hate that ball, he said, watching the spinning ball on his computer, and then he hit a couple keys, trying to get it to stop. Damn, he said, clicking back and forth a few times, and then, when the ball stopped spinning, returning to the freeze-frame taken at the old folks home, he balked. What is it? I said, turning to look, but a little upset about the torn page. When I looked, it was the same picture of the graffiti, except half the graffiti was gone; the words NOT LAUGHING!!!!!!!!!!!! weren’t there anymore. Hubble, I said, and Knox said, Come again? I said, That’s what we call it, our notebook, and then I held Hubble up to his computer, and the graffitied words were erased where I’d torn our notebook page. I looked at Knox, making sure he saw it, too, and he did.
Knox restarted his computer, not knowing what else to do, what else to believe, and I even wondered if that might change the image, but I knew better. Sure enough, the picture was the same; the words were gone. It only took a couple minutes, and then he got a text, a photo the cops had just taken. Knox held up his phone for me to see: the wall at the home looked exactly like it did on his screen, after I ripped the page—NOT LAUGHING!!!!!!!!!!!!—and I shuddered, crossing my arms and shivering, it scared me so much.
Listen to me, Thea. Listen, Knox said, more serious than I’d ever heard him sound before: it’s that notebook. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but whatever you do, don’t let that notebook out of your sight. In fact, you should hide it, keep it here, and I said, No, Knox, I can’t do that, and he sighed, knowing I wouldn’t give it up. All right, but do not let it out of your sight, you understand? he said, and I nodded yes, grabbing my bag, hugging the notebook to my chest. I jumped, hearing my phone, and my first thought was Jenna Darnell, but it was just my mom, texting to say that she was outside.
I made it to the car and opened the door, and then I stopped, realizing what this might mean. Because if I could change something just by tearing one of my pages, what would happen if I tore one of Cam’s pages, or scribbled on them, or erased them? You all right? Mom asked, and I nodded, buckling up, while she pulled out. How was the old Silver Top? she asked, smiling, because nothing changes at Silver Top. I told her. I said, That reporter showed up, Jenna Darnell, the one who’s been covering all the stories about what’s been going on in town.
Mom’s mouth fell open, and then she furrowed her brow: What did she want? Did she try and ask you questions? Yes, but I said I couldn’t comment on anything, and Mom started to say something, then she shut her mouth. So we drove a couple blocks, not saying anything, and then, waiting at the red light, she goes, You know what we should do tonight, babe? Let’s go out to dinner, and I said, Out? Out where? Because we never go out to eat anymore, and Mom nodded her head side to side, thinking about it, then she goes, What about Indian? Remember how good it was?
There’s an Indian family who moved to town last year and they opened this little place in this old strip mall behind Wal-Mart. The smell of curry and cardamom hit you the moment you walked through the door, and the food’s so good, my mouth started watering. The owner came right over, the husband, soon as we walked in, and he was so genteel, I love him. Oh, good evening, ladies, he said, clasping his hands in front of him, and Mom goes, Good evening. Two, please? This way, please, the man said, holding out his hand, and Mom looked so happy, but once we sat down, I started feeling guilty, because I was thinking how big a splurge this dinner was.
I couldn’t even stand to look at the prices on the menu, and then I started feeling angry with her, too, like why did she bring us here for dinner when we don’t have the money? But I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t—Mom was smiling and she wanted to treat me to a nice dinner, just the two of us. She must’ve read the look on my face, because she looked up and said, Is this okay? You’re not in the mood for Indian food? We could go somewhere else, she said. And the thing is, Mom looked so pretty again, like I remember her looking before our lives changed, before we moved here. This is great, I said, and she squeezed my hand, before ordering.
Once the food came and we started eating, we had such a good time, I forgot everything for a couple hours, all our problems. I can’t tell you how nice that was, either, even for just two hours. For the first time in weeks, I went to bed feeling so much better, but then, I don’t know if I ate too much or what, but I woke up in the middle of the night. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I just lay there, staring at my ceiling.
I felt so alone and it was so dark, I removed the Band-Aid from my shoulder, and I got up to look at the tattoo again in my bedroom mirror: TD + CC = TLA. It made me smile, but it was the painful kind of smile, the kind where the smile’s pushing through, you know? And I don’t know what made me think of it, but I went out to get the hand mirror from the bathroom, tiptoed back to my room, and opened my curtains so I could see outside. Then I walked to the center of my room and turned my back to the full-length mirror while I held up the hand mirror, pointing the florescent reflection into the sky, like they do in Gotham with the Batman signal or whatever they call it. I stood there for at least a minute, waiting, but I don’t think the stars heard me, because if they did, nothing happened. So I went back to the bathroom to put the mirror back in the drawer and put a fresh Band-Aid on.
That’s when I felt it again, standing there, on the bath mat. It started at the back of my head, like when you get a headache that starts in your neck, and then it curls around your neck, like t
he headache’s palming the back of your skull. So I opened the medicine cabinet, and I took out Raymond’s razor, and I tiptoed back to my room, locking the door.
I stood there, staring at my rug, and I could feel it building. It’s hard to describe, because it’s like a headache, the pressure. Only it doesn’t hurt the same, it’s not that kind of pain; it’s just the pressure of compulsion. Like you start to feel something pulling you like a wave. So you try to turn away or step around it, but it’s inside of you. So you try to step around yourself, but you can’t, because the wave is in your blood. And after our nice night out, I wanted to tell my mom, talk to her about it, but I can’t because I’m not going back on drugs. I won’t do it. I was just standing there, holding the razor in my hands, the pressure building behind my eyes. I wanted to cut so badly, too. I knew exactly where I would cut, and in my mind’s eye, I was already taking off my clothes, readying myself. But there was so much pressure that when I reached to press my fingers against both my temples, I dropped the razor; you couldn’t hear a sound, but the motion triggered my computer, the screen lighting up. Immediately, I heard laughter—our laughter.
Before I even turned to look over, I knew what it was. There was a video on my desktop, even though I wasn’t on YouTube. It wasn’t sex: it was the two of us, goofing around. It was this video we took of ourselves on my computer last winter, after we went to New York. We got into this huge fight, because I got jealous and saw red and lost my shit, but anyhow. It was a video of the week after we made up, when Cam was teasing me about how I deal with my anger—my anger issues, yes.
Ghost Time Page 18
