Motherest

by Kristen Iskandrian

  We are still looking at each other, the girl and I.

  The Tinkerbell nail polish, on the other hand, I used frequently, in its correct application. I’d splay out my fingers on the side of the tub and do my best. Afterward there would be half-moon smudges that I would forget to clean off. My right hand would look badly wounded when I was finished. My mother didn’t approve but she never disapproved. By which I mean she probably didn’t notice. Before long, the shame of a job poorly done would have its effect on me and I’d lock myself in the Pink Bathroom again with nail polish remover and cotton balls, trying not to breathe in the acetone but also allowing myself to breathe it in a little. My time in there always seemed busy with secret putting on and taking off, furtive denials and indulgences.

  The girl notices me staring at her hands and folds her nails under. She thinks I am judging her but I am just using her as the portal of a memory, which maybe is a compliment. I take the key and put my ID away, try to lift my voice. “Thanks so much. I’ll see you in class. Good luck with the homework.”

  She smiles a little, an uncannily Joan Baez smile. “You too.”

  I trip through the piece for as long as I can. At a certain point it’s less hesitant and starts to sound like something, and I play it a few more times, adding some pedal and experimenting with loudness. It’s getting dark when I return my key to a different girl and head toward my room.

  Dear Mom,

  It’s funny how much you insisted on. Choir, piano lessons, an abiding sense of decorum and frugality, discipline in all things, and God. How did you enforce those things so rigorously when you were always disappearing? Even as you entered a room, you were already halfway out of it.

  How I watched you, how I paid attention. I listened to everything you said and find myself waiting now, like a jilted girlfriend, for the phone to ring. And it’s like all of the things you stood for were concentrated—like, maybe you didn’t know how long you’d be around to reinforce God and the other stuff, so you asserted them ten times as hard at the outset.

  The other night I was taking my typical route around campus and I found myself pausing outside the chapel. I went inside to warm up, but I found I could not be still. I sat in the very back pew for a minute, and then moved up a few and sat for another minute, and then moved to the first row, and then finally got up and walked around, looking at the lecterns and the stained glass and the odd restraint that went into making it a nondenominational place of prayer. I felt an irrational anger toward this place, which should have been either stark and monastic or rich and Catholic, but instead was some in-between nothing, spurring nothing in me but more nothing.

  I’m not totally sure but I think Tea Rose might be seeing someone. I’ve seen him with her twice, and I have to say, they look ridiculous. She’s this blond giant. It seems like an experiment. In what, I don’t know. Something.

  Yours, literally.

  Agnes

  I go to the fireplace room in the library, the room that everyone believes they have discovered. It’s in the basement behind an unmarked door, and at first you’re not sure if you’re allowed in. Above the fireplace is an oil painting of a generic general, and lining each wall are shelves filled with ancient books that don’t seem to be part of the library’s main catalog, titles like Captain Gilchrist’s Maritime Adventures in Nova Scotia and New England Winters, plus almanacs and wildlife guides. The books don’t seem rare, or if they are, they’re not valuable enough to have made it to the “rare book room” on the library’s top floor. I like to imagine that this was the private collection of the man in the painting, and while nobody reads them, they have occasioned this room, this place apart, and so I feel a strange tenderness toward his doughy, forgettable face.

  I sit down in one of the high-backed chairs at a long table and try to take notes on a reading assignment but something keeps flickering through me, a radio frequency whining against my ability to concentrate. How lonely, I wonder, is it possible to get? I imagine passing out, an actual concussion of loneliness.

  But then the door to the fireplace room opens and Tea Rose walks in, looking over his shoulder as though he’s worried about being followed. He looks surprised to see me, and I am so relieved to see him, and there is a flash between us of soft recognition, like each of us knows, if not in any pronounceable way, the other’s frailties.

  He takes off his jacket. From it comes a smell of soap, coffee, and something like damp leather, although the jacket is not leather but canvas. He sits at my table and opens a book.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  I feel my body do its thing—racing pulse, clammy hands. I focus on my notebook, my pen, my hand, but my eyes keep pulling toward Tea Rose as if by a magnet. He is like a big translucent wolf, caged, breathing visibly. Making me, I guess, a poacher?

  “What are you working on?” he asks.

  I look at my notes. “English homework.”

  He nods. “It’s quiet in here.” He looks at me, directly into my face, and his eyes are such an impossible blue, a creepy blue, that I almost flinch.

  I manage to read a page or so. I study each word as if I am a translator. I study the font. I make a couple notes in my best handwriting, which stand out from the rest of my notes, which pleases me because I would know in the future, by looking at them, exactly when this disruption occurred. I would know that this Tea Rose sighting fell between “characteristics of the Industrial age” and whatever happens tomorrow.

  Tea Rose reads from a history book and occasionally uses a highlighter. He seems unperturbed, but his physiological activities—blinking, breathing—are pronounced. Or my feelings are pronouncing them. I sit for as long as I can take it, and then I start to pack my books. Something needs to happen.

  Tea Rose sits back in his chair and watches me gather. “You leaving?”

  Now I’m not sure. Is he asking me to stay?

  “Yeah. I’m…pretty tired.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Halsey.”

  In an instant, his coat is on. “I’ll walk you.”

  I stop myself from protesting. I am filled with the molted skin of protest, following compliments, offers of help. It has never gotten me anywhere.

  We leave the fireplace room, the library. The night is cold and clear and dark except for halos of light from the library and the lampposts around campus. Tea Rose walks with his hands in his pockets. His angular body seems to unfold and refold with each step.

  “So how do you like philosophy?”

  I am looking at him so intently that I almost forget to answer. “It’s okay. I don’t like writing papers. But I don’t mind the class.” I watch him sideways. He is so beautiful, all lit up by the moon.

  “It’s so boring sometimes. I’m good for the first twenty minutes but then I just mostly think about other things.”

  “Same. But I usually take notes while I do that, and when I read over them later, they’re pretty interesting.”

  “Do you think I could borrow them sometime? For the midterm?”

  He is using me for my notes. That’s all. Or maybe that’s just the beginning. Maybe he will use me for everything I have. First he will use my notes. Then he’ll want money. Then my roommate. Maybe he’ll take my social security number; maybe he is a thief, maybe a murderer. I try to imagine how I would feel if I knew for certain he was a murderer. Would I see him differently? Would I deny him access to my notes, to me? No, I don’t think I would. I pretend to be horrified with myself for a moment, but I’m not really. People murder for all kinds of reasons.

  “Sure. Anytime.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  We walk quietly the rest of the way. Outside my dorm, we stand facing each other. A few people leave the building, a couple more walk in. It is a certain time of night of leaving and coming back.

  “Thanks for walking me. I’ll see you in class?”

  He grins down at me. His height is prominent, in charge of the situation. “Yes.
Definitely. Take care.” He sort of high-fives my shoulder.

  When I get up to our room, the lights are on. Surprise is lying on her bed with a bag of gummy bears, eyes closed, a magazine open facedown on her stomach. Her pajamas have turkeys on them.

  She starts to sit up but changes her mind. “Hey!” She rolls over onto one side. “Where’d you go? I think I’m getting cavities.”

  There are also cornucopias on her pajamas. “Just the library. I think I’ll go downstairs and do a little more work. I don’t want to keep you up.”

  “Okay.” She yawns and pushes the hair from her face. “What time is it? You okay? Don’t stay up too late! You’re still coming for Thanksgiving, right? Oh, your dad called.”

  Dear Mom,

  The Thanksgivings that I remember best are like silent films, you wearing some seasonal-colored dress and lipstick, laughing with a leaf-printed dishtowel in your hand, Dad manning the bar, putting ice into the blender for one of his concoctions, me walking around with a small glass of unspiked eggnog, trailed by warnings to not drink too much or too fast so I don’t ruin my dinner, the house filled with what felt like a hundred people.

  In these memories, Simon is always framed by a doorway, as though he, too, was always leaving, which is maybe actually accurate. His girlfriends seemed always to be there, too, changing from year to year. I wonder what their own families thought of them celebrating Thanksgiving with us, assuming they had families.

  You must have been a very good organizer. The younger people would be helped or help themselves to the buffet first, and then we were to disappear down to the table in the basement, already set with juice and napkins and silverware, a stack of videos on the TV. And then the adults would “have at it,” as Dad would say. They’d sit in the formal dining room, and from downstairs we could once in a while hear chairs scraping and uproarious laughter. Who were the other kids? The second cousins from Milwaukee? The children of your friends? Simon and whichever girlfriend would eat on the couch, a blanket spread across their laps. Dad would save us the wishbone. Simon would pull very hard but somehow I always wound up with the bigger piece, which is one of the reasons why I know, despite everything, he was nice.

  Lately I’ve been thinking there should be an official place, like a polling center, where everyone has to go once a week to get their memories wiped clean.

  This year, I’m here at Surprise’s house. I’m staying in the guest room, which is multi-plaid-themed, with some golf trophies up on a shelf. We ate around 4:00. It felt weird to eat so early. Poppy and Lowell, Surprise’s parents, dressed in sync, with her skirt matching his bow tie. Did I mention that we are in a town that is also called Lowell? Lowell from Lowell should be a trademarked brand of Dad. Surprise’s two younger sisters are very sweet and girly. I’m tired of being enthusiastic, though. Last night we did the thing I didn’t think girls actually did—listened to horrible crap like the Spice Girls, played with hair and makeup stuff, looked at magazines. Surprise’s sisters begged me to let them do my lips and nails a bright red and I let them. It felt good to just surrender, to be a native.

  We’re going back to school tomorrow. I’m not in a hurry to get back, but Surprise has some kind of study group in the afternoon. I think Poppy has been dying these last few days to ask me questions about my family, but her manners are preventing her. I have a new respect for manners. This is a very manners-driven household. Everyone is very polite. I, too, have been polite. Even my thoughts have been less impure, even late at night. When I first met Surprise, I thought she was faker than a Christmas tree. Turns out, she’s got exceptional breeding.

  Somehow,

  Agnes

  Lowell helps carry our suitcases up three flights of stairs to our room. “They oughta get you girls an elevator!” His temples are flushed and slicked a little with sweat.

  He hugs Surprise goodbye, briefly but tightly, and kisses her forehead. “Miss you already, cupcake. Call us tomorrow.” He turns to me and extends his hand, but then leans forward stiffly and pats my back with his other hand in an embarrassed embrace. “It was great having you, Agnes. You are welcome anytime.”

  When he lets go, I feel a fizzing around my sinuses, the distinct warning that I might cry. “Thank you. Thanks a lot.” I manage to hold it together. As soon as he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, Surprise turns to me.

  “I don’t really have a study group. I’m meeting Steven tonight.”

  I blink. My first reaction is a hazy kind of anger, for having been lied to along with Surprise’s family—although there is something pleasing about this—but then also for having been taken away from them prematurely, away from my safe, plaid haven.

  “Who is Steven?” Which is my second reaction, the one I decide to go with.

  Surprise is racing around the room, practically panting, unpacking her suitcase and rifling through her jewelry box. I watch her put her tissue-wrapped clothes away and then fold the tissue together neatly and place it in the assigned drawer. She unzips her makeup case and puts each thing back neatly on top of her dresser, pausing to apply blush and lip gloss vigorously.

  She turns from the mirror and faces me. She looks possessed. “Steven is super hot. And sweet. He’s in my chem class. We’ve been studying. We made out. I’m staying over tonight.”

  I look at Surprise’s body. I’ve seen her nearly naked dozens of times, getting dressed discreetly in the threshold of our shared closet, towel around her waist as she pulls on a shirt, her spine long and rippling as she bends and arcs. She hasn’t told me, but I know she is a virgin. She is telling me now, with her freckles and bright eyes and pink cheeks, willing me to give her permission or judgement or something. I have the desire to bring her to bed and hold her close, to rid her of the quivering, wild expectations emanating from her like electricity.

  I can’t think of anything to say. What do I say? Stop, no, don’t do it, do it, have fun, be careful. Because I want to know: “Are you sure?”

  Surprise is now staring into our closet. She pulls a skirt off a hanger, holds it up to herself. “Am I sure? About what? Do you like this? Should I change? I think you’d really like him. You’ve probably seen him before.”

  How private we all are. How alone. Sex is a way to be less alone. I think about Surprise’s bedroom at home, all the framed pictures, the stickiness of her little sister’s fingers when we clasped hands around the table to say grace, the four matching aprons on hooks, Poppy’s look—I saw it—as we said goodbye, a look of sheer terror, a war-send-off look that said, Please let her be okay, or I will die. I feel entrusted with Surprise’s happiness, or at least her virginity.

  “You look really nice. You don’t have to have sex with him, you know.”

  “I know I don’t!” Surprise’s eyes get wider, her cheeks pinker. “I want to!”

  For a minute I contemplate following her, trailing her to his room and then somehow getting inside. For a minute it makes sense to volunteer myself to sleep with him in her place—let her have the flirting and romance. I’ll do the dirty work.

  Surprise is facing the mirror again, smoothing herself out. “I have to get going. I’m sorry I lied about the study group thing. I just…didn’t want you to try to talk me out of anything. By the way, my parents love you. I think they want to adopt you.”

  You can’t adopt something with a mother, I want to say. There’s a pit in my heart, the overripe stone fruit that is my heart. I give Surprise’s elbows a fatherly squeeze as she hugs me and darts out the door, her toothbrush sticking out from her purse.

  Dear Mom,

  I’m coming home for Christmas. I hope you’ll be there. If you don’t come, it will mean something. You’ve always been there, even after Simon died, even if you spent a lot of the day in your room. Dad and I lured you out with those “festive” cocktails with vodka and whole cranberries. Remember how awful they were? Pretty, though, and neither of you noticed that I had two. We listened to Elvis’s Blue Christmas record about seventeen
times. Our gifts were modest, as though to have gone all out would have been disrespectful to Simon, or more specifically, would have been too great an interruption of grief. But I think he would have wanted us to go all out. Maybe we should consider that this year.

  But I need to tell you what happened last night, which is what has made me decide to come home and not split the time between Surprise’s house and the apartment of some off-campus people who asked me to watch their cat.

  I went walking and couldn’t stop thinking about Surprise, who was about to get deflowered. I was remembering my first time, with Phil from the next street over. Did you know that? It was clumsy, quick, but sort of tender overall. It was the fall of last year, and we kept at it off and on until the summer, when we both left for school. He asked how I felt about long-distance relationships and I told him I thought they were pretty silly (ironic, huh, I mean, look at you and me and you and Dad). Anyway, I was thinking about Phil, remembering his parents’ basement and his Rolling Stones albums and the two candles he insisted on lighting and how he’d held me afterward, exactly like they do it in the movies, and how the best part, for me, was going upstairs when we were eventually dressed and eating from their extensive ice cream collection, flavors I haven’t seen before or since, like vanilla cardamom and orange pistachio.

  By this point I’d reached the playing fields, where people go to drink and watch the sunrise when it’s late enough and I guess play sports during the day. I was thinking about Phil with an intensity verging on longing when I saw someone walking on the path toward me, backlit by a lamppost, and for a moment I believed I had conjured Phil, beamed him here from his soggy campus in the Pacific Northwest.

  But perhaps stranger than if it’d been Phil, it was Tea Rose. He was a long way from his dorm, and it was still technically Thanksgiving break. What was he doing out here? I think a psychic transfer must’ve happened—Phil became Tea Rose. I see no other explanation.