by Ellen Smith
Mrs. Gaines’s lips were pinched tight. Her dark hair was pulled back severely into a low ponytail and secured with a plain brown clip. She looked austere. Impenetrable. “And sit around feeling sorry for yourself? Nice try. We’re going to get you out and active.”
“That’s not why I wanted to go home first,” Mara said, stung. “I wanted to see Dad.”
“Dad’s not home now, Mara. Home’s the same as it always was. Errands first. I would think you’d have had enough sitting around by now.”
It was pointless to argue. Mara stayed silent while her mother pulled in to the mall parking lot. Her shoulder throbbed before they made it up the escalator to the Junior Miss section of the department store.
Just push through it.
After an hour, Mara had three new pairs of flats, four blouses she could button herself, and skirts she could pull off and on one-handed. Mara could still remember the way pain had radiated down to her fingertips and how hard she had worked to make sure her mother didn’t see her flinch.
On their way out of the store, her mother had insisted on stopping in front of a hair salon. The sharp smell of hair dye and bleach wafted out into the mall, mixing with the scent of pretzel dogs and cinnamon rolls that emanated from the take-out place three doors down.
“What do you think, Mara?” Mrs. Gaines asked. “As long as we’re here.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Mom,” Mara said. “Do you think we can do this tomorrow? I really want to go home.”
Mrs. Gaines had already started walking toward the store. She turned and leveled Mara with a look. “Mara, you need to be practical. Who’s going to help you take care of your hair? You don’t want to depend on someone to fix your ponytail and wash your hair for you every day. You need to be self-sufficient.”
Mara bit her lip. Be calm. No tears. “Mom, can we talk about this later? I really need to rest.”
“This is exactly what I mean. If you’re this tired after a few errands, imagine what life will be like when you’re back at school. You need something easy to care for. Something that will let you be independent.”
The fireball beneath Mara’s shoulder blade burned. The lump in her stomach rose and burst. “Mom, please. I’m tired. I hurt. I want to go home and lie down. Please.” Defeated, she let a few tears leak out.
Now the other passing shoppers were staring.
“Everything okay? Do you need help out to your car?” an older lady had asked.
“Oh, no thank you. We’re fine,” Mrs. Gaines had said, waving a hand airily. Mara pressed her lips together and willed herself to stop crying. The older lady shot Mara another concerned look but moved on.
When Mrs. Gaines spoke again, her voice was dangerously low. “Don’t ever let me hear you do that again,” she said. She leaned in close to Mara’s ear. “Carrying on like that. What happened to you is awful, and I’m sorry, and I know you don’t feel well. You can choose to let this motivate you to be stronger and work harder, or you can let this tear you down. I am not going to let you turn one bad decision from one bad person into a tragedy. It is not going to define your life. You can hate me for now if you want to, but someday you’re going to thank me.”
Mara swallowed the lump in her throat. She focused on keeping her voice quiet, reasonable. It shook a bit anyway. “I’m not saying no, Mom. I’m saying not right now. Please, take me home.”
“Now, Mara. I promised myself I would be firm with you, and I am. No excuses. If you take it easy today, you’ll always be looking for the easy way out. You’re not going to be like that. Go in there and give your name to the receptionist.”
There was no line, which didn’t give Mara much time to compose herself. She walked into the salon with her mother and waited for the spiky-haired receptionist to look up. Her nametag read Jill.
“Do you have an appointment?” Jill the receptionist asked Mara.
Mara couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Are you a walk-in? Either way, we do have some availability right now. You’re in luck.” Jill looked back and forth, from Mara to Mrs. Gaines. Her mother stared at her, waiting for her to say something.
“Do. You. Speak. English?” the receptionist said slowly, enunciating each word.
Mrs. Gaines rounded on her. “Of course we speak English. My daughter grew up in this country and so did I.” Mara was waiting for Mrs. Gaines to keep going: and so were my parents, who were placed in the Japanese-American internment camps during World War II even though they were born in America too. Don’t ask me if I can speak English, or if I’m an American.
But Jill had already started apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to assume. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll just get your name and take you on back.”
That was the first time Mara shut herself down. She made herself feel blank. No anger. No tears. No feelings at all.
This just isn’t happening, Mara decided. None of it was real. The posters of hairstyles her mother pointed out were nothing but inkblots on paper. She wasn’t really walking back to the styling chairs. Sitting there with the misty-wet cape around her neck.
“What do you think, Mara?” her mother asked, holding her hand level with Mara’s chin. “This length? You can just run a brush through it and go.”
“Sure,” Mara heard herself say. “That’ll be nice.”
“You know,” Jill said, still wide-eyed attentive, eager to please. “If you’re cutting off more than eleven inches, we can donate it to charity. Make a wig for children who’ve lost their hair to illness.”
“Oh, what a nice thought,” Mrs. Gaines said. “How many inches is Mara cutting off today?”
Jill took out a thin plastic ruler and measured. “Fourteen.”
“Fourteen.” Mrs. Gaines looked at Mara meaningfully.
“Sure, let’s donate it,” Mara said. “Help someone who’s truly in need.”
Mrs. Gaines beamed. Mara watched herself in the mirror as Jill made a long ponytail and got out the scissors. She didn’t blink once while it was being cut.
“You did the right thing,” Mrs. Gaines said, when they got back to the car. “It looks nice too. Very chic. And aren’t you proud of yourself, now that you’ve pushed through? You didn’t think you could do it, but you did. Good for you.”
Mara blinked now, trying to wish away the same numb feeling that descended on her. Not everyone had been like her mother. Sometimes things were harder for Mara, but it didn’t mean she was weak. When she’d gone back to college, back to her roommate Robyn, and Will, they had understood. Will hadn’t even been her boyfriend, officially, when she’d first gone back to Adams Morgan. But he had always understood.
Nobody is going to understand this.
She couldn’t cut back her hours at work. Couldn’t give up driving, either. Mara heard her mother’s voice again. Is that necessary? Can’t you push through?
It doesn’t do to take the easy way out.
Krushin’ It Together
A personal blog by Klara Krusher
In Defense of Timeline Rectifications
Published March 31, 2011
So I try to stay out of politics on this blog. I do. If you’ve been following my blog for the last couple of years, you know I like to keep things upbeat. But in light of the protest in DC this week and the bloggers coming out of the woodwork to rage against Deirdre Collins’s new reality show—which, come on, isn’t reality TV pretty rage-worthy anyway?—I feel like I need to speak up.
Look, I don’t like the idea of timeline rectifications any more than you do. I want to say that they’re a terrible idea, that there’s no problem so big that it justifies mucking around with time. I want to post the numbers to some hotlines and give the websites for some charities and tell you that no matter how bleak life seems, there’s always help available.
But you know what? That’s not true. The kinds of crimes that qualify for a timeline rectification leave more lasting da
mage than you can fix with three sessions of talk therapy or a couple months in the slammer. They cause big problems that require big solutions.
I feel like I’m going to lose some readers for this. Maybe a lot of readers. But I feel like there needs to be a point where we stop talking ourselves in circles and start doing something to help.
I’ve been really frustrated with the tone of the online conversation surrounding timeline rectification. We’re all about raising awareness these days. We throw data and statistics at each other to support our points of view. We get angry and drop friends and lose followers as we passionately stand up for what we believe.
But what are we doing?
Because, honestly, if you’re so against crime victims agreeing to time wrecks, are you doing anything to help them in this life map? If their insurance runs out—or if they don’t have any—would you pay for their physical therapy? Their mental healthcare? Give them a job? What if they need help even after you think they should have “moved on”? What if they aren’t back on their feet before you’re bored of playing the white knight in their story?
And what about the offenders? How many people with a criminal record do you know, really? Are you supporting rehabilitation programs? Would you rent to someone who had just been released from prison? Would you hire an ex-con, or is finding them a job someone else’s problem?
Because if not, guess what?
You’re the reason why people think timeline rectifications are their best option. You’re the reason why people think they have more to lose and nothing to gain by staying. You’re the reason people think there’s no help for them in this life map.
Because sometimes, it’s true.
Chapter Eight
WILL
Mara barely talked on the way home from the neurologist’s office. Who could blame her? Will had thought it would be a simple matter of changing her medication dosage. Hearing that there was nothing more to do for her—on the medical side of things, anyway—had been a crushing blow.
Thank goodness there’s something that can make a difference. What if they hadn’t signed the papers in Nayana’s office this morning? What if they’d gotten that news from the neurologist right after they’d walked out on a real solution?
When they stopped by the pharmacy, Mara got out of the car to drop off her prescription. “You don’t have to come in with me,” she told him. “I’ll just be a minute.”
But Will hated for her to go in alone. The scrutiny Mara went through at the pharmacy was almost unbearable, even for him.
“They’re trying to protect people,” Mara had explained to Will once. “People abuse painkillers. They can get addicted. The pharmacists have to be on guard.”
All the same, Will could see how tense Mara got when the heat of the pharmacist’s stare was on her.
“This is an increase from your last prescription,” the pharmacist said, pinching her lips together. Her name was Lucy. They had dealt with Lucy before. “Why don’t I just consult with my supervisor and see if we’ll be able to fill this.”
Mara and Will watched as Lucy slipped behind the counter and picked up the phone. She spoke quietly, glancing surreptitiously at Mara every few minutes. Will slipped a protective hand around her waist.
“It’ll be a three-hour wait before we can fill it,” Lucy said abruptly when she returned. “Do you have any questions about your medication?”
“No, thanks,” Mara said. “The doctor talked me through it already.”
“Are you sure?” Lucy pressed. “This drug can have severe side effects. Do you understand that you shouldn’t get pregnant if you’re taking it?” Her eyes slid back and forth, from Will to Mara and back.
“I understand,” Mara said.
“What type of birth control are you using? We recommend using two types of birth control to be safe.”
None of your damn business, Will wanted to say. But Lucy was the one holding the prescription. Could she really refuse to fill it if Mara didn’t answer?
“The pill and condoms,” Mara said quietly.
“Good. Remember the pill is most effective if it’s taken at the same time each day, every day. Give yourself a two-hour window, at most. If you do miss a pill, use another backup method or abstain until your next period.”
Mara’s cheeks flamed. “I know. Thanks.”
Finally, Lucy seemed satisfied. “Your prescription should be ready today, but it’ll probably be late. Six o’clock at the earliest. We can call or text to let you know when it’s ready.”
“I’ll just call at six,” Mara said quickly. She turned to leave, and Will followed close behind.
“I hate that,” Mara said, once they were safely back in the car and driving away. “I know it’s a serious drug and they have to take precautions, but still. I feel like a kid being lectured by the school counselor instead of an adult filling a prescription.”
“Hey, don’t knock guidance counselors. The one at my school talks to everyone with more respect than that.” That earned him a small smile. “What do you want to do with the rest of the day? We’ve got a few hours to kill. Let’s do something fun.”
“Honestly, I just want to lie down. I’m so burned out from everything today.”
Will waited a beat to be sure she meant it. “You don’t want to watch a movie or anything? Maybe go out to dinner?”
“We don’t have money for that.”
“After a day like this one, we can stand to stretch the budget a little bit. Let’s do something fun. I want to make you happy.”
“Honestly,” Mara said, her voice cracking a little, “I really just want to read for a bit and take a nap.”
He could see the exhaustion in Mara’s face. She was ghostly pale too. “Okay,” Will said. He pulled into their parking spot and guided her up the stairs with one hand at the small of her back. “I’ll be around if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Mara mumbled. She picked up her book from the nightstand but made no effort to open it. Will softly closed the bedroom door behind him.
Without Mara, the apartment was too quiet. He could hear the footsteps of neighbors going up and down the staircase in the hallway. If he strained his ears, he thought he could hear Mrs. Hiddleston talking loudly to her husband in the apartment below. None of which was enough to drown out the thoughts that now clamored for his attention.
No. Not now. He would delve into the deep stuff some other time, when he wasn’t sitting alone in the echoing apartment. When Mara got up, they would talk. They’d deal with everything the way they always did: together.
* * * * *
Napping was Mara’s domain. Will never napped—not since he was in preschool, anyway. Napping was for people who had a reason—like, say, chronic pain. Or terrible news at the doctor’s office. Or overwhelming offers from the Justice Department to go back in time. He only qualified for one of those.
All the same, Will was surprised when his phone startled him awake, buzzing insistently on the end table. It took him a minute to get his bearings, adjust his glasses, and wipe the thin line of drool that connected his cheek to the couch cushion. Ew.
The phone had stopped vibrating, signaling that the caller had either given up or left a message. Will checked the screen.
It was Tristan, the one friend—other than Mara—who had stuck with him since college. Pretty much everyone else from Adams Morgan University had quietly faded from now-and-again meet-ups to strictly Facebook friendships. Will yawned and tried to keep the sleep out of his voice when he called him back.
“Oh, good. Glad I caught up with you. What are you up to tonight?” Tristan asked.
“Nothing much,” Will said noncommittally.
“Awesome. I have a favor to ask.”
“You know, come to think of it, I do have a pretty busy schedule . . .”
“Uh-huh. Our pianist got the flu. Is there any way you can sub for the choir rehearsal tonight? She should be bett
er by Sunday so it would just be tonight. I promise.”
Will wavered for a minute. He wanted to get out. Everything about the apartment reeked of loneliness and tiredness and pain. On the other hand, he didn’t want to leave Mara here, to wake up alone and discover he was gone.
Will briefly considered waking up Mara to ask her to sit in on a choir rehearsal for the New Life Community Church tonight. He already knew how she’d answer to that.
“Of course, we’ll pay you for your time,” Tristan added hurriedly.
That cinched it. “When should I be there?”
“You’re a lifesaver. Five o’clock if you can, so you can look over the music. Rehearsals are usually pretty short. Everyone comes after work and wants to be home by six-thirty or seven for dinner.”
Which meant he would be home around seven-thirty or eight, by the time he got all the way back from the other side of the District. Not so bad. He could probably stop and pick up Mara’s prescription for her on the way home, assuming the pharmacist didn’t put him through the Spanish Inquisition. “Tell you what. I’ll come at four-thirty.”
“Why’s that? You forget how to read music?”
“Nah. Last time we played pool, you beat the crap out of me. I’m challenging you to a rematch.”
“You’re on.”
* * * * *
Tristan’s break shot sent the pool balls all over the table. One ball rolled straight into a pocket. “I’m playing stripes,” Tristan said.
Will chalked his cue, more to give himself time to strategize than anything. The last time he’d played pool was a month ago—with Tristan, actually. Since the New Life Community Church had added a pool table to their Youth Center, Will guessed that Tristan played every week at least. It showed.
Back in college, he and Tristan could have been mistaken for brothers. Tristan’s hair was bleached blond back then, though, and now his naturally dark hair was cropped short in a buzz cut. He’d pierced one ear and gotten more fit too. Tristan looked the part of a youth pastor in an up-and-coming church.