Watch How We Walk

by Jennifer LoveGrove

  — One, two, three, four, five . . . I tried to count each tiny cut before they oozed into one solid line. The blood was about to drip onto the picture but I moved it in time. A tiny red splash landed on the bathroom counter. Red on white. By then, I was used to seeing my own blood, but this time it disoriented me, as though I were spinning backward in time. The bathroom seemed to tilt and I grabbed the sink to steady myself. I stumbled and blurred, my stomach muscles clenched, and I sucked in as much air as I could. Eyes closed. Don’t look. Don’t look down.

  I cranked the cold tap and held my thumb under, counting to thirty, then twisted the tap off. My left hand throbbed from the icy water but it quelled the sting. I bandaged my thumb and continued my new ritual.

  This time, I avoided the dispenser’s metal teeth and wrenched off a gooey length of tape, looped it, and stuck it on the back of the picture. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and pressed the photo against the wall to the left of the mirror.

  Her hair was bleached and parted on the side, one half shaved to her scalp and the other side teased up high and sculpted down across her left eye. I remembered shouting matches between Lenora and our parents over her hair, her torn clothing, her black and blue nail polish, her loud music. The arguments eventually all seemed the same, and after that melded into one.

  Her hair had been shorter than mine, but I’d get it as close as I could. I took a deep breath, picked up the scissors, and hacked a bit off one side. It fell to the floor, and as difficult as it was, I resisted the urge to clean it up. I glanced back toward the photograph, and she peered out, unsmiling, sophisticated, her dark red lips a half-pout, half-sneer. Marla was at her side, in black leather pants and a red shirt with a plaid vest over it. She was grimacing and giving the finger to whoever had taken the photograph.

  — I can do this.

  It became an incantation. I practised the pouting sneer. I looked like someone who had unwittingly swallowed something rotten. I tried again, reminding myself it wasn’t me in the mirror anymore. Better.

  In the drawer to the left of the sink, beneath the picture, was my brand-new lipstick. Vixen Red. Almost identical to Blood Red, but new, not dried and crumbling. It would have to do. I smeared that across my lips and my stomach fluttered.

  — I can do this.

  The clippers buzzed alive when I flicked the switch and I quickly sheared off the hair above my right ear. It felt strange; I wasn’t used to the prickle of air against my scalp. The gel was wet and shiny and easily shellacked my hair down and to a point over my left eye. Then I sprayed it in place, solid and sleek. That was the easy part. The rest of my damp hair then needed volume and height. I sprayed a mound of mousse onto my palm and smeared it into the rest of my hair, then began to tease it into tangles with a fine-toothed comb. I pulled fistfuls of it straight out from my head and ran the comb backwards through the clumps until they were ten times their usual size. It took seven back-comb strokes per section to get it right.

  — Comb that bird’s nest down! I could hear my father shout, as I achieved the kind of look that could scandalize a Kingdom Hall full of devoted, gossipy Witnesses. I smirked and made my hair even bigger.

  It wasn’t difficult. The hard part would be getting it back to normal later, but I tried not to worry about that. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and coated the entire thing with a thick layer of hairspray. I checked the picture: pretty close. I reapplied the Vixen Red, sneered, then pouted.

  My skin erupted into goosebumps. The resemblance was exact.

  I stood up straighter and pushed my chest out against the red flannel shirt. I watched myself undo the first button. Something — excitement, blood, danger, pleasure — surged and tightened between my thighs. I undid two more. My face flushed.

  Under my plaid flannel shirt, I wore her black lace bra.

  I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt and let it drop to the floor. Again, I didn’t fold it and tuck it into a dresser drawer; I didn’t tidy up at all.

  Where did you get all this stuff? Bras, bustiers, garters, thongs . . .

  None of your business.

  Did you wear it under your Hall clothes to the meetings? Your dirty little secret?

  Questions I hadn’t dared to ask ten years earlier. I stared at the pouting punk rock girl in the mirror. One bra strap slid down my shoulder, and I left it like that. Every bit of my skin tingled. The setting sun streamed red into the bathroom, dousing it with a hot, pulsing eeriness. I turned off the light.

  I unzipped my jeans, tugged them off, and kicked them toward the shirt. More black lace. The throbbing between my legs increased. I slid my cool fingertips over my exposed nipple and it hardened. A moan slipped between the crimson lips in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. I sneered, then grinned.

  Four steps to the bathroom door. I counted steps like the blind. Funambulists, too; they had to know without looking how far to walk. One. Two. Three. Four.

  In my bedroom, I kept the black lace on. Explored the warm, slippery folds and tasted my fingertips. Briefly, I cringed. Freak. Disgrace. Aberration.

  No. I blocked out the guilt and treated it as an invader. Pictured it as fist-sized black lumps that I dashed to the ground from way up on the high wire. Inhaled and exhaled and started again. Looked at my half-off bra like someone else might. Pictured a tall, hard, boot-clad Theo above me: kissing my neck, licking my stomach, sliding downward. I moaned again. I bucked against my palm until all the colours in the world exploded and flooded me.

  I lay damply on my bed in the darkening light, feeling a mix of pleasure, exhilaration, and shame. As my breathing slowed to normal and the pink blotches on my chest faded, so did my elation. Guilt overwhelmed me and quickly ignited into disgust.

  I had gotten turned on by wearing my sister’s underwear.

  The phone rang. I started but didn’t get up from the bed. I tore off the flimsy black bra and thong and threw them across the room. One, two, three, four, five rings until the voicemail kicked in. My number was unlisted, and very few people even had it. Probably just a wrong number or another telemarketer.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. It rang again. A few minutes later, a third time. My heart beat faster, as though I was being chased. I pulled on my bathrobe, walked slowly into the living room, and stared at the slate blue phone. It didn’t ring again.

  53235. An indelible transmission — my pinkest, deepest scar. A fragment flitted back and that was enough to finally decode it. The coordinates of a scripture, etched into my skin forever.

  Vengeance is mine, and retribution.

  I tightened the belt on my robe and wrapped my arms around myself. Paced the nine steps across the living room, and nine steps back.

  I told myself to calm down. It was probably just Kameela or someone from work wanting to trade shifts. I wanted to stop being ridiculous and just check the messages, but I couldn’t separate what I’d just done from the phone calls. I felt like I’d been found out, like someone had been watching me the whole time. I shivered. It was almost entirely dark in my small apartment, and I switched on a lamp. In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. Then I went back to the phone and quickly punched in my password, 53235. The monotonous voice told me I had three new messages.

  I recognized her voice immediately and my mouth went dry. I held the receiver away from my ear but I could still hear her.

  — We’ve been frantic trying to find you. Why didn’t you give us your number? We had to get it from the school. I’ve barely slept for weeks . . . please call us at home . . .

  The next message was the phone number. As if, by some miracle, I had forgotten it.

  I hung up in the middle of the third message. Strode into the bathroom. Touched my hard, sticky hair. Looked at the picture. Looked back at myself.

  This is me. This is me. This is who I am.

  I narrowed my eyes, bit the insides of my lips, and t
ook a deep breath. I could do it. I wasn’t afraid of them. In the living room, the phone sat in the centre of a small table, cold and menacing, poisonous. I stared at it for so long it seemed to move on its own, sliding slightly to the left or right every time I looked away.

  Finally, I stomped over to it and grabbed the receiver, almost surprised that it didn’t leap from my hand and smash itself on the floor.

  I listened to the message again, this time all the way through.

  — We’ve been so worried. We don’t understand why you won’t even talk to us. First Lenora, now you. It’s not fair! This is no way to treat your parents. Please call us back this time.

  Her voice cracked and there was silence, but she didn’t hang up. After some rustling, she came back on the line.

  — At least, if you won’t call us back, mail the pictures of your sister. Why would you take them? Why would you do that? It was the only thing we had left. How could you take them all?

  She was shrieking by then, howling How could you over and over.

  But they were mine; that was why I took them. The photos didn’t belong back in that house, because she didn’t want them there. She wanted me to have them.

  I had no choice but to take them, to take everything of hers. They didn’t deserve her then and they never would. They weren’t good enough for her. Only I was. Only I understood. Only me.

  My mother paused, then asked another question, her voice wavering.

  — Why do you say Lenora on your voicemail? Why do you say Leave a message for Emily or Lenora?

  This is me. This is who I am.

  24

  LONG AFTER AGNES HAS GONE home, Emily’s mom wakes her up to tuck her in and say good night. Her breath is terrible, sour and bitter at the same time, and she keeps leaning in too close to Emily’s head. She scrunches up her face. Her mom sways over her for a moment, then plunks down on the edge of her bed.

  — Agnes seems like a nice girl. Is she going to come over again?

  Emily turns toward the far wall and doesn’t answer. After a few moments, she shrugs.

  — What’s wrong? Are you still upset about Lenora? Don’t worry, I told her she’s not allowed to embarrass you like that again. It wasn’t very nice.

  She starts to make up a silly song in a silly voice.

  — Not nice at all! Not even one bit. Mean old big sister! Not nice—

  — Stop it!

  — Okay, okay! Jeez. Everyone around here is so sensitive! No fun at all.

  — I’m serious.

  — I can see that. Very serious. She rearranges the blankets around Emily, pulling them up to her chin.

  — Is there something you want to tell your old, boring mom about? A girl talk? We could pretend we’re at a slumber party.

  — No.

  — Come on, Emily, it’s okay. You can tell me.

  — Go away!

  Her mom doesn’t leave. She stays on the edge of the bed humming a tune Emily doesn’t recognize. Emily sits up and shakes the blankets off.

  — I want to know what happened to Dad’s brother.

  — Your dad’s brother? Wow.

  Her mom stares at something, or at nothing, on the far wall for a long time before responding.

  — Why did you tell me he was an only child? You lied. Dad too.

  Her mom says nothing, just presses her lips together and keeps looking at the wall.

  — I want to know what happened. All of it.

  — There was an accident. A car accident. When they were kids. That’s it.

  — I mean for real! Tell me the truth!

  Her mom stands up and Emily stands on her bed and they face each other.

  — That is the truth. There was a car accident, and his little brother died. Your father’s fingers got smashed in the metal of the door and they had to amputate them. That’s it.

  — I think there’s more to it. More that you’re keeping secret.

  — Well, you read too many of those mystery books. It was a terrible accident and your dad’s brother died right beside him. He doesn’t like to talk about it.

  — Are you sure that’s all there is? There’s nothing else?

  — Yes. That’s it. Now go back to sleep.

  Emily doesn’t know why, but she believes Agnes more than her own mother. They’re lying to her. Somehow, for some reason, he killed his own brother, like Cain and Abel. She gets back under the covers and turns toward the wall until her mother clicks the door closed behind her.

  THE NEXT MORNING, LENORA KEEPS running to the bathroom and gagging, then flushing the toilet. She isn’t coming to the Sunday meeting. No one forces her, but Emily knows she’s faking. Lenora never gets sick; she has a stomach of iron, so Emily doesn’t know why their parents believe her. It’s not fair that Lenora gets to stay home by herself.

  Emily strides over to the bathroom door and puts her ear against the wood. Lenora moans and mumbles something she can’t quite hear. She’s so dramatic. She should be an actress like their mom used to be.

  — Jehovah knows when you’re faking. It’s the same as a lie!

  Lenora flushes again and Emily shouts even louder.

  — He’ll know if you’re not at the meeting today! Lying is a sin and sinners will be destroyed at Armageddon!

  It’s her job to lead Lenora back to the Truth. To show her the right path. To be the way and the light. Not to follow her into wrongdoing. Even though she’s too young to be baptized yet, she can still be a shepherd and help the lost sheep, just like the elders. She nods then, up and down, knowing that Jehovah is watching her at that very moment. The more she nods, the more she convinces herself she’s right.

  — That’s enough, Emily. Her mom pulls her away from the bathroom.

  — God doesn’t take attendance like your teacher at school. Leave your sister alone; she’s not feeling well.

  Water runs in the sink, drawers open and close, and a few minutes later Lenora creaks the door open and slouches in the bathroom doorway. Her hair is greasy and tangled and she isn’t even wearing any makeup. Her hands are unsteady, and she puts them into the pockets of her slouching, yellow bathrobe. Her mom feels her forehead, pauses, then checks it again with the back of her hand.

  — I think I have the flu.

  — You don’t have a fever. Maybe it was something you ate. Sleep it off.

  She pushes Lenora toward the stairs. Without looking at them, Lenora plods upstairs, clutching the banister as though she can’t walk without it.

  — She’s faking!

  They go back to the kitchen and finish eating their cereal while Lenora’s small stereo thrums angry music down through her floor. Their mom frowns as she puts her Bible in her Hall purse.

  — Tell your sister I said to turn her music off.

  — Okay.

  Emily takes the stairs two at a time, planning to tell Lenora that what she’s doing is wrong, and that she must repent and not commit any more sins for a while, before it’s too late.

  At her door, the music drones and she can feel the vibrations through the door against her palms. She stands like that, mesmerized, her hands flat on the door and her forehead resting against it. The singer’s voice is slow and deep. Mournful, Emily thinks, like he’s lost something. The low, dark sound of the music matches his vocals. Before the next song begins, a weird sound strains from the room. It’s a muffled gasp or a choke.

  Emily raises her hand to knock, but puts it back down. She doesn’t know what to do. Maybe Lenora has something stuck in her throat and needs help.

  — Lenora?

  She doesn’t answer. Emily puts her ear against the door, but hears nothing except the music. During a quiet part of the song, she hears it again.

  Lenora is crying.

  She draws back as though burned. Lenora doesn’t cry. Only babi
es cry. Don’t be a crybaby. Emily sways and leans against the wall in the hallway and closes her eyes.

  — Mom says to turn it off! She yells this and runs down the hall, into her own room, and dives onto her bed. She stays there until they call her to leave for the meeting.

  AFTER THEY HANG UP THEIR coats in the cloakroom and find seats, Emily doesn’t know what to do with herself. They’re twenty-five minutes early for the meeting because Emily’s dad is a Ministerial Servant now, and has to work his monthly shift at the Literature Desk, selling back issues of The Watchtower and Awake! or copies of You Can Live Forever in Paradise on Earth and Your Youth: Getting the Best Out of It. All the brothers and sisters in the congregation of course already have their own copies of each of the books that the Society publishes, but they buy extras to place with people they meet out in service or to give to worldly people they’re studying with.

  Without Lenora at the meeting, Emily has no one to talk to, so she walks around the Hall, trying to look purposeful, like she is going somewhere specific. She strides back to the cloakroom and checks her pockets, as though she forgot something. Brother Davies comes in, stomps his boots on the mat, and nods at Emily. She nods back. In the main room, her mom is chatting with some other sisters, and she doesn’t want to interrupt. Instead, she shuffles down a short hallway and into the smaller back room where they hold the short Service Talk before going door to door, or where mothers take the babies when they cry during the talks in the main room. It’s also where the elders draw the brown tweed curtains across the windows and hold private meetings, like the ones they have with wayward sheep. When this happens, everyone whispers about who is in trouble with the elders and why, and will they be disfellowshipped, or publicly reproved?

  Bookshelves line two of the walls from floor to ceiling, and she runs her fingertips along the dusty spines of the books, breathing in their mustiness. She counts how many across each row, fifty-two, then forty-seven, then twenty-two of the thickest books. She tries to calm down, but can’t. How could they let Lenora stay home, how could they actually believe her stomach flu excuse? She just wanted to stay home and talk on the phone to her worldly friends. Or worse, to worldly boys. To Theo. Emily bets if they call right now, the line will be busy. She goes back to the Literature Desk.