Sometimes things unravel quickly, as they did with my father. The lever is pulled, and sanity is broken, the madman gone mad in what seems like an instant. My father didn’t seem to have planned his attacks so some refer to his murders as a crime of passion, which is usually defined as a violent act committed because of a strong sudden impulse rather than as a premeditated crime. Crimes of passion are common in cases of infidelity, but it was my father who was unfaithful to his wife, not the other way around. My mother was the other woman, although I’m not sure if she knew that at the time. My father told my mother he was recently divorced, and my mother believed him.
Other times, things unravel slowly, as they did in the case of Clarisse’s father, whose name is Benjamin. Jenny found a few clues here and there, but nothing that couldn’t be explained away—an odd sock in the dryer that didn’t belong to anyone, a strange charge on a credit card statement. He could always make it work, could always clear the air of any suspicion, until one day he couldn’t.
Benjamin was handsome and charming, a family man who doted on his daughter. He was nothing to fear. Sweet and approachable with an easy smile, that is how one reporter described him when covering his trial and sentencing.
One morning, Jenny and Clarisse woke up to a sheriff’s deputy knocking on their trailer door. The deputy told Jenny that the little girl next door was missing, and that’s when Jenny rubbed the sleep from her eyes and realized that Benjamin was gone too. Jenny called friends and family, hoping to find him, surely not wanting to connect his disappearance to the little girl next door. Her name was Jocelyn, and by the end of the day, a search team had found her body buried in a shallow grave near the lake.
By the next morning, Benjamin had surrendered to police, confessing to everything. Jenny and Clarisse moved in with George. Clarisse was seven years old. She understood what was happening. When I read the details of her father’s case online, I longed for a time machine, so I could go back in time and comfort little Clarisse, holding her hand and telling her that everything was going to be okay.
One night at Clarisse’s, when I was sure she was asleep, I crept out of her bed and into the closet, where I had seen a clear plastic box on the shelf that appeared to be full of photos. I slid the lid off and ran my hands through its contents, and eventually I found what looked like Clarisse’s baby book, one of those memory keepers with spaces to write important milestones—first word, first tooth, first haircut. I flipped through the book until a page caught my eye. Clarisse’s third birthday. There’s a photo taped to the page—little Clarisse sitting on her father’s lap. She’s wearing a blue dress with yellow stripes, her small toes peeking out from white sandals. She’s holding up three chubby fingers on one chubby hand. Her father is laughing so hard that his face is wrinkled and you can barely see his eyes. There’s a cake on the table next to them, a round layer cake with thick scallops of hard white icing. Clarisse is just a little girl, so happy to be with her father. Close the book there and you can pretend that’s the end of the story. The happy little girl blows out the birthday candles. The happy little girl makes a wish.
“I’m ready,” Clarisse says, and I know she’s talking about tomorrow. She’s ready to take the test, to rid her body of the question that gnaws at her, threatening to consume her. The question that haunts her most nights if she’s not careful. She’s been smoking her brain into mush before bed, getting so high she forgets who she is. Only then can she fall into a sleep without nightmares, without dreams in which she relives what her father did, over and over. If Clarisse can prove she has her own fate, one different from his, then she will be free. She’s counting on it. And I’m counting on her.
Chapter Nineteen
I can’t believe you’re missing a Saturday morning at the jetty.” Shea cracks a brown egg into a cast iron skillet on the stove as I pour orange juice into my glass. “This could make the local news, Ev. This could be bigger than the famous beach parking kerfuffle of 2015.” Sunny-side up, the egg sizzles, becoming a puddle of white against the black, the yolk suspended in the center like a blind eye. Shea pulls two slices of rye bread from a bag and drops them in the toaster.
“I think I’ll survive one Saturday without the jetty.” I drink my juice, savoring the sensation of pulp against the inside of my cheek for a moment before swallowing.
“Ah, but will the jetty survive one Saturday without you?” Shea pokes at the egg yolk with one finger, testing its consistency. The toaster dings as toast pops up.
“I’m sure no one will even notice I’m missing,” I say, but I’m thinking of the old man gliding the wand of his metal detector over the surface of the sand and looking for me from the corner of his eye, the slow beeps of the machine speeding up as he uncovers a broken necklace or a silver dollar.
“I haven’t been to Weeki Wachee in ages,” Shea says. She plucks the toast from the toaster and scrapes butter on each slice with the blunt edge of the knife. “You know I hate to be a feminist killjoy, but…”
“But that’s never stopped you before. Go on.”
Shea laughs at me through her nose as she plates the egg, scooping it gently from the skillet with a purple-handled spatula. “But I just think the mermaid show is exploitative. You know, in a historical context, the mermaid myth was perpetuated so sailors could have a scapegoat for rough waters. They believed these hybrid fish women, who were depicted with bare breasts, of course, could calm or stir the sea at will. Not to mention the sexual fantasy of it all.”
“Well, Professor Killjoy, they have Prince Eric in the show at Weeki Wachee now,” I say. “So there.”
“Oh, great!” Shea says sarcastically. “And I’m sure he’s fully clothed, right? Not just wearing a seashell that barely covers his bits?”
“You must be a blast at dinner parties, Shea.”
“Ha, well, the joke’s on you, Ev. I never get invited to dinner parties.”
I feign a shocked face before I finish my juice in one big gulp.
“You know I’m just reminding you of your power. Women don’t exist to fulfill the needs of others. Society would like you to believe that.”
“Says the woman who is currently making breakfast in bed for her girlfriend.”
As I walk over and place the empty glass in the dishwasher, Shea swats my shoulder lightly with the back of her hand. “Not so loud,” she says. “This breakfast in bed is supposed to be a surprise!”
“Well, you two crazy kids have fun,” I say as I sling my backpack onto my back. The wrench is inside, wrapped up in a sweatshirt along with two pairs of rubber gloves and a roll of duct tape, just in case.
I peek out the front window and watch for Clarisse. Any minute now, she’ll pull up in George’s bright blue hatchback with tinted windows, and I’ll kiss my mother and Shea good-bye. I’ll get in the car, and Clarisse will drive north on I-275. We’ll cross the Howard Frankland Bridge, and I’ll see sunlight reflecting on the water on either side of us. I’ll watch for dolphins like I always do, letting my eyes search the chop of the bay, desperate for the thrill of a smooth gray body breaking the water, that moment of magic when you see just a glimpse of its beauty before it dives under again, just below the surface yet out of sight forever. I like to think that it’s always the same dolphin I see jumping from the bay, intoxicated by the idea that the dolphin is searching for me too, swimming alongside the bridge and waiting to catch a glimpse of me through the glass. For isn’t that all we want in this life, human and animal alike? To see one another? To know we have been seen?
Before we get to I-4, the highway that will take us across the center of the state and toward Celebration, Clarisse announces that she needs to stop for gas. She signals and then merges onto the ramp, and eventually we’re parked at a 7-Eleven, and I’m filling the tank while Clarisse goes inside for snacks. “It’s not a road trip without snacks,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away from me, pulls one of the glass doors, and disappears inside.
By the time Clarisse re
turns, I’m already back in the passenger seat. She gets in the driver’s side and hands me a Wild Cherry Pepsi and puts another in the cup holder between us. I hold the cool of the bottle to my forehead, a relief after standing in the heat pumping gas.
Clarisse starts the car and then tears open a package of Twizzlers. She rips one strand away from the others, holding it between her teeth as she drives. There’s construction most of the way along I-4 with fat barrels striped orange and white. We play the license plate game for a while to see how many states we can spot. We rack them up quickly, because it seems most everyone here is from somewhere else.
We’re using my phone to navigate, the address punched in, the electronic voice directing Clarisse to exit toward Celebration. We park on Teal Avenue, two houses down from Emerald’s. I reach for the backpack between my feet, unzip the main compartment, and put the rolled-up sweatshirt onto my lap. I slide the wrench from within the sweatshirt, offering it to Clarisse.
She reaches out to touch it, pulling away as soon as her skin makes contact as if testing a hot stove and miscalculating, burning herself.
“Hold it. Get used to the weight of it,” I tell her, but she’s looking down at my lap now, eyeing the rest of the supplies—duct tape, rubber gloves, Clorox disinfectant wipes. Then she looks straight ahead, sitting still as a stone.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but Clarisse doesn’t respond. She rests her chin on the top of the steering wheel. “Reesey Cup, you okay?” I use the pet name I made up for her, the one she allows only when it’s the two of us.
“I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Evelyn.” She takes her sunglasses off, leans over, and presses her face against my shoulder. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. I can’t, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I can’t do it, I won’t.” The words tumble and fall, cascading like waterfalls from her lips.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay. Clarisse, it’s okay.” I put everything back in the backpack and zip it up.
Clarisse looks up at me, her face wet with tears. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”
I run my fingers through her hair. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s all going to be okay.” I say it over and over. I repeat it like a mantra until she stops crying, until her breath returns to normal.
I open The Catalog of Everything I’ve Done Wrong and add a new entry: made Clarisse cry.
Then I grab the backpack and get out of the car.
Chapter Twenty
I ring the doorbell, and a dog barks from inside the house. Emerald opens the door, holding a Chihuahua. I know it’s her because she looks like my mother, but her hair is lighter, a silvery blond that touches her shoulders.
“Can I help you?” She smiles at me. The dog pants in her arms.
“Oh, I lost my cat. I was just going around the neighborhood to see if anyone’s seen her.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry,” she says. “Do you have a picture of the cat?”
“I do,” I say. I grab my phone from my pocket and begin to scroll through my photos.
“Here, come on in for a minute,” she says. She takes a step back to make way for me. “I’m hiding from the pollen today. Allergies.” I walk inside the house, and she closes the door behind me. She puts the dog on the hardwood floor. It runs over to me, sniffing my shoes.
“You’re the Wilcox girl. Abby, right?” she asks. “You live on Honeysuckle?” She walks over to an overstuffed denim chair and sits down. The dog runs over and jumps onto her lap.
“Yes. I’m really sorry to bother you about this. I’m going to put up some flyers. I just thought I’d ask some people on Teal first. I thought maybe she cut through your yard.”
“Oh, it’s fine, really. We don’t mind the company, do we, Lola?” The dog licks her chin in response.
The walls are painted a soft blue. A white ceiling fan whirs above us. “This is a good one,” I say, looking down at my phone. “Here.” I offer it to her, and she takes it, squinting to look at the picture of a long-haired calico on the screen.
“Oh, what a beauty,” she says. “You know, I haven’t seen her, but I’ll definitely keep an eye out for her.” She hands the phone back to me and then starts coughing. “Oh, this damn pollen. My car was completely covered in it this morning. It’s just awful this year.” She stands up, coughs more, holds one finger in the air as if to say, Just a minute, and excuses herself to the kitchen. Lola follows. The metal tags on her collar jingle as she trots behind Emerald.
I can hear Emerald’s movement in the next room, the sounds of her getting a glass, and filling it with ice and water. I slide my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, my mom has allergies too,” I say loud enough for her to hear. “She’s been really miserable lately.” I stand at the threshold of the living room, just out of her sight.
“Oh really? Your mother?” she calls back. “I thought it was just you and your dad over there.” She walks back into the room, holding a frosted tumbler of water. She takes a long drink from it, keeping her eyes on me.
“Oh, I meant my stepmother. My dad just got remarried.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. How nice for your father,” Emerald says. “I guess Lola and I are out of the neighborhood loop,” she says with a laugh. She sits down, and the dog jumps back onto her lap.
“That’s okay. They didn’t make a deal about it. Didn’t have a big ceremony or anything. It was just the three of us at the courthouse.”
“Now that was my style,” she says. “I never had those dreams of being a bride and having a big extravagant wedding.” She takes another sip of cold water and rests the glass on the coffee table in front of her. “But of course, this was during the Vietnam draft so we wanted to get married quick, in case his number was called. So it all worked out, I suppose.”
“Then what happened? I mean, did he end up getting drafted?”
“Actually, they did call his number, but his asthma made him ineligible. We were lucky. It was a tense process, the whole thing. We were barely eighteen, just kids really. Not much older than you are now.” She looks off in the distance, as if something has caught her eye—a memory of my grandfather, a vision of him in a shirt and tie, reciting his marriage vows in a small courthouse room, the threat of war looming over him like a dark cloud. “I’m sorry. I could bore you all day with stories if you’d like. Lola can attest to that.” She strokes the dog’s fur vigorously and then gives the animal a quick kiss on the nose.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I don’t mind at all. Hey, could I use your bathroom real quick before I go?”
“Sure thing. Top of the stairs.”
“Thanks.” I climb the stairs slowly, holding on to the smooth curve of the railing until I reach the top. The bathroom door is open. I stand at the threshold and peer inside. It’s all bright white subway tile with silvery accents. The shower curtain is pale peach. A fluffy white hand towel hangs on a shiny hook. Sunlight streams in through a skylight overhead, making the floor look slick with rain.
I walk down a short hallway to a bedroom that must be Emerald’s. There’s a mirrored vanity in dark cherry wood. There’s a small brass tray full of makeup brushes. There are tubes of lipstick lined up in a row. I could tip one over with a finger, setting off a chain reaction if I wanted to, knocking them all down like dominoes. There’s a hairbrush with traces of Emerald, a few strands of her silvery blond hair trapped in the bristles. There’s a pair of small tortoiseshell hair combs with delicate pointed teeth. I place my hand over one of them, cupping it into my palm, and making it disappear into the front pocket of my shorts.
The telephone rings, a landline with an ancient analog sound. I hear Emerald’s footsteps on the floor below me and hear the echo of her answering, saying hello.
I descend the stairs carefully, and now I’m standing behind Emerald as she dismisses what sounds like a telemarketer on the line.
“No, not interested,” she says. “Sorry.” Her voice is firm but sweet. “But thank yo
u for calling.”
I stand behind her as she places the slim receiver on a cradle anchored to the wall. She turns around, and her eyes get wide when she realizes I’m here.
“Oh my goodness, you startled me, dear,” she says, one hand on her chest. Her skin is thin, bluish veins visible beneath the surface.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The phone cord dangles on the wall behind her. I reach for it, stretch out the smooth curls, and make the cord straight and taut. I wrap it around her throat.
She flails her arms at me, punching me in the stomach with weak fists. I pull the cord tighter and tighter until she can’t breathe. The dog barks. I kick the dog, and she whimpers, running away.
Emerald digs at the cord with her fingernails. She scratches her neck, making a small slice that draws blood. She opens and closes her mouth, a fish out of water.
I remind myself it isn’t real, repeat it over and over in my head, my own voice singing to me—it’s not real, it’s not real. I can’t freeze the frame, and I don’t want to watch. Not this time.
I turn and run to the front door, flinging it open. I hear Emerald’s voice, alive and calling after me, something about looking for the cat. She sounds like she’s speaking through an underwater tunnel, her voice thick and wavy in my ears.
I don’t turn back, don’t say anything in response.
I walk through the door and into bright white sunlight that hurts my eyes. I squint as I walk back to the car. I’m barely able to see, my eyes slow to adjust, but I can feel Clarisse’s presence. I know she’s waiting for me.
Chapter Twenty-One
We consider going to Weeki Wachee after all but decide to spend the rest of the day in Ybor City, a historic section of Tampa that was once the center of the cigar-rolling industry. We park at the top of the parking garage, and Clarisse lights the joint she’d stashed in her bra at home, before handing it to me. We take turns, passing it from our lips to our fingers and back, getting higher and higher until it’s gone.
Girl at the Edge Page 11