The Ruining

by Anna Collomore

  “You know,” I interrupted, “I was hoping to have some time on my own, just to think. Do you mind if I take one of the cars over to that hiking trail in Muir Woods? I really want to go on a walk, and I’d love to see it.”

  “Absolutely,” Libby said. “But don’t you want to go somewhere closer? Why don’t you just walk down by the water? It’s so lovely right here. Besides, I might need you close today in case something comes up. Walker’s busy preparing for his trip to Shanghai, and I could use the extra set of hands.”

  “I guess . . . I don’t know, I guess I wanted to go somewhere a little more private,” I told her. I needed this day off, for my sanity. And the truth was, I had always loved the woods. I loved how the trees closed in a canopy above me, so I was completely protected from the outside world. I’d only been on a few camping trips—once with school friends in Michigan, and once with my mom and Lissa long ago—but I remember feeling like I could spend forever in the forest. There’d been so much to see, and so many ways to get lost, but for some reason it had inspired comfort and happiness rather than fear. I wanted to feel that way again. On the shore at Belvedere, though, I could be seen by anybody in one of these houses. I’d be exposed, vulnerable. I didn’t want that. I wanted walls. I wanted to wrap myself up in the trees and nestle down into the woods where I could feel like the only person there, like no one in the world could find me. But I couldn’t say any of this to Libby.

  “Don’t be silly!” she insisted. “The bay is perfect for reflection and solitude. And it’s so lovely. Why on earth would you want to go into the woods? It’s filthy out there, and there are all kinds of bugs. What if you come back with ticks? Are you a hippie? Only druggies and hippies hang out in the woods, Nanny. I don’t approve of the whole philosophy behind that way of life.” She rummaged around in the cupboards, pulling out ingredients for the kids’ lunches.

  “I just really want to go on a hike,” I said. “To see some nature.” Libby emerged from the pantry, a jar of peanut butter in hand.

  “What is this?” she asked, her voice cold.

  “Peanut butter,” I replied dumbly. I wasn’t sure where she was going with it.

  “Nanny, why would you bring peanut butter into our home? You know very well that Zoe’s allergic!”

  “I just thought—I didn’t want to rely on you for food so much, and there are the safety locks on the cupboard—”

  “I’m afraid you won’t be able to borrow one of our cars today,” she said in a chilly tone, cutting me off. “It just isn’t possible. We may need them. I suggest that you visit the beach if you’d like to get outside.” Libby opened the trash under the sink and dropped the peanut butter in with a thud.

  • • •

  WALKING ALONG THE BAY a half hour later, I had the eerie sensation of being in the focus lens of a telescope. Waves crashed into the rocks that rose all around me, sending sprays of wet foam into the air. And the craggy hillsides certainly obscured some of the houses from view. Yet it felt as though everyone in the palatial homes surrounding the coast had trained their eyes on me. But why would they? I was so insignificant in their world.

  Why did Libby have her eyes trained on me? There was something odd about the way she took an interest in me, the way she vacillated from concerned and caring to cold and disapproving. And the way my happiness in Marin County hinged on her approval wasn’t right. I knew it. I wouldn’t go as far as to call it pathological, but I had to get a grip, to form a social life outside of the Cohen family.

  But how could I, when Libby had turned away the only girl I’d tried to bring home? When she’d encouraged me to break off the only real relationship I’d formed thus far? When I’d moved to Marin County, I’d thought I could have it all. I thought it would be a breeze in comparison to the worry and stress I’d felt over my mother’s fate and my inability to break free of the poverty-clad binds that kept me tied to Detroit. But the truth was, being in California was no different. I was equally enslaved to my fate. It just happened to be a different life without choices. And as long as there were no choices, what did it matter where the insular sphere happened to be?

  I knew I’d been emotional, overwrought, strung out. But how much of that had been me and how much had been Libby putting pressure on me? The more I thought about it, the more I suspected that I’d handled the Owen situation the wrong way. I should have put more thought into it, or at least waited until I’d calmed down. And now I’d ruined everything.

  I moved away from the water, as close to the hill line as I could, in an attempt to conceal myself from any prying eyes. I took off my flip-flops and felt the sand sift over my toes. I rubbed its granules between my fingers, mostly just to assure myself that all of this was real. I was a real, rational, thinking person. And I knew in my heart that I had made a mistake.

  I stood and began to walk back, feeling a new resolve. I’d apologize to Owen. I’d tell him I wanted to make it work, and that I was ready to support his business endeavors, no matter where they might take him. I’d set boundaries with Libby. I’d tell her what I wanted. I’d tell her that the yellow wallpaper needed to come down. And my door needed to go back up. And that I needed more than one day off in order to get through school. If only I could handle everything differently, all of it would get better. I needed to talk to Owen right away, though. I couldn’t let any more time slip by.

  I walked up the coast, back toward the house. Cutting up toward our lawn, I began to cross over toward the Oswalds’. I heard Izzy barking outside in the front yard as I approached from the back. I smiled to myself; Izzy had a strange way of normalizing everything. When I rounded the side of the house, Izzy and Owen were already outside. There was a car in the driveway, a red vintage convertible. I couldn’t make out the driver, but it was obviously someone Izzy knew well; she had her paws up on the driver’s side and was tucking her head over into the seat, where someone was reaching out to pet her.

  Then the person turned off the car and opened the door. Out emerged the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She had long, tan legs and a tiny, athletic figure. Her blonde hair tumbled down her back in the kind of waves I’d always assumed had come from stylists, not nature. She was wearing low wedge heels and tiny red shorts with a loose-fitting white blouse. Bangles covered her wrists and large, black-framed sunglasses perched on her nose. She was too pretty for real life. She was even prettier than Libby.

  Owen walked up to her and she leaped into his arms. She laced her hands behind his neck and gave him a huge kiss on the cheek. I paid attention to the way his arms were wrapped around her little waist, drawing her body closer to his. I froze. I was already halfway toward the front of the yard, on his side of the fence. If I turned back, they might see me. They might see me either way.

  And then they did. She did. She nudged Owen and he turned. His face morphed from a happy grin to something carefully void of expression. I walked forward, placing one foot in front of the other, willing myself to endure the mortification simply because I had to. Izzy barked twice and ran up to me, covering me with kisses.

  “Iz, stop,” said Owen, clearly annoyed.

  “Hi,” the girl called out in a confused tone. “I’m Alexis.”

  “Annie,” I said woodenly. I kept going, walking past Owen. I couldn’t even entertain the thought of explaining to them why I was in his yard. Then I heard his footsteps behind me, and his hand was on my wrist.

  “Annie,” he said. “Annie . . . look. Just wait. I need to talk to you about some things.”

  “Sure seems like it,” I muttered, trying not to cry.

  “What? I—Annie, about Libby. About the Cohens.”

  “Owen, stop,” I said a little too loudly. I looked behind him and saw his new girlfriend staring at me with wide eyes. “You’ve only made things harder,” I told him. And then I turned from him and walked away. Whatever he had to say, it just wasn’t worth it. Instead, I put one foot in front of the other one until I reached the house. Only then did I let th
e torrents of tears shake my body. I knelt on the floor of the foyer and sobbed until Libby found me there. Walker took Zoe from the room, and Libby put her arm around me.

  “Nanny,” Libby told me. “You’re all right. I’m going to help you get better. Don’t worry, you’re all right. He’s a smart guy, that Owen. He’s a smart guy, but he doesn’t know a thing about women. He’s too smart for his own good.” Her jaw clenched, and I leaned into her. I cried into her shoulder and it was muffled but violent. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t help but look forward to Walker leaving on his business trip to China the following day. It would give me a chance to be with Libby, who cared about me. Walker was just a thing, an accessory I wanted to decorate my life with someday. Libby was a kindred spirit. A soul sister. She understood me without me having to explain. I cried and cried and cried into Libby’s shoulder, because the person I cared about most had clearly been lost forever, and because Libby had been right all along. I could no longer trust myself and my confused psyche and twisted standards of what was right and healthy. I had to depend on Libby, and from now on, I would listen to everything she had to say. Finally I let her lead me to my room. The first thing I noticed was that my door had been replaced while I was gone. My door was back and everything would be okay again. Even so, I couldn’t rest as Libby had suggested. I stared at the door for hours. It was my only protection from all the things that could hurt me.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  EVEN BEFORE I KNEW what had happened, a feeling of dread consumed me, filling me up until I knew there was no other truth than that impending moment of horror. I stepped up onto the cheap, rickety deck of the aboveground pool. The water was still, serene. The pool looked peaceful, like nothing bad could ever happen there. If I focused on one spot in front of me, I could believe it.

  If I ignored the lumpy, sagging form anchored by the far drain, I could believe that everything would be okay. If I could rewind to two hours ago and stop there forever, everything would be okay. So many “ifs.”

  I stepped closer because I had to. Her little hand reached out to me. She was long dead and still asking for help. Anyone could see she was way past saving. If only she’d been facedown. But she lay on her back just below the surface of the water, her eyes wide open and gaping, her mouth frozen in an expression of fear that I’d never seen before. It broke my heart. I only wanted her to die without experiencing that kind of fear. If she had to die, I wanted her to die innocent, free of any sense of the horror that could exist in this world.

  Her hair was knotted in a big mass and tangled in the drain. She had fallen in, and then it had sucked her deeper. I wondered if she’d died screaming for help, if she’d believed I could save her up until the very last second before she lost consciousness.

  It was a dream, but it was also a memory. It was the kind of memory I fought to escape during the day. I hadn’t experienced it so vividly at night since I’d moved to the Bay Area. I’d thought I was getting better, moving past my sister’s death.

  A frantic need to scratch my left shoulder pulled me more fully awake. The itch traveled down my thigh, my calf. I looked at my body: it was covered in red welts and vestiges of blood and raw skin from where I’d apparently been scratching all night. I couldn’t stop itching. My fingers moved of their own accord, anxiously, as if eager to release the feelings I’d kept underneath for so long. My eyelashes were glued together where my tears had rendered my mascara a gooey, sticky pulp. I didn’t remember scratching myself, but my legs were covered in red streaks beneath the hem of my cotton jersey skirt and there were bloody scabs, freshly congealed, on my arms. I looked under my fingernails and there were little flecks of it, red and black grime from dirt and skin and blood.

  As I emerged from my haze, I remembered two things: First, that Owen and I had broken up. Second, that before I’d dreamed about Lissa, I’d dreamed a million tiny worms with hooks were burrowing their way under my skin, threatening to change me into one of them. The memory of my dream made me itch more. I felt a tingling under spots on my right thigh and calf, both of my forearms, my neck. It spread and spread, the itch overwhelming my body until I felt as though my skin were on fire. For a brief second I imagined the worms were real, that my dream hadn’t been a dream at all. That they were there, wriggling under my skin with their miniscule hooks, taking the me of me away and replacing it with Nanny, only Nanny. I swallowed hard to prevent myself from vomiting. I begged my fingers not to move. I thought if I could control them, I could control the sensations on my skin, too. But my fingers were aching to do more than just itch: the hollow feeling in my chest where all my love for Owen used to reside made me want to claw at my face. And the vivid reminder of Lissa made me want to shred my eyes. Physical pain was so much easier to bear.

  It was the first time I’d called my feelings for Owen love—but why not? I cared for him as much as I’d ever cared for anybody. But maybe I wasn’t capable of actual love. The one thing I couldn’t trust after all of this was my gut.

  My phone read eight o’clock. I eased out of bed carefully and padded toward Zoe’s room, my head throbbing. Zoe was still asleep, her eyelids puffy and her hair a tangled mess. I smoothed her hair gently from her forehead and headed downstairs. The house was empty; there was no note. I knew Walker was now in Shanghai for a conference, but I didn’t know what Libby could be doing so early. I peeked out the back window at the pool; the water was unbroken. I helped myself to a cappuccino and hoped Zoe would stay asleep a while longer. My brain throbbed.

  The kitchen was a mess. Libby rarely cleaned anything, but she rarely cooked either, so we ordered in a lot or ate whatever gourmet snacks she’d purchased. I’d grown accustomed to foie gras and salmon roe in the past months—it had been a bizarre and varied education, varied because for every pâté there was a carton of Goldfish crackers and hot dogs. Some days, I let Zoe design our menu.

  Maybe Libby had a solo binge, I thought to myself, though I knew better. (Libby didn’t eat.) There were open cheeses with huge chunks taken out of them and a slab of tenderloin doused in mushroom sauce. There were chocolate-covered strawberries with the bottom halves bitten off. It looked like the meat had been left out all night. A cluster of ants congregated atop it, drunk and drowning in excess. I hadn’t noticed the mess when I came in last night, but I’d been so caught up in my own anxiety that it wasn’t altogether surprising.

  I walked to the coat closet and pulled out one of Libby’s many cashmere “dusters,” which were basically just long, fancy sweaters. I picked the red one. I wrapped it around me, enjoying the way its soft fibers brushed against my skin. I picked up my coffee in one hand and padded out to the front yard barefoot. It was a beautiful day. I wanted to sit in the sun awhile before I cleaned up the mess.

  I wanted to sit in the sun forever. It warmed away the chill that had covered my skin since the night before, easing the intensity of the itchy rash that had wound its way over my arms and legs. There were welts now; I could see them. They’d popped up in mere moments. It was getting worse. I’d have to see a doctor once Libby came home. Sitting cross-legged on the lawn wasn’t helping. I ran my fingers lightly over the spots the blades of grass had antagonized and prayed I’d have the strength to resist clawing at my skin. It was already looking so awful. Nothing was uglier than broken, diseased skin. Nothing was uglier than I was right then.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  NEXT DOOR, a curtain in Owen���s room fluttered gently. I kept my eyes trained on his window, all aloof pretenses gone. I wanted him to see me. I imagined he’d come save me again. From what, I didn’t know. I waited for his message in the window. I remembered the day he formed a heart with his hands and hoped for that all over again.

  But it wasn’t Owen’s familiar face I saw outlined against the shadows of the window; it was a decidedly feminine bone structure with long, flowing hair. Alexis. It darted through my head, Alexis, just like that. Alexis so fast and so painful I couldn’
t keep it away. It wasn’t her, it couldn’t be her. It wasn’t Alexis. He wouldn’t do that, not so soon.

  A truck pulled up, a mail truck. It stopped in the driveway. A man got out of the truck. He moved toward me on the grass like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. There was a mailbox right in front of him, but he looked at me like it was supposed to be my decision whether he dropped the mail there or not.

  “It’s okay,” I told him from the grass. “You can drop the mail in the mailbox.” He nodded and smiled just a little, and I smiled back at him reassuringly to let him know it really was okay, I hadn’t just been saying that. He dropped the mail and got in his truck and drove away. And then I stood up and tried not to look at that face in the window. I looked anyway. But it was gone. I would call Owen when I got inside. I grabbed a handful of mail. One of the pieces of mail was addressed to Ms. Annie Phillips. It was from SFSU. I walked inside and put that letter in the trash without opening it and without really knowing why I didn’t want to.

  I picked up my cell phone and dialed Owen. It rang once, twice, three times . . . seven times . . . voicemail. “You’ve reached Owen, leave a message at the beep. Beeeeep.” I called him again. I needed to know who Alexis was. I needed to know how he could do this to me. Seven rings and voicemail again.

  I tried again.

  Again.

  Again.

  I walked outside and his car was gone. They went away. I pictured them looking at his phone and laughing at my calls. Getting creeped out when I kept it up and then calling me a freak, a weirdo. I don’t know what I saw in her, he’d say. And she’d say, Yeah, and didn’t she smell like the Goodwill bin? I didn’t feel jealous, exactly. What I felt was something more complicated than that. I felt inferior. I felt like the little kid playing at having a boyfriend. And I felt like an idiot—how could I have ever thought he’d be capable of falling for me when he could have someone like her?