“I just thought it might be good to take your mind off stuff.”
“Maybe we could get takeout and talk instead?”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll call you later and we’ll make a plan.”
“Sounds great,” I tell him, glad that he seems to understand. We say our good-byes. I hang up and then check my phone for messages. I have three: one from Wes, another from Kimmie, and a final one from Adam. They must’ve called while I was researching Sasha’s case, while I had my earbuds in.
I make a promise to myself to call Wes and Kimmie later, and then I go downstairs, still inspired by Sasha’s story. In the basement, I light a pumpkin-scented candle to mask the musty smell, all the while picturing Mrs. Beckerman in her video and replaying in my mind what she said. For just a moment, I wonder if it was her crying voice I heard while sculpting at Knead yesterday, but I quickly remind myself that the crying at Knead was different—quieter and more subdued.
I slice myself a thick hunk of clay and wedge it out against my board, focusing on Sasha—on the photos I saw, the articles I read, and a couple of YouTube videos that she was in (a Lady Macbeth monologue and a clip from the musical Grease). After several minutes, once again, a t pops into my head, but this time in more detail. I close my eyes to concentrate, and I see that it’s black, with sharp edges, and about six inches long.
I start to sculpt it, at first thinking that I’m wasting my time by replicating a piece I’ve already made, but then I hear the girl’s crying again: the soft whimper I heard at Knead. As I continue to sculpt, the crying gets louder and more distinct, and it almost sounds like she has the hiccups. I keep working, running my fingers over the t, perfecting the borders, and making the corners more defined. But soon the crying is too much to bear. And suddenly I find that I’m crying, too.
After a couple of deep breaths and a few final touches, I decide that the piece looks pretty finished. But now a new image surfaces in my mind, and I feel like I have to sculpt it, too.
I smooth out a slab of clay, and then I grab a scalpel to cut petals out of it—eight of them—as well as a disk. I put them all together, forming a stemless daisy.
My tears drip onto the sculpture. The crying in my head is so loud that I can’t hear anything else. I drop the scalpel, but it makes no noise. I bump my work board, but there’s no sound as it hits the table.
“Please,” I whisper, but I can’t hear my own voice. The crying sound is too loud, too big, too overpowering. I take a step back and pull my hands from my work.
After several moments, the crying seems to dissipate, becoming a slight whimper inside my head. I wipe my hands on a rag and cover the clues with a tarp.
Then I hear something else. A whisper. A word. I can’t tell for sure, but I think she just called out, “Mom.” The possibility of that—that she might be trying to communicate through me—compels me to go upstairs. I hurry into my room, check the computer screen for Mrs. Beckerman’s contact info, and grab my phone. With trembling fingers, I block my number and dial hers.
Mrs. Beckerman picks up right away; I recognize her voice from TV and from her video. “Hello?” she repeats. “Is someone there?”
My mind is racing; I have no idea what to say, or if I should simply hang up. “Is this Tracey Beckerman?” I ask, playing for time, all out of breath.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I can’t really tell you who I am, but I have reason to believe that your daughter Sasha is still alive.” At least, I think she is. At least I think it’s her voice I heard crying, and that I still hear crying now.
“Who is this?” she demands again.
“Is there a plus sign?” I ask. “Or a t shape, or something with the letter t that might be a clue to her disappearance?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does Sasha like daisies?” I ask, aware of how little sense I’m making.
But it must make sense, because the other end of the lines goes church silent.
“Hello?” I ask, still able to hear the distant crying inside my head. I close my eyes and cover my free ear, trying to block it out.
“Please, tell me who this is,” she says.
“Is there a special daisy, or a daisy charm…? Were daisies her favorite flower?” I continue.
“Do you know where my daughter is?” Her voice quavers.
“No. I’m sorry.” My voice is shaking, too. “But I believe she’s still alive. I mean, I can’t say for sure, but—”
“Where is she?” she snaps. “Have you seen her? Did you call the police? Is there something that I need to know?”
“I don’t… I mean, I’m not—”
“Is it money you want?”
My heart hammers and my mouth turns dry. “No. I mean, I’m just…”
“Can I speak with her?” she continues. “Can you please just tell me if she’s okay?”
I’m tempted to hang up, but now I feel like I’m involved—like I’ve almost made things worse.
“Tell me!” she shouts.
My mouth trembles. I’m at a loss for words.
“Camelia?” Dad asks, sneaking up behind me.
Startled, I turn off the phone, wondering what he heard, and hoping that Mrs. Beckerman didn’t hear my name.
“What is it?” he asks, studying my face: the tears running down my cheeks, the blanching of my skin, the redness of my eyes.
“I have to go away for a while,” I tell him.
He glances at the phone, probably wondering what just happened. I’m wondering the very same thing.
“For a few weeks,” I say, correcting myself. “I want to do a summer art program. Spencer says it’ll help get me into college. I’ve already done the research.”
“Where?” he asks, somewhat taken aback.
“At Sumner College,” I tell him. “In Peachtree, Rhode Island.”
I SPEND THE NEXT FEW DAYS filling out the paperwork for the program in Rhode Island, helping Kimmie pack, and learning more about Sasha Beckerman. Her crying voice continues in my mind, like an incessant ringing in my ear—one that won’t go away, even when I’m asleep.
In my room, I sit down at my computer just as Mom raps on my door.
“Camelia?” She walks in carrying a large white envelope in one hand and a candle in the other. “Blood orange,” she says, referring to the candle. “Care to help me break it in?” Without waiting for my response, she grabs a pottery dish off my shelf and sits down in the middle of the floor. “Come join me.” She sets the candle on the dish and lights the wick.
I sit across from her with the candle between us, noticing that her henna-red hair is just a couple of shades darker than the wax. “So, your dad told me all about this summer program you want to attend…in Rhode Island.”
“Spencer says it’ll look good on my résumé.”
Mom reaches out to take my hand. “I assume that’s not the only reason you want to go.”
“You assume correctly,” I tell her. “I need some space to figure things out. Plus, the program sounds pretty interesting—a three-hour studio in the morning, using an array of sculptural media, and then a theory class in the afternoon.”
Mom looks down at our hands. They’re clasped together in an awkward position; my pinkie finger’s left out of her grip. “There’s something I want to show you,” she says, breaking the clasp to open the envelope. She pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me.
It’s a copy of my birth certificate.
“Dad said you were asking to see this,” she says.
I gaze down at my name, just below Alexia’s, feeling a slight chill. The space for the father’s name has been left blank. “It’s really real,” I say, like there was any question.
“Definitely real and definitely empowering—that is, if you choose to see it that way.”
“Did Aunt Alexia name me, then?”
“No. I did. That was never a lie. As soon as I held you, I could feel your strength. It emanated from your soul. Like a cham
eleon, I knew you’d have good survival instincts and that you’d be able to adapt to your surroundings.”
Because I needed to adapt to them.
Mom hands me another document. “Here’s the amended birth certificate.” It’s dated six months after the original, when she and Dad officially adopted me.
“Wow,” I say, feeling the hairs stand up along the back of my neck. It’s one thing to hear about the details of my birth, but it’s another thing to see the proof.
“Just one more piece to this puzzle,” Mom says, reaching into the envelope again. She takes out a photograph and holds it up in the candlelight. “It’s a little murky.…”
It takes me a second to process what I see: a picture of Aunt Alexia in a hospital bed, holding a baby. Holding me. The flickering of the candle casts a shadow on Alexia’s face, highlighting her curious expression: a half smile, as if for an instant she might’ve been almost happy.
“So, now you can see for yourself,” Mom continues. “We can have a clean slate. There are no longer any secrets.” She grins like this is all a good thing.
But I’m not quite so sure. With the photo pressed between my fingers, I assume Aunt Alexia is oblivious to its existence. “Did she happen to mention that I didn’t show up to visit her this past weekend?”
Mom shakes her head. “Alexia’s so focused on her therapy these days. She had a progress check recently, and all the doctors agree that she’s been so much happier and more alert lately—so much more at peace with herself, despite being cooped up in a hospital.”
When I first found out that one of Dr. Tylyn’s specialties was the existence and nature of extrasensory powers, I knew that I wanted her to work with me and my aunt. I knew that my aunt’s therapy up until that point had mainly consisted of hopping around from mental institution to mental institution, and lots of prescription meds. Clearly it wasn’t working for her, as evidenced by her attempts at suicide. And, as talented as some of her previous doctors might have been, none of them had ever explored the possibility that maybe her symptoms weren’t simply psychotic—that maybe she was psychometric.
“Dr. Tylyn has truly been a godsend,” Mom says. “Your father and I are so grateful to her. Not only has she been instrumental in your aunt’s healing process, she’s been great for all of us. I’ve grown closer to my sister, and now I’m working to move past my resentment for my mother.…” Mom closes her eyes, places her hands together in a prayer position, and takes a full breath, as if thanking the therapy gods and goddesses, the ones who sent Dr. Tylyn our way.
“And speaking of your mother,” I start to segue, “did you ever end up calling her back?”
Mom meets my eyes again, but she doesn’t speak.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” I say, when she hesitates.
She shrugs, like the call was no big deal, but I can see otherwise. Red splotches appear on her chest. “She said she’d heard that Aunt Alexia was staying with us.”
“That’s it?” I ask, suspecting a lot more.
Mom swallows hard, clearly reluctant to tell me. “My mother wanted to make sure that Alexia was all set financially—that your father and I wouldn’t be looking for any monetary help or support, because your grandmother doesn’t want to give any.” Mom studies my face, checking for my reaction. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but there’s power in honesty, right? I need to be mindful of that.”
“Does that mean you regret not telling me the truth about my birth?”
“No regrets,” she says, pressing her eyes shut. “I agree with your dad that we did the right thing by not telling you when you were young, especially considering Aunt Alexia’s shaky path. And then this past year, when we were planning to tell you, I wasn’t quite prepared, having almost lost my sister, not to mention everything that you were going through. But, at the same time, I feel that your emotions are valid, and so there must’ve been some other way to handle this—to prepare you for the news, or to give it to you in pieces. In any case, life is about learning lessons, and I obviously needed to learn that one…even if it was the hard way. And so I’m grateful for it—for what I’ve learned.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, repelled by her yogaspeak. I don’t want her to feel grateful for betraying my trust, for distorting my world.
“Tell me more about this summer art program,” she continues. Her Zen attitude makes me want to scream. When did this become about her? About her lesson? About her growth?
I breathe in the blood orange scent of the candle. Meanwhile, the crying in my head gets louder. “I think I need some air,” I say, hoping she gets the message and leaves.
But instead, she chatters on about how time and distance can give way to wisdom and perspective. “If all canals are open,” she adds, “and you allow the water to ebb and flow—”
“Except my water has hit a dam.”
“Water that flows always finds a way,” she says, refusing to let my bitterness poison her peaceful mood. “Just give it a little time.… Which reminds me… Yikes!” She checks her watch. “I should probably get dinner ready. F-egg-salad sandwiches.” She rubs her palms together as if fake-egg-salad sandwiches (scrambled tofu, mixed with turmeric) were a rare treat.
I muster a polite grin, relieved when she finally lets me be.
“Do you think I could have a new bandage?” I ask him, referring to the one on my wrist, in the same place where he’s got his mark. I’m pretty sure I asked him about his mark that night, but I’m fairly certain I couldn’t see it clearly. He might’ve had a wristband partially covering it, or maybe it was his sleeve. Or maybe I’m remembering wrong.
The edges of the bandage are tattered and black. I lift the tape to peek at my wound. Red, raw, and puffy, my skin burns as the air hits it and I wince. It looks as if I’ve been branded, like cattle—as if someone took a burning iron and seared it right into my skin. From one angle the mark appears to be an x. From another angle, it’s more like a plus-sign.
“Please,” I continue, curious to know how I really got this cut and if it has any significance. “I think it’s infected.” Is this how gangrene sets in? I vaguely recall a lecture in science class, when Mr. Manzo was talking about untreated surface abrasions.
“I’ll be back,” he says. “Hopefully by that time you’ll know better than to talk unless spoken to.”
I can see the heel of his work boot through the hole in the wall as he walks away.
“Please,” I repeat; my voice is hoarse. My wound is throbbing. I venture to the front of the cell, angling my body so that I can stick my face into the hole. His lantern is still on the ground. It lights up the powdery dirt floor. The rest of the room appears as usual: concrete walls, wooden door, a pile of burlap bags in the corner.
He’s whistling now. My words mean nothing. I watch as he picks up the lantern. He walks out of my field of vision and then I hear the sound of the door pulled shut.
FAST-FORWARD TWO FULL WEEKS. I’ve been officially accepted into the summer program at Sumner College, and I couldn’t be more elated.
“I’m hoping that some time away will give me clarity and perspective,” I tell Kimmie and Wes.
It’s late afternoon, and we’re sitting at the ice-cream counter at Brain Freeze, sharing a double-fudge peanut-butter barrel with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup.
“Okay, but if you come back as annoyingly evolved as your mom, I’m seriously going to have to beat some misery into you,” Wes says. “When I picked you up, she placed a crystal on my forehead and told me that my third eye was clogged.”
“Don’t mind her; she’s all about chakra cleansing these days. It’s almost like she’s glad that I caught her in a lie, because it’s given her an opportunity to become a better person.”
“Sickening,” he says.
“I know.” I take a giant bite of ice cream.
“And how is Adam handling the news of your departure?” Kimmie asks.
“Okay, so I haven’t exactly told him yet. We’ve
only been out once since I got the green light from admissions, but we were so busy talking about my parental funkdom that by the time I was going to tell him, things somehow segued to an incident in third grade when he split his pants open…and something about a package of peanut butter. I was only half listening, which I know is all my fault, but he totally took it personally, even when I apologized, and then our night was over.”
“Torn pants and peanut butter… It doesn’t get any more mortifying than that.” Wes shudders.
“Oh, really?” Kimmie raises an eyebrow. “Need I remind you of freshman year, Halloween dance, Wesley the Oscar Mayer wiener?”
“Need not,” he says, unwilling to walk down memory lane.
“I’m going to tell Adam about Sumner tonight. I’m heading over there after this—that is, if you’ll drive me…” I give Wes a pleading look.
“Why should I, Miss I’m Deserting You Over Summer Break? I mean, how am I supposed to survive swimsuit season with my dad without the two of you around? Did I mention he wants to feed me protein shakes, crack raw eggs into my mouth, and have me do weekly weigh-ins? He’s also installing chin-up bars on all the doors.”
“Well, at least you’ll look pretty buff.” Kimmie pinches his puny bicep.
He pauses in midlick (of syrup). “You do know that one can get salmonella poisoning from ingesting raw eggs, don’t you?”
She rests her head against his shoulder. “I’m just trying to look on the bright side.”
“Well, I have a better idea,” he says. “Let me come with you. I haven’t started the protein shakes yet, so I could probably still fit into your suitcase.…”
“Get in line behind my little brother Nate. He’s already threatened to down a bottle of hot sauce if I leave.”
“Because indigestion and stomach ulcers will keep you here?” Wes says, perking up.
“More like because hot sauce tastes like poison to him, and so he assumes it has the same effect,” she says. “Now that Dad’s got his new apartment and Mom’s started working, Nate’s been clingier with me than ever. He doesn’t want to see me go. Seriously, it’s hard being ecstatic about your future when just about everyone around you feels dismal.”
Deadly Little Lessons Page 6