Hand Me Down

by Melanie Thorne

  The delicate fog drifts are getting thicker, the sun darker orange-red and lower on the horizon like a giant, perfectly round nectarine. Goose bumps start at my sandaled feet and run up my tan legs and I shiver. Summer is ending and I still don’t know where I’ll be starting school. Deborah has signed me up for the local high school and everyone seems to think I’ll be staying here, sharing a room and feeling like it’s unsafe to be honest. Soon they’ll add my name to the chore list, and I’ll have to start a new school again. I’d get to live with Jaime, but even so, I’m pretty sure it’s not what I want.

  Mom’s voice lectures in my head: “clear rules,” she says, “regular church attendance.” She paces and wags her finger at me. “You need to learn about making the right choices,” she says with a straight face, the engagement ring she bought twinkling on her hand as a reminder of who she chose. Not only did she ditch her own daughters for a sex offender, but she allowed him to touch us, hug us, spend time alone with us, all the while knowing, probably better than anyone, his inexhaustible lust. I think of the occasional hints of worry in her voice, her hesitation and chirping laughs full of nerves when she asked about our lunch together last fall, and I know she suspected. But she did nothing.

  In my head she reprimands me for my attitude, tells me I need to treat Terrance with respect and kindness, accept him as family. She invited a lion into our den of lambs, turned her back on the slaughter, and then has the gall to say, “I am still your mother.”

  “Then act like it, you stupid bitch, or I’ll stab your fucking eyes out,” I say out loud. I think for a second that Matt might tell on me despite our recent bonding. “I wasn’t talking to you,” I say, releasing my fingers from their grip on my knees, nails leaving crescent moons in my bare skin.

  Matt smiles, his newly emerged adult teeth big between his chapped lips. “Well if you do that, I’ll have to saw off your ears with a butter knife.”

  “Okay,” I say. Huh. “Then I’ll chop off your feet and glue them to your back so you have to walk like a cockroach.”

  “Fine,” he says, fingers still tapping away at his red-and-black buttons. “I’ll cut off your fingers, fry them up, and make you eat them like sausage.”

  “Gross,” I say. “I’ll throw up the finger sausages and make you lick it off the dirt and then I’ll slice out your tongue and make you swallow that, too.”

  He laughs. “I’ll pull off your arms and stuff them up your butt so your guts explode with poop.” He hunches farther over his screen.

  I picture Mom’s cheekbones, her blue-green eyes, her rounded chin. I think of her snapping photographs as Terrance pressed his hips against mine. “I’ll shave off your face with a cheese grater and feed the gooey mess to Biscuit.”

  “Eww.” He giggles an evil giggle and rubs his hands together. I smile at him. “Okay,” he says and pauses his game. He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to shove your hair down your throat so you can’t scream and then rip open your belly, pull out your intestines, and tie your feet together. And when you fall, I’ll wrap the rest of your slimy entrails around your fat neck and squeeze until you freakin’ choke.” Matt’s hands clench into fists, his little fingers red and white on top of his khaki shorts.

  Matt’s eyes are focused somewhere past the grass, on the trees at the opposite end of the field, huge maple trees, their broad, five-fingered leaves catching the wind and rocking their dark branches, waving like coral arms against a backdrop sea of blue-orange sky. He’s not blinking.

  “You want to talk about it?” I say. I get it, I do. All the anger, all the fire shooting around inside. “Sometimes it’s good to let things out.” I think of my recent increase in recording my thoughts, the pages of rants in my journal.

  Matt lets out a long breath and says, “Did you know the small intestine is twenty feet long?”

  I say, “You are such a boy.”

  “So are you sometimes,” he says. He unclenches his fists a little and peels his brown eyes away from the swaying trees. “That’s why you’re cool,” he says and punches my shoulder. He looks a little taller, a little thinner in the face than when I first moved in; some of his baby fat has melted away. If he learns to come out of his shell, he’ll do fine.

  “You think I’m cool?” I say.

  “Well, yeah,” he says and shrugs. “But consider the source.” I laugh.

  In the growing dusk the fog is thick and gray-yellow, the sun’s outline no longer visible beyond the clouds. The trees are like charcoal shadows on a swirling pencil-sketch sky. I hope Jaime still thinks I’m cool, but I also think if she doesn’t, it’ll be okay.

  Winston leaves for work at seven A.M. and after the alarm beeps but before Deborah gets up I call Tammy’s number. I hop around on the tan carpet in my bare feet. I cross my fingers. I visualize Tammy in her leapfrog and lily pad pajamas, walking across her wood floors in her pink house slippers, picking up the white cordless handset, and saying, “Hello?” but it’s just Sam again on the machine.

  A letter comes from Rachel. She writes, I did it!! Frank took me camping and we did it under the stars and it was so romantic and I can’t wait for you to visit so I can tell you all about it. With details. A smiley face winks at me next to the period and “details” is underlined twice. My mom said she had a dream that you were going on a long journey and came to her for new shoes. She told you to follow your heart, not your feet, and you grew wings and flew away.

  I wonder if Rachel’s mom really does have a kind of gift. One sleepless night I’d repeated Jenny’s prayer from Forrest Gump, which we’d watched as a family with Deborah fast-forwarding drug and sex scenes. I whispered from on top of the yellow-flowered comforter three feet from sleeping Jaime, “Dear God, Make me a bird. So I can fly far, far away from here,” over and over. Emancipation didn’t work, but if I could fly away, that would be a fine alternative. I imagined my toes turning into claws, my nose lengthening, feathered wings unfurling from my back. I pictured the ground miles below and the infinite sky ahead until the rising sun made any chance of transformation seem impossible.

  Deborah sits next to me at the edge of the pool and I angle the letter so she can’t read it. “Juicy stuff?” she says. I fold the letter and put it in the pocket of the baggy shorts I’ve been wearing all summer that have grown baggier each week. “Oh, Liz,” she says and sighs. “Who knew life could get this complicated?” I think of one night when we lived here and Mom’s Al Anon meeting ran late. I was curled on the floor in our room upstairs, holding Jaime’s Snuggly and crying. Deborah wrapped me in a blanket and made me warm milk. She watched TV with my head in her lap and I fell asleep to the rise and fall of her chest, the sweet smell of her perfume. “I’d like to respect your mom’s wishes and make peace with you if that’s possible,” she says.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “But if Tammy will let me, I’d like to move back in with her.”

  “Your mom thinks our place is a better environment.”

  “It’s perfect for Jaime,” I say. “I’m thankful that she has you.”

  Deborah leans back on her pale freckled arms, like Dad’s without tattoos. The sun shines dark yellow behind gray clouds tumbling violently in the wind that only feels like a light breeze down here. “Your father’s not speaking to me,” she says. “He says I robbed him of a golden opportunity.”

  “It was him, you know,” I say. “He called Terrance’s parole officer. He thought he’d be able to get child support money from Mom.”

  Deborah cocks her head to the side and frowns. “He’s not that good at strategy.”

  “Crystal is conniving,” I say. “I bet it was her idea.”

  “It does sound like his brand of selfishness,” Deborah says.

  “Talk about a plan backfiring,” I say. It would almost be funny that he got the opposite of what he’d been aiming for, except he set this snowball of bad decisions in motion, and even now, the effects of this shit storm keep piling up on me despite the fact that he lost. �
��Jerk.”

  “Liz,” Deborah says. “He may not be the best father, but there’s no need for that kind of language.”

  “You should hear the things I say to myself,” I say. Deborah shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. The breeze picks up as the clouds darken to wet-concrete-gray above us. The wind is cool and moist, like it just left the ocean, and smells like seaweed and sage. I wish beachfront property was one of my housing options. “You’ll keep Dad away from Jaime?” I say. She doesn’t need to know Dad used her. She’s safe from him for now.

  “Yes,” Deborah says. “I think I can manage to protect you both.”

  “Jaime is lucky to have you,” I say.

  Deborah brushes off her hands and places one on my knee. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with us, too, Liz.”

  “What about what I want?”

  She pats my knee with her fingertips and stands up, her brown sandals slapping the cement. She kisses the top of my head but it’s not the gesture of comfort it is when Tammy does it, and my chest burns so hot I want to dive into the pool and inhale all that cool water.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Deborah says and smiles down at me. “We’ll fatten you up, yet.” Dinner is probably meatloaf and canned green beans, or chicken baked in condensed mushroom soup next to iceberg lettuce coated with bottled ranch dressing. It’s the food I grew up eating, but after my exposure to Chez Tammy, it has become less appetizing.

  “Thanks,” I call as she walks away. “Be there in a minute.” I know feeding six on a single income is hard, and that I was spoiled with Tammy’s love of food, but I yearn for halibut tacos with mango salsa, Tammy’s garden-grown herb and goat cheese salads and homemade dressings, her roasted-veggie pasta. I smell chicken pot pie and imagine inhaling the spices in Tammy’s kitchen instead: curry, cumin, cardamom, saffron, the scents of distant lands stirring up travel fantasies. I know Deborah is trying to help in all the ways she can, but I also know this place will never feel like home to me even if I wished it would.

  Tammy calls Deborah’s the next day while I’m out by the pool, but Ashley tells her I don’t have phone privileges. Hours later when I come inside, I rip the phone from Ashley’s hand as she smirks, but I restrain myself from elbowing her in the ribs or punching her braces and coating the inside of her mouth with tiny cuts. “You can’t use the phone,” she says. “You’re not allowed.”

  “I’m not trying to steal your mom,” I say. Ashley stares at me. “I’m sorry she ignores you, but it’s not my fault.”

  Ashley says, “My mom feels sorry for your pathetic family.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  “Because you’re losers.”

  “Some of us are trying to change that,” I say. “You have something in your teeth.” She jumps up and runs into the bathroom.

  I dial Tammy’s number as I walk into Jaime’s room and pace back and forth on my toes, bath towel wrapped around my waist, a T shirt thrown on over Rachel’s bikini top. My throat is dry, my hands tremble. I put my tongue between my teeth to keep them from rattling. Please be there. The phone rings three times and I can see the white base and handset sitting on her phone table in the kitchen next to her Georgia O’Keeffe address book and pile of grocery coupons. Pick up, pick up. Four times and I can see the rosewood floors and cabinets, the antique table and green place mats to match the green walls we painted. Five times and Sam’s voice says to leave a message.

  I say, “Tammy? It’s me, Liz, and I miss you so much. I just wanted to talk to you. There have been some big changes here and I heard you went to Ireland and…” I start crying. When her answering machine beeps I throw the phone at Jaime’s bed and cry until the acid rivers have been drained.

  At dinner, the doorbell rings as Winston is saying grace. He ignores it until we say, “Amen.” Biscuit barks when it rings again, a quick, shrill ding-dong, and Deborah jumps up like she was waiting for a package. She says, “I’ll get it,” and glances at me. I pretend not to notice, but wonder what she has up her “Project Elizabeth” sleeve for this evening.

  “Probably a salesman,” Winston says. “We don’t need a new vacuum!” He flaps his flowered paper napkin open and tucks it into the collar of his blue work shirt, now unbuttoned at the top.

  “What if they’re selling Bibles?” I say.

  “We don’t need any more of those, either,” he says.

  Matt says, “Dad, can we get a basketball hoop?” His napkin is also tucked into the neck of his T shirt, though he never makes a mess.

  “Whatever for?” Winston says.

  “For playing basketball.”

  Ashley says, “How about a karaoke machine?” She turns to Jaime. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

  “So awesome,” Jaime says.

  Winston says, “Kids, we’re not buying anything. It costs enough to feed this house.”

  Deborah says, “Liz,” from the door just as Winston says, “Who was it?” and stands up. We both walk toward the entryway.

  Mom stands near the door in too-tight jeans with Noah on her hip. I guess she was serious about visiting. “See, I told you I would come to see my girls,” she says and sets Noah down on the white and tan tile. He rubs his eyes and clings to Mom’s knee. “Don’t I get a hug?” she says and moves toward me, arms out in front of her.

  I stand there, frozen and scowling, so she settles for rubbing my shoulder, her smile fading.

  “Hi, Mom,” Jaime says, coming up behind me. She hugs her and Mom’s smile perks back up, but her shiny, grayish tooth peeks through her lips and I know she’s faking it.

  I pick Noah up and kiss his cheek. He smells like corn chips and Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. “Hey, little man.”

  “Linda, what a surprise,” Winston says, glancing at Deborah and hooking his thumbs under his black belt.

  I put Noah down and he whines so I pick him back up. “Liz!” he says and snuggles his baby face into my neck. “Come home.” Rubber bands snap in my chest, but I will not cry.

  Deborah says, “Linda, would you like to join us for dinner?” She leads Mom into the dining room. We all follow, Biscuit jumping as high as Mom’s cleavage and her swatting at his pointy nose each time.

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to impose,” Mom says. “We already ate.”

  “We’re almost finished,” Deborah says. “Liz, would you like to skip doing your dishes to spend some time with your mother?”

  Ashley glares at me as I set Noah down and kiss the top of his head. “No, thanks,” I say and sit at the table.

  “Give her a little while,” Deborah tells Mom. “She’ll come around.”

  I stare at my tuna macaroni casserole; stab a couple of peas with my fork. I imagine they’re little green bullets, bullets I could load into one of Winston’s guns. I visualize the shots piercing Mom’s chest, splintering her skin, and in my mind I squeeze the trigger until it clicks empty.

  13

  Later that night, Mom knocks on the guest bedroom door where I’m writing in my journal. I haven’t gone back to the counselor with her prominently hung wooden cross, but I consider this release of thoughts my own private therapy.

  “Can I talk to you without getting verbally abused?” Mom says. I shrug, but mentally I am donning my armor, the exoskeleton made of silver shields and chain mail, and a thick helmet that protects my eyes. “That was a joke,” she says.

  “Ha ha.” I sit up.

  “You look pink,” Mom says and I know I’ve gotten sunburned, all that time lying out by the pool.

  “It’ll turn tan,” I say. “Remember how brown we used to get?”

  She smiles. “Like little Indians.”

  Mom sits on the edge of Jaime’s bed. She jumps a little and then pulls a pager from her pocket. Her face tenses as she checks the screen. “You have a pager?” I say. “Didn’t you say those were for drug dealers?”

  “It’s nothing,” Mom says, slipping the black plastic square back into her jeans. She crosses her legs and clasps her hands on t
op of her knee. “Things are okay here, right?” I stare at her. “And it’s not that far from home,” she says.

  I still have boxes at Tammy’s, boxes at Mom’s, and am living out of duffel bags here. “I don’t have a home,” I say. “Thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Liz, okay?” She grabs Snuggly from Jaime’s pillow and wrings his neck.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re sorry,” I say and close the journal that Tammy put in my Easter basket. We’d taken our decorated hard-boiled eggs to the top of City Creek Canyon instead of going to church, lay with the sun’s warmth on our faces and the creek’s clinking in our ears. I take a deep breath and prepare my shields. “I want to go back to Tammy’s.”

  “That was temporary,” Mom says.

  “I want to ask Tammy if I can live there longer.”

  “What about asking me?” she says.

  I say, “Can I live with you?” Mom makes an “uh” sound in her throat and shuts her eyes. “I didn’t think so.”

  She sighs and drops her chin to her chest. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty unhappy right now, too.”

  I roll my eyes. “You married a flasher.”

  “He made a mistake.”

  “He shows other women his penis.”

  “He has a disease,” she says. “An addiction.”

  “If I start doing heroin, can I come home?”

  “Watch your smart mouth,” she says, her head snapping up.

  “Did you ever think that he might scare us?” I say, my heart starting to rev up. “That maybe he’s been inappropriate with your adolescent daughters?”

  She stares at me for a full thirty seconds without blinking. Then shakes her head like she’s trying to erase what’s inside. “He would never hurt you girls,” she says. “He loves you.”

  I scoff. “Love is not the word I would use.”

  “He’s your stepfather,” she says.