by A. R. Rivera
It reminded me of the dressing areas they had in the shops at the mall. There were no mirrors like a department store, though. It was probably a good thing: I wasn’t ready to look myself in the eye.
On the other side of the door, I heard the voices of the icy old lady and another girl. They were arguing. I listened and surmised that the other girl had dropped her diaper when she was putting her underwear on and now she needed another one.
“You get one. That’s it.”
“But it was on the floor. What if I get an infection?”
Cancer patients had to worry about infections, too, didn’t they?
The mean old lady huffed. “Don’t drop this one.”
When I was almost done dressing in my sweat pants and flannel shirt, the stall door flew open. Ice Lady was staring at me. “Are you finished?”
I grabbed my shoes from the lonely chair in the back corner, ignoring the pleasured thought of smashing that chair over her head. Passing through the door, I locked my eyes on the old woman.
“You’re a bitch.”
I used to wonder if I belonged in the general population. Not the depressive wondering in the abstract, like I was curious about my place in this great big world. No. I’ve always known there is no place for me. My wonderment was relegated to the safety of the general population, if I were a part of it.
If they were exposed to me, was it safe for them?
Chewing over that question, I shoved my way through the crowd that was content to ignore me the second time around. They only bothered with the girls on the way in because once we’re done in there, they were done with us.
The inter-city bus passed right by the clinic. The receptionist inside said it was ten ‘til one. That meant the bus would be there any minute. Walking the fifty feet from the door to the bus stop was exhausting. I thought for sure that I would fall apart before I got there.
The bus bench was hard and warm to touch even though it was shaded from the beating sun by an overhang. I welcomed the heat. Pulling the flannel tight around my empty stomach, the hot Arizona weather was not enough to chase away the cold I felt. It seemed to radiate from within.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I opened my eyes to find a girl with two blond braids and a baseball cap. She was resting a sign at her feet. It was a good one. Must have taken her hours to mutilate and paint a naked baby doll before tacking it to poster board.
“Aren’t you supposed to have someone drive you home?” She sat on the bench beside me, tucking her sign away behind her. “My dad makes me come to these things. He doesn’t know, but I had to have one last year.” She almost smiled, like revealing this secret gave her so much pleasure.
“Guess you really showed him.” I rolled my eyes as they filled with cool moisture.
“I have my license. I could take you, if you don’t live far. The car’s just around the corner. My dad won’t even know I’m gone.”
“Go away.”
“But, you look green.”
I needed to go home. I had to disappear into the feathery goodness of my pillow for at least forty-eight hours. Inhaling deep, I let out a long, relaxing breath. That damned water pricked at my eyes, but I clamped them closed and turned away from the girl. “Why are you here? Fuck off, already.”
Glimpsing back at the street, I found myself alone and let out a breath.
It was a pure, self-centered tragedy the way I reached for things I’d never have. Sometimes, when the void was gaping and clawing, it was tempting to forget that no one like me should ever be around children. My leeching would drain them. Any family I created would end up hollowed out—peeled like old paint from dead wood. Bleached bone and ash. Whenever I forgot to remember that, I ended up making things worse.
+ + +
24
—Angel
This whole day has been like one giant mind job.
The two guards accompanying me back to my cell are new, like most things in this place. I’ve been here about a week—I was called here for the states’ convenience. My case is unique so the review is expected to take a while and it was probably cheaper to move me here than to put the supervisory board up in a motel.
It’s more important now than at any other time of my life, that I get this right. I have to give them everything—every heart-wrenching, explicitly misconstrued detail.
I hate her. I think, keeping my gaze fixed on the shiny, off-white floor and imagining Avery’s face getting smashed under my steps. Her image is flat, moving along with me under the sheen of tile that encases like a trap. Her arms flail the width of hall we’re passing through. The very edges of each doorway are just beyond her reach.
My instructions are to be honest and not worry about what the lady with the tight bun or the thin quiet man thinks of me. Tara and Darren, I remind myself. Mister Brandon says they don’t have to like me. They just need to know that I don’t pose a threat to myself or others, so I need to be forthcoming.
Yeah, that’ll help. The sarcastic thought has me biting my lip.
When I get to my cell, the metal door is open. The lights are on, like always. I wait for one guard to walk in before me. After he turns to face me, I’m nudged inside. Behind me, the second guard directs me to turn and face him. I do, then numbly offer my bound wrists when he directs.
The first guard watches while I’m released from the restraints, then makes his way out the door. After he’s back in the hall, the second guard nods and steps out backwards, never once taking his eyes off me.
When the solid door slides shut, I turn to the small shelf mounted in the wall at the end of my bed. On top of it sets my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby. I pick it up, plop down on my squeaking bed, and set my mind to Daisy and her well-intentioned but destructive relationships.
I’m barely through the introduction before the racket at the door announces dinner is sliding onto the half-shelf just below the slot. The hard plastic tray is lime green.
I move to the floor, considering the food—you never know what you’re in for when they serve spaghetti and lime jello—and trying not to think about what must be said tomorrow.
Of all the things I’ve told them so far, most of its been soft. It was unfiltered truth, but it’s still only what happened before—that’s how life was before. And I don’t know if anyone will ever truly understand what that means.
Before. It’s a terrible word.
Now, there’s just after, which actually means lonely.
I imagine there must have been millions of moments when I might have seen a look and didn’t know it. But to recognize, one must first suspect and I never suspected. There were probably words, harsh ones, some arguments, too, that I overlooked because I was so deep in denial. Is it actually denial if one is wholly unaware? Part of me thinks I had to be conscious on some level, but that level must have been so deeply buried . . .
Pain shoots through my stomach when I think about what happened—and what I have yet to say. Out loud. Will they think I’m stupid? Will they hate me, too?—yes, the harder stuff begins again tomorrow. Unlucky for me, not until the afternoon. I think the hardest part is knowing what’s coming and having to wait until after my shift in the library tomorrow morning. The dread runs like ice in my veins, numbing my hands like freezing water.
The stomach ache I’ve been nursing all day is too much. With one fist clenched against my abdomen, I lean over my dinner tray and take a few bites of jello. The pain subsides after a few minutes and I slip into bed.
Turning on my radio, I’m hoping the balm of music will soothe me, but the tune echoing from my usual station is too upbeat. I roll the dial, searching for something more suitable for sleep. Every station is either in Spanish, only plays country music, or in the middle of a damn commercial break, so there’s no way to tell what type of music they’ve got.
Finally, I stumble over and orchestral arrangement. I’m not sure of the composer, but my nerves find it soothing. After some listening, I recognize the pi
ece as Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I turn the volume up and shut my eyes, letting my mind slow, despite the quickening pace of the piano.
Letting the notes build their world behind my eyelids, I imagine a thick black line stretching across endless white, painting the scene like a sheet of music. There’s a wide, black note like a beanbag chair. I take my position in the center as it begins moving in time with the melody—skating up and down along the scales. I float with the notes, over and under, around the arches and through the twisting paths.
The beauty of the ivories dancing makes me relax.
+ + +
25
—Avery
Imagine spending a day without light. Imagine waking up in the morning to no difference in light between the morning and the night.
No sun.
No electricity.
Try getting ready in the dark. Taking a shower without using the light: how would you even find the soap to wash your face? You’d probably fumble, break some shit, and hurt yourself.
That’s what it was like for me.
The days were blending; there was no light, no break to separate one moment from the next. I could not hold myself together. I was fumbling, trying to find my way in the dark and something way more stupid: I went back to that shrink again.
“Do it for Angel,” I’d told my reflection in the mirror that morning. “Show that bitch you’re not who she thinks.” I scoffed at my own stupidity, and then went anyways; while Angel was out living her rose-colored life.
And the session was weird.
Doctor Williams had the controlled air set too low, which chilled me to the core. And I didn’t like the way the shrink watched me—like I was some germ under a microscope or a snake about to strike.
“Avery.”
“Shrink Lady.” I mocked her monotone.
“I think it’s important to establish mutual trust. For that to happen, we need to be honest with each other. When I ask you questions, it’s to help you and Angel. Alright?”
I tried not to fidget in the chair in front of her desk. The soft sounds of sea birds echoed from a boom box placed somewhere in the room. Did she know I liked birds? Had I told her that? Did Angel?
Doctor Williams pressed her glasses up the slope of her nose with one finger. “I would like to talk to you about family.”
“My mom is around, but she’s an absent parent. I don’t know my dad.”
She sighed and waited. When I said nothing more, she started again. “When is your birthday?”
That question was too stupid to consider. I crossed my legs, feeling overexposed.
Doctor Williams sighed.
Then it was me who sighed.
“Okay.” Doctor Williams nodded at her notes then looked up. “Avery, I would like you to draw a picture for me.” She pushed a blank sheet of paper and a pencil across the desk. “A self-portrait.”
I felt the tug of a frown pulling at the corners of my mouth. I couldn’t remember why I thought this was a good idea. I didn’t want to give her anything. It would end badly, I could feel it. But I made the little drawing like she asked. I penciled my oval face, my black dash eyebrows, my thin lips and nose. I even asked for a green crayon for my eyes—which she didn’t have.
As I passed the drawing, a surge indignation drew me to my feet. I locked my gaze on her. “I won’t be coming back.”
26
—Avery
Part of the problem was I had been clinging to Angel—aiming to make myself whole by sticking to my friend. That’s what they’re for, right? I often wished for a way to fold Angel up and stuff her inside my chest, sure her fluffy soul could pad my bared walls and alleviate the throbbing.
Angels’ presence was a lively, contagious thing that held the ones she loved upon a pedestal. A high place where I enjoyed sitting, looking down at the emptiness that could not touch me. A place where I could relax. But I was hardly there anymore—on her pedestal. It seemed that Jake was the only one allowed up there.
+++
One night, we were to the hilltop overlooking the schools stadium. It had a decent view and there was no one around for miles. It was kind of our thing. But that night, the one place Angel and I could always go and relax felt like the sharp lip of an abyss. I had a feeling that my feet would slip at any moment, send me plummeting. More aptly, the hilltop was the point of a knife. One wrong move could thrust it into my belly.
When I was with Angel and we were full of liquor, standing on the hill, I could forget everything. But not that day, because of what I did at the clinic. I kept that secret to myself because I knew she would never understand. Especially about stupid-ass Troy.
So, I stood on the hilltop, pretending everything was fine, staring out at the schools’ stadium that would be packed with the junior varsity team in less than twenty-four hours. The stands would be filled. Then, when the seniors played on Friday night the occupancy would double. The whole town would shut down for that game.
What would it be like to be one of them—the Troy’s of the world—the ones everyone came to see? I wondered if it would be as satisfying as it sounded.
For nearly a week, Angel had been upset with Jake. Of course he had no idea because he was an idiot who thought when a girl said she was fine, she meant it. I understood her insecurity better than anyone, but also knew Angel stressed too much, in general, and even more so over all things Jake. She had nothing to worry about there. Angel had nearly a years’ worth of a solid relationship over a girl who wasn’t even an official band member. I told my girl not to worry, that if it actually came down to that chick being in Jakes’ band, all she had to do was talk to her and lay down the boundaries.
It had been days since that conversation, and there we were: Angel perched on a small patch of dried grass, curling her knees into her chest, staring at her hands. I watched from the corner of my eye as she crushed her bent knees in, tighter and tighter. Almost like she was trying to shrink.
“How’s Jake?” There was not a doubt in my mind that he was the issue.
Angel shrugged. “I’m surprised you remember.” She’d been a little short with me the past few days and I could hardly blame her.
“It’s on my list. And I remember everything.”
If I thought hard enough I could probably remember my own conception or a past life if I wanted to. I didn’t, though, because the life I was living was more than enough.
Most days I wished to forget.
My earliest memories were vivid. Not that I told Doctor Williams any of them. It was none of her damned business. Besides, those memories were hard to articulate. There was no color or sound, only strong feelings and bodies without faces, but I was short and spent most of my early years staring at the ground.
What I remembered most were long legs covered in denim and a pair of big hands that used to grab my waist. They held on so tight, I could never get away. It seemed to happen a lot in those first years, whenever my mother was away—at least I assumed, because no one ever came when I called out.
Every time I went to the bathroom denim clad legs would appear in the doorway. I’d see those big hands . . . And then, the room blurred. I was never sure if it was the lighting or my eyes, but when the room would come back into focus, I always felt like a gutted fish. I could never remember my face or my own hands, or even my clothes when the hands touched me, so I couldn’t say how old I was when it happened or long it went on, or even who did it. But looking back, it seems like it happened all the time.
I was too small. Fighting was useless. Crying for help did nothing. So I figured I had to guard myself; I stopped drinking to avoid using the bathroom, where it always happened.
I used to get stomach aches whenever I looked at a glass of water. It didn’t matter how thirsty I was—if I drank, I’d have to go and I would have gladly died rather than went willingly into a bathroom. No matter if I felt sick, if the sides of my throat were stuck together, I would pass it by.
Maybe I was in s
econd grade, because I remember being in music class at my elementary school. All us kids were sitting on the big blue carpet. It was a special place the teacher reserved for group singing. The whole class was in a circle, chirping the words to it bitsy spider or something equally lame while the teacher demonstrated the hand motions to the song. Suddenly, the room tilted.
I woke in the nurses’ office. And I don’t know what it was—maybe the lady’s kind, round face, or maybe it was that she simply asked, “What’s wrong, honey? Why won’t you drink anything?”
There was water, apple juice, grape juice, and even lemon-lime soda. All of them had been offered to me. But the voice that came with those denim legs and mean hands had been very clear with me. The blank face promised that telling anyone would make things worse, that no one would believe me anyways, and I would be punished. But he didn’t know how much I hated what he did to me.
I stared at the four cups set beside me. I was so thirsty. I decided that I was going to tell and then guzzle everything they had. And if the nurse would not help, then I would run away.
To my amazement, the kind school nurse listened. She never said I was making things up. Her face was frozen through the whole confession, though. A look I later realized was shock, but at the time she just seemed very quiet. Then, she promised that I would never have to live with the mean man ever again. She wrapped me in a blanket before leaving the small room to make a phone call. While she was gone, I drank down all four cups. When she came back, I asked for more.
And it never happened again—in that house, anyways. We moved away. My mom never asked about it and I never told said a word. Something in me knew that she wouldn’t believe me. She just kept working like she always did, and soon another pair of hands came to grab me when no one was looking. I was so stupid; I thought all I had to do was tell. I didn’t realize that day in the nurses’ office, I’d been lucky.
People think that because someone is small they have no value. Yet, fat people are a common topic of conversation in news and magazines. A person could get on TV just for being fat. Not smart or pretty, or talented. Just huge.
