by S. Walden
Clara froze.
The two girls walked over to her desk. One sat on it.
“Did you say something to us?” she asked. “Because you weren’t part of the conversation.”
“You w . . . were t-talking about m-me,” Clara stuttered, her face lowered.
“What is wrong with you?”
Clara didn’t respond, wouldn’t look up at the girls. She was afraid of them. She was afraid of Amy. Of Evan. She was afraid of everyone.
“You are such a goddamn weirdo,” the girl said after a moment, and they walked away back to their desks.
Well, she does have a point, Clara, her brain said. You are a little weird. I wouldn’t say a goddamn weirdo, but weird, yes. Go on and run away. Remember we talked about turning you into a ladybug?
***
Clara heard Beatrice talking at the dinner table, but she was unsure if it was important.
“Beatrice, hold on,” Ellen said. She turned to Clara. “Two weeks, Clara. What’s going on? You’ve lost six pounds and you’re not doing your homework.”
Clara looked at her plate. “May I be excused?”
“No, you may not be excused,” her mother snapped. “Now I know you got your feelings hurt. What Evan did was terrible, but you’ve got to get over it.”
This is rich coming from her, Clara’s brain said. She lay in bed for a month before disappearing. Go ahead and tell her that, Clara. Ask her why you can’t lay in bed for a month and then disappear. We can make you a ladybug.
“Everything out on the table,” her mother said. “We know what’s not being said.”
Beatrice looked over at Clara. Clara’s eyes stayed glued to her plate.
“I was depressed. I stayed in bed for weeks,” Ellen said impatiently. “We all know it.” She looked at Clara. “Clara, look at me right now,” she demanded.
Clara looked up from her plate.
“Do you think for a second I’m going to let you do what I did?” her mother asked, but her tone wasn’t harsh. It was gentle and pleading. “I hurt you.” She looked at Beatrice. “And I hurt you, honey.”
Beatrice smiled tentatively.
“It hurts people,” their mother went on. “When you sink down like that. You hurt yourself. But the pain you cause others is worse. And I’m so sorry, girls. I’m so sorry for what I did to you. And I won’t let you do it, Clara. I won’t.”
Tell your mother to go fuck herself, Clara.
“Okay, Mom,” Clara said without a trace of humanity in her voice.
***
She only had a few steps left to take. She was eating alone again, now that Evan was gone, now that she effectively pushed Florence away. She didn’t mean to. She couldn’t help it. She had retreated into herself. And Florence wanted nothing more to do with her because she was just seventeen and didn’t know how to handle a friend who was losing her mind.
The tray had become too heavy, and she knew if she didn’t move fast she would drop it. She shook with a new violence and watched in horror as the tray tipped, spilling everything onto the floor in a loud crash.
People seated at the nearby table looked over and rolled their eyes. She was a nuisance, and they didn’t want spilled food sitting on the floor next to them.
Clara, look what you did, her brain said. We talked about being invisible, didn’t we? Now you have all of these people looking at you. Aren’t you embarrassed?
Her eyes welled up. She looked around for someone to help her. She needed something to get the potato salad and spilled milk off the floor. But the adults in the room didn’t see, or if they did, they ignored her.
She knelt and started picking up the trash, her plastic plate and utensils and carton of milk. She used her napkin to try and get up some of the potato salad. She gathered it all on the tray but was afraid to pick the tray back up. She watched the tears plop onto her empty plate. She wondered why she came into the cafeteria today. She wasn’t even hungry, but she wanted to create a semblance of normalcy. If she did what she always did, then she wouldn’t be crazy.
“Here,” someone said gruffly. She looked up to see the custodian looking down at her. “I ain’t got time to clean this up. Just use this mop then roll it over to the corner. There.” He pointed to a section of the cafeteria she never ventured into. And she would have to walk by him on her way. Her heart began to ache with panic as fresh tears fell.
“Can I put it over there?” she asked. She pointed in the opposite direction.
“Girl, put it where I said,” the custodian snapped, then took out his radio at the sound of a buzzing metallic voice. “This is Jeffrey,” he responded and walked away.
“Could you please hurry up with that,” a girl said from behind Clara. “It’s gross.”
Clara walked her tray to the trashcan then returned to the mop and bucket. It was one of those gigantic buckets on wheels, and she couldn’t figure out how to wring the mop. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand grateful that she wasn’t wearing mascara today. Some students watched and snickered as she tried to figure out how to wring the mop until someone approached her. He told the giggling students to go fuck themselves, and they looked at him reproachfully before turning back to their conversations.
“You know how many times I’ve been in detention?” he asked Clara.
She looked up at him, a scrawny freshman with an acne-pocked face. She shook her head.
“A lot,” he replied, and smiled. “Here. This is how you do it,” and he turned a handle on the side of the bucket that squeezed the mop between two thick plastic grids. He took the mop out and started on the floor.
“I’ll do it,” Clara offered reaching for the mop.
“Nah, it’s okay,” the boy said, dunking the mop and wringing it again. He slapped it to the floor once more and wiped up the remaining milk.
“Thank you,” Clara whispered. Her chin quivered and as much as she tried, she couldn’t help letting out a quiet sob. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and the boy shuffled uneasily.
“They’re just a bunch of assholes,” he said. “Don’t let them make you cry.”
Clara nodded. She reached for the handle of the bucket and started rolling it towards the corner of the cafeteria where the custodian instructed. She was shaking so much the bucket rattled, and the boy, sensing that at any moment she might faint, walked beside her.
“You want me to roll it?” he asked when she hesitated before passing Evan’s table.
Evan looked over at her. She stared back. His green eyes appeared tired and defeated. There was anger there still, but it was subdued, and sadness seemed to fill its space. He looked like he felt the humiliation she now felt, the spilled food, the laughing, the loss of any remaining dignity she might have had. It fell to the floor along with her lunch, and the boy mopped it up and drowned it in the dirty water.
She tore her eyes away from his face.
“No, I can roll it,” she said absently. “Thank you, though.” And she pressed forward.
***
“I had sex with a man for money!” she screamed at her mother. “It’s not about a goddamn dress!”
Ellen flinched and took a step backwards. They were in the middle of another fight, Ellen arguing that Clara had to let go of what happened at prom and Clara screaming that her mother didn’t understand.
“You want to know why I can’t forgive you?” Clara went on. “You turned me into a fucking whore!”
Beatrice slipped into her bedroom and closed the door. She slid down against it until her bottom hit the hardwoods. She placed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear her sister—a person she no longer knew—yelling obscenities in the next room.
“Clara, calm down,” Ellen urged.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Clara yelled, and continued to pace the living room. She looked at her mother with disdain. “We had nothing! My boyfriend had to pay to get our gas and electric back on! We were sleeping by the fire on your goddamn mattress freezing to death! An
d you left us with all of that! The bills. The unpaid debt. The fucking property tax. What could I do? I couldn’t make enough money, not even with two jobs!”
Ellen was crying outright.
“You made me old. You made me a whore,” Clara sobbed.
Ellen knew Clara might hit her. She deserved it if it happened, but in that moment nothing would stand between her and her daughter. She would go and touch Clara and suffer the consequences.
Clara had no more fight in her as she felt her mother’s arms go around her. She simply cried into her neck saying over and over how much she hated her.
“I know,” Ellen whispered. “I know.”
“Why?” Clara sobbed. “We needed you! Why did you leave us? Why?”
Ellen walked with Clara to the couch still holding her tightly, unable to let go for fear it was the last time Clara would ever let her touch her.
“I left because I was a bad mother,” Ellen said.
Clara continued to cry into her mother’s shoulder.
“But I’m not going to be a bad mother anymore,” Ellen said. “I’m going to take care of you Clare-Bear. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m here, and I’m going to take care of you.”
She rocked her daughter from side to side.
“Do you hear me, Clara? I’ll never leave you. I’m always here for you. I love you, and I’ll never leave you. Do you hear me?”
Clara’s voice came from a distant place deep in her heart when she was six years old playing in the fall leaves, the breeze whipping about her long brown hair. Her mother stood at the open kitchen window and asked if she’d like to come in for dinner, and Clara flung the pile of leaves into the air. She walked to the kitchen window and looked up at her mother who smiled down at her. She smiled back and responded in the soft lyrical voice of a young girl.
“Yes Mommy.”
***
Clara, we need to talk about why you insist on wearing unflattering clothes, her brain said.
Leave her alone. It’s not her fault she’s poor and can’t afford nice shirts. You have a stain on your shirt, by the way.
Clara didn’t know where the second voice came from. She looked down at her shirt and noticed the small stain. She couldn’t remember where she got it. It didn’t look like a food stain, and she didn’t spill her food while she ate anyway.
No, you just spill it off your tray.
You are so cruel to her.
Well, it’s time she knows the truth. She’s a freak, and that’s that.
She’s not a freak.
She is! She told me she wanted to be a ladybug and go crawl under a rock.
That’s because you pester the shit out of her.
Clara kept her eyes glued to her notebook. Her brain had split in two, she thought horrified. She wanted it dead. Maybe then it would stop arguing, stop talking to her. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t concentrate, and all she wanted to do was concentrate on the lecture.
She looked up at the white board. She searched for the meanings of the words written in a blue dry erase marker, but they eluded her.
I wish he would have used a green marker. Green is my favorite color.
That’s because Evan’s eyes are green.
“Stop,” she whispered, and a few students turned to look at her. She froze, eyes fastened to the board, and they turned away.
You’re still in love with him, Clara. Why don’t you get up right now and tell him that?
Are you really suggesting she interrupt class with a declaration of love? Get real.
It would be so romantic. Of course, you’d be sent directly to the principal’s office, Clara, but who cares? Who cares when it’s romance we’re talking about?
You do have a good point. It would be terribly romantic. Do you think Evan would forgive her?
I don’t know. She did fuck a man. I think that’s considered the ultimate betrayal.
“SHUT UP!” Clara screamed jumping to her feet.
Every person in the room turned in her direction, their eyes wide with disbelief as Clara stood trembling, face coursing with tears. She didn’t know why she was crying. She didn’t know why she was standing next to her desk during the middle of class.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Stevens asked.
Clara looked wildly about the room. She saw his face for a split second—the green-eyed boy—and she wanted to run to him, let him gather her up in his arms and hold her, hide her away from the stares of all of her classmates. They were beginning to stir and whisper, snicker and giggle.
“Clara?” Mr. Stevens asked when he noted the look of panic on her face. It was panic mixed with something else. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but she looked like she had no idea where she was. In that moment he knew. He knew she didn’t tell him to shut up. He knew it.
“I’m not well,” she said, placing her hand on her sweat-slicked forehead. The sounds of quiet laughter ceased, and a few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “Please, I’m not well.” She shook watching Mr. Stevens, reaching her arms to him, pleading with him silently to take her out of the room.
“It’s okay, Clara,” he said walking over to gather her books. She placed her hand on his forearm as he led her out to the office. “It’s okay.”
***
“How are you today, Clara?” the doctor asked.
Clara looked at her oddly, and the doctor drew in a patient breath.
“You remember that I’m Dr. Morton?” she asked.
Clara nodded then looked at the window.
“You’re mother says you’re not eating, Clara,” Dr. Morton said. “Remember we talked about that?”
Clara nodded, her eyes fastened to the window panes. She was not looking past them, through them. Her eyes couldn’t go that far.
“Would you like to tell me what happened at school today?”
Clara furrowed her brows. “What about it?”
“Well, your mother said you had a hard time in health class. Did you get upset about something?”
“No.”
Dr. Morton pressed on. “You interrupted class. Something must have been bothering you.”
“No.”
“Clara? Do you understand that I want to help you?”
Clara felt the sting of the tears. She focused on each one as it slid down her cheek to hang on her jaw line before plopping onto her shirt. She looked down at her shirt.
“Do you know I have a stain on my shirt?” she asked the doctor.
“I get stains on my shirts all the time,” Dr. Morton replied. She paused before continuing. “Clara? You have to let me help you if you want to get better.”
Clara’s tears distorted her view of the doctor. She leaned in close, and after blinking a few times, she saw a tissue waving in front of her face. She placed it on her lap.
“Did Evan talk to you today?” Dr. Morton asked.
Clara shook her head.
“Clara, your mother is concerned about your grades. You’re an A student, Clara. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Would you like to hear a poem?” Clara asked suddenly.
The doctor sat back in her chair and sighed. “I would love to, Clara.”
Clara stared straight ahead, not at Dr. Morton but at a point just right of the doctor’s face. Her voice was weak, but it did not falter. It said the words of her new prayer, not to God, but to a place far away she wished she could go.
“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree. And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:”
Dr. Morton got out of her chair as she cooed to her patient: “Keep going, Clara. It’s very beautiful.”
Clara’s eyes stayed fastened to the spot, out of focus, glazed over with a film of moisture.
“Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.”
“I need your permission to admit her into the psychiatric ward . . .”
“And I shall find some peace there, for peace co
mes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;”
“It’s imperative that she be moved today. She needs medication, and it’s my professional opinion that she’s having a breakdown as we speak.”
“There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evenings full of the linnet’s wings.”
“I understand Mrs. Greenwich. Oh, Ms. Greenwich. I do apologize. We’ll take her by ambulance. No no. No sirens, good God.”
“I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;”
“We’ll be there in approximately fifteen minutes. Yes, Ms. Greenwich. Goodbye.”
“While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
Clara sat silently, hands folded over the unused tissue in her lap, staring at the spot.
“That’s beautiful, Clara,” Dr. Morton said soothingly, walking over to stand beside her patient. “Now I want you to take my hand and come for a walk. Will you do that? We’re going someplace special.”
Clara nodded and took the doctor’s hand believing she was going to Innisfree.
Chapter 24
Clara kept her head down as she walked the corridor. It was strange being back at school after two weeks, and she wondered what was the point of even completing the school year. Only three weeks left, and she couldn’t possibly turn her grades around. She thought she didn’t care, that the drive to be academically successful was erased the minute she started swallowing the pills.
She didn’t want to see him in health class. But the intense fear was gone. She wasn’t exactly numb, but she was definitely impenetrable. She was certain of that. She thought she could let the girls pull her hair and spit in her face and she wouldn’t care. Hell, maybe she would encourage them.
She slid into her seat, aware that some students were looking at her uneasily. They knew about her breakdown and were apprehensive, afraid she might have a psychotic explosion in class. She smiled to herself thinking how funny that would be. Or terribly sad.
