How We Remember

by J. M. Monaco

  ‘We’ll show ‘em when we go and don’t come back,’ Dave muttered that night. I heard his anger but his voice was steady. He’d had enough. I’d had enough. We had to stick together.

  ‘Yeah. They won’t even miss us. Probably won’t even know we’re gone,’ I said. ‘What will happen if days go by and they don’t notice we’re gone?’

  ‘All the more reason to go.’

  We put a lightweight bag together that I was in charge of carrying. We both had a change of underwear for a couple of days, any kind of snacks we could find – crackers, potato chips, cookies – and as much allowance money and small change as we could pull together. Then we set out, me depending on my big brother to lead the way.

  Our light jackets for the fall season seemed enough when we started but it soon grew chillier. An opaque grey sheet smothered the sky, there was a smell of damp cold in the air and I wondered what we would do if it started to rain. Dave led us south on Main Street with the intention of getting us to the centre of Boston eventually. I tried to keep up with his fast walk but tired quickly. He remained quiet, his eyes darting side to side, as if he was checking to see if we were being watched. His lower lip and cheek showed some swelling with a faint dark blue-violet bruise. It was enough to remind us why we were out there.

  In total, we must have walked about forty long minutes before I said I needed the bathroom. I worried about this. There was no plan for this sort of thing. ‘A number two,’ I whispered to confirm the urgency.

  We could see a local shopping plaza nearby across the main road and Dave said I could go into the Friendly’s restaurant. He waited outside but they wouldn’t let me use the facilities. I tried the local department store, then the doughnut place and had no luck there either. I went back to Friendly’s and tried to sneak in but was caught and sent away. They kept a special eye out for kids like us.

  ‘Just go behind there.’ Dave pointed to the area behind the stores where trucks delivered goods.

  ‘But…but I don’t have toilet paper.’

  We walked around to the back and saw a row of large trash bins and dumpsters near the fence area where there were lots of trees on the other side. Making sure no one was around I stood behind the bins, unzipped and pulled down my pants, squatted, felt the cold wind on my skin, and relieved myself as fast as I could. I felt sick at the sight of what I had left. The smell, combined with the odour of decomposing food, made me gag. Feeling like a filthy stray animal, I crept away, head down. When I reached Dave I started to weep.

  ‘God, you’re so pathetic,’ he said with disgust, not looking at me.

  ‘What if we have to go again? And then again?’ I cried, trailing behind him.

  Dave said nothing. Shortly after that he turned around and led us back in the direction of home.

  I forgave my brother for being mean that day, but he never owned up about trying to force himself on me that drug-induced night when I was thirteen, and I never forgave him for that.

  Nine

  Disappearing is different to escaping. Escape implies that the person will surface again at some point in a clever Houdini-like move. To disappear is to make a claim for permanence. Once you decide on it, there’s no turning back.

  My attempt to permanently remove myself occurred over a bottle of aspirin. It was another idea Dave and I considered together after my father belted the both of us one night. My mother had caught us smoking. We begged her not to tell him but knew we were wasting our breath. Dave and I made a pact to do it together after school that day, although for some reason, I can’t recall why, Dave backed out. I do remember how much that irritated me. It’s one of those episodes where a lot of details from that time get murky. What Dave did next, what I did next, what my mother did next, what my father did next. When was the time Dave started to get into trouble with school? When did he first go away then come back, then go again? When did things begin to look like they were getting better before they got bad again?

  It is a full bottle of Bayer aspirin from the mirrored-front medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I have it in my hands, look at my reflection, challenge myself to see how long I can hold my gaze without blinking. What will happen? How long will it take before I slip away? No one will know. They’ll say she died peacefully, such a nice way to go, in her sleep. She had such an angelic expression. A pretty young thing, wasn’t she, yes a bit pudgy but that was just baby fat. Only the good die young, you know. It doesn’t take much energy to make the final move, after counting around thirty of them. Yes, that should be enough. But the uncoated surface of the pills makes them hard to swallow; they keep getting stuck on their way down, leaving a chalky, acidic trace at the back of my throat. I slug lots of water to help ingest more than one at a time. I stare for a long time at the mirror, waiting, close my eyes, open them again in search of something. Give me a sign, Jo. Do you want to live, or don’t you? What do you want, Jo? Tell me. I don’t know. Tell me. I have no idea. It’s too late now. I’m done.

  I move to the couch, get the cushion all comfy and lie down to prepare for my dreams. Dave comes home before I doze.

  I tell him, ‘I did it, Dave. Remember we talked about it? I did it. I’m going to sleep now.’

  His anger shakes me up. ‘You…you stupid girl,’ he shouts, hovering over me. ‘That’s so stupid, because once they find out they’ll put you in the loony bin and want to lock you there for ever.’ He won’t stop, just keeps screaming louder and louder, on and on and on. His mouth is moving rapidly, trembling, spitting. He doesn’t make any sense. How can he breathe? His eyes want to kill me. ‘Ma’ll be home soon and she can deal with you. You can’t let them know about this, ever.’

  ‘I’m just gonna go to sleep. It’s OK. It’ll be OK, I’ll just sleep.’

  I try to drift into my much-wanted sleep where I’ll be taken away. Where I can float weightlessly, be carried by the clouds into that place the nuns at school and church talk about, that somewhere called heaven where an illuminating, perfect God is waiting to take me into his loving arms. But will he forgive? I’ve done a bad, very bad thing. I am forever doing terrible, unforgiveable things, but God and Jesus are supposed to forgive us for our misdeeds, especially if we confess and say our penance, those fifty Hail Marys and more. I am a dirty, rotten-to-the-core girl, just like the nuns have accused me of being, especially the third-grade nun who caught me talking again when I shouldn’t have. The one who saw me, at the corner of her eye, saw the brazen and bold as brass, Joanna O’Brien, and another girl, practising a kiss (long before Dave tried to teach me). We were as bold as brass together, leaning across the aisle to meet our faces in the middle and touching each other’s noses, then the tips of our tongues, not the lips – what a strange tickling sensation – while the kids behind us giggled. Sister was writing out maths equations with her back turned. But God and nuns see everything at all times. You disgusting little thing. You are dirtier than dirty and will pay for it. I know this, they’ve told me this, but still I can’t seem to stop myself. I am willing to pay the price. Punish me, hit me, hurt me. Go on, slam my head against the blackboard again. Still, I pray every night that God will take this evil out of me once and for all. Please let me wake up one day with a purity I have never known. But it doesn’t happen. He’s not listening. This act, the pills, will kill the devil growing inside me. The jury is still out on whether God will forgive.

  Before any sleep comes the stomach suffers, tidal waves of nausea come and go, a piercing ringing sensation cuts through my ears and head. My eyesight blurs and I’m dizzy. My body tingles all over. I am fascinated with the numbness in my fingertips and keep rubbing my thumb across them to see if they are still there.

  ‘You’re as white as a ghost, but you don’t have a temperature,’ my mother says when she comes home from her job at the shoe factory down the road. Her fingers look dry. It’s from sorting the different colour shoes and laces. I feel their calluses when she sets her hand on my forehead. ‘Do you have any pain? It’s probably a
bug.’

  I go to bed later and puke into a big pot, then wait for sleep, puke again, pray for sleep, puke, puke, puke again till nothing but saliva then dry heaves. At one point I see Dave peering over from his side of the room. He wipes his eyes, stares at me, and walks back to his bed. I pray to dream of heaven that night but it doesn’t come, just dehydration and a headache that feels as though my brain has been kicked by a sadistic soldier in metal-toe combat boots. The tingling and buzzing through my ears never ceases. I have visions of a grim, cold purgatory. God is showing me a thing or two. That’ll teach you.

  My mother takes me to the doctor in the morning. As he hovers over to listen to my chest I see a clump of light hairs at the tip of his nostril. The flesh of double chin hangs over the top of his buttoned shirt and tie and wiggles when he moves. For a quick second I wonder how this happens to men when they get old, but my weakness stops me from caring.

  ‘Hmm, you don’t look too good. Need fluids.’ Wow, he’s a genius. ‘Give her lots of fluids. Must be flu, something viral. Hard to know with these things. Better stay home from school this week.’

  Hard to know. You can’t let them know. None of you want to know anything.

  Ten

  The next morning at Beth’s is a slow start after my difficulty sleeping. For a long while I stay in bed gazing at the bars of sunlight creeping through the spaces between the window blinds. I count the number of slats, once, twice, three times, till I begin feeling dozy again. At the risk of falling back into dreamland I force myself at 11.30am to get moving when I hear Beth and Danielle in the kitchen.

  ‘Well, hello and good morning,’ Beth says, her happy voice too loud for my waking ears, as I step into the room.

  A quick reminder of Jon’s frequent question pops into my mind: Why do Americans have to bloody shout so much?

  ‘I was going to get you up before I went food shopping, but you were really out of it so I just thought I’d let you sleep.’

  ‘You know me with this horrible jetlag. I fell asleep OK at the start but then woke up a little later and that was that. Even after all that wine and an extra melatonin. And now my head’s paying the price.’

  ‘Yeah, well, thanks to your bad influence, that wine put a dent in my run this morning. But you know, I always say,’ she sighs, extending her arms over her head to begin a stretch, ‘some exercise is better than none.’

  I envy Beth for her determination and persistence. She’s out there no matter what, rain or shine, keeping up the fight without any breaks. There are some times though, like now, in my hungover, fatigued state, when I’d like to take a swing at that bouncy holier-than-thou attitude.

  ‘I think it’s time for a good dose of something for this damn leg pain,’ I say, searching for some pity. Poor me.

  ‘Is it bad today?’

  ‘You know, when it builds up, yeah.’

  ‘How about a little massage?’ Beth says.

  ‘Oh my God, my mom gives the best leg rubs,’ Danielle says, touching her face in wonder. ‘When I’ve overdone it with training she just finds the aches and does her magic. It’s amazing.’

  Beth’s usually been too busy before to give me a massage so I’m a bit taken by surprise.

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say.

  ‘No, let’s do it now,’ says Beth, clapping her hands. ‘Come on. I’ll get my table. Won’t take too long.’

  When Beth first lost all the weight she took a massage course and really got into it. She was interested at first in self-massage techniques to help recover after her training runs. Then she offered massages to family and friends, eventually gaining a bit of a reputation and encouragement to take it further. Her hope is to be able to give up the high-flying IT world and take it further into a viable small business. It’s something she could pull off, but it’s about getting it right and squeezing in a hell of a lot of time, outside of her job, to train and qualify. And that’s only the start. The next challenge would be making enough money. She wouldn’t want to give up that double garage, would she?

  Before I know it I haven’t even finished my coffee and my pyjama bottoms are stripped off. Soon I’m face down, peering through a padded opening at the top of the massage table. Beth begins working on my leg carefully, making sure she doesn’t make it worse. All is quiet, finally, and I close my eyes, try hard to get myself into the present but away from the presence of the pain. I focus on the temperature of her oily hands and how they feel on my skin, the sensations of her fingers as they knead their way in and around the muscles of my thigh area, down to the shin and the calf. Jon used to try to massage me in the early days to help soothe the stiffness and spasms, but he just didn’t have the patience to perfect the technique. His thoughts were always somewhere else. But Danielle was right about Beth. There is a kind of magic in the way she directs her hands, in the way they manage to feel somehow like they’ve disappeared into my flesh. How does that happen? I’m cherishing the moment, yes, but my mind too quickly takes me to a place of disappointment in knowing it won’t last. No matter how good it feels now, I know I’ll return right back to the same place afterwards. The despair of being trapped inside this body – nothing can take it away.

  After breakfast I find I have six voicemail messages; one from my father, five from my brother, and an email from Jon, assuming I arrived safely, asking how things are going and suggesting when we can try a Skype call.

  Jo, yeah, it’s me, Dad. I talked to David last night about the money. Ma’s surprise. He’s not too happy. How about you try talking some sense into him. OK, call me later.

  Hi, Jo, it’s Dave. Can you call me as soon as you get this? Dad told me about this thing in the will...Did you know anything about this? Well, OK. Call me as soon as you can.

  Yeah, hi. It’s me again. Dave. I left a message a little while ago. Call me when you get this, please.

  Hi, Jo. OK, another message. Where are you? I want to talk about this business with the money. It’s not fair. What the hell was she thinking? Can you call me straightaway?

  Yeah, hi. Me again. I don’t know what’s going on with you now. Why aren’t you returning my calls?

  With each message I can hear the tremble in Dave’s voice, a slow rumble working its way up to an explosion. By the last one, he had no hesitation in letting me know how he felt.

  What the fuck, Jo? Call me.

  Dave did have a point when he asked, ‘What was she thinking?’ My mother must have assumed that by leaving things this way her wishes would be straightforward, non-negotiable by law. The deal is done. What does he expect me to do about it? I have no legal power to change the terms of Ma’s will.

  Before calling Dave back, I mull some of this over with Beth to get it off my chest.

  ‘You don’t owe your brother anything, Jo. Dave was always out for himself and now he’s getting what he deserves.’

  It was unfortunate that Beth never got to see much of the good in my brother. I feel shame, too, in knowing that over the years I’ve probably closed my eyes to his better side. When he was working and making money he always insisted on buying me the nicest birthday present his money, or credit could buy – even a Ralph Lauren jacket one year! He wouldn’t blink an eye about taking me out for an expensive meal to celebrate. And yet at the same time this frustrates me. All those times I tried to get closer to him and he pulled away. Never trusted me or anyone else. The times when he had troubles in his marriage or got into debt. He’d clam up, in shame I assume, not want to talk about it, hide from me and my parents for days, weeks even.

  ‘No, let me take that back,’ Beth says, her face hard. ‘Dave’s lucky he’s getting anything. He should be grateful.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. He’s got mental-health issues. Some of his stuff gets beyond his control.’ I notice my habit of biting the inside of my cheek has returned. In the past, I would have reached for a cigarette. ‘Anyway, what makes me any more deserving? I left town years ago. Broke my mother’s heart. And there was all that stuff ab
out her troubles with my aunt. She wrote about it in her diary, the one my father found. Remember that stuff about Peggy’s contract? You know, Beth, things would have been fine between her and Peggy if I’d kept quiet.’

  ‘Oh, I remember, alright. That was messed up. But hey, remember, it wasn’t your fault.’

  Beth knows many things about me, including Auntie Peggy’s husband taking me for ice-cream and being interested in me, but I have never told her everything I remember about that afternoon in the truck all those years ago.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about it, Beth. It’s all going round and round again in my head.’

  Beth listens in silence, her mouth open, as I recall the events. Her face changes as I get to the bit about the joint, the whisky, his hands on my leg, falling asleep, but I fall short of telling her my suspicions about what really happened that day. It’s just too shameful for words.

  Now she looks angry.

  Beth falls silent, takes a few seconds to respond. ‘You know,’ she says, shaking her head back and forth. ‘I said it at the time. He was a nasty piece of work. I thought he was capable of terrible things.’

  Yes, I’m thinking, only Ron and God know the whole truth about what happened.

  ‘But you know what, Jo? Maybe that’s just what it took to finally stop him from taking advantage of some other poor fifteen-year-old girl. Telling your mother. Her confronting him. And your mother and Peggy and that stupid contract thing, well, just remember, you were always there for her through all the shit and you know it. She made her own choices.’ Beth stops to catch her breath. Pulls her shoulders back. ‘But then she wanted you to have a decent chance at life. And in the end going away gave you that. OK, it was at a cost, but that’s just the way it had to be. End of story. Don’t start the self-tormenting now. Won’t get you anywhere.’