Lemon

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘It’s pretty maudlin and not very original.’

  ‘A broken heart.’

  ‘Bingo. Dawson Frost destroyed my life.’

  ‘Dawson Frost?’

  ‘His wife wrote an obituary for him a while back and there he was, fat and smug. She said he was a gentleman and a gentle man.’

  ‘You beg to differ?’

  ‘He was an unctuous sociopath.’

  ‘Was he fat when he broke your heart?’

  ‘No, but certainly smug. I seem to go for those.’ She looks a mess, still in Damian’s pjs.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Ambulance.’ She holds my still-restrained hand, meaning

  I can’t pull away. ‘I’m not leaving without you.’

  Dr. Fireman is one of those balding types who shaves his pate to disguise the fact that he’s balding. Behind his rectangular glasses are the agitated eyes of the overworked. He sniffs repeatedly, which suggests a cold or a cocaine habit. He removes the restraints and asks my ‘mother’ to leave to preserve patient confidentiality. He wants her gone so I will reveal hidden truths.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

  ‘Better.’ I rub my wrists like the recently cuffed.

  ‘Very good.’ He starts making notes. ‘Let’s start with family history. Any psychological illness in your family?’

  ‘I have no family. I’m adopted.’ Don’t tell him about the crazy aunt.

  ‘So that woman is your adoptive mother?’

  ‘My stepmother, actually. My adoptive mother passed on.’

  ‘I’m sorry. When was that?’

  ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Sniff, sniff. ‘Are you in high school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your previous medical history?’

  ‘Don’t have any.’

  ‘Psychiatric history?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Do you use drugs?’ Sniff, sniff.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at all? At parties and so on?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘What does “not much” mean?’

  ‘Almost never.’

  ‘Have you attempted suicide before?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Okaaay.’ He scribbles more. ‘Limone, is there any psychological trauma you can tell me about, or a history of depression?’

  ‘Nothing springs to mind.’

  ‘Okaaay.’ Each time he says ‘okaaay’ he pauses briefly, narrowing his eyes, as though in deep concentration. ‘Can you tell me what precipitated this event?’

  ‘It’s pretty maudlin and not very original.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘I was in love.’

  ‘Ah.’ Sniff, sniff.

  ‘Dawson Frost … ’ I look away, pausing for effect, ‘broke my heart.’

  ‘Okaaay.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I gather Dawson did not return your feelings?’

  ‘Everything was going swell at first. I really thought he loved me. He even invited me to the prom.’

  ‘What changed, do you think?’

  ‘Her. That ho Wendy. I saw them together. She was supposed to be my bff.’

  ‘bff?’

  ‘Best Friend Forever. I wanted to die.’

  Recognition ignites behind the rectangular glasses. Okaaay, just another teenage girl spurned, attempting suicide after a breakup. Herr Freud would say her daddy spanked her and she got off on it. ‘Can you tell me something about your bruises?’

  ‘That was Dawson. We had some pretty athletic sex.’

  ‘Okaaay.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Was it consensual?’

  ‘Totally. I left some marks on him as well.’ This is stretching it but the fireman doesn’t flinch, just jots it down, no doubt convinced Herr Freud was right.

  ‘Had you planned your suicide attempt or was it spontaneous?’

  ‘Spontaneous.’

  Sniff, sniff. ‘Did you really wish to die or were you hoping to be discovered?’

  ‘I didn’t really think about it.’ Noncommittal is probably the way to go. ‘My moon was in Mercury but now it’s in Jupiter.’

  ‘Okaaay. How do you feel now about being alive?’

  ‘Great. It was a mistake. He’s not worth it.’

  ‘Will you be seeing him again?’

  ‘No way, he took off, that’s what started it. He didn’t tell me he was leaving. He just up and left with that skank.’

  ‘Okaaay. How do you feel about Dawson and Wendy now?’

  ‘Good riddance. They deserve each other. He was no good from the start, I was just fooling myself because the sex was so hot.’

  Sniff, sniff. ‘What made you realize he was no good?’

  ‘I guess just lying here thinking about it. I mean, no guy is worth dying over.’

  ‘So you no longer wish to die?’

  ‘No way. My stepmother’s really made me realize how lucky I am.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’m young. I have a whole future ahead of me. Plus my moon’s in Jupiter so I’m feeling a whole lot better. I saw a want ad for baristas at Starbucks and I’m think I’m going to go for it. I really want to be part of a team.’

  ‘Very good.’ Sniff, sniff, more scribbling. ‘Okaaay. Limone, I have a proposal for you. Would you consider signing a treatment contract which states that if you go home you vow not to try this again? And that if you do feel the urge to try again you will contact the psychiatric crisis team immediately?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘We would still want to see you for follow-up. In a couple of days then weekly.’

  ‘No problem, Doc. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Behind the curtain the woman moans.

  ‘Okaaay,’ Fireman says. ‘How would you feel about going home with your stepmother?’

  ‘Could I have a word with her in private first? I don’t want to impose.’

  ‘Of course.’ He ushers her in and disappears behind the curtain.

  ‘I told him it was over a guy,’ I whisper. ‘Dawson Frost. So don’t blow my cover. I told him he left town.’

  ‘Did you tell them anything about me? The agoraphobia?’

  ‘No. So act normal. We both have to act normal.’

  She nods solemnly, my conspirator in the asylum. She has always despised the medical establishment, drug pushers, she calls them. ‘Fireman told me to remove any dangerous materials from the environment,’ she says. ‘Hide the car keys, pills, toxic chemicals, sharp instruments. Do I really have to do that?’

  ‘Nah, I’m over it. Cry for help and all that. Are you going to be able to get in a cab with me?’

  ‘Yes. I think I’m getting better. I’ve been going to the corner store by myself.’ She says this with pride, the kid who’s pulled off her first solo spin on the bicycle. She seems courageous to me suddenly. More courageous than I have ever been.

  ‘Call the fireman.’

  The bloodless city thrums. Looks the same, although I’m not. Grim types rushing, clutching purses, briefcases, techno-gadgets, united in their determination to find purpose in the pointless. Drew grips my arm, trying to hold me or herself together. Traffic clogs, drivers honk like it matters.

  She’s going to want to talk to me later. I don’t want this.

  ‘Are you okay in there?’

  She thinks I’m slitting my wrists. ‘I’m fine. No worries.’ The faucet drips, resonating off the tiles.

  Treeboy made us some slop. He’s rearranged the kitchen, added weird-looking utensils and a wok. Still doesn’t say much. Maybe he comes alive in the sack.

  Knock knock. Pretend to be asleep. Comes in anyway crackling a paper bag.

  ‘Someone left this for you,’ she says.

  I open my eyes. ‘Who?’r />
  ‘I don’t know, they just left it, didn’t ring the bell. And I found these in the car.’ She pulls out the bunny slippers and holds them inches from my face. Something corrosive spills inside me. I can’t look at the slippers.

  ‘Did you think you were pregnant?’ she asks.

  ‘They’re for a baby at the hospital.’

  ‘Oh. Okay, well, they called, and they don’t want you back for a while. Maybe I can mail them for you. Do you have the baby’s full name?’

  ‘They don’t want me back ever?’

  ‘They’re concerned about your effect on the kids. Brenda, is it Brenda? She said you get too involved. She told me about your friend dying.’

  ‘Just leave the slippers. I’d like to be alone now, thank you.’

  She lingers, waiting for hidden truths. ‘Whatever I can do for you, Lemon, I will.’

  ‘I just need to be alone now, thank you.’

  She gently closes the door of the sick room. I shove the slippers in the trash.

  Can’t believe I’m back here. All that effort wasted. Don’t even remember the me who lived in this room. I stare at the paper bag, my name printed in block letters. A booby trap frommy adoring fans? My ripped underwear plus an assortment of used condoms? A hate package from Rossi or the Witch? I crawl over to it, sniff and shake it to see if it explodes. It’s a book and something soft. I look inside and see Sweetheart the penguin. The book is Tilly. I fling it against the wall. No note. Some of Kadylak’s drawings. Brightly coloured birds with stick legs always under a smiling sun. Drawings I watched her pen intently with felt marker, wondering why the sun was always smiling. She who could not go outside for fear of burning her chemo-blasted skin always drew smiling suns. I believed she would survive because of those suns. Those smiling suns would protect her. I start shredding them before I realize they’re all I have of her. My lungs stiffen again as I search for the tape, can’t find it in the wreckage that wasmy life. I stomp around pulling out drawers, shoving crap aside on what was my desk, unable to piece together the birds.

  ‘Are you alright in there?’

  Why won’t she leave me alone?

  My tears are blotting the felt marker. The stick legs bleed.

  ‘Fine. No worries.’

  He left without ringing the bell because he didn’t want to see me. He is ashamed. And thinks I’m a slut, just another easy North American girl.

  I hold Sweetheart against my face, try to smell Kadylak but she’s gone. Hug Sweetheart to my chest, hear myself moaning like the woman on the other side of the curtain.

  Cold. Should have brought a jacket, didn’t want to look for it and risk waking my captors.

  I listen for toot-tooting, or a distant rumble. There’s probably less action at night. I might have to wait. They’re behind a housing development. The streets are all crescents and dead ends. Keep walking north, follow the drinking gourd. Dogs bark behind fences. All the houses look the same. Pay attention to the street signs: Cedar, Pine, Poplar, Beech. Not a tree in sight, just houses that look the same. I’m tired, so tired, clutching Sweetheart, trespassing, trampling flowers. If I rest my head on her penguin belly, I won’t feel so scared. Enter a laneway of two-car garages. Walk down it till I get to the wire-mesh fence. It’s tall, barbed wire strung across the top. Try to climb up but my boots are too big. Shake them off, stuff Sweetheart in my belt, push my toes through the mesh, haul myself up, but Damian’s ass keeps dragging me down. And the wire scorches the Witch’s fingers. Fall back on the Slug’s ass. Can’t even do this. Smash my head against the fence. The Witch’s mousy hair catches in the mesh, rips out. Bash the Slug’s nose.

  ‘You’re going to hurt yourself.’ Treeboy has me in a shoulder lock.

  ‘Get your own fucking life, will you?’ I shout. ‘Get your own fucking life!’

  ‘You’re part of my life.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since we share a mother.’

  ‘She’s not our mother.’

  ‘Best mother I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Is that why you’re fucking her?’

  ‘Who said I was fucking her?’

  ‘Oh please.’ Dogs bark again. ‘Just go, would you please go?’ I jab at his shoes with the Witch’s feet. ‘Just because your friend fell out of a tree doesn’t mean you have to save me. I’m not your friend. Fuck off, go go go!’

  ‘You keep this up, Mr. and Mrs. Jones will call the cops.’

  I slump against him, tired, so tired. He lifts me in his arms like Rhett lifted Scarlett.

  32

  One of them is always on watch, always listening, always tense. I don’t want to do this to them but they won’t let me go. They don’t ask questions. Days are formless, endless. I wake up and remember she’s dead.

  They’ve started forcing me to go for walks. I know it’s hard for her, that she’s only going out to get me out. Although she seems to be getting better daily. He walks on my right, she on my left. I consider making a break for it to see if they’ll chase me, but where would I go? They like to sit and sip designer coffees on patios while June buzzes around us. I’d forgotten what it’s like to sit with people. Nobody bothers you, lubbers don’t stare.

  When I asked if she knew about Damian, she said she’d had her suspicions but he’d denied it. ‘You don’t look like him,’ she said, which opened a breathing hole. Sometimes I can look in the mirror and not see the Slug.

  We burned the letter but I called Detective Sergeant Weech to tell him I would testify. He said the charges had been dropped. Rossi was right, Doyle’s dentist dad struck a deal. I phoned to tell her but she wouldn’t talk to me. Mrs. Barnfield sounded haunted.

  Weech wanted to know if I’d considered laying sexual assault charges. ‘Limone, if you don’t take them to court they’ll just do it to some other girl.’ They’ll just do it to some other girl anyway.

  We sleep like Bedouins in the living room because I don’t want to be in that room that was mine and they don’t want me to be alone. They aren’t rutting. Vaughn told her what I said and she laughed. Hadn’t seen her laugh since before the knifing. ‘He’s too earthy for me, Lemon, you know I go for those seemingly confident plastic jerks.’

  I’m not alone in the dark because she’s been having insomnia. Sometimes we talk about Extraordinary Women. Sometimes we read to each other. She’s rediscovered William Blake:

  Man was made for Joy and Woe;

  And when this we rightly know

  Through the world we safely go.

  Sometimes we plot cat murders knowing we’ll never do it, that in the end they are just animals crapping and digging as we will once the water runs out. I have nightmares about the world ending, taps running dry, crops shrivelling, the earth cracking. I wake up knowing it’s only a matter of time.

  ‘Do you have any summer shoes?’ she asks the sales clerk. ‘Canvas sneakers, do they make those anymore?’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘All of us.’

  His name tag says Bosko. His accent is like Mr. Paluska’s. His hair is like Mr. Paluska’s. Grief shifts its bulk again, throwing me off balance. I squat on a stool. People dying all over the world, fighting for life, and here am I.

  ‘We all need summer shoes,’ Drew emphasizes, ‘light on the feet.’ She has been obsessing over this, remembering when she was a child, how freeing the canvas shoes felt after the confinement of winter boots.

  Bosko speeds off in search of sneakers. Tweedledee and Twee-dledum hover, groping the shoes on display. ‘They’re all so built up,’ Drew says. ‘How are you supposed to feel the world under your feet?’

  ‘You’re not,’ Vaughn says.

  ‘I have Keds for the ladies,’ Bosko says, ‘and high-tops for the gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, I love those,’ she says, shedding years as she grabs the polka-dotted pink pair. ‘Lemon, do you want stripes or dots? We shouldn’t get the same, should we? We’ll just get them confused.’

  Vaughn slowly, deliberately laces the y
ellow high-tops. He never rushes, never panics. I wish I could do this.

  Drew is up, bouncing on the balls of her feet, she who sleeps three hours a night. ‘These feel amazing. Come on, Lemon, try them.’

  Bosko is at my feet, helping to remove my army boots, retrieved from the tracks by Vaughn. I worry that my feet stink. I want to touch Bosko’s hair and ask him if he knows the Paluskas, ask him what they did with her body.

  He slips the turquoise-striped sneakers on my feet. Twee-dledee and Tweedledum wait for my rebirth. Vaughn rocks slowly back and forth on his high-tops while Drew pirouettes. I try to stand, to join in the celebration because they mean well, these two. Vaughn puts out his hand as he often does to steady me or remind me he’s there. His palms never sweat but are never cold.

  I waver, unanchored, shorter without my boots. How will I kick in faces with canvas shoes?

  ‘Aren’t they fantastic?’ asks eight-year-old Drew. ‘Wiggle your toes. Can you wiggle your toes?’

  I wiggle my toes. The shoes feel spongy, light. I bounce on the soles of my feet. ‘I can fly in these.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And that’s what you will do, fly.’

  They want ice cream, of course. I still can’t look at the stuff, drink water while they slurp and dribble. ‘Don’t drip on your shoes,’ I warn. His feet look enormous in the yellow boats. I suggested the green but he said yellow reminded him of bees. We sit on a bench, me in the middle as always. She turns her face toward the sun; she who spent months indoors is rediscovering Mother Earth. She crosses one leg over the other and swings her foot. ‘It’s hard to be miserable in June,’ she says, licking her Cherry Garcia.

  It is hard to be miserable with blossoms abounding. I turn my face toward the sun and tell myself she’s up there, free of pain, building houses with doors in case someone nice comes to visit.

  They’re cooking lasagna. Something’s up, there’s a charge in the air. She spoons the sauce and the ricotta, he lays the noodles, they both sprinkle cheeses. ‘Don’t drip on your shoes,’ I warn.

  ‘Can you set the table, Lemon?’

  I put out the linen napkins so we don’t kill trees. Vaughn’s backpack is out. I don’t like this, don’t know how much of Drew’s recovery is because of him, don’t want her cracking up again, can’t fix her on my own. Can’t fix myself.