The Invisibles

by Cecilia Galante

  “You were only two,” Grace said. “No one remembers that far back. It’s not your fault.”

  “How about your dad?” Ozzie asked. “Have you ever gone to see him in prison?”

  “No.” Monica shook her head. “Why would I?”

  Ozzie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s changed. It can happen.”

  Monica shook her head. She pulled hard on her bottom lip, trying not to cry. “I don’t want to see him. Like, ever.”

  Ozzie rubbed her back. “Okay,” she said. “I know, Monsie. It’s all right.”

  “How about your mother, Nora?” Monica asked, eager to shift the attention to someone else. “What was she like?”

  Nora reached up and pulled on her earlobe. She took out her notepad the way she always did, and let the tip of the pen hover above it for a moment. She liked her husband more than she liked me, she wrote, and gave it to Grace to read aloud. It was not an inaccurate statement, and she was not going to get into any more detail. What would she say: that Mama had known what Daddy Ray had been doing to her from the time she was ten years old? Mama hadn’t actually caught her husband in the act until Nora was twelve, but Nora could tell by the slit-eyed looks she cast her way over the breakfast table, or the way she would sometimes walk behind her chair and pinch the skin beneath her upper arm, that she had known before that. Would she tell them that for as much as Mama had permitted things to go on, she was also violently jealous of the attention Daddy Ray showed her child, so much so that it had taken the remote control incident, leaving Nora’s head split wide open, for her to finally be removed from the home? These girls would think she was a freak if she admitted something like that, would probably turn and run screaming in the other direction if she went there. It was too dark. Too gross. Too much.

  Around the group, heads nodded in recognition as they read Nora’s statement; small grunts of disgust drifted toward the floor.

  “So how’d you end up here?” Ozzie asked.

  “She liked to throw things too,” Nora wrote. “I got hurt.”

  Another round of murmurs. Monica stared at her the way a child might stare at a parent who has donned a frightening Halloween costume and burst into the room. Grace reached out and rubbed Nora’s arm. Ozzie chewed on her nails.

  “Is that where that scar on your forehead came from?” Monica whispered.

  Nora nodded, running her fingers over the small indentation. There was nothing more to say, nothing else to write. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore, either. Maybe ever again.

  “You’re the only one left, Grace,” Ozzie said, taking her fingers out of her mouth. Nora held her breath, but Ozzie didn’t allude to the months Grace had been waiting to hear something—anything—from her mother.

  They all waited as Grace traced a line on the floor, her thin fingertip collecting a tiny pile of dust. “You already know that my mother’s in a hospital.”

  “You said that before,” Monica said gently. “Did she get hurt? Like, an accident or something?”

  “No.” Grace didn’t raise her head. “It’s a mental hospital.” She opened her mouth and then closed it again. “She gets really depressed sometimes. Like to the point where she can’t do anything. At all. Except sleep a little.”

  “Shit.” Ozzie let out a low whistle.

  Grace lifted her head quickly, staring at her for a moment, as if trying to determine Ozzie’s sincerity.

  “I’m serious,” Ozzie said. “That sucks.”

  “It doesn’t suck,” Grace said. “Some people have it a lot worse. And she’s been doing the best she can, considering my dad walked out on us three years ago and she doesn’t have any money. It’s not her fault.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Ozzie agreed.

  Grace nodded. “Now that she’s in a hospital, they’ll treat her and probably put her on some kind of medicine and then she can come and get me.”

  Nora noticed Ozzie and Monica exchanging glances. She held her breath, waiting for Ozzie to say something about denial or maybe even God, but Monica spoke up first.

  “How’d you end up here?”

  “One of the teachers at school found out that my brother and I were living with her in her car.” Grace scowled. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. I think she was more annoyed that we were stealing food out of the dumpster behind the Burger King than anything else. She kept pointing at my pocket and telling the caseworker that I had a freaking hamburger in there.”

  “What happened to your brother?” asked Ozzie.

  “He’s with my aunt,” Grace dropped her eyes again. “She could only take one of us. It’s fine. He’s little. I wanted him to go with her. He wouldn’t have been able to handle foster care or a place like this.”

  “How long did they say your mother’d be in the hospital?” Monica asked.

  “Two weeks.” Grace spoke to the floor. The silence was unbearable. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, looking up. “But it’s only been a little over three months. She probably just needs more treatment than she thought. She’ll get there.”

  “You want her to come back for you?” Ozzie asked.

  “Of course I do.” Grace looked stricken. “She’s my mother.”

  “That’s just a word,” Ozzie said.

  “Not to me.” Grace clenched her teeth. “My mother didn’t abuse me. She tried. She did her best. She loves me. And she’ll be back. She will. I know it.”

  Nora wondered if she was the only one who doubted Grace’s words that night, or at every Invisibles meeting thereafter when Grace would repeat them again. “She’ll be back for me. She will. I know it.” It was like a mantra, uttered for the sole purpose of hearing it said aloud. Maybe the words did something to keep Grace’s spirit buoyed, a balloon of sorts that she could hold on to so that she did not sink. Nora could not help but wonder too, on Grace’s last day at Turning Winds, exactly thirty-one months later, when she finally let go of that balloon and watched it sail away into a silent blue sky, if that had been the beginning of the end for her.

  Or the end of the beginning.

  Chapter 9

  Henry served lunch out on the small enclosed deck behind the kitchen. The green wicker table had already been set with pieces of blue-and-white china, silverware, and white cloth napkins. A bowl of white and yellow flowers was set in the middle on top of a lace doily. Nora watched Henry as he set large bowls of steaming carrot-tomato soup in front of each of them, and then waited as everyone helped themselves to a dish of parmesan croutons. He was equally attentive to them all—passing the pepper to Monica before she asked for it, refilling Ozzie and Nora’s water glasses when they got low—but especially to Grace, whose hair he would reach out and tuck behind her shoulder as she leaned in for a bite of soup. Did she like being doted on? Nora wondered. Or did she regard such demonstrations with impatience, the way she used to? Every so often in high school, when Max reached for her in front of the rest of them, he would get his hands shoved away and a dark look, as if he had just done something wrong. It was difficult to tell what Grace was feeling now; her face would revert into a blank, expressionless stare as they ate, and her right foot jiggled against the floor.

  Monica got up twice during the meal to answer her phone, disappearing into the back of the house to talk and then reemerging, full of apologies. She and Liam were in the middle of closing on a new apartment, she explained, and things were a little hectic. Ozzie did most of the talking as Henry served the second course—small plates of arugula, roasted chicken, and goat cheese—launching into a story about how she and her husband, Gary, had first met. “It was at a Yankees game,” she said. “Something I normally wouldn’t be caught dead at since I’m a Red Sox fan, but my friend had an extra ticket and begged me to come. Anyway, Gary was sitting in front of me, and when the other team got a hit, I jumped up and screamed and accidentally dumped my beer all over him.”

  “You didn’t!” Monica’s eyes were wide as cornflowers.

  “I d
id.” Ozzie looked around the table. “I felt terrible, of course, and ran to the concession stand to get a bunch of napkins. And then, after he had gotten himself all cleaned up, he asked me out on a date.”

  “Oh!” Monica squealed and clapped her hands. “I love it!”

  “Now every year on our anniversary, at the very end of the night, we pour a bottle of beer over each other’s heads,” Ozzie finished, laughing.

  Henry laughed a little too loudly along with her, glancing over at Grace to see if she thought it was funny. She smiled and fiddled with an arugula leaf.

  They talked a little bit, each of them, about their work: Monica, who did not have a regular nine-to-five position, spent whatever free time she had planning and participating in fund raisers with other women in her new tax bracket. The events were all the same, she said. “Lots of wine, expensive outfits, and high heels, all disguised as assistance for the needy. And boring, to boot.” Nora talked about her job at the library and the degree she’d earned online, unable to hide the pride she still felt for her milestone achievement. “Oh, Nora, that’s so fantastic,” Monica said, placing a hand over hers. “That’s one thing I will always wish I’d done. I’m so proud of you.”

  Ozzie was equally effusive, winking at Nora over her salad. “You were always the brains of our outfit. Goddamn, girl. Good for you.” Ozzie ran an egg-and-vegetable-selling business out of her house and also did palm readings in her kitchen.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many people out there want their readings done,” she said. “I get them from all over the place—people on road trips who stop just because they’re bored, townies who’ve lived in the area for thirty-plus years. I don’t think I’ve had a single day in the past three years—except maybe Christmas—when I haven’t done at least one reading.”

  “I’ve never had anything of mine read,” Monica said. “Or my fortune told, or anything like that. I’ve always wanted to, but I’m scared.”

  “Of what?” Ozzie asked.

  “I guess of hearing something I don’t want to hear,” Monica answered. “What if I went to some lady who looked into a crystal ball and told me I had six months left to live? Or that she sensed the relationship I was in was coming to an end? It would change everything, hearing something like that. I would live my whole life differently just because of what someone said.”

  “But who’s to say that what you’d been told was right?” Nora said, glancing over at Ozzie. “I’m sure the readings you do are accurate, Oz, but you don’t know who else is out there. They could be telling you anything.”

  “Real palm reading is an art, just like painting or writing or photography.” The defensiveness in Ozzie’s voice had left, replaced now with an urgency that Nora had not heard before. “You’ve got to really believe in it yourself for it to work. It can’t just be a way of making money.” She raised an eyebrow in Monica’s direction. “And just to put your mind at ease, Mons, if someone you’ve paid a hundred dollars for a palm reading says that your life is coming to an end in six months, ask for your money back. No one can ever know when your life will end. No one.”

  A silent, ponderous moment passed. Then Ozzie said, “Do you work, Grace?”

  Grace’s face blanched. She lifted her napkin and dabbed at the corners of her mouth.

  “She’s been painting up a storm,” Henry blurted out. “I don’t know if any of you saw the pictures in the living room . . .”

  “We did see them.” Ozzie nodded.

  “They’re lovely,” Monica added.

  Grace forced a smile.

  “We’re thinking of showing them,” Henry said. “You know, in a gallery. There are a few buyers who’ve already expressed interest.”

  “A gallery?” Monica repeated. “How fantastic!”

  A noise that sounded like static floated out from somewhere in the living room.

  “That’s the baby monitor.” Henry stood up. “Let me just go check on her. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Nora put her spoon down. She pressed two fingers against the bottom of her breastbone and took a breath. She could do this. She could. She looked over at Grace, who was picking at the lettuce on her plate. “Congratulations, by the way, Grace.” She was forcing herself to talk, dragging the words out of her mouth with a rope. “What’s her name?”

  Grace winced, as if Nora’s eyes were burning a hole through her skin. “Can you please call me Petal?” She swept her eyes over Monica and Ozzie; it was a request for all of them. “Please. I’ve been Petal for three years now. I really, really don’t like to be called Grace anymore.”

  “Oh.” Nora dropped her eyes, embarrassed. “Of course. I forgot.”

  “Thank you.” Grace’s voice was soft as she looked back at Nora. “Her name is Georgia.”

  “Oh, that’s a beautiful name!” Monica burst out. “I love it! What made you choose it?”

  “For Georgia O’Keeffe?” The name was out of Nora’s mouth before she realized it had formed in her brain.

  The tightness in Grace’s face eased, a loosening of strings beneath the skin. “That’s right,” she said. “My favorite artist of all time. Remember, Nora?”

  Nora nodded. Of course she remembered. She remembered all of it.

  “Why was she your favorite?” Monica asked.

  “Oh.” Grace dismissed the question with a wave of her hand, as if it were unanswerable. “Just her . . . way with everything. I can’t even remember specifically anymore.”

  “Light,” Nora said. “You used to love her way of working with light. You said once that all her pictures, even the dark ones, had some source of internal light, which generated through the colors.”

  Grace looked at her blankly. “I said that?”

  Nora nodded. “And another time you told me that on really good days, when you drew something well, you felt as though you were borrowing some of that light.”

  Grace locked eyes with her, and for a moment Nora thought they were back in that little room, Grace curled up in bed, her charcoal pencil making little skitching noises on a pad, Nora huddled against the wall, reading a book. Hours could go by like that, whole afternoons, without a sound or a word from either of them. And it had been enough, the easy understanding that hovered there between them like some kind of warm air. It had been more than enough.

  Grace’s brow furrowed. “I guess what I really loved about her was that she didn’t copy anyone else. She trusted her own instincts, which were way off the beaten path, not like anything anyone had really seen before. She said in an interview once that it took courage to create your own world. And I guess what I like most about her is that she dug deep enough to find that courage.”

  “Wow.” Monica ran a hand through her hair. “I love that.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Ozzie interrupted the moment. “Where’d you come up with the name Petal? For yourself, I mean. I’m curious.”

  Grace lowered her eyes and stared into her salad. “I just like it. I think it’s pretty.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Monica said. “It fits you.”

  Grace rested her chin against the heel of one hand. Nora stared at the tiny white lines that ran across the inside of her wrist in sordid little tic-tac-toes. Had there been another attempt earlier? Maybe even before Henry? Had life really seemed that unbearable?

  “I guess what I mean is, where did the whole idea to change your name come from?” Ozzie shifted a little in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Why would it even occur to you? Most people don’t do that.”

  Grace tossed her head. “I told you. I don’t like the name Grace. I’ve never liked it.”

  “Really?” Ozzie pressed. “You never said anything about it before.”

  “Ozzie,” Monica said gently.

  “Okay.” Ozzie took a swallow of mineral water and set the glass back down on the table. “I don’t mean to pry. I was just wondering.”

  Henry came back in then, smoothing a hand along the nape of Grace’s nec
k and down along her shoulder before sitting in his chair. “Snug as a bug,” he said. “She should sleep for another hour or so before her next feeding.”

  Grace looked away distractedly, as if the information about the child pained her. Nora couldn’t help but wonder if Henry tended exclusively to the baby. Did Grace ever hold her or pick her up? Did she look at her, even from afar, or had the postpartum depression made even that difficult?

  Grace pushed her chair back and stood up. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom.”

  Henry watched her go, his eyes anxious. Then he looked back at the women. “That’s my cue to get dessert,” he said. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “Well.” Ozzie tossed her napkin on the table and folded her arms across her chest as Henry disappeared. “What do you think?”

  “She’s like a . . . shell.” Monica reached inside her purse as her phone went off again.

  Ozzie glared at the phone as Monica brought it into view. “Is there any way you can turn that thing off for a while?”

  Monica glanced at the screen, bit her lip, and then pressed a button on the phone before sliding it back into the bowels of her purse.

  “I think she’s less than a shell,” Ozzie said. “She’s like a zombie. I know I said that she was going to need us for more than a weekend, but there’s nothing we’re going to be able to do even if we do stay longer. I think she needs to go back into the hospital. Seriously. She needs really intense psychotherapy, or something. The woman is walking around like she’s half dead! I mean, who are we kidding?”

  For a moment, Nora agreed with her. This was too big for them. There was nothing any of them could do. None of them were trained in any sort of psychology or counseling, and Nora herself didn’t have the slightest idea about medication or how any of it worked.