Blank

by Trina St. Jean

  Mother reads my mind and opens her door. “Well, I guess I could go say a quick hello to Mrs. Meyer, if she’s up for it.” When I don’t move, she comes around to my side and peers at me through the window. I try to make her proud. I get out and walk beside her up the rickety steps to the front porch, where a fat calico cat looks at us lazily.

  Mother knocks on the screen door, and a few seconds later it pops open. A large lady with a gray braid that nearly reaches her waist smiles and waves us in.

  “Come in, come in,” she says. There’s no real entrance—we’re standing right in the kitchen, and it smells like cooked cabbage. She introduces herself as Gloria, who I guess must be Tarin’s mother, but I don’t see any resemblance at all. This woman is more hippie than vampire. Gloria explains that her mother is taking a nap, but invites my mother in for tea. Tarin is downstairs, she says, waiting for me.

  I open the door to the basement and walk down the stairs slowly, peering into the semi-darkness, but there’s no sign of life. When Tarin appears out of nowhere at the bottom of the stairs, I lose my balance a little and grip the railing to keep from falling. I truly am an overly dramatic freak, and it’s embarrassing.

  “Welcome to my dungeon,” she says. I make it to the last step and follow her around the staircase wall, trying to seem casual as I glance around. A bed, a dresser and a desk barely fit into the space, and a colorful woven rug covers the concrete floor. The walls are concrete too, but a few posters of seventies-style pop art liven things up. Two huge bright-orange cushions lie on the floor. Not too bad for a dungeon, actually.

  “Want something to drink?”

  I nod and Tarin pulls back a batik wall hanging beside the dresser to reveal a mini kitchen: bar fridge, wooden shelves with mugs and saucers, and even a hot plate sitting on a milk crate.

  “This used to be my uncle’s bachelor pad,” she explains as she takes a can of soda out of the fridge. “I’ve added the feminine touch, of course. But I’ve got all the conveniences of home right here, even a small bathroom on the other side of the staircase. Barely need to go upstairs if I don’t feel like it. And I usually don’t.”

  “So you mostly hang out down here?”

  “Except when I go for walks, yeah. My mom knows by now not to try and force me to do all that fake family-bonding stuff. We got over that a long time ago, when she married my stepdad.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “He’s a butthead,” she explains. “To put it lightly.”

  “When do you see your boyfriend?” I ask.

  “He lives on the coast,” she says. “It’s a long-distance thing.”

  I glance around again. “Do you get bored down here?”

  She shrugs. “Not really. I like being on my own, thinking and reading and whatever. I’m a loner, I guess.”

  I try to get my head around it. She doesn’t go to school, doesn’t hang out much with her mother or grandmother. Maybe she’s like me—napping and watching old home videos and talking to the dog all day. Is someone else really that pathetic?

  “Mostly, I’m relieved that I’m not in school anymore. This way I get to avoid all the lame stuff like prom and cheerleading and year-book committee.” She sticks her fingers down her throat in a fake gag.

  “Hmm,” I say. Right now I can’t imagine liking all that either. But once upon a time, I was in there like a dirty shirt.

  She leans a little closer. “You used to hang out with that Megan girl, hey? And her friends?”

  I nod. “You know them?”

  “Only a little. I’ve seen them a few times, in town. Gran told me you’re tight with them.”

  “Apparently.”

  “No offense,” she says, “but I can’t picture it. They seem so sugar-coated.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I was the rebel of the group.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Sure.”

  This would be my chance to bash them, to tell her that they’re phonies, especially Megan. But some of the Girl’s loyalty must linger inside me, because I don’t. “So are you staying here for the rest of the summer?” I ask.

  “Don’t know. Mom changes her mind every thirty seconds about whether Gran is ready to take care of herself again. We’d take Gran back with us, but she’s dead set on staying here in the middle of nowhere. God knows why. No offense.”

  “None taken.” I sip my drink, wondering if Mother is still upstairs or if she’s taken off to tend to her soup.

  The room is quiet, and Tarin gazes at me with her dark eyes. I brace myself for some kind of deep question, but instead she asks, “Want me to read your palm?”

  I’m taken aback for a second, but then I laugh. “You mean, like tell me what all those lines mean and stuff? You can do that?”

  “Kind of. I read a book about it when I was a kid, and I’ve been practicing on all willing victims since. It’s sometimes amazingly accurate. I can also read auras.” She moves closer to me, picks up my hand and flips it over. I flinch when she runs her finger down the line at the top of my palm.

  She pauses. “This okay? It won’t hurt or anything.”

  My whole body is tense, so I take a deep breath and nod. “Knock yourself out.”

  She examines my hand, running her finger down all the lines. She mutters “hmmm” and “interesting,” then finally clears her throat and looks me in the eye.

  “This is amazing, actually. Your life line is split in two.” She holds my hand up higher. “See?” She points to the line that starts halfway between my thumb and index finger and curves down to the bottom of my palm. It’s true—the line begins solid and deep, then breaks off into two sections about one third of the way down.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I’m only interpreting it, of course. But you’ve had a major change in your life, with the coma and everything. You’re starting again, in a way. So your life line now has branched off, a sort of split between your old self and new self.”

  It does make sense, I guess. But all I want is for her to tell me that somewhere past the edge of my palm, in a place we can’t see, the lines will rejoin and become more solid than ever.

  My face must look way too serious, because she looks back at my hand and laughs. “But hey, what do I know? It also says you’re going to have seven kids!”

  I force myself to smile, but pull my hand away and fold it tightly with the other one in my lap.

  “Think my mother is still here?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “That was dumb.”

  “No,” I say. “It was interesting, actually. I’m just a little off today.”

  “No worries,” she says. “Next time we’ll do something more exciting. I’ll take you to my secret hideout. If you promise not to tell anyone about it, of course.”

  “Cool,” I say. She is an interesting person, and I should try not to be so stiff around her. We make chitchat about stuff like TV shows and how lame Katy Perry is, and then Mother calls down the stairs that she should head home before the soup explodes, but I’m welcome to stay.

  “I’m coming too,” I yell back. There are polite good-byes at the door, and Tarin tells me not to be a stranger.

  “I didn’t mean to rush you,” Mother says when we’re in the car. “Did it go all right?”

  I nod, because I guess it did.

  Mother clears her throat. “Gloria told me Tarin takes courses online. Maybe you should try that for a while, until you’re ready to go back to school.”

  “All right,” I say. I’m surprised that Mother would even think out of the box like that, and relieved that she’s not pushing the school thing on me. But even though I know I’m being a loser, the only thing I care about right now is what Tarin told me. About my split life line.

  First I have an abnormal brain. And now this?

  Illusions

  Finally, the window of opportunity I’ve been waiting for. Mother takes a bubble bath, then gives me a goodnight peck on the cheek; Stephen is upstairs in his room, pouting. So Dad and
I are alone in the living room, and it’s my chance to keep my word to Stephen and convince Dad that we need to stay on the farm.

  Dad flicks through the channels, yawning and munching on a bowl of nuts. He finally settles on a nature show with huge blubbering walruses stabbing at each other with their tusks, bright blood clouding the water. It’s disturbing, and it’s making it hard for me to get into the right frame of mind for a heart-to-heart. Plus, I don’t really have a plan.

  “Dad?” I finally say, when the scene switches to penguins.

  He turns down the volume a little, thankfully, because the penguin honking is crazy loud. “Yeah?” When he faces me, I see the weariness in his eyes. A brain-damaged daughter, a son who’s mad at him, a crying wife, giving up his farm, pulling out baby calves two nights in a row—it’s a lot for one guy to take.

  I shouldn’t be nervous, I know. But what if I can’t make him understand how much Stephen is counting on me to turn things around? And the way he looks at me, so worn out by it all, I can’t do it. Not yet. “I remembered something,” I say.

  He turns the penguins down even more and leans closer. “What is it?”

  My hands clench together. “The temple.” He is still waiting, his eyebrows raised. “I remember visiting the temple with you.”

  He leans back again, and it’s clear from his expression that he’s not getting what I’m talking about. But he couldn’t have forgotten something so magical.

  “You know, the Temple of Dendur. From Egypt. We saw it together.” I don’t mean it to, but my voice comes out sounding annoyed. “It was big, and beautiful, and amazing.”

  His eyebrows wrinkle up. “Right,” he says. “Right, that.”

  “Yeah, that,” I say. I thought his face would light up, but there isn’t a trace of joy in his eyes. “Aren’t you happy I remember?”

  Dad lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes tight. I wait patiently while he gathers himself. His eyes pop back open. He reaches out and puts an arm around my shoulder.

  “My dear Jess,” he says. “We never went to the Temple of Dendur.”

  My chest tightens. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, we did. I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday.” I shrug his arm off my shoulder.

  “Jess.” He looks straight into my eyes. “That was not us. That was Megan and her dad. They went to see it, in New York. We were supposed to go with them, but you ended up in the hospital.”

  Even though I don’t think he would lie to me—why would he?—I can’t believe it. The memory of that place with its tall columns, and the echo of Dad’s voice, felt so real. “No.” I shake my head. “No. It’s not true.”

  Dad doesn’t try to convince me. He puts his arm around me again, and this time I let him. A sob carries through me, so sudden and sharp that I cry out. I lean into him, my face on his chest, and let the wave of disappointment pass through me.

  “I don’t get it,” I wail. “It seemed so real.”

  He rubs my back, mutters that it’s all right, that it doesn’t matter. But we both know it’s a big deal: my mind is playing tricks on me.

  When I am spent, a small shudder passes though me, and I sit up. “I promised Stephen,” I say, “that I would convince you not to sell the farm.”

  “And what about you?” he says. “Do you want to stay?”

  I gaze up at him, at those soft eyes, and I know that maybe if I say yes, it could change something. If I could only tell him that this farm means everything to me too, that I cherish the woods and the bison and the times we spent here together. I did enjoy taking photos outside, did feel the beginnings of a connection to this place. But I’m not sure that’s enough. I can’t tell him what I want when it’s obvious that I can’t even trust my own mind. I am too worn out to lie.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  A Walk on the Wild Side

  Another Thursday, another visit to the friendly neighborhood shrink. Dr. K. asks to see my homework, then praises my efforts on the letter to the Girl. She asks how my week was.

  I sit there in that uncomfortable chair and rattle off a list of what went wrong: the love of my ex-life thinks I’m faking amnesia, my best friend defended him, and my parents put our farm up for sale. I tell her about my temple memory too, and how my mind deceived me. And how I couldn’t bring myself to convince Dad not to sell the farm, and how this morning when I told Stephen that I had failed, he didn’t get mad or anything. All he did was sigh and go back to hiding out in his room.

  I’ve never seen such a stunned look on the doctor’s beautiful face.

  We spend the rest of the hour talking about each of these events, and Dr. K. asks me to describe my feelings: mad, hurt, embarrassed, worried, disappointed, guilty. I think I name every emotion known to humankind. My heart feels heavy and tired, but I don’t break down or freak out or anything. I feel cold, oddly detached, like I am talking about someone else’s life. On some level, I guess I am.

  When our time is almost up, Dr. K. explains my new homework assignment. “I know you don’t remember your recent years, what your life was like. But let’s not worry about that for now. I want you to write a few pages about what you would like your life to be like now, in the present. What things you want to do, what people you want to spend time with. How about you call it My Perfect Life?”

  Sounds futile to me to wish for what you can’t have. But I nod obediently, and she stands up to give me a hug.

  Last time we came to the city, I fell asleep before we could go to Taco Time, apparently my old favorite. When Mother asks if I’d like to finally go there for lunch, I don’t have the heart to say no. She’s jumpy, knocking her coffee over so it spills all over my burrito. Maybe she wants to talk about the farm thing, but she doesn’t bring it up. I’m guessing Dad told her about my false memory too, but she doesn’t mention that either. When we pull up in the driveway at home, I’m so relieved that I pop the door open before Mother has even gotten the key out of the ignition.

  I bound up the sidewalk and nearly trip on a rusty old bike. Tarin sits on our steps, munching on a bag of chips.

  “Hey,” she says. “Hope you don’t mind me turning up like this.”

  I don’t have time to answer; Mother is right behind me. “Well,” she says, “hello there.”

  Tarin doesn’t pick up on the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here vibe. She stands up and leans on my shoulder. “Mrs. Grenier, can I borrow Jessica? I’ll have her back in an hour or so. Going for a little nature walk.” Mother looks unsure, but Tarin hooks arms with me and leads me away from the door.

  “Thanks!” Tarin says.

  Mother pauses, watching us, then nods slowly before she disappears into the house.

  “Wow,” I say. “You have a way with mothers.”

  “You’ve got to be confident,” she explains, “but respectful. Works like a charm.”

  She pulls me toward the garage, glancing around like she’s looking for something. “Which way to the cut line?” she says. “I know how to get to my secret hideaway from there.”

  “Is that where you’re taking me? Is this kidnapping or something?”

  “Sure,” she says. “You could call it that.”

  I laugh, and I’m glad that she’s here to take my mind off—well, everything.

  “So? You know where it is?” she asks, the sun reflecting off her nose rings.

  When I’d visited the bison, I had seen a long clearing that ran past their pen. “Maybe.”

  “The blind leading the blind. Now this should be an adventure.” She looks around again, and her eyes land on the For Sale sign. “Whoa. What the hell?”

  “I’ll tell you about it as we walk,” I say, and I lead her this time, behind the house and on to where the clearing is. I tell her about Stephen and how upset he is, and how I can’t decide how I feel. How even Dad seems confused.

  “Yikes,” she says. “A real-life soap opera.”

  I almost tell her about the fake memory, but she starts going on about her stepfath
er and how he controls her mom, and how it disgusts her that her mother has no spine. If it weren’t for her boyfriend and music and knowing one day she’ll be old enough to be on her own, she says, she’d completely lose it.

  When we get to the clearing, she nods. “This must be it. It should lead us to the creek, and then I’ll know how to get there.” We make our way down the cut line, bees buzzing around our heads and grasshoppers leaping in the tall grass. Tarin and I get into a rhythm, taking our steps in unison, and it feels good to be moving, not thinking.

  The cut line opens into a wider space, a field with trees sprinkled through it. We pick up the pace and stride across the clearing, then come to a small creek winding its way around the trees.

  “Bingo!” Tarin exclaims. The creek is shallow enough that we could probably walk across it.

  Tarin shields her eyes from the sun with her hand and looks slowly from one side of the bank to the other. “There’s an old log bridge that I cross when I go from my place, so it must be on your side of the creek. And that way”—she points to the left, where a clump of tall pine trees stands—“should be north.” She turns to me suddenly. “I’ve never taken anyone there, you know.”

  “I’m honored to be the chosen one,” I say. “Now get your butt in gear and find it already.”

  We tramp along the side of the creek, Tarin occasionally stopping to study her surroundings, and then she turns and heads into the trees. A small path leads through the bush, and by the way she pulls me in there, I guess we are getting warmer.

  “This is it!” Only a few minutes’ walk, feet crunching leaves and snapping twigs, and the trees give way to a small clearing.

  “Ta-da!” she says with a sweep of her arms. “Not exactly the Taj Mahal, but it’s all I’ve got.” A rusty old camper, the kind that sits on the back of a truck, is propped up on cement blocks. It looks like the smallest breeze would send it toppling onto its side.