We Run the Tides

by Vendela Vida

In the middle of the night I’m awakened by shrieks. They’re so loud I assume they’re coming from one of my friends. But after sitting up I understand they’re coming from another bedroom, and that it’s Faith’s mother screaming. Faith jumps up and switches on the light and runs to her parents’ room. Julia, Maria Fabiola, and I look at each other, dazed. Then we hear Faith shrieking, too.

  Her father shot himself. The ambulance arrives and two efficient and menacing men carry him both carefully and recklessly through the house on a stretcher. The stretcher hits the wall as they turn down the circular staircase, a lamp is knocked over and splintered into shards, and Faith’s mother swears. Faith pulls on a sweater and pants. She grabs her mother’s jacket from the hall closet. We tell each other we are in the way and retreat to Faith’s room.

  The front door shuts so heavily the house shudders, and the men’s booming footsteps are no more. We peer out of the room and soon realize Faith is gone, too. The sirens of the ambulance fade into the night and the three of us girls sit shattered in Faith’s room, our sleeping bags lying inertly on the floor like discarded cocoons. Maria Fabiola starts to cry, first silently while physically convulsing. And then, as though the motions of her body are like a pump at a well, her sobs begin to emerge in short bursts. Then they start to undulate. The drama is overwhelming. Julia and I call our parents, and then call Maria Fabiola’s parents for her.

  My father arrives, still dressed in a suit from an art auction. Julia’s mother arrives in a tight-fitting zip-up sweatshirt that says “Ice Queen,” and Maria Fabiola’s mother arrives in a silk bathrobe. None of us knows if we should leave and lock the front door. What if Faith’s mother doesn’t have a key? What if Faith comes back and needs us? So we sit huddled around the kitchen table as though we’re playing an invisible game of cards. The mothers turn toward my father, who I’m sure can feel their attention. He initiates a prayer, something he rarely does, to calm everyone down. We all hold hands around the kitchen table and close our eyes. I peek and see that while my father’s eyelids are still shut as he leads the prayer, both Maria Fabiola’s and Julia’s mother’s eyes are open, looking anxiously toward him.

  5

  After the funeral (a recognizable local politician in the second row, soggy cucumber sandwiches at the reception), the four of us become like paper dolls—we are always together, connected. At school we play four square or else tetherball with two people per team. We don’t welcome anyone to join us and the teachers permit us to be exclusive—they have Faith’s best interest at heart.

  At Faith’s house there are constant visitors coming from the East Coast to offer their condolences and help. When they depart, they leave meals in Faith’s freezer, which her mother promptly throws away. At Julia’s house her parents sell one Mercedes and then another. At Maria Fabiola’s house they get a new burglar alarm put in after their surveillance camera catches some unsavory behavior behind the house. Maria Fabiola’s father won’t tell his children what, exactly, the surveillance camera picked up.

  At my house, everything continues as usual. My mother starts work early—she bikes to the hospital at 6 a.m. for the morning nursing shift so she can be home with Svea and me in the afternoon. My father gets us ready for school and makes us oatmeal, which Svea eats while sketching a new fire station. She says she wants to be an architect when she grows up and is often hunched over her sketches with a ruler and a blue pencil.

  On a morning like any other, Svea’s chubby and dour friend rings the bell. She and Svea head to school together—they follow a direct route up El Camino del Mar. A few minutes later, Maria Fabiola climbs the brick steps to our house. I say goodbye to my dad, who has tissue stuck to his face from where he cut himself shaving. I want to remove the tissue, to hug him goodbye, but my friend is watching, waiting. Together Maria Fabiola and I walk out of Sea Cliff to pick up Julia.

  Julia’s mom opens the door and right away I smell something burning. Julia’s mom must see me sniffing. “Gentle bought some new incense,” she says and smiles at me and then at Maria Fabiola. “I have an idea,” she says, as Julia comes to the door. “Let’s take a photo of you girls.” She retrieves her camera and the three of us line up, Maria Fabiola is in the middle. Julia and I stare at each other as the shutter closes. We both know Maria Fabiola’s recent transformation from ordinary to otherworldly beauty inspires everyone to want to capture it.

  “You girls look great,” Julia’s mom says, not looking at me.

  “Bye, mom,” Julia says, closing the door. The fresh air is a relief. We make our way to Faith’s house. Faith lives a block and a half from school but we still pick her up every morning. We do anything for Faith.

  “You think Faith’s mom is ever going to get remarried?” Maria Fabiola asks, her bracelets jingling as she moves her backpack from one shoulder to the other.

  “My parents think she’s too homely to find someone new,” Julia says matter-of-factly. “And my mom is my dad’s second wife, so they know about these things.”

  “It’s probably way too soon for her to date anyone else,” I say firmly, as though I have authority on these matters.

  “Maybe we could help her pick out some new clothes,” Julia says. “She needs a fashion overhaul.”

  “Totally,” Maria Fabiola says. “Also, don’t you think the teachers are being easy on Faith?”

  “Of course they are,” I say. “They should be.”

  “I have a cousin,” Julia says, “who said that at her college they have a rule there that if your roommate dies, you automatically get As for the semester.”

  “That’s not such a good rule,” Maria Fabiola says. “I mean, wouldn’t it just encourage you to drive your roommate to kill herself?”

  We cross the street and pass by a parked, old-fashioned white car at the crosswalk. We notice a man sitting inside. The car window is rolled down and the man, who is older than we are but younger than our fathers, asks us for the time.

  I check my Swatch watch—why is it ticking so loudly?—and tell him it’s just after eight in the morning.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I thought it was later.” My friends and I continue walking.

  “Did you see that?” Maria Fabiola says.

  Julia looks hesitantly at Maria Fabiola. “Yes,” she says. Then, “Yes!”

  “What?” I ask.

  “He was touching himself,” Maria Fabiola says.

  Julia looks at Maria Fabiola for a minute. “He was. That’s right.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Didn’t you see?” Julia says.

  “He was stroking it the whole time,” Maria Fabiola says.

  “Stroking what?” I say.

  “His PENIS! And he said he’s going to find us later!” Maria Fabiola says.

  “Yes, later, he said later!” Julia rushes to add.

  We reach Faith’s house—two blocks away from where the car was parked—and Maria Fabiola and Julia tell Faith their version of what happened. Julia repeats what Maria Fabiola has already said, and Maria Fabiola adds new details. Faith shrieks a shriek that’s a mix of delight and horror.

  “This is going to be such a big deal,” Maria Fabiola says.

  “I swear I didn’t see anything strange,” I say.

  “Oh, is that an everyday experience for you?” Julia says. “Penis-stroking in white cars?” Maria Fabiola laughs.

  My friends tease me for not having seen anything, for not having heard anything, and then they start ignoring me. Even Faith, who wasn’t present at the time of the incident in question, is offended. Fueled by elated indignation, my three friends run ahead to school.

  I lag behind and then stop. I feel like I’m on a boat tilting over in the wind—someone needs to leap to the other side to balance the weight. Maria Fabiola started the lie, Julia parroted everything she said, and now Faith believes them. I walk the last half block to school by myself.

  Shortly after arriving at school, my homeroom teacher tells me I’m being summoned to Mr.
Makepeace’s office. Mr. Makepeace—his real name—is the headmaster and he’s from England. His British accent and his framed degrees from Cambridge put all the parents at ease. I have never been summoned to his office before.

  I walk all the way across campus, past each of the classrooms I’ve occupied over the years. I pass the sculpture of Ms. Spragg, the wealthy woman whom the school is named after. She was pretty, if the statue is an accurate representation of her appearance, and her beauty has not gone unnoticed. The statue is bronze and her breasts and her right hand have been polished silver by repeated touches.

  I pass the bushes where butterflies like to flutter and feed. Sometimes we catch them in jars for a minute before releasing them. Sometimes we wait too long to release them and find them dead. We know the names of the girls who keep the butterflies too long, and we have no idea what to do with this information.

  I am a very good student with a sinister side and I’m not sure how much Mr. Makepeace knows about this side. I wonder if the headmaster knows that occasionally I count how many times the new Australian P.E. teacher, Mr. Robinson, says “Understand?” when he’s explaining the rules of a game. Then, when Mr. Robinson’s finished talking, and asks if we have any questions, I raise my hand and say, “Do you realize you said ‘Understand’ thirty-one times?” This makes him ballistic and he lectures me in front of the class. During the lecture his Australian accent intensifies and he says, “Don’t ever count my words. Understand?” This makes all my classmates laugh and makes him more ballistic.

  Mr. Makepeace’s secretary, Ms. Patel—the mother of the only two Indian girls in the school—stands up when I enter the front office and says, “Good morning, Eulabee.” She usually calls me “Eula” or “Bee” but today she is formal and asks me to take a seat and wait for my turn. Maria Fabiola emerges from Mr. Makepeace’s office looking radiant, like she’s an opera singer who’s just gotten a standing ovation. “Stick to the story,” Maria Fabiola whispers into my ear before Ms. Patel instructs her to return to her classroom. Then Ms. Patel leads me into Mr. Makepeace’s office, which has a large photo of the headmasters’ three sons in British school uniforms. It reeks of cigar though I’ve never seen Mr. Makepeace smoke. Two police officers sit uncomfortably in chairs that are typically reserved for sets of prospective parents or those parents who are being informed their daughter would do better elsewhere. They are chairs of transition.

  I’m introduced to the officers and they ask me to describe what happened that morning. I tell them it had been a walk like any other. I tell them exactly where the car was parked. One of the officers scribbles notes in a little notebook. They ask me what happened with the man.

  “He asked us for the time,” I say.

  “And then what?”

  “I told him the time. It was a few minutes after eight.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he thought it was later.”

  “He thought it was later? That’s what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he suggest he’d find you or your friends later?”

  “No.”

  “Did he do anything inappropriate?”

  “I didn’t see anything inappropriate.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did the car look like?”

  “It was white, vintage. The window was down.”

  “Was the door open?”

  “The door was closed.”

  “What happened after you gave him the time?”

  “We turned and kept walking to school.”

  “And that was it?”

  “That’s when my friends said they had seen something. But I was confused.”

  “Why were you confused?”

  “Because I didn’t see anything.”

  The headmaster thanks me, the police officers thank me. I wonder if they’re disappointed or relieved.

  I leave the room and its cigar smoke, which clings to my hair. Waiting in the front office is Julia, who is about to be called. I don’t make eye contact with her but instead stare at her white K-Swiss sneakers.

  That evening my parents ask about the encounter. The school has called them, of course. Mr. Makepeace has told them the cops aren’t going to pursue any action. He and the police believe my version of the morning’s events.

  They believe me.

  6

  My mother skips aerobics that evening. I know things are serious when she skips aerobics. I joined her a few times at a middle school gym on Arguello and was startled by how many friends she had in the class. A muscular woman with an attached microphone danced energetically on a stage while almost a hundred women of all sizes faced her and mimicked her moves. The women wore leotards over leggings and at the end of the class they got down on the dusty floor and did leg lifts. I saw the wet stains around the women’s groins and I felt embarrassed for them, for myself, for the plight of women.

  Instead of going to aerobics tonight, my mother cleans the already clean floors of the dining room.

  “You know how this all started, don’t you?” she says.

  “With a man in the car,” I say. I’m sitting in a dining-room chair. We only sit in this room for holiday meals or when we have company.

  “No,” she says, and she wrings out her rag in the square white plastic bin she occasionally uses to soak her feet after a long nursing shift. She is on all fours and has one damp rag in her hand and another dry one under her knees. The floors are wooden and hard, and she needs the old rag, its texture bumpy like cottage cheese, to protect her. Most of my friends’ parents hire cleaning people. That’s what happens when you own a house in our neighborhood—you have cleaning people. But not my parents. They don’t believe in hiring people. Especially not cleaning people. Not when my mother can clean better than anyone.

  She moves her rag to the right and then replaces her knees on top of it and continues to clean. “This is all because of those parent lectures they started at school last spring. The first speaker was this woman from Stanford.” My mother touches her nose and I know this means she’s saying this woman was stuck-up. Someone else might think she’s gesturing that this woman was a pig, but my mother grew up on a farm and doesn’t insult animals.

  “This woman who came from Stanford”—she says it like Stan-fjord—“she said that she was going to share with us the secret to raising successful girls.”

  “Really?” Like all thirteen-year-old girls I find the word secret intriguing.

  “She said we should never tell our daughters they were beautiful. According to her, this was a terrible idea. And so of course every family has been following her advice because she’s a professor at . . .” My mother doesn’t even say the university’s name, she just presses her palm against her nose. “But since that day, all you girls have been seeking attention. You’ve all been looking in the mirror, wondering if you’re pretty. When I was growing up, we didn’t even have mirrors. We only had a lake.”

  With that, she stands up, ventures into the kitchen, and returns with a bottle of Windex. She begins spraying the glass of the antique mirror with the gold frame. The mirror is from my dad’s antique gallery. Our entire house looks like the gallery, and I often wonder if it would have been furnished differently if my parents had had a boy. With girls you can keep fragile things.

  I have a hard time focusing on my homework. I call my friends and leave messages for them. No one calls me back.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY I walk to school by myself—the other girls get rides from their parents. I pass the spot where the car was parked. It’s empty now. I stare at it as though it’s an archaeological site of historical significance. Then I turn and continue my walk to school, alone. In my locker I find a folded note addressed to Benedict Arnold, but his name’s been crossed out and my name’s been written on top. The note contains one word: “Traiter!” Maria Fabiola has always been a terrible speller.

  In homeroom, I think even t
he teacher, Ms. Livesey, is looking at me strangely. Ms. Livesey lives in Berkeley, a world away. We know a lot about her because she’s one of the few teachers who talks about her life outside the classroom. She paints women with artichokes or avocadoes or guavas over their private parts, and sometimes she shows us slides of her “work in progress.” Last year she brought her twenty-one-year-old son in to talk to us about his time in the Peace Corps. She wears her black hair messy—not uncombed enough to elicit complaints from the parents, but just tousled enough to suggest she spent the night in the woods. We wonder if she shaves her armpits. We assume people in Berkeley don’t shave. Sometimes she has splatters of paint on her shoes and we know she’s been working on her canvases. It excites us to know she has passions beyond us, her students. It thrills us that her son is cute.

  Sometimes classmates like to sit near my desk so they can cheat off my quizzes, but today no one wants to sit next to me. Ms. Livesey hands out a xeroxed form with nine squares on it. It’s a questionnaire intended to help us determine what level of information we would give out to a stranger, what we would tell a friend, what we would tell a family member. Clearly, it’s not a coincidence that this worksheet is being distributed for discussion today. The sheet is intended for an older audience—in the center is a box that says: “Things You Would Not Even Tell Yourself.” Ms. Livesey has Xed out the box, which of course only serves to make it more intriguing. What, I wonder, would I not tell myself?

  Next is science. It’s our third day of the sex ed unit. On the first day our teacher passed around pads and tampons and told us to never douche because it interferes with the body’s natural ecosystem. On the second day we watched a VHS recording of a young woman giving birth without pain medication. (The woman was white and preppy and looked like she could have gone to Spragg.) We all covered our eyes and vowed to never have children.

  The science teacher is named Ms. McGilly and we call her Ms. Mc., which she doesn’t particularly like. She doesn’t particularly like us either. She’s bone-thin with straight, gray-red hair, has a son our age and two young daughters who she’s told us she would never send to Spragg. We know she won’t be around long. She’ll go the way our music teacher went after she taught us the song “Little Boxes.” We liked our music teacher, who let us call her by her first name, Jane. She wore Western-style belts and brushed her brown hair in front of us until it glistened. (Ms. Mc. told us it was a disgrace to brush one’s hair in public.) One day Jane said to the class: “Don’t you get it? You girls in your uniforms and your nice houses are like the little boxes in the song. You’re all the same. They’re stripping you of your individuality.” That was the last we saw of Jane. For months we thought it was because she’d used the word “stripping.”