Like Normal People

by Karen Bender

  From her reading, Ella had estimated Lena’s IQ at around 56. There was no basis for her choosing this number, but it struck her as high enough to approach a normal intelligence without being too obviously ambitious. Soon, Lena would have to begin kindergarten, which Ella hoped to postpone as long as possible. There were so many things Lena needed to learn. She was four years old and not yet toilet-trained; Ella bought dresses that were oversized so that the diapers wouldn’t show. Lena spoke words now, with great enthusiasm, but didn’t always create sentences. Ella lay beside Lou in bed, and her mind spun with plans. She was possessed with an energetic sense of purpose that went nowhere. One night, she arrived at a small but important decision. She would teach Lena to give up her bottle and learn to drink her milk from a cup.

  The next morning, she set a cup of milk next to a plate of waffles glistening with maple syrup. Lena dunked her fingers into the cup and sucked the milk from her thumb.

  “More,” she said. She gestured elegantly, like a small emperor.

  “Lena,” said Ella, cheerfully, “I want you to learn to drink your milk from a cup.”

  Lena rubbed her fist against her open mouth with the vigor of a teething baby. Lou looked up from his newspaper. “What are you talking about?” asked Lou.

  “She’s capable of learning this,” said Ella, trying not to sound too much like the Miracle Worker.

  “Mmm,” he said. They sat in silence for a moment. Lena patiently stirred her milk with her fingers, and Ella put her hand on Lena’s. “Honey, no,” she said. Lena looked at her, annoyed, shook off her hand, and continued stirring the milk.

  Lou’s expression was unformed. Then it flickered, like a little boy’s, into amusement. “Lena,” he asked, “how do you do that?”

  Lena smiled broadly. He dunked his thumb into the creamer and licked off some drops.

  “Lou!” Ella said.

  Lena watched him and laughed; then she wiped her milky hand on the tablecloth.

  “Tastes pretty good,” said Lou. When he saw Ella’s expression, his face turned sheepish and he jumped up.

  “Lou,” she said, “I want your help in—”

  “Goodbye!” he said, brightly, backing toward the door. “Have a good day!” The door opened and fell shut.

  She and Lena spent their regular day. At the market, they bought bananas, Ajax, a chicken, onions, and pears. Ella had short, strange conversations with Lena in which Ella heard herself speak in an adult’s voice and heard Lena blurt exuberant words. The sky was clouding over; the leaves glittered in the clear air.

  They went to the local park, and Ella spread a blanket on the dry grass. She tickled her daughter, which Lena loved. The girl had a businessman’s deep laugh.

  Lena was made of her. That fact made Ella hot and fragile with love. She kept looking for pieces of herself in her daughter. She did not know how this knowledge would reassure her, but she searched for small, external markers. Lena had her caramel-brown eyes, her delicate eyebrows, her petal-like ears. How could Lena not understand the simple task of drinking from a cup?

  Ella poured apple juice into two paper cups and arranged Lena’s hands around one of them. “Now just like this,” she said, raising her own cup. “Watch.”

  Lena held the cup, but it seemed to have fallen into her hands; she was not, in any real way, holding the cup.

  Ella showed Lena how she enjoyed lifting her cup and drinking from it. “Delicious,” she said. “Like this. Do you want to try?”

  Lena watched and chortled, but she wasn’t interested in imitating her mother. For the entire afternoon, Ella tried. The air became cool and the clouds grew thicker. Ella tried apple juice, orange juice, lemonade; impatience curled into her voice. “Lena, just try!” she snapped at last, and she and the child stared at each other, aghast.

  At the end of the afternoon, they went to help Lou at the store. Before they left the park, Ella tied an orange ribbon around Lena’s hair. She knew that customers could see that something was wrong with her daughter. Small things told them—the way her mouth hung open, her blank expression, the way she blinked with great emphasis, as though the action required deep thought. She tied the ribbon around Lena’s hair so that people would find something positive to say about her; she sensed they would be grateful for that.

  Lou was king of Lou’s Shoes. A Woolworth’s had opened near his store, and other shops; the blue neon heel glowed even during the day. Lou had a couple of seats reserved for people who wanted to keep him company and make humorous remarks.

  It was a relief to enter the store; gratefully, Ella breathed the scent of shoe polish and fresh leather. Fred Epstein was sitting on a metal folding chair. He was a small, sarcastic janitor at Woolworth’s who came to Lou on his coffee break; he pretended to be sales help so that he could flirt with the customers. He was watching a woman judge herself in a pair of pumps before the square shoe mirror. “Higher heel,” he suggested.

  The woman looked at him. “Do you think so?” she asked.

  “Better for the leg,” said Fred, his face awash with false innocence. “Makes them shapelier.”

  The woman rubbed her leg. “Could always use that,” she said.

  “Don’t listen to that guy,” Lou said. “Comfort. That’s all that counts.”

  Lou was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed. “Hello,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw Ella. “You two have a good day?”

  The windows were white with dust from the Santa Ana. Ella took a rag from under the counter and began to clean them. Lena picked up a ball of socks and began to suck them.

  The customer decided to buy the shoes. When she stepped past Lena, the girl looked up with a hungry expression. “Hi!” she screeched and, with violent appreciation, grabbed the woman’s leg. Ella stopped wiping the windows. The woman jerked away. “Ow,” she said.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Lou. “You want me to wrap that up?”

  Ella didn’t recognize Lou’s voice. There was a cheerful, detached quality to it that made her shiver. The customer paid and left. Lou looked at Fred merrily. “She bought them!” he said.

  Fred was chortling; he shook his head.

  “You hike up the price, and look what happens,” said Lou.

  Slowly, Ella put down the rag and walked across the store to him. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  She went to the one private place, the stockroom, and Lou followed. She shut the door. The room smelled of old merchandise, a licorice, factory smell. The air between them was stifling.

  “You’re an idiot,” she said quietly.

  He looked hurt; then his face changed to an ugly, fake innocence. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “She grabbed a customer’s leg,” he said, plaintively.

  “So?”

  He began lining up boxes on shelves. His shoulders tensed; she could see the muscles shift under his cotton shirt. “Ella!” he said, turning around. “What if she embarrasses me!” The words fell between them like chunks of ice. “I’m trying to sell things.”

  “She won’t embarrass you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  He rubbed his face. “We don’t know anything. I don’t know who she is . . .”

  His eyes had a needy wetness. Ella felt searing hate shoot through her. “Well,” she shouted, “you embarrass me!”

  She ran out of the stockroom. Fred was pretending to read a magazine; Lena was rolling merrily on the floor. Ella grabbed Lena’s hand, pulled her to her feet, and rushed out to the street.

  It was raining. In her hatred, the world seemed sharper, more beautiful. The sky was swollen like a whale’s underbelly, a soft gray, and the smell of dry grass rarely touched by rain rose into the air. Looking down, she could see herself and Lena reflected in the shiny pavement, the soles of their feet clapping against pale versions of themselves. Cool pearls of water clung to their hair.

  Ella ducked into Woolworth’s and w
aited for the rain to stop. She was aware that she had suffered some perverse, invisible damage; touching her throat, lips, she could find no external change. The injury was deep in some place she could not detect.

  She dried Lena’s hair with a Kleenex. Whimpering, the girl pressed hard against her mother; swiftly, like a robber, she grabbed her mother’s wrist. “Shh,” Ella murmured, her voice trembling. She shivered, as if ice were forming around them, preserving them as they now were.

  Outside was the urgent click of women’s heels on the wet pavement. Anger drained from Ella, leaving her hollow. Lena’s hair was neatly combed. The rain stopped and the street sparkled.

  By the time they got home, Lena was in a surly mood. She didn’t want to try to drink milk from a cup. “Bottle,” she demanded, her eyes glittering; exhausted, Ella gave in. Lena marched around, sucking the bottle of milk triumphantly. She looked like a trumpeter announcing the imminent arrival of a regal being.

  Ella had no idea how to fill the emptiness within her. She decided to make borscht. The kitchen was quiet except for Lena’s sucking, a ravenous, squeaky sound. The evening evolved, dark and wet, through the sheer curtains. Ella felt good and useful as she grated the beets. The juice stained her palms pink and the counter a beautiful purple. She and Lena were at the kitchen table eating the soup when she heard Lou. Ella hadn’t yet cleaned up; purple borscht violently splattered the white sink. The door slammed, and Lou came in.

  “Hello,” he called. He sounded like himself, but tentative. He hung up his hat and took off his wet shoes. Lena began to pound a spoon on the table, a thin, repetitive clink.

  The air between Ella and her husband was bruised. She looked at her soup, not knowing what to say.

  Then she heard him gasp.

  The sound was as insistent and horrified as a baby’s cry. She looked up; Lou was staring at the purple stain in the sink. Quickly, Lou turned and reached the table in two large steps. He studied his wife and daughter. The silence between them was brimming. Then something wilted in him, and he was ashamed.

  He joined them at the table and reached over to smooth Lena’s hair. Ella spooned out some borscht and sour cream for him. The shock had comforted her, made her believe that the feelings they had were somehow the same.

  He stirred the sour cream until his borscht turned a creamy pink. “This looks delicious,” he said.

  She watched him; there was struggle in his face.

  “I’d like to ask you something,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  He swallowed a spoonful. “Do you remember when we met?”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you remember?”

  She thought. “You said my name. Immediately. I liked that.”

  He smiled and looked into his bowl. She wondered what he was getting at.

  “Do you wish you’d married someone else?” he asked.

  She was startled. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He set down his spoon. When he spoke, he had pale lavender teeth; they both did. There was a question in his expression, of his own worth—a feeling she fully understood. “I can’t sleep. I watch you. You’re so beautiful.”

  “Lou,” she whispered.

  “I think, wouldn’t this beautiful woman’s life be easier if she’d just said, ‘Wait. Someone else will help you’?”

  Ella put her hand on his. Her heart expanded as though it were filled with sweet air. They were married to each other. His fingers were solid and warm. She rubbed her fingertips lightly over his. She did not know what she and he were becoming, but surely they were being formed anew, with all their strange emotions. His hand squeezed hers and she felt, with a deeper love, the muscular heartbeat in his palm.

  Lena again was clinking her spoon against the table. Suddenly, the thin sound stopped. She looked at her parents, and a happy expression suffused her face. She dipped her fingers into the milk and held them out to her mother. She laughed, a delighted caw, and gently touched her fingers to her mother’s lips.

  Six

  SHELLEY AND LENA moved together, like soldiers, out of the drugstore. The sunlight was bone-white and made the world look speckled. The beach revealed itself in its hard brightness—the line of cars moving slowly down the highway, the palms leaning like lonely giraffes into the wind. On the other side of the highway, the sand spread out, dirty with violet hollows.

  “Are we safe yet?” Shelley whispered to Lena.

  “Shh,” said Lena, “we’re making our getaway.”

  Lena crossed the parking lot primly, then tried to burst onto the busy highway while the light was still red. It was this transgression that made Shelley understand, clearly, what they had done. “Hey!” she yelled, grabbing her aunt around the waist. She held Lena tight, feeling her heart pulse through her broad back. Together, they stood at the edge of the parking lot, and Shelley waited, almost calmly, for someone to come after them. But, easily, the light turned green, and they hurried across the highway to Lahambra Beach.

  They’d made it! Shelley was dizzy with triumph. Potato chip bags floated slowly, majestically, through the air; fat seagulls made their wistful calls. Shelley slipped off her sandals and untied Lena’s sneakers. They pushed their bare feet into the sand, which pooled around their feet like warm caramel.

  They looked at each other with the delight of two people who had just learned something brand new about each other. Then they fell on the sand and laughed with glee. “How did you learn how to do that?” Shelley asked.

  “Jessica. My friend. She showed me.” Lena said, with pride. “I know how to steal cigarettes, bobby pins, Reese’s peanut butter cups, Mallomars, Chap Sticks, and Juicy Fruit gum.”

  “But how?”

  “Number one, you have to have big pockets. Number two, you have to keep your hands in them. You have to have big hands.” She held up her hands, the fingers splayed. “Mother gives me five dollars a week, but sometimes I want more things.”

  “Does anyone ever catch you?”

  “No,” said Lena. “They just let me go by. Do you think you know how now?” She studied Shelley’s face.

  “Why?”

  “I want to teach you something.” Lena looked away and plunged her feet deep into the sand.

  The borrowing they’d done was different; Lena had somehow convinced Shelley that they were helping out the sunglasses or nail clippers by giving them a job. But now they were just helping themselves to the world. Shelley tried to accept the idea. They were robbers on an unknown beach, and Shelley looked smugly at the other beachgoers, hoping they were afraid. “I think I do,” she said.

  “Jessica showed me,” said Lena. “She’s nice. But sometimes she pinches me if I turn on a bad show.” She held out her wrist. “She likes Love Boat,” said Lena, “but I like game shows—”

  Shelley took Lena’s wrist and stroked it tenderly, as though it were made of glass. “Honey, friends shouldn’t pinch,” said Shelley. “They’re supposed to be nice to you.”

  Lena began to pull things from her pockets. Out came the snowdome, the spoons. And out came the gold material. She was eager to present it to her niece. A couple of the sequins fluttered to the sand. “It’s for you,” said Lena. She held it toward Shelley. “I bought it for you.”

  Shelley stood up and wrapped the material, with a flourish, over her shoulders and twirled around. It made a good shawl. The material had the antiseptic smell of Sav-on. Because it was not supposed to be theirs, it was all the more valuable. Lena had bought the shawl for her, but Lena had no beautiful thing of her own to wear. Shelley found a small run at a seam, and started to tear the cloth in half.

  Lena shrieked, “Don’t!”

  “Wait,” Shelley said, taking apart the fabric until it was two scarves.

  “That was my present,” said Lena.

  Shelley draped one half around Lena’s shoulders, the other around herself. “Now it fits both of us.”

  Lena tugged at the scarf suspiciously. “Why
?”

  “Because,” Shelley said, “we have to have something to wear to our party. We’re fancy. We’re dressed up.”

  “Oh. I’m fancy,” Lena repeated softly. “I’m dressed up.”

  Shelley stroked the flimsy gold material. She tried to remember what she had worn the last time she had visited Bob and Lena. She remembered little except that her outfit had been quite complicated. Lena and Bob had been so eager to see her, they were almost hovering above the sidewalk. That day, they’d been bursting with their dares. The three of them had headed down the street with a brutal enthusiasm, as though trying to leave new imprints of themselves in the air.

  Now Shelley sat down beside Lena; it was too quiet. She wanted them to keep talking. The two of them swirled the warm sand with their hands.

  “Have you been brushing your teeth?” she asked Lena.

  Lena shook her head.

  “Honey, remember. It’s important.” She kept saying honey because it made her feel old.

  “I hate it,” said Lena.

  “Let me look in your mouth.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s ugly.”

  “Come on. Just open.”

  Lena opened her mouth reluctantly, like an infant awaiting unwanted food. She had only five teeth left. One, a front incisor, was an eerie moonlike white. The act of looking into Lena’s mouth made Shelley feel more like herself.

  “You’re not brushing anymore.”

  “I have no one to give my teeth.” Lena dug into her top pocket and pulled out a handful of broken chips. “He used to keep these in his right pocket. This one came out when I was eating salad. This one came out when I was eating a banana.” She held out her palm as though offering her niece hors d’oeuvres.

  “Give them to me,” said Shelley.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll keep them for you.”

  “But you’re not him.”

  “Let me try.”

  She cupped her hands, and Lena poured the little shards into them and watched as Shelley slipped them into her shorts pocket. “Are they safe?” she asked anxiously.