So Micah was right. Brenda kept me out of it, told them I was sick, that I couldn’t talk. God, please let me remember. I don’t recall ever being sick for more than a couple days. And she lied about me and Corey not spending time together. We were inseparable that last summer. Just the two of us. Until Fawn.
And then she was gone after the pond, and—
“So was Corey. Could he have gone with her and Eli?”
Binks glances up, shaken by my voice.
I pat his head, scan through the rest of the clippings. They get smaller as the story heads from summer toward fall with no resolution. The final one, hardly bigger than a sticky note, dated September 21, is only a paragraph long, titled SEARCH FOR LOCAL BOY SUSPENDED.
Micah’s comment—“a couple shades too dark to matter”—echoing, I wipe my eyes. This sad, little packet is evidence of the pitiful search for my best friend. Folding the pages in half, I secure them with the paper clip. Wishing I could forget having seen them, I slide the whole batch, pictures and all, back into the manila holder.
My brain free-falls, colliding with memory. That last day at the pond, Corey and me laughing after we escaped Eli. Then, Fawn’s scream. But what came next? My mind skips to kitchen, to Brenda and the metal box.
Then nothing.
Until the muddy floor. But I have no reference point for that, no concept of when it happened. Or what happened, how my hands ended up bleeding. It’s like some online video that freezes up, cutting past all the important stuff.
I sit, helpless, for the first time wishing for Pool Girl. If she is me, there could be some way she can help me remember.
“The daisy.”
Slipping the chain over my head, I dangle the pendant between my fingers, where it swings like a magician’s charm.
Focused on the painted flower, I slow my breath and whisper, “Concentrate, Teddi.”
Vision dimming, flicks of green and fly-buzz fill my head. I’m close, can feel the heat of that day, see Corey crouched ahead. But again, recall slips from my reach. I keep coming back to the bath, but I can’t access whatever it was that got me there.
Mind tickled by a feather of memory, I see Brenda’s hands. After she lifted me from the water, I must’ve slept. But how long?
Days?
Weeks?
How could it have been weeks?
There’s nothing.
Was I in some sort of mental hibernation? Shock?
The next clear memory I latch onto is out of sequence, a months-long gap later.
It was like waking up right there in Mrs. Goulet’s class. Jack-o-lanterns on the windows. Corey’s empty desk. The shocked joy on Mrs. G.’s face when I asked Chelsea to pass the orange safety scissors. What was it Mrs. Goulet said?
“Teddi, it’s good to finally have you back.”
Again, I do this mental stretch, trying to reach backward from the classroom, to see what came before. But it’s no use. I keep getting stuck at Mrs. Goulet.
The way her voice cracked. How she embraced me in front of the whole class. And Chelsea, holding my hand in the lunch line, solemn-eyed, saying, “It was like you were under an evil spell.”
A new image blooms. I’m in my uniform, Brenda holding me. Crying, she says, “Baby, you’re talking. Thank God, you’re talking.”
When I tell her Corey’s not in school, she starts to weep again; then she says, “Corey and his family had to go, Teddi. They had to go away.”
Gushing tears, I ask her why.
Real low, she answers, “To be near his grandma.”
I ask, “When will they be back?” and Brenda says, “We’ll see them again one day.” Then she says, “Enough questions. Now, let’s get you a snack.”
I don’t say a word, but I wonder. How could his family have split us up, left without giving us a chance for good-bye?
Pulling my journal toward me on the table, I consider writing, but I can’t even open the cover.
Wiping my eyes, I say, “Why did she lie? Sure, to protect me. But all these years later, why is she still pretending?”
Then Binks barks and I snap back to this moment, my memories kitchen-table caged.
“Dammit, Binks!”
It’s not ’til he howls at me, then practically draws a map to the front door, that I notice the unmistakable rumble-sputter of Dev’s Saturn in the distance.
“Oh, shit!”
Scooping everything from the table, I say, “Thanks for the warning, buddy. Sorry to yell!” Then, unable to trust my behavior in Brenda’s presence, I retreat upstairs.
25
There’s no escape.
From my room, I hear Brenda teasing Binks, calling him “Cockapisser,” cackling as if it’s the best joke ever. Her volume alone tells me she’s way over her limit. Then the shower blasts, a sure sign she’s looking to sober up before turning in.
Even with the journal cracked open on the bed, I can’t focus enough to start writing. The close call with the strongbox has me jittery. It’s safely back in the storage area—sort of. When I got up here, I yanked open the little door, stashed it on the steps. Good enough for now.
But Brenda’s off-key singing—that Seal song “Kiss from a Rose”—does nothing to promote reflection. She shuts the water, and I hear her tromp through the kitchen, can tell she’s tripped over Binks by the way she hollers. She’s perfected the art of stream-of-consciousness cussing. Poor Binks. I hear her flop into a kitchen chair, and then she’s silent, thank God.
I’m about to open the journal for another attempt, when she bellows.
“Teddi! Down here now!”
I debate whether to obey, or just lay low, hoping her mood will pass. Before I can decide, she’s mounting the stairs. Hiding my journal under the covers, I’m straightening the bed as Brenda appears in my doorway.
Seething, she clutches something in her hand.
My stomach hits the floor as she thrusts the object toward me. “What the fuck is this, and where the fuck did you get it?”
Before I can generate a real response, “Oh, God” slips from my mouth.
Brenda advances on me, waving plastic. My umbilical stump and hospital bracelet jostle inside the bag as she rams it toward my face, yelling, “I asked where you got this!”
When I don’t answer, Brenda pushes past me, collapses on my bed. Letting the bag drop to the floor, she covers her face with her hands and says, “How much do you know?”
Stunned, I’m afraid to respond.
Sniffling loudly, she wipes her nose with her fist and points to the desk chair. “Sit.”
I do, and Brenda surprises me by collapsing on the rug in front of me, burying her tear-slick face against my ankles. Floored by the strangeness of the moment, I’m suddenly sobbing.
Through tears, I ask, “Why?”
When she doesn’t respond, I pull my feet away, angry. She springs back as if I’ve kicked her.
I want to.
She repeats, “How much do you know?”
Rather than answer, I cross the room, slide open my closet door. Unlatching the hook and eye, I bend, retrieving the strongbox from the stairs. Brenda has to know I’ve been rummaging in it, but she recoils anyway—shocked—when I present it to her, shocked again when I ask, “What have you been hiding?”
“I tried, Teddi. I tried.”
“Tried what?”
“To be a good mother, the type you deserved. But, remember, I was just a kid myself.”
“I know all that, your standard sob story. But what I want to know is—”
Hands clapped over her ears, she emits this shriek that brings Binks sprinting. I’ve never seen her like this. Don’t know what to make of it.
Slowly, like she’s a bird I might scare off, I sit beside her. Opening the box, I say quietly, “I’ve been remembering. When I was little.”
Eyes flaring, she says, “Please, Teddi. Stop.”
God, she’s infuriating. The way she snivels, a strand of snot dangling to her chin.
> I snatch the tissue box from the nightstand, slap it on the bed next to her, and say, “Wipe your nose and meet me downstairs. We need to talk.”
As I wait for her—at least fifteen minutes—I go through the lockbox again, spreading its contents on the kitchen table, re-creating the scene from when I was little, these same photos laid out in rows.
Only this time, Brenda comes to me.
Standing beside the table, she wears a little girl expression as she says, “So. I’m sorry about before. I should know better than to mix beer and tequila shots on a work night.”
When I don’t respond, she says, “You caught me off guard. That’s all. I’m better now.”
“I’m not.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“Like what, Mother? Like someone who wants to finally be told the truth? Not just hints and pieces?”
Sitting beside me, she wrings her hands. Trying to keep her voice even, to file off the angry edge, she says, “Exactly what truth is it you want from me?”
I barely know where to start. There are Fawn and Corey, of course, and the lies Brenda told to the paper. I want to know what happened after the bath, and most important, right before. I want it all, but I can’t begin to figure out where to start, so it surprises me when I blurt, “Eli. How did you know him?”
She’s not prepared for that. Her eyes dart away, and she’s on the verge of tears again. But then, jaw muscle twitching, she says, “Eli was a mistake. A bad one.” Looking at me, she starts to shake.
“What . . . kind of . . . mistake?”
Her eyes cloud as she says, “The worst kind. Luckily, I only made it once.”
“Once?”
“Yes, and once was one time too many. There was a high price to pay.”
The kitchen tilts at an odd angle. Sweat breaks on my forehead, and my mouth goes dry as it hits me with horrible certainty. Gripping the table edge, squinting through tears, I ask, “Was Eli . . . my father?”
Her slap of laughter jolts me.
“God! Teddi, no. Holy shit.”
I nearly slide off my chair, limp with relief. “You’re sure?”
She reddens. “Yes, I am quite certain of your paternity.”
“But you said there was a price to pay, so I thought—”
“I know what you thought, but the price was more a personal one.” No longer talking to me, she looks a world away. Hugging herself, she continues. “The cost was steep, and it took a long time to pay off.”
When I touch her wrist, she snaps back to now, saying, “Look, I don’t want you getting the wrong idea, Teddi. There weren’t that many guys.”
“But Eli was one of them?”
“Yes. He was Geoff’s . . . your,” she forces herself to say it, “your father’s ‘best bud,’ his cousin, actually.”
“So we are related.”
“I suppose, by marriage. But you don’t share blood.”
Blood—a flash—my bleeding hands.
I’m not sure why I want to hurt her, but I must, because I say, “But you and Eli shared other bodily fluids.”
Rapping the table, she says, “Teddi, you are not too old for me to smack.”
I grant her a grudging “Sorry.” Then, as she starts to relax, I say, “So tell me all about it.”
“I will not. I will say it was after your father took off. You were about a year old. I was lonely, and Eli was someone to turn to. Familiar. And he,” her face goes soft as she admits, “he always had plenty of . . . stuff . . . to help ease the ache.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah. Drugs.”
The high price. But, relieved he’s not my father, I have no real desire to hear more about Eli. Well, except for one thing. “Do you remember Fawn?”
Brenda blinks hard, like I’ve pitched sand in her eyes. Then she says, “Why are you asking about all this, Teddi? It was half your life ago.”
“Do you remember her?”
“Yes! I remember her, dirty little thing, nasty little mouth. When she started running around with—” She stops herself, backpedals. “Well, you were just a baby, too young for her to influence, thank God.”
“Why are you lying?”
“Teddi, I will not be talked to like that. I am your mother.”
“Sorry. Why are you lying, Mother?”
She pushes her chair back from the table, but I grab her wrist before she can stand.
“I’ve started remembering. I know Fawn came back when Corey and I were seven. I thought—until I found this photo,” I hold it to her face; she refuses to look, “—that was the first time I’d met her.”
“Oh.” She picks at her nightshirt, unraveling the hem.
“Mom, please. Be honest with me. I’m afraid something terrible happened to her, and I’m just trying to find out what. Will you help me?”
“I can’t.” She starts crying again, even harder than when she was drunk upstairs. She keeps repeating, “Oh, Teddi. I was such a mess back then. Such a mess.”
“Try. Please, Mama. Try.”
When I say it, she gets this pitiful expression, not anger or sorrow, but a sort of wonder, as if she’s seeing me for the first time. Then she says, “You haven’t called me Mama in years.”
I take her hands. “I need your help. To remember. I’ll bet we can do it together.”
A tear catches in her lower lashes.
Wiping it away, I say, “Wait here.”
Racing upstairs, I return with my journal. Opening to the latest entry, I read to her. She doesn’t want to hear it, says it’s “too much.” But I insist, and Brenda reluctantly agrees.
She gnaws her lip, trying hard to keep it together. When I mention the smoke at Stone Loop, she says, “Oh, God.” Face streaked with guilt, she continues, “You never should have been wandering out there. It’s a dangerous place.”
I look into her eyes, not needing to say it: She should have known what I was up to, where I was, at seven.
She says, “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Go on.”
Eyes trained on the page, I read the next part, about the hibachi guys, the paint can belching smoke. When I describe Eli’s snarling tattoo, Brenda shudders in her seat.
I say, “There’s more.”
“I figured.” Her focus straying toward the fridge, she says, “Honey, I could really use a—”
Stopping her before she can say “beer”—or retrieve one of those fruity malt drinks she pretends are suitable for breakfast—I stare her down. Then I return to the journal.
I can’t help glancing at Brenda as I describe the topless girl. Eyes squeezed shut, a tear slips down her cheek. When I get to the part where Eli bellows, her lids fly open.
“My God, Teddi! He didn’t hurt you, did he?” She asks it through a curtain of fear.
“I don’t know.”
Brenda’s shaking brings Binks to the table. Lifting onto hind legs, he rests his chin against her thigh. Her fingers twining through his curly coat, she exhales. “Is there more?”
“A little.” I finish reading, both of us frustrated at the cliffhanger ending. It goes beyond the fact that Aidan interrupted my entry. I honestly can’t see much past this point.
I tell her the next thing I recall is coming home to find her at the table with the metal box.
She’s embarrassed not to be able to summon the memory. Looking away, she says, “I was in a bad place back then.”
“Yes. I was going to tell you what happened in the woods. About Fawn screaming. But you were crying when I came home.”
“I was?”
“You usually were.” I smile, and she looks grateful for one of my dark humor moments. When I follow with “Do you remember what it was about?” frustration invades her voice.
“Teddi, it was a long time ago. How should I know? It was probably just the latest romantic disaster. I don’t see what it has to do with—”
“Look, my memories are this knotted ball of yarn I’m
trying to unravel! We both know you’re keeping things from me, Brenda. Are you going to help me or not?”
Standing, she crosses to the refrigerator, opens it, lifts out a bottle. Turning back to me, she says, “Want one?”
I look at her in silence, hoping the disgust on my face is clear.
Popping the cap, Brenda drains half the beer in one long slug. Then she says, “So you think Eli might have hurt Fawn?”
“I’m not sure what to think.”
For some reason, I’m afraid to bring up the next memory, the sandal smear, the blood, the bath. I’m surprised when Brenda does.
“Teddi, do you remember a different day? Coming home? You were muddy. I gave you a bath.” She’s clearly fishing; after saying it, she looks at me expectantly, like she’s uttered the magic words that might cause me to transform into a sack of rubies—or to spontaneously combust.
Shooting for nonchalant, I ask, “Just muddy?”
When I say it, she flinches; then she takes another long pull on her bottle. Tracing the writing on the label with her fingernail, she answers, “Yes, mud. Do you remember?”
I suppress the urge to call her a liar again, can tell it would just scare her off. Instead, I say, “Kinda sorta. Fill me in?”
Relief unmistakable, she replies, “I guess you’d been playing at the pond that day, too. You came home caked with mud, exhausted. I scrubbed you down. Not much more to tell.”
This time I can’t ignore it. But I keep my voice level, friendly even, as I say, “Please stop lying to me, Brenda. This is so fucking important. If you don’t help me figure it out, I swear I will never speak to you again.”
“What is it you expect from me, Teddi?”
“Only the truth.”
“Hardest thing of all.” She sighs. “Don’t you get it? I’ve spent most of my life running from that very thing.”
“Mom, seriously, I do care about your issues, the drinking, the self-loathing, the whole spectacularly-bad-choices-in-relationships thing. And we can have a full-on therapy session, for real. Just not tonight, okay?” I turn to Binks. “Did that sound bitchy?”
Happily, Brenda chooses to grin rather than belt me. Then she says, “I’ll do what I can. But I can’t promise you I’ll remember anything that will help. Where do we start?”
The Precious Dreadful Page 18