Chapter Twelve
My mother found the letter when she was pulling the sheets off my bed for the laundry. She deals best with unpleasant conversations when we’re in public, which is why she interrogates me about hiding the letter while we’re at the self-checkout line at Winn-Dixie.
“It’s an outrageous violation of my trust, Evelyn,” she says in a steady, emotionless voice, the one she uses to convey seriousness.
We each have our roles. My mother scans. The glowing red eye of the self-service machine reads the hidden information in every barcode. The conveyor belt sends each item to the bagging area, where my waiting hands place them into plastic bags.
“He wrote, Mira, you know how much Ella loved Evelyn,” I say as I bag cans of green beans. “What did he mean by that?”
“He meant exactly what he wrote,” she says. She scans two loaves of bread—beep, beep—and they ride the belt to the end of the lane. I scoop them up gently for they are delicate bodies that must be handled with care. “But that’s not what I want to discuss. I want to discuss you deliberately hiding the letter from me, when you know damn well that it’s important. It was also addressed to me, Evelyn. You don’t have the right to keep something like that from me. It’s unacceptable.”
“Okay, but why did he address that statement to you? Why didn’t he just say, Ella loved Evelyn?”
“Well, I’m not in his head so I can’t tell you why he wrote what he wrote.” She’s trying her best to remain nonchalant, but I can tell she’s bothered by my question. “I still haven’t heard an apology for hiding it from me.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. I guess I thought the letter would upset you. Now what about the lawyer?” I ask.
“What about her?”
“When are you going to call her?”
“I’ll get around to it.”
“When?”
“When I get around to it, Evelyn.” My mother scans the final item and follows the robotic voice prompts to complete the sale. When the little printer spits out the receipt, she grabs it, crumpling it into the front pocket of her shorts. “I didn’t realize you were so excited to get a butter dish.” I push the cart, and she walks next to me. We pass through the automatic sliding doors and step out onto the hot asphalt of the parking lot.
“Well, I wouldn’t say excited, but I am curious. I’ve never inherited anything. Let alone something collectible from France.”
“I’ll call this week and get her to ship it to you, okay?”
I don’t respond. My mother pops the trunk open, and we load the grocery bags inside.
“Okay?” she tries again. Then says, “Evelyn, isn’t that what you want?” She closes the trunk, and we get in the car. She starts the engine and immediately rolls all the windows down so the stifling heat can begin to escape.
“Well, I was thinking. Treasure Island isn’t that far,” I say. “I thought maybe we could just go there and pick up the butter dish ourselves. In person. Maybe I could even see Ella’s house?”
“Ev, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“But why? It’s not like Ella will be there. She’s dead.” It’s not a nice way to end a sentence, I know, but it gets my mother’s attention in a way that most other words don’t. She looks over at me, and I can feel her thinking about death—my soon-to-be-dead father at Raiford, my dead grandmother whose last dying wish was for me to have her French butter dish.
“You really want to go?” my mother asks.
“Yes, I really do.”
She turns on the radio, and The Decemberists start singing a song about a joint suicide. If you don’t listen to the words, if you just let the jaunty accordion carry you away, you can be fooled into thinking it’s a song about something happy and uplifting, not a suicide pact made by two lovers from different parts of town.
“Fine, Evelyn. We’ll go to Treasure Island. Give me some time to arrange it.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, and she reaches over and pats my knee with the soft palm of her hand, before putting the car in gear.
I feel bad asking my mother for things. She’s already given me so much. She gave me life, and although it sounds cliché, it’s true. There is something to be said for the person who nurtured you with their own body, keeping you safe inside them for nearly a year, and then endured incredible pain to birth you into existence.
How difficult it all must have been for her. Giving birth to a baby, pushing and crying and panting in a hospital room while the baby’s father lived in a prison cell, a room with only hard surfaces, nothing soft to comfort him. My mother pushed me into the world in spite of her circumstances. She brought me to life, and then she kept breathing in and out, waking up each morning and going to bed each night. She bought me baby clothes and bathed me. She sang to me, and she planned my meals. She took me to Sears for photos for my first Christmas. She dressed me in a red velvet jumper with white trim. My mother did all of these things because she wanted to, not because she had to. I know that. I know there were options, and I don’t blame her if she ever considered them. She didn’t have the answers, and the questions were difficult, but she kept asking them. She kept figuring it out. My mother went on living, went on loving me, even though there must have been voices, real or imaginary, telling her to do otherwise. And for that, I can’t help but love her back.
Chapter Thirteen
The mall in Clearwater has an ice-skating rink in center court, a nice feature, since we are forced to perform all of our winter activities indoors. In real winter, most people can ice-skate outside, on a frozen lake under the dark blue of night, their bodies bundled in layers against the cold air.
On the second floor, Clarisse and I rest our bare elbows on the polished silver railing and lean over to watch a girl in a dark green velour bodysuit. She practices single axels across the center of the ice, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her skates the same nude color as her tights. It’s hard to determine where her feet end and her legs begin. Her skates are sharp—they make a piercing sound as she carves the ice. I see her nick the surface with her toe pick, bringing her body to a hard stop. She pulls one skate from her foot and drags the blade across her throat. It’s sharp enough to slice tender flesh. Her mouth makes a gurgling sound. I see blood pouring from her carotid artery, soaking the green velour. I remind myself it’s not real.
I feel uneasy inside enclosed malls like this and prefer open-air shopping centers where you can walk outside between stores. There are no windows here, no natural light, no signs of the outside world. My father knew what he was doing when he chose Ponce de Leon Mall in St. Augustine for his crime scene. I look around me and think of how easy it would be to open fire on these unsuspecting people. The exit doors are so far away. How many would make it out alive?
Clarisse and I share ice cream from Marble Slab Creamery, where they mix in toppings of your choice right in front of you. The boy behind the counter scooped chocolate ice cream onto a cold slab of marble and added rainbow sprinkles, white chocolate chips, and miniature peanut butter cups, folding and mixing with two small stainless steel spades until they were evenly distributed, a colorful sprinkle in each bite. He then scraped the entire concoction into the waffle cone bowl that Clarisse now passes to me as she licks a speck of ice cream from the corner of her mouth.
My mother took me to Ponce de Leon Mall once, just before we moved away from St. Augustine. I was five and needed dress shoes for a children’s chorus recital we were having at school. I remember my mother pulling me along by the hand because I wasn’t walking fast enough. She was in a hurry, rushing me to try on black patent leather Mary Janes, rushing to pay the clerk and get back to the car. I didn’t realize the importance of the place at the time but now I wish I could go back to Ponce de Leon, recording the sights and sounds and smells, taking in all the details of the last place my father existed as a free man.
I dig the spoon into the sweetness to create the perfect bite for myself just as
three teenage girls approach us from behind. I can feel their presence, their energy hovering close, so warm and textured I swear I could reach out and touch it, as though angst were something tangible, something you could roll between your fingers, squeeze within your palm. One of the girls taps Clarisse on the shoulder, and Clarisse turns around with a laugh already on her lips.
“What are you assholes doing here?” Clarisse asks the group. “I didn’t think they let Armwood rats mix with the rest of society.” I swallow the ice cream in my mouth and feel the cold travel down my throat, a freezing sensation shocking my chest as though my stomach is on fire and the ice cream is putting out the blaze. I turn around, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
A girl with blond hair stained purple at the ends speaks first. “Trying on prom dresses, what else? The mall in Brandon is shit. Plus everyone is shopping there. We want to be unique.” She’s wearing tight black shorts and a flowing bohemian-style top—it’s so sheer and white I can see her black bra underneath, her breasts pushed together by the padding and underwire. Her fingernails are long and pointy and painted pink with gold glittery stripes. She swings her hair over her shoulder, runs one nail along her temple, and then eyes me up and down. “I’m Samantha,” she tells me. “And you’re Evelyn, right?”
She looks me in the eyes, and for a moment, I fear that I’m turning five different shades of red from embarrassment that this girl knows my name and is looking at me while I stand here in cutoff jeans and a Care Bears T-shirt, holding a giant waffle cup full of ice cream.
“Yes, hi,” I say. “I’m Evelyn.” I force a weak smile.
“This is Ashley, and this is Emily,” Samantha says, and each girl nods unenthusiastically as her name is mentioned. Samantha moves closer to Clarisse, putting one arm around her shoulder. “You are a goddamn sight for sore eyes,” she tells her. “Where the hell have you been hiding?” She then whispers something into Clarisse’s ear, and Clarisse covers her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“I’ve been around. You just weren’t looking hard enough,” Clarisse tells her. Ashley and Emily keep their distance, both looking down at their cell phones as Samantha and Clarisse talk quietly. I see Samantha hand something off quickly to Clarisse. Then I see Clarisse shove something into the waistband of her shorts. Samantha gives Clarisse a hug and then turns to her sidekicks, who put their phones away in unison and appear to stand up a little straighter, as though waiting for further instruction.
“It was nice to meet you, Evelyn,” Samantha tells me, looking me right in the eyes. Samantha’s lips are painted dark pink, her eyeliner black and perfectly winged at each corner, her eyes resembling a beautiful cat’s.
“It was nice to meet you too, Samantha,” I say back, an obedient bird who learns to mimic when necessary.
The girls walk away, and Clarisse and I turn back toward the ice. A birthday party is getting started, a dozen small children clinging to the edges of the rink as they attempt to carve the ice, their young bodies not heavy enough to leave traces on the surface.
“They sure seem nice,” I tell Clarisse, although my voice doesn’t sound like I’m sure of anything. I pass Clarisse the ice cream, and she scrapes the bottom of the bowl with her spoon, one last bite of ice cream and peanut butter cup. She nibbles on the edges of the waffle cone bowl.
“They do?” Clarisse asks, a question as answer.
“Well, they’re your friends so they must be all right,” I say.
“Yeah, Samantha is definitely all right,” Clarisse says. She reaches into her waistband and pulls out something thin and white. I don’t get a good look at it until she presses it into my palm and closes my fingers around it. It feels light and delicate, barely registering as weight in my hand. I open my fingers slightly to peek and quickly realize it’s a joint. I try my best to camouflage the expression of surprise on my face, suddenly worried about the mall cop we saw on a Segway earlier, patrolling the polished halls, looking for would-be criminals.
“Relax,” Clarisse says softly, “I’ll carry it.” She takes the joint back, tucking it back into her waistband, and we start walking.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Out to the parking garage. Just trust me,” Clarisse requests, and of course I follow her. Of course I trust her.
“Is Samantha a drug dealer? Did she just sell you drugs? In the mall?” I ask as we walk, lowering my voice so the mothers pushing strollers don’t hear me as they pass.
“No, of course not,” Clarisse says. “She just gave it to me. She likes to share. Her boyfriend’s brother has a connection so she’s pretty much always holding.”
We reach the parking garage and climb the stairs to the top level, where most people avoid parking because they don’t want their cars becoming too hot in the unrelenting heat. The sky is completely cloudless today—so clear and blue you wonder if you could swim the sky like an ocean, paddling your body through invisible waves.
Once we’re sure the coast is clear, we sit down on the hot concrete side by side. Clarisse lights the joint, takes one hit, and then passes it to me. “It’s very mellow,” she assures me.
I hold the joint between my thumb and index finger, copying Clarisse’s technique. I inhale, feel the smoke in my lungs for a moment until I exhale, and pass it back to Clarisse. I start coughing, covering my mouth with both hands to muffle the sound.
“Easy now,” Clarisse whispers. “Think about something distracting. Like Greg naked.”
“Oh my God, what? No!” My coughing dissolves into hacking, and I elbow Clarisse in the ribs. My limbs feel lighter, my body more flexible from the weed. “He’s like our older brother or something. I can’t think of him like that.”
“Well I can, and I do,” Clarisse says, and then she makes her eyes roll back in her head a bit and puts on a theatrical moan. “Oh, Greg, oh, Greg, yeah, pull out that big binder, Greg.” She takes one more hit from the joint and then stubs it out on the cement next to her. “Come on, Evelyn. You’re telling me you’ve never thought about Greg while masturbating?”
“Clarisse! You’re a bad girl!”
“Wait, are you saying you don’t masturbate?” Clarisse stands up, tucking the remains of the joint into her front pocket. “Evelyn, this is an emergency. Let’s just go get you a vibrator. They have them at Spencer’s in the mall.”
“This is not an emergency.”
“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing. But hey, you can always go manual.” She puts a hand up in the air, laughing as she wiggles her fingers. Then she grabs my hand and leads me toward the parking garage stairs. “Here’s a tip for when you try it,” she says softly in my ear. “Just think of Greg getting you from behind. I’m sure he likes doggy style.” Clarisse barks as we float down the stairs and onto the street. I laugh until I can barely breathe. We walk about half a mile to a nearby playground.
We sit on the swings after kicking off our shoes. We pump our legs to make our bodies move. Boys play basketball on the cement court next to us, shirtless and glistening in sweat. I watch their bodies as they glide and jump, weaving around each other to move the ball toward the hoop, my stoned brain mesmerized by their beauty.
I see one boy grab another by the shoulders, slamming his head onto the hard concrete. He tries to get up, but before he can stand, another boy runs over, and kicks him in the face. Blood splatters on the court. I have to watch. Then remind myself it isn’t real.
“You’re right though, Evelyn,” Clarisse says. She swings higher and higher, and with each descent, her hair floats as if underwater.
“About what?”
“I am a bad girl.”
“Oh, I was just kidding.” I pump my legs with more force, attempting to catch up with her, but I can’t make her height no matter how hard I try.
“It’s okay. It’s true.”
“Clarisse, you’re not bad because you think about Greg that way. Thoughts don’t make you bad.”
“Oh really? Well, what if I think about other stu
ff too?”
“What other stuff?” I dig my heels into the dirt to slow down and eventually come to a complete stop, a small cloud of dust around my ankles. Deep inside, somewhere at the very bottom of me, a small voice hopes that Clarisse will never answer, that she will just allow the question to spin and swirl, a skater making endless figure eights on the surface of the ice.
“Sometimes I think about what it would be like to kill someone.” Clarisse swings forward and then back, and just when she’s at the highest point, she frees her hands from the chains she’s been holding on to so tightly and allows her body to fly from the swing, her hair fanning out as she cuts through the muggy air.
I hear the boys on the basketball court, the noises they make as they move the ball down the court, defending themselves, trying to steal, using their bodies to win or lose. I feel the sweat pooled inside my bra, my damp T-shirt clinging to my back.
“That still doesn’t make you bad, Clarisse. Thoughts are not the same as actions.”
Clarisse turns around and walks toward me and then sits down at my feet, hugging her knees to her chest. She looks up at me, and I swear that her eyes are shimmering pink, reflecting that rose-gold glow of near dusk that is all around us now.
“Maybe that’s true for other people. For normal people. Not me. What if that’s how it started? With my father? What if it started as thoughts, and it grew and grew until it became more than that?” She pulls the collar of her T-shirt up to her face to wipe the shiny tears that are now running down her cheeks.
“Your father is sick, Clarisse. Mine is too. They are fucked-up.”
“Yeah, they are fucked-up, so what does that make us? Second-generation fucked-up. Maybe you don’t get it. Maybe you don’t understand how it feels. It’s like when Dr. Jekyll locked himself up in his study. He knew he was becoming Mr. Hyde, and he knew he couldn’t stop it.”
“You’re not a monster, Clarisse. You’re not roaming the streets at nights murdering innocent children.”
Girl at the Edge Page 8