Willow

by Julia Hoban

  “Cathy?”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Cathy says above the screaming. “What?” she speaks into the phone. “Okay, thank you, yes, call it in to the pharmacy.” She hangs up and looks at Willow.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing home? Is Isabelle sick or something?”

  “She’s burning up, poor little thing.” Cathy presses a kiss against Isabelle’s forehead. “They called me at work to come and pick her up. It’s just an ear infection, the doctor said that there’s nothing to worry about, that super high fevers are really common . . .” Clearly she’s trying to reassure herself as much as Willow. “I have to go to the pharmacy and pick up her prescription. Will you be okay with her until I get back?”

  “Of course,” Willow says, taking Isabelle from Cathy. Now is not the time to remind Cathy that David wouldn’t approve of her staying with the baby. “I’ll be fine,” she says calmly. “Go to the pharmacy.”

  “Thank you,” Cathy says, pulling on her sweater and grabbing her purse. “I don’t know how long this will take, sometimes they make you wait while they make up the prescription. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She dashes out the door.

  Willow walks over to the window, Isabelle in her arms, and watches as Cathy runs down the street. “I’m sorry you feel so sick,” she says, bouncing the baby up and down on her hip. But Isabelle seems a little calmer than she did a few minutes ago, she’s no longer crying quite so forcefully. Her tears are subsiding, punctuated by little snuffles. Willow thinks how wonderful it would be, and not just for poor Isabelle’s sake either, if when Cathy came home, everything was under perfect control, Isabelle calm, sleeping even, the kitchen clean. . . .

  “Wouldn’t that be nice, sweetie? Wouldn’t you feel better?”

  Willow wants rather desperately to repay Cathy’s faith in her. Not only that, but she’s sure that taking care of Isabelle, taking care of her perfectly that is, might go a little way toward smoothing things over with David when he finally comes home.

  And if she’s totally focused on Isabelle, then she won’t even have time to think about what just happened in the park.

  Of course, she’s not exactly sure what taking care of Isabelle perfectly might entail. There’s only so much she can do with a sick baby, after all, but maybe feeding her, and changing her, would be a good start. She does feel wet.

  “So, let’s get you changed, and then make you something to eat. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

  Willow walks into Isabelle’s bedroom and lays her down on the changing table. Now, she may have changed many diapers in her time—she’s been babysitting since she was thirteen—but she’s never changed Isabelle. Although it’s not the most challenging activity, it is a little more difficult than she would have thought, since Isabelle, alone among all the babies that Willow has ever met, wears cloth diapers.

  David gives Cathy a hard time about this, since they’re incalculably more expensive than disposable diapers, difficult to even find, and more inconvenient in every way possible, but Cathy, who studied environmental law, always insists.

  “Okay, so this shouldn’t be so difficult. . . .” Willow grabs a cloth diaper and two diaper pins.

  But Isabelle is not as cooperative as she might be. Clearly the poor little girl doesn’t feel well. Instead of lying still she fusses and kicks, and Willow, unused to diaper pins, manages to stab her. Rather sharply too, if the baby’s screams are anything to go by.

  “Oh, no!” Willow is horrified. How could she do such a thing? She stares transfixed at the minute pinprick blossoming red that mars her niece’s perfect, tender flesh. There’s something absolutely obscene about damaging something so flawless.

  Willow slowly reaches out her hand and touches the spot where she pricked Isabelle. Just as when Guy touched her, Willow’s hand completely obliterates the mark that she made. Well, that’s not very surprising. What she has inflicted on Isabelle greatly differs from the gashes that score her own stomach. But what if that tiny little mark were to grow? For a second she imagines Isabelle’s skin scored all over, savaged by a razor, the way that her own is. How would she feel if, say, ten or fifteen years from now she found out that Isabelle was a cutter?

  Willow jerks her hand back.

  And what if she killed David and Cathy, then what? Would you still think her being a cutter was so bad?

  She finishes diapering Isabelle without incident, although her hands are trembling, and carries her into the kitchen.

  “Well, we’re off to a great start here, don’t you think?” she says in a shaky voice. So much for taking care of her niece perfectly. At least Isabelle has stopped crying. Willow can’t help feeling that the baby has recovered from the episode far better than she herself has.

  “How about something to eat?” She opens the cupboards and rummages around. Today even the pretzels and baby food are gone. “Yeah, so much for that.” Willow slams the doors shut and moves to the refrigerator.

  At least the refrigerator is more promising. There are half a dozen eggs, and some butter among other things. Willow puts Isabelle in her high chair and grabs a couple of the eggs and a bowl. She sets a pan on the stove and throws some butter in. As she beats the eggs she thinks about what just happened. She absentmindedly pours the eggs in the pan, then dumps the bowl in the sink.

  Willow stares out the widow, but she barely even registers the park outside. The only thing she sees is Isabelle’s perfect skin. She’s so lost in thought that she forgets about the eggs for a second.

  Willow turns back from the window and gasps in horror. The eggs are on fire. The pan is on fire. The kitchen is on fire.

  Not again!

  This is her first thought. She has done it again. David was right, she really will finish the rest of the family off. As her eyes start to tear from the acrid smoke, she has another thought as well. What if this time around she managed to save Isabelle? What if this time things are different?

  The vision of herself as a heroine is delicious.

  But the smoke starts to dissipate, and Willow can see that really, of course there is no fire. How likely would it be that some burned scrambled eggs could turn into a three-alarm fire anyway?

  There is no fire, she will neither kill nor save Isabelle in some dramatic gesture. She is simply a girl who has made a filthy mess, a girl who is incapable of taking care of her niece, as incapable of that as she is of everything else these days.

  Willow takes the smoking pan and tosses it into the sink, where it hisses and splutters angrily. As she stares at the smoke that drifts toward the ceiling, it occurs to her that maybe for once, David was being completely honest when he said that his reservations about leaving her alone were simply because she is too overwrought to take care of a six-month-old. Based on the evidence she’d have to agree with him.

  The doorbell rings. Willow can only hope that it isn’t Cathy, so weighed down by packages that she can’t manage her keys, or even worse, David, home from his conference.

  At least give me time to clean up, for God’s sake.

  But when she opens the door, it is Guy who is standing there.

  This time Willow doesn’t blush, and she doesn’t feel flustered either. She’s much too relieved that it’s him as opposed to David or Cathy.

  “Migraines?” He leans against the door jamb.

  “Yeah, well, I thought the plague might sound suspicious. C’mon in.” She steps back and opens the door wider.

  “Something smells like it’s burning.”

  “Tell me about it,” Willow says. She walks in front of him toward the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Umm . . .” Willow surveys the smoky kitchen. Her plan, to take care of Isabelle perfectly, could not have backfired more spectacularly. “I guess I’m continuing to screw up my life and anyone else’s who comes into contact with me.” She goes over to the sink and picks up a sponge, intending to scrub the burned pan. “That sounds about right, what do you think?”<
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  “Just ’cause you burned some . . .” He joins her at the sink and glances into the pan. “Hmm, I’m guessing these were eggs at one point?”

  “No, that’s not the only reason.” Willow attacks the pan with the sponge. It’s tough going. She should have soaked it first.

  The whole process of washing the pot seems futile suddenly. She wonders what would happen if she just threw it out the window. Instead she settles for the trash can under the sink. Maybe if she covers it with enough garbage David and Cathy won’t even notice.

  “You’re just throwing it out?” Guy seems to find this funny.

  Willow shrugs. “Oh, by the way, this is Isabelle.”

  “About those migraines in the park—” Guy starts to say, but they are interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock, and David’s voice calling out.

  “Hey, I’m back. Who’s here?”

  Willow is glad that the smoke has cleared somewhat, and that she has managed to get rid of the pan, but she’d prefer it if he didn’t enter the kitchen just yet. She picks up Isabelle and walks into the foyer.

  “Hi,” she says warily. This is, after all, the first time that she has seen David since her fit a couple of nights ago. She has no idea how to act toward him. Given how close-mouthed David’s been lately, she can hardly expect him to start something in front of Guy. Still, she imagines that he will make reference to the other night somehow,if only because her being left alone with Isabelle would have to reactivate the argument.

  “Hello.” David nods to Guy, but it’s clear that he’s preoccupied. “What’s going on?” He looks confused. “Where’s Cathy?” David reaches out to take the baby from Willow.

  “She went to the pharmacy,” Willow says. “Isabelle’s sick, an ear infection, I think she said.”

  “You didn’t try and put her down for a nap?” he asks mildly.

  Willow can’t believe how stupid she’s been. Of course it would have made much more sense to do that than anything else. She braces herself for David’s condemnation.

  But David doesn’t seem as if he cares very much about reprimanding her. He’s far more interested in Isabelle’s welfare. Willow knows that this is only natural and correct. Furthermore, she has no interest in having any kind of replay of the other night. Yet as she watches David kiss his daughter, she is struck by a pain so sharp, so brutal, that she nearly doubles over.

  She clutches her stomach. For a second she is sure that she is going to faint. The ache is so intense that she is surprised, when she looks down at herself, to see that there is no blood springing through her clothes, that this pain is not self-inflicted. This is the pain that she has been fighting for so long.

  Of course David’s first concern would be for his daughter. Willow is not hurt by the fact that she is not first with him. It is that she will neverbe first with anyone again. She will never be anyone’s child again. This happens to everyone, it will happen to Isabelle too, but surely not as soon as it has happened to her.

  “Willow?” David grabs her arm, no easy feat since he is still holding Isabelle. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m okay, just . . .” Willow straightens up. The pain is gone. She has no idea how, she can only be thankful that it is so. “I’m just a little . . .” She searches for the right thing to say. Migraines won’t fly with David. “I’m really tired, that’s all. We’re . . . I’m going to go upstairs and lie down.” She winces at her choice of words, and wonders if David or Guy has picked up on them, but David has already turned back to Isabelle.

  “C’mon,” she says to Guy. “Let’s go.”

  Willow walks up the stairs to her room. The episode has left her feeling completely drained. She feels like she could sleep for a thousand years. She opens the door and eyes her bed longingly. She wonders what Guy would do if she just got under the covers and closed her eyes.

  Instead of doing that she sits at her desk and Guy is the one who gets the bed. He doesn’t get under the covers, but he does sit down and lean against the pillows. The sight of him on her bed is anything but comfortable and she has to look away for a few moments to compose herself.

  But even though she is uncomfortable, even though she is still reeling from what happened downstairs, seeing him like this, without the complications of other people, she knows, suddenly, what her feelings are. She can’t rationally say that being with him is too complicated, that her fidelity is only to the razor. She is powerless to make such a decision. She cannot do otherwise but be with him.

  “So about the park,” Guy says. “I was wondering if your getting these migraines was a way of—”

  “Oh,” Willow interrupts him. “I . . . was . . .” She wishes she could tell him that she ran out of the park because she was so overcome by the memory of the way that they kissed, but saying those words is nearly as overwhelming as the act itself. “It was just that I was . . . Well, I wasn’t going to doanything.” She hopes that he will get her oblique reference. Surely this must be why he is asking, because he’s worried that she had a date with her blades?

  “Yeah, that isn’t what I was thinking. I was just wondering if you really get migraines or if you were just trying to avoid me. Either way, you were kind of rude.” There is a definite edge to his normally calm voice, and Willow is sure that she can hear something else beneath the words.

  “I was . . . Huh?” She blinks as the meaning of what he’s said sinks in. But she has to admit that while she wouldn’t necessarily brand her behavior as rude, she knew, even as she was doing it, that it was at least very odd.

  “I asked if you were trying to avoid me.”

  Now Willow knowsthat he has something going on. She wants to reassure him, she wants to tell him that she can’t stop thinking about the day that they spent together, that right now, she wants nothing more than to crawl underneath the covers with him. But the words die in her throat, so instead she says:

  “It’s just sort of complicated . . . I mean you’recomplicated and . . . difficult . . .”

  “I’m complicated? I’m difficult?” he asks incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Apparently,” Willow says unhappily.

  “You think you’re not complicatedand difficult?” Guy goes on as if he hadn’t heard her. “You think you’re easy to deal with? You think what happened after we kissed is the way things normally go?”

  “No, I never thought that.” Willow shakes her head vehemently. She knows that he’s right, she’d be the first to say so, but she can’t help feeling hurt. Was the only thing that he took away from the other day the strangenessof it all? Didn’t he feel any of the things that she felt? “But I did think that maybe . . . maybe you had some fun. . . .”

  Fun? Fun! Okay, guess it’s back to asking about kittens!

  Willow cannot believe that she has said something so profoundly stupid, and judging from the look on Guy’s face, he can’t either.

  “Fun? Fun! Oh yeah! It’s been really FUN! You think that this isn’t playing hell with my mind ? Fuck that!” Guy practically spits the words out. Willow blinks. She’s not used to hearing him talk that way. “You think that this isn’t playing hell with my life? I’ve barely slept since the first time I saw your arm, let alone gotten any work done. You think I like this? That this is all fun? Fuck all of it, and fuck you too!”

  Willow feels as if he’s slapped her. She didn’t realize that calm, easygoing Guy could get so angry. She didn’t realize that their day together didn’t hold any magic for him. She didn’t realize that he had the power to wound her quite so deeply.

  “I don’t think that this is all fun,” she says after a few moments. Her voice is cold and hard. She is no longer interested in reassuring him. “But guess what, Guy, I never asked you to hang around either. Nobody invited you here today. You can just walk away. You can just leave.”

  “Right, I can leave,” Guy says sarcastically. “You think I could just walk away after what happened in the library?”

  Willow is dying
to ask him which part of their time in the library he’s referring to. Does he feel that he can’t walk away because of their kiss, or because of her cutting? But she doesn’t say anything.

  “Yeah, okay,” Guy continues. “Maybe I would like to be around somebody who doesn’t need talking down all the time, but then what? I don’t need you on my conscience.”

  Willow has her answer. She doesn’t like being his community service for the semester, and, if that’s all that’s keeping him, then she wants no part of it.

  “Don’t make me your project, Guy. That’s what this is about? You don’t want to feel guilty? You don’t want me on your conscience? You look a little too old to be a Boy Scout.” Willow tries to make her voice as harsh as possible, but she is no more successful at this than she was at taking care of Isabelle. In fact, she sounds nothing so much as scared and vulnerable. “Go back to the other things you said you had going on this semester. The things you said I was going to complicate. All those classes you take up at the university, your rowing. Go ahead. Go somewhere else. Knock ten seconds off your time, but don’t worry about me anymore.”

  “Don’t worry about you?” Guy shakes his head. “So you’ll be okay, no slicing and dicing? You’re all together now?”

  Willow has no answer to this. Instead she thinks about all the things that she’s told him, all the things that he’s told her, and all the things that they’ve done together. How did it all get to be such a mess right now? She wishes that she could press the rewind button and simply erase the last ten minutes, but unfortunately that’s not possible, and she realizes that, difficult as it may be, it is up to her to salvage the situation.

  “I’ll be all right,” she says after a moment. “If you’re staying here because you think you’re going to stop me from cutting, then leave. If you’re afraid that if you do leave I’ll alwaysbe a cutter, then that’s another reason for you to get out of here as quickly as possible. I don’t want you to stick around because of that. I don’t even know how that part of the story ends, but I do know if you go . . .” She trails off, puts her elbows on the desk, and rests her head in her hands. It is far easier to cut herself, to mutilate herself than to tell him how she feels.