“Okay!” I interrupt again, holding my hand up to indicate stop. It’s just disgusting to hear old people talk about sex.
“Anyway. You get what I mean. The important thing is the connection between two people. If you reduce sex to something as common as a handshake, then you’re missing out on that connection. People need to connect to other people, Melissa. It’s something integral to your soul. And you need to feed your soul, Mel. Feed it, or it will die. You will die inside. You will be empty.”
I pretend I’m not listening, but I am. Because what she’s saying sort of makes sense. And if it weren’t for me being with Michael, feeling how special that was, I don’t think I would ever have come close to understanding her point.
“Tell me, Mel. Why do you think you give your body away so freely, while you hold on to your words, your feelings, so tightly? It seems to me it should be the other way around. Shouldn’t it? You’re a teenager. You need to talk about how you feel.”
“Oh, God …” I hide my face in the couch cushion. I can’t take the awkwardness.
Relentless, she leans in and takes my hands in hers. “Your body is sacred, Melissa. Your body is beautiful and miraculous and sacred.”
I feel like an idiot sitting here on the couch holding hands. But I let her continue because otherwise she’ll keep pestering me.
“Your body is sacred. It’s the most miraculous thing you own. Can you say you truly own anything, Melissa? Anything except your own body? A woman’s body is the most precious gift. If you give it away for free, it becomes worthless. And then the most precious, the most valuable thing you own, your body, becomes worthless. And soon you begin to feel worthless as well.”
She flips over my right hand and starts to rub my palm.
“Do you feel worthless, Melissa?”
Her question freaks me out. It’s a terrible thing to ask. Not many things people say can truly shock me. But for once, an adult, this crazy lady, is speaking the truth. For once, someone has had the guts to say it like it is. I’m both excited and upset: excited because I finally have an answer but upset at the bare-boned truth. Do I feel worthless?
Yes. That is exactly how I feel. Worthless.
And every guy I was with, every fuckin’ one of them, has stripped my soul. How did I not see that?
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your body is sacred,” she repeats.
“You said that already.”
“Your body is sacred,” she says again, like she didn’t even hear me. She just keeps rubbing my palm.
“Okay … enough.” I pull my hand away a bit, but she holds tight and keeps rubbing, so I just let her do what she wants.
“Your body is sacred. Your body is sacred,” she says again and again, as if she were chanting, her eyes closed. My palm starts to burn. I feel so dumb, but for some reason I don’t really want to stop her, so I close my eyes so I don’t feel as stupid.
“My body is sacred, my body is sacred, my body is sacred …” she starts chanting, over and over, so that the words, the rhythm, start to go into my head. And I find myself thinking the words along with her, and they don’t sound so dumb anymore.
My body is sacred. My body is sacred. My body is sacred.
Sixty-Four
Fortune calls my cell at two in the morning. He’s called me lots of times in the past couple of weeks, but I never answer. This time I do, because I’m still awake. He tells me he wants to see me. He pretends nothing ever happened between us, that there was no fight. He doesn’t even ask me about my OD, though I’m sure he knows. He just picks up the conversation like we were hanging out only yesterday.
“I’m doing my own thing,” I say groggily.
“What’s that mean?”
“I mean, I’m on my own. I don’t want a boyfriend. I’m gonna be alone.”
“Ha! You can’t be alone.”
“Fuck you,” I say, in a joking way. I have to admit, it feels sort of nice to be talking to him.
“Come on, baby, come over.” His voice sounds quiet and sleepy and sexy. “I wanna see you. I wanna hold you, babe. I miss you so much …”
I pull my blanket over my head. “You don’t miss me.”
“I do. Really. I think about you all the time. I miss your body—”
“My body is sacred,” I interrupt him before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth.
He laughs. “Wha’d you say?”
“Forget it.”
He starts laughing really hard. “Did you say your body is sacred?” Then he starts fake-laughing just to make me feel like an idiot. And I wonder, why was I ever into him in the first place? At first I think about explaining my words, telling him about Crystal and what happened, but then I think it’s just too long a story and he won’t get it, and why do I need to explain anything to him anyway? I’ll prove to him, to everyone, that I changed just by living my life. He’ll see that I’m not messing around with guys anymore. He’ll see that soon enough.
“Whatever. I gotta go.” I close the phone and switch it off.
Freestyle told me, “Never try to teach a pig to think. It doesn’t work, and it annoys the pig.”
Sixty-Five
I’ve realized something these past few weeks, since the hospital. My mind is now clear and ideas are coming so easily. I’m beginning to think that when you’re in a relationship, it’s not about how beautiful the other person looks, it’s about how beautiful you become when you’re with them. With Michael I was beautiful, inside and out. I said the right things. I did the right things. I liked who I was.
And I have been thinking that maybe I’ve been Echo all the time—in my home, my neighbourhood, with friends. It’s not just with adults. It’s always. And maybe it’s not just the words I’ve been reflecting back to everyone. Maybe it’s also the ugliness. And the hate. And the fear. And the anger. And the self-loathing.
A while ago I remember believing that I was simply reflecting Michael’s beauty. But now, when I really, really think about it, perhaps because he was so calm and clear, quite possibly Michael was reflecting mine.
Up. Up. Up.
Sixty-Six
I am sleeping soundly the night before my court date when shouting from the living room wakes me up. A man’s voice. Someone I don’t recognize. And my mom’s high, screechy voice. They are both yelling in the living room, but I can’t really make out a lot other than swearing. It gets bad. And then it gets really ugly. I hear a fist in his voice. I’ve heard it before, in other men’s voices. It’s why I keep a baseball bat behind my dresser. All these thoughts and images go through my mind. My bloodied mother, dead on the floor. The man coming into my room to finish the job.
I rip open my door. They both turn to me. “Melissa!” my mom shouts, horrified because I’m holding the bat over my shoulder.
“Get out of here!” I shout, storming toward the middle-aged, muscle-headed man with a ball cap and a goatee.
He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering. “Hey, hey … take it easy, Honey …”
“Melissa!” my mom shouts. “Stop! Put it down.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I insist, still on the attack.
Wham. Black. Black. Throbbing in my ears. Then ringing. My face pains. I can’t see. Then little bits of light come into my eyes. Then little bits more. And I start to make out the guy standing in front of me, but I look harder and I see it’s my mother.
My mother hit me! “You fucking hit me …” “Melissa! Melissa!” she shouts, shaking my shoulders. “What the fuck? You fucking hit me?” I keep shouting,
because I just can’t believe it happened. “Melissa! Melissa! Look at me. Are you crazy? What are you going to do with the bat?” Her voice trembles.
I look over her shoulder and around the room for the guy. “Where is he?” My hands are still gripping the bat. My fists get tighter. I’m ready to use it.
I feel her hands on my hands. She pushes the bat down.
“He’s gone, Melissa. He took
off when he saw you.” “You hit me?” I question her again, still a little out of it. “I’m sorry, Hon.” She reaches out a hand to stroke my cheek. “Ow!” I pull away at her painful touch. She reaches her hand back out and with a finger gently
dabs just under my eye. “You’re bleeding. It was my ring. Oh God, I’m sorry.” She pulls me into her. My arms reflexively go around her back, but I’m still holding the stupid baseball bat. I won’t let it go.
“Is the door locked?” I ask, pushing her away. Without waiting for an answer, I go through the kitchen, bolt the door, and put the chain on. “Who was that? What if he comes back?” I scream.
“I’m calling Giovanni.” My mom heads toward the phone. “No! Don’t!” There’s panic in my voice. Too much panic.
She turns and looks at me inquisitively. “Why not? What’s wrong with you lately?”
“Just don’t. We don’t need him. You’ll wake him up.”
She lifts up the receiver. “He’ll understand. He’ll come stay on the couch.”
She breaks down crying when she talks to Giovanni on the phone. I know he’ll be up in a few seconds. I leave the room to inspect my eye in the washroom mirror. The cut’s not deep, but I’m already puffy. So I get some ice from the kitchen, wrap it in a tea towel, and then go into my room. I sit down, my back against the door, head in hands, and wait. Wait. And I hear Giovanni come in through the kitchen. I hear my mom crying. I hear his murmuring for a long time. Then I hear them both walk through the living room. I hear two sets of feet pass. I hear her bedroom door shut. I feel sick to my stomach.
I lie with my face pressed against the dusty hardwood floor. I just can’t believe it happened. This night. That man. My mother hitting me. Just when things were getting better, things got worse. I want to cry, but my eye hurts too much and I’m all dried up anyway.
Sixty-Seven
The sound of the phone ringing in the kitchen wakes me up the next morning. I’m still lying on the floor. I hear footsteps then a gentle knock at my door. “Melissa? That was Sue who called. We need to be there by eleven.”
“Where?” I ask groggily. I can’t make things out clearly anymore.
“Court. Remember?”
I forgot. I’m supposed to go to court today. I’m supposed to stand before a judge and say how great my life is going, that I’ve turned things around. I’m not supposed to tell him that I almost killed a stranger with a baseball bat last night.
I peek out to the living room. My mother’s bedroom door is open. There’s no sign of Giovanni or his shoes or his tool belt or his smell. In the washroom, I stand staring at my face in the mirror, my stupid fucking face. Will my life ever really change? Trouble seems to find me even in my sleep. I try not to feel sorry for myself, because feeling sorry for yourself gets you nowhere. And in some ways I feel good, because I stood up for me and my mom and I’m strong and I’m going to go
far in life. I’m going to get out of the fucking boat if it’s the last thing I do.
“We’ll put some makeup on it. You won’t even be able to tell,” my mom says, squeezing into the washroom. She bends down and takes a shoebox full of old makeup out from under the sink. “Sit on the toilet seat and let me do my magic. I know a thing or two about this.”
I don’t say anything but just do what she tells me. I’m sort of mad at her for bringing that guy around. I thought things had changed. Then I think of her and Giovanni together while I stare at her rounded belly in front of my face.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” she says.
“Who was he?”
“Ahh.” She waves her hand in the air. “It was stupid. Some guy from the tavern. I shouldn’t have brought him home. He seemed okay, but once he saw my belly, he got real angry.”
“You shouldn’t bring strange men back here. We’ll end up dead.”
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m so stupid.”
“Yeah, you are,” I agree.
She swats me gently on the shoulder as if she’s completely offended, but laughs immediately afterward.“We’ll get through this, Hon,” she says, and kisses me on the tip of my nose. “Let’s take one day at a time. Let’s get through this court day.”
Sixty-Eight
I sit between my mother and my social worker, Sue, on the bench outside the courtroom, waiting for them to call my case number.
Sue hasn’t commented yet on my bruised face, but this close up she must see it. I figure she thinks some guy is messing me up and she’ll ask me about it later. Meanwhile, she and my mom make small talk. I can tell my mom is trying her best to avoid the issue of my black eye by bombarding Sue with question after question, about nothing important.
I stop listening to them, lean back into the bench, and close my eyes. I’m so tired from last night that all I want to do is sleep. It’s crazy how calm I feel. I’m not even worried about what the judge will say. If I go to jail, then I’ll get out of my house for a while. If I don’t get convicted, then I’ll think again about moving into that group home. It’s that simple.
My head starts to bob up and down. But instead of sleeping, this instantaneous flash of my life happens, the way they say it does before you die. Everything all at once, yet played out in detail. It’s like my entire sixteen years are captured in a moment. Then I jerk up my head, the way you do after you dream you’re falling.
And for a second, a split second, maybe just a millithousandth of a second, I feel like everything that’s happened to me has been worth it. Like somehow, next time, I’ll know just a little more, get closer to doing the right thing, saying the right thing. I’m proud of the changes I’ve made, even if they are small. Maybe I’m not doomed like Sisyphus. Sure, I will roll the rock up and down, but there will be a summit. An end. And my arms will be that much stronger from all that pushing and chasing.
I feel a hand grip my knee and am startled out of my dozing. “That’s us! You’re lucky that Rachel didn’t call the police about the property assault,” Sue says, tapping me gently on the thigh. “Don’t worry. It’s likely they’ll drop the break-and-enter charge. You’ve got a good judge.”
Sixty-Nine
The judge is a kind-looking old man with greying hair and laugh lines around his eyes. He sort of reminds me of Anthony Hopkins—when he played a quiet butler in a movie, not when he was Hannibal Lecter. After a while of blah blah blah to no one in particular, he finally directs a question to me. “Well, Melissa. It’s been three months. You’ve had a chance to reflect on your actions. I see you’ve been going to counselling regularly and you’re passing your courses. I know there was some recent trouble, but I’m assured you have good supports in place. I have your latest report card here in my hand. Good grades …”
As he’s talking, I stare him down with my black eye that’s no doubt revealed itself under the pasty foundation diluted by sweat. I keep staring, letting him get a good look at me, wanting him to notice the cracks in my face, the way Ms. Dally did, because in a way I still want someone to fix me. To give me another chance. Send me somewhere else, away from everyone I know.
I wait and wait. Staring. I do it long enough for it to become awkward. But he seems clueless. He just goes on about the consequences of my actions being a chain effect, and how it’s often the parents, the mothers, who bear the stress of a teen who just can’t make things work …
“Do you know what you want to do when you graduate from high school?” he asks.
My mom takes my hand and squeezes tightly, cueing me to respond, to say the right thing.
“When I graduate from high school? A veterinarian,” Echo says, which is the right answer, because he smiles at both me and my mom and relaxes in his chair.
“How wonderful.”
I take it back. Kids are not the only ones who see only black and white. Adults do too. I think there’s this phase as a teenager where things are murky, when the truth is naked and raw. You see people wholly. You see all the hypocrisy and the contradictions,
the intertwined good and bad. But it’s so stressful and confusing to see things this way that eventually you stop looking. The little window of perception closes up and you learn to keep it shut. You jam it with something so it doesn’t open up again. And just like that, people are put back into their blacks and whites, a little more categorized, but clearly divided all the same.
Then you get older and you forget that you are seeing only one side of people. I suppose it’s easier to go through life that way. But if you really stopped to think about it, you would understand the jerk who pushes you out of the way, or the bitch in the coffee shop lineup who sighs and mutters about the noisy kid, or the punk who keys your car … You’d know there’s something behind that behaviour. But you don’t care. It’s too late, because you’ve learned to be an echo for so long that even you have forgotten who you used to be.
“So tell me, Melissa, how things are going. Better?” the judge continues, his hopeful eyes awaiting my response.
I feel my heart pound in my chest. What is the right answer? So maybe I’m not doomed to be Sisyphus, but I’m not quite ready to completely let go of Echo yet. I don’t know if I ever will be. Freestyle says, “You can’t change the system. Never try. It’s a machine that will keep running with or without you. Stick a wrench in it and the interruption is only temporary. It will rev up again and you’ll just be left tired and without a wrench.”
Up. Up. Up.
“Better,” Echo repeats, and forces her best smile.
a cognizant original v5 release october 27 2010
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