Edified

by Marissa Sail Fike

  “Not until you’re older,” She’d say, “It’s too dangerous.”

  One day, the fresh scent of oranges and lemon came wafting up the stairs into my bedroom where I was supposed to be taking a nap. It was the undeniable aroma of my mother's favorite candle scent, which she called “Citrus Sunshine.” I heard her start the microwave — a sign that she was only melting a small batch of wax — and proceed to the guest bathroom. I listened for her to turn the handle on the shower and waited for the muted sound of her singing to rise up through the vents into my room before executing the idea that had been forming in my mind: I would show my mother how grown-up I am. Grown-up enough for her to start letting me help her make candles. But mama never showered for more than five minutes or so, which meant I’d have to be fast.

  I crept down the steps, sneaking past the guest bathroom.

  If she knew what I was doing, she’d probably try to stop me. But I didn’t want her to. I knew I was old enough to do this, and she’d be so proud if she saw I’ve made a candle all by myself.

  I grabbed a mason jar from the cupboard under the sink and began positioning the wick. I remember thinking that part was difficult — getting the wick to stay perfectly centered. It took way more time than I hoped it would.

  The microwave beeped to a stop in perfect unison with my mother turning the handle to the shower off. Panic set in.

  She’d be mad if she saw me doing this. Not proud at all. For me to secure the reaction I wanted, I’d have to hurry and finish up.

  I rushed over to the microwave, completely silent in my sock feet. I balanced on my tiptoes, pulled open the microwave and reached for the container of melted wax. It was still halfway in the microwave, halfway out, when my bare fingers realized the searing-hot temperature of the container and retracted, lightning fast. The container tipped out of the microwave and came crashing down to the floor.

  I jumped back, but the boiling wax shot up at me in a splatter. Droplet-shaped bits of wax seared into my arms, erupting my skin in the strangest sensation — one I almost mistook for a freezing cold temperature. One bit of burning wax had latched onto my chest and dripped down my stomach beneath my shirt. That’s the one that felt painful immediately.

  My eyes welled with tears, streaming down my face as my arms and chest began to sting, but I did not cry audibly until my mother burst out of the bathroom, her hair dripping wet down her yanked-on clothes.

  “Lacey!” She cried, rushing over to me.

  She kneeled and immediately threw off my shirt, scanning my chest and then my arms. Saying nothing over the sound of my crying, she took my hand and rushed us into the bathroom, where she plopped me in the tub and ran cool water over my chest and arms.

  It felt like torture, freezing and burning all at once. If she stopped running the water, I couldn’t get relief from the burning, but if she kept the water running, I was subjected to being freezing cold. I couldn’t decide which was worse.

  I stayed in the tub while my mother made phone calls — first to a doctor and then to my father. We didn’t end up going to a doctor though. When it was time for me to come out of the tub, my mother simply gave me ibuprofen, a glass of water, and several cold compresses to hold where it hurt the most. I watched, sitting at the kitchen table, sniffling as she scrubbed at the floor where the hot wax had dried. It looked terribly difficult to scrape off the tile.

  She didn’t make me help her clean. She didn’t say a word. Nothing along the lines of “What did you do?”, or “This is why I told you not to try this”, and now that I’m older, I think that’s because she felt guilty.

  At the time, she simply studied my burns every once in awhile and insisted we go to the doctor the next day to make sure we were doing everything right. It was then that the doctor told me there would be scarring, but that I was ‘not to worry, dear, they will be very light’.

  But they weren’t light. Not to me.

  It wasn’t a big deal at first. When the pain finally subsided, the new little marks on my skin didn’t make me feel all that much different. But when it came time for me to start going to middle school, that was a different story entirely. Other kids would point at my arms and ask me what happened to them. Bullying was not tolerated at the school, but the kids still found a way to make me feel as singled out and different as possible. I noticed when someone looked my way a little too long (but not at my face), and I took it a little too personally that all the other girls seemed to get picked to go to the dance with a boy before I did. When I reached eighth grade, the people who appeared to love me for the marks on my arms were the girls who had marks of their own. Theirs were different from mine, though. Their marks were self-given … cuts they made into their flesh to relieve the tension of life when it became all too much to bear. They told me that my marks make me strong. That they are proof of my badassery, and my ability to move on in life even when it sucks. So eventually, following suit, I too began to make more little marks into my skin.

  I hated myself for it. Every time I did it, I knew I was making myself look even more like the reject my peers took me for. But there was also a certain release to it … a certain high that it gave me. It made me feel in control of what happened to my body, and therefore in control of my life. It gave me a different type of pain to focus on; Physical instead of mental.

  When my mother found out that the wrist covers I began wearing around the house weren’t to cover the burn scars, but to cover self-inflicted harm, she immediately pulled me from the school I was going to and cut me off from my friends. She enrolled me in an expensive school for the pompous — At least that’s what all of us at Rose Valley thought — and scheduled me to talk with a doctor every other week, who prescribed me the Xanax.

  At first, I resented my mom for it, but then at my new school, I met Grace. She loved me in the same way that my old friends had, but she didn’t encourage any bad habits. Instead, she liberated new, positive ones like working out together and trying new and inventive fruit smoothies every time we hung out. She invested in me, and I invested in her, and now, she’s the greatest friend I have.

  But the sad part is, I don’t even think my burn scars would be that bad anymore. The ones that really stand out are the ones pooled beneath my palm. The ones I gave myself.

  I can try my best to forget the memories and the pain I felt, but I can never erase the scars. They’re something I’ll have to carry with me forever. A constant visual of my inability to cope.

  ***

  I hear the front door open and shut, releasing me from the memories of my childhood. It must be evening time now.

  A few minutes later, Adam appears in the doorway of my bedroom. His appearance brightens my mood immediately and I feel myself smiling.

  “Oh my …” He says, pausing at the door with a hand to his heart, “Is that girl really mine?”

  I smile and pat the bed next to me.

  “Hold on,” he says, searching his pockets and retrieving his phone, “I’ve got to capture this stunning goddess that somehow ended up on my bed.”

  I snort, rolling my eyes, “Flatterer,”

  “Maybe,” He says, taking an actual picture.

  “And I’m pretty sure this is my bed.” I add.

  He saunters over to me, taking my face in his hands, “Not just yours. Not for long.” He kisses me sweetly.

  I lift my chin, returning his embrace.

  “How was your day?”

  “Perfect now.” He says, “How was yours?”

  I smile, but don’t say anything as he kisses down my neck.

  At my silence, he stops and looks at me, “All good?”

  I purse my lips and shake my head.

  “What’s wrong?” He says, shifting me into his arms.

  “I had the dress fitting today.” I say.

  “Yeah? That’s awesome. How’d it go?”

  “Not good,” I say half-heartedly.

  “Not good?” He echoes, “Well that’s not okay.”


  I shake my head again.

  A few beats pass between us.

  “Don’t you like your dress?” He smiles hopefully.

  I run a hand through my hair, “I actually hate it.”

  He patiently waits for me to continue as he lightly runs his fingers down my shoulder to my wrists. He knows what I’m getting at. It’s a conversation we’ve had so many times.

  “The sleeves look stupid,” I say, “The whole thing is just ugly. I can see how it might look good on some other bride … just not me.”

  “Well,” He says, kissing my wrists, “You’re the only bride that matters here, baby girl.”

  I look into his eyes which hold my face attentively.

  “If you’re worried about these,” He says, trailing up my other arm, “I love them.”

  He shifts on top of me and pulls up my shirt, “especially this one.”

  He kisses the long line of the scar from my stomach to my chest, “If you looked any other way than this, you wouldn’t be my Rae.”

  I smile, looking away from him, but he gently pulls my face back to his. I helplessly fall in love with his gaze for the hundredth time.

  Adam has always been my soul mate. I love everything about him, and he loves everything about me. Even the things that I don’t. I can only imagine how deeply my insecurities would have swallowed me by now, if not for him.

  He kisses me slowly, passionately.

  I hook my fingers around the bottom of his shirt and pull it upward, over his head. It's in this moment that my insecurities fade into nothing.

  7

  Grace - Friday

  I hear the doorbell ring its cheery tune, pulling my attention away from the project I’m working on — an herbal lotion requested of me by one of the ladies at sunrise yoga. I glance at my watch, which reads 3:46 in the afternoon. Who could that be?

  The doorbell sounds again.

  I lift a purring Amity from my lap and set her down on the floor. She trails me to the front door, where I am greeted by a middle-aged looking woman with tight, honey blond curls and name tag from Swift Thrifting that says, “Hi, my name is Marla!”

  I smile at her, “Hi, can I help you?”

  “You must be Grace. Sorry I’m so late! This is the right address, isn’t it? Hyssop ‘N’ Sage?” She says, referencing the name of my home business.

  I must’ve scheduled an appointment for her that I forgot to write down somewhere.

  “Oh, yes, it is. And I should be offering my apologies. I completely forgot I had anyone scheduled for today.” I open the door a little wider for her to step in.

  I almost add, ‘You would not believe what I’ve been through lately.’ but then I think better of it. No reason to blend my personal life with my work.

  She laughs a hearty laugh that makes Amity run, “Honey, trust me. I understand busy. Don’t give it another thought.”

  I lead her into the sunroom, which is not only my favorite room in the house, but also the room where I meet with all of my clients. I feel a small sense of pride as I draw the shades and the room becomes one entirely of windows. Sunlight spills through the glass, highlighting my plants and salt lamps. I gesture to the couch which is adorned with brightly colored pillows.

  “Please,” I say, “have a seat and make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea?”

  She settles in, grabbing a mandala pillow and smoothing it with her hands, “Tea please, anything that’ll help with this headache.”

  I smile, heading over to the coffee station I have set up against the wall. Although I only drink coffee on rare occasions, I always want it as an option for my clients.

  “So tell me again a little about what you’re going through.” I say, selecting a few loose-leaf teas and mixing them into a steeper, “Your headaches don’t seem to be caffeine related, do they?”

  I listen attentively as she explains the severity of her migraines and how often she has them. When I finish steeping her tea, I pour it into a mug and offer it to her along with a bowl of sugar cubes.

  “They’re just awful,” She concludes, taking the mug, “and I’ve tried just about everything I can think of to get rid of them.”

  I shake my head, “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with that.”

  “Me too,” she takes a sip, “I’m not even able to play with my grandkids anymore.”

  I nod, “Well, I think I might have just the thing.”

  “Yeah?” She says, raising a brow.

  I nod again, “For your specific case, I’d like to try a tincture of lemon balm, feverfew, and peppermint, mixed with a little bit of bourbon. I think I may even have a bottle of that blend already made up around here somewhere, so if you’d like to give it a try, I could send you home with a sample today.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” She says, rubbing her temple.

  “I’ll go get it for you,” I smile, “just stay right here and relax.”

  She manages a smile and nods.

  I stand and venture over to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom.

  While rummaging around the over packed cabinet for the appropriate bottle, a cardboard box falls from the shelf, bouncing off my shoulder and onto the floor. I locate the little glass vial in the corner of the shelf, retrieve it, and close the cupboard. Setting the vial on the counter, I stoop down to pick up the fallen box, which turned out to be a pack of tampons. I go to open the cupboard once more, but I stop short of returning the box, taking a moment to eye it skeptically.

  I slowly set the box down on the counter and begin to silently count, ticking off the numbers with my fingers.

  Twenty-seven days ago. If my calculations are correct, I should be starting my period tomorrow.

  Perfect. Nothing to worry about.

  But as I place the box back in the cupboard, my head begins to spin with unpleasant recollections. Now that I’m really thinking about it, I have felt … off … lately.

  This morning, I felt so tired I could barely get myself out of bed, which is unusual for me. I also haven’t had much of an appetite lately, and then there was that strange bout of nausea during sunrise yoga …

  But that was just because of Jayden’s picture, I reason.

  Still, I pause. All of my studies in homeopathic medicine have turned my mind into a natural symptom-connector, and a typical diagnosis I would assign to someone experiencing nausea in the morning, lethargy, and a decreased appetite would be … pregnancy.

  My head begins to throb, while making connections left and right. Possible symptoms of pregnancy begin to highlight themselves like little beacons in my mind, refusing to be ignored.

  I hear Marla set her mug down coffee table and shake my head, hoping to clear it.

  These could easily be symptoms of depression too. God knows I deserve a little depressive allowance after last night’s disaster, which I’ve tried to suppress to the depths of my mind all day today. After all, my period isn’t even late yet. This is something I can put off worrying about until tomorrow, when I don’t have a client waiting on me.

  ***

  I’ve waited patiently. I woke up this morning with a determined attitude and spent the day flipping through my holistic textbooks, searching for ways to speed along the process. I had a bowlful of pineapple, sat directly in the sunlight, performed countless squats, and even went so far as to make a formidable tea concoction of turmeric, cinnamon, and parsley. According to the textbook, all of these things are effective methods for inducing a period, but by the time midnight rolls around the corner, I slowly realize it won’t be coming. Not today.

  Along with that realization comes a flood of additional unwelcome questions. I gently close the book I’m reading and set it on the dresser with shaky hands.

  What will I do if it never comes? The baby couldn’t be anyone’s other than Jayden’s.

  I try to think back. When is the last time we even had sex? It must’ve have been about three weeks ago, give or take. What measures had we taken to be care
ful?

  My brain is mush. I can’t remember all of this on my own. Would it be out of line to let him in on this possible concern?

  I pick my phone up off the side table, tap the ‘contacts’ icon, and scroll down to his name, which I must have forgotten to change from ‘My Love’. The words smack me in the face.

  I take a slow, steadying breath, and edit them to display his first name instead. My finger hovers over the ‘type a message box’.

  The cursor blinks expectantly at me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. Way too soon.

  This doesn’t mean anything. I could just simply be late. Periods aren’t always on time. But if I’m not just late … and this is real … would telling him do me any good? Would the idea of us having a family be enough to remind him of the good thing we had — the plans we made — and apologize? Do I even want him to?

  Not telling him things has been the hardest. He was my confidante for so long. My go-to, even when it came down to telling him minute parts of my day. Realizing I could no longer laugh with anyone about our inside jokes, or that I had no one to tell about the awesome fruit smoothie combination I’d discovered for breakfast, or the shirt I saw in the store that would be just perfect for him, totally sucked, and made me feel desolate. But it paled in comparison to realizing I couldn't find comfort in him about this. Is this something I’ll have to deal with alone?

  I’ve only ever had one other pregnancy scare, and I was with him. We were nineteen, and I told him immediately. He held me in his arms and told me it would be okay — That this was the risk we knew we were taking, and if it came down to it, he couldn’t wait to start a family with me.

  Maybe it was a young boy talking, but it brought me so much comfort to be in his arms and to hear his promises. The next day we’d gone out and bought Plan-B. He was with me when I took it, holding my hand, and kissing my face. I remember being amazed at how tiny the actual pill was, but it’d been effective. Now, of course, in my current situation, it was far too late for emergency contraceptives.