Look at You Now

by Liz Pryor

  Red-earring Deanna had her coat wrapped around her like a blanket and a rancid look on her face. “What the fuck, is there no heat in here? You people trying to kill us?”

  The woman with the ribbon in her hair looked up and spoke. “There is a problem with the heat. I apologize for that, but we’re going to get the fireplace going. That should help until we can get the heat fixed.”

  “So now we’re the little fucking house on the little fucking prairie?” Deanna said.

  “We’re waiting for maintenance to come light it,” the ribbon woman said.

  Nellie dragged a chair along the cold cement floor next to Tilly. The three of us sat quietly. The other girls were strangely resigned and lifeless, like there was nothing to be done about the cold and this boring situation, like this was just the way it was going to be forever.

  After a while the ribbon lady walked up to my chair and said, “You must be Liz.”

  “Hi. Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Maryann. Nice to meet you, and welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any questions for me?” I wondered who the heck she was and what she did—did she work at the facility like Alice or Ms. Graham?—but I didn’t want to ask. Deanna rolled her eyes and mockingly blurted out, “Do you have any questions? Thannnnk youuu, buuullllsshiiit, who cares?” She scoffed and flipped the finger to both of us. Maryann just ignored her and made her way to a seat near the big window. Nothing happened. This lady was a grown-up, and clearly the person in charge, but she didn’t say or instruct anything, she just sat in her mittens reading a book. A good half hour passed. I was freezing. Nellie was miserable and looked sick. I finally stood up and approached the mitten-wearing Maryann.

  “Um … do you think it would be okay for me to light a fire?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Do you know how?”

  “Yes.”

  Nellie was listening. “If she knows how, she can … right, Maryann? Don’t be a dumbfuck. We’re freezing.”

  “Okay then, Liz, give it a go.”

  There were a couple of old logs in the fireplace. I went outside and found several dry twigs on the side of the schoolhouse and a pile of dry logs in the back. I grabbed everything I could carry and headed back in. There was notebook paper on a shelf in the little room. I scrunched several pieces into balls and then piled it all in under the logs, put a new log on, and asked Nellie if I could borrow her lighter. The girls watched me carefully. In a few seconds there was a pretty good fire going.

  Tilly laughed. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Girl Scouts. What? Has no one here ever been a Girl Scout?” As I turned around from fixing the fire, I could see no one was smiling. It was silent. Deanna finally said, “Yeah, that’s why we’re fucking here, ’cause we were all good little Girl Scouts. Fucking moron.” I felt so foolish. I said a quiet “Sorry” under my breath. The girls all pulled their chairs closer to the fire. I walked around the chilly room, trying to figure out where we were and what we’d be doing. There were some old water-damaged Nancy Drew paperbacks on the floor, and several big picture books for toddlers. Tilly came over and stood next to me.

  “Thanks for making the fire.”

  “Sure. What the heck is this place?”

  “School.”

  School? This was the school? The place I’d be going so my credits could transfer and I could graduate from high school, and then go to college? What the heck?

  I asked Tilly, “Do you do anything here? Read, write, work in workbooks, draw, anything?”

  “Not really. Not much different from my real school actually. We used to read stuff here, but not anymore. Some of these girls don’t know how to read anyway.” They don’t know how to read? I really was through the looking glass. I asked Tilly incredulously, “Is Maryann supposed to be the teacher?”

  “She is the teacher.”

  “But she’s just sitting there.”

  Tilly laughed. “Welcome to your new school.” So that was it? The girls went to this room every day and sat for hours?

  This was an entire world away from my high school, New Trier. I thought about my adviser, Ms. White. She was a teacher I was assigned to check in with every morning for the four years I would be there. She took attendance, discussed the rights and responsibilities we had as students, and chose topics to debate to get us to open up about our thoughts and lives. They looked out for us at New Trier, and no one slipped through the cracks. It was a school that was bursting with opportunity for overachieving students, whose sights were set on attending the best colleges in the country. It was ranked the third best public school in the United States, which my dad boasted about often. And until this moment, I’d never given any of it a thought. I was a casual student who had been somewhat uninterested in my studies, indifferent about my grades and participation. I got by reasonably well with little effort. Last time I saw my adviser, Ms. White, just before Christmas break, she’d sat me down and given me the old you-have-such-potential, why-don’t-you-try-to-focus-on-your-studies lecture. I had taken all of it for granted: all of her respect and interest in me. I looked over at the ribbon lady, Maryann, and suddenly felt horrible. Mortified, actually.

  The Morticia girl tapped my shoulder from behind. I was jolted back to the moment. She asked, “The fire’s going out—can you fix it?” The girls were all warming their hands in front of their big bellies, fighting for a spot near the flames. I took Tilly outside and we filled a bucket with kindling and sticks and dry pinecones. We came back in with enough to keep a fire going for days. I put a new log on, and the girls moved closer. Nellie sat back quietly. I could feel her looking at me.

  “Lighter.”

  “Oh yeah.” I handed it back to her.

  “She used to read stuff sometimes, but everyone got so rowdy Maryann stopped. I guess I can’t blame her,” Nellie said.

  “What did she read?”

  “I don’t know, different stuff. There’s a box of magazines and shit over there. I saved this one ’cause I want to read it.” She pulled a worn copy of a Reader’s Digest magazine out from her big coat pocket. I read the subtitles on the cover out loud.

  “Complete guide to needlework, Your garden, your home, Parenting twins. Did you read the article on parenting twins?”

  “Not yet.” She handed me the magazine and said, “Here, you read it.” I laughed, pushed it back, and said, “I’m not having twins, you read it.” Then I realized: Holy crap, maybe Nellie couldn’t read. I carefully reached back for the magazine and began to read the story about the twins out loud. It was written by a woman who had given birth to identical twins, a single mother who lived in northern California. Nellie was sitting so close she was almost in my lap. Tilly and a few of the other girls listened too. By the third page, everyone was listening.

  Deanna interrupted. “Read fucking louder, radio girl, so we can hear you.” The story began by talking about the difficulties of carrying twins, and then moved into a slightly graphic description of the birth. The girls all screeched and groaned when the story got to the labor part. Then it moved on to meeting the babies and becoming a family. Nellie rubbed her big belly and said, “See? These babies are gonna make my life good.”

  Maryann, our non-teacher, walked toward me with a big box and placed it on the floor at my feet. It was filled with dozens of Reader’s Digest magazines. I looked up at her, and she smiled a little and made her way back to the window. The girls swarmed the box. They talked about the pictures and some read the titles aloud. The young scar-faced girl sat down, opened one of the magazines to a story, and handed it to me.

  I read seven stories from the magazines that morning. Most of the girls ended up lying on their coats on the floor in front of the fireplace. The snow outside never relented, and Deanna ended up tending the fire like an expert until it was time to leave a few hours later. The school day was over—a school day unlike any I’d had before.

  When we got back to the facility, the guard l
ady—Chief—came out from around the gate and stood in front of me with two huge boxes. “You got some mail, girl.”

  Tilly took the boxes from her while I signed for them. We carried them back to my room.

  “Who are they from?” Tilly asked.

  “I think my dad and his wife.”

  She laughed. “Ha, not your stepmother? Your dad’s wife?”

  “Yeah. Well, yeah, I don’t really see her as a stepmother.”

  Nellie handed me a key to open the box. I ran it down the side seam of the cardboard, reached in, and pulled out a brand-new hotplate, several cans of soup, four boxes of saltines, canned fruit, peanut butter, jelly, pretzels, raisins, Fruit Roll-Ups, a huge box of SweeTarts, and a few jars of peanuts. At the bottom was a wrapped box. I opened the box to find a windup alarm clock with Snoopy on the face and Woodstock on the top with a hammer to hit the bell. A note inside read: Hope this helps, we love you, Kate and Dad.

  Nellie snickered. “Shit, sounds like a pretty fucking good stepmother to me. What’s in the other one?” I opened the second box and pulled out three plush yellow bath towels, a few washcloths, and a pink terry-cloth robe.

  “Man, come on, I’ve never had a robe. Can I try it on?” Tilly asked. I nodded and Tilly put the robe on over her smock. At the bottom of the box were two pairs of blue jeans. Nellie pulled them out and unfolded them.

  “Look at this shit?” she said. The jeans had a sewn-in piece of black stretchy fabric; there was no button and zipper, just a big elastic panel. Nellie grabbed the black elastic part of the jeans and stretched it out about three feet; we all burst out laughing. Nellie was flabbergasted. “What the fuck? This is for your stomach … get it? It’s for your big fat baby gut. That’s fucking hilarious, pregnant jeans?”

  Tilly grabbed the other pair and stretched the stomach part over her head. And then read the tag. “Look, it says Mama Jeans.” I dug into the box again and pulled out a beautiful toasty fleece sweater and three maternity shirts.

  I finally decided to unpack, to put the clothes and things from my suitcase in the drawers, along with the stuff Kate and my dad sent. It was all too real to ignore. I surrender. I was there, and I was going to be there a long, long time. I stuffed my suitcase in the back of the closet and put all the food in the other empty dresser. I pulled the fleece sweater over my head and felt the cozy soft warmth against my chest. Nellie and Tilly sat on the bed watching me put clothes away. They reminded me of the twins, just sitting there staring at me, the way Jennifer and Tory sometimes did. It comforted me—it made me feel like they might need me a little.

  I asked them, “You guys want some food? Please take anything.”

  They both grabbed for the candy. Nellie talked while she chewed. “So what’s the real story, Liz? Why are you hiding?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, so big deal, you got pregnant. Why hide?”

  “Well … my parents think if people find out that I’m pregnant, it will ruin my life.”

  They thought this was funny. Tilly said, “Everyone I know knows I’m pregnant. Guess my life is ruined.”

  Nellie laughed, and then asked, “Why? Rich people don’t get pregnant?”

  “I don’t know if we’re rich people.” I said.

  Nellie almost spit her food out. “Oh no? Think again, Liz. You are soooo fucking rich people—it’s not funny. Except most rich people suck, but you’re a nice rich person.”

  Tilly smiled. “Yeah, you are. I mean, I don’t know any rich people, I only see them on TV.” She thought for a second. “What’s it like to be rich, Liz?”

  “I don’t know, Tilly. What’s it like to be … whatever you are?”

  “Poor? That’s easy; it sucks, makes everyone pissed off.”

  Nellie laughed. “Just so you know, Liz, poor, super poor, sucks cocks in hell. Not having enough makes people ugly and … tired.”

  Tilly laughed. “And pregnant.”

  They both cracked up—they’d moved on to the raisins by now. Nellie kept talking. “My mom is always mad about everything. I remember feeling so sorry for her, trying to help when I was little, but she was such a fuckup, got fired all the time and drank too much… . Why am I talking about this shit?” She went silent.

  I looked at Nellie and then at Tilly and suddenly felt so stupid. I had never given an ounce of thought to people my age—kids—whose lives might be so different from mine, so insanely hard. Until that very moment, I truly imagined everyone knew their mom and dad, and had food, and a home, and love, and someone in the world who knew where they were, and paid attention to who they might become.

  Nellie pulled a man’s brown billfold out of her pocket. “I wish I could remember when I was a baby. Seems like my mom was so much happier. She looked happy, didn’t she?” She pulled out of the billfold a worn picture of an adorable little baby in the arms of a young girl—a girl even younger than us.

  “That’s your mom?” I said. Holy crap.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “How old was she when she had you?”

  “Just a little younger than me.”

  Tilly looked at the picture. “She’s pretty, Nellie.”

  “Yeah. I must look like the asshole who fucked her.”

  What? What did she just say?

  I asked her, “What do you mean, Nellie, you mean your dad?”

  “Yeah. It was a one-night stand. My mom says she doesn’t remember him; only thing she remembers is that he was an asshole. When she’s super mad at me, she says I must be like the asshole who fucked her.”

  I was in shock. Nellie’s words made me feel something way too deep and dark. It was so sad that Nellie could ever think or say those things about herself. My throat was tightening as I fought more tears back.

  Tilly asked her, “So you never even met your dad?”

  “I don’t have a dad, Tilly. No dad, get it?”

  We all sat there until Nellie said, “You got a picture of your mom or dad, Liz?”

  “What? Um, no, but … I think I have a picture of my sisters and brothers when we were younger … I think.” I went over to my journal, which I kept slightly hidden beneath the two books I’d brought, Great Expectations and Terms of Endearment. I opened the journal to the last page and pulled out a black-and-white family photo of the seven Pryor kids. At that moment, I almost didn’t want to show it to them. I felt bad that I had a family … and a dad I knew, and food and love. It was as though I was seeing the real view of myself for the first time. What must the girls think? How could I never have known until now the luckiness of my life? The picture was a Christmas card photo taken by a professional photographer when I was younger, about six years old. My brothers were dressed in their Brooks Brothers button-downs, my older sisters and I in our knit dresses, and the twins were babies, sitting on my brothers’ laps. We all dutifully stood in our places on and around the piano bench. Jennifer, one of the twins, was crying in the photo; I remember they couldn’t get her to stop crying. In the dozens of pictures they took, she just kept crying. Dorothy, in her inimitable style, figured out a way to make it all work. On the Christmas card that year she had inscribed, “All the Pryors wish you a very merry Christmas … Well, almost all.” I turned around and hesitantly handed the photo to Nellie. She was as shocked as I’d been a minute ago, for a different reason.

  “Get the fuck outta here, no way. That’s your family? Is that you? You’re richer than rich. That looks like a picture in a goddamned magazine.”

  “Let me see.” Tilly leaned down. “Holy cow, that’s so cute. There are so many of you. And you all have the same father?”

  What? “Yeah, we have the same dad,” I said.

  Nellie looked carefully. “Those are the twins?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tilly softly said, “Liz has a real family.”

  “She sure fucking does.” Nellie looked out the window and then said, “Play a song, will ya? And not those sad songs you like: fun ones.” Tilly handed me th
e guitar. Nellie took off her cardigan and hollered, “Look out, ’cause I can sing.” I jumped on the bed and started with “Sweet Home Alabama,” while Nellie sang along. We laughed so hard Tilly almost peed her pants. We had missed lunch, so we fired up the new hotplate and ate Campbell’s chicken soup with saltine crackers, a lot of saltine crackers. And a hundred SweeTarts for dessert. I looked over at Tilly and Nellie, and something felt different. Something let up inside, like a release. I had the feeling I get when I’m with my friends. Nellie and Tilly weren’t strangers anymore, and I felt less like a stranger too.

  Nellie stood up and stretched. She got so tired in the afternoons, she could barely keep her eyes open. Her ankles were even more swollen than the other day, and the boils on her face looked raw and painful. She took a handful of SweeTarts and left to take her afternoon nap. I looked over at Tilly and asked, “Can I ask you for a favor?”

  She darted up. “Oh my God, yes. Fuck yes, please. What do you need?”

  “Will you walk over there to the trash, take that damn art smock off, and throw it away?”

  She looked at me, furrowed her brow, and asked, “What? Why?”

  I walked over to the dresser, reached in the drawer, and pulled out one of the three new maternity shirts Kate sent: the one with the white Peter Pan collar and navy blue smocking over the green-and-blue-checkered flannel fabric. It was soft and warm and adorable. “Here, take this and keep it, please,” I said, handing it to her.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Liz.”

  “I’m not. It’s not my color and it’s too small on me, so just take it and keep it, okay?” Tilly’s round eyes filled with tears. She peeled her smock off, revealing her scraggly bra, huge belly, and thin little toothpick legs. She walked over, put the smock in my trash can, and laughed as she put the new shirt on. She stood in front of the mirror, wiped her eyes hard, and then ran her hands over the flannel and said, “I don’t know what to say.” She looked again in the mirror and then softly said, “It almost makes me kind of okay to look at.” Holy hell, that was a sad, sad thing to hear her say.