by R. K. Ryals
Chuckling, she moved past me into the hall. “Sex would have been more fun than learning that.”
I didn’t entirely disagree with her. I’d definitely be picturing the safety glasses-wearing cheerleader tonight in bed.
“Hey,” I said, following her, “come to the boxing club Wednesday after Deena's class.”
Reaching the door, she walked outside, and I stood in the opening, my hands on the frame above me. Jonathan stood on the stairs, his curious gaze on my face. I ignored him.
“Why?” Tansy asked.
“Just come.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
She left, leaving Jonathan and I alone, the sound of the van starting filling the evening.
My brother looked at me, his brows arched. “What is this shit, Eli? You never invited Mandy to the gym with you, and you two dated seriously for two years. That’s a hell of a lot longer than you’ve known Tansy.”
My fingers dug into the door frame above my head. “Time doesn’t mean much, and looking back, I was never friends with Mandy.”
Looking back, I hadn’t cared much about anyone except myself and my problems.
Mumbling, Jonathan jumped off the stairs, stomping into the night.
That night, I dreamt of cheerleaders and science. Acid rain swept down from the sky, trapping me inside an empty science room with a short-skirted Tansy. Strange thing was, she was the Tansy I knew with her dyed hair, piercings, and heavily made up eyes. Not the Tansy Deena suggested she had been. Even the cut was still there, marring her palm. I didn’t give a damn. I wanted her, mess and all. Acid rain pouring from the sky.
THIRTY-ONE
Tansy
The memories assaulted me as soon as I climbed behind the van’s steering wheel. Talking about me, about what I used to be, had more of an impact than Eli realized. My fists tightened around the wheel, and my injured hand throbbed. The wound had grown pink and painful. Darkness closed in, cars zooming back and forth around me in town, the end of the work day congesting the roads. Street lights and headlights streaked my face.
I drove on autopilot.
Eyes stared at me. So many eyes. Too many of them.
The walls seemed closer than usual, lockers slamming up and down the hallway. Whispers. Hushed exclamations.
They all asked the same question: “What happened to her?”
Only one was brave enough to approach me. Ginny Weston, her naturally curly blonde hair straightened around her shoulders, shiny and accusing. A violet peplum shirt rested over a pair of stonewashed jeans, her favorite honey almond body spray tickling my nose.
“What the hell happened to you, Tans?” she asked, bouncing next to me. “What is this?”
She gestured at me, at my new do-it-yourself, jagged haircut, streaks of blue peppered throughout.
“I just needed a change,” I told her.
She stopped in the hall, her assessing gaze on my face. “You’ve got to snap out of this. Seriously. What happened to your mom was awful, but it’s been almost two years.”
She wasn’t in the house with me. I had to remember that, had to remember that she didn’t know about Dad’s deteriorating mind and body. She didn’t know he saw Mom when he looked at me, that he puked on the floor more often than he did in the toilet, and that he even pissed the bed when he was at his lowest. Our house stank, the smell of stale beer and urine an underlying odor that never went away.
“I’m still me,” I protested. “I just changed my hair.”
“And your makeup,” Ginny pointed out. “Your clothes, too. Not to mention you dropped the squad and the science club last year.”
“I got a job, and change isn’t a bad thing, Gin.”
Head shaking, she hissed, “This drastic … it’s fucking suicide in high school!”
Ginny had been right.
My network of friends, people I thought gave a damn about me, crumbled, turning into whispering monsters. There was no violence. Only whispers and rejection, which hurt me more, I think, than physical pain. Still, I couldn’t hate them. They distanced themselves from me because they thought they had to, like my grief was a contagion they could all catch. They continued, surviving in the high school rat race, and I eventually got off the wheel everyone else was running on. I quit, finding solace in plants, knitting, and later Jeff, a pierced, tattooed friend of my brother’s.
Sex happened the second time Jeff and I were alone together. Our relationship escalated after that, our bodies more invested than our hearts. Even that failed because what I needed was different than what he expected.
“You’re too intense,” Jeff scolded. “It’s like I’m trying to reach this level I don’t ever reach with you. Have you even gotten off, or have you faked it?”
I glared. “I’ve had orgasms with you if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. It just feels off. You never seem completely satisfied.”
I wasn’t.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he continued.
I nodded, stupidly, because speaking meant crying, and I refused to do that. Not over him.
“Friends?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
My only committed relationship had been a purely sexual one, and I couldn’t keep him interested. It stung.
A bright red, lit up sign caught my eye, and I pulled off the highway into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour pharmacy, my eyes on the huge floor-to-ground windows. Employees in blue aprons walked the floor, laughing with each other. A young woman stocked the shelves. A mom with a crying child pushed a buggy toward the checkout, her tired face wiped clean of makeup. Outside the pharmacy, an older man in a blue jean jacket leaned against a brick wall, a cigarette flaring in the night. Music boomed from a car parked two lots over.
Climbing out of the van, I went into the store, eyes blinking against the fluorescent lighting. Music from a local country station played over the speakers.
“Did you see where I put my glasses?” an elderly woman behind the checkout counter asked.
The blue apron she wore washed out her face, making it paler despite what the lighting already drained from it. Her wrinkled skin turned her into a walking piece of crumpled paper, blue veins in her face flourishes of cerulean ink.
“I found them in the freezer section the last time you misplaced them, Ms. Barbara,” the stocking woman called.
My flip-flops thwacked the linoleum floors. The smell of eucalyptus and air freshener hung in the air. Surveillance mirrors threw my reflection back at me, harsh and unforgiving.
I walked the aisles until I reached the hair dyes, snagging a wash out purple and pink—the only two unnatural colors they had—before hitting the medicine. Wincing, I loaded my arms with Band-Aids, iodine, hydrogen peroxide, and antibiotic cream. A pair of hair scissors caught my eye on the way out, and I added them to my collection because I expected the scissors would get less questions than a razor.
Damn Eli for his perceptiveness. Damn him for not only being sexy as hell but thoughtful when I didn’t need him to be. Damn him for giving a damn.
“Did you find everything okay?” the elderly woman at checkout asked. She smiled, and her crumpled paper face crumpled even more.
“I did.”
She rang up the purchases, throwing surreptitious glances in my direction.
“I’m doing a gardening job this summer, and it’s been rough on the body,” I found myself murmuring defensively.
“Got to watch those thorns,” she uttered. “I suggest some gardening gloves. We have them on aisle seven.”
“I have some. I prefer working without them when I can.”
“Suit yourself. You got a rewards card with us?”
I shook my head, and she sighed, typing something into the computer, her eyes squinted.
Spectacles plunked onto the counter between us.
“Sorry,” the stock girl apologized to me, her gaze sliding to the older woman. “Found them on the candy aisle. I
thought you were diabetic, Ms. Barbara.”
“Humph,” Barbara grunted.
My total came up on the machine, and I handed her cash I had stuffed in my pocket.
Accepting it, she handed me my merchandise inside of a plastic bag, pulled open the money drawer, and offered me my change.
“You should use biodegradable bags,” I told her.
“We have reusable ones,” she replied, bored.
“I’ll take one of those.” We switched everything over, and I threw her a small smile. “Thanks.”
The glass doors swished open, the warm night slapping me in the face.
Rushing to the van, I climbed in, plunked the bag into the passenger seat, and pulled away, leaving the building’s fluorescent world behind.
“I need to see your manager,” Dad bellowed. “I have a prescription for these medications!”
Standing behind him, I wilted, wishing the shelves of blood pressure cuffs would swallow me whole, taking me away from the angry pharmacists and sympathetic eyes.
“I’m sorry,” the lab-coat wearing brunette behind the counter replied. Her name tag pegged her as ‘June’. “It says you refilled this on the fourteenth. You aren’t due for a refill for another week.”
“This is ridiculous!” Dad ranted. “Why can’t I get them now so I can have them when I run out?”
“Dad,” I soothed, touching his shoulder.
He brushed me off. “I have every right to these medicines.”
“When you fill them on time,” June informed him, her face stern. “Early isn’t the problem. Too early is. I can report this, Mr. Griffin, and in that case, you may be completely out of luck. Which would you prefer? Getting them in a week or not at all?”
Dad backed down.
“Come on, Dad,” I begged. “Let’s just go home.”
He staggered backward, his defeated gaze landing on my face. “I need something for the pain, Tansy.”
“I know,” I murmured, taking him by the elbow.
We made it outside, climbing into his beat-up Buick, before he said, “Take me to Harry’s.”
“Dad, we already have drinks at home.”
“I need something stronger than what we have there.”
Stronger than the whiskey?
“Dad—”
“Just drive, Tansy, or I’ll take myself.”
Shifting the car out of park, I drove.
When I got to the house, Deena was plopped on the living room couch eating cereal out of the box, the cats curled in varying places around her. Except Happy. The long-haired black cat was watching Deena’s every move, her yellow eyes on the cereal.
“You’re back awful late for a gardener,” Deena groused, eyes on the television.
“It’s only eight o’clock, and I made a stop at the pharmacy for hair dye.”
“That stuff’s not going to stain my bathtub is it?” Hetty called from the kitchen.
“I’ll do it outside under the water hose later this week,” I called back.
She looked up from the stack of paperwork in front of her. The soft yellow light above her head, and the steady hum of the central air conditioner gave the room a peaceful feeling. Normal. Except for the purring cats next to Deena.
Snow lumbered toward me, panting.
“I don’t get what that stupid dog sees in you,” Deena muttered.
I could say the same about the cats. To look at them, you’d think Deena had catnip in her pocket.
“Did it go well?” Hetty asked, ignoring my sister.
“It was fine. Mr. Lockston is a nice man, and he has a really beautiful piece of land with that orchard.” Walking into the kitchen, I opened the fridge, the pharmacy bag dangling from my free hand.
“Your supper is the saran-wrapped plate on the top shelf,” Hetty informed me.
Pushing the bag onto my wrist, I took the plate, pulled off the saran wrap, and placed it in the microwave.
“He told me I’d get paid at the end of the week,” I informed her. “I figure I can work on the stuff here at the clinic whenever I’m not over there.”
“That’ll mean getting home earlier,” she replied, glancing at the clock on the stove.
“I had to put down mulch and pick up an order of flowers today. It won’t always take that long.”
Nodding, she turned back to her paperwork.
The microwave dinged, and I pulled the plate out, found a fork, and ate the macaroni casserole standing up, sneaking a few bites to Snow.
Finishing, I scraped off the plate, rinsed it, and then placed it in the dishwasher, the bag still hanging from my wrist, mocking me.
Bickering from the television chased me down the hall to my room, and I let Snow sneak past me before shutting the bedroom door.
Dumping the contents of the bag on the bed, I pulled the scissors, a Band-Aid, and the antibiotic cream free, hiding them inside my oversized makeup bag before shoving the rest of it into my combat boots in the closet.
Making my way to the bathroom, I closed the door and locked it, my tired eyes meeting my reflection in the mirror.
You’re stronger than this, Tansy.
Setting the makeup bag on the toilet, I yanked the scissors free, staring at them in the dull light.
“Write something on the bag. Something you want to get rid of. A demon,” Eli ordered.
There were lots of places a person could write to release their demons.
Pulling my shorts down, I placed my foot on the toilet lid next to the makeup bag and opened the scissors, the sharp edge toward my skin.
Love and death.
Quickly, before I let myself think too much about it, I cut myself, the shallow wound on my outer left thigh near my hip. Blood welled up, crimson tears that grew bigger and bigger until they fell, sliding down my skin. Blood … how strange that I loathed it so much, and yet needed it so bad.
The scissors clinked into the sink as I rushed to grab the toilet paper, winding it around my hand to press against the wound.
My thoughts calmed, replaced by burning pain and a euphoria that made me lightheaded. I was on another planet above this one. Away from everything. Confusion, fear, and emotions that I couldn’t compartmentalize. It felt good.
“You can’t keep doing this, Tansy,” my brain scolded
What? Hiding from myself? Why not?
A knock on the door startled me, and I jumped.
“Hey, you about to take a bath or something because I’ve got to pee, and Nana only has the one bathroom,” Deena called.
Putting more pressure on the wound, I glanced at the door. “Yeah, okay. I’m almost done.”
I reached over, turning the sink on. Water splashed onto the scissors, rinsing away my regrets.
Pulling the toilet paper away carefully, I tugged the antibiotic cream out of the makeup bag, dabbed it on the wound, and then bandaged it.
After replacing everything in the bag, I opened the toilet, threw the bloodstained tissue into the water, and then flushed, watching as it ate away my shame.
My hand ached, and I lifted it to inspect the wound I’d made with my knitting needle. It wasn’t infected, but it wouldn’t take much for it to get that way. I needed to be more careful, more sanitary. With the gardening, wounds to the hands were out of the question.
You’re not going to do this again, Tansy.
Deena pounded on the door. “Come on! I’ve got to go!”
Zipping the makeup bag, I glanced around the room, inspecting it for blood or evidence that I’d done anything, and then yanked the door open.
Deena stumbled. “Took you long enough.”
“It’s all yours.”
That night, I dreamt about Eli’s punching bag, about the way he looked at me after I’d written on it. With desire. Not disgust or sympathy.
“Love isn’t the only thing that causes the heart to race and the palms to sweat,” Eli breathed.
My pulse went wild. Thud, thud, thudding, erasing everything in the room except Eli
and me.
One moment, Eli was staring at me, lust filling his gaze, the next he was gone, his face replaced by our house in Atlanta. A sharp pain shot through my chest, and I glanced down to find my shirt covered in blood.
Grabbing myself, I screamed, scarlet gore covering my hands.
“Tansy, I need you!” my dad hollered from the other room.
“Dad! I’m bleeding! I don’t know why I’m bleeding!”
“It’s okay, sweetie. Just put some alcohol on it, and then help me to the kitchen. My legs hurt today.”
The pain in my chest grew, becoming so unbearable I could barely breathe.
“It hurts!” I gasped. “It hurts so bad!”
Suddenly, Dad was standing in front of me, his dark eyes staring down into mine, blood leaking from his eyes, his nose, his lips, and his pores the same way it had in the hospital.
“It hurts, Daddy,” I whispered, terrified, my hands gripping my chest, blood welling up between my fingers. Wet and warm.
“I know,” Dad replied, his eyes sad. “Love always does.”
I woke up, gasping, Snow nudging me, my hands over my heart.
“Oh, God!” I whimpered.
Snow whined in response.
That dream …
You’re afraid of what it means.
Fear was an understatement. I was falling for Eli Lockston, and the people in my family died for love.
THIRTY-TWO
Eli
Cigarette smoke curled into the air, and I waved it away, smashing the end of the butt I smoked into a pile of old cement blocks before throwing it down.
Invited to an event in Atlanta with a friend he’d met in town, Jonathan dropped me off at the animal clinic a few hours before it opened, leaving me to watch the early morning sun rise over the brick. Dogs barked inside the rescue building.
