by Robin Brande
The cold sweat was back. “I think so.”
“Now, it’s a little fuzzy here because when I look at what you’ve told me, I ask myself are these enough facts that I’d be comfortable going to court and filing a lawsuit? I have your word about what you think is going on with your brother, but I don’t really have any facts. From what you’ve told me today, I don’t think I would file a lawsuit. But do I have reason to believe a crime will be committed? Reason to believe? Yeah, maybe I do.”
“But I wouldn’t have told you!”
Angela smiled. “Yes, you would have. Because you want to help your brother. And so do I. You might guess from looking at that,” she said, indicating Posie’s file, “that I don’t like men who fuck little children. In fact, you might say I have a personal mission against men like that, so when I hear about a boy like Mikey maybe getting diddled by his daddy, that’s something I want to know about. That’s someone I’d like to help if I can. You understand?”
“Please, you can’t call the police. I’m not ready for that.”
“But you see, Lizzie, don’t you think your brother is? If it’s really like you say?”
I considered that, and knew she was right, but it was all moving too fast and I did sincerely wish I hadn’t come there. I hadn’t figured it out in advance, and now I was caught.
“What if I tell you it won’t happen again?” I asked. “What if I make sure of it?”
“How are you going to do that?”
“He can stay with my mother, or Posie—her mother already offered. I can keep him away from him.”
“For how long?” Angela asked. “The rest of his life? What’s your mother’s story?”
I explained her financial situation as I understood it—poor, living off her lover—and her housing arrangement. “She has an apartment,” I said. “Mikey could probably stay with her if she had enough money to support him.”
“And what about you?” Angela asked. “Where will you live?”
“Look,” I said, “I haven’t figured all of this out. I just wanted to talk to you today. I needed information so I could come up with a plan. I promise I’ll find someplace for Mikey to live for a while. Then maybe you can help me think of what to do.”
Angela lit another cigarette, inhaled, blew smoke out of the side of her mouth, and studied me. And what was I? A scared, nervous girl trying to keep it together, trying to act tougher than she was, coming to Angela with stories of what evils might or might not be taking place in her house. I don’t think I came across as hating my father, so she probably didn’t see me as lying to set him up. I had tried to be honest, and maybe that was the problem. I said what I thought instead of just laying it all out for her to decide.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I said lamely.
“Maybe you’re not, and that’s what we need to think about.”
The “we” mattered to me. She was taking me into the partnership.
“Just out of curiosity, what does your friend—Posie?—think?”
“She thinks he’s definitely guilty. From everything I’ve told her.”
“But she hasn’t seen anything either, right?”
“Right.”
Angela nodded. “So we don’t have any real proof—not that I want there to be any. Believe me, I really hope he hasn’t done a thing to that kid.”
I sagged into my chair. “So what do I do now?”
Angela lifted her eyes to the ceiling to find inspiration there. “Let me think about it,” she said finally. “And you think too, Lizzie. Why don’t you come back—” She glanced at her calendar then hit the speaker phone. “Georgia, do I still have that class Friday afternoon?”
“Far as I know,” came the assistant’s voice.
“Cancel it.”
Angela turned to me. “Next Friday at four o’clock, okay?” She stubbed out her cigarette and husked, “I’m skipping my fencing lesson for you.”
And the angel hovered over Jerusalem, sword outstretched.
You Can’t Run Forever
[1]
Second place again. Yay! This time in the Young Voices Creative Writing Contest. I won $50—not bad for a story that only took me a few hours to write.
It’s about a girl who travels to China to meet some mystical teacher she’s read about. The teacher turns out to be this god-like omniscient seer who tells the girl everything that will happen to her from that second forward, including the fact that she’s about to lose her legs in an accident.
The girl tries to avoid her fate, of course, and unlike the woman in The Fortune Teller, she actually succeeds.
The problem is, by changing just that one thing, it means all the good things that the seer said were supposed to happen can’t anymore, and her life becomes this total disaster. The End.
You can’t outrun your fate.
It was the fall of my junior year. My long bad summer was over.
Posie and Jason were seniors. In another year they would be moving on, and I’d be stuck alone in high school. The more I thought about that, the worse it sounded.
Luckily, I had gotten used to taking matters into my own hands.
“I want out.”
“Excuse me?” My school counselor, Miss Stewart, stuck her knuckle under the rim of her oversized glasses and hefted them off her cheeks. It was a nervous habit she had, and I always wanted to tell her to buy smaller glasses, but she seemed determined to dowdy herself down. Maybe the principal had warned her not to be too pretty or the boys would develop crushes.
She was pretty, though, underneath her disguise. Long blonde hair she wore in a boring ponytail down her back. Pretty blue eyes behind the tortoise shell saucers. She wore the worst clothes I’ve seen on a young single woman—ratty bargain-bin skirts and plain shirts in notice-me-not colors, and those ugly sandals you see nuns wearing when they go out grocery shopping.
“Miss Stewart, I am done with high school.”
“Okay,” she said with a pleasant laugh, which is why I liked her. She always listened to me and took me seriously, but not too seriously. “When you say done . . .”
“I mean I’m ready to graduate. I should have enough units by the end of this year, don’t I?”
“Well, let’s see.” She retrieved my file and did the math. “Yes, Lizzie, I think you’re right. Two summers of summer school, plus a full load this semester and next will give you just enough credits. But can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why are we in such a hurry?”
I had rehearsed this. I shrugged. “Just ready, I guess. All my friends are graduating this year, and I’d rather just go on to college with them.” Plus, my father’s a pervert, my mother’s a whore, I’m a slave in my own home, my brother’s being raped—just a few other reasons.
“All right, I see.” Miss Stewart studied my file some more, but there was really nothing there. I had never given any of my teachers any trouble. I was a decent girl with good steady grades—the kind of girl you can leave on autopilot while you deal with the rotten kids. The kind of girl nothing ever happens to.
“You’re sixteen now?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pretty young to be graduating.”
“I know.” I decided not to say any more about that, but the truth was that was part of the attraction—I wanted to look like a whiz kid.
“Where are you thinking of going?” Miss Stewart asked.
“Here. To the U.”
“To study—”
“English. I’m going to be a writer.”
“Good for you. We need more of those. So, what have you done about applying?”
“Nothing,” I answered. “That’s why I’m here. I want to see about financial aid and scholarships—you know, help out my parents as much as I can,” which was a lie because my real plan was never to have to go to either of them for anything again.
Miss Stewart’s face lit up. Some people can’t live unless they’re useful. She set aside my file and g
ave me her full attention. “Okay, Lizzie. Let’s see what we can figure out.”
[2]
Jason sneaked up behind me at my locker. He wrapped his arms around my waist and nuzzled my neck. I let him, for just a nanosecond, before elbowing him away.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
God, he looked good. Tan, tall, dressed in his best low-rider jeans with a hint of red heart boxers peeking out. His hair was still wet from his post-PE shower. He smelled like industrial soap. Why can’t schools hand out the good stuff?
I hadn’t seen him for at least a month. We talked a few times on the phone, but it was always so awkward we finally stopped. I figured I would see him the first day of school, though. In fact, I had counted on it. I wore my lowest-cut black camisole under a tight periwinkle blouse with the top three buttons undone. My hair was down, I had put on mascara—I didn’t look half bad.
Jason bent down and laid his mouth right against my ear. “I missed you.” His breath was warm and moist. Why did he have to do that?
I nudged him away to gain some room to breathe. “Yeah, me, too,” I said in as neutral a voice as possible. As if we were just friends. As if my heart weren’t lunging at the walls of my chest that very moment.
“We should go out tonight,” he suggested. “Posie, too. Ease into the new year.”
“Can’t. I’ve got way too much to do.”
“How can you have too much to do?” he said, although the look in his eyes told me he got it. “School’s just started.”
“I’ve decided to graduate this year.” I slapped the stack of books in my locker. “Lots to do.”
Jason pinched an area no girl wants pinched, just above my waistband. “You can’t run from me forever.”
My mouth went dry. He was too direct. Like we were friends or something, and he was allowed to be honest with me. “Um . . .”
“See ya.” He sauntered down the hall, sparing me whatever inane thing I was about to say.
Which was, I think, “Yes, I can.”
A Basket Through the Window
[1]
I had made a promise to Angela Peligro, and I meant to keep it. Mikey needed out of the house.
So I swallowed my snarliness and called my mother and took her up on her offer for dinner.
There’s a feeling of loss that comes over you when you walk up to a place that isn’t yours, and your mother stands in the doorway and nothing inside looks like home, and you realize you’re not part of her life anymore, and the childhood you had with her can never be resurrected.
I don’t know how Mikey felt, but my heart melted into my knees as I stepped into her neatly furnished apartment that was no part of me.
The food smelled familiar—that was the only thing. She had made pot roast, something I’d never had the courage to try because it seemed too difficult. The roasting pan sat on the stove cooling, and I lifted the lid and took in the tiny potatoes and the bay leaves and the squat brown meat and the soft roasted carrots that were always the best part of that meal.
“Hungry?” my mother said behind me. She had her arm around Mikey. He looked so relaxed and happy.
How I would have loved to be him. To just get over it. To let my mother hold me and feel the comfort and joy that could bring. To stop all this—be a child again. Be innocent and happy and free.
“It’s nice not to have to cook for a change,” I said. No way I was going to let my guard down. Someone had to stay strong.
I almost cried when I tasted the food. Like a memory of a past life. I could barely swallow past the lump in my throat.
This was harder than I thought.
“How’s your first week?” my mother asked both of us.
Mikey went to town: his teacher was nice but she had a mole on her lip and it looked like she had chocolate there and one of the kids told her and Mrs. Henry said yes, she knew, but it was a mole, not food, and the other kids laughed, and—
Blah, blah, blah.
“Lizzie? How about you?”
“You know. Same old, same old.”
I didn’t tell her about graduating early. That was my business.
I waited until dinner was almost over before giving my mother the chance to do the right thing.
“Mikey, do you want to stay here?” I asked him in front of her.
My mother faltered. “Uh, tonight?”
I narrowed my eyes. Don’t screw this up, I wanted to tell her. “Yeah, tonight.”
“Does your father know?”
“Yes,” which was sort of true, since I’d told him Mikey and I were having a special sleepover at Posie’s.
My mother’s forehead crinkled. “Um, I can’t really do it tonight, but tomorrow?”
“Forget it. Didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”
“It’s just that I already told Charles—”
“Forget it,” I snapped. “We’re going to Posie’s.”
My mother realized she had lost her moment. She grabbed it back. “No. No, I’ll just call Charles.” And to her credit, she got up from the table and did just that.
“Do you want to stay here?” I whispered to Mikey.
He nodded, his mouth full of potatoes.
“’Cause if you don’t—”
“I want to,” he mumbled past the food.
My mother returned, smiling. “There. No problem. I’ll take you to school in the morning. Lizzie, you can stay too if you want.”
“No, thanks. I’m staying at Posie’s. I have to get back. I’ve got homework.”
“I’ll take you,” my mother offered.
“No, Posie’s expecting me to call. She can be here in ten minutes.”
I considered broaching the topic of getting a driver’s license one day, but realized that was the least of my concerns. I needed to take care of Mikey first.
I called Posie, then told my mother I was going to wait outside. That seemed fine with her. I think she was happy to be rid of me.
“Mikey’s clothes are there.” I pointed to a paper sack. I had brought them with me just in case my mother agreed to step up and be a mother. Otherwise I’d have brought them with us to Posie’s.
“By the way,” I added casually, “I’m going to be living with Posie for a while. Her mother said I could.”
“Oh. I see. Is there a . . . reason? Did your father and you . . . have a fight?”
I glanced at Mikey to make sure he knew to back me up. “No.”
My mother nodded. She understood she could no longer pry. I was grown up now. She had to approach me like the stranger I was. “Okay, so should I call you at Posie’s? If I need to talk to you?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart.” She kissed me on the cheek before I was ready. She must have felt me stiffen, and I felt bad about that. Compared with my father, my mother’s touch was like brushing against an angel. I was finding it harder and harder to be as mad at her as I wanted to be. A part of me wanted to forget everything that had happened, and just go back to loving my mother like I used to. But the moment passed and I walked outside alone to the parking lot.
“How was it?” Posie asked when I got in her car.
“Okay.” I fixed my eyes out the window and let regret sweep over me. My mother was trying, she certainly was, and I wasn’t giving her anything for it.
If my father were perfect, I thought, I’d have no reason to love my mother ever again. But I was running out of parents. If I didn’t change my heart soon, I’d be more alone than I could stand.
[2]
Is it wrong to lie? Someone immature in her faith would say yes. But the Bible celebrates a good lie for the right cause. Think of Jael tricking Sisera into falling asleep in her tent so she can peg him to the floor. Or Rahab the prostitute lying to save the Israelite spies. A couple of times people lie and say our heroes went that-a-way, then when the coast is clear they lower the good guys by a basket through the window so they can make their escape. Sometimes we all need that b
asket.
I didn’t know what to expect when I met my mother the following night. She had called me at Posie’s that morning before school and said, “Lizzie, I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I waited.
“In person. Can you come to my apartment?”
My apartment. It sounded so permanent.
“Okay.”
“Tonight? For dinner?”
“Will Mikey be there?”
“Yes. He’s staying with me for a while.”
Finally, some good news.
“I’ll have Posie drop me off,” and that’s where things stood at five o’clock when my mother answered her door and called over her shoulder, “We’ll be back in a while,” and told me to follow her to her car.
“I thought we were eating,” I said.
“I want to talk to you first. Away from your brother.”
We walked in silence out to the parking lot. She unlocked her car and we slid into the seats.
“Tell me the truth,” she said.
“About what?” I wasn’t in the mood for an inquisition. The day had already been long.
My mother covered her mouth and shook her head. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to cry or trying not to.
“What?” I was irritated now. I wasn’t in the mood for theatrics.
“Has he touched you?”
“What?”
“Your father. Has he touched you?”
It was the last thing I expected to hear. I wasn’t prepared, and so answered truthfully. “Yeah.”
“Oh, my God! Dear God.”
Somehow I didn’t feel it was as serious as she made it. “Mom, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! Your father has been molesting you and—”
“It’s not really molesting—”
“Your brother told me everything!”
That jolted me. “He did?”
“He said your father goes into your room every night and you scream for him to stop and—” My mother paused to soak up the horror of it. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Is he sleeping with you, Lizzie?”
My mind reeled.
First, my mother was asking me a direct question and my true and only impulse was to say no, of course not.