by Carrie Laben
“Nice.” Abby slurped the coffee again, and it was already gone. She left the mug on the table and headed for the bathroom, with a detour to drop the rock off in her bedroom.
The dress was a total loss, and she stripped it off as fast as she could, though it caught around the shoulders and seemed not to want to leave her. Maybe it felt a kinship because she looked like a total loss right now herself—exhausted and low on power, no makeup, a day and a half since she washed her hair, sweat streaks in grave dirt. Wrists and hips and shoulder-blades sticking out all exaggerated like one of those awful thinspiration girls. Maybe, she thought, she should Instagram this. Get everyone worked up thinking she was sick.
And then she remembered again, duh, she was sick. Only because out of habit, she twisted around to check how she looked from the rear. Near the biopsy site another mole that the doctor had called out as suspicious has grown to the size of her thumb-pad and it was streaked and raised and lumpy like one of those carnival squash. That’s what the dress had snagged on.
It was growing much faster than she expected. She couldn’t waste any more time.
Carl seemed to forget all about Duane and honor every other day or so, after talking a good game about how he was going to tell the older boy what was what and get him to act right, and then snubbing him and acting uncomfortable and doing everything but telling him. Kristen was a different story. She was indignant. She didn’t even have to be pushed, she was there on her own. Abby suspected she had some kind of old anger at Duane, so easily did her intentions snap into the exact right channels.
It should have been enough to push Duane away with their combined indignation. Martha’s own actions should have been enough, for that matter. When she was herself she was as repulsed by Duane as ever, and when Mom took over she now pursued more popular boys with a no-holds-barred alacrity that seemed to alarm even the coolest. But somehow, Duane refused to notice any of these changes for long, his attention remained focused on something that was in the same space as Martha but had barely anything to do with her. Whatever role he was playing in his own head, it had only the most tangential relationship to Martha’s actions. It required him to sit by her side whenever he could, bring her presents of mall kiosk jewelry and supermarket flowers, and occasionally try to draw her into a fight about her ‘infidelities.’ Mom would respond by pointing out that there was nothing to be unfaithful to, since Duane was definitely, one hundred percent not her boyfriend. The real Martha would cry and stammer, which was apparently all the encouragement Duane needed.
The talk was non-stop and brutal, and even if Abby hadn’t wanted to shut it down for Martha’s sake it would have driven her crazy to see all that good energy wasted on someone who couldn’t use it. As soon as Abby blocked one stream it sluiced over into another. Mom seemed to love it, though it didn’t make her any stronger. She just… enjoyed it emotionally somehow. But when Martha was in her own body the constant barrage of whispered “sluts” and hissed “psychos” and book-scattering shoulder-slams in the hallways kept her pretty much pinned down in the newspaper office. It was no surprise to Abby when the days started speeding up.
Abby had tried to hide her renewed interest in Grandfather’s notebooks, but it was harder now than when she was a little kid and no one thought her capable of even understanding the handwriting, let alone the substance. Now that she’d learned to watch out for and resist Mom’s pushing, Mom seemed to have settled on her as an enemy—coming down like a bird of prey on any perceived insolence or insubordination. And she couldn’t feel safe when she caught Martha in the corner of her eye, either, until she’d looked long enough to be sure of her gait and her mannerisms. That was way too long.
The long and short of it was that finally Mom caught her in the master bedroom, reading through the old notebooks, and grabbed her by the hair and ripped her backwards so hard that Abby heard, as well as felt, a crunching between her vertebrae. The chair half-spun and spilled her out.
It was impossible to be dignified with her belly on the floor, with her mother crouched over her still holding her hair. This, more than the pain, made her furious.
“What the hell, Mom,” she said as best she could, though she knew it would mean another yank and it did. Her jaw was clenched over the words. She was not going to cry.
“What the hell? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
There was nothing to do but go full forward. “I was reading.” She gestured with her elbow to the notebook that had tumbled to the floor beside her and tried for the cool sarcasm of a kid on a sitcom. “It’s pretty interesting, you know. Family history and all that.”
“Who told you you could read those?”
“No one. I didn’t know we were living in Soviet Russia, I figured I could read what I liked.” Abby tried to get up, if not to her feet then at least to her knees, but Mom crouched lower over her.
“You know good and well those are dangerous. You haven’t got any right to jump ahead of what you’ve been taught—you could kill us all, like your grandfather nearly did.”
“You haven’t taught me a single new thing since he died!” And that was when the bastard tears spilled out, when she wasn’t actually in pain at all. “You think I can just go along with a few little-kid tricks forever? Everything at school’s a mess—” and she managed not to say, it’s all your fault, “—I need to be able to handle it. I need to know this stuff.”
Mom stood up then. There was a strange smirk on her face, as though the tears had satisfied her. Abby scrambled to her feet as well.
“That’s your problem,” Mom pronounced. “You just want everything handed to you. Do you think anyone taught me anything? Who? Your grandfather or his stupid notebooks? I had to figure it out all on my own. Read the damn notebooks all you want, if you think they’re just going to spoon-feed you what you need to know, you have another think coming. I doubt you even can get far enough to kill yourself with it, if that’s your attitude.”
As she walked away, Abby picked up the notebook and righted the chair. Mom obviously thought she’d won some kind of battle. But if she was underestimating what Abby could get out of the notebooks, that other think was coming to her, not Abby.
The very next day, Martha cut school again. Duane was in the newspaper office, though, moping.
If this was Mom dumping him and going out with someone cooler, it was a golden opportunity. And at least she was wearing good walking shoes this time. And the next period was gym. Fifty percent chance that Mr. Dolan was drunk and wouldn’t miss her, and if he did Kristen would cover for her.
She got home to find Mom’s body sprawled on the couch again, the pill bottle nearby. A slight snore rasped out of her nose and parted lips. It felt disrespectful and weird to leave Martha that way—she always slept bundled and curled up, and she definitely didn’t snore—and Abby went upstairs to look for a blanket even though the weather was still warm.
She was pulling a crocheted pink and orange afghan from the closet when the phone began to ring, a blat in the empty house that made her flinch even though they’d all had to get used to it since Duane had started sniffing around. Before that, they’d never gotten calls. There was no answering machine. The ringing just went on and on while Abby carried the blanket downstairs and covered as much of her mother’s body as she could. Finally, while she was carrying the pills into the bathroom, it stopped.
It started again as she was assembling the notebooks in her backpack. They were a hell of a load, but she could get them back to school in one trip, and they’d fit in her locker. She was tempted to wait and get them in on the bus in the morning, but Mom finding her here at home would make it all for nothing.
She was standing with her hand on the doorknob, ready to head back into town, when she heard footsteps on the porch. She thought to run but she’d be visible through the windows, it was no good. She braced for another fight.
But instead of opening the door, whoever was out there knocked. Which was impossible.
No one came here to knock.
Now what? If she moved straight backward, silently, she could maybe get to the side door without being seen. It would be tough, though. And no good if they actually leaned to one side and looked through the window at an angle.
The knock again. “Genesee County sheriff’s department. Open up.”
Behind Abby, Mom’s body stirred a little, but the dose must have been too high; she hadn’t anticipated needing to get back into her own body earlier than planned.
Abby opened the door and saw two men there, with Martha’s body gripped by the shoulders between them; the classic after-school special pose. The look on Martha’s face left no doubt that Mom was in there, it was venomous, teeth clenched, brows down; the same look she’d worn the other night when she’d caught Abby.
Mom was pushing the officers with all her might but there were two of them and as soon as she got one of them almost where she wanted him the other would break free. She’s no better at this than I am, Abby realized. Maybe not as good.
It was easy enough for Abby to apply the little bit of extra pressure, like a finger in the middle of a tricky knot, and put Mom in control. At the same time she tried to put the right degree of concern into her smile and her voice and said, “Hello? What’s the matter?”
“Zillah Waite?”
Mom, Martha, grimaced and nodded at her, so she nodded along.
“Yes, Officer… what’s wrong?”
“Is this your daughter Martha?”
Well, isn’t that a long story, she was tempted to say. Instead she nodded and let her concerned smile fade to a concerned frown. “What did she do?” She wasn’t quite sure that she was hitting the right motherly note, but the cops were softening, Mom had them pretty much under control now.
“We caught her out joy-riding. Is that your car?” He nodded over his shoulder to the stupid five-year-old LeBaron Mom had treated herself to last summer, promising she’d teach the girls to drive it.
She craned up, made a show of looking. Then, as she pulled back, she grabbed Mom by the ear and twisted.
“You little… Officer, I am so embarrassed. I hope she didn’t cause too much trouble for you.”
The cops looked at each other, checking their sudden impulse to let this go in the mirrors of each other’s shades.
“Well, ma’am,” one of them said, “you’d best make sure she stays in school from now on. There’s a fine if you don’t.”
“Oh, I’ll see to it,” Abby said, and pulled her brows down in a way that she hoped looked like Mom glaring.
“Thank you, ma’am. We’re sorry to disturb you like this.”
As their boots sounded away down the porch steps, Abby let go of Martha’s ear and flinched back. The moment of revenge had been sweet, but poorly thought out. She was going to get it now.
Instead, Martha burst into tears like the real Martha. And before Abby could step back or turn, Mom came up behind her and grabbed her, ruffled her hair, squeezed.
“There’s my girl!” The grin in her voice was obvious and it overlaid, overpowered Abby’s doubts and anger. “Good work. You should be an actress or something!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Abby emerged from the shower with her plan all mapped out, wrapped a towel around herself, and headed for the bedroom that Martha had claimed. No more dilly-dallying.
As so often happened when she’d procrastinated on something, it didn’t take as long as she expected. The notebooks were on the bedside table, which was not at all what Abby would have expected Martha to do if she’d found them while unpacking; she’d leave them outside Abby’s bedroom door, or hide them in a dresser drawer out of sight, or just shove them back to the bottom of the bag. But keep them beside her as she slept? Weird.
The main thing, though, was that they hadn’t been left along the way and now Abby had them. A quick flip through confirmed that the contents were what she remembered.
Then she scooped the books up and carried them back to her own room. She dropped the towel on the floor and put on the first clothes she saw that were mostly clean. Her head and stomach felt close to normal now, the hangover sweated away: but she was beyond thirsty, in the sort of place where Gatorade would start to taste good. No chance those yahoos brought Gatorade, she supposed. But maybe at least orange juice, or lemonade, something with some sugar and strength in it.
Back in the kitchen Martha was scrambling eggs; there was a big bottle of Tropicana on the table, sweating onto a yellow and green plastic tablecloth, an oasis. Abby took a slug from the bottle.
“What are you, twelve?” Martha wrinkled her nose as she turned from the stove. “There are glasses in the cupboard right of the sink. Our jam jars even. Strawberry Shortcake.”
“Don’t worry,” Abby said, wiping a stray trickle from the edge of her mouth. “I don’t have cooties.”
“Yes you do.” Abby stuck her tongue out, the correct traditional response. Martha turned back to the eggs. “These are going to be done in a minute. Hope you like Cajun seasoning, it’s the only spice they brought.”
Abby put the juice down and started poking through the cupboards for plates. No point in arguing with Martha now; it would blow over. And it was easy to see that the cooties crack was only because she was mad that Abby lied about being sick. She couldn’t have missed the mole. Tumor. It must count as a tumor now.
“Got any plans for the afternoon?” Abby asked, as though she hadn’t noticed Martha’s mood. “It might be nice to take Buddy for a walk. I think all the excitement this morning upset him.”
“It upset me too,” Martha said. “I just want to spend a day sitting still, and doing whatever I want. Finally.”
Abby kept facing the cupboard, because she was tired and her frustration would show. Dealing with Grandfather would be too noisy and obvious with Martha in the next room and wide awake. Maybe she’d decide what she wanted to do was go outside anyway. Or take a nap.
But after lunch, Martha stayed in the kitchen, still puttering with the bags and boxes that the dead men brought.
“You don’t have to do that,” Abby tried. “None of that stuff needs to be refrigerated. You can leave it for right now.” She felt like it came out right, gracious but casual. But Martha ignored her, stayed focused on the boxes.
“You don’t know that. They would have been just the kind of idiots to leave a jar of mayo at the bottom, under the cereal and everything.”
“Let me help, then.”
Martha didn’t say no, but the mood around her darkened just a shade. Abby ignored that and moved in, plucking a box of Ritz crackers from a grocery sack.
“It’s okay,” Martha said, her voice tight. “I’ve got it. I want to do it, really.”
Abby considered whether keeping this up would drive Martha out of the cabin, but it didn’t seem likely—she was more apt to go to her room and sulk—and the truth was that Abby didn’t want to sort food and fiddle with shelving arrangements, not really. She dropped the crackers on the table and left without another word, taking the bottle of orange juice with her.
This was how it was going to end, she thought, with us sour at each other.
Abby must have tried to teach Martha how to resist Mom’s pressure a thousand times. Or at least ten; she remembered sitting in Martha’s room at night for more than a week giving instructions that Martha would listen to, nod earnestly at, and fail to follow.
“It won’t work when you’re freaking out,” she said for the thousandth, or the tenth, time. “Can you for Christ’s sake just try to breath from your diaphragm and stop sniffling?”
“I am trying!” Martha gulped air and stifled a sob into a hiccup. It didn’t help Abby’s mood—or Martha’s either, from what Abby could see.
Abby felt her voice come out hotter and harsher than would help. “Then stop trying and just do it like I said. There’s nothing to even be upset about, not right now!”
“I hate feeling that way though. Like I’m just a passenger in my
body and whatever someone else decides is going to happen to me. It’s scary.” She was getting more worked up. Her mind was visibly scattered and roiled. If Abby was any judge, Martha couldn’t even tell herself what she wanted or was going to do at this minute. It was no different than someone else controlling her anyway.
Abby was the one who had to be in control, so she took it. When she pushed Martha it was because she wanted to, yeah, and because she could get away with it. But also because it would work. And sure enough she was gentle and Martha didn’t even notice. Her breathing slowed and evened out.
“Good girl.” Abby patted Martha’s arm, just above the wrist, which was as far as she could reach across the bed now that Martha was sitting up straight instead of slumping and miserable.
“Now. Make sure you’re comfortable, and just… fill up with yourself.”
“That doesn’t make any more sense than it did the first ten times you said it.” Martha was annoyed, started to slump again. Abby adjusted her pressure accordingly.
“You know yourself, don’t you? You know who you are.”
“Of course I do!”
“Well, be that all the way out to the edge of your brain, so there’s no room for anyone else.”
Martha, in spite of Abby’s efforts, sank back down in her chair and folded her arms in. “You sound like some kind of insane supervillain Oprah.”
“What if I just show you?”
Martha frowned, suspicious. “How?”
“I’ll push you to do something. Something harmless, obvious. And you can recognize how it feels and fight it.”
“No!” She scuttled back across the bed, out of Abby’s reach, as though that would help. “Never push me. Never. It’s bad enough that Mom does it.”
“It’s different when Mom does it. This will help.”