Jersey Angel

by Bauman, Beth Ann

  I nod. “I’ll go see her.”

  When the nurse comes back in the room Sherry says, “My friend here is going to take a look for me.” But the nurse says no, shaking her little braids, and goes on and on about how Sherry should see the baby, that it helps with the healing process, but Sherry just looks at her, glazed. “Please,” she whimpers, a tear running down her cheek. “Can my friend look first, and then I will.”

  The nurse sizes me up. “You’re eighteen?” she asks.

  “I am,” I lie.

  “Just for a minute,” she finally says.

  I nod and follow her. “How did it happen?”

  She shrugs. “These things happen sometimes. Congenital, maybe.” And again she talks about how we should encourage Sherry to see the baby, how it’ll help her deal with this.

  She brings me into a small room where the baby’s lying wrapped in a blanket in a plastic crib. She’s the only baby in the room because she’s dead, which makes me feel a little shaky. I get cold feet for a sec but then step up and look at the little thing. It’s so weird. She’s beautiful and could be perfectly asleep except for being so still, which really dawns on me the more I stare at her. She has eyelashes and soft hair poking out of the edge of the blanket. “What happened?” I whisper to her.

  Someone opens the door and the nurse turns away for a few seconds. I want to touch her, see that she’s real. I reach into the blanket’s fold and take out her hand, her hand with five little fingers and teeny fingernails. She’s not cold, not exactly, which is what I would have thought. I hold her hand for a second, and my heart is breaking a little.

  This might be the most grown-up thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t like it. I wish I could rewind the last ten minutes and tell Sherry no. Now I’ll always know this baby. I don’t want to know her.

  “Okay.” The nurse comes to my side.

  I say something dumb then. “Could you maybe be wrong? Could she be not quite dead?”

  She sorta smiles and tilts her head. “It does seem like she’s sleeping, the sweet thing.”

  I walk down the hall with the nurse, feeling dazed. When Mossy was just a baby and I babysat, I’d carry him around in his little seat, even taking him into the bathroom with me because he was so little. He would watch me closely, drinking me in with his big eyes. Even though I was only eight, and he was so small in his feety pjs, I could see that he was already himself, that he was already a little person, just like I could see that Sherry’s baby was already inside there, even if she wasn’t going to get a chance to come out.

  “Just another minute or two,” the nurse says to me outside Sherry’s room.

  When I go back in Sherry looks at me closely. “Tell me,” she whispers.

  “You don’t want to see her.”

  “I don’t?” she asks. Her face morphs from relief to shock and back to dazed.

  I shake my head. She can’t have that picture in her head. Of that perfect baby. That glimpse of what might have been. She just can’t.

  “Okay, thank you, Angel,” she says after a minute. “I’m going to name her Angel the second.” We sort of laugh. “Well, Giavanna Angel Gulari.” She swings her legs out of bed. “Okay, I’m going home.” She peeks at the clock. “Millionaire Matchmaker is coming on.” The nurse, lingering in the doorway, hustles her back to bed and tries again with the healing stuff, but Sherry just shakes her head.

  When Ing and I leave, Mrs. Gulari is sitting at Sherry’s side holding her hand.

  We walk through the hospital, which is quiet except for an occasional ding or beep. “That’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Inggy says.

  I nod. “Me too, kinda.”

  “What was she like?” Inggy says, touching me.

  I really want to tell her, I do, but it just might get back around to Sherry if I tell anybody at all. Not that Inggy would blab, but it might be too hard to hold in. There are so many secrets between us now and that was never what I wanted. I wonder how it happened. “You don’t want to know. Really, Ing.”

  “Oh! Was it terrible?”

  “No, no,” I say, pushing through the lobby doors into the night dark. “Please, Ing.”

  She puts an arm around me. “I love you, Angel.”

  “I love you too.” It’s that kind of night, and my heart is still breaking. Outside, the Virgin Mary’s arms are still open and I look at her calm face and think Why? “I can’t go home yet.”

  “You’ll sleep over.” So we go to her house, and I change into one of her nightshirts and borrow a toothbrush. I climb into a twin bed, with the dust ruffle, and feel safe. Inggy sits at her desk gathering her books and homework for the morning. Then she clicks off the light and kneels by my side. “You’re so brave, Angel. I wish I was more like you.”

  “You do?” I say, surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “You have so much more than me,” I tell her. She leans her head against the mattress and I touch her fine, silky hair. “Ing, what’s going to happen to us?”

  “You always ask me, you know that?”

  “I do?”

  “Yup.” I can hear a smile in her voice.

  “Remember,” I whisper, “how tonight you said Sherry would become a mom and her life would change forever? Will anything happen to change us forever?”

  “We’ll always be friends,” she says.

  “Promise me,” I say.

  “I promise. You’re my very best friend.” And nothing about tonight feels disingenuous at all. She kisses my forehead and climbs into the other twin.

  chapter 18

  Life goes on. Funny and sad how that is. At first, Ing and I talk about that weird black-magic night almost to remind ourselves that it really happened. Then we don’t talk about it at all. Nobody else does either. It’s almost unreal. There was Sherry’s huge stomach, then there was a baby for a half a second and then—poof—she was gone. Sherry asks us to come to the funeral, a mini funeral with Sherry and some of her family, but I say I’m sick. Inggy goes to the cemetery and tells me the coffin is tiny and Sherry still looks glazed and hasn’t washed her hair in days. And apparently it costs too much to get Giavanna Angel Gulari etched on the gravestone, plus there isn’t much room with Sherry’s great-grandparents already on there, so they settle for Gia Gulari, but Sherry says she’ll always be Giavanna Angel Gulari. I probably should have gone, but I just couldn’t.

  • • •

  I eat pizza at Fat Sal’s with Danny from 7-Eleven. We talk about fishing and school and how much we both love Boar’s Head pastrami. Nothing too scintillating, but it’s an okay date and the slices are perfectly cheesy. After, he asks me to come over and a watch a movie, and I say why not.

  His place, a little apartment over someone’s garage, is pretty depressing, I have to admit, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He gets us beers from a mini fridge, and we sit on his sagging couch, practically on top of each other, the couch pulling us toward the center, and watch an action adventure. About ten minutes into the movie he says, “You like this?”

  I shrug, a little bored. “What do you want to do, then?” I ask.

  He’s still for a minute and then lies down on the mattress on the floor. It’s covered in light green sheets and a gold plaid blanket. He looks up at me. I take in the skanky apartment and say, “I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” he says. I join him on the mattress and we talk for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Then out of the blue he asks if a candle would be nice.

  “Sure,” I say. He lights two small candles and flips off the light, and the overall mood is definitely improved. We fool around, but it’s not exactly an adventure.

  • • •

  After I get home I can’t sleep, so I wander over to the House for a snack. It’s almost two a.m., and TB’s in the kitchen baking a pie. I wave.

  “My insomniac friend. Hello there. Couldn’t sleep?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m making comfort food. Even you
r mom’s not feeling well. And poor Mossy. The kid’s been upchucking.”

  “Bart, no one says upchuck.” I roll a piece of leftover piecrust in my hand.

  “What do you kids say? Barf?”

  “How about blow chunks. Poor Mossy.”

  “He’ll be okay.” He sweeps apple peels into the garbage. “So your mother likes this banker, it seems.”

  “As much as she likes anyone.”

  He smiles a knowing smile.

  “My mother’s not gonna change, I don’t think,” I tell him. “Don’t you want something more, Bart?”

  He sighs. “I’m a dummy, I know.”

  “Aw, Bart.” I rub his back, and his eyes fill with tears.

  “That pie’s going to be done in twenty minutes. Have yourself a hot slice with a scoop of ice cream.”

  “It smells amazing.”

  He lies on the couch under a quilt, and I head upstairs to check on everyone. Mom’s buried under the covers, Mossy’s flat on his back breathing through his nose and making fluty noises, and Mimi’s in a little heap on a nest of pillows. She flutters her eyes.

  In the bathroom I look in the mirror, and there I am. Sleepy Mimi shuffles toward me and leans in the doorway with a drippy nose. She climbs up on the sink and wraps her arms around me as we gaze into the mirror. She’s still inside a dream, her hair rumpled and her face smooth and still. Everything is yet to happen to her. I’m jealous.

  A few nights later, my bedroom light snaps on. “So it was stupid,” Cork says, sitting on the edge of my mattress.

  “What! Get out!” I shield my eyes from the light.

  “I have to tell you.”

  I’m tired these days and must have left the back door unlocked, because he is where I least want him: sitting on my mattress. Now the light is shining in my eyes and he’s shaking my arm. “Please,” he says.

  “Get off.” I shove him and pull the covers up to my chin.

  He makes himself comfortable on the floor. “Just listen. She was kinda wasted. Happy wasted. She’s sipping a mojito, dancing around the kitchen to Aretha Franklin. The back door’s open, and I ask if I can have a snack. ‘Eat up,’ she says. I take a beer from the fridge and she’s cool with that, I guess. To help her out, I follow her around the living room with a trash bag while she grabs up the dirty plates and napkins. She’s funny, your mom.”

  “I’m warning you,” I say.

  “It just kinda happened.”

  “Not another word.”

  “You have to admit it’s kinda funny.” I scramble to the edge of the bed and kick him in the chest. He lets himself fall back onto the rug and a slow smile spreads over his face. “I was just thinking how no one wants to make out with my mom. Or Inggy’s mom. Or most anyone’s mom. But your mom is …”

  “Ass-wipe! She’s my mother.”

  “I have a theory—”

  “Tell me and I’ll have to kill you.”

  “Okay. I’ll stop. But it wasn’t like kissing a mom.”

  “I swear—”

  He sits up, and his face becomes serious. “That’s why I came to say sorry. I feel like I cheated on you.”

  “You totally did,” I say. “That and more.”

  “Can we forget it? I don’t want your mother. Obviously. I want to go back to how it was.”

  I shake my head, but he climbs on the bed and puts his arms around me and his warm lips against my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “No.” I duck under his arm and push him off.

  “It was just a kiss, Angel. Come on.”

  “What about Inggy?”

  “What about her?”

  “Who else have you been with?”

  “Who else have you been with?”

  I shrug. “I’m free.”

  “I love Inggy.” He picks up my sneaker and whips it around in a circle by the shoelace. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Make it good.”

  “See, I like that answer. That’s why I like you.”

  “Let me tell you something. I feel like I don’t know you anymore.…”

  “Are you gonna let me talk?”

  “You’ve been with other girls, right? Tell the truth.”

  He sighs.

  “Tell me, Cork.”

  “You know what? Inggy doesn’t have secrets yet. I used to think it’s not in her DNA, but I was wrong. She just hasn’t done anything yet. She will. And there may have been a minor episode with a turd named Jeffrey. She may have kissed the turd. I don’t know. Anyway, my point is everybody does something at some point.”

  “Everybody?” I say.

  “Everybody.” He lies on the rug and puts his arms behind his head, satisfied.

  Maybe that’s right, but I don’t know. I just don’t know. I think of my dad, Joey, Inggy, my grandma, old Mrs. B who works in the sub shop.…

  Cork stretches out and yawns. “We’ve already dirtied it up, Angel.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He reaches an arm out to me. “I really like you. I miss you.”

  “You’re such an ass-wipe, kissing my mother.” I take his hand and let him pull me off the bed.

  “Okay, we can stop,” he whispers. “If you want to, we’ll stop.”

  “Let’s stop.”

  He kisses me nicely on the lips and smooths his hands over my hair. I let my eyes close for a sec. “And what do you mean you don’t know me anymore?” he says. “What would Inggy think of you if she knew?”

  “Okay, shut up.”

  “Why the attitude with me?” he whispers. “Huh? Aren’t we in this together?”

  “You made out with my mom, idiot!”

  “I’m a total idiot.” He hugs me, presses his lips against my ear, and I feel him smile. “But you could just give me a blow job for old times’ sake.”

  I shove him. “Yeah, because I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.” I mean, really.

  “Kidding, sorry.” He stands and lifts me to my feet. We hug and sway from side to side. “I don’t want to miss you, Angel.”

  “Tough.”

  “You smell delicious.”

  “Oh I do, do I?”

  “Spicy. You smell spicy.” He puts his lips on my neck. “And warm.” He gives me a tiny lick. “And wet.” He runs his hands over my ass in my nightie. “You are the sexiest girl I know. Why are you so sexy?”

  “I can’t help it.” I let him put a hand under my nightie. Once more, just once or twice more.

  winter

  chapter 19

  It’s been raining for days, and the wintry sky hangs low over the town. I ride my bike through the streets, which are empty and slick with puddles, and stare at the posters of four smiling girls in the store windows. There we are—me, Inggy, Carmella, and Alyssa—Miss Merry Christmas nominees—next to pizzas, subs, postage stamps, and interest rates, waiting for the town to crown a winner. I park under a streetlamp and stare at the picture of me next to the 20% OFF sign in Stanley’s Casuals. It’s pretty decent, not like I must look now—a girl in the rain with her hair plastered to her head.

  I know it’s dumb and it embarrasses me to admit it, but I really want to win, want to see what winning might do for me. I picture myself riding on top of the float, waving my hand, wearing the crown … And here it begins.

  But as I look at the picture of Inggy, I know she’ll win. She seems destined. She’s not looking at the camera and has a soft smile, the wind gently lifting her white hair. Her eyes are very blue.

  But still. Anything is possible, and it’s not just about the pictures. I stare at us a little longer, the light rain soaking me good. Carmella is dark and glossy, a bit mysterious, with her head cocked flirtatiously and a no-teeth smile. Alyssa looks sweet, a tiny dark star of a girl with full lips. Me—I have a full-on smile, my curls falling beneath my shoulders, my eyes sparkling like I’m thinking of something good.

  When I get back to the House, I towel myself off and snuggle on the c
ouch with Mimi, who’s doing long division problems. She chucks her notebook to the floor and whispers, “You’re going to be Miss Merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “You’re the prettiest.” Her teeth are small and white, her eyes all dark pupils. She lays her head in the crook of my arm and motions for me to bring my ear close. I lean down and she tells me how she and some of her older friends, girls in the fifth and sixth grades, have gone to every store on the strip and voted for me, filling out a white slip and dropping it into the box beneath our pictures. “I disguised my handwriting,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

  A little later I dash over in the cold to my house. Someone rounds the corner by the back steps. Sherry.

  “Hey,” she calls. “Good timing.”

  “What’s up?” I hug myself.

  “Oh, nothing.” We go inside and plop down on the couch. I’m a little worried about Cork showing up, but that’s easy enough to explain, really. Mostly I’m wondering what she wants. I feel uncomfortable around her, even though I know I shouldn’t. She looks at me with big eyes like she’s expecting me to say something. “You have a Coke or something?”

  “Sure.” I get it, hoping she’s not planning on staying long enough to drink the whole can. She pops it open, takes a sip, and sort of smiles at me. “You all right?” I ask. She’s almost back to normal except for her face, which still looks a bit dazed, like she’s trying to listen to two conversations at once.

  She nods. “Nobody ever talks about it, Angel. Isn’t that weird?”

  I pat her hand. “No one wants to make you feel bad, probably.”

  “Well …,” she says, picking at the stitching on the couch pillow. “Your picture looks nice. I saw it in the window of Sundae Times.” She takes an elastic out of her bag and sloppily pulls her hair back. “Inggy’ll probably win, but I really think you have a shot, you know.”

  I shrug. “Thanks.”

  She pulls her bag close and rummages through it and takes out a tiny photo. “This is me when I was like a couple hours old. Well, it’s either me or my brother, because apparently we were exactly alike.” It’s faded, but a small face and nose and sweep of hair are there.