The Blurry Years

by Eleanor Kriseman

  I heard his car rattling up next to the trailer, and I stood on my tiptoes to see my reflection in the microwave. I’d managed to find the lipstick my mother used to wear with that top, Revlon Softshell Pink, and I’d used the crappy travel blow-dryer under the sink (I wasn’t an idiot; of course there had been other women here) to try out a floaty hairstyle with a wavy side part that I’d seen on a model on the cover of some magazine. I remembered the last time I’d seen Marcus, before we’d left Tampa again, and how proud I’d been to have those silky black straps slipping out from under my tank top and onto my shoulders, when I hadn’t even needed a bra. This time I wasn’t wearing one.

  Marcus seemed confused when he walked in, but after he sat down with a big bowl of spaghetti and his drink he looked genuinely happy. “You’ve outdone yourself, lady,” he said. As soon as his drink was empty, I refilled it, and mine too, taking more and more effort to walk steadily on my platforms each time. Back on the couch, I stretched out my legs in front of me, marveling at how far they could reach. I was a bit drunk. I was going to say thank you to Marcus, so I wouldn’t feel guilty anymore.

  When Marcus said he was heading for bed, I widened my eyes and looked up at him. “So soon?” I asked, and ran a finger underneath the strap of the halter top, a movement he could interpret however he liked.

  “Wish I could keep you company, Cal, but it’s almost midnight, and I’ve got class early tomorrow. Hey, if you leave the dishes to soak, though, I’ll do them in the morning.” He stood there for just a beat longer than usual, and I took that as my cue. Finally I’d feel as if I were good for something. I stood up—in my platforms, I was almost as tall as him—wrapped my arms around him, and kissed him, hard. And within a second, he pushed me away, just like he’d done so many years ago.

  “What the hell are you doing, Cal?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  “I just thought—” I bit my lip, feeling what was left of my lipstick slide off onto my teeth. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. No man had said no to me in a very long time. “I didn’t know why else you would let me stay here if you didn’t want—” I was too shy now to even say it. “If you didn’t think—” I said quietly. “—I mean, I’m not twelve anymore. And I wanted to thank…” I lost my train of thought. “I don’t even know,” I said, tearing up.

  “Oh god,” Marcus said. “Is that why you thought I was letting you stay? Because I thought I’d get something from you? You have no idea how awful that makes me feel.”

  Feeling pathetic, but just bold and numb enough from the rum to think it was still a worthwhile pursuit, I tried one more time, kissing his neck. “Don’t you want me?” I asked. He backed away again and sank into the couch, looking unbearably sad, just as he had when I’d last tried to get close to him. But there were more layers to his sadness this time. And more to mine.

  “If you were anyone else? Of course I’d want you,” Marcus said. “Sit down.” I obeyed, kicking off my platforms and tucking my feet underneath me. “Look at me,” he said, and I did.

  “Cal, there are no strings attached here. You’re here because you need to be, and because I like having you around. But not like that. Jesus, I’ve known you for what, ten years? Since you were a little kid. I saw how it was with your mom. I just want you to feel like you have someone on your side. Like me.” Then he smiled. “So don’t try that shit again.”

  I’d never imagined he would say no to me. But somehow it made sense. And it felt right that he had never wanted anything from me, that I would have been drawn to him precisely for that reason. I felt, more than ever, that this had been the right place to run to. I realized he was waiting for a reaction from me. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m an idiot. But—will you just hold me? Just for a minute?” He nodded, and I leaned back into him, closing my eyes, until I felt my shoulder being shaken. I’d fallen asleep.

  “All right, I’m really going to bed this time,” Marcus said. He filled up a big glass of water and left it by the couch. “You’ll want that when you wake up. Goodnight, Calliope,” he said, then disappeared into the bedroom.

  In the morning, Marcus made coffee and eggs for me before he headed off to school, and then I was alone again, that awful heaving loneliness that was worse than it had ever been before.

  When she was done throwing up, she curled up on the bathroom rug, now flecked with her vomit. I went to get her some water, and when I came back she was sitting on the toilet, with the lid closed. She wouldn’t even look at me. “Leave it on the sink and get out,” she said. I put the glass down and stood there.

  “Get. Out. Did you not hear me? I don’t want to see you when I leave this bathroom. You’re a whore.” She spat out those last words. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to when you’re not here. At least I have a boyfriend. You fuck anybody who you think gives a shit about you. But guess what? They don’t. They just want to fuck you. Don’t think you’re special because you’re young and you’re pretty. I hope you get pregnant, I really do. I hope you end up with a daughter just like you, so you know what it’s like. You’ll be old and fat and ugly and alone and then you’ll know what it feels like, then maybe you’ll have a fucking ounce of sympathy for me, for what you think I’ve ‘done’ to you.” She’d exhausted herself. She dropped to the floor and curled up on the rug again. I wanted to sit next to her and stroke her hair, despite myself. But instead I listened. And I left.

  Marcus never mentioned that night again. I’d tried to apologize when he got home from work the next evening, but he stopped me. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said, and there was a kindness in his voice that let me know he really meant it.

  Every morning on his way out, while I was still asleep on the couch, he’d leave a cup of coffee in the pot for me. During the day I’d wander my old neighborhoods until I was sweating through my clothes, then I’d duck into the Publix on Gandy and shiver as the sweat dried instantly on my skin. With his money, I’d buy groceries for the both of us, and have something ready for dinner whenever he got home. I usually made something healthy, but sometimes I’d buy a box of Hamburger Helper, and stick a wet finger in the seasoning packet to take a lick before I poured it into the pan. No matter what I made, Marcus ate everything on his plate.

  Most nights, we’d settle in on the couch, Marcus and me curled up on opposite sides, and pick something stupid to watch on TV. On the weekends, he let me drive his car to the library, and I’d pick out enough books to last me for the week. Then, after he’d gone to bed, I’d stay up late, reading by the anemic glow of the goldfish tank and the light above the oven. But I still felt like I was waiting for something—this wasn’t a life I could live forever. I needed the possibility of a future or else I felt like I’d die on that couch. I woke up shaking at three in the morning from a nightmare where I looked like my mother but thirty years in the future—wrinkly, shrunken and bony, rattling and gasping for air on that couch as Marcus, youthful and handsome as ever, held my hands as I died. I needed to go somewhere.

  The next morning, I took my notebook out of my backpack to plan out the rest of my life but then that seemed a little bit ambitious and I just started doodling all over the page instead. I ended up drawing hundreds of tiny stars, a jumble of constellations, the kind with five points that you learn how to draw as a little kid. I stared at the page for a minute, then picked up Marcus’s phone and called information.

  Amidst my doodled stars, I wrote down the number the woman on the other end of the phone had given me. I’d gotten lucky finding Marcus, but Eugene was a lot farther than Tampa. I knew where I wanted to be. I dialed the number and closed my eyes, praying for a ring.

  17

  Marcus understood that my leaving had nothing to do with him. I told him about Starr, but I didn’t tell him what she meant to me, in part because I didn’t know how to put it into words, and in part because I didn’t really know.

  And I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him either, though I do believe he would h
ave let me stay with him in that crowded trailer for as long as I needed. That was just the kind of person he was. Which made it even more bittersweet to leave.

  We were slouched on the couch a couple nights before I was set to get on a plane and fly across the country for… for what? I didn’t even know. For hope? I was sleepy, and my head was resting on Marcus’s shoulder, in a way that I’d come to under-stand—and appreciate—would always be interpreted by him as completely platonic. The shows we’d been watching were long over, and an infomercial blared out at us from the television we’d been too lazy to turn off. The remains of dinner were on the coffee table, crumpled paper towels and the dregs of our rum and Cokes, ice long melted, the light brown liquid pooled in the bottom of the glasses. I was completely comfortable—just the right amount of drunk to hover on the side of sentimental rather than maudlin. He shook my thigh gently. “Cal, don’t fall asleep just yet.” I rolled my head in a lazy circle, then stood up and began to carry the dishes over to the sink. “I’m awake—what’s up?”

  “I just thought, your last day here is Thursday. We should… do something, you know? Go out to dinner. Somewhere nice. Or—what do you want to do before you leave? Where do you want to say goodbye to?” Though he didn’t mean to, Marcus had made me incredibly sad. There was nothing I wanted more than to leave this place but remembering that I would likely not return for years, if ever, wasn’t something I could think about for too long without doubting the plans I’d made.

  “No dinner,” I said. “I mean, no fancy dinner. That’s not what I want for my last night.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, tapping his fingers on his thighs like he was thinking hard about a better alternative. “Maybe the beach, then? One last sunburn? Watch the sunset? Sit in the dark and listen to the ocean?” After every option I’d shook my head. Nothing felt right and everything was painful. “Just sit on this damn couch?” he said finally, pretending to be fed up. “I got nothin’. You’re gonna have to help me out.”

  My arms were submerged halfway in the soapy sink water, rinsing the last of the dishes. I looked down at my arms, freckled from years in the sun, and I had an idea.

  “Let’s get tattoos,” I said. “Matching tattoos. That’s what I want.”

  Marcus gave me a long look from the couch. “You must be drunker than I thought,” he said. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No,” I said, realizing only in that moment that I was completely serious. “I think it’s a brilliant idea, actually.” I smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. “Why, you scared?”

  “I’m not scared,” he said. “I have tattoos already. God knows anything you came up with would be better than some of this shit.” He was right. There were some questionable decisions inked into his arms and legs that, on him, were endearing, but on anyone else I would have found off-putting. “But you’ve never gotten one. But…” he trailed off. “Yeah. I’ll do it, if you’re sure it’s what you want.”

  The next evening, Marcus drove us to his friend Rafi’s apartment. Rafi ran a tattoo studio out of his apartment but it was perfectly safe and professional, Marcus assured me. Rafi had done every other one of Marcus’s tattoos.

  Ran opened the door with a smile, which I was grateful for, because the rest of his body was covered in tattoos, from the neck down, and I might have been intimidated otherwise. While Marcus and Rafi caught up, I paced between Rafi’s kitchen and his living room, letting Rafi’s pit bull sniff my legs then nuzzle up against me like he’d determined I wasn’t a threat. I knelt down to rub his head, and he started to wag his tail vigorously, dog tags and choke chain clanking against each other. “Cal!” Marcus called from the other room. “Rafi’s ready. Come on in here.”

  Rafi had turned his spare room into what looked like a fully functional tattoo parlor. It was dark in there—no windows, but there were fluorescent lights trained on the La-Z-Boy in the center of the room, and the tool kit beside it.

  “So what are we getting?” Marcus said. I have total trust in you, he’d said earlier. You pick; I’ll get it. I pulled out the drawings I’d traced from a book in the library earlier that day. “Constellations,” I said. “Like you used to show me.” Marcus looked at me like he wanted to say something, then registered Rafi’s presence, as if he’d briefly forgotten we weren’t the only two people in the room.

  Rafi nodded. “Sweet. Won’t be hard. Lemme take a look, draw it out in pen first so you can see if you like it. Who’s going first?”

  “I am,” I said, and sat down. I held out my arm. “Let me show you the freckles I want you to use.” I pointed to the freckles, and Rafi dotted them with a fine-tip marker. “I think that should work,” I said. “I have a lot of freckles if you need to use different ones.” Rafi looked back and forth from the drawing to my arm, nodded, and began to outline the constellation I’d chosen. Ursa Major. The giant bear. Ursa Major had been a woman and they’d hunted her straight into the sky, where Jupiter had transformed her into a bear. A million miles away and impervious.

  Rafi popped a clean razor from a plastic container and shaved the hair from that patch of my arm, swabbing it with an alcohol wipe. All three of us were silent. He poured ink into little cups and set them on the table next to my chair, slid on a pair of blue latex gloves, and rubbed Vaseline into the skin on my arm. When he pulled out the needles to insert into the machine, I briefly, reflexively turned away, and Marcus put a hand on my shoulder to reassure me.

  “This is a quick one. No color, just a couple of lines,” Rafi said, gently grabbing my wrist to extend my arm toward him. “Won’t be too bad. Really.”

  “I’m sure I’ve felt worse,” I said. And that felt true, and comforting to me.

  The underside of my arm was visible to me now that it was extended, and it reminded me of the belly of a fish, something you didn’t always see—an unexpected view of a place that always felt vulnerable. My skin was soft and thin there.

  When the needle grazed my skin, I breathed in sharply, but when Rafi paused midway to wipe away the blood, I realized that I hadn’t even been paying attention to the pain at all. “All done,” he said, pulling out a bandage to wrap around my arm. “Man, you didn’t even flinch.”

  “She’s tough,” Marcus said. Rafi was cleaning already, indifferent, distracted. “So which one did you pick for me?” Marcus asked. I handed him the paper.

  “The Big Dipper,” I said. “All seven stars. For showing me all of them.” I studied his face, watching for his reaction.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” he said, sitting down in the La-Z-Boy. “That’s for fucking sure.”

  18

  I barely had anything with me, just my duffle bag, which was so empty it hung slack from my shoulder. I looked like I was spending the night away, not moving across the country. Again, it was strange what I’d thought to bring with me when I left—the inventory of items that were all I now had. A few pairs of jeans, low-slung and loose, stolen from some of the slimmer-hipped men’s apartments and houses where I’d slept over the years. That old shirt of Daryl’s, now so soft from washing that I felt it would disintegrate if I rubbed it between my fingers. That navy silk robe from Starr, which now fit me the way it was supposed to, clinging to my hips, hemline hitting just above my knee, nipples visible underneath the paper-thin fabric in certain lighting. The only outwardly feminine, sexy clothing I’d taken was my mother’s. I don’t know why. I knew that sometimes it came in handy to wear something tight, or maybe it was to spite her—or maybe it was more than that. Maybe I’d taken those particular items because they reminded me of a time when I’d been in charge; when we’d been a team, or it had at least felt that way. That pink halter top from the night we’d driven home from Daryl’s together, when she’d crawled into my bed early the next morning to hold me. That old V-neck, stretchy and low-cut and faded now at the armpits, that she’d worn for days straight on that drive to Eugene. And, inexplicably, one of her Oasis polo shirts—ugly and cheap, with a scratchy embroidered logo on
the left breast pocket.

  I didn’t have many books, any at all, really. But the day before I’d left, Marcus had given me three brand new paperbacks. “I know you’re packing light,” he said, “but here’s something to start your collection with when you get there.” He’d also given me a leather jacket that he said he’d found at the thrift store, but I’d found the tag from Burdines beside the trashcan. It was just another debt I would have to accept I couldn’t repay—that I wasn’t expected to repay. That was more important. I felt like I might need a lifetime to learn the true difference between a debt and a favor, and the difference between the kinds of people who could turn the same action into one or the other.

  So it was in my new leather jacket, Daryl’s old shirt, and someone else’s jeans that I arrived at the airport. It was an early morning flight, but Marcus had still left for work before I’d woken up. We’d just said goodnight as usual the night before, both aware of the fact that we were pretending we’d say our true goodbyes the next morning.

  I reached my gate early. I had no idea how early you were supposed to get to the airport before a flight, so I had time to kill. I tried to read one of the books Marcus had given me, but I was too nervous to do much of anything but jiggle my leg anxiously and drum my fingers on the metal armrest beside me. People walked briskly by, trailing suitcases on wheels, bent under the weight of backpacks meant for hiking trips. I wanted to know where each person was going. Were they on their way to someone they loved? Returning to someone they hated? Leaving everything behind? Most people didn’t look as if they were leaving everything behind. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked into the airport bar.