Like Normal People

by Karen Bender

  Shelley turned away, trying to imagine herself the same way. The Pacific was a flat plain of silver.

  “That’s where we’ll have it,” said Lena, gesturing toward the ocean. “Our vacation house with a pool.”

  “That’s the pool?” Shelley asked.

  “It’s big,” said Lena. “I wanted it to be big.”

  “It’s the ocean,” said Shelley.

  “I want to make it our pool.”

  “You can’t just own the ocean,” Shelley said, feeling bossy.

  “Why not?”

  She wasn’t sure. “There are legal rules,” she tried. “It belongs to the countries around it.” That didn’t sound quite right. “Or to the Sea Authority.” She stopped.

  Lena looked suspicious. Shelley clicked her wrists together several times.

  “Well, I want it,” said Lena. “You can’t say I don’t.” The mica in the asphalt made the air appear lavender. Lena knelt and scooped up some sand and examined it, patting it gently. She looked at Shelley. “You’re scared,” she said.

  “I am not.”

  Lena giggled. “You are! You know I can tell.”

  Shelley was not scared. Only a child would be scared. She was not sitting, like a stuck person, on her front lawn anymore; she had begun to move the moment she ran out of Panorama Village. But now she did not know how to stop. She kept shifting her feet, step-tap, step-tap, in a bizarre little dance. She needed to keep going, to run like a normal person into this new place.

  Her aunt seemed to understand. Lena got up and put her hands on Shelley’s shoulders; Shelley was still. Lena squeezed her shoulders, and her grasp was a little too tight. “Sequina,” she said, seriously, “don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  Shelley let Lena take her hand and lead her on a walk beside the oily highway. The heat was as thick as cream. They both watched everything around them; there was so much to see. Girls in bikinis tried out roller skates in the beach rental store’s parking lot. The girls were so bright with tanning oil, they looked glazed. They swooped from car to car, grabbing roofs and door handles, until they rolled, screeching, to the boardwalk across the street. Boys in OP shorts marched down the highway. Their surfboards resembled large, flat fish that had been captured with great heroics, and were now tucked proudly under their captors’ arms.

  Down the road was Sav-on, and they headed toward it. They passed a woman carrying a large plastic bag with the store logo.

  “What did she buy?” Lena asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did she buy spoons?”

  “Doubtfully.”

  “I need spoons,” said Lena. She held up her fingers and counted off items: “I need spoons and a present and maybe a plate.”

  She was surprised by the specificity of Lena’s list. “How much money do you have?” She asked.

  Lena dug into her pockets and brought out some coins. Shelley counted them: forty-seven cents. She herself had a dollar. The two of them looked unenthusiastically at their combined loot.

  “This isn’t very much money,” said Shelley. “What are you planning to buy?”

  “I don’t need any money,” Lena whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t need money,” Lena said, and winked, alarmingly. “I get things myself.”

  They entered the huge cavern of the drugstore. The fluorescent lights ribbing the ceiling emitted a low buzz, and there was a sharp, antiseptic odor in the air.

  Lena pulled out a shopping cart and lovingly gripped the red handle. “Mother only lets me get two things,” she said, “but I really get lots of things.” She gave the cart a little shove and stood in front of it with authority.

  “We need toothpaste. We need Alka-Seltzer. We need Pine-Sol.” She was obviously determined to put something—anything—in the basket. Wandering down Aisle 1 (Gardening and Gifts), she dropped in a pair of pliers, a packet of geranium seeds, and a wicker plate of apricots wrapped in red cellophane. She turned down Aisle 2 (Cereal and Deodorant) and tossed in two boxes of Captain Crunch, three bottles of Aqua Velva, and a cylinder of Quaker Oats. Shelley could see the two of them in the curved mirrors bulging in the ceiling corners; their reflections had gigantic heads and tiny, useless arms.

  “When Bob and I had our apartment,” Lena murmured, “we had many things.”

  “When did you have an apartment?”

  Lena stopped by a table with a coffee machine. A Dixie cup contained several white plastic spoons, and Lena plucked out three and neatly deposited them in her pocket. “Once. A long time ago.”

  Shelley couldn’t picture her aunt living in her own apartment. “Did you like it?”

  Lena nodded. “Mother has a house. Vivien has a house. They have furniture and lawns.”

  Shelley noticed a shadow of envy pass over Lena’s face. It was a feeling she understood.

  The store offered a reassuring wealth of choices, everything you’d need to live in the world. There was a surprising variety of laxatives, and an entire aisle devoted to hair-coloring products; the models on the boxes had hair the color of burgundy or wheat. Lena and Shelley passed a pyramid of mouthwash bottles, a cardboard tree whose branches were composed of round hairbrushes. The sheer number of items made them both itchy and grandiose. “I’ll take that,” Lena said, “and that and that.” She spoke the words as if they were a song. Shelley knelt by the Halloween costumes and picked through a box of fabric scraps: pieces of beautiful cheap velvet and a big swatch of satiny gold material with sequins. Selecting this satiny piece, she felt it and then replaced it. Lena watched.

  Shelley remembered Lena’s expression when she borrowed the sunglasses from the patio tables; then, her aunt appeared slightly irate and superior, as though annoyed with the owners of the sunglasses for not taking better care of their belongings. Now her face seemed entirely too peaceful. It was a calm that seemed to conceal unsavory thoughts. Shelley did not want to ask her aunt what she was going to do, afraid of microphones hidden behind the bottles of mouthwash, of cameras tucked inside boxes of Saltines. She walked a few steps behind Lena, enough to pretend not to know her if she had to, but close enough to watch what she did.

  They both stopped when they reached the back of the drugstore—Cosmetics—and looked up at the huge faces smiling down at them: Jaclyn Smith and Cheryl Tiegs.

  “I want to put some on you,” said Lena. “I want to make us fancy today.”

  “On me?”

  “I like putting lipstick on people,” Lena said. “I’m very good. I put it on Mrs. Delaney. She has shaky hands. And Mrs. Johnson. Her thumb got mushed. I put it on Mr. Harrison, but he doesn’t know. Most of them like when I do it. I’m in demand.”

  Shelley touched her hands to her face. “You go first.”

  She had never seen her aunt put on makeup. Lena picked through several lipsticks until she found one the color of Hawaiian Punch. She stood, feet apart, like a football player, and evaluated herself in the mirror; swiftly, she outlined her mouth. Then, with a tiny brush, she touched pale green eyeshadow to her lids. When she was finished, she turned her face to Shelley, waiting for a response.

  “I think you look sophisticated,” Shelley said, not knowing what other adjective Lena would appreciate.

  “Mother doesn’t like me to do this. She thinks I look cheap!” Lena said with some pride.

  This fact made Lena’s face seem even better. “Well, maybe you can be both.”

  “Now let me try you,” Lena said.

  “I don’t want any.”

  “But I want to put it on you. What does Sequina look like?” asked Lena.

  Again, Shelley touched her cheeks. Softly, she said, “I don’t know.”

  “That’s dumb,” said Lena. “I want us to both be fancy. Stand still.”

  Lena smoothed back her hair and cupped Shelley’s face in her hands. Her hands were chapped, but she moved them slowly, knowingly. She brought the lipstick to Shelley’s mouth and
delicately rubbed it along her lips. Then she picked out a brush and swept color along Shelley’s cheeks. At one point, she touched a lipstick to Shelley’s eyebrows. Another time, she admired the lip gloss she had just applied and took a moment to put some on herself.

  Shelley held still, hardly caring how she looked. Lena’s touch was exquisitely gentle.

  “Look,” Lena said.

  Tenderly, Shelley once more touched her cheeks. In the mirror that was part of the Revlon display, she examined herself. Though little had been done, she appeared remarkably different. Her lips looked pink and buttery, her cheeks were a velvety bronze, and her eyebrows were those of a fairy, they were so lovely and glittery.

  Lena was wiping her rouge-tipped fingers on her housecoat. She looked at Shelley eagerly. “Do you like it?”

  “I do.”

  “Now I have to go buy a present,” said Lena. “Watch.”

  They abandoned the cart and headed down the aisle with their new faces. Now Lena did not just look at the products; she picked them up, examined them. She fondled staplers, vinyl address books, Liquid Paper. Her examination was complete and involved smelling items in a generous and unbiased way. Shelley hung behind, rubbing her palms against her hips, watching the salespeople. The salespeople wandered around the aisles like blue-uniformed, heavy gulls. Shelley made sure to look away from them so that they wouldn’t see any suspicious desire in her eyes.

  She knew when Lena found what she wanted. Her aunt stood in front of a pile of plastic snowdomes, silver flecks floating inside. Each snowdome said Lahambra Beach Pier and featured a tiny surfer posed on a frozen sea.

  Lena squatted, her knees jutting out, large and shiny, and she rocked back on her feet. Humming, she picked through the domes. They made a soft, clattering sound. Eventually, she selected one and balanced it on her palm. She looked like a small jungle animal who had come upon something delicious. She slid her hand into her pocket and kept it there for a moment, her brown eyes sleepy. Then out came her hand, graceful, fingers fluttering. There was nothing in it now.

  She looked at Shelley demurely, her eyes flirtatious; she was proud. Shelley stood, frozen, at the other end of the aisle, by stacks of Chips Ahoy and Oreos. Making a shooing gesture, Lena walked to the opposite end of the aisle and found the box of fabrics that Shelley had looked through earlier. She fished out the gold piece, wound it around her hand like a bandage, and slipped it into her pocket.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  They walked through the store, Lena stealing the items that took her fancy, and Shelley trying to help. The languid faces on the boxes of hair dye seemed alert now, accusing. Shelley tried to direct Lena, like a silent traffic cop, to empty aisles. Lena ignored her and went right for the aisles full of salespeople; she was almost taunting them now. There was a stock boy on his knees, wearily sliding bottles of Wella Balsam into shelves. He was skinny, and his straight red hair fell over his face like a sheer curtain. Lena slowed down; Shelley stopped a few feet away.

  “Hi!” Lena said.

  The boy looked up. Lena was friendly, expectant. He examined her. “Hi,” he said, and turned back to his shampoo.

  And then Shelley understood how Lena did it. She knew that people wanted to look away from her. No one could believe that she might be holding something wonderful in her housecoat. So she was in no hurry. Her hands thrust deep in her pockets, she strolled through the glaring aisles of Sav-on, past the boxes of Clairol, the bottles of Listerine. Shelley followed, copying Lena’s posture, her gliding step across the linoleum. A voice that could be male or female echoed from a loudspeaker: “Cashier.” Beyond the open mouth of the store was the beach, the sound of roaring. Lena went toward it, and Shelley walked with her until they were out of the store.

  Five

  ELLA LEARNED what was wrong with Lena on August 5, 1934. Ella knew the exact date because the pediatrician had written his diagnosis of Lena on a prescription form. Ella told him to write it on this form, because that was the only way, she thought, that Lou would believe it. After the exam, the doctor gave Lena a red lollipop, and it glowed, wet and glossy, in the day’s scorching heat. Mother and daughter stepped out of the doctor’s office and walked to the car. The day was blue and dry; it seemed powdery, as though one could blow it away with a single breath. Ella clutched Lena’s hand. Lena’s diagnosis, written in the doctor’s formal handwriting, said:

  Lena is mildly mentally retarded. This is probably due to an accident at birth. Her intelligence is lower than normal. This does not mean that she cannot lead a happy life.

  Ella lay beside her husband in bed. Their breath rose, soft, almost frail, as if they were ashamed of making any sound. Outside, the night moved, thick and dark, and the air was heavy on her arms.

  At first, Ella had swiftly and gratefully sunk into sleep, for she felt that she had awakened to the wrong world. For two months after they learned what was wrong with Lena, she and Lou slept, side by side, on their backs. Their arms were cool, like dead people’s. They did not kiss; they did not touch.

  She and Lou had come to California in 1926, a year after their wedding. Ella had expected a moment of crossing—a line between, perhaps, Utah and Nevada, a place where her life in Boston ended and her life in California would begin. But both she and Lou missed the state sign; the flat, scrubby desert that was Nevada became California with an almost mocking calm.

  They had driven together across the country. She and Lou were really just getting to know each other. She woke at night in motels, tiny outposts in Nebraska, Texas, Kansas, the black sky expansive and flooded with stars. All across the country, she watched her husband sleep. It was an astounding thing to sleep with him; it was like entering a realm of great privilege, in which she could touch his skin and watch him dream. She liked to stay awake and hold him in different positions—to wrap her arms around his back and press her lips to his smooth shoulder, or turn her back to him, pulling his arms around her like a belt. They could lie side by side on their backs or their stomachs, or they could face each other, and he would drape a leg over her hip. Their breath rose and fell together. The hushed sound had a terrible sweetness, because they were thousands of miles from anyone they knew.

  She was learning new and surprising things about him. When he woke, his breath smelled like cottage cheese. At times of boredom, he engaged in a ritual: he ran his fingertips across tender places in himself—his lips, his wrist bones—as though trying to prize them. When he was in a jaunty mood, he tossed trash out the car and seemed to think this was a daring move.

  He told her that he had a theory that when they got to California, they would feel different, grander—the true versions of Mr. and Mrs. Lou Rose. “I’d like to be a flashy dresser,” he said wistfully.

  “Flashy how?” she asked.

  He considered. “I’d like to own an assortment of red shirts.” He grew excited and tossed the apple he was eating out the window.

  She had her own ideas. “I’d like to learn to make whipped cream desserts,” she said. She had read about them in a cookbook one of the girls had brought to the Treasure Trove; she thought them beautiful. She wanted to learn to make desserts with French names. She had a fond picture in her mind of Lou and her eating in a kitchen filled with California flowers; they’d be sharing a whipped cream dessert, and Lou would be wearing a red shirt.

  She realized they were in California when they were filling up at a gas station; the glass souvenirs by the cash register had changed to little green palms, with the words California: The Golden State wound around each brown trunk. A tiny fear jumped inside her. She tapped Lou’s shoulder.

  “We’re here,” she said.

  He gripped her hand. “I’d like this, too,” he said to the man at the register. “And a chocolate bar.”

  Lou walked to the back of the station, delicately removed his shoes, and stepped gently into the sand. Ella removed her flats and felt the sand slip beneath her stockings. She broke a white blossom off a cactus and
fixed it in a buttonhole on Lou’s shirt.

  “Flashy,” she said.

  The desert shimmered with silvery heat. Lou broke the chocolate bar in two. It was already melting. Ella ate hers in one bite.

  She looked at Lou. The flower drooped like a crumpled trumpet. “Welcome to California,” said Lou. Ella kissed her husband. They tasted exactly alike.

  They began armed with a crooked, raw arrogance. Unpracticed, Ella copied Lou. It made them sleepless, talkative. She, too, threw trash out the car window, and the rhythm of her speech began to match his. They began to speak more quickly, in a rush to become the new version of themselves. The streets of Los Angeles were vast and gleaming. Their car crept along the wide boulevards as they looked at everything, trying to absorb it all. Many of the streets were empty, the blue sky clear of clouds.

  They had a small sum of money for a down payment. They visited homes for sale in unattainable neighborhoods—Hancock Park, Beverly Hills—she wearing fancy hats with veils, Lou sporting one of his red shirts. The homeowners regarded them with puzzled expressions. “Mr. and Mrs. Lou Rose,” announced Lou, offering an eager hand. They strode into gorgeous homes with bemused, challenging expressions, as though the owners should be the grateful ones. “That puddle? That’s the swimming pool?” asked Lou. Ella inspected the closets, vetoed them all.

  These homes were completely beyond their reach. They left, exhausted, throats dry with greed. They took pastrami sandwiches to Rancho Park or the La Brea Tar Pits, sat on the grass, and gloriously mocked everyone. “That last man was a ghoul,” said Lou. “Did you hear the way he breathed?”

  Her bare arms were too pale. “I did not care for those bushes,” she said with disdain; for at that last house the bushes had been trimmed in the shape of bears.

  She deferred to Lou. She wanted to believe in his authority; she did not want them both to be children. They ate their sandwiches under silver-green eucalyptus trees and watched small lizards dart across the sidewalk. She had never seen such creatures; they were tiny, prehistoric, their tongues shooting out and deliciously licking the air.