Supergirl Mixtapes

by Meagan Brothers

“Your father, for what it’s worth, had high hopes for your visit. After years of being somewhat at odds with his own mother, I think he would like to see you have a less fraught relationship with yours.” Nina frowned. “As for me, if I truly wanted you to hate your mother, I would take you to the places she goes when she doesn’t show up at work. If I wanted you to think ill of her, I would introduce you to some of the people she calls friends—”

  “What about your friends? I guess it’s okay for them to come to your house and drink tons of booze and talk shit about people, but you expect my mother to be some perfect saint. So what if she isn’t? She’s an artist.”

  “She was an artist, once.”

  “She still is! You think just because she didn’t get rich and famous, you and your bitchy friends can sit around and cluck your tongues about what a tragedy she is. Well, guess what—she’s not a tragedy. She’s not somebody you have to save me from. You want me to come here and live with you and be some perfect little replicant. Well, I think that fucking sucks.”

  “Maria, turn around.”

  “What?”

  “For heaven’s sake, I’m not trying to turn you into a replicant. Turn around.”

  I turned.

  “Do you see that painting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother painted it.”

  “I know that.” It was huge, hanging over the bed. I could tell it was my mother’s as soon as I saw it. The colors she used, the purples and blues. The way it was sort of abstract but you could see shapes, the way you can see shapes in clouds. The suggestion of an angel floating above a nighttime sea.

  “If your mother had cared anything about herself, about her career, she could have easily sold that painting for thousands of dollars. Maybe even hundreds of thousands. But instead, she brought it to me. She was broke and strung out. She begged me to buy it from her, for the price of a fix. I finally agreed, thinking that, at the very least, I could safeguard her work until she was clean again. Would you like to know what I paid for your mother’s painting, Maria?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t.

  “Fifty-five dollars,” Nina said quietly. “Cash.”

  Tears ran down my face. I couldn’t stop them.

  “Now you understand,” Nina said. “And don’t you wish you didn’t?” She whipped a few Kleenex out of the box on the desk and handed them to me. “Here, clean up your face and come back to the party. Our guests will start to wonder.”

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t stop looking at my mother’s painting. Suddenly, I saw everything in it. It was more like looking out of a window than into a painting. I saw the entire city reeling into the night. I saw the night the way my mother saw it. Shrouded, violent, and cursed. I saw my mother smoking cigarettes in the dark. I saw her in the light, how pale she was, how dark her eyes. I saw that I wasn’t going to win. Nina wasn’t going to win, either. My mother was going to be the only survivor. My mother was going to live forever, in the blacks and blues of this painting.

  Outside, fireworks boomed in the sky like thunder. The entire living room sang “Auld Lang Syne.” Nina put her hand on my shoulder, then let it drop. She left, closing the door behind her. I blew my nose, wiped my face, wiped my hands on my dress. Nina’s dress. My hands trembled at the zipper, shook as I pulled off the silk stockings and the lacy push-up bra. I opened the closet and pulled out my old black sweatshirt and my baggy jeans. I put on heavy socks, laced up my boots. Jammed everything else into my backpack. I was leaving.

  In the living room, everyone was watching the fireworks. No one stopped me. I just walked out.

  I ran down the sidewalk, not sure where I was going. Just running. The cold air seemed to split my lungs. The sidewalks were crowded with people in party hats who peered out of the double nines in plastic eyeglasses shaped like the new year. They blew horns and kazoos and popped tiny confetti champagne bottles. The streets were flooded with people—the entire crowd, the thousands that had filled Times Square to watch the ball drop, was dissipating. All those crazy, freezing people were making their way back uptown and down, to their apartments and hotels. I ran to the corner of the park, to the Plaza Hotel and the horse-drawn carriages, into the train station to catch the N downtown.

  By the time I found the Bowery Ballroom, the doors were locked and there was no one around but the stage crew, dressed in black, with Mardi Gras beads around their necks, as they loaded big black cases of sound equipment into a truck. I looked in the windows of all the diners nearby, searching for Mom. But there was no sign of her. I walked uptown, then west. Toward the water. Past the Chelsea Hotel.

  Lee’s door was propped open, the elevator waiting. I pressed the button for his loft and listened to the rusty gears grinding. I was met at the top by a bare-chested guy with ripped muscles wearing only a diaper, a pair of Doc Martens, and a sash that read, in glitter, OH BABY NEW YEAR!

  “Can I help you?” He gave me a kind smile.

  “Is Lee here?”

  “He’s over at the bar—come on in.”

  Lee’s loft was completely transformed. A DJ in the corner spun trance music, and red lights swung around in the darkness. The room was packed with men—tall, short, old, young, some in costume, all of them drinking, dancing with each other, throwing confetti, laughing. The only women there were so made-up and androgynous looking, they had to be either drag queens or supermodels.

  “Maria!” Lee saw me before I recognized him. He was wearing a long silver robe, a fake gray beard, and a sash that matched the one on the guy at the front door. Lee’s read: YOU ARE SO LAST YEAR!

  “Lee, have you seen my mom?”

  “No, honey—she’s doing her Patti Smith thing.”

  “I know. I tried to find her, but—”

  “What? Come over here. I can’t hear you.”

  I followed Lee to his bedroom, behind the Chinese screens. It wasn’t much quieter. He pulled off the silly fake beard. “You look like hell, kid.” He wiped a mascara smudge off my cheek. “What’s going on?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t have the energy to tell him the whole story.

  “I just need to see her. I need to—there’s so much I have to say.”

  “Okay, don’t get upset. We’ll find her. How about if I get you a drink? A little wine?”

  Yeah. Get me drunk. That’s the answer.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Ginger ale, then? Hang on—stay right there, okay?”

  I wandered over to the window. I could see the lights of the city and my reflection all at once. The river running into my own face, the lights of the buildings and the cars tracing the outlines of my hair. I wished I could really become all of it somehow. Or that it could become a part of me. That I could have those lights inside me. That movement. All that aliveness. Because at that moment, all I felt was afraid. And the fear tightened my guts and my throat. The fear made me feel like I was hardening inside. Like I was turning to stone.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lee handed me a glass. He lit a cigarette. “It’s a beautiful city.”

  “I don’t know.” My hand slipped on the glass. I tightened my grip. “Maybe it’s a beast. Maybe it just eats people alive. Maybe that’s the way it lives.”

  “Kid, don’t go getting all dramatic on me.” Lee smiled. “You’re gonna be fine. Your mom’s gonna be fine. You’ll talk it out, you’ll cry, you’ll laugh, you’ll do each other’s hair. Trust me.”

  I watched him take a drag off his cigarette.

  “You mind if I bum one of those?”

  “Tsk.” Lee looked up at me. “And stunt your growth?”

  I walked east until I found myself in front of Gram’s dorm. I didn’t bother to call first to see if he was there. I didn’t even bother to wait on the elevator. I ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. Out of breath, I pounded on the door. He had to be home. If he wasn’t, I would wait.

  “Hey.” It was Sandy, Gram’s roommate. “Maria, right?”

  “Uh-hu
h. Is Gram here?” I was still gasping for air.

  “Um, hang on, okay?” Sandy closed the door and left me standing out in the hall. I swallowed hard and tried to smooth down my hair. After a few minutes, the door opened again.

  “Gram—”

  “Hey.” He stood there with one hand on the door, a flat black box tucked under his other arm.

  “I really need your help—” I stepped toward him. He backed away.

  “I hate to hear that,” he said. “You know, this whole thing’s been pretty humiliating. I’d rather you not come back here again.”

  “Please, Gram. I just need to talk to you—”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He handed me the box. “Here. Take this. I can’t listen to it anymore.” I realized what it was. The George Harrison album. All Things Must Pass. Gram started to close the door. I stuck my heavy boot in its way.

  “Wait!” We were just inches apart now. He backed away again. “I have to tell you this. I wouldn’t have spent the night with you if I didn’t really care about you. I wanted to tell you, but I got scared. I was afraid you wouldn’t—” He wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking out over my head, his eyes full of tears. “I know how bad it is. What I did to you. I know how bad it feels to be lied to. And I’m sorry. I just need you to know that I’m not … I’m not what you think I am.”

  He finally looked at me. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you are.”

  16

  Downstairs, at Citygirls, the music was thumping. I stood on the corner, looking up at the apartment. There was a light on in what used to be my room. The living room. Someone was home.

  I went upstairs and unlocked the door. The place was a mess. Dishes stacked in the sink. Take-out containers piled by the trash. I could hear softly plucked guitars coming from the stereo, and, on top of it, another guitar there in the room. Travis sat on the end of the pulled-out futon, strumming his guitar along with the record player Mom gave me for Christmas. I didn’t recognize the song, but it sounded almost like a hymn. The singer kept singing Jesus, help me find my proper place.

  “Hey,” I called out.

  He didn’t look up. “I thought it might be you.” He stopped plucking his guitar. “I don’t know why. I didn’t have any reason to think it would be. But here you are. The prodigal daughter returns.”

  “I’m not prodigal. Mom asked me to leave.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Still at the Patti show with her friends.”

  “You didn’t go?”

  “I got uninvited.” He strummed the guitar. “There’s a card for you on the kitchen table. It came in the mail a couple of days ago. From your dad.”

  I found the green envelope with my name on it and slit it open. It was a Christmas card, with a cartoon Santa stuck in a chimney and a joke caption that wasn’t funny. When I opened the card, something fell out. I picked it up off the floor. It was a Polaroid snapshot of a motor scooter, parked in our driveway at home. Beneath it, in my father’s crooked scrawl, it said “Merry Christmas, Slugger.”

  It took me a minute to make sense of it. Then I remembered. Thanksgiving. Out on the porch at Grandmother’s. Of all the things he could’ve picked to remember.

  “I was kidding about the motorcycle,” I said to no one.

  “What?” Travis said.

  “Nothing.” I stuffed the picture back in the envelope.

  “So, where’ve you been lately?” Travis asked. He put down his guitar and walked over to the kitchen table.

  “With Nina.” I gritted my teeth, remembering how angry I was with him. “Why didn’t you tell me Mom was sick? Why didn’t you tell me she had a heart attack last year?”

  “There’s a lot of stuff I wasn’t supposed to tell you.” He didn’t look up.

  “Yeah, that’s everybody’s favorite game these days, isn’t it? Don’t Tell Maria.” I crossed my arms. “Why’d you tell Gram to stay away from me?”

  “I didn’t tell him to stay away from you.”

  “Well, he doesn’t want to see me anymore, so if you’re out to ruin my life, mission accomplished.”

  “I told him to be careful with you.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told him anything at all.” I felt like I was going to cry again, but I’d been crying so much lately, I didn’t have any tears left. “He’s the only friend I had up here.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you? You’re my mother’s boyfriend.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s what I am,” he said. I suddenly realized how close he was standing.

  “Travis.” I took a small step away from him. “Why did you kiss me that day?” He hesitated, scratching his beard stubble with the back of his hand.

  “I don’t know. I just felt like—I dunno. Something came over me. Ever since you got here, I …” He frowned. “I was thinking about leaving her, you know. Before you came.”

  “You stayed because of me?”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s crazy,” I whispered, barely able to talk.

  “Don’t you think—” He licked his cracked lips. “Do you think maybe we could try—” He touched my cheek. I closed my eyes and opened them again. He was still Travis. The top buttons of his shirt were undone. I touched the tattoo over his heart.

  “Who’s Aileen, anyway?” I asked him.

  “My mom.”

  I closed my eyes again. He rested his hand on my neck. I could feel him moving closer to me. I could smell the sweetness of his breath.

  “Travis, don’t.”

  He stopped. His hand dropped.

  “Christ. You’re right. It’s crazy, isn’t it?” He exhaled. “You’re lucky, Maria. You’re too smart to fuck up like this.”

  No, I wanted to tell him. I’m not smart at all. Everybody keeps insisting that I’m so smart, but I keep acting so stupid.

  “I’m sorry, kid.” Travis kissed the top of my head. “I’m sorry you had to get dragged down into all this crap between me and your mom. I’m just sorry as hell.” He looked hard at me, and I thought he was going to cry, himself.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Travis shook his head. He closed his eyes tight, pressing his thumbs deep into his sockets. Then he patted me on the head and walked back into the bathroom. I’d had my backpack on my back the entire time. I was so exhausted, I hadn’t even realized I was still carrying it. I dropped it on the floor, the edges strained square with the record box Gram had given me. Forget it; I’d unpack in the morning. I lay down on the futon and closed my eyes. In the seconds before I fell asleep, I heard Travis turning the bathroom faucet on, then off. The record ended. I heard the metal clink of Travis’s belt sliding off.

  I don’t know how long I slept, if I slept at all, before I heard the crash. The scattering of broken glass. I jerked awake and stood up. The bathroom door was still closed. I walked over. I didn’t hear a sound.

  “Travis?” I knocked. No answer. “Travis, are you okay in there?” I knocked again. “Travis, you’re kinda freaking me out. Is everything okay?” I turned the knob. It was unlocked. But when I pushed on the door, there was something heavy pressing against it. Travis.

  I threw my entire body against the door. When I finally wedged it open, I saw Travis in a heap on the tiles. His belt was tied around his arm. There was a needle sticking out of the crook of his elbow. I yanked it out and his blood spurted, drops of it hitting my face. I thought I might be sick. There was blood everywhere. Somehow, when he collapsed, he’d pulled the medicine cabinet down off the wall. There were pills and Band-Aids and broken glass everywhere. And all this blood. His hands were cut. I pressed my head to his heart. I could hear his heartbeat, and he was still breathing. I wasn’t sure whether to try CPR or what. I ran out to the phone and dialed 911.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “My friend—He’s had a—He’s overdosing on drugs—”

  “Calm down, miss.
What’s your address?”

  “You have to send help—”

  “We will, miss, but I need to know where you are.”

  “If you could just tell me what to do.” I stretched the phone cord into the bathroom and knelt next to Travis. He was still breathing. Still breathing. “I just need to know what to do.”

  “Miss, please calm down. We need you to tell us where you are.”

  “I’m in Brooklyn. I’m—” God, I couldn’t even remember the address. “By the BQE. The apartment above Citygirls.”

  The sun was already up when the doctor came out to the waiting room and told me that Travis was going to be all right. When he told me, I sort of collapsed a little, and they tried to make me stay. They shone a light in my eyes, but I told them that I wasn’t the one on drugs. I told them I had to find my mother, and when the nurse was out of the room, I left.

  I found a pay phone near the hospital and called the apartment. When I walked back, I saw the place where the wooden doorjamb had been shredded when they rushed Travis out on the stretcher. The bathroom was still a wreck, the broken glass and plaster still in the sink. Mom wasn’t there. I wrote a quick note and left it on the table. Mom—Travis at hospital on Atlantic. No drawings. I grabbed my backpack and took the subway into Manhattan. It took a minute for me to realize why everyone was staring at me. Then I looked down and saw the dried blood on the collar of the white undershirt I wore beneath my sweatshirt. I felt my face and realized the blood had dried there, too, hardened into tiny scabs. I flicked them off and adjusted my sweatshirt. The train lurched and sped.

  I reached into the front pocket of my backpack and took out my Walkman. I kept at least four Supergirl Mixtapes with me at all times, so that no matter what mood I was in, I would have something to listen to. But suddenly there was nothing, no music that I wanted to hear. I searched the cassette boxes, the song titles blurring together in front of my eyes. None of this was going to help. I put on my headphones, but I didn’t push play. The whine and groan of the train wheels got a little quieter. That was all.