Karen glanced away, unbuttoning the sleeve of her shirt and pushing it up. Thin, long vertical scabs traced the circumference of her forearm in mostly organized rows.
She studied them a moment. Guilt and shame percolated through the slow, lazy waves of pain.
(can’t handle it weak a failure)
(failure at marriage failure at work failure at parenting)
She opened the medicine cabinet. A razor rested on the top shelf and she pulled it down. The yellow light slid along the blade like liquid butter.
She took a deep breath, put the razor near her elbow. The corner dimpled the flesh.
Pressed down and the wire-thin pain was immediate, banishing the throbbing in her head, the ache in her shoulders, the voices that rode her thoughts.
“What a cocksucker,” Lisa said the next day, taking a sip of coffee. “How’d you leave it?”
Karen shrugged from the other side of the kitchen table. “Unfinished.”
(like everything right? right?)
Her arm itched beneath her shirt sleeve. It always did the day after. She rubbed her arm against the table. Lisa’s eyes dropped to that and Karen picked up her mug and took a sip.
“Didja call the lawyer back?”
“No.”
“He’s gonna call again.”
“I’ll deal with him, then—or he’ll leave another message.”
Lisa cocked an eyebrow. Karen could only describe her in hair terms—Lisa was full, Lisa was bouncy, Lisa had great volume. Lisa was the latest from Vidal Sassoon. They’d met when Karen had taken classes at the community colleges, following the disastrously expensive idea that court-reporting was a great idea to sustain her and Kevin after the divorce. Lisa had been picking up the few remaining credits needed to be a CPA. She worked bookkeeping for a mortgage firm downtown.
“You can’t run away from that,” Lisa said.
Karen resisted shrugging. “I know that.”
“Then handle this head-on,” she said. “The mother doesn’t always get full, y’know? I read a thing in Time magazine—”
She sighed. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
Lisa shook her head. “No—Nick and that mega-cunt he married are a pain in your ass. I’m your vulgar Jiminy Cricket.” She set her mug down again. “Is it cash?”
Karen tried three different answers internally. “Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It was just one more thing I didn’t need.”
Lisa nodded. “That’s life—always ready to shove it in an inch deeper.”
Karen barked laughter. “You’re doing a helluva job making me feel better over here. Is this why just had to come over when I called you?”
Lisa studied her a moment. Karen’s arm itched again, she rubbed it on the table, and Lisa’s eyes dropped to it. Karen slid her hands under the table.
“I’m worried about you,” Lisa said finally. “If it’s not the job, it’s your ex-husband. If it’s not your ex-husband, Kevin’s sick with something. You’ve lost weight—that shirt’s about-hanging off your skinny-ass frame. And it looks like you haven’t been sleeping.”
Karen cut her eyes away. “It’s a lot to deal with.”
Lisa finished her cup. “I can imagine,” she said. “How’d the temp agency go?”
Karen shrugged. “Fine. As fine as can be expected. I have an initial on Wednesday morning.”
“But no new interviews.”
“Dead air.”
“You’ll get something,” Lisa said. “You have common skills, but those common skills are excellent. I mean, with court-reporting, you must be able to type, like, a million words a minute, and—”
“I’ll make more coffee,” Karen said, and got up quickly. Her chair feet squeaked across the linoleum. She snatched Lisa’s mug—ignoring the watchful expression on her face—and went to the Mr. Coffee. Her arm itched and burned; she rubbed it against the edge of the counter as she dumped out the old grounds.
“How much?” she asked. She moved her body so Lisa couldn’t see her rubbing. “Half-pot, full-pot—”
She heard chair legs squeak and she turned to find Lisa right there, almost kissing-distance away, her eyes sharp. She snatched Karen’s hand.
Karen tried backing up and Lisa held firm, moving with her. They stumbled like awkward lovers and Lisa’s weight drove Karen into the counter. A bolt of pure hell burst in the small of her back as the edge dug into her spine. She howled, and their legs tangled, dropping them to the floor.
Lisa fought her, pulling at Karen’s arm, tearing at the button of the shirt sleeve, and Karen squirmed and yanked and Lisa’s body weight held her tight. All thought was gone; she was reduced to animal instinct, fight or flight.
The button on the sleeve popped and Lisa shoved it up Karen’s arm, exposing the line bracelets. The cuts from last night, four of them, had reopened and bled sluggishly.
The moment hung with Karen’s arm between them.
The itch had disappeared, however.
“I knew it,” Lisa panted. Her frizzy blond hair hung like a swarm around her face. “I fucking knew this shit.”
And then she shook Karen’s arm in Karen’s face, like an owner shaking a chewed slipper in front of a bad dog. Karen cringed to avoid being hit with her own flopping hand.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Karen?” Lisa yelled. “What the FUCK—”
She visibly shook herself, her red face paling. “Shit,” she said. “Oh shit.” She pressed Karen’s arm to Karen’s chest, swept her other arm beneath Karen’s neck, and lifted Karen up like a mother to a child, bringing her in close. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry.”
With something like horror, Karen realized she was trying to keep from crying. “I’m so sorry, Karen. I overreacted. I did. I’d suspected and I’m sorry, and—oh, kid—” She took a breath. “Why haven’t you told me, Karen? When you needed help, why didn’t you come? I’m always here for you. Don’t you know that by now?”
And it was all right there in Lisa’s face—all the love, all the worry.
All the pity.
Yes, all the pity. Because her she was—Mrs. Lisa Thorne, a comfortably-employed CPA, a happily-childless wife—and she was sitting in the lap of her unemployed, single-mother friend, had been riding her almost like some kid on one of those coin-rides outside a supermarket, and deep down in the corners of those welling eyes was pity. Pity for her friend who couldn’t find a job, pity for her friend whose unemployment was running out, pity for her friend who had a son to raise alone, pity for her friend whose ex-husband only played father when it was convenient. Mrs. Lisa Thorne had her shit together. Mrs. Lisa Thorne’s friend very obviously did not. And it broke Mrs. Lisa Thorne’s heart.
Shame came flooding in and with it came the pain—in her back, her hands, her arms, her head.
She twisted her shoulders, breaking Lisa’s grip, and shoved Lisa off. Lisa fell with a thump, goggling, as Karen scrambled to her feet and lunged out of the kitchen. A kind of reptilian instinct overtook her; the kind of primitive thinking that only knew comforts, attraction and aversion.
She went for the bathroom without thinking.
Lisa screamed, “No, Karen!”
Karen threw the door closed behind her and locked in. The dead-station static had returned to her head. She pawed at the medicine cabinet. Outside, she heard the thunderous approach of Lisa running for the door.
She pawed for the razor, nearly dropped it, gripped in her palm and slicing the pads of her fingers.
(just this and i can think just this and it stops)
Lisa slammed into the other side of the door and the puny lock snapped. The door shuddered open and Lisa was there, her expression wild.
“NO GODDAMMIT!” she screamed and lunged forward. She took Karen at the waist and Karen lost the razor; she heard it clatter somewhere. She stumbled, the backs of her calves hitting the edge of the tub. Their center of gravity danced away and both women tumbled in with
a ridiculous thomp sound. Lisa’s shoulder slammed into Karen’s chest, knocking the air out.
Slowly, Lisa worked to extricate herself. “This is fucking ridiculous,” she muttered, pulling herself shakily from the tub, then reaching down to help Karen.
Karen ignored the proffered hand, took a breath.
And shrieked.
Night had fallen and only a single end-table lamp battled the darkness.
Karen closed the apartment door and sudden silence crashed down. Outside, Lisa’s car roared to life, then faded as it drove away.
She shuffled over to the couch, dropped onto it, and stared at the shaggy carpet.
Lisa had rained platitudes upon platitudes, things that sounded culled from sitcoms and Movies of the Week, down on Karen’s ears, only a fraction of it getting through—
—“hurting yourself is never the answer”—
(but what if you hurt all the time?)
—until it all became a gently undulated wave of sound in the center of Karen’s head—
—“there’s always tomorrow”—
(for things to get progressively worse as they had for the past four years since i left nick)
—that Karen couldn’t even begin to make sense of.
—“you are never alone, and”—
(except you are when you’re divorced with no family and no job and a son to raise and-and-and-and)
It was all a very special episode of Blossom.
(why didn’t you tell me?)
Karen hadn’t spoken at all—but, then, really, Karen hadn’t been expected to. It’d been sometime around the second “You have so much to live for” that Karen had realized Lisa hadn’t been speaking to Karen, but to Lisa herself. To Lisa, this was a Karen she didn’t know. Lisa had met her when she was fighting through her divorce; she’d met a woman doing everything she could with limited resources to provide for her son. After the divorce had been finalized, she’d known a woman driven to work any job for the same reason.
But, remove divorce and work, and leave only the driven need to provide for her son?
(hullo lisa please meet the real karen dempsey)
The problem for the Lisa Thornes of the world, who were self-preserved to the extent that the very air around them hung charged with confidence, was that they couldn’t comprehend a creature like Karen Dempsey. Lisa had been talking herself into believing that the Karen Dempsey that cut, that was broke, that was barely holding on was only a shell and not the core.
Knowing this, it’d been that much easier to tune out, to not talk. How do you explain the need to get out from under the constant, crushing weight?
The only thing that hit home, late into Lisa’s rambling thesis, was the idea of cutting too deep, of dying, and of Kevin being home when it happened.
“Imagine Kevin hearing you fall,” Lisa had said, her voice hoarse, “and coming downstairs and seeing you in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. Can you see that, Karen?”
Of course she could; the shame in cutting wasn’t in the act, but in the idea of someone else being hurt.
(what if kevin sees?)
(what kind of mother am i? how am i raising my son?)
But that was on the surface—the surface thoughts, the surface guilt, the surface certainty. What had hit home was the realization of something underneath all that. Something—
“Enough,” Karen said now and her voice was as hoarse as Lisa’s had been. She dry-washed her face, her shaking hands rubbing the sharp contours of her face. She forced herself off the couch, went to the bathroom. The tongue of the lock had bent the frame a bit; she joggled it and tried closing the door. It latched, but would not lock—the tongue kept popping out.
(have to replace that when we move)
(which will be in a few months more when the unemployment runs out—merry christmas kevin we’re spending it in a shelter!)
She grimaced and stepped into the bathroom.
(i hope you know it’s your fault he’s dead dear)
“Shut up, Mom,” she muttered and wasn’t even aware she spoke aloud.
She adjusted the bathmat in front of the sink, straightened the shower curtain. The medicine cabinet door hung open and she closed it, avoid her reflection. Near the base of the toilet, she found the razor. She picked it up, looked from the razor to her arm. Blood had smeared across the flesh, dried to flakes.
(imagine kevin seeing this)
And then another voice,
(imagine without any outlet or distraction from the pain)
But that wasn’t even the worst. The worst lay beneath that final thought, like the mutter of secret messages that could only be heard when you played the record backwards:
(imagine yourself unable to be free)
Karen’s lips thinned. Her back ached from the repeated hits. Her cuts burned like fire ants on the skin.
And Karen Dempsey, still holding the razor, began to cry.
2
Sprained
Roiling black clouds cut the emerald green sky to ribbons; a breeze carries the scent of sulfur, the ghost of black smoke.
Karen walks up a hill of waist-high grass long gone brown and dead; they crumble when she brushes them. The soil itself is loose, gray, filled with pale shards of what look like broken shale. No landmarks rise out of the distance—no buildings, no forests, not even shrubbery. Just these hills of dead grass, barren soil.
(i’ve been here before)
She stops, looks back the way she has come. Near the end of the horizon she can see that the sky lightens first to yellow, then, where earth and sky meet, blue. There are no clouds at that horizon, and the earth appears healthier—a ribbon of green.
She looks down and she wears a loose dress. Navy-blue cotton, with small white flowers dotting it. White strap-on sandals adorn her feet.
(i wore this when my father was buried)
(i hope you know it’s your fault he’s dead dear)
“Shut up, Mum,” she says and starts walking again. She tops the hill and sees it continues; more hills, the sky growing more sickly as it continues until it’s almost black in the distance. Standing out against this, however, is a landmark—a hump on top of a hill, against the horizon. A destination.
She starts down the hill, her feet sinking almost to the ankle in the loose, rocky soil. It irritates her skin, but there’s nothing to be done about that.
(i came here as a child before i escaped home before i escaped that damned small town)
This is the place, healthier then, that she daydreams to escape her mother; a place to imagine her life outside of Franklin, Pennsylvania.
She hasn’t thought of it in almost fifteen years.
“Why am I here?” she asks. “What happened to this place?”
Only the black-dusted and sulfur-smelling breeze whistling answers her. Lightning within the clouds flash, as if god’s taking pictures.
The world is sour, but she’s fine. No headache, no backache, no achy joints. Her arm doesn’t even itch. The poison in her has—
(—poisoned her dreamland)
She stops again, face crinkling.
The interior voice grew strength; it sounded like her mother.
(this is the place dreams go to die dear where your dreams go to die your silly dreams of journalism and new york and independence you gave all that up quickly didn’t you? for the man who would foist a child upon you and then leave you hanging a thirty-two-year-old single mother without a single exceptional skill and a son she can barely raise)
“Shut up, Mom,” she mutters, her voice lost in the distant ominous rumble of thunder.
(why should i? you know the truth drove your father to an early grave drove your husband into another woman’s arms drove your only child to the poor house you want to dream of a better tomorrow? dream about what you left behind and what happened to it dream about what happens when you can’t face reality)
She starts moving again. The stones jab at her open toes. She winces and moves fas
ter, up the next hill, down it. The landmark comes closer—only four or five more hills away. It looks vaguely like a house. Whose house?
(and while you dream your ex-husband has your son is filling your son’s head with how wonderful everything will be when your son lives with him and isn’t he right karen? isn’t he? you can barely keep yourself together—how are you raising a child?)
“Shut UP, Mum,” she says, louder, and thunder rumbles, closer. More cloud-lightning flashes. She tops the next hill, kicking up more dirt. The itch in her feet has deepened to an ache.
(you’re dreaming and where’s your son karen? where is he? not with you you’re just going to ruin him like you ruin everything else)
“SHUT UP, MUM!” she screams and, of course, trips.
She rolls down the remainder of the hill, the rotten soil going up her dress, down her neck. It doesn’t itch, it hurts, the aftermath of a bad static-shock; it lingers against her skin. She comes to a stop at the bottom and sits up. Her body made a little divot, upsetting some rocks and she sees one larger, rounder, and smoother than the other pieces poking out. She reaches for it, pulls it from the dusty soil. It’s a skull, missing its jawbone.
A child’s skull.
And her mother is right there:
(now you know where kevin is headed)
Her sudden scream shatters the world around her.
She didn’t wake up screaming, instinct stopping in fear of waking Kevin in the next room.
She sat up, the top sheet pooling around her waist. The bedroom’s single window allowed the streetlamp to peep in, created a yellowish oblong on the water-marked ceiling. She looked at the digital clock on the nightstand—three a.m.
She swung her feet over the side of the bed, rubbing her face. Her palms came away wet. She’d been crying in her sleep. Again.
“Christ,” she muttered and shook the last of the dream from her head. She rarely remembered her dreams.
But she remembered this one.
(where dreams go to die dear)
Her mother was dead; had died when Kevin was six. They hadn’t traveled back to Franklin for her funeral. Kevin didn’t even know her.
Bones are Made to be Broken Page 26
