by Andrew Roe
HE MAKES IT through Thursday, a new month, December, but on Friday morning, he crashes out big time, the lack of sleep caused by the Mira-Cure finally catching up with him, and he oversleeps, doesn’t wake up until well after noon. It’s too late to go to work. But he already knows he’s not going back anyway—not to Altco, not to TempPeople. He leaves a voicemail for Phil, letting him know, then notifies the rental company that manages Desert Piss—which is more than what most of his neighbors do, people routinely disappearing without a trace. Friday night and Saturday morning is spent packing and preparing. It doesn’t take long, and that has always been the idea: to be able to move on and vanish quickly, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash, like he’d never even been here. By Saturday afternoon, he’s on the road again, the red light of his phone at work still blinking, the mighty Corolla chugging toward the 15, which will take him west, which will take him home. Yes, it’s time to go home.
13
| Anabelle |
SCHOOL WAS WORSE. Sometimes worse. Sometimes not. She pretended to be a robot. Or she pretended the other kids and teachers were robots and she was the only real one, the only real person left in the entire school, the whole universe. Alone she went. Aware of her place. The line she must follow.
The girls and their secrets. The boys and their spaziness. The things you had to remember. Names and numbers. Dates and places. People who did stuff in history and you were supposed to know. How it was all there and also not there. She didn’t raise her hand. She drew and counted and double-dutched. If she blinked her eyes, it would all go away. Walking to school was an adventure through a jungle. Walking back home a journey through a magical forest. She blinked and blinked and blinked.
Mrs. Stinson called on her and she didn’t know what to say. She had been thinking about something else. Mrs. Stinson’s face was round and puffy like a pumpkin.
“You’re not daydreaming again are you? Why don’t you join us here on Planet Earth?”
Giggles, laughs. Mrs. Stinson also had huge boobs that shook and jiggled when she ran after kids. One time her husband came to the classroom and he gave her flowers. Roses that smelled up the room for days.
She wanted to answer with one of her made-up words. But she’d tried that before. More giggles and laughs. So she said, “I wasn’t. I won’t.”
At recess, sides were chosen. It happened quickly. She had been blinking, trying, and then it was over and she was there by herself. She drank from the drinking fountain for as long as possible. Water. Water was water. You need to drink it or you die. Had she learned that at school, or from her mom and dad? Her mom helped her with her homework and when her mom was too tired she asked her dad to do it.
Lunch lasted forever and ever.
Then you had to wait in line before you went back in the classroom. The boys sweaty and smelly from running and playing. The girls whispering. Not to her. She was last in line. Staring at the ground, hoping that one day a crack in the concrete might grow, get bigger, open up, and take her away. Something small could become something big.
The best part of the day was when they read stories. All those words. All those things happening, seeming so real. It was all made up, she knew, but that was better, that somehow made it even more true to her.
During afternoon recess, an older boy, Oscar, told her, “I have hair down there if you want to see it.”
She decided on the first day of class that she did not like Mrs. Stinson. She would have to wait a whole other year for a new teacher.
When she got home no one was there. The TV was on. But no one was there.
14
Nathaniel | Linda | Mavis & Marcus | Donald
THE PRODUCER PERSON asks Nathaniel if he’d like something for all the sweat waterfalling off his forehead, which is long and sloped and unfortunate, the subject of lifelong scrutiny. At the last minute, he’d switched from what he wore to work—his usual high-school teacher ensemble of a button-down shirt and pleated khakis—to a jacket and tie, more formal, more professorial, but he now regrets the decision. The sweating is only going to get worse.
“And maybe without the glasses?” she suggests, as she hands him a roll of paper towels.
It’s all been a blur and so he didn’t catch the producer person’s name. She’s rushed and jittery, engaged in numerous tasks at once—talking to him, talking on the phone, writing on a clipboard, ordering underlings around, sipping Lipton tea from a Styrofoam cup. Probably too old for him, a little Mrs. Robinson, but who is he to be picky? And, at thirty-seven, he’s not so young anymore either.
Nathaniel dabs his forehead and face, does what he can to temporarily stem the flow of sweat, then doesn’t know what to do with the damp paper towel. The producer person brings over a trash can.
“Thanks,” he says. “I think I’ll keep the glasses. Can’t see without them.”
Yesterday he was contacted by MSNBC and asked to come in to a local TV station to be interviewed about Anabelle Vincent. Without really giving it much thought, he said yes—meaning that this will be his official coming out as the Smiling Skeptic. No one at work knows; his parents don’t know; basically, nobody knows about his other life. And sure, plenty of people, including his mother, have wondered about the other kind of coming out. But he’s not gay. He’s definitely hetero. Hopelessly hetero.
“You’ll hear Ben in your earpiece,” says the producer person while she also opens a FedEx package. “You’ll want to look straight in the camera when you’re talking. Just pretend you’re talking to a friend. We’re almost ready. I’ll count you down.”
They’ve got Nathaniel seated in a chair, with a picture of the San Francisco skyline and Golden Gate Bridge behind him. For the past minute and a half, possibly longer, he’s been debating whether or not to cross his legs. He tells himself not to blink too much, not to imagine how much larger his jowls will seem on TV. Ben is Ben Jenkins, host of The Big Ben Hour, a nightly cable news show focusing on the day’s events, today being December 4. The segment before his is about another poison-gas attack, another shadowy doomsday-type cult trying to get their message out in time, before the end of the year. The sweat has already returned, though, all that dabbing for naught. But they’re probably just filming his head and shoulders, so it really doesn’t matter if he crosses his legs, right?
“And counting down. Three. Two. One. Go.”
Nathaniel hears the growly, whiskey voice of Big Ben introduce him, and it’s almost like the Smiling Skeptic is suddenly transformed into someone else. Big Ben mentions the website and the articles, says there’s been a lot of media attention devoted to this Miracle Girl in Los Angeles, and they’d like a skeptic’s point of view on the whole situation. And then Nathaniel—the Smiling Skeptic—is talking.
“These things can be explained,” he says, quoting himself. “They can be rationally, scientifically explained.”
He stares into the camera and perspires and talks about the girl. He talks about the increase in such occurrences as we near the end of the millennium, but also points out the historical precedents. This is nothing new. He talks about hoaxes, citing once again the Miracle of Saint-Marthe case in Montreal. He talks about other examples—apparitions appearing in the sky, like the supposed “sun miracles” reported in Fatima, Portugal, and the village of Medjugorje in the former Yugoslavia. (The latter was the subject of a Woodward-and-Bernstein-worthy take-down in the most recent issue of The Smiling Skeptic.) It’s often just meteorological phenomena, such as a sun dog, which creates the effect of there being another sun. Or it’s optical effects, such as the retinal distortion that happens when you stare at an intense light—like, duh, the sun—causing the sun to move or “dance.” And when it comes to healing the sick—well, the body recovers on its own, doctors misdiagnose, psychosomatic illnesses are never real to begin with, and the power of suggestion is a powerful fucking thing indeed. (Except he doesn’t say fucking.) No matter that religious leaders themselves are ske
ptical, do not authenticate or condone such events, and even warn against parishioners basing their faith on them.
Hopefully he’s sounding coherent. He’s a better writer than speaker. Off the cuff isn’t his thing. Which is why he’s memorized a speech if he’s asked how he came to skepticism, how it can be traced back to the death of his beloved grandfather when he was twelve, when he was told that prayer could save the old man, that God listened if you knew how to speak to Him.
“Once people start believing something,” Nathaniel says, “it’s hard to get them to stop.”
But Big Ben cuts him off before he can finish his thought.
“What would you say then, sir, to all these people, all these folks from all around the country, who are coming to Anabelle’s house, lining up outside, waiting to get their turn, praying for her help and intervention?”
Nathaniel pauses. He doesn’t mention that he’ll be there soon, that his plane ticket to Los Angeles has been purchased, that in a few weeks he’ll be up close and personal with the Miracle Girl and the questing pilgrims.
“That there’s another way,” he answers. “There’s another way.”
* * *
Then the pains started.
As Linda Santiago prepares for the half-hour physical therapy session with her celebrity client, the girl’s mother, Karen, tells her how a visitor had been kneeling, praying, seeking intervention for a parent cursed with an incurable ailment and who had been given the usual six months, and then something happened. When she, the visitor, who was herself fighting multiple addictions and currently involved in a WWF custody battle with her ex, finished and opened her eyes and stood to leave the room, she paused to take one last look at Anabelle and noted how she seemed, well, different—agitated, uncomfortable. It was all in the eyes: pulsing larger, intensifying, an alarming accumulation, screaming a silent scream, like her blood was fire.
“The woman ran and got me,” Karen explains. “She was frantic, saying she didn’t touch her, didn’t do anything, it wasn’t her fault. By the time I made it to the room Anabelle was crying.”
“Crying?”
Linda massages and exercises Anabelle’s white, wasted legs, while Karen strokes her daughter’s cheek, her hair. The bedroom seems more cramped (chairs, boxes, balloons, flowers) than on her last visit, the air conditioner and various machines working hard to keep the room cool, the girl alive. Today Linda had to park three blocks away from the house, navigating the traffic and visitors and looky-loo neighbors. The guy who’s usually here, Bryce, isn’t here.
“Yes, crying,” says Karen. “And it went on for ten, fifteen minutes. It was like she was in great pain. And she was trying to tell us this. Then it just stopped. Then she was just like before. And it happened again this morning. The tears gushing. And when it happens her forehead feels like it’s burning up, like she’s got a fever. There’s this cluster of little red dots, too, really slight, but right there above her brow, in the middle of her forehead. Her eyes all bloodshot. Her face looking like she’s been holding her breath. I put a cold compress on her. Anytime I touched her, though, it seemed to make it worse. I called her doctor and he came over and couldn’t find anything wrong and said to keep an eye on it. The visitor from yesterday was saying how she’s Catholic and how there’s something called a victim soul. How Anabelle’s pain wasn’t just her pain but the pain of others. She was taking on that pain. The pain of the world. Do you believe in that kind of thing?”
Linda repositions herself at the foot of the bed. Sometimes when she’s working she stops and thinks how other people work with computers, build things, manage things; she, however, works with the body, with skin, with touch. Her hands regularly run over moles and freckles, wrinkles and cellulite, dry skin, oily skin, blemished skin. The girl’s legs are like bird legs. Linda has to be careful. This is her fourth visit, and she’s still trying to find a way to talk to the girl with her hands. Some of her clients take longer than others. But she’ll get there. And today could be the day. This could be the breakthrough, when they connect, when they learn to speak the same unspoken language.
“I’m not sure what to believe in anymore.”
“Are you religious, Linda?”
“Well, you’d think with a name like Santiago, right? But no, not anymore. I grew up as Catholic as they come, and like any good Catholic girl I wanted to be a nun. I read 57 Stories of Saints for Boys and Girls. I slept on the floor and put rocks in my shoes to get closer to God. That was the idea. We used to go to school with ash on our foreheads and the kids in our neighborhood, the public school kids, would try to rub them off, calling us Jesus freaks. But that was a long time ago. Religion is one of those things that you lose over the years if you don’t keep up with it. I started working. I got married. I had a kid. I got unmarried. I had another kid—well, you know how it is. You get busy. Life sneaks up on you and then years have gone by, in a flash. The world don’t stop for no one.”
“And there’s something else, too,” Karen adds. “Something that happened last night. I mean, something that I think happened.”
“What?” Linda asks, switching to the left leg now, her hands working the skin and atrophied muscle, imagining the flow of positive energy from herself to Anabelle, emanating from her heart to her hands and then to the girl, infusing her with what was needed, Linda’s own miracle cure of touch and simple human contact.
At such moments Linda realizes: She’s doing what she’s supposed to be doing. Work soothes, has a burning purpose. And there’s great comfort in that, no matter what happens—or doesn’t happen—in your life.
Karen asks, “Is it possible for her to move because of some kind of muscle spasm or something?”
“What do you mean move?”
“Well last night, I’m pretty sure, last night when I fell asleep her arms were by her side like usual. But when I woke up they were more spread out, like this.”
And Karen demonstrates, spreads her arms open.
“Ah, you mean like Jesús.”
“Jesús?”
“Jesús. Jesus. J.C. The big man. You know, like the crucifixion. Arms outstretched like so.”
Karen stares at her daughter.
“I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Someone will. I did. Another part of the story. Every little thing can mean something to somebody.”
“I don’t know, Linda. I could be wrong. Maybe I moved her last night and that’s how she fell asleep. I don’t trust my brain anymore.”
“It could have been a spasm. Involuntary or something. The muscles realigning. It happens.”
This doesn’t seem to satisfy Karen, who moves away from the bed. She gazes out the bedroom window toward the front yard. Sighs as she sees all the people waiting to have their turn with Anabelle. Once Linda finishes, Karen will let them inside, and it will all begin again.
“A woman who came yesterday,” Karen says, “she came because of her son, who was in a motorcycle accident and hasn’t been able to walk on his own since. She came to see Anabelle and then when she got home, there was her son, waiting for her at the door, without the crutches he’d been using since the accident. Said he just had a feeling that he could walk again. A miracle, she said. She called this morning to tell me. You hear these things, Linda, and it’s hard not to believe.”
Karen taps the window with a finger, continues: “Someone suggested we put a larger window in here, so visitors could file by and view her. More people could make prayers and there might not be such a big waiting line and there might be more privacy. We could have designated hours for when people could walk by and see her. And do you know what else? Someone from Hollywood called the other day. There might be a movie. It just doesn’t stop. There’s always something else.”
Linda fully extends each leg, slowly bends it back toward Anabelle’s chest, twenty times, gentle, rhythmic repetitions, counting to herself, then releasing the leg, moving on to the arms and shoulders and neck, the face, the temple
s, the scalp, pressure and release, pressure and release, the simple truth of skin touching skin, navigating, understanding muscle, tissue, tendon, soul, and when she’s done she covers Anabelle back up with her Hello Kitty sheets, tucking her in and patting the girl’s hand, as if to say: There, dear, all done.
“She likes it when you’re here,” Karen says. “I can tell.”
“Good. I’m glad. I like being here, too,” says Linda, as she begins to pack up her things.
“There’s also been the suggestion of some kind of event.”
“An event?”
“An event where a lot of people could come and see Anabelle at once, all at the same time. Bring her to the people who want to see her instead of the other way around, is the idea. Maybe at the high school football stadium.”
“You need sleep. You need rest. You need a break.”
“That’s what Bryce says. That’s what everyone says. But I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”
Karen returns to the side of the bed, holds her daughter’s arm, then says: “I just don’t want to be alone.”
Ah, thinks Linda. That’s what it always comes down to: being alone, the fear of being alone, that constant, murmuring panic of having no one there next to you when you turn out the light.
“I’m going to let you borrow some of my relaxation tapes,” Linda tells her. “Might seem like bullshit but they really work. They’re in my backpack.”
Linda has two other client visits this afternoon, so there’s no time to linger, and she has to take a rain check on the offer of coffee, even though she can tell Karen wants some company, isn’t ready to deal with all those people waiting outside.
By the time she’s back on the 605, she’s sitting in traffic (part of the job when you’re an in-home physical therapist who lives in Los Angeles), and she knows she’ll be late for her next appointment, way over in Long Beach. It’s that time of day when she’s driving directly into the sun. Sunglasses help, but she still has to squint as she drives, the cars and trucks crawling along, eventually passing an accident, two cars, minor damage, the far left lane blocked, and so she has to merge, and because people are generally assholes no one lets her in until she practically hits another car. How much of her life has been spent like this, braking, stopping, starting, on Southern California concrete? All that time spent dream-thinking, life-reliving. Because what else can you do? If she had done X. Said Y. Ignored Z. Mostly she ticked through the list of men that had appeared in her life, starting with her father, and including both those with major roles and those with walk-on parts, and somehow they all equally haunted her. Brake. Stop. Start. Traffic is traffic. Men are men. Because what else can you do?