With or Without You

by Lauren Sanders

  “It’s simple. She says she didn’t do it and there’s not enough evidence to prove otherwise.”

  “What about the confession?”

  “I don’t know, what about it? She was confused … she’s a bit of dreamer, you know? Most kids are. Believe me, I’m in the business of dreams. She was all wrapped up in her head. You see it every day.”

  “That kids confess to murder?”

  “Happens all the time, talk to the cops. They all want to do something big. They want to feel important, be a bit rebellious. Cigarette companies understand this, but here’s what they don’t say: You grab a kid at twelve and he’s yours for life. Me, I’d never work for a cigarette company, but what I’m saying is—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Nancy snaps. “Would you cut the bullshit?”

  They stare at each other, the first time since they walked inside, so much pain between them you can see particles of suffering jump like Coke bubbles when you first pour the glass. Their faces fall. People say those bubbles’ll rip the enamel off your teeth. Nancy sighs achingly, like she’s seen more of this world than she ever wanted to. “For god’s sake, Jack,” she says. “This isn’t a market study, she’s your child.”

  Jack lowers his head, and I’m melting in scathing Coke bubbles, that word hanging out there: child. I never felt like one.

  Nancy talks. She says they wanted me to be happy. That’s all they ever wanted. But nobody’d taught them how. The drinking, the drugs, it helped for a while, she says, and I step out of my body and watch like it’s a movie, the worst kind of melodrama. Nancy wallows in it, the most emotion I’ve ever seen in her. The scary kind. It envelops her like the big explosion at Chernobyl, gaseous and invisible, a deadly aura that colors everything within a hundred-mile radius. She’s living in the fallout, and they wouldn’t even let her bring in her sponsor. The woman waits outside in the car, warming her antiradiation blanket.

  Davina pushes her chair back and it caws obnoxiously, calling me back to the table. She puts a hand on my mother’s arm. “I know this is difficult,” she says.

  “Difficult?” Nancy says, her eyes like glowing green ponds. Toxic. I swear they were never that bright. And beautiful. I have never seen my mother look so good. She stands up and, leaning her palms on the table, says, “Of course it’s difficult, but this is where we live now. The rest is just padding. We were great at the padding, weren’t we, Jack?”

  Grumbling, my father runs his hand through his hair, then buries his head in his elbow.

  “See, he doesn’t like difficult.”

  “What the fuck do you want from me!” He raises his head and there’s a storm in him. Anyone can see. I’m sorry we asked for this meeting, but Davina said it was important. From the moment we met I’d felt a balm in her satiny voice and wanted her to be my mother. But that’s usually trouble: when I start wishing. Davina stands up now and walks around the table over to where my real mother is hyperventilating. Jack digs his thumbnail into the scrappy metal and it makes a wailing sound; Nancy breathes. Every movement seems miked like that day on the set when you were still mine. Breaking the silence, one of her best skills, my mother tells my father he can start by being honest with himself, being honest with her, with me.

  Annoyed, amplified, he grouses. “Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This is not good. Not one bit of it. And you’re getting on my case? You sound like Betty Ford, or, no, more like a bad Saturday Night Live imitation of Betty Ford. Wake up!”

  “Oh, I’m up. More than you’ll ever know.”

  “We’ve got things to take care of here.”

  “I am taking care of things. For the first time in my life. And it’s not like I’m getting any support … from either of you.”

  Her radioactive gaze falls my way, and I want to rip her apart. She’s in pain, I tell myself, but so is my father. They’re gagging on it.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Davina holds her open palm in front of Nancy but lowers her head toward Jack. “We’re getting way off the subject here. Can we please just stick to the case?”

  “Right.” Nancy takes another long, loud inhalation.

  “Are you okay?” Davina says.

  Nancy nods, deflating, and it’s like all the light in the room shifts her way. She says she’s doing what she has to do, says she’s trying to experience emotions as they come, says right now she feels terrible, just terrible, then bursts into tears. Jack eases out of his chair. “Aw, shit, Nance …” He inches forward but she flags him off, sobbing.

  “Maybe we’ve had enough for today,” Davina says, either nervous or frustrated, and I’m afraid she might bail. It’s too much. Me.

  “No!” Nancy shouts. “I have to talk to Lily. Lily?”

  I stare at the watery streams of mascara running down her cheeks, like soot. And she’s still gorgeous. “Come over here, please,” she sniffles. At her right stands my father, petting the almost-full beard on his chin, oblivious at first, then he realizes I’m looking at him. And he doesn’t turn away. His face breaks and for the first time in months he smiles, not his million-dollar J.F.K. but like he means it.

  “Lily …” says my mother, and Jack tips slightly in her direction, nodding okay.

  The last one up, I walk to my mother. She takes both of my hands in hers and says, “I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I need to know you forgive me.”

  “This isn’t your fault.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean. About the stewardess, we have to talk about that. We have to unravel the puzzle, seek out the source. Otherwise we’re doomed to endless repetition.”

  “What stewardess?” Jack hinges forward. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s nothing.” I let go of Nancy’s hands, way too uncomfortable.

  “The girl next door.”

  “What?”

  “That blonde. Remember, when we first moved in …”

  “The blonde?” He squints, then turns to me. “Oh my god, did she—is that what’s going on here?”

  “No, no,” I say. “It’s not what you think.”

  “We’ve definitely had enough for now,” Davina says.

  “If she laid a finger on you, I’ll—”

  “No … not like that. She told me things … and gave me my book …”

  “What book?” Jack says.

  “Stop it!” I shout. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We have to, Lily. It’s important.”

  “What do you mean, book?”

  “Shut up! Both of you … shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I shout, swinging my fists in front of me, not far from where they’re all standing, staring, and I know exactly what they’re thinking, looking at me like I’m a fucking nut WHEN I’M NOT! Just read my loony tests. You’ll see. I take a deep breath, let it out with a big, windy whew! and say: “I’m sorry, but you guys are really on my nerves.”

  Davina steps toward me. “I can finish up alone if you want.”

  “Forget it, we don’t need you,” Jack says. “I still don’t get why you’re here.”

  “Because I asked her,” I say, firmly. “Because she’s my lawyer.”

  “You’ve already got a lawyer.”

  “I picked her.”

  “Oh,” he exaggerates, slapping his forehead. “You picked her! Why didn’t you say so? Now I’ll sleep better tonight.” Pushing backwards, he trips over a chair. “Fuck!” he says, and kicks it over.

  His face is pink, eyes monstrously engorged. I imagine him pummeling the chair into scrap metal. But he crosses his arms in front of him and crumbles into the cement, falling in on himself like a perfectly blown-up building, a pile of bricks, white smoke and drywall, into nothing. So much destruction he can’t face it but he won’t walk away, and I think maybe that’s love, sticking around when everything you know turns to dust, and remember that day in the diner with pink neon stars? The old man had said, “You can’t have real love without children,” and li
ke it or not, I’m his child.

  I look over at Nancy, standing quietly, hands bunched into the pockets of her blazer, not a hair out of place, but her waterlogged eyes tell a different story. And she’s not running from it either; not anymore.

  MONDAY THE THEATRE WAS DARK. Tuesday I had to drive my grandparents to the airport, which left me half loopy by the time I finally made it to the city on Wednesday. I took the train in early and sat in the diner, drinking cups of coffee dark and sweet, and looking over my storyboards one last time. Even better than I remembered, each had its own little message but wasn’t too preachy, and I’d given the cartoon-you heart-shaped cheeks and big, round eyes to capture your range of emotions. They were ready. I carefully edged them into a large manila envelope upon which I’d written, “The Brooke Harrison PSAs: A Guide to Your Resurrection.” My plan was to slide the envelope under your door; I didn’t want to bother you before a matinee. But when I arrived at the theatre the front doors were locked. Panicked, I checked my watch and realized it was even earlier than I thought. I retraced my steps down the street and up along Ninth Avenue. It was one of those tropical days, where dog-breath air slouched against your shoulders and the whole city steamed up through its pores. I walked slowly, not a good idea during lunch hour. People scurried down the street, keeping their eyes forward and hands tucked against their sides. I dodged in and out of bodies, bouncing off shoulders like a silver pinball, and all around blared the bing-bing-bong of trucks and taxicabs and buses. People shouted to each other, taking up half the sidewalk and walking on the wrong side. You were supposed to keep to the right just like driving, but groups of suits and tourists always crowded to the left. “Stay to the right,” I shouted, but nobody ever listened. As if on instinct, I ducked into the alley behind the theatre.

  Leaning back against a grimy brick wall, I searched my side pockets for a cigarette and rubbed my fingertips against the silver gun. I could pick off the tourists who swayed flagrantly to the left but that seemed a stupid use of it. And too risky. Three and a half years after he shot the four black boys, the white man—this urban cowboy—was found guilty of illegal weapons possession. Not assault or battery or shooting to kill, just possession. If the gun had been licensed he would have walked. For some reason, that frightened me more than anything else.

  Finally, I found the pack of ultralights I’d pinched from Nancy in the front pocket of my backpack and lit up. Smoking in the summer was so great. Your hands stayed warm, and the smoke killed the stink of the streets. It was also time-consuming. I probably smoked more than anything, except maybe watching TV or drawing, and they were all connected anyway. Everything was. Like the way we ended up working together.

  I finished my cigarette and was about to leave the alley, maybe bing over to Blimpie’s for a ham and Swiss, when I noticed the stage door was off its hinges. Moving a few feet closer, I realized it was a mirage. The door was merely propped open, so I walked inside. My eyes took a few minutes adjusting to the darkness, and even then I was disoriented. I’d never been this far back before. It felt like a cave, cool and shadowy, and somewhere close by I could make out the whir of machinery which must have been the air-conditioning. I walked a few steps along a narrow hallway and came to a row of doors, all painted black with name plates hanging on them. In all the time I’d been ushering I hadn’t seen the dressing rooms: Your name etched on the door made my ears pound, like in L.A. It was easier when you came to me. I thought about hightailing it out of there but figured I could slip the drawings under your door and then come back in an hour or so to see if Tabitha needed me to work.

  I slithered my backpack from my shoulder, unzipped it, and removed the Brooke Harrison PSAs. Before shoving the envelope under your door, I held it in my hand and blew on the opening for good luck, the way I always did with your letters. I bent down in front of the door and smelled something funky, that burnt-sugar crack smell. Maybe the boiler. I set about pushing the envelope underneath the door, but the groove was so tight it took a bit of effort. Holding each side between my fingers, I inched it slowly. About halfway through it got a bit easier, and I thought I must have hit that moment of inertia we’d talked about it physics. “I caught you, you bastard,” came a voice from behind the door. Then the rest of the envelope disappeared and the door swung open. I rolled forward onto the floor, looking up at you. Disappointed or maybe confused, you said, “Who are you?”

  The fall had me completely tongue-tied, caught unprepared as I was. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Now how was I going to explain myself without sounding like a stupid fan? “Listen, message boy,” you said, “I’m in no mood for this today. Tell me what he wants and make it fast.”

  You didn’t recognize me. But maybe I wouldn’t have recognized me, so gnatty and sweating like a maniac. You asked again who I was, and again, and the more you asked, the quieter I became. You were supposed to know. The world started closing in, walls bending forward, air constricting, your face an engorged balloon. How you’d look in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

  Overwhelmed by the chug of my heart, terrified of you standing over me, I imagined you bringing your foot down and crushing me, splattering my insides all over the walls. But you stepped back and said the name, Johnny. I struggled to my feet, still without speaking a word. “Oh, Johnny, Johnny, you’re never going to learn,” you smiled, and up close your teeth were even whiter and more perfect than they seemed onstage, and boy were you skinny. I felt like if I blew on you for good luck you’d fall right over.

  “So tell me, what’s it this time? Is he dropping the Czech? Going back to meetings? Or does that sick bastard really expect me to go home with him?”

  Having no answer, I turned away. The room had more of the funked-up science-lab smell, and it was dark and messy. There were clothes flung over the chair in front of your vanity and more scattered across the couch. Your dressing table was brimming with all kinds of cosmetics. A rainbow of lipsticks and eye shadows in various stages of use. Next to it was a small table with matchbooks, an ashtray, and what might have been a glass pipe. I couldn’t tell, you rushed to cover it so fast. “Wait a minute, what am I doing?” you said, gnawing your lower lip, and I realized you needed me more than you knew. I remembered Blair, the way she’d put her arms around me late at night. “He’s not going to win this time,” you said. “He’s the one who fucked everything up.”

  “I know,” I said, the way I talked when you needed support.

  “You do? Who are you?”

  I was too distraught to answer. You were supposed to know.

  “Okay, fine, I can’t take it anymore,” you said, almost in tears. “Why is he tormenting me like this?”

  I stepped forward. “It’s okay, Brooke …”

  “No! I won’t go back!” you shouted, and shook the manila envelope up high, for the first time noticing what it said. “‘A Guide to Your Resurrection’? Wow, is he Catholic! But no, I’ve had it. I already told him … and I don’t care what you’ve got in here!”

  “It’s just a few drawings.”

  “Drawings?”

  I nodded yes. You looked at me as if I’d sprouted a third eye.

  “I made them for you,” I said.

  “You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “No. Not yet anyway. I’m going to school in the fall. Syracuse University. I’m taking some art classes, but I’m going to major in communications. Maybe work in an ad agency.”

  “How did you get in here? The theatre’s closed.”

  “The stage door was open, so I thought I’d leave my drawings.”

  “Are you a fan?” you said, as if you already knew the answer and did not like it one bit. I shook my head no, again unable to compose a sentence. This whole episode was degenerating into the most horrible experience of my life.

  “I’m an usher here,” I blurted out.

  “For this play?”

  I nodded affirmatively. “You can ask
Tabitha.”

  “So you’re an usher, but not a fan.”

  “I guess.”

  “With drawings for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it?”

  I nodded again. You sort of smiled and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Li—umn …” Everyone at the theatre knew me as Edie, but I’d signed the drawings with my own name. It was more important to protect my cover or you’d never believe anything else I said. If you ever asked I’d say I used a different name for my art. Lots of people did.

  “I’m sorry,” you said.

  “Edie. My name is Edie.”

  “Cool name. So do you want an autograph or something, Edie? A picture?”

  “No.”

  “That’s right, you’re not a fan,” you smiled. “It’s okay, I’ve heard it all before. A lot of people don’t want to say the F-word. Come on, we’ll get you a picture.”

  “No, really, I don’t want one … I just wanted to give you the drawings.”

  “Thanks.” You glanced at the envelope again. “But what’s all this about resurrection? That’s a little weird … a little scary.”

  I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, I mean, you’ve had an exorcism, been lost in the South American jungle … and you kissed a priest last week!”

  “That was on TV,” you said, looking at me like I was an idiot or something. My brain or whatever was between my ears started throbbing. “I know that,” I said. “I told you, I’m not a fan. You know I’m not like that.”

  “Okay, okay.” You backed up a couple of feet, hugging the envelope against your stomach, and a bell went off in my head: You weren’t ready for the drawings, you were too far gone. You didn’t even recognize me. You just stood there biting your lower lip and then said, “So listen, Edie, I’ll take a look at the drawings and let you know what I think, okay?” A tiny piece of flesh hung over the edge of your lower lip and you picked it off with two fingers. Blood pooled in the groove, and watching it I was instantly calmed, like I’d taken one of Nancy’s quiet pills. I’d imagined this moment a million times and never would have thrown in the lip picking. People were so bizarre.