by Anne Heltzel
I sit and read until I begin to grow cold and I have a hard time seeing the words anymore. Then I wander back inside. Sam is awake now. He slipped back inside without me noticing and is sitting on ground with his back against the bed, reading his own book. My note is crumpled in a ball beside him. When I walk in, he looks up quickly.
Didn’t you like it? I ask, settling down next to him on the floor.
No. I mean yes, I liked it. But isn’t there anything else you think about, Abby?
Of course, I say.
Like what? His tone is rude and annoyed, and it hurts me. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.
I read your books. I think of what to do in the day.
Anything else?
Now I am getting mad. Yes, Sam, I say. In fact, I do think of other things. I think back to a past I can’t remember. I think about what is so wrong with me that I can’t remember my own life. I think hard about why I feel pain instead of memories. I wonder all the time what has happened to me to make me like this. And I wonder why everything out there is evil, why I can’t leave, why I feel this fear, what you’re protecting me from.
When I am finished, he is silent for a while.
I suppose it’s easier to think of the things in your note, he says.
Yes. I nod.
He squeezes my forehead and kisses me on the shoulder. Oh, mija, he says. You are such a little fawn. I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry for getting upset.
I bite my lip so I won’t feel the tears that want to come. I nod again.
It is morning. I wake with a headache from thinking and worrying about Sam’s reaction to my note. I woke up a few times in the night, and he was not in bed with me; the light was on, and he was busying himself with something on the couch. He is not in bed with me now, either. I feel as though I need hours more sleep, but when I try to close my eyes again, they pop open as if they’re controlled by taut little wires in my lids. I roll on my other side, toward Sam’s part of the bed. Where Sam should be, there is a stack of papers tied with a rope. I pick them up.
For the little fawn, they read. My heart quickens. I thumb through the pages, twelve in all. And I glance over to where he lies, asleep again on the couch. This is what kept him up all night.
Darling mija, it begins.
I cannot tell you how much you mean to me. But first, let me start with the basics, the things that drew me to you in the beginning. It was your skin at first, the soft sexiness of it. When I saw it, I knew it would feel the way it looked: like rich, thick milk. And later, after I had stopped being so fascinated by your skin that I was finally able to look at the rest of you, I was not disappointed. That nose of yours kept me intrigued for weeks. Its sweet, narrow little slope reminds me of Catullus’s poems to Lesbia. It makes me want to be a poet, too, just for the fun of seducing you that way. I fell in love with the way you first looked at me with your beautiful, trusting eyes. Still filled with wonder, they never fail to thrill me. From the beginning, I have loved protecting you, taking care of you, keeping you secure. And your smile. When I was first able to get you to smile . . . it blew me away. Your smile is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Its tentative grace, its trusting curve. These things all put together add up to what you are: the epitome of femininity. All these qualities make me more of a man, make me stronger. You are the reason men from the beginning of time have found women to inspire them. Those women are their muses. You are my muse.
But beyond that, you are my life. I have found that no one interests me the way you do. Your brain works in so many ways; your thoughts are unfailingly sweet and innocent, but they are never trivial. You inspire me in a way no one else has. As long as I am alive, you will never have to be alone. I will never let that happen.
It continues on with words and phrases that mirror my own thoughts. It is the single most romantic thing I may ever possess. I sit with it for over an hour; that is how long it takes me to finish it. When he wakes up, he looks over at me from the sofa, and our eyes meet. He comes to sit at the foot of the bed, looking disheveled and penitent. He looks at me and I look at him, and then he tucks me into his arms, and as usual, we do not need to say anything. It would take ten languages, not just one, to say aloud what we tell each other in one instant with our hearts.
Ever since I read Sam’s letter, the emotional things that once plagued me no longer do. I don’t wonder if he feels how I do anymore, and I know I was wrong for being worried. But it doesn’t change his moodiness, and he is still snapping at me from time to time. He seems dreamier, fatigued, and more eager to be left alone. And when he is awake, and we are together, the thing that frightens me is physical.
Sam no longer wants me the way I want him. I am forced to wonder as before if I am hideous or if part of me disgusts him. He kisses me and hugs me but never seeks me out in any other way. I am more confused than ever. Even now, as I lie next to him practically naked, or prance around the room in my underwear in the middle of the day, I don’t provoke more than a glance. He is so quiet, so secretive. Then at night he is restless. He is sweaty all the time, and sometimes he gets sick. I want to know his secrets. I don’t want to bother him, but I can feel the words bubbling out of me like a geyser. My willpower is not enough to stop them.
Sam? I say, tentatively. I watch as he looks up from his novel and grits his teeth, already annoyed.
I just want to know what’s wrong, I say. I know there’s something.
I don’t know how many ways I can tell you that nothing is wrong.
I know, I know, I hastily tell him. It’s just that . . .
What?
You never touch me anymore.
You’re crazy. You’re making up problems.
It’s not true! You haven’t touched me in ages.
Stop exaggerating, Abby. I’m just busy. He turns back to his book.
Busy what? I say, angry myself now. Busy reading? Busy with your friend Sid?
Stop it, he tells me through gritted teeth. Stop talking right now.
You can’t say that to me! I shout. I’m feeling bold, so I press on. Why are all of these other things in your life more important than me!
He rustles his book and slaps it down on the nightstand.
Well, Abby, he says semisarcastically, since you asked so nicely, I may as well tell you.
I wait, feeling ashamed of my outburst before he’s even begun to really talk.
You see, he says. I am out of my medicine. Sid will not give me my medicine because I am out of money. But you never worry your pretty head about those things, do you? Money? What’s that? You probably don’t know. Or maybe you think you have stacks of it sitting in that drawer next to you.
I am shocked. We have never talked like this before.
What is wrong with you, Sam? I ask. Why do you need medicine from Sid?
We all have our secrets, Abby, he says. I’d prefer if you don’t ask me about mine. His words pierce me deep. We have never worried about money. Sam goes out and he brings things home, and that is that. He’s right that money has never crossed my mind. And now that I know why Sam’s been strange, I feel guilty and sorry. But most of all, distant. He has pulled away from me and there is nothing I can do, because the harder I fight to draw him close again, the further he goes.
Her hair is waist-long, and her body is a skinny vixen. She is sex.
Is she a whore? I ask him. Where did you find her? I have never felt this fury.
Be nice, Sam tells me as she glares.
Why should I? I am angry. He was gone for hours, and now he comes back with this, like she is a beautiful exotic puppy he wants to make into his pet. I glare back at her.
She’s an old friend, Abby. She needs my help.
Didn’t take you very long, she cuts in, eyeing me up and down.
I didn’t know, Sam whispers short and quick, as if he doesn’t want me to hear. You told me you were gone for good.
Turns out I’m not, she says. Well, you never could fend for yourself out he
re, isn’t that right?
Sam looks at the ground. I didn’t plan for it, he says. But we’re all here now.
Thanks, anyway, she tells him, and she turns to go.
No! Sam grabs her wrist. You’ll sleep there. He gestures toward the other bed, the one I slept on my first two nights, before I began to share his.
That one. Of course. She smiles again, like it’s a sad little joke. Then she nods and heads for the bed, falling asleep almost as soon as her thin frame touches it.
Sam ignores me for several minutes. This isn’t fair! I am confused and boiling over with angry panic. But I can’t stand it when we’re angry, so I whine.
How was I supposed to react, Sammy? This is our house!
This place is mine, he says through gritted teeth. Not yours.
I feel as if I have been punched. I want to throw up. How can he be so cruel? I curl onto our bed and cry bitterly. He storms back out of the cave.
Only now do I look at her starving frame. She is so frail, light enough to walk on water. She is beautiful, too. Her veins show through her skin. She’s shaking, so I stand up and pull the blanket around her shoulders. As I tuck it around her, I notice the dozens of scars that crisscross her wrists. New, pink scars layered upon old. I am frozen in horror. Her eyes pop open and she stares at me, and I stare back.
Thank you, she whispers. Her eyes don’t match her wasted body.
When Sam comes back, I cajole him back to bed with me. He plays angry for a while; then finally, I feel his arm around me, and my panic subsides.
But not entirely. How will it be, now that there are three?
Amanda pretends to be my friend, but I know she was sent here to ruin me. It has been days and days, so long I can’t count, but at least a month if not some other indiscernible length of time. Yesterday I thought she was beautiful, but today I think she is Medusa. Her face wrinkles and her smile-grimace is ugly. Ugliness did not exist before she arrived. I can’t help but resent her.
I am not certain Amanda is human. Some days I think she is a demon and this is a test. A test where she threatens to eat my soul and steal my love. I feel my soul deteriorating in her presence most of the time, then other times her sweet loveliness betrays me and restores my heart just enough that I can breathe, survive, and feel. And then it all happens again.
He brought me a birthday cake. Sam tells me it’s my birthday and that I am seventeen today. I don’t feel older. I don’t feel any different at all. I suspect he is lying, trying to get me out of my mood. The cake is four tiers high and layered with coconut bits and covered in tiny sparkling candles. I went to blow them out, and they wouldn’t blow out, and Amanda laughed and laughed, and I saw some of that ugliness she brought with her that never existed for me before. I didn’t make a fuss; I just stood and walked over to the old writing desk, and here I sit now, writing and sketching. My pencil sketches the same face each day. It looks like Amanda, but if Amanda were younger and softer and had more light in her eyes. My pencil has drawn this face ever since it began to visit me in my dreams at night. Sam and the girl talk and laugh behind me. I wish I had gotten some cake before I decided to be stubborn. Amanda has pushed her chair in and walks toward me. She places her hand on my shoulder.
Happy Birthday, Abby-cakes, she whispers. My heart lifts just a little. She’s brought me a piece. I hold it on my lap, where it balances precariously against my knees. Amanda sits on the ground with her own legs bent so she can rest her arms on them and her chin on her arms. About half the cake is gone before I notice her staring at me curiously.
You really like it, don’t you? she says wonderingly. You’re not just pretending.
What do you mean? I ask. It’s delicious!
Then she leans toward me and whispers more quietly so Sam can’t hear: Abby, it’s disgusting. It’s hard as a rock and starting to mold — a dog probably wouldn’t even eat it. Sam found it in the garbage bin behind the bakery downtown.
I am so angry that I spit out my last bite, which has indeed become hard and tasteless in my mouth. It’s as if her words changed the cake to sawdust like magic. I was never this emotional before Amanda arrived. I don’t know why she’s always trying to spoil things. Sam must see we’re not getting along, because he rushes to my side. The good thing about Amanda being here is that Sam has been more like his old self. Protective of me, caring.
What did she say to you? he asks me, glaring at Amanda at the same time. I shake my head in response, and Amanda smiles wickedly. I refuse to play Amanda’s games, although it occurs to me briefly that if he thinks she’s being cruel, it’s maybe a way for me to get all of Sam back for myself. But I can’t look like a baby, and Amanda makes me so nervous that I’m sure if I play it wrong, I’ll color his reaction the wrong shade. He glares at Amanda again, and she just shrugs.
I can’t help but notice that her mean look is gone and there’s sadness in her eyes. She is staring at the cake as if it is something to be afraid of. I focus on her thinness, and the way her ribs protrude from her chest more prominently than her breasts. Then it occurs to me that the reason Amanda wants me to think the cake is old and moldy is probably because she needs to think the cake is old and moldy, so she won’t want to eat it. People like that, girls who give food so much power, need it more than the rest of us. They lust after it like some of us lust after the body. But they fear it, too, because it holds more power over them than they know how to handle. Food becomes a golden serpent instead of just nourishment.
I feel sorry for her. I know all about it because I knew someone else like that, once, someone who always had hunger in her eyes. I try to think who, but I can’t quite remember. I can’t think of anything past my headache. I think maybe I could reach it sometime, way in the back of my head, but not today. Not while it hurts like this. I look at Amanda and shudder because the eerie déjà vu of it all has crept its way under my skin. Sometimes I’m sympathetic to Amanda even though my brain cries out not to be. After all, she is taking Sam away from me. But something about her is so familiar that I have all these natural warm feelings for her. I meditate on this while my head pain slides away. I focus on what’s in front of me until the ache is gone altogether. It helps, doing that.
It’s OK, I say quietly to her when Sam has gone, busying himself at the sink. I know why you can’t enjoy it. I savor the rest of my cake, letting my eyes slide over her sharp elbows and thin wrists one more time, then back to her face, where she is shaking her head as if to say, You don’t know anything at all. I stand up and walk away with my plate. This girl turns everything topsy-turvy. My stomach is sick from it.
Amanda bends over me, so close I can smell her.
I love her I hate her I want her I want to be her.
We are making dinner together.
Go over to the fridge, I say, and grab me a salmon fillet. She’s too close. I don’t understand my complicated feelings toward her. Amanda reminds me of someone good and something bad. She makes me nostalgic for someone I can’t remember. It’s a feeling of happy pain. Sometimes I crave it, and sometimes it makes me glad I’ve forgotten.
Fridge! She howls with laughter. Salmon! You’re too funny, Abby. She ruffles my hair condescendingly and prances away as I glower. She’s always teasing me, mocking me slightly, not enough to be malicious but just enough to sound imperious. I see Sam shoot her a warning look — he knows how she bothers me. I don’t like feeling like the outsider. But I lighten up as Amanda forgets the food, instead grabbing my arms and whirling me around the room with her as she sings. Amanda has the most beautiful voice; it fills the room, and it’s enough for me to understand what Sam sees in her.
Later, we are getting ready for bed when she gives me a funny card she made. It’s in the shape of a pig, folded like origami, and it has a poem inside along with a thin, woven bracelet.
A friendship bracelet, she says, smiling. Let me tie it on you. You ever been to California, Abby? she asks absently as she’s tying. It’s beautiful there, and always w
arm. That’s where I’m gonna go someday, when I save up the cash. California. It’s paradise on earth.
She seems almost like she’s talking to herself, but I nod anyway, letting myself wallow in her attention. She frowns over the bracelet; it’s far too big for my wrist, and she doesn’t want to cut it, so we drape it around my ankle instead. I step back and hold my foot out to admire the purple and orange and gold threads against my skin. Amanda is wonderful. Her beauty fills my heart.
But she isn’t always like this. Sometimes she screams and flies into rages, throwing things at Sam. She never throws things at me, but she is not above giving me cold stares and ignoring me when I speak to her. Other times, she cries all night.
Sam doesn’t see her as troubled, only moody and passionate.
It’s what I love most about her, he tells me often. It’s why I brought her home in the first place. She’s color to your gray.
I think it’s a cruel thing to say, but when I sulk, he says he doesn’t mean it that way, only that he thinks we’re both perfect and beautiful, and when I ask him if he thinks she is more beautiful, he only says that I shouldn’t worry because Amanda’s like a sister to him, since they have a lot in common. Then why do they go out together late at night, when they suppose I am asleep? Why has Amanda started taking Sam to Sid’s, instead of me? He never elaborates what exactly it is that ties them together that leaves me out. He must know, though, what it does to me, his leaving me for her.
