Like Normal People

by Karen Bender

  There was no slowing of the world. Shelley saw the white glare of a gull landing on the overpass, a beer bottle rolling down the right lane, the shudder of a sycamore across the freeway. She tried to run across the overpass, but her legs were uncontrollable, as though she was being kicked from all directions and was trying to kick back.

  Now the sky was hard, a blue shell encasing them. There was the wail of swerving cars, the crack of cars against each other. Shelley put her hands on the slab of concrete.

  The cars weren’t going straight anymore. They were crooked, as though they’d just been dropped there, pointing in all directions. Their horns rose in a chorus, sounding in waves, like a great sobbing; one was a long, flat bleat across the sky.

  And there was her uncle, lying very still on the freeway. Shelley’s breath went faster and faster. She could not slow down her breath. She began to drum a rhythm on her thighs, onetwothree, onetwothree. She was humming Yankee Doodle in her head, onetwothree. Lena was beside her, making a hoarse, sobbing sound, tiny and high, the type of sound Shelley had heard only in dreams. The two of them stretched their arms into the air, trying to reach Bob.

  Sixteen

  THEY HAD BEEN traveling, Ella thought, for miles. The day was stale and sticky against her skin. She and Vivien had driven slowly all through the streets around Panorama Village, but still they did not see Shelley or Lena. The suburban streets were syrupy with sounds of a Saturday afternoon, the hum of a dozen pools, the slap of a basketball against a sidewalk, the cough of a car engine.

  Whenever they turned a corner, Ella thought she saw Lena. The day had played tricks on her from the start: the fire that had swept through Lena’s room, the way that Lena and Shelley vanished so completely. It did not seem at all strange to her that she believed that she saw her daughter, in a variety of outfits, walking the street. Once, she thought she saw Lena in a smart navy pantsuit with a matching hat; once, in a flowered muumuu, carrying a shopping bag; once, in a slick black bathing suit, stretched out in the sun. She even thought she saw Lena in a gray suit, gripping a briefcase, as though going to an office job. Each time, Ella’s heart picked up. At last she couldn’t remain silent. “There,” she said to Vivien, as they approached a woman in red shorts watering her front lawn. “Faster. That’s her.”

  Vivien squinted skeptically, but sped up until the car was beside her. The woman turned around and was a stranger. Annoyed, Vivien put her foot to the gas and zoomed off.

  Ella was embarrassed. “From a distance it looked like her,” she tried.

  The red vinyl seats gleamed with the Valley’s heat. Vivien sat forward, her shoulders taut, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. The more fiercely she drummed, the calmer Ella became. It was a flimsy calm and made the car thin as an eggshell.

  “Maybe,” Ella said, gazing at the houses, “she’s fallen in with a bad crowd.”

  Vivien laughed. “A bad crowd of what? Ninety-year-olds?”

  Ella felt foolish. “I’m just guessing,” she said. “Lena is a peaceful girl.”

  “Let’s try again,” said Vivien. “Where did they say they were going?”

  “I believe they went out for a soda,” said Ella carefully. “Or perhaps for some helpful cleaning materials for the room.”

  “What kind of cleaning materials?” asked Vivien.

  “Well,” said Ella, “some room freshener, maybe, or Handi-wipes—”

  “When has Lena ever cleaned up her room?”

  “She tries,” Ella answered. “In small ways. I’ve even seen her try to make her bed.”

  “Maybe they went to set more fires,” said Vivien. “Or maybe they went to steal something.”

  Something toppled in Ella’s chest. “How did you know she steals?”

  Vivien pulled over to the curb, reached inside the glove compartment, pulled out a container of Tic Tacs, and placed one on her tongue with the care of a gourmet tasting a fine delicacy. She rolled it around in her mouth for a moment before answering.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein called me.”

  “About that, too?”

  There was a troubled silence between them. “Maybe you weren’t home,” said Vivien quickly.

  “Where would I be?” asked Ella. “I’m always home.”

  “All right, all right,” said Vivien. The car filled with the scent of mint. “One. Let’s try to think logically. Where would you go if you’d burned something up? Maybe they got thirsty. They did get a soda. What then? Maybe they went to buy more matches. Or to a movie. Or the cemetery, to visit Bob. Maybe they’ve been kidnapped.” Vivien made a fist with one hand and released it. “Dammit! I have no idea what my daughter might do.”

  Her voice was shaky but low, as though she were talking only to herself. “I think we should call the police,” she said more loudly. “Not tell them about the fire, but I think they could qualify now as missing persons.”

  Ella cringed at the idea; it suggested that a crime had been committed. “Any minute,” said Ella, “we’re going to see them.”

  Vivien didn’t start the car. “Mother,” she said, and with that word she brought back everything that happened the last time Shelley and Lena had left Panorama Village. “They were probably walking along the street, thinking it would be a regular day.”

  Vivien drove a little farther and stopped at a corner that sloped down to the freeway. The cars flowed ahead soundlessly and in unison, as though inhaled by a single breath. One after another, they headed south—toward Santa Barbara, San Diego, Mexico—or north to San Francisco, Seattle, Canada. Now Ella remembered what happened that morning.

  Tears of shame sprang to her eyes; her hands were open, grasping nothing. She had let her daughter and granddaughter leave Panorama Village. Ella remembered Shelley and Lena running lightly down the hallway that morning. After they turned the corner, the carpet showed no trace of their footsteps, and the blue walls shone with a bland light.

  Now, watching the cruel, glittering cars, Ella remembered everything about the day of the accident. The call from Shelley, her voice so cracked and high that she sounded like a young child. The long walk through the hospital corridors, past sick and injured people. The moment she saw Bob in the morgue, still and white on a steel table, the towel over his hair dark with blood. When she saw him, the shock went through her like a great, consuming pain. That pain helped her, quickly, make a decision; Lena could not see him like this.

  Ella was allowed to stay with Bob for a little while. This man had effected such a curious magic: he had made her daughter into a wife. Ella had never thanked him. She did not want to leave him—even though he was not living, she believed he could still be afraid. For the fourteen years that Lena and Bob had been married, she had, in most ways, been his mother. This made her oddly shy; she did not know what to say to him now. Gently, she touched his hand. She had never looked closely at any part of him. His hands were small and somewhat dainty, and his fingertips were callused from driving. Perhaps they concealed a great, unknown talent. They inspired a strange respect.

  Ella had so many questions. What was it about Lena that he had loved? What happiness had Lena brought him? What did they whisper to each other at night?

  It took a long time for her to leave. She felt protective of him. It seemed that they were getting to know each other then—his hand was limp but seemed somehow attentive. Both of them had been devoted to Lena. She believed he was trying to comfort her.

  Vivien swerved into a parking lot; the tires screeched. They were beside a bright orange brick building. Ella gripped the door handle and looked out. They had arrived at the International House of Pancakes.

  “They’re here?” asked Ella.

  Vivien was half out of the car. “I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s run in and check.”

  The two of them flew across the parking lot, buoyed by Vivien’s idea. Inside was the dizzy bustle, the smell of maple syrup and fried eggs; there were waitresses and plastic menus with photos of greasy, abundant breakfasts. Metal
lamps, shaped like silver trumpets, hung over the grill. Vivien strode quickly to the back of the restaurant, peered at the customers in their booths, turned a corner, disappeared.

  Ella walked in the other direction. Ceiling fans turned slowly above her head like propellers. She had last been at an IHOP with Bob and Lena about seven months ago. She could see the three of them in their favorite booth in the corner. Lena always ordered a cheeseburger and Bob a turkey club deluxe. Ella reminded the waitress that Lena did not want lettuce or tomato with her burger and that Bob preferred his sandwich on rye toast. She cut Bob’s sandwich into pieces for him and wiped away the ketchup that ended up in Lena’s hair.

  Lena and Bob ate in the same painstaking way. They had a private ritual involving their french fries and a shared pool of ketchup. Lena would dip her fry thoroughly and Bob would dip his daintily. As they shared the ketchup, they sometimes whispered secrets into each other’s ear.

  That day, when they rose to leave, Lena touched the orange booth, the dirty plates, as though saying goodbye. Then she clasped her mother’s hand, like a small girl. “That was a good lunch,” she said, and her hard grip made Ella feel appreciated, good. They walked out in a crooked chain, Lena clutching Ella’s hand and Bob holding Lena’s.

  Now Ella turned around in the crowded shop, acutely aware that she was alone. She almost bumped into Vivien as she returned to the door. Vivien was moving in the breathless way one runs to catch a plane.

  “You see them?” Vivien asked.

  Ella shook her head.

  “Dammit!” said Vivien. “I thought for sure they’d be here.” She paused. “Are you all right?” she asked her mother.

  “I’m fine,” Ella said.

  Vivien pushed open the glass door. “Let’s go.” Vivien’s voice sounded strained, a tone that Ella had never heard. “Let’s get back to Lena’s room. We’ve got to call the police.”

  Ella followed Vivien across the parking lot, watching her daughter’s hair flutter in the warm, blue wind. “Mrs. Lowenstein can help us,” said Ella. “She’ll have some leads. Just give me a few minutes. I can talk to her.”

  Vivien suddenly stopped; she looked stricken. “Mother, hold on a second. We have to talk.”

  She rubbed her hands over her face; they were trembling. Ella tried to put her arm around her shoulders, but Vivien did not lean into her, as she usually did. She quickly wriggled to a straighter position and looked at her mother intently, like a lawyer about to take on a difficult case.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein called me about something else,” she said.

  “Yes?” asked Ella.

  “We talked about how much she admires you. She went on and on. You know you make a great impression on people. She also says she loves your taste in shoes.”

  Ella’s heart began to march, for these were the kind of words that could only precede some awful statement. The cars in the parking lot were moving into the street with great ceremony.

  “People see your appearance first,” Ella said. “Then they get to know the real you.”

  “She asked where Lena’s September rent was,” said Vivien, “and I said I was sure you’d paid it, but then I thought, well.” She was speaking quickly, not looking at Ella. It occurred to her that Vivien was the sort of person who believed that not looking someone in the eye might fool one into thinking she was not delivering bad news.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just let, well, me pay it and you could pay me back?”

  “You pay it?” said Ella.

  Vivien smoothed her hair behind her ear and, as if she had rehearsed the lines, said, “I can help out, Mother. You can pay me back whenever you want.”

  “I like paying Lena’s rent,” said Ella, which was not entirely true. “Mrs. Lowenstein is accustomed to my checks. They’re yellow. It would confuse her if she didn’t see mine; she might lose it, and then where would Lena be?”

  “I know you have a lot on your mind these days,” Vivien went on. “Maybe you’d like to relax—”

  The fact that Vivien was picking her words with such care made Ella want to scream. “Relax? I’m always relaxing!” said Ella. “I like to do things! I love to pay Lena’s rent!”

  She remembered, suddenly, watching from her doorway when Vivien walked with Lena to school; occasionally, Vivien would lift a hand to touch Lena’s back. Bits of the world rushed in on them—the magnolia trees, the wispy clouds. They seemed almost inhuman in their vulnerability, frail purple shadows, and Ella stood, rapt, until they rounded the corner and disappeared.

  “I know you do,” Vivien said quietly.

  “What’s next?” Ella asked. “You want my bank account? To kick me out of my apartment?”

  “No!” said Vivien. “Mother! Come on! You have to let me help you! She asked me to do it.” The words sat between them, cold as ice. “Just for a while,” Vivien added, but both of them knew this was not true.

  The noise from the restaurant and street melted together. Mrs. Lowenstein did not want her to write the checks anymore. It was an impossible request. What was she if she could not take care of Lena?

  Vivien opened the car door for Ella and walked to her side of the car and they both sat down in it. Vivien’s red hair was beautiful, gilded by the afternoon light. She twisted it and then let it fall over her shoulders. It was as though she was trying to prove that she was the child, but it was too late; she had said what she had said.

  Ella looked out the window and tried to imagine a future without herself. The world would not need her any more than it had needed her before she was born.

  She saw Vivien sitting with Lena and Shelley in an orange booth, the three of them having lunch without her. They would be in their favorite booth, in the corner, and would have many things to discuss. The waitresses would have new uniforms, perhaps with shorter skirts, and their hairdos would float, creamily, in an unimaginable style. Vivien would preside over the table, captivating Lena and Shelley with stories and jokes. Lena would be wearing a silk T-shirt Vivien had bought her, lovely but impractical; Lena’s hair would even be dyed a lustrous red. Shelley would lean back in the booth, luxuriously, stretch her camisole over her new breasts. There would be a more delicious chocolate cake on the menu, and a four-layer coconut cake and other new, inventive desserts. Vivien would order fried appetizers and pies with whipped cream, and they would all eat everything with relish, without making a mess.

  She wondered how, then, she would belong to them. It was such a hopeful act, bearing and raising a child. She remembered how Lena and Vivien, as infants, were almost the same, olive eyes gazing up at her with a pure and profound trust. She remembered standing in the dark bedroom when they were infants. She was moved by their position as they slept, small arms thrown over their heads, as though they were dangling from a branch, or one tiny hand on a stomach and one upraised, as though carrying a flag. They slept with utter faith in her perfection. She would stand for a long time in the violet twilight of the bedroom, simply feeling this understanding between them, even more powerful, more hopeful, than love.

  Now it was different. It was aggressive; Vivien and Lena were stealing their lives beyond her. She wanted to sit with them; she wanted to come along, too. A storm of greed gathered in her.

  “I want to take care of Lena,” she said. Her voice was thin and ragged.

  Vivien grabbed her hand; Ella assumed that the gesture was meant to comfort her, but its abruptness spoke of Vivien’s fear.

  Vivien gently moved her thumb back and forth on Ella’s wrist. Ella did not know how to respond. She understood, fully, for the first time, that someday she would be dependent on Vivien. It was as though they had just met in this car, two strangers, and she looked at Vivien critically, as she would a stranger, noticing that the part in her hair was uneven, that her lipstick was slightly smudged. She tried to imagine Vivien bringing her groceries and paying Lena’s rent. Ella trembled at this outrage, and her body filled with a sick, wild feeling. To be dependent was to be invi
sible, and her mind shut at this idea. She released her hand from her daughter’s, sat straight against the seat, and firmly clasped her hands, like a person who was strong and independent. She sat like this for a few moments, but her assertive posture told her nothing about how to release herself. Then she looked at Vivien, her daughter who was now almost forty, and experienced a wave of sympathy for her, for she did not know how Vivien could prepare herself for this. Carefully, Ella reached over and smoothed Vivien’s hair off her face; Ella needed to feel what about them had remained the same.

  Ella looked through the window at the customers in the restaurant. They were doing such simple and lovely things: lifting forks to their mouths or bending over their hamburgers or laughing or drinking Coca-Cola. They were moving together in a timeless way, and their casual happiness made the restaurant seem a safe place. Ella sat with Vivien in the car, watching the customers, and wished she were with them. On the thick boulevard, cars streaked by, silent, swift comets, soft blurs.

  Seventeen

  THE PIER stretched, shining, into the sea. It smelled like the stale end of a celebration—the pink sweetness of cotton candy and the gasoline engine of the merry-go-round. It was late afternoon sliding into dusk, and the air above the pier shimmered, radiant, under the purpling sky. Pink and orange horses rose and fell on the merry-go-round, their manes blazing. A great, glowing disk spun at shocking speed; it held people strapped to its sides like ants stuck against a dish. There was tinkly music and a delicious, roasting smell and voices shouting, “Two out of three wins top shelf!” Whistles screeched, bells rang. At the end of the pier, Shelley could see the silent, turning Ferris wheel.

  “Sequin,” Lena murmured, looking up at it. She gripped Shelley’s hand. “We can go on a ride.”

  The name sounded ridiculous to her now—like the name of a baby, a child whose head was packed with nonsensical dreams. Now Sequina was the name of a girl who had terrible pictures going through her mind. She made herself imagine worse and worse things, almost as a dare. Shelley forced herself to imagine how Bob felt, falling from the overpass. She pictured him lying on the freeway, staring up at the empty sky, searching for them.