The back door opened. “Look at you two. Best friends. Do you want to see how it looks, now that I have some on the walls?” asked Adrian, standing before me with a paint roller in his hand, smiling.
“Sure,” I said, squishing the Lucky Duckling advertisement deeper into the firepit and smearing my flip flop off on the grass as Frisky and I went inside to join him.
Chapter 45
My freshman year in high school, I made a friend. Her name was Marnie Hopkins. She was pretty, funny, and a sophomore. Unlike myself, she held all the potential in the world. Her family had just moved to Hudson from Dallas, and she had to take Geography with our class because she had missed it at her old school. On the first day of class, we were told to pair off into ‘geograbuddies’ to work on papers and projects together throughout the year. By the process of elimination, as our classmates all quickly buddied up, soon she and I were the only two left. So our teacher made us partners.
Our first project was due in early October.
“Do you want to come over after school and work on it together?” Marnie asked me. Her voice was like slow honey, and already she was gaining attention from all the boys in school. Were she and I possibly going to become friends?
“Sure,” I said, acting like it was no big deal.
Marnie was the oldest of nine children. I rode the bus with her to her house, a three story Victorian in an old neighborhood, listening to her chatter the whole way there. Everyone on the bus within hearing distance stared at her and eavesdropped. Her accent was so foreign, so mesmerizing to us Midwesterners, that she may as well have been from some other planet.
“My daddy works on computers and my mama stays at home. She’s a great cook and we’re having homemade pizza tonight, you’re going to love it. She makes a few different styles so there’s something for everyone. Watch out for the ones with the whole-wheat crust. Yuck. She likes to get creative and once she even tried putting corn on it. It wasn’t as bad as you’d think, but she didn’t try it again. My sister Karlie is eight years old and you’re going to have to play with her rabbit; it’s just something she makes everyone do when they come to our house for the first time…”
It went on and on. Marnie was perfect. Bright and cheerful, accepting and non-questioning. I had never had an insta-friend before. It seemed too good to be true. By her second week of school, everyone loved her. She nonchalantly scooped up friends like we were discarded seashells, as likely to choose a scummy broken seashell (me) as a rare piece of yellow seaglass. From the first time we rode the bus to her house together, she approached our friendship as if it were a sure thing. She had none of the self-doubt that weighed me down and caused me to assume that of course no one would want me near them.
She openly said hello to me in the hall and sat by me at lunch, oblivious to the rule of ignoring me. Some days she hung with the popular crowd; other days she slid into the seat next to me in study hall as if it were the most natural thing in the world. How could someone be fifteen and just not care about the social structure of high school? Even more befuddling, her behavior seemed to trump all the other rules in place. The popular girls took her back again and again without question, even if she’d just been seen talking to me or some other nerd. Why did they let her do what she wanted to do?
Her family was much the same. One of those made-for-TV clans, a house filled with pets and laughter, the constant smell of food cooking, the sounds of violin lessons and video games. There were so many people coming and going that I could take a second piece of chicken or laugh a little too loud without feeling paranoid.
Marnie’s mother listened to our speech about the Sahara Desert while she cleaned up the kitchen one evening. It was almost ten o’clock. We had been working on the speech for two weeks and had to present it the next day. I was spending the night, which meant I would get to show up at school getting off the same bus as Marnie, and everyone would know what great friends we were.
When we were finished, Mrs. Hopkins rinsed her dishcloth out in the sink and said, “That was great, girls. Two A-pluses for sure. I especially liked the facts about camels.”
“Thanks, Mama,” said Marnie. She got up to help her mother put away a mixing bowl up a high shelf. It would not have occurred to me to help my mother put away a bowl, even if I were taller than her. I wondered if there was anything someone small could do, to be as helpful and considerate as Marnie. I decided if my mother lost something down in the couch, I would reach my skinny arm down there and get it for her.
Mrs. Hopkins then turned her attention on me. It was the first time there’d been much contact between the two of us; normally, there was too much going on in their house for that. “I’m sorry to hear about your sister and brother,” she said. I was caught completely off-guard.
“You have a sister and brother?” asked Marnie. She had never been to my house, but if she had, she would have seen plenty of pictures of Van and Valencia. Still, I had assumed someone from school had probably filled her in about me. At that point we were well into the school year.
“Uh, well, they’re…”
“They passed away in an accident,” Mrs. Hopkins told her daughter. She turned back to me, “I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you. I just mentioned your name at church, said you were Marnie’s best friend, and some of the ladies there told me what happened.”
“Mama!” exclaimed Marnie.
“What?” asked Mrs. Hopkins.
“She’s not my best friend,” whispered Marnie, her face red and angry.
I rode the bus to school with her the next morning, but aside from two more awkward encounters as geograbuddies, we did not talk much after that.
Chapter 46
There are memories that come and go, memories with the hazy doubt of dreams. Once when I was about eight, I went downstairs into the laundry room. I was looking for my mother. Instead, I saw my father standing there by a basket of dirty laundry. He had a blue, wadded ball of fabric pressed to his face. What was he doing? He was inhaling.
“Dad?”
He spun around, letting go of what he was holding. Valencia’s Ms. Pac-man bikini undies fell to the floor.
“Don’t sneak up on people. Go upstairs and do your homework.” He looked at me like I disgusted him.
So I went upstairs and did my homework; I did not argue.
Now when I think of this, I tell myself it cannot fit. Like a spare part left over after some vehicle or appliance is reassembled. Was this valve really part of this? Well, it works better now without it.
Chapter 47
It had been seven days since Jeb and I met in the Golden Dragon parking lot, and I had yet to hear back from him. He had either skipped town with my money or been a victim of some unfortunate circumstances. Figuring out which was high on my mental list of things to do. But not quite as high as readying our home for a baby.
In that time, Adrian and I went from a couple with a messy, crowded storage room to prospective parents standing in a periwinkle nursery. He had let me have my way on everything. It was outfitted with white Pottery Barn furniture and cashmere baby blankets. A copper Friendship mobile from The Abstract Home moved lithely above the crib. The closet had already begun to accumulate an adorable selection of boy clothing and girl clothing. Whichever we did not need could be saved for our next time around, or regifted, or, well, who could think that far ahead?
“I’m off to the post office,” I called to Adrian, grabbing my purse. With the installation of the gate and Frisky, our mailbox was out of commission. That felt lucky to me. Bad things had happened in that mailbox.
I had ordered, rush delivery, several baby items and about twenty maternity outfits. Hopefully something would be waiting there for me. Well, not the maternity clothes; they were from France and would surely take longer. I wondered if other pregnant women knew about French maternity clothes. I hoped not! They were so much better than the stuff we had here. It was like, in France, they realized you could still be a stylish woman even if y
ou were expecting.
Expecting.
I just loved the sound of that. Anticipating that something new and different would happen. Wasn’t that the definition of expecting?
There’d been an unpleasant sensation lingering around me, ever since the visit to the psychic, that perhaps trouble was closer now than Minneapolis. I felt that perhaps someone had come for me that day. But when I told Adrian about the strange ending to my meeting, he said it confirmed that the psychic was a crook, and that she had panicked, unable to tell me my future. I liked this explanation better, yet now, driving to the post office, it sounded rather ludicrous.
I parked my car and stepped out into the sweltering day. My just-washed hair, still a bit damp in the back, became hot with sweat as I walked down the street, and then turned quickly chilly as I entered the air-conditioned post office.
“Hello,” I sang to the woman behind the counter. We’d been seeing a lot of one another since the fence went up. I wondered if she noticed anything different about me…
“Oh. Hello. How are you doing today, Mrs. Corbis?” She never sounded sincerely happy to see me.
“Just fine. And yourself?”
“Good. Thank you. Here you go,” she said, handing me a single letter.
No. Please, No.
I made no move to accept it, so she pushed it at me, her bony fingers forcibly sliding it across the counter. “This is all I have for you today. You’re going to have to get a P.O. box if you don’t install your mailbox somewhere we can reach it.”
I ignored her and carried the letter to the car so I could have some privacy.
I got in and locked my door. I reached in my handbag and put on my sunglasses. They always make me feel a little invisible and safe.
I looked at the letter for a long time, holding it by the edges, not wanted to touch it. The same handwriting. A generic stamp. A Minneapolis postmark. It seemed obvious that this letter was evil. I felt like the woman at the post office should have followed me, knocked on my car window, had some police officers with her and a finger pointing at me accusingly. But she was still inside, having an average, forgettable day, and here I was, seemingly also having an average, forgettable day. And until I opened it, it was just some letter.
I did the math in my head. This letter was postmarked on Friday. I had gone to the psychic on Saturday. Today was Monday. Could the person who sent this letter have been here in Savannah on Saturday? Well, yes. Or no.
I was going to tear it open with my fingernail, but I hesitated and instead pulled the keys from the ignition. I stuck the tip of one into the edge of the letter and carefully tore an opening across the top seam of the envelope. Nice and tidy. Still I could not bring myself to look inside. I just knew there was going to be something really bad inside. I set the letter on the passenger seat and started the car; I realized it must be well over a hundred degrees in there, considering I had the windows up.
I pointed the vents at my face, lifted up my sunglasses, closed my eyes. I breathed in the cool air, and when I began to feel a little better my right hand, a free agent, a crawling thing with a mind of its own, reached over to the seat beside me and retrieved the letter.
Yes. Yes. You can do this. Because you have to.
And I looked inside. My stomach twisted and turned. While I had feared I would find out something horrible about Jeb’s whereabouts, what I did not expect to find was a picture of just Jeb’s head, swollen and unreal, resting on a picnic table. It was so surreal that at first I thought it was a trick. I looked at it, momentarily puzzled at what I was seeing, not quite getting it. The reality of it then clicked, registered, and I grabbed my stomach. I turned the picture over, as shocked and disturbed by the strange sunny setting as I was by the macabre image.
I guess this guy must not have many neighbors, I thought, holding my stomach. I feared my baby was being ruined.
Obviously taking matters into my own hands had gone too far. I called Adrian, barely able to speak.
“Honey,” I choked on my words.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“Come to the post office.”
“I’m working on a painting.”
“Come right now.”
“Are you serious? I’m busy.”
“Come right now. Come right now.”
He changed. His voice changed and his demeanor changed. Somehow, he understood everything now. “Stay there. Wait for me. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there. Just stay where you are.”
I put the picture back in the envelope and put the envelope facedown on my lap. I didn’t want it near me but also did not want it out of my reach. I tried to make my breathing come out evenly, brushed my tears away, afraid someone would see me crying hysterically and try to help me.
Moments later Adrian’s Audi came flying into the parking lot. He jumped out and ran to my passenger door. I forgot I had locked it.
“Let me in!” he said pounding on the window. I opened the door. He was sweating and panting, agitated nearly beyond recognition. His uproarious, disheveled state made me almost calm.
“I hired this guy,” I began. “A private investigator. And he went to Minneapolis a week ago…” And there I stopped, not sure how to proceed. I felt that nothing I was saying could make any sense to Adrian. I looked up at him, afraid to show him the picture, afraid he would hate me forever, never love me again, think this was all my fault.
“Adrian, get in. I don’t want to say all this with the door open.”
He got in and shut the door, and with shaking hands he reached into my lap for the envelope. Obviously the first thing he saw was that the envelope was addressed to him. He looked at me but did not comment on my opening his mail. Then he reached inside and pulled out the picture. He squinted at it and then, without warning, vomited all over the dashboard. It went into the vents and he shook his head, having the presence of mind to be annoyed with himself. He quickly opened his door and continued in the parking lot. I sat there watching the thick orange liquid roll down over the word AIRBAG and plop onto his leg. I looked around us, fearing someone would park nearby us at any moment.
“Do you want me to get out of here?” I asked him.
He ignored me, wretching out the door.
My impatience and paranoia were almost bubbling over. “Adrian, we need to get out of here.”
“Relax,” he whispered. He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve and opened the glove box.
“Should I call the police?” I asked him, after he’d cleaned the interior of the car and himself with a stack of Starbucks napkins I kept in the glove box. The hot car smelled terrible. He began to gag again.
“Adrian, let’s get out of here,” I said. “Let’s take your car. I’ll drive.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. He picked up the envelope and photograph and followed me to his car.
“I don’t know where to start,” I said, turning down a side street, driving aimlessly. “Where do you want me to drive? You probably need to go home and change your clothes? Adrian, say something.”
He shook his head then turned to me, his green eyes locked into mine and now assured and cold. “Don’t call the police. Let me handle this.”
Chapter 48
By the start of my sophomore year in high school, I had stopped mourning the loss of my brother and sister. I still missed them, I still thought of them, of course, but I was adjusting to my identity without them. I can look back before that time and see difficult times when I felt isolated or overwhelmed, when I had thought about how much easier it would be if they were there. I may have even believed that being without them was the cause of all my misery. After all, wasn’t there a time several years earlier when my family played Yahtzee and my mother made cupcakes for us? Weren’t there times when we were truly happy? Times when we lived up to the cheery sign hanging on our front door proclaiming us The Loden Gang.
Sure I got left at the grocery store when I was four and no one noticed I was missing until
the deli supervisor dropped me off at home an hour later, but we also took those family trips I mentioned. There were bigger indications of authentic happiness too, like the treehouse my father built for Valencia and Van on their seventh birthdays. Throughout the years, warping in my parent’s backyard, it has stood like a giant, beckoning trophy of hand-forged Gemütlichkeit, advertising to all the world that Love Lives Here.
Growing up, I heard the story of the treehouse many, many times. As if just seeing its heaving dormers looming high above, casting black shadows on my sandbox, was not enough. Back in the day, back before stories involving the twins ground to a rusty halt, the treehouse story was a fixture of all get-togethers on our property. How could such a monstrosity not prompt some kind of explanation?
My father, or actually, the man he used to be, worked on that treehouse for months and months at night while the twins were sleeping, building it in the garage and telling them he was working on something boring like a garden shed. He then got all the pieces hauled up into the tree with pulleys and put them together while it was storming so no one could hear the nails being pounded in. That part, I think, was a lie.
Then my mom would step in and take over, telling of how she’d had to keep the twins out of the backyard for days so they wouldn’t see what was happening back there. (It wasn’t easy!) She would go on to describe how my dad set up the electricity by following the instructions in a twelve-page book he bought at a garage sale and wasn’t it a surprise that he didn’t cause the whole neighborhood to have a power outage. This story delighted everyone who heard it.
On the morning of their seventh birthdays (Van’s actually, since Valencia’s wasn’t technically until the next day) he woke them up early and said, “Do you want to see your new treehouse?” Well they didn’t believe him. But there it was. There were even geraniums in the window boxes! He had thought of everything. It had two rooms and was outfitted with carpeting, lights, and electrical outlets. They even had their own radio. And inside on a child sized table there were birthday cakes. Not one birthday cake, but two. One for each of them. Twin birthday cakes. For the beautiful, the fortunate, the blessed Van and Valencia.
Surviving Valencia Page 19