Shade

by Marilyn Peake

  My mom always told me she had picked Poppy because she loves red poppy flowers, but I know opium and morphine and heroin and codeine come from poppies; and, man, there were times when my mom used a lot of that stuff. I remember when I was in middle school and she’d get all strung out ... and, well, that’s all I can say about that right now. It’s hard to talk about those years, having your mother kind of disappear on you like that, not be available to you, not answer your questions or take an interest in anything you were doing.

  So, anyway, I’m walking down the hallway, thinking about how I might possibly get out of the school without my mom seeing me. I decided I could turn around, leave through a back door, then call her on her cell phone and be like, “Where are you? I’m standing outside school waiting for you...” like I’d never even seen her talking to the Principal. Just as I start turning around ... and I remember this part like it’s in serious slow motion, with my one foot just slightly pivoting to the side ... my mom looks up, gives me a big smile with her lips still painted in bright red lipstick, waves and yells, “Galactic Shade! Galactic Shade! Over here, over here!”

  The Principal smiles, touches her on the shoulder and walks away toward the front office.

  Kids start laughing, pointing at me, smirking.

  Oh, my God. I just wanted to die.

  CHAPTER 3

  On the way home, I was completely sullen. I just wanted to scream at her. But I’ve been the child of an alcoholic/drug addict mother for a long time. During brief intermissions when my mother tried to sober up, I actually went to Al-Anon meetings where family members related to people in Alcoholics Anonymous have their own support group and Nar-Anon for family members related to drug addicts in recovery. My mom’s history with addiction is serious and I’m telling you, I know when to shut up. I never argue with my mother when she’s driving because I never know how impaired she already is, and the last thing I want to do is distract her from whatever level of concentration she’s managed to pull together.

  But, when we got home, it was a different story altogether. I waited till she shut the front door, so that if anyone was outside, they wouldn’t hear me because the last thing I wanted to do was humiliate myself all over again. I just started screaming at her, “What gives you the right to come into my school and embarrass me?”

  My mother’s face turned red. I knew I was crushing her emotionally, but the floodgates had opened and I just couldn’t hold back the rising tide of anger inside me. I tried to stop short of complete destruction. I didn’t mention her horrible dress or gaudy makeup, or why was she so friendly with the Principal anyway, and what was it with her and men and ruining my life. Instead, I just shouted at the top of my lungs: “I’m not five years old. You don’t have to come into school to get me. It’s bad enough that I have to be picked up in that god-awful, ugly van; but, really, you make everything so much worse by not just letting me walk outside and find the van by myself!” A completely reasonable request.

  Then I turned around, ran upstairs and slammed the door to my bedroom.

  A few seconds later, I heard my mother call up, “Are you getting your period?”

  Unbelievable. What was wrong with her, anyway? The stuff she asked me, the crossing of boundaries, the constant criticism. I opened my bedroom door, yelled down, “No!” then slammed the door again and locked it.

  Sitting down on my bed, I opened a drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a razor blade and a white porcelain bowl. I pushed up my sleeves. Slowly, I drew the razor over my left arm and watched mesmerized as blood dripped into the bowl.

  I always thought it was kind of weird how I used a bowl for this, like I was making an offering to the gods or something. But it wasn’t anything like that. I just didn’t want bloodstains on anything my mom would see, like my bedding or pillows. Cutting was private.

  I drew the blade back and forth over my arm until I felt truly alive and in charge of the one thing in my life I could control. This I could control, this one secret thing in my life over which I was completely in charge.

  Then, suddenly, the blade flew out of my hand. As I went to grab it, I knocked over the bowl. Spots of blood spattered my quilt. “Goddamn it!” When I scooped up the bowl and ran into the bathroom for a wet washcloth, something came over me.

  I can’t explain it, exactly. It felt like a cool breeze, as though the windows were open; but it was also like something had passed through me. I felt as though I should be terrified, and on some level I was; but I mostly felt serene, at peace with myself in a way that I had never before experienced.

  It was weird.

  Then, all at once, the cut and the old scars on my arms transformed into art. All the injuries disappeared as though completely healed, and in their place tattooed artwork appeared. Where the bloodied lines had been, there were suddenly bamboo trees, like in a Chinese painting.

  And I heard a voice say: “You know how to paint. Do it. Use that for your release and to find yourself. Stop cutting. That’s getting you nowhere.”

  I thought I might be losing my mind. I had been having anxiety attacks—those strange, almost out-of-body experiences like you’re floating away and turning into nothing and then your heart starts pounding and you feel really, really scared because turning into nothing is one of the most frightening things in the world—ever since my mom told me that we were moving again, away from our old house.

  And here I was in our new house. And I was hearing voices.

  Then ... he materialized. I was scared to death that I might be having visual hallucinations. But I also felt incredibly calm, as though I had traveled into some deeper layer of reality.

  The vague shape of a boy floated in the air in front of me. I could see through him, but not completely. He had definite substance, like the thick clouds that are denser than fog. And he had green eyes. I will always remember his eyes the way they seemed that first time I saw him: comforting and kind, filled with compassion, exactly what I needed.

  He whispered, “My name is Brandon Yates.”

  And then he was gone.

  I looked down at my arms. Every mark had been erased: the bamboo tree tattoos, as well as the cuts. I looked over at my bed—no blood, my quilt perfectly clean.

  I changed into my nightgown and got ready to crawl into bed. I felt I needed sleep more than anything else in the world right then.

  When I pulled back the sheets, I discovered pillows stuffed into black cases with pink lace trim. I thought them pretty. I felt thankful for a room that wasn’t too girly, that had touches of black and gray along with a subdued, dusty shade of pink. I pushed my head into the pillows, luxuriated in the feel of cotton, the clean scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, in my dreams, I saw a boy about my age. He had emerald green eyes, light brown hair and freckles splashed across his face like specks of cinnamon. He was running. His mouth was wide open, as though screaming, but I heard nothing. The silence was complete.

  I watched him.

  The scene changed. He stood next to a little boy, maybe three years old, who drank something and then fell down a long flight of stairs.

  I woke up, screaming.

  My mother pounded on her bedroom ceiling which was directly under my room. In response, my heart pounded inside my chest.

  My mother shouted up at me, “What’s going on? I have to get up for work tomorrow morning!”

  Work? My mother had a job? Our communication, or lack thereof, clearly sucked.

  “I’m OK. Just had a nightmare.”

  “Glad you’re OK. Goodnight.”

  Yeah, she was just glad to hear I was OK because that meant she didn’t have to get up and deal with it. Story of my life. But then I realized: she had heard me screaming. That was a good sign. It meant that she was sober enough to be woken up by a loud noise occurring one floor higher than where she slept. And she had a job. Oh, God, please let things work out here in this
new place.

  I fell back to sleep and dreamed this time of the same green-eyed boy handing me a piece of jewelry: a silver necklace from which hung a blue gem, black lettering etched into its silver setting.

  Then a voice came from inside the gem: “I am all yours, if you know what to do.”

  As I reached for the necklace, the small boy appeared before me, then once again tumbled down the stairs. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. I woke, covered in sweat. I went into the bathroom, washed my face, then returned to bed. I wanted to cut, but didn’t. I drew pictures of the gem and the young child for awhile in a notebook, then fell finally into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning, I dressed for school—jeans, sweater, boots—and headed downstairs for breakfast.

  My mom was already in the kitchen, wearing clothes that were basically decent, better than yesterday at least. She had on a navy blue pants suit with flat dress shoes, but she still wore makeup that was a bit too vibrant: red lipstick with dark blue eye shadow that made her eyes appear kind of sunken in their sockets.

  She pointed to the table. “There are some muffins for you in that box over there.”

  “Where?” I looked at the items on the table, and there were no muffins.

  Mom got an exasperated look on her face and grabbed a box from behind a pile of books. “Here. Right here.”

  I looked at the box. Cupcakes. It was clearly marked Banana Cupcakes.

  “Mom, those are cupcakes, full of sugar. They’re not muffins.”

  My mother rolled her eyes and turned back to preparing her own breakfast. “Well, they have bananas in them. That’s good for you. And there’s orange juice in the fridge. Or you can have what I’m having.”

  Fiber cereal. No thanks. I opened the plastic wrapper on a pair of cupcakes and chowed down. Mmmmm, nothing like dessert for breakfast, all that sugar, sure to end up with me crashing before lunchtime, falling asleep in class.

  “So where’s your job?” I was extremely curious about this.

  My mom turned around with cereal in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other and sat down directly across the table from me. “At your school, dear. Didn’t I tell you?”

  I felt all the color drain from my face and my head get all swimmy like it usually feels right before I pass out. I told myself to breathe. I stared at my mother.

  “Is everything all right, Shade?”

  “Umm, I don’t know. Why would you get a job at my school? What kind of work could you possibly do there?”

  “Principal Lafferty hired me. I used to paint, many years ago. Do you remember me telling you about that? Well, your new school just lost their Art teacher to maternity leave, so I’ll be filling in for her until she returns. A stroke of luck, don’t you think? This town is turning out to be a wonderful new start for the both of us.”

  Without waiting for me to answer, my mom picked up her coffee cup and drained it dry. Then, noticing what must have been sheet-white pallor spreading across my face, she asked with an edge of alarm in her voice, “Are you OK, Shade? You don’t look so good.”

  Taking advantage of the potential for staying at home to avoid an entire day of humiliation, I quickly answered, “I feel horrible, actually ... like I might pass out. I think I’m getting my period.” I wasn’t getting it, but the mere mention of that completely normal event never failed to earn me all kinds of allowances and special privileges from my mother. I’m pretty sure she did that to avoid actually talking to me about anything related to sex.

  Worry lines creased her forehead. “Well, maybe you should stay home then. It’s a shame we won’t be going to school together, but there will be other days.”

  Ah, yes, other days. The sheer horror of that possibility slammed me with a headache so severe I actually did need to stay home. As soon as my mother left, I took migraine medication and slept for hours.

  When I woke, my head felt foggy. I wasn’t sure if it was from the migraine itself, the strong meds, or some kind of funk—depression or something.

  I felt empty. Like an empty vessel. That’s how I felt most of the time, especially when my mother pulled the rug out from under me and turned my life upside down—something she did so regularly, I never managed to put down roots and grow an identity. I never felt like a completely whole person. I felt more like a mass of emotions in flesh ... or completely numb, like that afternoon after my nap, when I just turned off the feelings I couldn’t handle.

  I needed to cut.

  I went into the bathroom, grabbed the white bowl off the counter. Then I locked the door to my bedroom and sat down on my bed. Pulling open the drawer in my nightstand, I found the brand new camping knife that Tony, my mom’s last boyfriend, had given me for my birthday. I unfolded it slowly. It was pretty cool with lots of attachments, and on a better day I might have investigated what each one could do. But I was only interested in the blade. I dragged it across my arm quickly before it could be thrown from me and winced at the sharp, intense pain. Having drawn more blood than I had expected from the sudden swipe of the blade, I watched it run into the pure white bowl. Once I felt invigorated, I went back into the bathroom, washed the bowl and my arm, bandaged up the cut and pulled down my long sleeves to cover it.

  Strangely, all my old scars that had disappeared yesterday were still gone. I only needed to hide the new injury.

  I thought of all the unusual things I had experienced yesterday: the razor blade being flung from my hand, the cool breeze passing through me, the artwork appearing on my arms, the voice telling me to create art rather than cut, the sensation of the teenaged ghost boy appearing before me, and all my cuts and scars being erased from my body. As I thought about it, I realized I felt very real attraction to that ghost. He was good-looking. I wanted to melt into his emerald eyes. I wanted him to appear again. Rubbing my finger across my lower lip, I daydreamed of him materializing before me once again and kissing me.

  Nothing happened, so I decided to work on an art project. Over the summer, I had given some thought to eventually becoming a tattoo artist or a graphic novelist. Becoming a tattoo artist seemed like a real possibility; becoming a graphic novelist seemed a much more difficult goal for someone like me to ever achieve. If this town had trains, I’d be the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. I came from a broken home in which my mother wasn’t satisfied with just one break. No, she wanted to break what was already broken, over and over again, until there was nothing left but shards. My soul itself was a shard, brittle and capable of cutting me into emotional ribbons.

  Sitting down at the desk in my room, a huge antique piece of furniture, I spread out the art supplies I had accumulated over the past couple of years. Choosing a tablet of drawing paper and colored pencils to start, I sketched a title on the top of the first page: Leggings Girl. I thought that sounded lame. I ripped out the first page and created a new title: Leotard Girl. I stared at it a bit. Nothing else came to mind. It would do.

  Leotard Girl would be the superhero of my first graphic novel. Her leotards would, unbeknownst to her, have come from Mars where they had been made by runaway robots landed there by humans. Whenever she put on those leggings, she would gain both Martian and robotic powers.

  I started sketching the first scene. Leotard Girl needed a human name. The word Dust popped into my head ... or Clay ... because without her special leotards, she would be nothing more than human dust or clay. No, no, no. I could not believe what I was doing—giving my character a weird name, using my mother’s warped method of bestowing names. I could never be trusted to have a baby of my own now. I would hand down weirdness.

  Jane. Jane Smith. That would be Leotard Girl’s human name. It was so plain, so simple ... so normal. I suddenly envied her, the way I envied my best friend Mary Jane. And they would both have the same last name: Smith. Normal as peanut butter and jelly, normal as bubble gum, normal as having a mother who cooked you dinner and dressed in acceptable clothing. Only her Martian leotards would make her someone beyond ord
inary.

  The first scene introduced Jane Smith. She was getting pushed around by bullies. With a yellow pencil, I gave her golden hair. With a green pencil, I gifted her with emerald eyes. I added rosy blush to her lips and cheeks and a silver sparkle to her eyes.

  Poor Jane. She comes home from school and tries to tell her mother about what happened to her and ask for motherly advice. But her mother won’t listen. Furious about Jane’s torn clothing and disheveled appearance, she makes her go upstairs to take a shower and insists that when she’s done, she wash her clothing and sew up the holes in her shirt and pants. “We’re not made of money, you know.”