Such A Pretty Face

by Cathy Lamb

  I remembered my grandparents’ words that I would always have the Schoolhouse House as I stared out at that river from the spot where Helen had thrown me over.

  You’ll always have the Schoolhouse House, Stevie.

  My grandparents, in their infinite love for me, had given me the house, and the land, so that I would have it forever. So that I would know and feel their love for me, throughout my entire life. It was a gift for forever.

  I snuffled, I sniffled, and finally I laid my head down on the rail and cried my eyes out some more. Ingloriously, rawly, freely, brokenly, I made so much noise I could hear nothing but my own pain. My grandparents had provided for me even when they were gone.

  My own noise blocked out the sound of footsteps.

  I didn’t hear him come up behind me until his hand was on my shoulder. I whipped around, panicked, breathless, and there he was.

  Uncle Shane. One of grandpa’s many cousins through his father. I’d been told to call him uncle because he was about thirty years older than me.

  “Unc…Unc…,” I stuttered. “Unc…”

  “There now, there now, don’t say nothin’. I heard you were back, child. I heard.” Grizzled Uncle Shane pulled me into his arms and held me tight while I cried and cried, all over his overalls, all over his flannel shirt, while he patted my back.

  We watched the sun go down together, his arm around my shoulder. We didn’t say anything else at all.

  The next morning I took a deep breath and opened the door to my and Sunshine’s room. It was another wave of grief, pure and piercing, and I had to lie down on my bed and stare up at the green, tulip-shaped light until I could function as a non-whacked-out human.

  The Fish game was right where I’d left it. In my head I thanked the people of Ashville for knowing not to move that game.

  For the first time I flipped over Sunshine’s cards.

  Not a bad hand.

  I picked up my hand.

  Yep. Sunshine probably would have won.

  I touched the dollhouse Grandpa made us, then leaned back against the pink walls.

  Yes, there was grief, but something else was sneaking up on me, too. Happy memories. Fun memories, here in the Schoolhouse House that still had that smell of chalk, gingerbread cookies, and fresh-baked bread. I remembered the dinners at the table, and painting with Helen on the deck. I remembered her songs and that beautiful voice, how she belted out “Superstar” or “Amazing Grace” in church, and her quiet times, when she would pat me on the head or hand. I remembered Grandma and Grandpa telling me good night and Grandma’s “Praise God” talks.

  I had, for sure, let the ending of my life here completely overshadow the good. Understandable. I got it, I’m not brainless, but here, in my and Sunshine’s room, I started feeling the good, the happy, the love of my sister and grandparents. I didn’t feel the love of Helen.

  In the afternoon I went to a family potluck in my honor in the park near the statue of Grandma. We walked over to Grandpa’s statue, too, and I am not embarrassed to say that I hugged him, too. There were only 250 people there. A small party with The Family.

  The next night I went back to the bridge again. Same time. Same tears, same breakdown, same mix of hopelessness and loss, but this time, when I was in the middle of my breakdown, I thought of running through the woods with Sunshine. I thought of the white butterflies we’d chased. I thought of the candied apples we made with Grandma and the kite flying we’d done with Grandpa.

  I heard his steps this time as he approached. He had brought his wife, my aunt Sallie, and their three kids, who were my age, and two other kids I used to play with, and they said they were so glad to see me—was I staying? Please stay. Please move home. I hugged all of them, and it was a mini-reunion. A reunion at a death scene, so to speak.

  “Dear, oh, dear,” Aunt Sallie squeaked. “I am so sorry, but I’m so happy to see you, my love, and I see your mother’s face in you.”

  For the first time, I didn’t cringe, I actually managed a smile. My mother had been beautiful, after all.

  And then Uncle Shane told them to be quiet and said, “What are you, rabid, charging buffaloes? All this noise. Give the girl quiet,” and I was glad of that quiet, and we watched the sun go down, me and my relatives and a couple of old friends, their arms around my waist, and I was not alone.

  I was not alone.

  This time, I opened the door and stepped into Helen’s room.

  Her room had been cleaned up. Perhaps the ladies couldn’t bear to have me come home and see what Helen had done with it. When I lived there, Helen’s room was her, disoriented, disorganized, chaotic. She had refused to let Grandma help her clean it and wouldn’t allow me and Sunshine in there. Besides piles of stuff, there had been her collections of rocks (to throw at Punk), feathers (she would fly away one day), and chicken wire.

  But they had cleaned it, ordered it, so it wouldn’t bring back a wash of chilling memories. I flipped through the neatly hung prom and performance dresses from high school and her career onstage and wondered what might have been for her, and for my father, and me, if this illness had never existed in the first place.

  I opened Helen’s hand-carved hope chest.

  There were the playbills from her singing days in New York. Photos of her and friends and family. High-heeled shoes. Dried corsages. Trinkets and boxes of jewelry a young girl would wear and jewelry that was clearly worth a ton, as the Tiffany boxes reflected.

  And then there were the artists’ portfolios.

  I took them out, one by one, then climbed up on Helen’s bed and opened them.

  I was so shocked, I couldn’t speak.

  Pages and pages and pages.

  More pages.

  Hand drawn, with charcoal pencils and colored pencils and pastels. Painted in oils and watercolor.

  Me alone.

  Sunshine alone.

  Me and Sunshine together.

  Grandma and Grandpa.

  On the deck, riding on horses, feeding the pigs, running through the cornstalks, dancing, playing dress up and checkers, baking sweet rolls and brownies with Grandma.

  We were drawn and painted, normal, happy, cheerful. There was nothing skewed or twisted at all.

  In fact, each picture radiated love. Warm, soft, yellow and pink and motherly love.

  When, when would the tears stop?

  At Sunday church I was welcomed with great applause, and I hung out with only twenty-two female relatives afterward. We went shopping for bras and got ice cream.

  Later in the day, same time, though I told myself not to go, I had to—I was called to the bridge. Why do we have to go places that hurt us? Is it because if we don’t we won’t heal? Is it because our brains have to replay those tragedies until we can manage them, accept them, deal with them? Is it because we want to save our sanity?

  I don’t know that, either. I simply knew I had to go.

  As I drove I remembered my poor mother, curled up in corners, crying, saying she was “just a Helen” and couldn’t talk because the voices said, “Shut up, slut,” and I felt sick for her, sick for the sickness that thrived within her mind. I remembered her crying that she was a “no love person,” that she should die, she should be a squished bug, a dead dog, a dead kitty. I remembered her raging at the voices, her hopelessness and despair.

  I heard a lot of footsteps as I stared down at the river. This time they were all there. The Family. Uncles, aunts, cousins, great-aunts and great-uncles, and friends from childhood and their families. Uncle Shane told them to be quiet, and said, “What are you, a stampeding bunch of hippos? All this noise. Give the girl quiet,” and I was glad of the quiet.

  I needed that quiet, for my soul, for my sanity, which seemed a little more firmly planted, and we stood on that bridge, a mob of family who is never quiet, and we were quiet for a long time. I heard people sniffling, and I heard the sighs and the soft moans, and I understood them, I did. I was not the only one devastated by what happened here, un
der an eerie red-gold haze surrounding the moon with frothing clouds.

  A woman started singing “Amazing Grace,” her voice rising and falling, full and soulful and ringing, it seemed, with the sound of every voice over all of time that had ever sung that song in pain, in desperation, in pleading, in grief.

  Soon they all joined in, each note mixed with a tear, hands on my shoulders, pats on my back.

  Twas grace that taught my heart to fear. And grace, my fears relieved. How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.

  And on that jam-packed bridge, as I struggled with my memories, I felt my soul go soft, and then it was as if I was on the bridge, but not, and I was floating somewhere above it, and I saw Sunshine, and beside her I saw my grandparents. My grandparents had their arms out, and in my vision I ran to them and they hugged me tight, and I bent to hug Sunshine, but she had grown and now I was hugging a woman, the woman that my golden Sunshine would have been.

  I saw my father, black hair and expressive eyes, and he was holding me as a baby, and he mouthed to me, I love you.

  And finally I turned to Helen, who was wearing a blue dress with the collar up and smart red heels, her blond hair back in a ponytail, and she was smiling at me, as a normal mother would, with love and care and gentleness, and there was no madness in her eyes, there was no tin foil or floppy yellow hat, it was just her, as she had been, as she was meant to be, before the schizophrenia shredded her from the inside out and made her his.

  She held out her arms and pulled me close and told me that she loved me, loved me, loved me—she was so sorry—and I pictured myself saying, “I love you, too, Momma. I always did, I always will.”

  She kissed me on my forehead and on my cheeks, and I closed my eyes tight so I could remember that love. I wanted to hold it, hold that feeling, so clear, as if it was really happening, so that on the rest of my journey, I’d have that love close by.

  Because I knew, and I could accept, that my momma had loved me. She had always, always loved me.

  Schizophrenia had simply been in the way.

  I sang “Amazing Grace,” not loud, not quiet, but I sang it. I sang it with The Family.

  I had one final trip the next morning. I drove The Mobster down to the river, then walked down the hillside to the place, a sandy crescent of land near a big rock, where Mrs. Zeebach had found me in the early hours of the morning after I’d been tossed off the bridge. I waded into the water.

  In the daylight, as a child, when I could think again, I’d recognized where I was. I was directly across from the swimming hole, which was backed into a bay, a rope hanging from a tree that I’d swung from with Grandma.

  I had felt guilty my whole life for not saving Sunshine, but as I watched the water flow past, and noted how fast the current was, I knew that saving Sunshine would have been impossible, especially at the age of ten, injured, in the dark, in the rain, and stuck in two different currents.

  Impossible.

  I am not to blame for Sunshine’s death. I had almost died trying to swim to her, to rescue her. I had stayed up all night, much of it standing in that freezing river, soaked, horrified, shaking, waiting for her.

  Sunshine’s death had not been my fault.

  I can’t say I was happy with this knowledge, but it did lift an enormous weight from me.

  It was a stunning day, the sun bright, the sky cloudless, but soon my feet started to freeze and I headed back to the rock and sat down, idly running my hands through the dirt and sand, sifting it, feeling its warmth, the river rushing right on by.

  I touched something, and it wasn’t dirt, and I pulled on it, gave it a tug, and there it was, tarnished and chipped and worn, but still together, every charm still attached.

  My hands trembled as I studied each little charm—the clover, the cross, the flower, the dog and the cat, the house and the heart—then I brought it to my lips, and I knew that the tears would probably never stop, and that that was okay, that was my life. I would never be whole, in the general, normal sense, I got that, but I could be me, and be stronger for it, and do a head-banging dance like a hard rocker and skate like a booty breaker and paint chairs that made people laugh and think.

  I could do that.

  I could be Stevie.

  I put my charm bracelet on.

  I sat on the deck outside the Schoolhouse House that night.

  I had no idea what I would do with this property. I loved it. I could not see selling it. But could I live here? Could I live with the memories? Should I keep it as a vacation home, somewhere I would come, on the Fourth of July, for the parade, for the plays, for the long walks in the park that followed the stream that eventually met the river that flowed under the bridge?

  Would I be fine with that?

  More important, was I fine?

  I thought about that, being “fine.”

  Who was fine, after all, all the time? I don’t even think it’s possible. We’re the walking wounded, the walking hurt and betrayed and desperate and fearful.

  And yet.

  There’s so much to live for, too. Daisies, for example. I love daisies, and sunsets when you’re sitting by yourself on a hill are mighty spectacular. Gardens that grow and bloom and produce carrots and pumpkins, and paints of all colors that can transform a white canvas into a flowing picture of truth, are priceless. Brownies are delicious, as are Mt. Hood, Cannon Beach, white butterflies, Halloween, seashells, old books, and projects you do yourself. They’re all worth living for.

  And love.

  Love is so worth living for.

  34

  Venice, Italy

  When God made air, he made it sweeter in Italy.

  The hills shine with a golden glow, the grapes crowd the vines, the water runs bluer, and the Alps peek into heaven.

  When he was done with Italy, he must have sat back and said, “By damn, I’m good. Damn good.”

  And then humans came in and built Venice, on the water, rising magically, a city formed by sound engineering, lady luck, and angelic blessings. Even the pigeons know they’re special. From the winding alleys filled with flower boxes to the canals and gondolas and gondolier songs, to the history that hangs in the air, the memories of millions of people floating around, Venice is incredible.

  It’s enchanting and exciting and miraculous. The only sobering thought is that one day you will leave and Venice will go on without you, on a feather, in a dream, a vision you can’t quite grasp again.

  I thought I would surprise him, in this city built on water. I had located the apartment he was living in, down an alley, around another one, into a square, his shutters green, his windows overlooking the ocean.

  I waited on a stone bench and admired a fountain, carved hundreds of years ago, with diligence and care, by an artist who had his own life, his own losses, despairs, loves, triumphs, and disasters. That’s what we forget, I think, with art. Art does not simply appear. It came because someone dove into it, headfirst, with their imagination and their talent, envisioned what it was, what it could be, and how they could take it there.

  I smiled at that fountain, awed, and suddenly he was there, with that long gait, those broad shoulders. He towered over all the other people in the square. He was carrying rolled-up plans and two notebooks.

  Nothing had changed, I thought, as I watched the wind ruffle his hair, but as he got closer, I knew things had changed. He was exhausted, deep grooves down his cheeks. For a minute fear clutched my throat and I wondered if he was ill. I gripped the sides of the bench as the water from the fountain sprayed up. What a project that artist had tackled. Surely, if someone could sit and chip away at stone for years on end, I could get my butt off the bench and say hello. He was thirty feet away, and I didn’t move. Then twenty. Then ten.

  I stood up. The pigeons around me flew up into the air, and our eyes locked.

  Right there, in Italy, in Venice, by a fountain that someone had envisioned in his imagination, with love and with talent.

&nb
sp; I smiled. Then I cried.

  Jake dropped his plans, dropped his notebooks, his arms pulling me close, our tears mixing together as we laughed, and cried, and kissed. Right there.

  In Venice.

  Later that night as the moon, white and bright, shone through the lines of the shutters, I lifted my hands up. They weren’t shaking at all.

  My name was Stevie Barrett.

  Before that, before Herbert changed it, before I lost me from myself, before the darkness ate me, and I in turn ate everything in sight, I had another name.

  It was Grandpa’s and Grandma’s last name, and my momma’s last name, too. Sunshine had the same last name.

  It is mine again.

  I planted a garden and ate my own vegetables.

  I planted corn, watched it grow, and I didn’t fall apart.

  I built, painted, and sold chairs with soul.

  I skated in a derby competition, and I dislocated my shoulder. It was fun.

  I fell in love.

  I am on a journey.

  The journey is sometimes pleasant, sometimes wondrous, sometimes tragic. The journey is not done.

  I am excited about continuing the journey, but not now. Not today.

  Today I am me, and I am with Jake, and we are in Venice, and we are watching the gondolas, happy to be healthy, happy to be alive, happy to have today.

  Hello to happy.

  My name is Stevie Rockwell.

  I love Venice.

  Even the pigeons think they’re special.

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  SUCH A PRETTY FACE

  Cathy Lamb

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The suggested questions are included to enhance your group’s reading of Cathy Lamb’s Such a Pretty Face.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Which character in the book do you relate to, or like, the most? Do you recognize any of your own personality characteristics in Stevie, Lance, Polly, Cherie, Herbert, Crystal, Aunt Janet, Glory, Albert, or Zena?