The Eye Unseen

by Cynthia Tottleben

  Her chin slammed against the table as she collapsed. I heard her jaws snap at the collision, the spray of blood bursting from her nose, decorating us all as her body plummeted to the floor.

  As Evelyn drew her last breath, broken teeth fell from her mouth and skittered across the linoleum, collecting under the kitchen table. I could hear laughter that I first thought was a man’s until I felt it pass through my lips and pool around my great-aunt while she convulsed on the floor.

  Her fall was like an enormous tower crumbling to the ground during an earthquake. In my child’s eye, she was the dragon slain by someone small.

  Like a little girl. That I had yet to know. One that could kill someone as powerful as Evelyn with just the promise of her birth.

  Not to mention all the other people I’d loved along the way.

  After my mother died I could barely function. But you know that. You were with me then, clinging to life by devouring every drop of hope I had left. In my madness I forgot my legacy, the shadow that had always lurched on the edges of my existence.

  But I couldn’t hide from it forever.

  You were six when I first remembered. The heat clung to us like Saran Wrap that miserable summer’s day. We were at the park. I kept the bottles of water on the bench, and you came to me, sheltering your eyes from the glaring sun. Casting a shadow over your face. Letting your secret slip for a split second.

  “Mom, I’m thirsty,” you said, holding your hands out for some water.

  I opened the spout on your plastic bottle and let you gulp down the cold sweetness, mesmerized by what I had never noticed. Your left eye, an iris within an iris. The birthmark of the girl yet to come.

  The light hit it exactly, lit it up like the beginning of a solar eclipse, the second iris the moon just edging across the sun. My body trembled, paralyzed with fear. And you just tilted your head. Smiled. Handed me back your water.

  “Thank you,” you’d said, pretending your veins didn’t hold all the horror of the world to come. “I love you, Mom.”

  Aunt Evelyn was right. I did not have the courage.

  That night I sat in your room, my pillow in my hands. I wanted to smother you. Visions of my mother entered my head. She would never have hesitated. Her stride would have been swift, her actions to the point, her decision made twenty years before in that kitchen with the women in our family.

  But that was not me. It took me three hours to put the pillow over your head. Three long hours during which I argued with everyone from Alex to God and back to Aunt Evelyn, who wagged her finger in judgment at me.

  “Mommy? I just threw up in my bed.” Brandy stopped me. I’d not heard so much as a floorboard creak, and there she was, standing in the doorway, watching me as I hovered over you.

  I moved to help her when she vomited again.

  I forgot you. Laying in your bed, tucked in for the night, your mother’s pillow over your face. When I fell asleep the next night I realized you had put it back on my bed for me.

  I didn’t buy the ax until you were nearly twelve. I saw it in the hardware store, the head smooth yet deadly. As I walked past I heard the weapon call my name. Joan, it whispered, I am here. You’re going to need me soon. It’s almost time.

  And that’s when I finally woke up. The stupid sloughed off me as I put the wooden handle in my hand, felt how well it molded into my grip.

  My dreams that first night were of chickens, thousands of headless chickens and my arm the blade that destroyed them.

  Chapter 9

  Lucy

  I did a very bad thing when the snow first hit.

  Tippy actually demanded I do it. Just looking at the determination on her face, I couldn’t deny her. She stood guard while I quietly pulled open my window and stole the snow that piled outside it. Following her instruction I gathered several containers, then brushed over the bare spot I had created.

  We had a glorious night. Tippy and I had spent so much time together we no longer needed to speak. I could hear her voice loud and clear in my head, and from her expression knew that she shared my thoughts as well. We hunkered down at the end of the bed and watched the moon grace the falling snow, our bellies chilled with the flakes I had gathered.

  We discussed Brandy and where she might be right now. How convenient it was, finding our old Easter baskets in my closet to use as bowls for the snow. How fun Mom had always made holidays, never having to work since the bank was closed, the three girls and Tippy always going for a picnic or to a church gathering, sometimes even the water park during the summer months.

  Then Tippy got down to business. The snow went from dandruff flakes to avalanche conditions in just a few hours. She reminded me how important our water supply was becoming, especially since Mom didn’t let us out every day anymore.

  I refilled the baskets—a couple of times. Neither of us had realized how thirsty we were and relished the moisture. Tippy instructed me to fill every shoe and bag that could hold water, all of my plastic pencil boxes, my backpack, our stash of empty bottles under the bed. Even though I was freezing, she had me strip down to my skivvies and wash myself.

  How alive that made me feel! The moon kept her eyes on me, my pale skin beaming back to her. Goose bumps climbed my arms as I washed, the snow not enough to relieve my stench but pleasant all the same. I turned from Tippy and dropped my bra to the floor, ran my wet hands over my chest, covering my nipples when they became hard.

  “Having fun there?” Tippy asked.

  I told her to leave me alone.

  “It’s a shame you can’t save enough to wash your hair.”

  My good feeling faded as I contemplated how horrid I must look. I pinched a clump of hair and ran my fingers through the oily mess. I knew at least a week had gone by since Mom last let me wash it.

  The flurry continued and Tippy, drunk on snow, insisted on going outside.

  “You’ll fall off the roof!” I warned her.

  “You’re too cautious. If you had any balls at all, we wouldn’t be locked in this room.”

  I took my top sheet and tied it around her body, snug behind her front legs.

  “Don’t blame me if you get hurt.”

  I eased open the window again and helped her outside. Her ears perked with the breeze, her smile immediate. Tippy didn’t move for several minutes. She appreciated the ambiance, the luxury of fresh air, no matter how chilling.

  Once Tippy worried her way across the snow she relieved herself.

  “Don’t infect our water supply!” I silently screamed.

  I tied the sheet to my bed frame and acted on Tippy’s orders. With an old pair of underwear I scraped her dried piles off my floor and flung them like softballs into the back yard. My dog watched with amusement as I drained my wastebasket by tossing the contents as far as I could, knowing the downfall would cover my trail.

  We didn’t sleep until dawn.

  When Mother fetched us Tippy and I were both terrified she had discovered our antics and would steal our loot from the night before.

  “God, you reek. Get in the bath. I don’t have to work today so I thought you could clean your room.”

  Just like that I was free. And worthy of her conversation.

  Mom let Tippy out in the yard. Over the running water in the bathroom, I could hear her excited yipping. She could hear me purring as I crawled into the hot suds, soaping away the strain of the past week.

  I laughed at the thought. My life had been reduced to a constant quest for water. And here I was, rolling in it.

  “I made you breakfast,” Mom hollered when I stepped out of the bath.

  I streaked to the laundry room and found some fresh clothes to wear. Gathering an armload of clean outfits, I hurried them to my room and flipped the pile of nasty ones into the washer.

  “Pancakes?” I was shocked. My voice came out as creaky as an old hinge.

  “With sausage. It was quite the storm last night. We got almost a foot of snow.”

  Old Mom returned. I reco
gnized her words immediately, her tone tinged with sweetness and a hesitant kind of love.

  “And you don’t have to work? That’s great!”

  Mom allowed me to change my bedding, borrow her mop for the hardwood floor, attack the walls with Murphy’s Oil Soap. I also rummaged through Brandy’s books and found her jigsaw puzzles, a treasure for someone with few activities and too many hours to fill.

  Mom fed Tippy hot dogs and we played Yahtzee while my bedroom door stayed open, air circulating through all its nooks and crannies. The dog rolled across the linoleum, her antics enough to make Mom and me burst into hysterics.

  Although laughing so hard sent me straight into a coughing fit. Mom ignored my discomfort, tossed Tippy more treats.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if this was Christmas.

  We had a glorious dinner of turkey roast and mashed potatoes. Always a good girl, I cleaned the table, did the dishes, put the food away—except for the bits I shoved in my pocket and slipped to Tippy while Mom read in her recliner.

  “I appreciate you doing all of the work,” she said as she turned another page.

  “I love being in the kitchen,” I said, just in case she wanted me to resume my old position as lead cook.

  We sat together until midnight, when Mom proclaimed she was hitting the sack.

  I hoped that she would forget about the dead bolt on my door. Tippy screamed in my head that she was going to go bonkers if she had to spend any more time in my room, but, being bigger than she, I carried her and held her when Mom shut the door behind me.

  “I had a good day with you,” she said from the free zone outside my room. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

  “I love you, Mom,” I said loudly as the lock turned.

  Tippy immediately let loose a string of curses.

  Mom stood stiff on the other side of my door. I put my hand against the wood and imagined her doing the same thing.

  “Goodnight, Lucy.”

  When I went to the window the moon was gone. Fog settled in, obscuring her. Tippy nipped at my ankle and jumped on the bed. I followed her, exhausted. But finally clean.

  * * *

  My thoughts paraded around the room, random but as comfortable as an old pair of sweat pants.

  Applesauce.

  Bananas.

  Hot blackberry cobbler, the deep purple of its heart washed clean with rivulets of melted vanilla.

  Rolling snow man parts with Brandy in the side yard. Our scarves crocheted and colorful. Tippy, jumping with excitement beside us, her tail slicing arcs into the fluff, better than any trail of breadcrumbs to follow home.

  The early onset of evening. Candles gathered in groups throughout the house, caroling, a silent chorus warming all our hearts.

  Harvest spice. Winter wind. Speech class, the albatross of every freshman. Making the required three-minute commercial that was always the first-semester final exam.

  My sister, teaching me to first lurch like Frankenstein, then mimic her ballerina twists and twirls as we explored the land behind Mr. Varnell’s half-collapsed barn. Our hair, nests filled with leaves. Mom cackling—Old Mom cackling—as she tried so hard to comb out the mess.

  Shopping with our allowance. Saturday morning bike rides to town. Stickers at the Hallmark store. Nickel candy at the old hotel where the creepy men who had never quite made it back mentally from the war lived. Buying socks for the old folks at the nursing home. Dancing for them. Brandy kissing all the forgotten women the nurses said never had visitors.

  Trying our roller skates on the road out front, but unable to stand up with all the rocks in the way. Brandy showing me how to ride my bike with them tied around my neck. A balancing act. Swinging back and forth on the basketball court outside the YMCA, our hands intertwined, screaming with delight, the wheels so unencumbered on this surface, our bodies a vortex pulling all the joy in the world right into our center, into our hearts, entwining us, that moment, for all eternity.

  Lines for the school play. The church Christmas program. Girl Scouts before Mom stopped letting me go. Before she turned off the phone. Wouldn’t let me get the mail.

  Jester, the cat we fed out back. His gold specks good fortune, Brandy told him.

  My silly sister. Crawling into bed with me. Putting her ice cube toes into the backs of my knees. Tickling my sides. Telling me stories about her father, the dad who never looked me in the eye, a man who lived like a fairy tale in both our lives.

  Scrabble.

  School Olympics. The long jump, an event just for me. My gold medals. A whole day out of classes, at the university’s football field, other kids’ parents coming out to watch.

  The homey, warm smell of chlorine. The heat of summer dissipated with one leap from the diving board. Learning to float in swimming lessons when we were too young to be in school. Brandy sinking.

  Bible camp. Canoeing. Brandy running off with Rick Remsburg, the counselors hunting for them, yelling as they walked through the woods, my nerves on edge, worried. Her voice whispering in my ear after all lights were out. Her first kiss. My jealousy. My sister, so beautiful, so brave, my smile her personal hostage.

  Dancing while the whirlybirds coated the sky. Raking the leaf pile. Tearing it apart again with Tippy, the three of us jumping in and out, gathering up handfuls, useless leaf bombs we threw anyway. The rest of the world hidden from us by a mountain of our own creation.

  * * *

  I stopped the whole hash mark gig, preferring not to know how many days of captivity we had suffered.

  Instead I took to drawing on my walls, making a mural with the colored pencils I had hidden weeks ago. I drew the deer from the cornfield, Brandy, a tree about six miles from here that was the biggest thing I’d ever seen. Of course I had scores of birds and even some fairies soaring through my landscape.

  Tippy, however, followed her own muse. I could barely even look at her work, the content was so disturbing. Mom with a knife in her back. Mom hanging from the same tree, her eyes bulging and covered with flies. Shit piles. Also with flies. Flames and eyeballs, all watching me while I slept.

  Tippy formed big block letters screaming FUCK YOU BITCH from the middle of the wall. Every night she filled the words in with her vicious rantings after I went to sleep. Her lexis was so twisted that I had long ago stopped reading.

  My dog wouldn’t discuss it. I empathized with her frustration, but her negativity wasn’t going to get us anywhere. We were lucky Mom never came into our room. I couldn’t imagine how she would have tormented Tippy over her “artwork.”

  “I blame you for this,” Tippy told me, in one of her moods.

  Like Mom, Tippy fluctuated all over the place. One day she was all about snuggling and having her back scratched, the next berating me for my weaknesses and inability to free us.

  “You don’t even try the door. Maybe you could break it down.”

  “Tip, I can barely get the window open. How would I manage the door?” My energy was so depleted anymore I had problems holding up a book to read.

  “If you weren’t such a coward you would find a way,” she barked at me.

  “Why don’t you do it?” I yelled, thankful Mom was at work. I couldn’t tell if the words came out of my mouth anymore or just festered in my head.

  “That’s the winning solution. Why don’t you crawl out the window? You could slide off the roof and the snow would cushion your fall. The neighbors would surely come let me out, if you could tell them I’m stuck here….”

  “It’s always about you, Tippy. I thought dogs were loyal.”

  “I was. Until this. Shit, I put up with your quivering for years and never said anything. I felt pretty sorry for you. But I have to draw the line somewhere.”

  I didn’t talk to Tippy for two days. Or at least it seemed like two days. The darkness was so familiar I couldn’t tell when one ended and another began anymore.

  She finally apologized but stayed on her side of the room.

  “The hungrier I get
, the tastier you look,” she spouted while I hovered over the wastebasket.

  “You are really starting to annoy me. How can I look tasty?”

  “I was talking to the trash can.”

  “Jesus, that’s sick!” But I couldn’t help the giggles that set in.

  Tippy smiled and joined me on the bed. Her apology this time was genuine, her tail practically bruising me with each ferocious wag. We cuddled and I could feel her tension ease.

  “We need a plan, Lucy. If you don’t do something soon, we’ll both die in here.”

  “She’s my mother, Tippy. I can’t hurt her.”

  Chapter 10

  Tippy

  I have been here before. Years ago. Locked in a cage, sad and quiet. Lonely and waiting. Looking out the door, trying to have a conversation with every bird or human or scrap of paper that came near me. Amazed that I, then known as Winnie the Wiener Dog, was trapped and no one seemed to care.

  When your pack abandons you, it’s hard to recover.

  I have always lived with high integrity. Pooped where they told me to poop. Didn’t jump on the furniture. Didn’t lick the kid’s hands, even if they were coated in all kinds of delicious foods. Played and performed and pleased my pack.

  Yet one morning they promised me ice cream. We got in the car. I got to watch the neighborhood roll by—and barked at Felix, the stupid cat next door—looked out the window, tolerated the kid, let everyone know how happy I was to be with them.

  I could smell the place miles away. Death. Desolation. Depression. And they drove me to it anyway. Me, Winnie. My pack walked me in, walked back out. I thought of the times they’d dressed me up in that stupid hero cape and I hadn’t even complained. Itched, yes. Complained, no. Hadn’t I done what my humans wanted?