by Dyan Sheldon
Celeste starts ripping leaves off the head of lettuce and tossing them into the spinner. “Everything. He was married with children. He had responsibilities.”
“Can you hear yourself?” Sorrel swings her legs to the left in Side Crow. She looks like a bird with a lot of questions. “You sound just like Lilah.”
Celeste does, in fact, sound just like her mother. Probably because it is her mother who is always telling her how sensitive and unrecovered from the divorce Astra is, and how badly Tylor treated them, and how devastating it is to marry someone you think is interested in women and making money only to discover that neither of those things is true.
“No I don’t.” She turns the tap on again, pouring water over the lettuce.
“Oh, yes you do. For one thing, when has your dad ever shirked his responsibilities? He pays the mortgage. He pays child support. He bought your guitar and your keyboard. He pays for your music lessons. You really can’t expect him to visit all the time, since your mother won’t let him in the house.”
The only reply from Celeste is the whirring of the spinner.
“Admit it, Cel,” says Sorrel. “You act like you believe everything Lilah tells you. If she told you the moon was made of cheese, you’d try to eat it, just to please her.”
“No I wouldn’t.” Celeste takes the tomatoes from the sink and puts them on the chopping board. “I know she’s—” Several words come to Celeste’s mind, but she doesn’t want to say any of them out loud. “Not always right about things.”
“Oh, I know you know that. But you’d never say that to her. You act like the only way of looking at things is Lilah’s.”
“That’s ridiculous. I do have a mind of my own.”
“Do you? Then what about all this?” Moving like air, Sorrel is now at the table, shuffling through the catalogues. “Why are all these colleges around here? Have they closed down all the ones more than a hundred miles away?”
Celeste starts to say that it’s because those are the schools her mother says have the best teaching programmes, but amends it to, “Because they have really good teaching programmes.”
“But you don’t want to be a teacher,” says Sorrel.
“It’s a good career. It’s something you can always fall back on.”
“Or never crawl out of.” Sorrel throws a catalogue at her. “And anyway, if you don’t want to do it, it isn’t a good career. A good career is the thing you love. You want to be a musician. Remember? Remember our plans?”
“Most musicians don’t make enough money to feed a cat, and you know it. That’s why it’s more a hobby than a career,” says Celeste, repeating something else her mother has told her more than once. “Besides, that stuff about being a musician was when you were alive. Remember that?”
Sorrel groans. “Have I missed something? You keep forgetting that you’re still alive, Celeste. And even if you want to have a back-up in case you’re one of the millions of musicians whose cat dies of starvation, you could still live in the city, so you could go to college and do music at the same time. It doesn’t have to be either or.” She sails another catalogue in Celeste’s direction. “You can’t tell me they don’t have any good teaching programmes in New York. And then you could live with your dad, and play in a band or whatever in your spare time. He doesn’t think music’s a hobby.”
Celeste’s mouth looks like heels dug into the ground. “You know I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Guilt. Resentment. Betrayal. Rage. The crippling migraines it would give her mother.
“My mom needs me to be nearby. She depends on me. She has nobody else.”
“What you mean is that if she had to replace you she’d need a dogsbody, two maids, a cook and a nanny. Or do it herself.” Suddenly Sorrel is standing right beside her. “All she has to do is tug on your strings and you do whatever she wants. She lets Astra act like a deranged prima donna, but she treats you like a servant.”
“You don’t understand.” Celeste slips a knife from the block. “It’s not easy being a single mother, Sorrel. It’s really hard. She has to have a job and do everything at home.”
“It looks to me like you’re the one who does everything at home. And like you’re going to keep doing it.”
Celeste takes a knife to a tomato like an Aztec priest about to cut out a still-beating heart. “At least my mother cooks a meal now and then, which is more than your mother ever does.”
There are things they’ve always known about each other – known and understood – but never really talked about. Until now.
“And at least my mother stays home now and then. Your mother isn’t here even when she is. She’s looking for dates online or reading one of her self-improvement books or talking on the phone. Or she’s lying in the dark in case she’s about to get one of her headaches.”
Ignoring everything Sorrel just said about Lilah (all of which is true), Celeste says, “Why would you even want your mother home? All you ever did was argue. It’s a miracle none of your neighbours ever called the cops.” If Celeste could hear herself she would be shocked and embarrassed by how angry and mean she sounds. But she isn’t listening, the words are just pouring out. “And you think my mom pulls my strings? Your mother never let up on you for a minute. She was always on your case.” Celeste stares at the knife in her hand. Where is all this coming from? Why? She has no idea, but she’s powerless to stop it. As if she’s opened the box that should never be opened and now can’t put anything back. “Sit up straight. Brush your hair. Wear blue. Don’t eat that. Maybe we should do something about your nose. I know she was supposed to be your agent or whatever but it was more like you were the prisoner and she was the warden.”
“I know that!” Sorrel screams back. “That’s why we were always arguing! But I’m dead, so none of that matters any more. You matter. Do you know how much you’ve changed in just a few months? What happened to all our plans? We were going to move to New York or LA, and we’d share an apartment and I’d do my modelling and you’d do your music and—”
“And then you died!” Celeste throws the knife in the sink, tomato juice splashing against the tiles. “I’m not what’s changed. It’s everything else!”
“For God’s sake, Cel, you can still have a life. You can still do everything we talked about.”
“No, I can’t. It’s all different now. You died and ruined everything.”
“It was an accident. You know that. I was so upset and calling you and not looking where I was going. But you know I couldn’t take it any more. I had to tell her. Maybe if you hadn’t been so afraid and we’d done it together— but oh no, you hate anything unpleasant or difficult, don’t you? God forbid you should upset anybody.” She steps even closer. “Or that anybody should upset you.”
“I said I was sorry,” shrieks Celeste. “What more could I do? I couldn’t handle it. I thought you agreed we could wait till we finished high school. I said I was sorry!” She turns to march out of the room – and freezes.
Her mother has come home on time after all, and is standing in the doorway, Astra and Winnie behind her, eyes wide and mouths open. All three of them look as if they’re the ones seeing apparitions.
“Celeste? Are you all right? What on Earth is going on?”
“I told you,” screams Astra. “Didn’t I tell you she’s always talking to herself? Didn’t I tell you she’s, like, totally nuts?”
Winnie starts doing her impersonation of a hyena, hanging on to Astra to stop herself falling over with laughter.
Still standing beside Celeste, Sorrel smirks. “Let’s see you get out of this one. Let’s see you make this go away.”
Ruben used to fantasize about Sorrel. A lot. And when he was asleep and couldn’t fantasize, he dreamed about her; dreams that had him waking sweating and tangled in the covers or wrapped around his pillow. Once, in a dream where he jumped from a cliff to rescue her, it was falling out of bed that woke him. Many of Ruben’s fantasies and dreams inc
orporated things from his mother’s novels, which are, of course, the books with which he’s most familiar – as well as more or less being the world in which he lives when he’s at home. Sorceresses and wizards. Creatures of legend and beings of magic. Ageless villains and timeless quests. Myth over matter. The dreams and fantasies, like his mother’s books, often took place in impenetrable forests, on remote mountains, on wind-blown deserts or in the underground hideouts of gold-hearted bandits.
Right now, because the window is covered in a space blanket and there is, of course, no electricity allowed in here – and if you ignore solid but mundane objects like the sink and the toilet – it is possible to mistake the Rossis’ bathroom for the cave of the warrior prince in Gaia Pendragon’s novel The Devil’s Love (Book Two in the Moondancer series). Close and dark and foggy with steam, the only illumination comes from the dozen tea lights whose tiny flames flicker in the gloom. The only sounds are running water and the melodious voice of a young woman telling stories in the night. The scent of lilac perfumes the air. But the running water is not an underground stream, it’s the shower; and the sweet voice doesn’t belong to the Earth guardian Chukona but to the phantasm Sorrel Groober. The scent of lilac also belongs to her.
Sorrel sits cross-legged on the lidded wicker laundry basket, talking – and Ruben stands under the shower, trying not to listen, wishing with all his heart that she would disappear for good. Once again, an event that a year ago would have been a dream come true – Sorrel Groober locked in a small, candlelit room with him – is now a nightmare.
Nightmare on Garibaldi Drive. From sexual fantasy to horror story in twelve short months.
“At least now I finally know why you wouldn’t let me in that time. Remember? In the Spring? When I wanted to use the bathroom? You did everything but throw yourself across the front door so I couldn’t get in the house.”
“Sorry,” Ruben yells back from inside the safe-zone made by the bath screen. “It’s hard to hear with the water running.”
“No it isn’t. Not to hear me.” And she’s right, of course. Being dead, Sorrel is one person who doesn’t have to shout to be audible over running water. He has no doubt that her voice would carry if he were standing under Niagara Falls. “So anyway, you know what’s funny? We all knew we were banned from your house for some weird reason. But nobody could figure it out. Not even Orlando. I mean, we couldn’t all have done something to piss you off. So it had to be that you were hiding something from us. That’s why I wanted to come in, to see what it was. Anyway, even though I knew that none of us was allowed in, part of me thought the reason you were so determined not to let me in that day was because you were afraid to be alone with me.” He sees her as a shadow through the glass of the screen, the ghost of a ghost. “You know, in case you couldn’t control yourself.”
Ruben’s so surprised by this remark that he drops the flannel. She knew he had a crush on her? How could she possibly know that? He’s the only person who knows that, and he never told anyone – especially not Sorrel.
“But I was way off on that one. Talk about making assumptions. Ego really blinds you, doesn’t it? Like you believe you really are the centre of the universe and not just some cosmic debris in human form. It was because of your mom, that’s why. You didn’t want anyone to find out about Sylvia.”
Thank God he’s already squatting to retrieve the cloth or he might fall. And then, ridiculous as it is – because, obviously, since she comes and goes as she wants and apparently can walk through walls it’s fairly difficult to keep anything a secret from her – says, “Find out what?”
“You can’t be serious.” Sorrel groans in a very un-spirit-like way. “We’re not going to play more games, are we? First the I-can’t-hear-you game and now the I-don’t-know-what’s-going-on-in-my-own-home game? Give me some credit, Ruben. I’m not exactly stupid. I mean, I know it’s dark in your house, but I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed that your mom has a couple of issues. Like the agoraphobia and the electrophobia and all the rest of them. She’s practically a human encyclopedia of phobias.”
Ruben doesn’t really want to talk about his mother. Not now, not ever. But especially not now.
“She’s a writer.” Usually he considers taking showers by candlelight as something of a hardship. It can be tricky if you lose track of the soap or misremember where you put the shampoo. He sometimes gets out and grabs his pyjamas or clean shirt instead of a towel. Tonight, however, he considers the poor visibility a godsend. If he can’t really see Sorrel, then she can’t really see him. Especially if he’s crouched on the floor of the tub. “She’s sensitive.”
“Sensitive is having to wear a hat when you go out in the sun. Not covering your windows with foil.”
“It’s not foil, it’s space blankets,” he corrects.
“Oh, sor-reee… Blankets. Sheets. Stickers. What are you now, Professor Rossi? Every word has to be the exact right one? What’s the difference? A sheet of foil by any other name is still a sheet of foil. What I want to know is why you didn’t want me to know what’s going on. Did you think I’d make fun of her?”
“No. Of course not.” That actually hadn’t occurred to him; Sorrel wasn’t like that. It was the rest of the world he wasn’t so sure of.
“Oh, I get it. You figured I’d blab.”
She was like that. You had more chance of keeping a goat safe by putting it in the cage with a wolf than of keeping a secret safe by sharing it with Sorrel.
“That’s not it.” And here he is hunkered down in the shower, lying to someone who isn’t really there. At least he sincerely hopes that she’s not there. How can this be his life? “I just thought the best way to keep something private is not to tell anyone.”
“Well, for your information, I happen to be very good at keeping secrets. I’ve had plenty of secrets myself. But I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell Orlando. I mean, seriously? You think he would do anything to hurt you or your mom? And anyway, I would never drop your mom in it like that. Especially when she’s had such a shitty time. Plus she’s so nice.”
At last, something they can agree on.
“Yeah,” he says, “she is. She’s real nice.”
“That’s why we have to talk,” says Sorrel. “Just what are you planning to do about her?”
“I’m planning to have a cup of tea with her before I turn in.”
“You know what I mean. She needs help. She can’t go on like this, and you can’t either. It’s ridiculous.”
“I do help her. What’s ridiculous is you sitting out there so I can’t finish my shower and get some clothes on.”
“You think you’re helping, but you’re not. You’re part of the problem, not part of the solution. And I’m not going anywhere. We need to have a serious discussion about Sylvia. She breaks my heart.”
So that makes two things they can agree on.
“No we don’t have to discuss her. My mom’s fine, and I’m fine and everything’s fine.”
“Fine? You call this fine? Your mom barely comes out of her room. She won’t turn on a light or pick up a phone. She has no friends any more. And you’re not much better. I worry about you, too. You think you’re being positive, but what you’re doing is giving up. Running away from life. You come out in daylight, but that’s about it. You’ve pulled away from everybody, even Orlando. And you must know he needs you as much as you need him. His life’s not exactly a vat of ice cream. Celeste’s isn’t either. At least Sylvia has her writing. But you – you’ve not only ditched your friends, you’ve ditched your painting, too. Do you really think that if you get some job where you make a lot of money, it’ll protect you from bad things happening? How is that meant to work? You know what you’re going to end up with? You’re going to end up with nothing.”
“What?” he shouts. “I think I got some water in my ear. Did you say something?”
He sees her move, coming closer. “You know, you’re going to have to come out sometime, Ruben. If you stay in there m
uch longer, you’ll start to shrink.”
He probably already has. He’s been in here a while. He’d only just slid the bath screen shut and turned on the shower when Sorrel materialized. Since then, he’s scrubbed himself twice, washed his hair twice and begged her several times to go away. Now she’s peering through the opaque glass. Can she see him? Will she walk through it?
“I’ll come out when you leave,” he yells.
“For God’s sake, Ruben. I want to talk to you, not look at you.”
“What’d I say, Sorrel? I’ll come out when you leave.”
“Really? You’re going all modest on me?” If he were in one of his mother’s books, her laugh would be the warning sound of a Grenoch. “What are you worried about? I thought you don’t believe in ghosts.”
So did he.
“That’s the deal, Sorrel. If you don’t go, I’ll stay in here till I shrink so much I go down the drain and then you won’t be able to harass me any—”
Suddenly there’s a banging on the bathroom door. A frantic banging. “Ruben? Ruben?” The doorknob rattles desperately. “Ruben? Are you all right? Who are you screaming at? Are you okay?”
Damn it. Was he making that much noise? This is all he needs.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m fine.” If he wasn’t screaming before, he certainly is screaming now. “I’m just finishing up.”
“Is there someone in there with you? Who’s in there with you? Should I call the police?”
“No! No!” Terrific. She must be scared out of her mind if she’s willing to pick up the phone. “Don’t call the cops. I’m fine. I was just… I’ll be right out.”
He turns off the shower, grabs the towel from the rack behind him, wraps it around him and slides back the glass. Given the way she fades in and out like a faulty light, he doesn’t expect Sorrel still to be there, but of course she is. She has made it her mission to make his life even worse than it already is. She’s sitting on the sink now, looking as serene as the little red Buddha in Bread and Land.
