Yet Merissa didn’t want to confide in Chloe about her father moving out of the house. It was too shameful!
In the dining room Merissa’s parents were speaking earnestly. Merissa was correct—they’d wanted to be alone but had not wanted to ask Merissa to leave.
Stacy’s thin, uplifted voice. Morgan’s deeper, hesitant voice.
Through a roaring in her ears, Merissa could not hear distinct words.
Half-blindly she was placing dishes in the dishwasher. She’d rinsed the plates carefully—as if being a good girl at such a time, helping out her mom with cleanup, would make a difference in this crisis.
She swallowed hard. She had a quick flash of a blond girl—anorexic-thin as a ballerina—her face hidden by a black half mask and her bare, scarred chest exposed for all the world to see. The (secret) little cuts on her own body, hidden beneath her clothes, had begun to sting. Compared to the desperation of Blade Runner, Merissa was relatively untouched—so far. But she had a dread of one of the deeper, more recent cuts starting to bleed and seeping through her clothing without her knowing it.
Merissa’s mother came into the kitchen. There seemed to be something wrong with her—she was walking strangely, as if she’d lost her balance. She was trying to smile, reaching out to Merissa, who shrank away, instinctively.
“I—I’m afraid—your father has something to say to you. It’s—it’s a surprise—I mean—” Merissa’s mother’s eyes welled with tears. Her mouth quivered, but she spoke bravely. “He wants to talk to you and he’s asked me to ask you—if you possibly can, honey—that you try not to cry.”
Try not to cry!
So I knew, Tink.
Wish I could be with you—wherever you are.
Merissa’s father led her into the living room, which was elegantly furnished—silk wallpaper, hardwood floors covered with bright Chinese rugs, the small grand piano at which Merissa had practiced her lessons since the age of seven, that ten years of piano instruction might be noted on her college applications.
Not that Merissa was naturally talented, as a pianist. You could say that she was average to good—when she practiced.
But in recent weeks, she’d ceased practicing. She’d stopped taking lessons. Neither her mother nor her father seemed to have noticed.
The living room was darkened, and Merissa’s father switched on a lamp. The intention seemed to be that father and daughter would sit down in this somewhat formal space—“Let’s get comfortable, Merissa. Dinner was fantastic. . . .” Merissa’s father’s voice trailed off guiltily.
Merissa stood, stricken. So frequently had she rehearsed a scene like this, she’d thought that it would be familiar to her, and in her control; yet as soon as her father began speaking, in this low, urgent, guilty-sounding voice, she began to tremble. For Daddy was smiling at her anxiously as one might smile at a small child—a small, terribly ill child.
Merissa wasn’t seventeen, but seven. In an instant her poise had melted away.
She would remember what Tink had said—Things happen to us. We don’t happen to them.
Something seemed to have been decided in the dining room just now. Between Merissa’s parents.
Something her father had said to her mother. Something definite at last.
Why? Why? It was stunning to Merissa to realize that possibly her father couldn’t control what was happening, either. That something was happening to him and not just to Merissa and her mother.
Like stinging insects, his words flew at her. Even as Merissa stood staring at her father’s flushed, awkwardly smiling face. She was very cold suddenly, shivering.
—know that I love you, Merissa—right?
—would never want to hurt you—
—nothing will be changed between us—you and me—
—will see you as much—almost as much—
—been a while since your mother and I have made each other happy—
—wouldn’t understand, honey—you’re too young . . .
—didn’t intend for this to happen but—
—met someone—
—not intentional, I swear—
—you will like her very much—and she will like you—
—she has seen your picture and says how beautiful you are—
—how much she wants to meet you—sometime—
—your mother doesn’t have to know—details . . .
—wanted to alert you, honey—
—think it’s best if I make this decision now—not later—
—start things in motion—
—your mother will have an excellent attorney—
—remember: nothing to do with you, honey—
—love you, Merissa—
—I promise—
Merissa was listening, yet she seemed scarcely to know what these strange hurtling words meant. For wasn’t Daddy her friend, and why would a friend hurt her?
And there was Daddy smiling at her, and he was opening his arms to her—as if about to hug her. And so she was thinking—(wanting to think)—maybe she hadn’t heard correctly; maybe she was just confused. And the sound of someone crying—(sobbing?)—in the other room was distracting to her and confusing—
Then Merissa’s father’s smartphone rang, in his pocket.
Such a look came into Daddy’s face! Merissa would long remember.
He’d meant to turn off the phone—hadn’t he? But somehow, he had not turned off the phone.
And so the phone rang, and he snatched it out of his pocket, saw the caller ID, and at once he was helpless, stammering an apology—
“Excuse me, honey—important call.”
He did look stricken. He did look regretful. But he didn’t turn off the phone. Quickly he turned away to take the call, gripping the shiny little phone to his ear and walking away, speaking in a lowered voice so that Merissa couldn’t hear.
Later she would recall—after her initial shock—how unhesitatingly her father had turned away from her, how quickly he’d walked away without a backward glance. Merissa could hear how excited his voice was, how eager and urgent. For whoever was calling Morgan Carmichael, in his home—whoever had intruded on his evening with his wife and daughter—was so crucial to him, nothing else mattered.
Merissa didn’t follow her father—of course. Merissa didn’t seek out her mother. Instead, like a sleepwalker, Merissa made her way to the stairs.
Then she ran stumbling up to her room.
Calmly thinking, There is nothing more I can do. Nothing more Mom can do.
Merissa shut the door to her room. She was moving blindly, instinctively.
In the bathroom, her trembling fingers opened the drawer beside the sink, seeking the little paring knife. Yes—there it was.
Part hidden, at the back of the drawer.
The blade had been stained several times with her blood. Each time, Merissa had carefully washed it with very hot water and dried it.
Like a surgical instrument, it was. And still very sharp.
Nothing more. Nothing we can do.
Except.
At the foot of the stairs Merissa’s mother was calling to her plaintively. Probably Daddy would be leaving now—whoever had called him had summoned him away. And Merissa’s mother would come upstairs to her in another minute, she supposed. Wanting to embrace her daughter and cry with her—but Merissa wasn’t going to cry.
Calmly she closed the drawer.
Calmly she prepared herself.
For when her father had departed to his mysterious new life and her mother was in bed, sleeping her heavy, stuporous, medicated sleep—this would be soon, and Merissa could wait.
16.
“NOT GOING ANYWHERE”
This time, she would not be a coward.
Taking up the little knife. But her hand shook so, she had to steady it with her left hand. A pulse began to beat hard in her throat.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
The touch of the cold steel against her feverish skin. A touch tha
t did not feel razor-sharp so much as consoling.
Never again to sleep, not a natural sleep. Pulses beating in her head, which would have to be silenced.
Terrible thoughts like furious hornets.
Excuse me, honey—important call.
Excuse me, honey—important call.
Hearing again the cell phone in her father’s pocket ringing. Hearing again her father’s apologetic words.
Excuse me, honey—important call.
Seeing the look on his face. His eyes.
Seeing how quickly he walked away.
And her mother calling to her—Merissa! Merissa!
But that was finished. Hours ago.
Now the house was darkened upstairs and down and it was a relief to her, the father had gone from her life; and the mother had medicated herself with wine and barbiturates and would sleep while the daughter’s life bled away in silence.
Not a coward! They would see.
But her hand shook so, pressing the knife blade against her throat. The carotid artery, beneath her jaw—she knew what this was. Not even Blade Runner had dared to cut in such a place, but Merissa Carmichael would cut in such a place if only her hand didn’t tremble so badly.
Instead she pressed the knife blade against the inside of her left forearm, where another blue artery beat beneath the soft, pale skin. On the internet she’d learned that the most effective way to slash one’s wrists is not perpendicular to the wrist but parallel to the wrist and the forearm; and so she pressed the knife blade a little harder, badly trembling now but biting her lower lip, determined not to fail—Knew you’d come through! That’s my girl.
There came a sudden stream of blood, though the knife blade had scarcely penetrated Merissa’s skin—quickly she blotted the wound with a wad of tissues, before any of the blood could drip onto the floor.
She should lie in the bathtub, she knew. In warm bathwater.
This would be soothing, she would not be so frightened. She would not be so tremulous.
But the prospect of removing her clothes, making herself naked and exposed to strangers’ eyes, lying in bathwater—and the bathwater discolored by her own blood!—this was ugly.
This did not appeal to her, for Merissa was a fastidious girl and could not bear the thought of being such a spectacle.
Maybe better to lie in her bed, as Tink had done. But Tink had swallowed her mother’s barbiturates—or so it was said.
Merissa was sitting on the edge of her bed, partly dressed. She was feeling faint—light-headed—and her heart was beating strangely.
She wanted to hurt herself—as she deserved to be hurt.
She wanted to punish herself—as she deserved to be punished.
She wanted to die—as she deserved to die.
Gripping the little knife more tightly, and bringing the tip of the blade against her forearm again, which was now bleeding, slippery with blood, she swallowed hard, and there came a sound of something scratching—angrily?—at a nearby window, and Merissa turned to stare at—what was it?—at the windowpane beyond her bed in which, since the room was lighted, there was nothing to discern except the blurred reflection of the room, and Merissa’s blurry figure within it.
No one, nothing there—of course.
Dry-mouthed, Merissa directed the knife blade another time, and another time there came the sharp, angry scratching sound at the window. Hairs stirred on the nape of Merissa’s neck.
“T-Tink? Are you here?”
It seemed that Tink was near—a hot, furious presence—for Tink’s skin often felt hot, and her carroty-red hair looked as if it had been singed with fire—and her green-glassy laser eyes that were capable of exuding such contempt.
Merissa stared toward the window but saw nothing except the reflection. She felt someone touch her—tug lightly at her hair—but when she turned, there was no one there—of course. . . .
“Tink? Tink? Where are you?”
It was the first time that Tink had appeared to Merissa since the week of Good News, which had to be almost two months ago. So long Merissa had been lonely, yearning for Tink, and so long Tink had kept her distance, and Merissa wondered now if Tink had been disgusted with her, and no longer loved her as a friend; and that was why Tink had not spoken to her in so long.
“Tink? I—I’m not sure what to do. I think that I—should—should do this—but—” Merissa’s voice faltered, like a child’s voice. She was so ashamed that Tink should see her like this, lacking Tink’s courage.
Another time Merissa felt someone touch her, now on the right shoulder; and when she turned, there came a touch—playful, teasing—on Merissa’s left shoulder.
“T-Tink? I wish you could h-help me. . . .”
Merissa’s eyes were widened, but her vision seemed to be narrowing, like a tunnel. Her teeth were chattering, though her skin was scalding to the touch. The little paring knife was gripped between her fingers so hard, the flesh of her fingers had begun to turn white, but suddenly, to Merissa’s astonishment, the little knife was pried out of her fingers and fell clattering to the floor. And she felt a warm breath against the nape of her neck, and heard soft laughter.
“Tink! Don’t t-tease. . . .”
Now Merissa could smell her friend’s singed-orange-peel smell, which was unmistakable. And a scent of cloves and cinnamon.
She would have snatched up the knife—(which was stained and ugly-looking)—except there came a sharp little nudge in her ribs like a painful tickle, and she gave a cry of astonishment, glancing everywhere around her—but Tink, though obviously present, was not visible.
And as Mr. Kessler frequently said, so much of the universe was present but not visible to ordinary human eyes, from the smallest molecules and unicellular creatures to the vast emptiness of space, a no-color that defied human perception.
And in this universe, as much as 90 percent of matter was invisible—black holes.
“Tink? Don’t be mean, Tink—talk to me. . . . Help me, tell me what to d-do. . . .”
At Merissa’s feet, the little stained knife appeared to be kicked—by an invisible foot—sent skittering beneath her bed.
Merissa laughed, this was so—astonishing.
Even the girls of Tink, Inc., would not believe this.
Merissa’s heart was pounding so rapidly, she could barely catch her breath. Since taking up the knife a few minutes before, she was becoming increasingly light-headed, and now her eyelids fluttered, her eyelids were drooping and heavy, she was lying on her side on the rumpled bed, not entirely awake, yet not unconscious or sleeping; she was sure she was not sleeping; and there stood Tink at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips and elbows pointed outward; and Tink shook her long, wavy red hair, which fell about her small face in ringlets, and she was wearing the grungy black leggings that had become too tight for even her small body, and the loose-fitting GUERRILLA GIRL jersey with the stretched, just discernibly soiled neck; and she squinched up her face, saying, M’ris! Don’t emulate me! Killing myself was, like, the dumbest mistake of my life.
Tink laughed as if she’d said something witty. Merissa stared at her through tightly shut eyes, wishing badly that Tink would not vanish from her even as she knew that Tink would vanish as soon as she opened her eyes.
Time for bed, M’rissa! Fuck ’em.
Tink laughed and climbed into Merissa’s bed, curling up like a big, awkwardly graceful cat. Merissa remembered how Tink had made them laugh, describing her mother’s efforts to turn her into a baby ballerina—lessons that began when Tink was three years old—what a bore it was having to be graceful.
Like there’s nobody in actual life who would be such an asshole to walk around “en pointe”—so your toes break, and bleed, and get all crippled.
Merissa was laughing, and she was shivering so badly that her teeth chattered. She knew not to open her eyes, that Tink would vanish when she opened her eyes, and so she fumbled to pull the comforter over Tink, or part of Tink, and over herself, for she was
so very tired, so sleepy now, and feeling relaxed now that Tink had come to be with her at this terrible time.
Merissa groped to switch off the light on her bedside table.
Tink sighed, shivered, and curled against Merissa’s foot.
I’m here. I love you, dude. I’m not going anywhere.
17.
“JUST THERE”
When Merissa woke in the morning, dazed and groggy and her bloodstained arm aching, there was no one in bed with her, no one in the room—of course.
But Tink’s scent remained. And beneath Merissa’s bed, kicked at least a foot under the bed, was the bloodstained little paring knife, which Merissa quickly retrieved, washed thoroughly in her bathroom, and returned to the kitchen drawer downstairs, where its absence had never been noted.
Each night following, Merissa had only to shut her eyes and Tink appeared.
Merissa had only to switch off her bedside lamp, climb into bed, and pull the comforter over her, and Tink appeared; and the healing sensation of sleep rippled over Merissa like warm water.
Remember, dude: Tink is here.
Tink is not going to go away.
It was too private; Merissa couldn’t tell her friends.
Except mentioning to them, casually, “Guess what? Tink was in a dream last night—she hasn’t changed much at all.”
(But was this true? Tink had seemed just a little different—the hair in ringlets was a change, and what she’d said about k*****g herself—this was a remark unlike any Merissa had ever heard from her friend when she’d been alive.)
Chloe said, with a strange look, “Oh God! Last night? I think—I think Tink was in my dream, too. She didn’t talk to me, though—did she talk to you, Merissa?”
Merissa shook her head no.
Hannah said, “Oh, Tink never talks to me, either! Which is weird because, in life, she talked all the time.”
“Tink doesn’t need to talk, does she? She just—is there.”
They agreed, Tink was just—there.
18.
“HELP”
Merissa’s mother took Merissa’s hand in both her hands and held it.
Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You Page 8
