Bleed

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I gaze up toward the sky for the last quarter moon, fantasizing what it would be like to wane—to get smaller and duller each night until I just disappeared, until my tiniest speck of light went out. Only to start anew the following day. I know that most of what I’ve imagined about Carlene is true, that the light inside her was as big and full as a harvest moon; I know it like I know the sun will rise up again tomorrow.

  I take the turn that leads to Carlene’s row and, to my surprise, there’s someone sitting on the bench by Carlene’s grave. Some girl, maybe a couple years younger than me—sixteen or seventeen—with twisty dark hair that stops at her shoulders, and a metal lunch box that rests atop her lap.

  My heart tumbles slightly inside my chest, just imagining that it might be one of Carlene’s relatives, one of her grandchildren, maybe. There’s an enchanting arrangement of orchids and lilies in front of Carlene’s stone; I’m hoping that this girl has brought them. I smooth out the front of my skirt and move toward her, wondering if it might be Rosa, Carlene’s granddaughter. Of course, I’m not sure if Rosa is indeed her name, but that’s what I’ve imagined it to be. I’ve also imagined that she believes in faeries and gnomes and goes searching for them in the woods at night; that she recently got jilted by her boyfriend after he found someone more grounded, less flighty; and that she’s not the most secure about her appearance—how skinny she is and how long and blanched her fingers are.

  “Good afternoon,” I say, when I get close enough.

  The girl looks so sad with her valentine-red face. Instead of responding, she merely nods in my direction, staring down at her rusty lunch box, at the scratched up picture of Princess Diana staring up from the lid.

  “How are you feeling today?” I ask.

  She’s wearing a pair of short denim overalls and a T-shirt with holes in it, and there’s a thin cotton jacket draped over her shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  “But your aura has such a murky haze.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her arms are all scratched, like seams in her skin have come unstitched, revealing the dried-up blood lining underneath. “I read auras,” I say, sitting down beside her on the bench. “Do you want me to tell you what I see in yours?”

  She responds by scooting away from me, toward the end of the bench, drawing the jacket tightly around her.

  “Are you afraid of what you might hear?” I ask her. “Of what your aura might reveal about you?”

  But instead of answering, she gets up and wanders away.

  Alone, I look toward Carlene’s grave, thinking how I had planned on setting some time with her this evening. I wanted to tell her all about that Derik boy I met today, how he has such a luminous spirit but how he’ll never know just how lucky he is.

  But first I want to talk to this girl, to set time with her, to know why her aura has such a murky haze.

  She’s taken a seat on another bench farther ahead. I give her a few moments before approaching. “Are you a relative of Carlene?”

  “Who?” She looks up at me finally; her eyes are like bloody red hearts—all troubled and teary.

  “Carlene,” I say, pointing back toward her headstone.

  The girl shakes her head and focuses on her lunch box, tapping her fingers against poor Diana’s scratched neck.

  “Then why did you leave the flowers?”

  She looks at me oddly, her lips twisting in confusion like she has no idea what I’m talking about. Then she gets up and walks away; there’s just the sound of her rubber sandals flip-flopping as they smack against her heels.

  I take a deep breath and return to Carlene’s headstone for my visit, but I can’t stop thinking about that girl. About how grievous she looked. About those scratches on her arms. Or that bloody-red heart face.

  I blow Carlene a kiss and then hurry toward the street to see if I can spot that girl. It isn’t too difficult to find her; she’s sitting at the bus stop, her knees hugged in toward her chest.

  I reach into my pocket for bus fare, since I’ll need to head back downtown anyway. The girl sees me approaching and releases a sigh.

  “Hi,” I say to her. “My name is Mearl. That’s pearl with an M.”

  But she doesn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry if I invaded your space back there. It’s just that I thought you were someone else.”

  She shrugs, pointing her knees away from me.

  “Were you visiting someone?”

  She clears her throat and shakes her head, making me wonder why she was there in the first place; if, like me, she goes seeking connectedness, fullness. Or maybe she feels even lonelier than I do.

  “So are you just out enjoying the day?” I ask, in an effort to find my answer.

  But in lieu of answering, she stands up from the bench and moves to the curb, gazing down the street in search of the bus. “What time do you have?” she asks, peering back at me. Her jacket is still draped over her shoulders. I wonder why she doesn’t put it on to cover up those scratches. Or maybe she wants me to see them.

  I peek up toward the sun; its pinky-orange glow sinks down between tree limbs. “It must be nearing six thirty.”

  She nods and chews at her bottom lip to study me a moment. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “A bubble-gum one,” I say, reaching for my purse.

  She gives me a spiteful look that makes me stop, that tells me she’d prefer to have the kind that contain tobacco, tar, and arsenic.

  “You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” I say, almost wishing that I had a real cigarette—for her, anyway.

  “I shouldn’t do a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like talk to strangers.” She turns away to gaze back down the street. There are scratches on her legs as well—thin red lines that run down her calves.

  “Do you live around here?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “What do you care?”

  “I care a lot.”

  She turns around to glare at me, and I look toward the scratches on her legs, hoping she understands what I’m saying. “I’m not into that, okay?” she says, her lips bunched up in disgust. “I like guys.”

  “I like guys, too,” I say. “See, we already have something in common.”

  “You’re a freak,” she says, but she’s almost smiling when she says it, so it doesn’t mar me one bit. It’s good to see her almost smile after such a valentine-red face.

  “Hey, if you like cemeteries, I know this really interesting one on Charter Street,” I say. “It’s from the 1600s. I could show it to you.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Well then, will you let me buy you a cup of herbal tea? It’s the least I could do for invading your space before.”

  “I’m all set.”

  “Then how about a palm reading?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In addition to reading auras, I also read palms. I work at one of the psychic shops downtown.”

  “You’re a witch?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t believe in organized religion. Why limit body, mind, and spirit in just one way?”

  “I think people like you are full of shit.”

  “I like to call myself ‘in touch,'” I say, rising above her remark. “On par with the lessons of nature. There’s just so much to learn in Life School, don’t you think?”

  “I think I know all I need to.”

  The Jell-O nearly plops out of my bowl at the passivity of her response, at the idea of living in a world where learning could ever cease. This girl needs me.

  “Please,” I continue. “Palmistry can be very illuminating.” I hold my left hand, palm up, out to her. “See this straight line?”

  She nods, venturing a couple steps closer to look.

  “This is my headline. See how it’s strong and unwavering? This says that I have to know and experience everything for myself.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, making lovecup with a boy. You know, ge
tting a chance to actually experience the lovecup bliss before it’s all over. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the sex is sunny and all, and I have experienced lovecup bliss before, but it’s usually when I’m alone, you know, solo.”

  “Maybe that’s something you want to keep to yourself.” She makes a peculiar face, scrunching up her nose, like I’m offending her in some way.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “Does my openness repel you?”

  “Why do you talk like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “All fake and full of bullshit.”

  I look back down at my palm, choosing to be strong. I point toward my line of fate. “See this line?” I say. “See how it’s solid but how there are breaks along the way? This says I’ll make it through the kinks. I sometimes think that’s true, but other times, I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t know how anyone can make it through anything when they have no sense of who they are with respect to where they came from. Do you know what I mean?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I want to be from someplace. Growing up, my father was in this underground group devoted to the Rising Moon and its New Day Coming, so we ended up traveling all the time, not really rooting in any one place. It was good in one respect because it enabled me to see so many crimson places, you know … to experience so many of life’s purples and pinks. But at the same time, just when I was getting used to a place, when I’d met some kindred spirits, we’d leave.”

  “So?”

  “So I never really got to root anywhere. And now, I’ve been doing all this research, trying to connect with people in my family. I’ve discovered that I might actually have roots here in Salem.”

  “Roots?”

  I nod and run my finger over the crystal point of my necklace, trying to visualize strength, like a hot-air balloon that swells bigger and bigger but never pops.

  “What is that?” she asks, gazing at it, at its hypnotic shimmer, perhaps.

  “It’s my crystal,” I explain. “My guide. It helps me stay balanced; helps me focus my energy where I need it most, so I never feel lost.”

  “Well, that’s bullshit,” she says. “Because according to you, you’re already lost.”

  I shrug her venomous words away since she obviously doesn’t understand—since she’s obviously a great deal younger than me. “I’ve been trying to follow a lead on my roots,” I say finally. “The problem is I don’t even know my real name. The name on my birth certificate isn’t my family name.”

  “Where’s your dad now?”

  I shrug again. “Underground somewhere. Probably in Mexico. That’s where he was bound for, last I heard. About ten years ago, when I was nine, he dropped me off with the owner of a floral shop and never came back. I remember it was Valentine’s Day. The shop was really busy, and I got to help out by poking these plastic heart sticks into the center of bouquets.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “About the plastic hearts?”

  “About him just leaving you there.”

  “He only did it because he loved me, because he was becoming so immersed in that group and wanted me to have a crimson life, you know? Normal. But ever since, there’s been a hole. Rust.” I look toward the holes in her T-shirt.

  “So, what if you can’t find all that stuff out?”

  “I have to. It’s just always been a dream of mine, you know, a goal, to find my roots, to connect with them, to be from someplace. I’ve never been from anywhere.”

  “That’s fucked,” she says, running her fingers through that twisty dark hair.

  “Why?”

  She looks away. “Because I’ve lived here my whole life and never felt connected to anything.”

  I nod, having suspected that that was the way she felt. I peek down at her hands—a thick layer of olive skin; fingernails chewed down until the nubs are raw and bleeding; and knuckles the size of gum balls. And then at her arms—thin blood-filled scratches up to her elbows, like grappling through bushes, trying to find a way out. “Let me prove you wrong about palmistry,” I tell her.

  “And what’ll I get?” she asks.

  “What do you want?”

  She nibbles at her lip to study me again—my face, my hair, the way I can’t stop fussing with my crystal guide. She looks down at her lunch box and jiggles it back and forth, a tiny smile creeping across her lips. “You’ll have to do what I tell you to, okay?” she says. “No matter how messed up it might seem to you.”

  “It isn’t something illegal, is it?”

  “Oh, no,” she says, her smile growing by the moment. “Nothing like that.” The bus pulls up, but she waves it away, taking a seat next to me on the bench. “We’ll get the next one.”

  “Can I at least know your name?”

  “Maria,” she says.

  “Maria.” I smile. “It’s superb to meet you. We’re all cos-mically destined in Life School, don’t you think?”

  “Whatever,” she says, her face screwing up again. She slips on her jacket and opens her palm, inviting me to study it—the lines of her fate and life and love and spirituality. “This line here,” I say, “shows you’ll live a long life. But see all these breaks? These show complications, you know? The rough stuff.”

  I glance down at her scratches, noticing how a couple of them are peeking out from the sleeve of her jacket. I want to ask her about them, but I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll want to leave. Finally, she pulls the cuff downward to cover the scratches up.

  “See this line in the middle?” I say, looking back at her palm. “That’s your fate line.”

  “And what’s my fate doing?”

  “It’s broken,” I say. “See here, where your life line interrupts your fate line? That means that stuff goes on in your life that keeps you from reaching your destiny. And this line, here, your line of sun? This also interrupts your fate line.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your line of sun speaks of your spirituality and well-being. But yours is weak, except where it breaks your fate. Your love line, too; it’s crossed by branches of your fate and sun. Even your family line crosses your love line. It’s like there are so many kinks, but your lines can’t quite make it over them.”

  “I guess I don’t have a chance,” she says, but she’s laughing when she says it, like she’s long been resolved to a fruitless future. Like it comes as no surprise at all.

  “Sure you do,” I say. “There’s always a chance in Life School. It’s all about learning. Just ask yourself, what in your life causes difficulty. What harnesses you from attaining your goals? If you can identify that, you can change your own fate.”

  “Easy,” she says.

  “It’s not easy. In my case, my family line interrupts everything—my fate, my sun, my mind—though, at the same time, it’s the dullest line of all. I just have to remind myself of that every once in a while so I don’t let my lack of roots consume me.” I inhale a cleansing breath, thinking how good it feels to be reminded.

  “I don’t know why you can’t just plant your own roots,” she says. “Why can’t you just decide to be someplace and then be there? Make friends there? Make a life there? Why do you need to rely on people who obviously don’t know or give a shit about you, to get on with your life?”

  “Don’t you believe in a sense of blood relation?”

  “I have no reason to. And from what you’re saying, neither do you.”

  Her verbal acid sinks into my chest, eats a hole in my heart, makes me want to cry bright fiery tears. But I don’t. I can’t. I have to be strong for her. Maybe she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Maybe she’s just trying to be honest with me.

  “Can I ask you just one question?” I say.

  “What?”

  “Does your family line interrupting your love line have anything to do with these scratches on your arms?” I pull up on her sleeve, and finger over one of them, the blood still a bit fresh.

  Maria responds by snatching her arm away. She st
ands up and grabs her lunch box—a scratchy-eyed Diana staring into my knee. “Fuck you!” she says.

  “I just want to help you, Maria.”

  “Help yourself,” she huffs. “You’re so fake, pretending to be all sensitive and everything. You’re not fooling anyone with all your sunny pink bullshit.”

  I feel my jaw tense, my chest weep. I sit up tall, trying to retain confidence, trying to assure myself that none of what she’s saying is true.

  “You’re not even worth it to me,” she says, glancing down at her lunch box. She turns on her heel and dashes down the street, leaving me alone.

  I fold up from the bench, feeling completely defeated—filled with more rainy-day sadness than I thought I’d ever know. Still, I decide it would be best to go after her.

  I begin walking down North Street. Maria actually isn’t that much ahead. I follow as she takes a bunch more streets, keeping at least three shop lengths behind her as she continues on to Hawthorne Boulevard, passes the Irish church, the wig shop, and crosses the street to the bank. There’s one of those old-fashioned phone booths in the parking lot, the novelty kind. I watch from the alcove of the wig shop as she steps inside the booth to make a phone call. The fusion of scents in the air—of oily hair mixed in sweet perfume—makes me feel queasy.

  Four minutes flip forward on the digital bank clock. Then ten. I wonder what’s keeping her. I cross the street and approach the booth. Her back is toward me, but she’s not on the phone. Her head is down and she’s curled up in the corner. I knock.

  “I’m busy.”

  “Please, Maria,” I say. “I want to speak with you. I want to help you. Don’t you realize? We were fated to meet.”