Sycamore

by Bryn Chancellor

  I drove to the motel that night, alight with something I didn’t understand. That secret of yours. I wanted it to be mine. I climbed onto the motel roof, and freak that I am, I touched myself, my hands on my two good breasts and inside my pants, thinking of you and the man at the house, of Tom Donahue and his seahorse scar, until my eyes rolled back and the sky washed over me. Then I crawled into bed, thinking about my drawings and paint tubes under the bed, and all the places I hadn’t been, shivering in the loneliness that swelled large and gaping in the dark.

  I fell again when I was unloading groceries from the trunk and stepped in a small pothole. My ankle turned, my bags went flying, and I landed hard on my wrist. Sprained it, or at least it swelled up. Tom Donahue touched my hand that day. He picked out a splint and an ACE bandage and showed me how to wrap it. Dani Newell was working that day, too. She asked after my mother. I didn’t know yet about her father, that he was the man on the porch at the dark house. No one did. Except you.

  A week later I fell again, tripped over the curb in front of the office, and I hollered so loud the guests in Room 10 came running out in their robes. At the HealthCo, Tom knelt and prodded my scraped, swollen knee.

  As he pulled Bactine, Neosporin, and gauze from a shelf, I imagined him pulling me into the break room.

  He would lean close—as close as you and the man on the porch must have been—and say, The truth is, I haven’t been overseas. I got fired from my last job in Phoenix, and my great-aunt lives up here. I got this scar in a fight. So you see, I’m not perfect.

  It doesn’t matter, I’d say.

  I’d say, Where should we go?

  And he would say, Anywhere. Anywhere you want.

  Other times I hadn’t fallen, but I pretended I had a sore throat or food poisoning, snatching up Sucrets and Pepto. I said I needed things for my parents: Bengay, vitamin B, glucosamine, cortisone for a rash. I told him about my mom, and he told me he was sorry, and he looked sorry, shaking his head and rubbing his jaw. Each time Tom threw in extras, or wouldn’t charge for everything, or rang in coupons I didn’t have. Each time he looked me in the eye, and each time I could feel my glowing heart, and I felt, well, almost pretty.

  I felt like you must have felt walking into that house.

  But then I overheard my parents talking about a letter that showed up in our mailbox: Adam Newell, Dani’s father, in love with an underage girl. They didn’t know it was you, but I could put two and two together.

  After that, I didn’t see you again until that last night, but I did see him once. He stayed at the motel. He checked in late; it was evening, but he was wearing sunglasses. He had a shadow of beard on his face. His car was piled with crap. He nodded his thanks, took the key, and let himself into his room. The whole time, I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him I understood. I wanted to say, Sometimes that’s how love goes. As if I knew. But of course I didn’t say anything. I heard his car pull out late and then return around midnight. When I got up at six to set up the office, he was gone.

  The night you disappeared was the weekend before Christmas. The motel usually was busy with tourists from Phoenix on their way to see the lights at Tlaquepaque, but because of the storms, everyone had canceled. On that Sunday, after I checked out the last couple and closed the office and left the after-hours sign in the window, I went to my parents’ house, driving carefully through the waterlogged streets, keeping to the center lines to avoid the deepest parts. Inside, I reheated some tuna casserole.

  “Where’s Rose?” I asked.

  “Staying the night at Angie’s,” my mom said. “School’s out tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I said. Meaning Rose probably would be at the motel with Angie and Beto, damn her.

  My dad clicked the TV volume up. “Snowing in Flagstaff. Expecting eight inches or more.”

  My mom said, “I heard the river’s up almost up to the bridge.”

  I stood at the counter and watched the backs of their heads in the TV’s glow.

  I said, “I changed my name.” They didn’t respond. The TV showed a graphic with rain sheeting out of gray clouds. I raised my voice. “I said, I changed my name.”

  My mom swiveled her recliner to look at me.

  I gripped the edge of the counter. “It’s Prentiss now. I go by Prentiss.”

  She glanced at my dad, who also swung his recliner until their feet were almost touching. He ran a hand over his face.

  “Isn’t that a bit strange?” she said. “To go by your last name?”

  “No. It’s not strange at all.”

  “What’s wrong with the name we gave you?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” I touched my cheek. “I wanted a change. Also, I’ve met someone,” I said. “His name is Tom Donahue. He’s a pharmacist.”

  “Tom Donahue,” she said. “At the HealthCo?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re dating?”

  “Not yet.”

  They exchanged another look. “I see.”

  “Stop doing that.” I threw the casserole spoon into the sink. “I’m standing right here. I can see you.”

  “Little girl,” my dad said as he let down the recliner’s leg rest, “hush now.”

  “No, you hush. You hush.” I slapped the counter. “I stayed here. I stayed here for you.”

  My mom said, “We appreciate your help, Stevie. But we want you to have your own life.”

  “My own life.” I laughed. “I still could go. I could.”

  My dad said, “Go where?”

  “To art school, for one thing. I won a motherfucking scholarship.”

  “You watch your language, girl.” He looked at my mom. “What in the world has gotten into her?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me. Tired, probably.”

  “I’m right here!” I said. “Can you even see me?” I pulled my hair back, exposing my cheek. “How about now?” I traced it, moving my finger furiously across the rough skin. “Your gift to me. Marked from birth.”

  My mom frowned. “Stevie, honey. Calm down. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

  I turned off the oven and grabbed my purse. “It’s Prentiss. It’s probably French.” I slammed the door.

  I drove up and down Main, stopping at the two traffic lights, water lapping the sidewalks. Because of the storm, the parking lots were barren. No cars parked in haphazard rows, no young men and women leaning on the fenders, strolling and laughing, their whole lives wound silken around their shoulders.

  I drove to the river and parked on the bridge. The rain fell more gently now, but the swollen river churned, cresting a foot from the bottom of the bridge. I left the headlights on and looked out at furious water, at branches stuck on the banks. The rain fell and fell and fell. I rubbed my sore knee, my bruised palms. I thought about the times I had spent drawing down by the river, my toes buried in the dirt. I studied my hands resting on the steering wheel. They were dry and cracked from cleaning solution, the nails short and ragged. In the deepening lines, I saw my father’s titanium-white dust and pity, my mother’s disappearing body. In my freckles, I saw my sister, sweet Baby Rose, who I once hugged too hard, who I smothered with my love. In my knuckles were my big-city college dreams, sun-yellow and fading fast. Embedded in my palms were the names, the whispers, the black corners of my life. My love line forked at my wrist, trailing off into the veins, and it was red all right, primary red, deep-rooted, primal.

  I drove to the motel and parked in front of my room. No cars were in the lot, but a light was on in Room 7. Baby Rose. Dang her. I grabbed the extra key and walked to the room under the tin awning. The rain was a sleety mist now. I knocked on the door, calling out Rose’s name. I could hear the TV blaring. She didn’t answer. I tried the door, but it was locked.

  At the window, there was a crack in the curtains. I stepped close to the glass and peered in. They were on the bed, on top of the sheets, the covers kicked down and rumpled on the carpet. Rose and Angie Juarez. Not Beto, as I’d suspected, but Ang
ie, the quiet one with the streak in her hair. Naked and exposed, the blankets tossed away. I stood still at the window, holding my breath, but they didn’t look my way. They didn’t look at anything but each other. I turned away.

  Across the street, I saw someone at the gas station pay phone, caught in a beam of headlights. The person turned, and I recognized you then. The new girl, the girl I’d talked to at the pharmacy, the girl I’d seen out walking at night, the girl at the dark house. I hurried to my room and waited for Angie and Rose to come out.

  That was the last time I saw you, across the street. About six thirty or so, I thought, yes. No, I didn’t see which way you went. No, I didn’t see anyone pick you up. That was what I told the police.

  It wasn’t the last time, but I never told them the rest of it. I never told.

  But you already know.

  I went in my room, but I heard the sound of a car engine in the lot. I heard the slam of Room 7’s door. I stepped out of my room and stood under the tin awning. Rose and Angie stumbled to the Impala, which shone under the streetlight like a pomegranate seed. Someone sat in the driver’s seat, and I knew even with the shadows it was Beto Navarro. I pulled in a breath to call out to Baby Rose, to say, Hey! Come here, you. To tell her, Goddamn it, be careful. To squeeze her shoulder and smile, say, Angie’s a nice girl. To tell her I would keep her secret.

  I saw you then. You ran across the street, stopping on the curb under the streetlight. Your hair, red coat, sweater, and jeans were soaked from the rain, your breath a trail of smoke. You stood in the rain and waved. You called out, “Wait. Wait for me.”

  But they didn’t see or hear you. Rose and Angie disappeared into the car, and the engine roared to life.

  You jogged toward the Impala as the headlights and taillights flared to life, as the reverse lights popped on.

  They didn’t see you.

  The car sped backward. The tires screeched.

  You fell.

  You landed on your back, splashing into a large puddle. I didn’t see so much as feel your head jerk as it hit the pavement. The Impala wrenched forward, nearly clipping a pole, and then pulled away into the street, my baby sister inside, oblivious to what she’d done. The Impala’s taillights bumped off the curb into the road, faded into the night.

  I ran to you, kneeled at your side. The pooled water was deep, and your face was almost underwater. I pulled you up by the front of your coat and got a hand under your neck.

  “Are you okay?” I shook your shoulder. “Jess. Hey. Are you okay?”

  You opened your eyes. You looked at me. “What time is it?”

  “Are you okay? Jess?”

  You blinked a few times as the rain misted down. You struggled to pull yourself up to sitting.

  “I’m okay,” you said. You touched your head and winced. But your hand came away clean. No blood.

  “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No,” you said. “I think I’m okay.”

  “They didn’t see you,” I said.

  You laughed a little. “Yeah, I got that.” You laughed again. “This has been a hell of a day.”

  “Can you stand? Let me help you.” I reached under your arms and lifted. Your puffy coat squished. You smelled of wet wool, sweat, a tinge of laundry soap or lotion.

  “I need to get home,” you said. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think it’s six thirty or so.”

  You got your feet under you. You stood up, leaning on my shoulder. You stepped on each leg and held your arms out, testing your weight and balance.

  “See? I’m okay,” you said. “I should get home. What time is it?”

  “I don’t have a watch,” I said. “I’ll check inside.”

  You followed me toward my room. You limped a little, but you were upright. Standing. Walking. Talking. You stopped at the bumper of my car. “I need to get home,” you said, your voice agitated now. You flapped your hands as if shaking them dry.

  “I can drive you, if you want. I can give you a ride.”

  I opened the unlocked passenger side for you, and you sat down, your knees out, your feet on the pavement. “I’m all wet,” you said.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

  “I lost my umbrella. It was my dad’s.”

  “Stay here,” I said. “I’ll get my keys.”

  You looked up at my face. You touched your cheek. “Like a map of the world,” you said. “The world in your face. That’s how I think of it. I hope that’s okay. I hope that’s not rude.”

  I stared at you as the colors began to swirl kaleidoscopic in the rain.

  You smiled and looked down at your hands. Your wet hair swung as you shook your head. “Never mind,” you said. “Sorry.”

  I wanted to say, Thanks. I wanted to say I wanted to be you.

  Instead, I said, “My keys are inside. I’ll be right back.”

  Inside my room, I grabbed my purse and keys and thought of how wet you were. I pulled some towels from the bath and then the comforter off the bed, folding it over my shoulder. I’d cover you up, warm you, but not to suffocating. I stopped and looked in the mirror. I traced the mark, its frayed edges, its dips and whorls. A map of the world.

  When I returned, you weren’t in the car. I stopped and stared at the closed door and empty seat. I stared and stared, for the first time uncertain of my own sanity, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. I dropped the bedding and towels on the concrete and walked to the passenger side. There, on the seat: your red coat. I opened the door and picked it up. You were real. I hadn’t imagined you. I ran to Main Street, looking up and down the road, squinting in the mist. I couldn’t see you. I called your name. I went to College Drive and peered up the street, looking for a figure in the dark. I couldn’t see you anywhere. I squeezed your coat into a ball, hugging it to my chest.

  Of course, I know now, I should have gotten in the car. I should have looked for you. I should have called the police. I should have called your mother. I should have realized, She’s not thinking straight. I should have done more. Partially I thought I was protecting Rose, worried she’d get in trouble. But the awful truth is, in the moment, I was offended. You didn’t want a ride from me after all, the weirdo with the world on her face? Fine. Walk then. See if I cared. I took your sodden coat inside. Hung it on the shower curtain rod to dry. You could come and get it then. I wouldn’t bring it to you.

  Two days later, the paper ran the article. You were missing. You hadn’t come home that night.

  The police came, said you’d been spotted in the area that night. Asked if I’d seen you.

  By then it was too late to tell. Your red coat, washed and fluff-dried in the laundry room, was bundled under my bed, next to the drawings and half-used paint. By then, I’d found a pencil in its pocket and taken it, put it in the cup on my desk. By then, I couldn’t tell about Rose, Angie, and Beto and the car, about Rose and Angie’s secret in the motel, about watching you fall but then get up. It would seem as though I were hiding something. What if they didn’t believe me? I barely believed me: A car hit you. You fell hard and smacked your head, but you got up. You stood, talked, and walked. You sat in my car. And then you walked away. I threw a blanket over all of it, smothered its memory until it stopped kicking.

  I told them instead I saw you across the street at the gas station when I came home from my folks’ house. About six thirty.

  Did I speak to you? they asked.

  No, I told them, as I saw Baby Rose swaddled in a blanket, as I heard your voice in my ear: What time is it? I have to go home.

  After my interview with the police, I went to Room 11. My room. My life. I flipped on the light and sat hunched against the pillows on the bed, looking at the dingy walls and the paintings of cactuses and coyotes. And then I saw something else. Colors. Shapes.

  I took down the ugly paintings and dug out my art supplies from under the bed. With your pencil, I set to work on the white wall. When the s
un rose, I tore down the gold curtains and opened the door, the air fresh and painful, like the river in spring. The rain had stopped three days earlier. The water had stopped rushing, slowed to a trickle, soaked into the porous earth, and the sun reappeared as suddenly as if it had tunneled through a brick wall. Back to normal. I didn’t open the front office, left the phone number in the window, but no one called. I painted until my shoulders and arms ached.

  It was late afternoon by the time I sat on the bed and looked at what I had done. The colors sharp and lush, reds and violets and golds. A woman, alone, standing on the rim of a low canyon, a suitcase by her feet. The woman, tall and round at the hip, standing sideways to the viewer, her face turned away. The canyon, a gouged bowl, slashed with shadow, a gash in its core. The woman, looking past the canyon at the sky, which was a deep burning orange tinged with black and brown. No. She was looking past the sky, into the long distance.

  When I wandered into the HealthCo some time later, Tom was at the counter.

  “My goodness. Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you hurt? What can I do?”

  In the security mirror, I saw myself. My hair was knotted in place with a paintbrush, my full face exposed. Veins and patches of red stood out on my skin, and wild paint colors streaked my arms, legs, even my feet in their flip-flops. The neckline of my T-shirt scooped low, my nipples clear against the thin fabric.

  “I’ve been working. Drawing, painting.”