by Jean Hegland
The baby Cerise had loved so fiercely, the little girl who had loved Cerise so ardently in return, that shining child with her crayons and her happy smile, had vanished long ago. That Melody—the true Melody—lingered only in Cerise’s memory, and if the other Melody still existed, the one who had dismantled the smoke detector, ruined her face, and run away from home, then maybe she was better off left lost. That Melody was a stranger, an impostor, and even if Cerise were able to find her, even if she walked another two hundred miles and somehow managed to locate her, all that could possibly exist between them was recrimination and resentment. Maybe, to protect her love of the real Melody, she should leave the other Melody alone.
Besides, Cerise thought as she stared at a crushed paper cup half buried by oleander litter, it would be easier for Melody if she never had to cope with losing a brother, if she never again had to deal with having a mother. Maybe the last loving thing she could do for Melody was to let her be.
Her mind went loose. For hours she lay in a stupor, unmoving and barely breathing, because it was as close as she could come to disappearing from the world without the effort of making herself go. When darkness came, she roused herself enough to pull her blanket around her. Huddled beneath its folds, she could smell the sour tang of her armpits, the freeway stench of her clothes, and, tangled so deeply into her hair it seemed no amount of wind and time could ever erase it, she was certain she still smelled smoke.
Below the freeway din she heard the rustle and skitter of the little lives that filled the oleanders, the insects and rodents and small reptiles. But instead of disgusting or frightening her, they seemed almost like a comfort, the way they went on about their business despite her presence. Swaddled in her blanket, it was as though she were six years old again, huddled beneath the covers of her canopy bed, her knees drawn to her chin, her whole self still and secret while her father shouted and her mother screamed, the house shook with curses and sobs, and Cerise knew only that she had to wait for those sounds to stop before it was safe for her to crawl back out into the light.
Dawn arrived, and she woke from another drowse. A few birds rustled and chirped among the bushes while beyond the wall the traffic continued, ceaseless as a sea. A ladybug came into view. Cerise watched it scramble over the duff, its enameled wings parted slightly to help it balance. She took a twig in her bandaged hand, reached out, and poked the ladybug so that it flipped over on its back. “Your house is on fire,” she croaked inside her head as she watched it flail. “Your children will burn.” But even after the bug finally managed to right itself, she could not bring herself to crush it.
She was weak and sick. Her gut cramped and her abdomen ached, so many hurts she could not keep them straight, could not think, My stomach hurts because I’m hungry, or My legs are sore from walking. Sometime that morning, when a backfiring truck roused her from another doze, and she found her bladder throbbing with an insistence she could no longer ignore, she crawled farther into the oleanders, worked her sweat pants down below her hips, and crouched to pee. As the urine flowed from her, she was startled to catch sight of a smear of red inside her thigh. Her first thought was it was another injury from the fire, and for a moment she felt almost gratified to see more proof of what she’d suffered.
But when she caught sight of still more blood, its true cause occurred to her, like the punch line to a tasteless joke. Scooting back to the spot that had become her home, she remembered the day in junior high school when, perched on the cold toilet in the girls’ restroom, she had first discovered blood in the crotch of her panties. She’d panicked then, not because she thought she was hurt or dying but because she was afraid that, despite all her efforts, the blood would run down her legs or stain her skirt.
She felt blood leaking from her vulva, soft and warm as tears. She told herself it no longer mattered if it caked her thighs and soaked its telltale stain into her pants, and there was a luxury in that fact that was seductive, a giving up almost as cozy as dying. But then the thought ofTravis brushed her mind. She winced to think that someone might see her, blood-smeared and stinking, and conclude that she deserved to lose her son.
She began to look for something she could use to hide her blood. But the oleander leaves were not absorbent, and she recoiled at the bits of filthy paper. Finally, though it was clumsy, painful work with her bandaged hands, she untied her shoe, eased the stiff sock from her travel-blistered foot, and stuffed it inside her panties like a napkin. Then, tucking her empty water bottle into her jacket, she crawled from her nest on her elbows and knees.
Forcing herself to stand and blinking in the unfiltered sunlight, she brushed herself off as best she could and limped back down the frontage road. She went first to the gas station she’d stopped at before, but the bathroom at the back of the building was locked. The bathroom at the second station was also locked. At the third she entered the convenience grocery and tentatively asked for the key. The woman behind the counter flicked her eyes across Cerise’s clothes and hair, and her face shut tight.
“Customers only,” she said.
“Please,” Cerise pleaded, startled by her own courage and by the awkward grating of the word in her throat. Then, lowering her voice to a shamed whisper, she added, “I’ve got my period.”
The woman made a quick sound of impatience, reached beneath the counter, and then held out a grimy board with a key dangling from one end. “After this, you go somewhere else to do your drugs.”
“I don’t,” Cerise whispered, clutching the key in her clumsy paw. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Oh, right. And I’m the queen of England.” The woman turned to the man who had come to stand behind Cerise, saying as Cerise pushed past him toward the door and the woman took the twenty from his outstretched hand, “Tell me how you manage to look like that, if you don’t do drugs.”
“Booze’ll do it,” he answered, and as Cerise left the store, the sound of their shared laughter was sharp as a slap.
The bathroom was a small, cold cubicle at the back of the building, with a stained toilet and a sink with a single faucet. The concrete floor was damp and grimy. The enamel paint on the cinder-block walls was stained brown with cigarette smoke. A tampon dispenser, a condom dispenser, and a perfume dispenser hung next to the sink. Cerise shook the tampon dispenser, but it was both padlocked and empty.
Her sock was soaked in blood. Working gingerly with her damaged hands, she wrapped it in paper towels and buried it at the bottom of the overflowing trash basket. First she tried wiping her legs with the squares of rough tissue she pulled one at a time from the metal dispenser beside the toilet. Then, holding a stiff paper towel in her fingertips, she wet it in the icy tap water, sprinkled it with powdered soap from the dispenser by the sink, and washed between her legs. The water seeped through the gauze and stung her hands, and the soap scratched like sand in her crotch and on her thighs, but once they were clean she wet another towel, dusted it with more soap powder, and scrubbed her face and neck and armpits.
She was refilling her water bottle when someone rattled the door. She jumped as though she’d been kicked. Hurriedly she capped the bottle, crammed her pockets with wads of paper towels, and then left, averting her gaze and pushing quickly past the woman who waited outside the door.
AFTER THE RUSH OF GETTING THEMSELVES SHOWERED AND CLOTHED—Anna in a rayon dress and Eliot in a sports jacket and tie—after nursing Ellen until she finally fell asleep and then easing her down by breathless increments into her crib, after settling Lucy in with a nice snack and a special video, after showing the new babysitter around the house, tiptoeing back to check on Ellen one last time, and then dashing through the unfamiliar countryside as they tried to connect the minimalist map that came with the Laughlins’ invitation with the poorly marked roads that twisted past vineyards and wineries and finally meandered up almost a mile of private drive, Anna and Eliot were the first guests to arrive.
“This had better be the right place,” Eliot said, as they cr
ested the final hill to confront a house that rose like a ship—all jutting angles and wide decks—from a sea of shining lawn. “If not, we’ll probably get shot for trespassing.”
“This guy had your job?” Anna asked, gazing skeptically at the looming house.
“Yeah, but his wife had a trust fund, and I think she may have done something in real estate, too.” Eliot parked the car at the edge of the drive and turned off the ignition. “Apparently she’s also something of an art patron, at least that’s what Phil said.”
“That’s nice,” Anna said mechanically.
“Thank you for coming to this,” Eliot said, reaching over to squeeze her hand before he got out of the car. “I know it’s not your first choice of how you’d spend your Saturday afternoon.”
Carole Laughlin was fastening a bracelet as she came across the lawn to meet them, her clothes fluttering around her as though she were an important bird.
“I’m afraid we’re early,” Anna apologized.
“Why, no,” Carole said. “You’re just on time.” She smiled at them indulgently, as if being on time was something that clever children did.
“It’s nice of you to—” Anna began, but suddenly the musicians arrived behind them with their music stands and instrument cases.
“Excuse me,” Carole said, reaching out to touch Anna’s arm. “I won’t be a minute.” She endowed them with another smile, and then turned and led the little procession of black-clad musicians toward the house.
The lawn where they were standing spanned a ridge top. Behind them the view ended in a forested hillside, while in front of them a panorama of golden grasses and thick-trunked oaks sloped down to a wide valley striped with rows of wine grapes. In the center of the valley Anna caught a glimmer of river.
“Pretty,” Eliot said when he saw where Anna was looking.
“Yes,” Anna murmured, “it’s pretty.” For the last three weekends she had managed to leave the girls with Eliot for a few hours while she drove out looking for something to photograph. But each time she’d come home without exposing any film. Now, when she looked down into the quiet, sun-soaked valley and tried to imagine how she might frame that image on the ground glass of her camera, she could not hear the click of a shutter that had once meant, Try this. It was a landscape that had nothing to do with her, like a stranger’s pretty child.
“I hope the girls are okay,” Anna said to shift her thoughts. It was the first time she’d left Ellen with anyone but Eliot, and thinking about it now, she felt a little swell of panic.
“The babysitter seemed fine,” Eliot answered.
“She said she’s joining the Peace Corps in January,” Anna answered with a sigh.
“That’s nice.”
“For her,” Anna said wryly. “And for some developing country. But for us it means having to start the sitter search all over.”
There were tables set up under the oaks next to the front deck, and half a dozen caterers were busily filling them with food and flowers. Watching them, Anna almost envied their clear sense of purpose, their busyness. She thought of Jesse’s cell phone nestled in her purse and resisted the impulse to call home.
More guests began arriving. The first few came up the lawn as awkwardly and bravely as Anna and Eliot had, and then suddenly the whole hilltop was filled with gusts of laughter and the sound of conversation, sharp and light as the perfumes and aftershaves that wafted around them in the oddly balmy air.
Anna said, “It’s bizarre to be at a garden party this time of year. What would they have done if it rained?”
Eliot shrugged, “Move it inside. But according to the locals, we still have at least a few weeks before the rains usually arrive.”
“We’re too dressed up,” Anna observed, looking across the lawn at the groups of laughing strangers in their linens and cotton sweaters. “We look like tourists.”
“We are tourists,” Eliot answered.
“Nope,” she said. “Not anymore. We live here—remember?”
“Invasive exotics, like eucalyptus and French broom.”
“Invasive, maybe,” Anna agreed. “Though I doubt they’d consider us very exotic. Look at this place.”
A strong light emblazoned everything. The autumn flowers glowed in their beds as though they had been polished. Even the temperature was perfect, warm as bathwater, with a breeze that posed no threat to the tablecloths and cocktail napkins. Carole sought them out again.
“Phillip will be along soon,” she said to Eliot. “He’s dying for news about the center. But don’t tell him too much, or I’m afraid he’ll decide to come out of retirement and reclaim his job—and that would be disastrous for both you and me.” She waited while they laughed politely. Then, turning to Anna, she said brightly, “Let’s see—you’ve just escaped from somewhere. Nevada? Kansas?”
“We moved from eastern Washington,” Anna answered, trying to keep her voice smooth. “Near Spokane.”
“Oh. My. Well, welcome to California. I’m sure you’ll love it here.”
“I hope so,” Anna answered curtly. Down in the valley she caught sight of a tiny figure in the vineyard, and when she looked more closely, she realized there were many of them—a battalion of ant-size people moving purposefully among the vines.
Carole looked at her sharply. “You’re an artist?”
“A photographer,” Anna said. “And I taught at Spaulding University until we moved.”
Carole raised her head just slightly, as though she were acknowledging Anna for the first time. “I’m a bit of a collector myself,” she said. “I don’t know if Phillip told you. Californian photographers are one of my interests.” She gestured toward the house. “I’ve got a few things up inside. You’re welcome to take a look, if you’d like. I’d love to know what you think of them.”
Then, turning back to Eliot, she thrust her face toward him and asked, “And how are things going at work?”
At the sound of Eliot’s voice going deep with satisfaction, Anna felt a wash of unexpected sadness. She wasn’t resentful of Eliot’s luck, but still it hollowed her somehow, to hear him talk so happily about his work when she was so adrift. He deserves this, she reminded herself. After all he’s been through, he deserves to have found another job he loves.
After Carole left for other guests, Eliot said ruefully to Anna, “I think you’ll like Phil better.”
“She’s okay,” Anna answered, reaching out to give Eliot’s hand a loyal squeeze. “At least she buys photographs.”
“Maybe there’s more to her, once you get to know her better.”
“Maybe,” Anna answered, looking out across the party. The autumn sunlight shone in the women’s hair, glinted off the men’s watches and rings, glowed in the bowls of the guests’ wineglasses. Down in the valley the little figures moved slowly among the rows of vines.
Anna said, “I do think I’d like to look at her ‘things.’ Do you mind?”
“Want me to come, too?”
“I’d rather go alone. Not that I don’t love your company,” she added. “But you should probably wait and talk to Phil.”
The grass was so thick her feet couldn’t feel the earth beneath it as she crossed the yard. Even the linen-covered tables seemed to be floating above the ground. She wove her way through packs and clumps of strangers, passing through pockets of conversation like different temperatures in a lake.
“Great access—”
“—at the top of his class.”
“All the lawyers say we should, but we aren’t that—”
“—last time we were on Santorini.”
“A tad too oaky—”
The food, when Anna passed it, still looked unapproachable, the platters garnished with flowers and curls of vegetables, the napkins still arranged in symmetrical fans. She accepted a glass of wine, a merlot so dense and silky that the first sip of it seemed reason enough to have left her daughters with a babysitter she’d only just met to race off to a party filled with people she did
not know. Glass in hand, she drifted toward the house. She passed a hedge of white flowers, and a fragrance like living perfume wafted after her. She took another sip of wine, let it loll in her mouth, and then, when it was warm as saliva, she swallowed it, felt it glow inside her.
On the wide deck a flautist and a cellist and a guitarist played, their music drifting above the chatter and laughter. Anna smiled in the direction of the musicians and slipped inside the house. It was quiet, cool as a mausoleum. The air smelled vaguely sweet. A sculpture sat in the tiled entryway, a rough-hewn boulder from which the faces of many animals peered as though they were watching all who entered or were waiting for some safer moment to emerge themselves. An armful of lilies filled a vase on a table of polished mahogany. On the tiled floor a stuffed heron lifted one yellow leg, its delicate foot permanently curled for its next step.
A dozen photographs hung on the walls of the room, each framed immaculately and illuminated by a little light. Adams. Stieglitz. Weston. White. John Sexton. Some of the prints she’d seen before, and some were new. Her eyes darted greedily to the signatures even as she soaked in the images—the open doors, the dunes, and stones, and hands. Slowly she circled the room, standing before them one by one.
Each photograph was perfect, so lucid with the authority of its own vision that she moved from one to the next as though she were in a chapel or in a dream. It wasn’t until she returned to the door that she remembered the nearly finished darkroom waiting in the basement of their new house, remembered the camera she hadn’t used since Ellen was conceived, remembered her fruitless drives through the countryside. She circled the room again, but this time as she passed from one print to the next, she felt not encouragement but a mounting defeat. Those photographs had already surpassed everything to which she had aspired. The conversation had been completed long ago.