The Girl On The Half Shell

by Susan Ward

  As the day wears on, I start to feel a little emotional. Linda’s manner is almost parental, and I wonder if shopping with Mom would have felt like this if she had lived. I never got to do any of these girl things with my mother, not like this.

  As we buy ice cream, I get the courage to ask. “How old are you, Linda?”

  Linda’s laughs. “I’m thirty, and yes I know I come across as a mother hen. Just part of always having to be the one who keeps everyone from killing each other.”

  We take our ice cream to a bench by the lake and sit there, staring out at the water.

  Linda closes her eyes, exhales slowly, smiles, and then opens her eyes again. “I love sitting and just watching people.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s good that you’re getting a little quiet time for yourself. This can’t be an easy adjustment. I remember what it felt like for me when I was you.”

  “You?”

  Linda laughs. “New girl in the pack. Fortunately, only Kenny and Bianca were together back then. The guys hated me. Len gave me such shit.”

  Oh no. Something in her voice makes it nakedly clear why she and Alan are so close. They had a thing together, probably before Jeanette. At some time in Alan’s complicated history they had a thing.

  I look at Linda and I feel sick. Why does everything about Alan contain some sort of hidden bomb, unexpected and emotionally unsettling. I toss my cone into the trash.

  “Can we go back now?”

  She rummages through her purse for her keys. “Sure. It’s almost dark anyway, and I hate to drive those roads in the dark. No street lights.”

  Linda takes a fast lick of her cone, tosses it, and springs up from the bench, totally unaware that she’s just killed the enjoyment of the day for me.

  She plops down into the driver’s seat and waits for me. “I think you have dinner duty tonight. Bianca turns into a total bitch if we ignore her schedule. Like she’ll have to wash one extra dish once in her life. So obsessed with the equality thing.”

  “Then we have a problem. I don’t know how to cook.”

  I turn to stare out the window. She jams the car in gear and pulls from the curb.

  I can feel her eyes studying me. “That’s OK. I can help you.”

  “No, Alan can fucking do the cooking for me since he’s the reason I’m trapped here.”

  “OK.”

  Linda backs off. We drive in silence, Linda alternately staring at me and the road.

  I start to cry halfway back to the farm. Linda is trying to drive and is anxiously studying me.

  “Please, Chrissie, stop crying!”

  I stare out the window and ignore her.

  Linda slaps her mouth with her hand. “Me and my big mouth. I’m sorry, Chrissie. I would never do anything to hurt you. It wasn’t deliberate. I don’t think sometimes. I just really like you. I feel comfortable talking to you, and I just don’t think.” I can feel her stare on me. “Shit! Me and my big mouth.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m fine.” My voice is quiet, hollow, like a pouty child and I hate that.

  “Bullshit, you are not fine and I can see it.”

  The Ferrari screeches as she turns off to park on the side of the road.

  Her probing stare is locked on me again. “Chrissie, if it’s no big deal, why are you crying?”

  “I’m just a fucked up girl. Can’t we just leave it at that,” I snap, still not looking at her.

  “No,” Linda says, in a long and heavy way. “You brought me into it, so no I’m not leaving it alone. And by the way, everyone is fucked up. That doesn’t make you special around here.”

  Her weird reassurance pushes a soggy laugh out of me. I look at her now. “OK, this is stupid. I know it is stupid. It’s just people…they’re not easy for me. I never feel like I’m close to anyone. Like I get them. Not my dad. Not you. Not Alan. And not my brother. And I’m just so tired of always being surprised and hurt by everyone.”

  Linda sits quietly for awhile, waiting for me to calm. “People have shit, Chrissie,” she says intensely. “It has nothing to do with you. We’ve just all got our own shit that we’ve got to deal with.”

  “I hate my shit, Linda. I wish it would all go away.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” she says in sudden alarm. “Chrissie, you’re scaring me. I don’t like the way you sound.”

  I take off my Tiffany bracelet and I show her. For the love of Jesus, I don’t know why I’m doing it, why I want to share this with Linda.

  She stares at my scar, shaking her head in a way that tells me I don’t need to explain. “Why the fuck would you do that, Chrissie?”

  The tears come. I can’t stop them and they are dragging with them words. I just want to say it, say it to someone, and there no logical reason why Linda is the right choice for this, but I need to say it.

  “It’s my fault my brother is dead.”

  I start to hyperventilate and shake the moment I get it out. I’ve been hiding from the truth for so long, but when I picked up the needles in Alan’s bathroom, more fragments appeared and I could remember every part of that night, my part in Sammy’s death, from beginning to end in unmerciful clarity. I didn’t just find my brother dead. I was with him when he died. I was there in the room, I didn’t get Sammy help, and I watched my brother die…

  I finally get the courage to look at Linda. She is just sitting there, staring at me, confused and steamed.

  She leans back into her seat, making a taut line with her arms from body to steering wheel. Her fingers are curled tightly around it, so tightly they don’t have color.

  She starts shaking her head. “Jesus Christ, Chrissie. How could you think that? What were you when your brother died? Nine? Ten? How could you possibly believe it was your fault? Whatever you think you did, you are thinking wrong and you have to cut out that burning shit.”

  I can’t begin to reason why I start to tell her every part of that night, the parts that have haunted me, the parts newly remembered, and the most terrible part, my part in this, that I watched him die and never went for help.

  Silence. When I can’t talk any more there is just silence.

  Linda exhales heavily. “Fuck, you were just a little girl.” She puts the car in gear and starts to drive. “And you’re remembering your brother wrong. I knew your brother, Chrissie. He was brilliant, he was a fuck-up, and a hardcore addict. And he was going to die one way or another eventually because he was on the ledge every fucking minute of his life, and not you or anyone was ever going to stop it.” She downshifts the car, shaking her head. “Fuck! You have nothing to do with him dying. He lived on the ledge. He died. End of story, Chrissie.”

  Shakily wiping my nose with a tissue, I turn to look out the window. “Then why does my father hate me? Ten years. Not one word from Jack about that night. He can barely talk to me. He blames me.”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. Why does my father hate me?” She backs off. “And I’m sure your dad doesn’t hate you. I’m sure that’s just another thing you’ve gotten wrong.”

  She practically slams to a stop in front of the farmhouse, grabs my tissue and starts to dab at my face. “Pull yourself together. We are just going to walk in, Chrissie, and then you just go upstairs to the bedroom and be away from everyone for a while.”

  I nod, watching Linda climb from the driver’s seat. She slams the door and starts walking around the car to me. I feel small, shaky and disoriented, as I listen to her shoes against the gravel drive. She opens my door and gives me one of her Linda will take care of everything expressions.

  We are almost to the stairs when Bianca storms from the kitchen. “Where the fuck did you go?”

  Bianca has her hideously angry face within inches of mine. Linda pulls me close against her. “We went to the village,” she snaps.

  “Why?”

  Linda makes a face and shakes her head. “Because it was there.”

  Bianca crosses her arms. “I am not cleaning up that b
reakfast mess. And there is no dinner.”

  “Deal with it. Call for pizza or something. Just fucking deal with something on your own for change.”

  The girls start arguing and I’m trapped, shaking and being supported by Linda’s steady arm, with the others between me and the stairs. The verbal free-for-all is loud enough to draw Alan and Len from wherever they were in the house, and Len is babbling on that that’s enough of the cat fight, and Alan is watching me. I start to tremble more fiercely and the tears come back.

  “Shut the fuck up everyone!” Linda silences the room, puncturing the sound barrier.

  Alan’s face changes and I can see exactly when he realizes I’m crying. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, Chrissie?” I don’t answer and his temper explodes. “Goddammit, Linda, what did you do to her?”

  Linda shakes her head, they lock eyes and I can see that their closeness is the type of thing where they can communicate without words. Alan’s anger vanishes and he’s only worried now.

  “I’m going to take her upstairs,” Linda says in a quiet voice that somehow makes everyone back off except Bianca.

  Shaking her head, she exclaims, “Oh, no you’re not. You’re going to get your ass in there and clean the breakfast mess, Linda, and the little princess is going to make dinner.”

  Alan grabs Bianca’s arm. “Why don’t you just shut up for once, you miserable cunt.”

  Bianca pulls away. “Because I’m sick of everyone falling all over themselves for the little princess. I’m not going to spend another evening all about not upsetting Chrissie.”

  “Fine. Then I’m done. Gone. Out of here,” Alan says, taking me from Linda and picking me up.

  “Oh fuck, Bianca,” Kenny Jones shouts into the chaos of the room.

  Alan starts climbing the stairs and I focus of the sound of the creaks rather than the arguing downstairs. He takes me to the bathroom, undresses me and sets me in the tub.

  It is antique porcelain, sitting on legs in the middle of a fifties style black and white tile bathroom. The sink is a square pedestal and the toilet is old. The windows are high in the walls, foggy glass circles that mute the light. It is a room held in another time. Like me.

  Alan sinks down beside the tub, reaches for a washcloth and a bottle of bath gel that someone left in here.

  “Are you OK?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “What happened when you were out with Linda?”

  I turn until my cheek is resting on my knees. “Nothing happened. We talked. I don’t know what it is about Linda. We talked about everything.” My eyes focus on him and there are fresh tears. “Everything, Alan. I told her everything.”

  He continues to wash, but his faces changes and I can see he understands what I mean by everything, and that it hurts him that I opened up to Linda.

  He reaches into the tub to pick up the cloth he dropped. “I’m glad you did that, Chrissie. Maybe someday you’ll trust me enough to do the same.”

  He doesn’t push, he just kisses me softly on the cheek. He knows when to let there be quiet between us, when not to push me, when to use his meanness, when to use his kindness, when to love me and when to stand back.

  I watch Alan wash me. He is gentle and kind. I never expected him to be that kind of guy. Alan was right. I did think he was safe. I did think he was going to prove only to be an asshole.

  I start to cry again. He always takes such good care of me, but today I realize it is important to him to take care of me, something more about him than me.

  I curl into a tight ball as he washes my back. I am someone Alan loves. And that is something more about him than me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, I wake alone and go to the kitchen to find Alan making breakfast. I feel badly. It must be my turn and he’s cooking because I don’t know how to.

  “Is pancakes all right with you?” he asks.

  I nod and drop a kiss on his cheek. There are things I don’t like about Alan, but these sweet, thoughtful moments and how he loves me are enough to keep me here with him. I stay with him because I love how he loves me.

  I sink at the piano. I start to play. I feel good today. Last night I told Alan I love him, it felt right finally to say the words, they flowed easily and honestly out of me, and those black eyes filled with some expression, something I don’t know if I’ve ever seen before. I love him. He loves me. What could be more wonderful than that?

  Kenny Jones enters the room. “What the fuck is she playing?”

  “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Alan flips a pancake. “And no, Kenny, it is not the Beatles. It’s Bach.”

  “Are you sure she’s Jackson Parker’s daughter?”

  Alan ignores him.

  I feel Kenny too close to me. I continue to play.

  “Play Chrissie, Joy of Kenny’s Desiring.”

  Oh crap! I stop playing. There is never any telling what Alan’s reaction will be to shit like that. I grab my book of D.H. Lawrence and move to the sofa to read.

  I look at Alan. He is pissed, but he isn’t exploding today. He continues to cook breakfast.

  “You’re a fucking piece of shit, Kenny,” Alan says quietly easing food onto a plate.

  “I know,” Kenny says, sinking on a chair at the table. He reaches for the coffee pot. He fills a cup. Kenny looks at me. “Hey, little kitty, what happened to the music? I thought you were going to play Chrissie, Joy of Kenny’s Desiring.”

  I ignore him and turn a page. The Rowans step down the stairs. Linda pats me on the arm. Len drops a kiss on the top of my head. I follow them with my eyes as they go to the breakfast bar to grab pancakes.

  The vibe in the room is strange, painfully taut, and then I remember last night during the girl melee, Alan had announced he was leaving and quitting. The strangeness in the room isn’t about me. It’s about Alan.

  Alan brings me my plate and sets it on the coffee table beside me. “Do you at least know how to wash dishes?” he asks.

  I make a face and shake my head.

  Linda starts to laugh. “She’s lying, Manny. I can tell.”

  He drops a kiss on my nose and those black eyes are shimmering with affection. “I can tell, too.”

  He sinks down beside me and I ease up, reaching with my fork to grab a bite of my pancake. He turns my book to see what I’m reading.

  “Have you read that?” I ask. “I hate it. I would be willing to wash dishes for a week if you could give me a synopsis.”

  “Chrissie, what’s wrong with you? This is great literature. Don’t they teach you to appreciate literature in California?”

  I toss the book on the table. “Sorry, Alan, that I don’t match your highbrow standard. I wasn’t raised to appreciate Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I was raised to appreciate Rule for Radicals. I think Jack gave it to me for Christmas the same year he gave me my Tiffany bracelet. Never philosophically consistent, not even over the holidays.”

  Alan studies my face. “Do you want to go to the village to call Jack?”

  I tense, since I don’t know what’s in my expression that he would ask me that. “Nope, I want to eat pancakes.”

  He leaves it alone and goes back to the kitchen.

  After we’re done cleaning up the dishes, Alan takes me to the barn with him. It is my first time in the rehearsal space. It is empty. The guys aren’t here, and I sit on the floor as Alan methodically positions the effect pedals, and I stare at the rafters, the old wood, the spider webs, and the musty, dark world that is the barn.

  It is a place before time. A place without time. Alan is playing, adjusting, working through something that is only in his head.

  I wander over to look at some kind of rusty, half broken piece of farm equipment. There is the most extraordinary spider web in the wheel spokes. Thick and intricate and swirling. Definitely a mercilessly constructed trap. But no spider. I stare at the floor, wondering if it’s near me.

  I hear a sound close to me and I look up to find Alan has unplugged
and is standing above me.

  “This is the most incredible spider web I’ve ever seen,” I exclaim, pointing. “I wonder how longs it’s been there.”

  “I had a little girl,” he begins in a soft voice, and every nerve in my body feels a prick. “Molly. She was five. She died fifteen months ago.”

  Quiet. Alan steps away from me and sits on an old crate. I straighten up and I don’t know whether to move toward him or stay where I am. I don’t even know why he’s telling me this today.

  He gives me a rough laugh that has nothing to do with humor. “Don’t look so apprehensive, Chrissie. This is just a story.”

  My heart twists. Bullshit, Alan. This isn’t just “a story” to you.

  “I never wanted her. I didn’t want to be bothered having to care about someone and I didn’t know her mother. Not at all. I did all the correct things financially, but I didn’t want to be bothered, and I made sure everyone knew it.”

  He stares up at the rafters and runs a hand through his hair. “But Molly was a cute little thing and she wasn’t the least bit put off by me. She did what she wanted, smiled and laughed, and eventually she had me, she owned me. I adored her in every way.”

  I feel a sad smile I can’t hold back. Yes, that’s the Alan I know.

  “What happened to her?” I ask.

  He rises from the crate and goes back to plug in the guitar. “She got sick. A week later she was dead. Her mother never bothered to call me. She was dead before I found out she was sick.”

  Oh my. How awful, how absolutely awful. Knowing Alan, I can’t imagine any girl doing that to him.

  He hesitates at my reaction. “I’m not responsible for her dying. And I am not responsible for not being there. But I regret them both. There is a difference.”

  The hairs on my body stand up. “Did Linda tell you what we talked about?” I ask nervously.

  Alan shakes his head. “No, she wouldn’t do that. She’s a true friend. You can trust her with anything. Linda is one of the few people on earth I trust completely.”

  He turns until his back is facing me, starts adjusting things and begins to play. I realize this conversation isn’t intended to start or finish anything. It’s an Alan truth card. He takes a step forward and will wait until I follow. He’s letting it alone until I’m ready.