After the Eclipse

by Sarah Perry

  All the paperwork had been completed and reviewed in advance, and the hearing had the feeling of a technicality. It was important to the judge, though, to know what I thought about being adopted, if I felt that it was in my best interest to stay with Tootsie and Jimmy until I was of age. I wanted to stay, as I had in Bridgton, so I agreed to the adoption, happy to be officially consulted, happy to be spoken for and settled in for the next four years. We would all work out our difficulties, I thought, or I would work around them, in the tight spaces of freedom they left. And anyway, things might get better. After all, we did celebrate the adoption with a nice lunch out.

  But if I really expected paperwork to bring about any dramatic changes, to make Tootsie gentler or Jimmy more communicative or to make me feel closer to their kids, that was not to be. I may have relaxed my guard a little, but the strained, tense aura remained. Every weekend I could, I went to Anne’s, where I felt accepted and loved by her and her mother, who hugged me hello and goodbye.

  Tootsie had become increasingly suspicious about the time I spent at Anne’s house, though, convinced that I was smoking and possibly drinking. When she picked me up, my clothes filled her car with the reek of cheap cigarettes, and I’d have to tell her, again, that although Anne and her friends smoked around me, they probably wouldn’t have let me smoke even if I’d wanted to, and they would have been disappointed if I drank. There was no way to fully explain to her how protective they were of me. What I now understand as their instinctive compassion made little sense to me then.

  After hearing about Tootsie’s interrogations, Anne’s mother tried to drive me home on Sundays as often as she could. Reluctant to hand me off to my aunt, Anne would come along for the ride. One late-spring morning, she walked me to my door, then leaned in and gave me a small kiss on the lips, as she often did. I felt a quick bolt of happiness spiked with nervous fear, because I knew that kiss didn’t mean to Anne what it did to me, or if it did, she would never have admitted it. And then my flush deepened and a nauseating fear took hold of me as I saw Tootsie’s shadow pass behind the cut-glass panel of the door. Anne didn’t seem to notice. I remember her stepping backwards into the sunshine, smiling, then turning to walk back to her mother’s waiting car.

  I turned the brass handle of the door, sweat breaking out on my palm as I wondered whether Tootsie had seen this kiss. This meaningless thing. I tried to duck into my room, but just as I rounded the corner in the hallway, I heard her voice at my back, its low, gruff tones tinged with disgust. “Is Anne always quite so friendly?” she asked.

  I turned toward her; her face looked both angry and amused, prepared to mock weak explanations. “Anne? Oh, she’s just like that. She’s just very, um, affectionate,” I said. Tootsie had me trapped: if I said anything more, it would reveal that I knew what she was talking about. I had to pretend that it had not even occurred to me that the kiss could be romantic. “I see,” she replied. We stared at each other for a moment. When she didn’t say anything more, I gave her a shaky smile and escaped to my room as slowly as I could.

  Within days, Tootsie had banned me from going to Anne’s ever again. Her only explanation was that she thought I wasn’t telling the truth about what happened over there, that Anne’s mother wasn’t as careful a parent as Tootsie would have liked. It still shames me that I obeyed her. I tried to explain to Anne, and she repeatedly asked me to lie, to say I was elsewhere and to come over as I had before, but I couldn’t risk it. I was too afraid of Tootsie; I felt anxious just thinking about it. Looking back now, I can also see that part of me—a small part—was relieved to be out of Anne’s orbit, the overwhelming pull she had on me, a magnetism I didn’t want to understand.

  * * *

  Once the era of Anne had ended, marching band filled some of the newly empty space in my life, and I spent many hours practicing in the evenings with Angela, who welcomed me back unquestioningly. We began tenth grade, moving up to the large, well-funded Central High School. I took every Advanced Placement class possible and felt like I was on a steady path to some kind of success. I was fifteen, and had always thought that the age of sixteen marked the beginning of adulthood; I was on my way. I had never been much of a performer, but I took an acting class and joined the debate team, feeling strong and ready to participate in things that other people cared about, ready to take risks, to be seen. Central had a selective creative writing program, and I planned to apply the following year, when I became eligible, even though the idea terrified me, as I’d written very little since Mom’s death. I met dozens of people and was interested in everyone, open to new friendships. My nights of fear had mostly disappeared by then, like a fog burned off by the Texas sunlight. I could see ahead more clearly, to college and my steadily approaching freedom. Things were even starting to get slightly better between me and Tootsie—she and Jimmy were divorcing, and once he had moved out that summer, she had started to seem a lot more relaxed.

  Two months into the school year, I was riding home in a charter bus after performing in the first halftime show of the year with the marching band in El Paso, a six-hour trip each way. I watched, headphones on, as the sun disappeared below the unending horizon line and the glowing blue descended upon my friends, falling asleep around me, one by one. I remember feeling a calm, immense peace as the bus shot across the perfectly flat desert. I looked out at that land and felt a deep sense of belonging.

  I got up late the next morning, having gotten home after midnight. As I brushed my teeth, Tootsie knocked hard on the bathroom door and said, “We need to talk.” I spat into the sink and paused. I made a neutral face in the mirror. “Okay, just a minute!” I wondered what I had done to irritate her this time. I wiped my mouth. I walked to the kitchen to meet her, determined to remain calm and defend myself as best I could against whatever accusation she had dreamed up.

  She said, “Your aunt Carol and I were talking last night, and we agreed that it would be best if you went back to Maine.”

  Something twisted inside my chest, answered by an immediate and powerful urge to fight that weakness. I didn’t want to react until I’d had some time to think. I said only, “When?”

  “Well, you can leave this week or you can wait until the end of the semester.” She said this as if the options should have been immediately obvious to me.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ll have to think about that.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon at my friend Loren’s house, returning home a few hours later to gather some of my things. I found Tootsie in the kitchen and said, “I’m staying at Loren’s tonight.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “May I stay at Loren’s tonight?” I said, as softly and evenly as I could, trying not to give that “may” sarcastic emphasis, inwardly furious that she could upend my life and still expect courtesy and submission.

  “Well, what’s your decision?” she said, standing up to her full height and looking down at me.

  “Well . . .” I began. I hadn’t really thought yet about when I wanted to leave. It had only been about four hours since she’d told me I had to. “I’ve been in school for two months already . . . and I only got to do one halftime show in marching band after practicing all summer, so . . . I’d like to stay until the end of the semester.”

  She crossed her arms and looked at me for a moment. Then she said, “No, the sight of you is pissing me off; you’re leaving on Wednesday.”

  It was Saturday. My mind froze up in response to this. I retreated to my room and stared at the wall. Think, I thought to myself. Figure it out. She seemed to be bluffing, hiding something. If I could identify it, maybe I could stay. A memory of all those long, sleepless nights at Carol’s edged into my mind. I had to try to stay. I could not go back to Maine. But over the next few days, my attempts to get an explanation from Tootsie were met with a wall of anger I could not penetrate. It took me years to realize that there was probably never a choice, that she must have bought that plane ticket before she
told me anything at all.

  * * *

  Tootsie and I mostly kept out of each other’s orbits in those final days, speaking as little as possible. She bought me a cheap three-piece set of luggage and I found myself in the ridiculous position of thanking her for it. But as the hours disappeared, so did my restraint. On Tuesday night, I came out into the living room where Tootsie was watching the news and told her that I thought it might be illegal, what she was doing. I had been in the courtroom when they processed my adoption, when the judge decreed that she take care of me as her own. You couldn’t just go back on a legal promise like that. She turned off the TV and rose from the couch. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I’m just your aunt,” she said. “The adoption was only so you could have health insurance.”

  I was astonished by how much this hurt. I’d tried to harden myself against her, but I knew then that she would always be stronger. I felt like a fool for seeking reassurance in the judge’s words, for remembering them at all.

  But after a pause, I pushed further, still confused and disoriented by the speed at which things were moving, and she pushed back, getting louder and louder. Anger rushed in and replaced my sadness, held me up. Soon I could no longer hear what she was saying. After three years of trying to maneuver around her, I abandoned all caution and strategy. I started yelling back louder than I ever had before, my nervous system going haywire, the ringing in my ears blocking sound. I can’t remember what we said that night; I only remember the swift climb from sadness to fury, my words coming faster and louder, my mind frantic, Tootsie moving in close. I stayed like that for a few moments, burning hot, until a little switch went off in me with an almost audible click. I fell silent. Then I was coasting, cooling down. I tuned back in; could hear her yelling again. I realized that I had been staring at the hard, knobby prominence at the top of her cheekbone with the intent to smash my fist into it. I had failed to hit her through no control of my own but rather through sheer dumb luck, and I almost laughed aloud thinking of how brutally she would have retaliated.

  And in this sudden clarity, I had a fine idea. I looked at her squarely and, in a low, controlled voice, said, “I don’t think it helps to scream and get so upset.” I had never responded to anyone’s anger like this, with cool logic that was meant to subdue. I may have learned it from her, the times when we clashed and she opted for detached contempt. I said again, “I don’t think it helps to scream,” and repeated it two or three more times as she continued to shriek at me, my outward stillness enraging her further. Eventually she ran out of steam and backed away, looking spent and old. I turned around, went to my room, and tried to calm my shaking hands.

  * * *

  I flew back to Maine the next day. Tootsie and I were silent on the two-hour drive to the airport. As I stood in line at the gate, ticket in hand and waiting to board, I still wanted to salvage something. Maybe if I said the right thing, her reply would make me understand. So I told her, “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

  She shrugged. “Fuck it.”

  I turned away and walked down the jet bridge, stunned and blind.

  Part Two

  Forward,

  Forward

  31

  * * *

  Fear was waiting for me at Carol and Carroll’s house in Peru, behind the gloomy wood paneling of my attic bedroom. The house felt no different than it had three years earlier, right after the murder. Texas was nothing more than some sunlit dream.

  My aunt and uncle went to bed early, around nine o’clock, and I’d say good night with a smile meant to hide the anxiety I felt at filling the remaining hours of night. I watched TV for an hour, until ten, when I was expected to go to bed. Once upstairs, I’d read until the quiet of the house broke my concentration.

  Darkness filling the house, darker woods surrounding. A creak from downstairs. A tiny shuffling within the walls. Each sent a jolt through me, bigger every time, until I’d respond even to silence, a hyper-ready live wire primed to run. It’s nothing, I’d think, flushing doubly with adrenaline and shame. I’m safe, it’s fine, it’s fine.

  And then that hard-line part of me, that flinty older sister, would speak up, a fully formed voice in my head that I could not control. But maybe he knows, now, that you’re here. News travels fast, and he’s probably still in Bridgton. Of course he could find you—anyone could. She told me that readiness was more important than happiness, more valuable to survival.

  I knew I was supposed to accept a new reality: one where a killer entering the house was unlikely. But I had no proof.

  And so the fear would grip me colder. But I’d find something to hold on to, a way to keep myself out of the abyss. I’d focus on the fact that my uncle would awaken if anyone were to enter the house. My uncle, territorial protector, with guns.

  But then the voice would remind me that Carroll was getting older. That maybe someone had come in and quietly strangled him, snuffed him out a couple of hours ago, before my hearing had been sharpened by fear. My aunt could be sitting down there right now, staring into the eyes of the killer, unable to warn me for the knife at her throat.

  My heart rate would increase, rushing through my body with more and more force. Sweat would gather on my upper lip. I’d reach up slowly to wipe it, careful not to make the sheets rustle, should the sound reveal me. Careful not to breathe too deeply, should the rushing air be heard downstairs. I had to convince myself that the sound of my pulse, loud as it seemed, was contained within my body.

  No one was down there. The killer was down there. This could be my last minute before dizzying terror, and the end of my life. This minute. These past five minutes. This hour. Two.

  Finally my fatigue would win out. If tonight posed no threat to me, if I was going to live, so much the better. But since I couldn’t stop thinking I might die, I’d prepare by letting go. I’d think about the killer bursting in at any moment, imagine myself crazed with fear and begging for my life, and decide to go down more quietly. Dignity might be possible, I thought. I’d picture myself greeting him with a calm face. Standing still while he gripped my arm and showed me his knife. Nearly falling down with relief. A kind of joy at finally knowing the ending.

  At this point, the fear would let go of me, and a great sweeping freedom would take hold. My hands would unclench, and I’d free-fall down into sleep.

  Morning brought light and life, and the day brought distraction. Nightfall returned me to the fight.

  Morning again. Day. Night again. For months.

  * * *

  I didn’t tell anyone about those nights. I was too proud, and was convinced that no words could erase my fear. In school we read Faulkner, and our discussion of Vardaman’s “My mother is a fish” went on and on, and all I could think about was the wet, thudding sturgeon that night, in that house only an hour’s drive from my classroom. I sat silent and ill and desperately hoped that the teacher wouldn’t call on me. But I would not leave the room. I would not reveal myself.

  Although I felt less safe in Maine than I had in Texas, Carol and Carroll were much easier to live with than Tootsie and Jimmy. I knew they loved me, even if they didn’t seem thrilled that I’d be sharing their home for the next three years. When they picked me up at the airport, we’d all seemed awkward, uncomfortable—the situation was foisted on them as suddenly as upon me.

  Carol had a no-nonsense attitude, but with her curly blond hair and musical laugh, she was approachable and warm. She was forever trying to lose ten pounds, going on wacky diets involving cabbage soup or grapefruit. She did heavy work at the paper mill, working eight-hour swing shifts that sometimes ran through the night, but complained only rarely. At dusk, she would open the door and sing “Kiiiitteeees!” to call her cats inside from the cold. I knew she had a hard edge within her, but it was buried much deeper than Tootsie’s.

  My uncle Carroll worked in the woods, cutting trees for that same paper mill. He had the same curly blond hair, and had been wit
h Carol since they were teenagers, back when he was her brother Wendall’s best friend. He was silly around little kids and cared deeply for animals, who seemed magically drawn to him. Still, he also carried a flinty anger within; some days he would be unaccountably silent, and I’d constantly feel like I was annoying him.

  Peru was familiar, but disappointing. It’s a typical Maine town, but even smaller: fewer than two thousand people living on thickly forested land that winds between a river and a ridge. It’s about an hour north from Bridgton, an hour that makes a big difference. Four other small towns feed into the high school, which sits across the wide Androscoggin River in Dixfield. The school is called Dirigo, the Maine state motto—Latin for “I lead.” When I attended, Dirigo led in girls’ basketball and sometimes boys’ wrestling and not much else, and had a student body of about 250. I had dedicated teachers, especially in my English and history classes, but I learned calculus out of a textbook from 1963. The entire first floor was gutted; most of our classes that year were held in church basements while the old building was being renovated, and I couldn’t pronounce the French I learned because I could barely hear my teacher over the band saws in the next room. The wide, slow Androscoggin was beautiful, but when we wanted to swim we had to go upstream, past the paper mill in Rumford. This was not a land of sparkling lakes; the summer people did not come here. The shadows of tall, dark pines loomed over me. Sunset happened early and far away, beyond the prodigious mountains.

  I was isolated by my anger, an indignant rage that made me turn further and further within myself, convinced that no one could understand me. Carol and I would have some minor clash, and I’d head up to my bedroom and kneel on my bed and scream, high-pitched and breathless, shoving a pillow into my mouth until I could hardly breathe, drool and tears wetting the pillowcase. I can still feel that peach-fuzz cotton on my tongue, taste the baby powder and faint detergent. My body rigid, I’d drive my head into the pillow over and over, angry not at Carol but at Tootsie—so angry that when I heard she had moved to Washington State, I imagined a hundred-foot cedar falling on her. Even in the moment, I knew the image was silly and cartoonish, but I wanted something unfair and horrible to happen to her, and the image was perfectly diffuse and indirectly violent, like a spinning house crash-landing in Oz.