Look at You Now

by Liz Pryor

  “You can and you will.”

  “No, Mom. Not after knowing what I know. Please, I can’t.”

  But Dorothy stood up and stepped toward me, pointing her finger. “You will do this,” she said. I backed up out of the kitchen, stumbling. She kept pointing her finger nearer, and finally on my chest, until I’d backed all the way up the stairs to the hallway. She pointed toward my room. I backed in the door, she silently pointed to the bed. I sat down. She stepped in, shut the door behind her, and looked at me with a frightening resolve.

  “You will do whatever you have to do to graddduuuaaatteee from high school, Liz Pryor. Taking this photograph is a part of that.” She walked out the door and came back a few seconds later with a light blue oxford cloth button-down and placed it on my bed.

  “You can wear this, it’s clean and ironed. Brush your hair and come down to the car.” I cried like a baby as I changed into the shirt. I looked at my puffy self in the mirror. I didn’t want to have a picture of me, at the lowest point in my life, that would live in a yearbook until the end of time. I wanted to run and hide and bury myself somewhere, leaving behind no evidence. The entire car ride to the studio, I tried to convince Dorothy we should turn around. She wouldn’t budge. We sat in the parking lot in front of the photography studio while I pleaded with her.

  “Mom, please. Look at me. I don’t look like myself. I don’t want to see people now that I know. Please, I can’t do it.” She turned and said, “Get out of the car, and pretend that you can.”

  I slowly walked into the studio, wiped my tears, and pretended I was a normal girl. I said hi to a few kids I recognized. I waited my turn and walked into a little room with a brown cloth backdrop and a chair. The photographer put some cover-up under my eyes and told me to smile, and I did.

  • • • •

  Alice sauntered into the lounge. In her annoying singsongy voice, she announced she had some news. The priests from the church next door had invited all the girls in the facility to join them for Easter brunch at the rectory. Alice went on about bacon and sausage and pastries and chocolate Easter eggs, and the girls hooted with excitement.

  “I imagine everyone will be able to make it? But we will need a head count,” Alice said.

  “I won’t be there,” I said. “My mom’s coming to visit.”

  Tilly looked over at me. “So you’re leaving for the only good meal we will ever have in this place? The only meal you could actually eat?”

  “Sorry …” I said, smiling. I couldn’t wait for Easter.

  “Well, I hope this baby doesn’t fall out of me while you’re gone,” Tilly said. She looked up at the ceiling with a pout.

  “You may not have that kid while I’m gone, Tilly,” I said. “I’m not kidding. I want to be here when you go.”

  “Well, she better cross her fucking legs, then. Look at her, she’s about to burst,” Amy said.

  Jill cleared her throat and shuffled her deck loudly at the table. She expertly swooshed all fifty-two cards onto the table facedown and said to me and Tilly, “Both of you, pick a card.” I reached over and picked the card on the end. Tilly picked one from the middle of the fan line.

  “Show ’em to me,” Jill said. I turned over the king of hearts; Tilly showed us the four of clubs. Jill smiled. “She’s not gonna have that baby while you’re gone.”

  • • • •

  I couldn’t wait for my mom to visit. I loved Easter as a kid, I mean I loved it. Waking up in the morning to our baskets at the end of our beds, filled with silly toys and jelly beans … We’d all get out of bed and line up at the top of the big staircase, gripping our baskets, waiting for the okay from our parents. When my mom gave the sign, we’d fly down the stairs like maniacs and into the giant open living room, where you could see hundreds of candy eggs hidden on top of pictures, inside lampshades, in the corners of couches and chairs, in the pleats of curtains, in plants, under the piano. And then we’d eat chocolate eggs till we were sick to our stomachs.

  My memories of the holidays throughout the years lived very specifically inside me, glowing and permanent. My mom had a passion for tradition that went beyond the norm. She loved holidays and customs with every morsel of her being. I mean she poured her joy into those days like nothing else. Her contagious enthusiasm brought the magic, and surprisingly, year after year, it never failed to meet the expectation. This year, despite everything, it would be a scrap of normalcy—of happiness—for me to hang on to.

  • • • •

  Later, back in my room, Wren knocked on the door and shouted that I had a phone call.

  I picked up and heard the familiar voice.

  “Hellllooooo, Liz, dear.”

  “Hiiiiiii, Mom, how are you?”

  “I’m well, honey. How is it going?”

  “Okay, I guess. I mean I’m getting pretty tired of it here. I can’t wait to see you. Where are we going for Easter? Wait, actually, I don’t care. I just want to see you.”

  There was a long pause. I detected the slightest trace of the Katharine Hepburn voice as she began to answer.

  “Liz, I … well, I couldn’t exactly work it out with your father and the twins for Easter.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Your dad apparently has plans and couldn’t accommodate taking the twins, so it doesn’t look as though I can make it to you for Easter. It’s just too difficult to work out. I can’t bring the twins to you, and I can’t leave them here for Easter, you see?” I felt everything inside me drop a notch.

  “Well …”

  “Of course, I can come after at some point. But probably not until the following week. The thing is, Rosemary and her family have invited us all down to Sea Island, Georgia. We haven’t been anywhere in a long time. I thought I’d take the twins at least, and we can have a nice time. It won’t be very Easter-like, but … I feel terrible, sweetheart. I know how much you would love it. Liz, are you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I am sorry, honey, so sorry. I will be sure to get up to see you as soon as we return.”

  “How long will you and the twins be gone?”

  “Just a week.”

  “Okay … I have to go.”

  “Lizzie, I love you. Happy Easter, sweet …” But I slammed the phone down before she finished. In fact I slammed it several times. I picked the receiver up again and again and again, slamming it back down harder and harder each time. I sat on the cold wooden seat in the phone booth and waited as my brain and my heart caught up with each other. I swallowed the rising ball in the back of my throat, the one that usually meant I was about to cry. But I pushed it back down and felt something different making its way through me. I shoved the phone booth door behind me and headed back to my room. Jill said something as I stormed in, but I didn’t hear her. I lay down on my bed, crossed my arms, and stared up at the ceiling.

  A few minutes later Tilly was standing over my bed, looking down at me. “What happened? Liz? Liz!” She turned to Jill. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. She took the phone call and she’s been lying there like that ever since. I think she’s pissed about something.” Tilly was pacing the room like a lawyer on a TV show. I lay as still as a corpse on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the rage brew inside me. I couldn’t say anything. After trying to get me to talk for a few minutes, they gave up. Jill asked Tilly if she thought I would think it was okay if she borrowed one of the sketch pads that Kate and Lee brought for me. Tilly answered that she was sure I wouldn’t mind. Jill pulled out a new sketch pad for both of them. Tilly talked about Rick while she drew Easter eggs. Jill sat on her bed with a pencil and pad and sketched quietly. I remained still as a statue. My mind tried to push the sadness of the Easter letdown to the front, but I rejected it. I turned it off. I closed it. I told it I was tired of being sad, in fact I was fucking out of sadness. I wasn’t interested in going there—not anymore. I remained still for a long time, listening to Ji
ll’s pencil sketching, ignoring the pain trying to break me. I wasn’t going to let that happen, not anymore. Tilly eventually went to bed, and I finally fell asleep.

  • • • •

  The next morning I woke up feeling something different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Jill was still sleeping, snoring like she always did. Her sketch pad was open at the end of my bed. I picked it up to see an incredible drawing. It was me, sitting on the bed. My hand was on my forehead, and I was smiling and holding my guitar in my lap. It had strange, bold, sharp lines—but the eyes looked just like mine. At the bottom Jill had written in perfect cursive, Sunny Girl with Guitar, April 1979.

  I gazed over at Jill as she slept and wondered how on earth she was the way she was. I leaned the drawing up against the mirror on my dresser. After a long, hot shower, I put on clean clothes and walked down the hall to Alice’s office. She was sitting at her desk.

  “Well, look at the early riser, this is a first.”

  “I guess it’s the new me,” I said. “I wanted to let you know that I kept Nellie’s book she got from the school. Actually I gave it to Nellie to keep.”

  “Oh yeah, Maryann mentioned that book. We couldn’t find it in the room and Tilly hadn’t seen it. So, what? It’s gone?”

  “I’ll give you money for it.”

  “It doesn’t make us look good, you know, to the library. Might have to give you a consequence for breaking the rules.”

  “What kind of consequence?”

  “Well, I guess I’ll assign you double chores for the week.”

  “All right. Also, I am going to be here for Easter now.”

  “Oh?” She looked up at me. “What happened?”

  “My mom can’t come,” I said. And I didn’t cry or get upset. It was just what it was. There was nothing I could do about it.

  • • • •

  I headed down early for my Dr. Dick appointment that morning. I was the first one there. The freaky nurse lifted one eyebrow when she saw me. The doctor came in where I was waiting on the table in the creepy room. As usual, he didn’t look at me.

  “You know the drill, feet up in the stirrups.” But I stayed sitting up, looking at him. My anger seemed to be stirring something different inside me.

  “I have a couple questions,” I said.

  “What is it?” He seemed annoyed. But I could feel just a hint of something; I thought it might be strength. I looked him square in the eye.

  “Can you please tell me when you think this baby will be ready to come out?”

  “I guess I can try,” he said.

  “Okay. And can you tell me if there’s anything I can do to make that part easier?”

  “You mean the labor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Relaxing helps, but nothing’s going to make it easy, young lady.”

  “Okay, and how long will it take?”

  “I have no idea. It could take one hour, forty hours …” Forty hours? “Most of these girls, it’s at least fourteen, maybe twenty hours.” I sat back and put my feet up in the stirrups. I gritted my teeth as he poked and prodded. I felt the back of my throat swelling again, but I pushed it down when he told me to sit up.

  “Looks like this baby will be ready in a few weeks. There is a note in your chart about being out by a certain date. Looks to me like that’s going to happen. If it doesn’t, we can use a drug to bring the labor on, speed up the process.”

  I had another question. I couldn’t look at him when I asked, but I wanted to know. And I finally felt the courage to say it out loud.

  “One more question. Um, there’s this weird liquid or something coming out of my boob.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That’s fine, you’re getting ready to lactate. That happens in the last month or so. Some leaking from the nipples. You’re planning to nurse this baby?”

  “No, I’m giving this baby up for adoption.”

  He actually chuckled, which shocked me. “Well, that’s the most practical thing I’ve heard all year. Good for you, young lady. I’ll write in your chart here that we’ll also be giving you a medication after delivery to help stop lactation, dry you up, all right?”

  He threw his gloves in the trash and left. I stayed on the table a long time, thinking to myself. What if my mom doesn’t come when I’m ready to have the baby? What if it was just me and Dr. Dick? What if the baby doesn’t come out? What if there’s something wrong with it? What if there’s something wrong with it, and the people don’t want to adopt it? What if something happens to me, and Dr. Dick doesn’t give a shit? What if my parents never come back for me? What would I do? The weirdo nurse came to the doorway.

  “Doctor wants me to weigh you again.” I went along and followed her to the scale. She glanced at me as I got off the scale and said, “You’re barely where you should be. You need to eat more.”

  • • • •

  We did a whole lot of nothing for two straight days, waiting for the big Easter brunch. I did double chores because of the stolen library book—triple actually, ’cause Tilly was so big, she could barely move. The day before Easter, the phone in the hall rang. Amy ran for it and told me I had a call.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “It sure sounds like your fancy mom.”

  “Tell her I’m not available,” I said. The room went silent.

  “What the fuck, Liz, I’m not saying that,” Amy said.

  “Okay, then just hang the phone up.”

  “You really don’t want to talk to her?” Tilly said.

  “Nope.”

  Tilly got a determined look on her face, stood up, and said she’d do it herself. When she came back she announced, “Your mom wants you to callllllllllll her.” Everyone laughed.

  But I didn’t. I didn’t want to think about Sea Island, Georgia, the beach, their trip, any of it. Instead, I thought about my older brothers and sisters. I wondered where they were, what they were doing, and where they thought I was. What about my grandparents and my friends? I’d been gone for months. I’d vanished completely and until that moment, I hadn’t realized that no one—not a single person—had reached out to hear my voice. No one had written a letter or demanded some kind of contact. It was as though I was fading into a mere speck of existence, in my own world, cut off from everything that came before. The realization almost choked me. Did no one miss me?

  My mind wandered back to when I was a little girl. To all the nights I’d lain alone, on my back, on the deck of my dad’s schooner. I liked to look up at the brilliantly lit night sky and the thousands of stars and planets. While everyone was sleeping down below, I’d play a game. I’d silently search and search and search for the teeniest star. I’d squint and scan the enormous sky. When I thought I’d finally found it, the smallest fading speck of a star, I’d say out loud, “I found you and I see you, smallest star of them all.” I was becoming smaller and smaller, and I was afraid I might fade and disappear.

  • • • •

  The next morning I woke to the sound of church bells chiming. The sound was beautiful and familiar. For a moment I forgot where I was, I forgot who I was. I looked out at the flawless blue sky, and saw the sun resting at the top of the trees, waiting to warm the day. And then I remembered. It was Easter Sunday. I closed my eyes and listened carefully to the chime of each beautiful bell and decided I wanted to matter. I didn’t care how small I felt, how much I’d faded. I needed to matter, at least to myself. I let the bells fill me up. They got louder and louder until I could actually feel the sound inside me. The more I listened, the stronger I felt. I finally opened my eyes and looked over at Jill. She wrapped her pillow around her head to cover her ears, and then she shouted out to the window, “Fucking bells.”

  I laughed and threw my pillow at her.

  “Motherfucking bells, so loud.”

  “Happy Easter, Jill.”

  “Happy Easter, bitch,” she said. We got out of bed and dressed. Jill smoked a cigarette out the window in the room. Of cou
rse she’d figured out a way to nudge it open just so, so the smoke would go out of the room and not come in. Smoking was forbidden in the bedrooms. She finished the cigarette, closed the window, and tucked her white gauze Mexican shirt with the red-and-yellow smocking into her tan corduroy pants.

  “Easter-y enough?” she asked me.

  “Perfectly Easter-y,” I said. We made our way to the lounge, where the girls were gathered, looking a lot more civilized than usual. Alice appeared at the door, wearing a puffy pink flowered dress and straw hat. The girls whistled and hooted. She twirled once around and then got to business.

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Happy Easter! Listen up. There’s something I forgot to make clear to you girls about today—no church, no brunch! Got that? You all gotta go to mass.” Amy and Deanna moaned the loudest, but we all went along. We weren’t going to miss brunch, not for anything.

  We followed Alice, navigating the dirt path around to the back of the facility in our nicer-than-usual shoes. Tilly had her hair in a tiny ponytail in the back of her head, with a sad green ribbon tied around it. The maternity shirt I’d given her barely covered her stomach now. She turned to me and smiled. “We’re going somewhere, who cares if it’s church, right? We’re out and about!” She looked up at the sky and laughed. None of the girls had been anywhere in a long, long time. We followed the path past the chapel and down a hill. There were a few small buildings and a nice church at the end of the small road where the hospital was. As the wooden doors opened, I felt everything in my body pause. There was the extraordinary sound of the organ, and the familiar smell of Easter lilies. The girls fought about where to sit, and who would go in first, and if they should kneel or sit. Finally, I knelt down, last in the pew, and crossed myself. I craned my neck around to watch the organ player up in the balcony. The music soothed what felt so cracked inside me.

  There was a little girl, sitting in the row in front of me, with her parents and baby brother. She was wearing an Easter bonnet and white tights. She kicked her party shoes against the back of the pew in front of her, and each time her mom told her to stop, she’d do it again. The church was filled with life. The kind of life none of us had seen in a long time. In the aisle, next to me, I saw an enormous white statue of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. It looked almost suspended in air. The look on Mary’s sweet face made me think of my older sister, who once asked my mom if she could pray to Mary instead of God because she was a girl. My mom said we could pray to any of them—to Jesus, to God, to Mary, and to all the saints. In that moment, I prayed to Mary. I asked her if she could help me give birth to the baby inside me. And then I talked to God. I told him I was sorry for all the things I had done wrong, for the mistakes I’d made, for being so careless about sex. I told him I would always be sorry for them, and then I asked him if he could help me be okay in the world, after all of this was over. If he could help make me feel like I mattered again. I hadn’t cried in a while, in fact I was pretty sure I’d finally run out of tears, but as I asked God one last thing—to help me not be so upset with my mom for leaving me there at Easter—I felt the wet drops pouring out of my eyes.