by Mary Gray
Still, any argument we have seriously impairs my ability to know what’s going on, so I reach out and pat her on the leg.
Tansy closes her eyes, and begins humming a jazzy tune before suddenly breaking off mid-refrain. “Say, Gemma, do you think you could call me ‘ladybird’ when you feel a deep and abidin’ affection for me?”
Not exactly sure why she wants to be called that, but I’m not in the mood to argue. “Sure, Tansy.”
“Do you think we could watch the birds for a while? Just till things calm down. There’s a skylight in the den through which I like to watch the vultures fly.”
I give her a half nod, when, all at once, she has us lurching us to our feet. She extends our arms, “flies” us past the rope pillars, and giggles as we knock over another bucketful of paint.
9
“Let’s say I know someone,” I tell Francesca while getting my hair done on a Thursday ... or Friday. “And let’s say that person is very controlling.”
I feel bad about turning on Tansy, but, apart from sitting with her and learning the markings of every raven, crow, and turkey vulture in Wise County, I’ve progressed very little in my quest to know what’s happened these past few weeks.
Francesca glances up from her handiwork, her inquisitive eyes sparkling even brighter next to her rose gold earrings. “Family member?”
“In a way ...” I shift in my cushioned seat. “And let’s say I need them to talk to me about something, but they absolutely will not explain.”
Francesca pulls back another piece of hair to add to my Dutch braid. I don’t need a cut, and she’s determined that this can help minimize any future tangling. “I’m assuming this person needs to stay in your life.”
An image of Tansy stubbornly tugging on those opera gloves flashes through my mind. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Mm-hmm.” Francesca secures another piece of hair. “And when all’s said and done, what’s this person care most about?”
“That’s easy. Her space ... though, really, I’m the one person in the world who makes it possible for her to stay home and have said space.”
Francesca juts out her lower lip in this adorable, commiserating sort of way. “Sounds like this ‘friend’ of yours needs to be whacked upside the head by the ol’ gratitude tree.” Clucking her tongue, she plants a bangled hand on her hip. “And it wouldn’t hurt for you to say so straight to her face. She needs you. Remind her of that. If she really wants a relationship, then there needs to be a hefty amount of give and take.” She grabs the squirt bottle and spritzes my hair enough to reenact the conditions of the Amazon rainforest.
With the side of my hand, I wipe the water from my eyes. “But what if she doesn’t listen to me?”
Francesca puts her other hand on her hip. “You absolutely cannot cut this person out of your life?”
I can’t help but laugh. “That would be nice.”
“Sounds like she doesn’t know how good she has it,” Francesca mutters, grabbing the squirt bottle and generously spritzing. “Hon, I can’t see how anyone wouldn’t want to meet you at least halfway. Then”—she growls, eyeing the stylist next to us, who’s grabbing a pack of cigarettes for another smoke break—“you gotta bring home a little MMA.”
Not sure what that is. “What’s MMA?”
Francesca roars with laughter before planting a hand on her hip. “Mixed martial arts. You really don’t get out much, do you?”
I look around guiltily for Wanda-Rita, but the salon tyrant doesn’t seem to be close by, thankfully. And I can’t really smack around Tansy since we share the same body. “I’m not really sure that would be a good id—”
“Symbolically speaking.” Francesca brings her long-nailed pointer finger to my lips and shushes me. “This girl’s obviously using you, and from what you’ve said, sounds like things aren’t going to change without you building your own fighting ring. Time to make your own rules.” She gives a piece of hair near my ear a firm tug. “Give the con artist the double leg takedown she’s least expecting.”
Well, then. I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t expecting Francesca to speak so passionately. Still, whatever I’ve been doing with Tansy hasn’t been working. Plus, I’m tired of things being on her terms all the time. I open my mouth to say as much when Francesca slips a bottle of Nair out of her pocket and sets it on her neighboring hair stylist’s counter with no one in sight. The handwritten label says, “Wonder if your shampoo bottles have any inside???”
“Francesca!” I can’t help laughing as she giggles and pulls back a piece of my bangs. “So how do you know about fighting?”
She waves her hand. “Husband. He’s a fighter. Or was ...” She grows quiet and focuses on tying off my hair to secure the braid. “I’ll have him teach you some moves, sugar ... once I can get him to talk to me.”
Sensing Francesca’s problems run deeper than she’s saying, I grab the Nair bottle and nod for her to put it back before Wanda-Rita goes on a rampage. “What’s going on?”
Francesca accepts the bottle and stuffs it back in her pocket with a resigned sigh. “You just focus on your friend. Double. Leg. Takedown. Mmm-mmm.”
10
“I’m ba-a-ack!” My nose burns from the cold as I step inside the house. I brush past the coat rack. Tug on one of the pegs that looks positively empty.
Sure, I’ve brought Tansy’s soup, and there’s a chance she won’t undo my braid, but, better yet, I have a plan, a mighty suggestion to make. Tansy may feel like I can’t handle the truth—that pushing too hard will bring on the avalanche—but, if we calmly work together, that won’t happen. Francesca has convinced me.
An earthy aroma wafts from a bouquet of mums Tansy must have hung from the doorway. Pinecones crunch beneath my sneakers. I guess Tansy must have grabbed all the vegetation from the windows. Girl’s been busy.
Except all of this must have happened before I left this morning. Didn’t know until I got back. Sometimes I forget the two of us share the same body.
The twinkling of a wind chime chirrups from an open window, and looks like Tansy’s been brave enough to summon the fresh air, even if it’s freezing.
Luckily, there’s no blood or paint spilled on the carpet—at least, not this time. Even the rugs have been shaken out. Maybe Tansy’s feeling grateful that I looked at the birds with her for all that time.
Not really sure what to say by way of a chipper greeting, I do my best. “Looks great, er ... ladybird.”
But she doesn’t so much as flinch a reply. A wind chime clinkety-clinks through the window—it’s handcrafted with a slew of forks and knives.
Lifting the grocery bags to the counter, I set to straightening the teacups, coffee maker, and toaster with a fist-sized rust stain. Most of the soup bowls look like they’ve been soaking in grease, and the near-empty dish soap bottle on the counter tells me I’ll soon need to badger Tansy for more grocery money.
The sink needs to be washed out, and it doesn’t look like the counters have been wiped down since last January. Though a crumpled tea cloth does hang from the oven handle. “Two more points for fine and dainty living, Tansy.”
Still nothing.
That’s when I notice the board and rope-made swing that’s recently been installed, dangling by the nearest window from the plaster ceiling. The ropes have been twisted into knots and coil around each other in double helix strands like DNA. The wooden seat’s a bit warped, but Tansy stirs from our subconscious and plops us down anyway.
I’m afraid the screws in the ceiling are going to pull loose from the plaster as Tansy enthusiastically pumps our legs. She settles an ivy wreath on our head, flings a feather boa over our shoulders, and pumps three more times. Five or six kicks in, I’ve had enough.
“I ran into Jesse Beauchamp again today.” It isn’t true, but it’s the only thing I can think of to distract Tansy from swinging. “He actually admitted why he thinks I killed WT!”
Tansy gasps, clambering up from the bridge of our t
hroat. “What happened?”
I jump from the swing and set to stacking a pink flowered teacup in the cupboard—in the name of keeping our hands busy.
“Gemma Louise Coldiron, you better be fixin’ to tell me.”
Meticulously, I stack another cup. “Oh, you know. He threatened to bring me in. I threatened to sue him for wrongful imprisonment.” Not sure if that’s a thing, but I give it a whirl before adding a third teacup to the stack that’s getting dangerously high. “And then, when we were ...” Crap, what was I saying? “When we were ...”
“WHEN WE WERE WHAT, G?” Tansy nearly makes the stack fall sideways. I catch the wobbling tower, but only just in time. Shift it over a smidge to prevent all the dishes from falling. “You don’t remember, do you?” She pulls our hands down and balls them into fists. “You were just baitin’ me by calling me my most treasured name.”
I wish she wasn’t right, but she has to see that she’s not the only person who matters in our life. Besides, what did Francesca say? “Sometimes a girl’s got to do a secret jab to stay in the ring.”
“‘Secret jab’?” Tansy moves our mouth like she’s trying to say something in Chinese. “Tell me, in all our time together, have I really treated you so terribly?” She gestures at the shaken-out rug and the dried mums. Also the red and white checkered book she’s apparently lain out with long, slender letters on the cover. Deep Creek Eats. I don’t believe it. Tansy’s actually inviting me to go out to eat.
But when would I do that, really? And it’s not like it would be fun when the entire town thinks I’m a murderer, and I still don’t even know my favorite color or the date of my birthday.
Marching to the trapezoidal mirror in the hallway, I kick off my shoes and hold onto them with one hand. I need to have something of mine to hold onto to stop Tansy from pushing me out before I’m ready.
Staring into our deep brown eyes, I make sure she’s paying attention when I say, “Everyone looks at me like I’m a murderer in this town, Tansy.”
She flinches—I’m onto something—so I squeeze the tops of my shoes, refusing to be backed into a corner.
“And I know how you’re going to help me regain my memories.”
Tansy shakes our head a teensy fraction to the right.
I grip my shoes so hard, the soles actually imprint on the side of my leg. “All you have to do is write down a list of the most important people and places in our life. I’ll do the legwork.”
Tansy purses our lips. “Why-y-y?”
“Because I really think this is what it takes to be healthy.”
“‘Health’? You think this is about health?” Tansy smacks the table, rattling a decorative hummingbird broach to our right.
Ignoring the broach, I press our one free palm into the cool mirror glass. “Please.”
Tansy seizes the broach and pins it on the feather boa I forgot we were wearing. “You can sit your sweet hindquarters down, ‘cause I ain’t goin’ anywhere outside my domain!”
“You don’t have to.” I rip off the feather boa and strangle it while I try to get her to see reason. What to say? “I’ll go.”
Again, she slaps the table. “Agrippina! Catherine de’ Medici! Bloody Mary!”
“I’m not being an evil dictator, Tansy. You’ve told me practically nothing. I understand. You don’t want us to risk an onslaught of other alters, making even less of you and me. But I can stay levelheaded. You forget that I’ve long-honored our rules.”
“But the soup!”
“I didn’t bring home less soup. And I never break our rules. But if you don’t give me a place to start or even a small list of names, I will be forced to figure things out my own way.”
Tansy’s nose twitches, her gaze practically bulldozing mine. She eyes the feather boa, the broach, and a letter opener on the table I half worry she’s going to stick in our eye.
Wringing our hands, she side-swipes the velvety feathers of the boa. “FINE!”
Shocked, I accidentally drop one of my shoes to the floor. Well, now it’s even easier to slip on before I leave.
“You can start with the cemetery,” Tansy huffs, sagging against the table in defeat. “That is where you’ll find your most cherished name.”
I slowly slip on my shoes, careful not to knock into the table. Don’t want her to change her mind. Tiptoeing to the front door, I do everything in my power not to let my tennis shoes squeak. Slip the feather boa to the coat rack. Twist the brass doorknob like turning it too fast will trip an alarm and bring the police.
Once I’ve got the door cracked open, I step outside.
11
In lieu of crossing railroad tracks, I cut across the neighbor’s yard and head east—away from town, away from the square, and away from the courthouse’s pretty towers scraping clouds in the sky.
Cutting across fields, I trample over dead leaves, logs, and crisp, dry hay. A steep, downward slope plunges into a creek on the shoulder’s far side—a forty foot drop. Far enough to break my neck if I don’t watch where I’m going.
As I pause before a second bridge with a healthy amount of litter on the riverbanks, I survey the graffiti on the metal rails, following a bend in the road that twists like a snake.
All at once, something about the wind changes, and a hazy peacefulness tolls through trees. A curved, metal gate stands before an array of tombs, and to the right of the gate is a rock-made sign.
Deep Creek Cemetery.
Short, squatty gravestones sprout like witches’ fingers from the grass and purple-tipped henbit. My pulse quickens. Wonder what I’m going to find.
A wind-worn cedar stands like a commanding general amongst the graves. Its counterparts seem to be bowing and saying, “My liege.” Post oaks create a dot-to-dot on the grounds. Ravens cross-stitch parallelograms in the sky.
As I draw nearer, I scan the names on the graves: Paschall, Sparks, Boyd. Another has a few more letters—Finkelstein.
“You have finally come back to me.”
An older woman comes out of nowhere, and I spin to get a good look at her. Long, paprika hair contrasts with pale, pink lips that tilt upward from an oval face. I’d say she looks to be in her late sixties, and, really, I would love to look that gorgeous at her age. As she shuffles across the grass, though, she limps—as if whispering about a long ago injury.
Pulling her cardigan closed, she tilts her chin up, as if addressing a crowd from a stage. Sensing my lack of recognition, she stoops to set a bouquet of champagne-colored mums at the front of a grave. This one has a sleek, new front with blocky, crisp lettering.
Edgar, warns the tombstone’s face.
Edgar Coldiron.
An unwelcome shiver scurries up my spine.
How exactly do I know that name? I know it almost like it was once mine. Is this who Tansy meant by my most “cherished name”? But why does my subconscious twinge with worry?
The dates on the grave say Edgar was born in the ‘60s. His death appears to have happened two years ago, February.
Still, something tells me I shouldn’t feel too eager to admit he and I share the same last name.
“Who’s Edgar?” An unkindness of ravens swoop down from the low-hanging sky.
Pain twists across the older woman’s face. “What did you do with your wedding band?” She folds her hands together with an ageless grace.
So I did have one ... but I still haven’t had time to think about rings or vows or even a life.
The woman’s jade eyes become sharp and all-knowing as she searches my face. What if Tansy took my wedding ring and hid it? What if she’s hiding mountains of evidence, and plans to continue hiding evidence until the day she dies?
Leaves crackle in the wind as the woman braces herself against the top of Edgar’s grave, and she’s my best lead, so I’d better not scare her off.
“Here, let me help you find somewhere to sit.”
Her bangs flutter in the wind as she shakes her head defiantly.
“I’m so
rry.” I get to the crux of the matter as the wind continues to whistle between its teeth. “But I don’t remember anything.”
“I know, my darling.”
I flinch. Am I supposed to know her? “You ... believe me?”
“Of course I do.” The woman extends an arm like she means to pull me in for a hug, but I don’t move. Still trying to match a name to a face.
True, between her skinny build and leg injury, I highly doubt she could hurt me, so I try to patch together a response. “I know I was married to WT ..."
The woman looks past me to the harsh, steel wool sky. “It was a beautiful wedding. Way back in the grasslands, through the piney forest last February.”
A lump forms on my throat. February—just like when Edgar died. Only he was the year before, I think. I take a tentative step closer to the woman. She knows who I am. But who is she to me?
“You didn’t know him well,” she says, “your WT. But he reminded you of the father you never had, while bringing out your more adventurous side.” Watching me closely, she extends her aged hand and wraps her veiny fingers around mine. Rubbing her thumb over the tops of my knuckles, she somehow stills the tremors that have begun traveling up my arms. “He was the love of your life. I only wish you had more time.”
She’s saying that I loved him—that WT loved me—and our life together was cut short. By accident, or ... ?
“Gemma.” Her voice is a caress when she says my name. “What do you think you need to do to get healthy?”
“That’s the exact same thing I brought up with Tans—” I clamp my mouth shut. How well does this woman know me? She could be nothing more to me but an insurance agent. My high school lunch lady.
Releasing my hand, the woman attempts to brace herself on the gravestone, but she misses, staggering.
Somehow, I catch her, and her smile is warm buttermilk. Reminds me of kneading bread in a red and white checkered kitchen—