Blank

by Trina St. Jean

  Farewell, handsome ogre.

  Pièce de Résistance

  My head pounds, and I feel like I’ve eaten a bag of sawdust. Mother knocks on my door and peers in my room. “You do look rough. Tarin told me about the bad sushi,” she says. “I canceled your appointment with Dr. K. Do you think we should take you to the doctor?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.” When she’s gone, I pop some aspirin. Bad sushi. I’m not surprised that smooth Tarin would come up with some creative explanation to save my butt. I sleep most of the day away, and when I finally drag myself downstairs I find only Stephen in the living room. A soccer game plays on tv, but there’s no sound.

  “Mom and Dad are in town,” he says stiffly. “With the agent. There’s been an offer on the farm.” I sit beside him, wishing I could help, wishing I could use some positive thinking to make everything better. Instead, I choke down some dry cereal, say goodnight and head back to my room.

  What’s a girl with brain damage supposed to do anyway?

  I wake up in the middle of the night, headache gone. I toss and turn and think about how my life is about to change. I don’t know if Mother and Dad accepted the offer, or what’s going to happen now. I head downstairs and sit in the half darkness of the basement, watching the news channel. In the world there are:

  Starving children with ribs that stick out.

  People living in refugee camps, with little food and no home to go back to.

  Children who have been kidnapped.

  Children who have been drowned in the bathtub by their own mothers.

  Tsunamis and earthquakes and tornadoes and hurricanes that rip up towns like they are made of Tinkertoys.

  Drive-by shootings and rapes and serial killings.

  Kids with bombs strapped onto their stomachs who get on buses and blow themselves up.

  And then, here at home on our cozy couch with a bowl of cereal in her lap, there’s me.

  Poor me, poor me. I’m hung over and I made a fool of myself. I don’t remember everything about my picture-perfect, spoiled existence with loving parents and a nice house and enough food to make me obese. Poor me, my parents want to sell the farm that I don’t even know if I like. One of my memories wasn’t real at all, and my brother is disappointed in me. Cry me a river.

  Dr. K. is trying to teach me to be grateful for what I have, but I am failing miserably. I can’t shake this feeling of self-pity. Who is Jessica Grenier, in the big scheme of things? I am a drop in the bucket, and my problems aren’t even a grain of sand in the Sahara.

  I need to get over myself.

  I march upstairs and grab my cell phone. I could sneak outside and take some moonlit photos, but the mere thought of the effort required wears me out. I go back to the basement instead and turn on Mother’s laptop. While it’s booting up, I go through the photos I took outside—the picnic table, Ginger, the trees, the sky—and email them to myself.

  A few minutes later I have the pictures open in the photo-editing program.

  I click on a shot of Ginger, looking up at me with her soulful eyes.

  “Aw, look at you,” I say. It’s a nice pic, with a tenderness to it, but it lacks a certain something. I find the Edit button and move the slider to make the photo dark, then overly bright. I do the same with the contrast. I try Ginger in sepia and in black-and-white. It’s strangely soothing to see her morph and change at my fingertips, so I go back to my files and try the same with the photo of the picnic table. I want to do something more, something crazier. I click around the menus until I find Editing Options.

  I start with the Ginger shot, cropping and cutting and changing colors. Then I open a few other photos in new windows: the picnic table, a shot of some clouds floating lonely in the sky, another of the squirrel. I play with them one by one until they all look funky and wild and a little surreal. So much better than they were before. A button at the top says Layers, so I open all the new images and drag and drop the photos until I’ve created a full-screen image of the four shots melded into one.

  Ginger, a bright red, in the top left corner; the squirrel, striped like a zebra, on the right. In the lower left corner, the picnic table; beside it, the single cloud, a soft pink, floating in pale-blue sky. It’s a crazy patchwork collage. Probably something a kindergartener could do, I know. But it feels good looking at what I have made. The images and colors speak to me; they stir something up inside. It’s especially the cloud, that drifting bit of pink fluff, that draws me in, and the reason comes to me slowly.

  That lone cloud is me. Floating, distant, watching everyone from above. Untouchable. I save the collage with the name Twisted Nature, then click Print, and it comes out of the printer. I’m shutting down the computer when a text appears on my phone.

  It’s from Tarin. All it says is Taj Mahal. Tonight.

  A Fine Kettle of Fish

  I’m going out of my mind. Mother and Dad are going back and forth, negotiating offers with the people who want the farm, and I brace myself for a call from Tarin’s mother. I can’t believe Tarin’s out there by herself at the camper, and I know I should tell someone. But how can I betray her? She may be messed up, but she is the one person who doesn’t mind that I am too.

  But her mother doesn’t call all day and not that night either. The next morning I get up and pace—I can’t stand the waiting. I need to do something, anything, to stop thinking about Tarin.

  Stephen is sitting at his desk, reading a book on volcanoes. “Bro,” I say, peering down over his shoulder, “we need to blow off some steam. Let’s do something wacky.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve got homework.”

  I don’t blame him for not wanting to hang out with me. But I think he needs shaking out of a funk too.

  “Please, brother of mine?” I beg. “I promise we’ll have fun. I even have a great idea.”

  My fingers find the top of his head and tousle his hair. Swinging around in the chair, he reaches up and clamps his fingers tight around my arm. “What am I,” he says, irritated, “your pet monkey?”

  I could sit there all day, feeling the warmth of those fingers, but if I let it go on even a second longer, I risk creeping him out. “Yeah!” I yell, wrestling my way out of his clutches. “Dance, my little pet!”

  We lunge back and forth at each other until he whacks me so hard in the knee that I fall to the floor. He collapses beside me and actually laughs for the first time in days.

  “You’re such a moron,” he says.

  “Takes one to know one.”

  We gaze up at the ceiling.

  “What’s the plan then?” Stephen says. “Did you tear me away from my scientific studies just to be annoying?”

  “Sorry, Einstein.” I search my mental list of activities for something a ten-year-old might like, but the best I come up with is “How about we go fishing?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “What? That’s lame.”

  For once, my on-the-fritz brain does some quick thinking. “Did I mention that it’s spearfishing?”

  Now I’ve got his attention. His eyes widen, but then he shakes his head. “Do you think Mom and Dad would let us do that?”

  “Dad?” I say. “You saw that giant stuffed fish in the basement. He’d be proud of our initiative.”

  But he doesn’t look convinced, so I pull out the big guns. “It might be our last chance to do this kind of stuff,” I say. “Do you think we’ll have a creek behind our house if we move to town? We’ll be fishing in the bathtub.”

  I don’t feel good about it exactly, but it works. He puts down his pencil and we’re on our way outside.

  It’s a scene straight out of a hillbilly movie: Stephen in Dad’s ratty old straw hat and rubber boots halfway up his thighs, me in humongous hip waders, carrying the “spears” we made by tying kitchen knives to the ends of broomsticks after unscrewing the broom heads. I can practically hear the banjo playing in the background.

  I want to take the quad to the creek, but Stephen is worried so
meone will hear the noise. I assure him that the giant fans Mother has on all over the house will block the sound, and I must be right, because no one comes running when he reluctantly fires up the quad. I hang on the back with the spears pointing upward as he drives down the cut line. When we get to the creek, he shuts the machine off and we peer down at the water. The water isn’t much deeper than it was when I came with Tarin, and I have no idea if there are even fish in there. It’s weird being there, so close to the camper where Tarin must be right now. And I can’t even tell Stephen about it.

  “So what now?” he says. “We throw these things into the water at the fish? That’s it?”

  “I guess,” I answer, and I begin my descent down the bank. “C’mon, Earl. If we’s gonna fry us up a tasty supper tonight, we’s best get fishin’.”

  We both slide, slightly off-balance, until we are on a narrow, grassy bank slightly above the creek. Stephen pulls the straw hat back up from his forehead. “Is there enough water in there to hold any fish?”

  The creek does look a little lifeless, but I maintain my enthusiasm. “Of course. Where would they all go? Hitchhike to the ocean?”

  Stephen reaches toward me and takes a spear from my grip, a twinkle in his eyes—maybe not of excitement, exactly, but of curiosity at least. “Lead me to them,” he says.

  We splash our way through the creek, the black rubber of our boots never getting wet past our knees, until we reach what looks like the deepest part. Leaning over, we peer into the murky water. I can’t make out any signs of life. Please, fish, I mentally beg, give me this.

  Stephen stands up and tentatively jabs his spear at the surface. “How are we going to know they’re coming? I can’t see a thing.”

  It’s a legitimate question—even a dumb kid would ask that—but I’m not going to let him see that I’m shaking in my waders. I’ll find a way to make this work. “Well, that’s part of the challenge. You think the Blackfoot people could see the fish when they did this, not for fun like us, but to keep their families from starvation? In fact, they used to fish at night, because that’s when the most fish are out feeding.”

  He studies the water. “Hmmm.” He’s probably thinking I’m the biggest liar—and he’d be right—but then he nods slowly. “They were probably a lot more in tune with nature than we are. Could probably sense the presence of the fish or their spirits. Something like that.”

  “Cool, huh?” I say.

  For a few seconds we listen to the gentle gurgling of the water and breathe in the fresh air, pretending what I’ve told him is true. I take a deep breath, grasp my spear tightly and raise my hands as high as I can above my head. “Ready?”

  Stephen does the same. A heartbeat later and—slam!—the blades slice into the shallow water. Pumping our arms up and down, crying out like warriors, we stab at the invisible fish. With each exit from the water, the empty blades reflect sunlight. We thrust madly, over and over, our voices growing bolder and wilder.

  I think about Tarin and the farm and Ramses and the Girl I can’t be no matter how hard I try. And I let it all flow out of me, off my back and down my fingertips, with each and every stab. It feels crazy good.

  Then, as suddenly as we began, Stephen stops stabbing, stops his warrior cries and lets his spear fall into the water. It takes me a few seconds to slow down and stop too.

  “Maybe it’s not our day,” he says. “My vibe tells me there are no fish.”

  I want to agree with him, let it go and head home, laughing about what idiots we are. But I know there’s got to be at least one piddly little fish in that pathetic creek, one sucker that will justify dragging him out here.

  So I beg. “Come on, don’t give up now. It’s only been a few minutes. We’ve probably picked a bad spot, that’s all. Let’s try”—I scan the water, searching for a place that looks even the slightest bit more promising—“over there, closer to the bank. It’s a little shadier. I bet the fish like that.”

  He can surely sense the desperation in my voice, because he humors me. “Yeah, maybe. We can try it, I guess.” He lifts his spear out of the water and splashes his way toward the opposite shore.

  “Here, little fishies!”

  The water is murkier in our new spot, so once again we stab blindly at our prey. Nothing. There are no warrior cries this time, only pure concentration. Each and every slash reveals an empty blade, and my shoulders begin to ache. Stephen stops finally, breathing hard from the workout. “Looks like we ain’t havin’ no supper tonight, Jim Bob,” he says.

  I hear him but not really, because the pain in my arms feels kind of good. I’ve never wanted anything so badly, and I keep stabbing, faster and faster. I can feel Stephen’s gaze as he watches my movements grow stronger and wilder. It’s so simple: the connection with some fish tissue—even the tiniest slice through a tail or a fin—will make me happy. Can’t the universe give me at least that?

  “Jess,” he says softly. “Let’s go home.”

  It only fuels my desire. If I don’t catch something soon, right away, he will make me go home. I lunge forward now with each stab, breathing fast and heavy. The broomstick quivers slightly in my hand when the blade shimmies off the occasional rock. Fish, I want to scream, where the hell are you? My jaw is tight, and every muscle in my body works toward this one stupid goal.

  And then…jackpot! The spear has sliced into something, something that is not rock or mud. Something alive. I yelp in triumph, and when I pull the spear up to see my catch, I feel the blade slide out of the tissue. But when it breaks the surface of the water, it is empty.

  And then the air is filled with a howl, almost animal-like. Stephen he is doubled over in the water, red swirling at his feet.

  The realization nearly gags me: there is no fish.

  The flesh at the end of that blade was Stephen.

  My fatigued arms find the strength to scoop Little Man up, and, splashing and half-tripping on rocks, I carry him across the creek to the four-wheeler and sit him down. Blood is pouring from a slice in his rubber boot: it’s his foot that I hit. He chews on his bottom lip, his hands clutching at his leg.

  “Oh my god. Holy shit,” I sputter. “Why were you standing so close to me?”

  I regret it as soon as it comes out. But Stephen doesn’t flinch. “You never listen to me,” he croaks. “I wanted you to stop.” He slumps forward, his face pasty white.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m a moron, I know. I’m going to fix this, I promise.” My heart pounds so fast I can feel it in my throat. I have to stay calm. I don’t think it’s a good idea to take off the boot, but even if it were, I don’t think I could bring myself to look at what I’ve done. I grab the bandanna off the straw hat and tie it tightly around his boot, a few inches above the gash. Stephen yelps and reaches down to squeeze my shoulder.

  “That’ll stop the bleeding, at least until we get home,” I say. As gently as I can, I ease his leg over the seat and place it on the footrest. “Hang on to me.”

  My shaking hands manage to find the key and turn it, and somehow, in spurts and stalls, I figure out how to drive. We make it back down the cut line, Stephen’s arms wrapped around me.

  I don’t bother parking the quad in the shop but instead pull right up to the front door of the house and cut the ignition. My fingers peel Stephen’s arms from me, and I turn around.

  “How are you doing back there?” My voice sounds like gravel.

  He doesn’t have a chance to answer. Standing behind the quad, arms calmly at her side, is our mother.

  “Cybil’s mom called,” she says. “She told me you were at a party on Saturday. And you were drunk.”

  Her face is red, like it’s taking all she’s got not to scream at me. But right now all that matters is Little Man.

  “Help me,” I say. “Please.”

  “What’s going on?” Mother says.

  I look at Stephen in some idiotic hope that he will have an explanation, but he is staring down at the ground.

  “He
’s hurt,” I choke out, and then I slide my arm under Stephen’s legs, step off the seat and lift him up.

  “What do you mean, hurt?” Mother says, her voice high. “What happened?” I am already up the stairs, and Mother opens the door and guides us into the warmth of the living room. Home, I think, for the first time I can remember.

  Then Dad is there and Stephen is stretched out on the couch. I know he can’t be dying or anything—can he?—but he must be in shock or something, because he is really out of it. Dad unties the bandanna, and Mother runs to the bathroom to get the first-aid kit.

  “What in God’s name happened?” Dad asks me. “How did he get this cut? Did he fall? Where were you?”

  I want to answer. But how can I possibly explain that all I wanted to do was stop all the seriousness and worry and have some laughs, and so we decided to go spearfishing? “We were at the creek,” I mumble.

  Mother is there now, shaking a brown bottle of antiseptic and asking Dad if we need to call the ambulance. He doesn’t answer and leans in close to me, his face only inches from mine.

  “Jessie, we need to know what happened. Now.”

  I’m going to fall apart into tiny pieces, crumble right into the carpet, but when I speak, my voice comes out cold. Like I’m some kind of unfeeling psychopath. “I stabbed him. With a spear.”

  “What the hell?” Mother screams, but Dad only flinches. Like he’s not all that surprised. His eyes lock on mine for a moment, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking—Who is this monster? What happened to our daughter?—and then he grabs the bottle from Mother.

  “Go get a blanket for Stephen,” he barks. “He’s shivering.”

  “We were spearfishing,” I mutter. “It was an accident.”

  But no one is listening. Mother runs upstairs to get a blanket; Dad goes to the kitchen and comes back with a kitchen knife. He grabs the top of Stephen’s boot. “Pull on this,” he orders. “We need to cut the boot off, so we don’t do more damage.”