Phantom Effect

by Michael Aronovitz

  “Uhh . . .” Marissa said. “I suppose I could have, but they said they were booked solid the first time I called. Here.” She handed up a roll of spare tape, and her mother bent to receive it.

  “You should call again,” she said. “Squeaky wheel, right?”

  “Right. I’ll, uh, give them a try to see if they have Saturday hours.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Her mother had stopped what she was doing and was looking down at her with concern. “I meant that you could call again for tomorrow, for Friday. I figured they wouldn’t shut down the whole campus, and maybe you’d get lucky.” She stepped down off the stool, Marissa taking her hand like a servant helping a lady from a coach; and in turn, her mother slipped her arm around her, bringing her in for a spontaneous embrace. She was tall like Daddy, and Marissa hadn’t buried her cheek in the nook just above her mother’s hip in years. She felt her hair being smoothed, and her mother’s tone had gone soft.

  “You told me last week they weren’t open on the weekends, hon. Did you forget?”

  “Yes,” Marissa answered. God, lying was so much more difficult when she couldn’t see the questions coming! She pushed gently away, walked a few steps, and folded her arms. “I’m just off-kilter because of my short-out, that’s all. Seems like everything’s covered in cotton and clouds.” She pointed. “Like that fake spiderwebbing.” Mother turned and looked at her handiwork. The fluffy see-through gauze stretched all the way across the east side of the porch, making the near area seem partially enclosed.

  “I like it,” Mother said. “Makes everything look dreamlike.”

  “Creepy,” Marissa added.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “I told you—”

  “I meant besides the hocus-pocus, which we all love you just fine without, by the way.” She went over to the porch swing where she had stowed all the other paraphernalia and picked up a roll of black streamers so she could take a scissors and strip the edges into frays. They would go across most of the front overhang. She called them wind snakes. “It doesn’t have anything to do with a certain handsome young man, does it? Black and beautiful?”

  “Mother!”

  “Just saying . . .”

  “Well, don’t. I’m over him and talking about him is like picking at the dead.” She despised the image she’d just created, but it had its effect. Mother pursed her lips and got busy stripping streamers. Marissa moved the stool over to the position just to the right of where the steps came up from the walkway and stood ready with the Scotch tape. Across the street, old Phyllis was having a smoke, looking over. She was wearing brown paisley slacks and an apron. She had one arm flat across in order to hold the elbow of the cigarette hand, and her wrist was cocked at up her head, off-angle. She bent it back over for a drag, a deep one that drew her cheeks in. Behind Marissa was the skeleton in the housedress, and she wondered if Phyllis was standing there looking at it and having a dawning realization.

  “I don’t want to be a nurse,” Marissa said. It came from nowhere, and she wished it had stayed buried. This was not porch conversation. This was a rebuilding proposal that required set-up and staging, scripted moments, planned rebuttals. And she had thought none of this through even in terms of her own wants and needs; in fact, she didn’t know if she herself supported such an unyielding position in the end. It had just popped out. From the gut.

  Mother stopped what she was doing and walked over to the porch swing. She cleared it of the construction paper and glue tubes and waved Marissa over. They sat, mother and daughter, the former with her arm around her baby. Even at age nineteen, Marissa’s feet didn’t reach the wooden slats of the porch floor, and her toes pigeoned in. Her hands were pressed together between her knees and she felt suddenly exhausted.

  “It’s just . . .”

  “What, sweetie?”

  “I’m tired of being sad all the time.”

  “Hmm.”

  Marissa glanced up and met her mother’s eyes, which had gotten slanted and sharp. Battle guise. When Marissa was younger she secretly called this Mother’s “hawk face.” For comfort go to Daddy. The problem was that he was all fluff and rah-rah, falling short on answers and strategies. You wanted to fix things? Mother was the mechanic. It’s just that she typically didn’t use any sweet oil when she turned the screws.

  “There are going to be sad moments, honey. That’s life. But for every patient you lose, there will be two that you fill with hope. It’s a good living and an honest one. You have a gift, and it wasn’t given to you so you could waste it on something flashy or trendy.”

  “But I’m alone, like all the time.”

  Mother rubbed her shoulder, changing tactics.

  “Sweetheart, you just so happen to be extraordinarily pretty.”

  “Ma . . .” Marissa singsonged. Mother squeezed her in.

  “You feel this?” she said. “It’s a big hug because you’re an absolute doll. And that’s not just ‘Mommy-vision’: you are universally attractive. It’s like the old cliché where the girl who is drop-dead gorgeous is the one sitting at home on Friday nights.”

  “And throw in the weird psychic flashes.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly.”

  They sat a moment nestled together. Marissa was fairly sure that Mother was going to transition somehow to Jerome, trying to roll him into her clever psychological paradigm that attributed all the negativity and blame to everyone else’s insecurity, but she didn’t. Too complex. Too many minefields. Instead, as advertised, she put the metaphorical warm and fuzzy touch-up paint back in her toolbox and got out the mallet that she was more used to wielding.

  “You have a gift,” she said, “and with that comes responsibility. I know you, Marissa, and you aren’t one to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. We both know the gift separates you from others, and when people find out you can ‘read’ them, they run. The thing that’s hard to fathom right now is that some won’t. Give it time. Your circle of acquaintances is mostly made up of nineteen-year-olds. The maturity one needs to develop in order to ‘get you’ is going to take awhile. Four or five years, maybe double that until you finally see people coming around.”

  “So you’re saying I should date a thirty-year-old?”

  “Yes, when you’re thirty.” The joke was in her eyes but she was serious too.

  Marissa sighed.

  “The waiting’s hard, Mother.”

  “But wait you will. And when it comes to your major I’m all ears, but you’ve got to move quickly. Your father and I have discussed this at length, and you will not, repeat, not go undeclared. It’s a waste of time and money, and you’ll need to commit to something substantial this year.” She looked off. “I wish this were a Disney movie and we could tell you to just go exploring and find yourself. But that is not constructive nor realistic. It’s a tough old world out there with a shaky economy, and we’ll only support a solid scholastic focus.”

  Marissa was stretching her legs and looking at her toes.

  “No philosophy,” she said, softly mimicking. “No theater or communications or women’s studies.” Mother nodded.

  “All good electives, for sure.”

  “Not good for making a living,” Marissa finished. They sat for a moment together in silence, and even though the idea of forever sharing the pain of the bedridden seemed even more bleak now that she had voiced her reservations, it was far worse that it was possible she wouldn’t ever have a chance to experience that particular drudgery, to put up decorations, to sit on this porch swing and get a hard dose of tough love. There were priorities here and she had to get Daddy on board, make him a loyal team player, working all night if that’s what it took to get that darned patchwork flooding back into her head.

  The problem was that Mother wouldn’t want her husband staying up all night and possibly missing work the next day, for it was a sign of weakness and poor character to call out, at least in this household. And Marissa couldn’t let on that thi
s was an emergency. Urgent yes, life or death never. Mother would have this place crawling with cops, special investigators, township administrators. Marissa hopped off the porch swing, folded her arms, and looked left down the street toward the rotary cut into New Ardmore Avenue like the ones in New Jersey you always had to fight through on your way down the shore. She had grown so used to driving around this particular one and checking for those soft merges at the perimeter that she didn’t really notice anymore the huge border stones at the near edge of the circle, the butterfly bushes and midsized trees that could have been cover for the demon at this very moment.

  She turned casually, and next to Phyllis’s house was the cyclone fencing and the generators and converters of the Broomall substation, a mini piece of industrialism that stuck out like a sore thumb and had made their property here across New Ardmore a steal. Then far right up the hill on West Chester Pike there was the area where the storefronts had burned down years ago, never repaired or rebuilt, an eyesore the family was long done talking about. There was nothing left up there on the other side of the bluff except a flattened lot now, bordered at the near edge by craggy trees and wild grass. Could he be lurking up there right now, the wolf in the brush all subtle and still? Could he be waiting on the back side of those substation machines in the shadows of Rhonda Avenue? Absolutely, and she had to be subtle herself, make it look as if she wasn’t looking. Beg Daddy without begging. Persuade Mother that the father-daughter weekend with an early start-up was a necessity without making it seem like such a dire one. But considering how much in tune Mother was through her own scary sort of intuition and interpersonal sensitivity, convincing the woman to break a personal family ethic for some lukewarm substitute of an excuse would be harder than changing majors.

  “I want my Daddy!” Marissa said suddenly. She felt her mother coming from behind, and she countered by walking back toward the house. She put her hands to her face and she was crying for real. The emotions had just welled up for reasons her mother never would have guessed, but that didn’t lessen their effectiveness. Marissa knew this and felt horrible about it and played it to the hilt anyway. She spun around, fists to the side, face moist. Mother stopped in her tracks and put her hand to her chest.

  “Baby?” she said.

  “I want my father!” Marissa spat. “I need for him to work on my trigger-killer and I want to sit with him while he does it. I need for him to stay home with me tomorrow, because I’m lonely and confused and depressed. And you’re no help. Positively none!”

  That one rang between the rafters for a second or two.

  And the dagger left a wound, she could see it in her mother’s face. Again, Marissa felt awful about it, but this was war, desperate measures. And Mother was not the only one in this family who knew how to turn a screw.

  “I’m shocked,” Mother managed.

  “You’re not built for this,” Marissa said. “I want my—”

  “Father. Got it.” She walked past her daughter, arm swinging in that frail womanly way reserved for retreat. And surrender—at least that was what Marissa was hoping for.

  But she would surrender. She had to. The patchwork promised (didn’t it?) that Marissa would win (she thought), and she wasn’t planning to do this without a loaded arsenal.

  Suddenly alarmed, she looked back across the street, wondering if the old crow had witnessed the spat she’d just had with her mother. Phyllis was no longer standing there having a smoke, but Marissa saw the living room curtain fall back into place. Nothing was sacred. And worse, it just proved how easy it was to watch, to steal moments, potentially to learn about a mark. We were all conditioned by social design to depend on common trust in neighbors and strangers. We walked around utterly exposed and protected only by the promise of good will, so easy to break if you wanted to fight dirty, play the system, take your chances.

  Marissa struggled over a big footlocker stored with extra extension cords and outdoor seating cushions. She wasn’t tall enough for Mother’s stool to do any good, and she stepped up on the black trunk with scissors in her hands and a roll of black streamers under her arm. She had to strip the ends and put up the rest of the wind snakes. Mother would recover. And it was supposed to look like Halloween around here.

  Marissa and her mother were avoiding direct conversation except for the formalities like “excuse me” and “pass the salt,” but Daddy’s gift (and flaw) was that he remained blissfully ignorant of the drama most of the time. In this case, he was thrilled that he’d been given the sudden opportunity to play hooky with his daughter, and now that Mother had silently cleared away the vegetable lasagna he ate his Friday’s burgers with a fresh gusto, talking about some of the nifty machinery he’d seen on a recent tour of the DuPont plant in Grays Ferry where he had a job up and running. Next he was all gung-ho over a philosophical exchange he’d heard on talk radio on the way in this morning making the claim that computer entries and text messages did not chronicle the American family, but it was more the kitchen refrigerator that functioned as the true household heart, boasting the memories, the triumphs, the reminders, and bonding agents.

  “And the shopping list,” Mother said, pointing her fork. “The most important part that I seem to be the only one keeping current around here.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Daddy said. “I’m rather partial to the frog-clip.” He looked at his plate. “And I forgot to put up there that I need shaving cream.”

  “Put it on the list,” both Marissa and her mother murmured simultaneously. They smiled at each other, and Marissa slipped her fingers over her mother’s knuckles for a gentle makeup squeeze. Since they were both so awkward at closing off the tender moments, however, she removed her hand quickly and gazed at the fridge, really looking at it. Indeed, the front of it was a kaleidoscope of busywork, magnets galore holding up the most current pack of stamps, an old birthday card yellowed at the edges, a paper coaster from the Hotel Monteleone, a bunch of coupons. The side of the unit had the all but forgotten and discarded paraphernalia, the US Healthcare magnet, a food-stained digital timer, some phone numbers on Post-its, an ad for the eye doctor, old recipes. Littered between were a bunch of Marissa’s little girl projects, a square of popsicle sticks with her handprint, a crab missing the claws on one side, and there by the mesh basket with all the takeout menus was the frog Daddy mentioned, a Father’s Day present from pre-school. Marissa actually remembered gluing it, sitting at the table with the attached bench seat at the Play and Learn, tongue poking out one side of her mouth, setting the paperweight on the clothespin and affixing the circular black magnet underneath. Maybe there was something to that radio talk show, and maybe Daddy wasn’t so oblivious after all.

  He was reaching down offering Rusty a piece of hamburger roll.

  “Don’t feed the dog,” Mother scolded, winking at Marissa as a clear confirmation that they were friends again. She rose to clear and the doorbell rang, making Marissa jump out of her seat, almost knocking it over. She played it as if she were just so excited to greet the first trick-or-treater that she couldn’t contain herself, and she moved off to the living room for the Butterfingers.

  She opened the door to a fairy princess wearing a pointed hat with a light purple veil.

  “Trick or treat!” the little girl said, smiling the way kids always did, showing the whole rack of teeth in a near grimace. She had a wand, a pillow case, and a hole in one knee of her white stockings.

  “Aren’t you cute!” Marissa said, taking a candy bar out of the jack-o’-lantern and handing it over.

  “Can I have two?” Now the smile was more genuine, eyes twinkling. Marissa laughed and gave over another, fighting the temptation to pat the kid on the head. Didn’t want to mess up the sparkles in her hair. Behind her, Dad was waiting patiently on the sidewalk, no jacket, black T-shirt, tattoos up both forearms and one side of his neck. Looked like the type that worked in shipping and receiving somewhere and thought it would be appropriate to have one of those moonshine flasks s
tuck in his back pocket as long as it remained out of plain sight, but without the patchwork this was conjecture, and Marissa was not one to judge. The only thing she cared about was whether or not this was her serial killer, rapist, or kidnapper. When the girl ran back to him and nearly jumped into his arms in excitement over her double dose of candy, Marissa was convinced this wasn’t her man. Of course the fiend could have been anyone, playing a role and playing it well, but she had to make command decisions and move forward. There was no room for false accusation. This was a monster looking for miscues, ready to shrug and move on at a moment’s notice to some other poor girl out in Exton or West Chester or Radnor or Blue Bell, working his craft, pressing ghosts into the fabric.

  And Marissa would hear them weeping.

  The temperature had dropped and the street was starting to get populated. There were women in small clusters walking the little ones in groups, all capes and masks and makeup and accessories, and a few other dutiful dads who had taken the reins, one of them trying to seem nurturing and patient, calling out to his kid in the fluttering black cloak and Scream mask that it wasn’t a positive idea to run across properties. Behind her, Marissa heard Daddy starting up the dishes, and she went to the piano stool by the fireplace to play sentry. The heaviest volume would come through the neighborhood in the next hour or so, and she would use every opportunity when drawn to the door to look for something suspicious out there. Mother walked past carrying Rusty with one hand and holding a glass of red wine in the other. She was retreating upstairs, and she paused to look over her reading glasses.

  “We will continue our discussion at a more opportune juncture,” she said.

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” Marissa answered. She’d gotten what she wanted, and after Daddy fixed her device she would be more than willing to listen to the series of lectures to come, most probably not so fixed on the content of her argument out there on the porch as on the way she’d expressed it. And she’d give Mother that. An easy win on both sides. “Going to bed so soon?” she said.