Jackal, page 3
After their divorce, as soon as my mother could, she bought the biggest house she could find and filled it with the nicest things money could buy. Within reasonable taste, of course. Everything in her house has a specific purpose and place. In my childhood, through trial and error, I memorized each one. My mother stayed thin. She didn’t date again. She tells the truth no matter how much it hurts. For her, pain is part of the healing process.
After a long beat, my mother renders her verdict. “You gained weight.” Single. Check. Fat. Check. My mother hasn’t seen me since before the breakup. Yes, when I do remember to eat, I’ve been coping with wine and take-out. No, I don’t need a definitive reminder.
“I got a promotion,” I offer.
My mother shrugs.
“Thanks.”
“You have a new dress for this wedding? What if you got the wrong size, eh?”
“Thank you,” I repeat, expressionless. This is new. This is therapy. I’ve never told my mother about going to therapy to help with the breakup. She’s not ready to hear I’ve learned that prayers alone aren’t enough. I used to deconstruct everything my mother said, but my therapist suggested I try the opposite. As expected, my mother doubles down on her judgments.
“It is the truth,” she insists. I wonder how often the truth and my mother’s observations are conflated. “Did you gain weight before or after he left you?”
I never did inherit her Haitian bluntness. I don’t answer.
“What?” My mother has already answered for me in her head. And without saying a word, I’ve managed to start a fight. “Men care about these things. Even if they refuse to admit it. Beauty is not without effort. And being fat is bad for your health.” The bait she’s laying is too tempting. “The way people eat in this country is the problem.”
I can’t let that comment slide. “How do you know how everyone eats all the time?”
“That is not what I’m saying.”
“How is that not—?”
“You are not everyone, Elizabeth.” She faces me to drive her point home. “You do not need to be like everyone else. Remember that.”
I do my best to keep a lid on all the things I want to say. Why don’t you ask what he did wrong? Would you ask me to work it out if you knew what he was like when we were alone? But the truth, more than any sort of self-control or temperance, cools me. I’m her daughter. Much is expected of me, my friends, my life, every second I’m here, because my life was never mine. Instead, it’s a summation of her sacrifices. What do I have to show for them? A one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan that I can barely afford and a degree from an out-of-state school I’m still paying for.
Looking at the house, my mother has decorated like she was expecting company. Not me. She’s put out two bouquets of fresh flowers to welcome a fiancé. Me standing here, alone, is confirmation that her daughter is a spinster.
I get up to grab my suitcase. She blocks the way.
“Yes?” I ask.
She separates my hands and pulls me to her. My mother is at the age where I’ve started to notice it. Her medium-brown skin has picked up lines of living that stay in her face after she makes her expressions. Grays streak her straight shoulder-length hair no matter how often she dyes it. She has more freckles along her collarbone, which now juts out from her slender frame, not just because of her weight, but her age. She smells the same, like warm spices and bitter shea butter. I hold her and she feels like a bird in my arms. As I struggle not to crush her, her hug offers me the opposite of comfort.
“Cherie, did you try—”
“I did,” I say as firmly as I can. With her, I must always walk a careful balance between ending a conversation and sounding disrespectful. This means I smooth out the rough edges of things for my mother.
“Misunderstandings happen. Relationships are hard.”
I press my bottom lip into my mouth, between my teeth, and focus on the dry split skin there. I taste metallic flesh and papery tissue. I think of the truth. My throat aches as it forms on my tongue. No. Not ready.
“It’s over.” All this pressure is because she loves me. Her love is overwhelming. If she learned that I’ve come home with a broken heart, she would pry my chest open with her bare hands to fix me.
After one last squeeze, she lets me go.
I glance around at my childhood home. It’s exactly as I remember. Clean. It looks more like a magazine spread than a place where anyone lives. My mother is predictable. Any bit of class is polished and cared for within an inch of its life.
I reach for my bag and something drifts into the corner of my eye. On the far side of the front door, in the mudroom, I see a solid but frantic shadow. I take a step toward it. On a wide white card is a little creature. The fur is long and wild. It begs the title of “rat,” but it’s too small. Jerking forward on the glue trap, the mouse reaches for a dark corner and the small hole it probably came from. It cries as it moves. It’s not screaming because of me or the light, it’s screaming because of what it’s done trying to free itself. More pink flesh than blood, the chewed sinew and bone of its leg sits exposed in the glue. Like a half-mounted insect, the poor thing struggles to gnaw itself free of its dead limb. I see a white tendon snap free. It tries to rip the skin by running. The trap trails after the creature like a sad flag.
I scream.
My mother rushes to my side. “Eh-eh! Just a small one. They keep getting in.” I hear her retreat to get a broom and a bag to dispose of it. My wrist aches. The wound there was deep enough to see the tendon. My mother swoops in with the bag. Muted little cries come and go as she smacks the bag with the broom. Three hard whacks. Red splatters. The mouse is dead. I watch her as she heads outside to throw it away. She’s in matching gray unwrinkled sweatpants and fur-lined slippers. None of that can change the fact that she lives in a pristine home with a pest problem.
When she returns, she jumps right back into her assessment.
“Your hair looks dry. I have lwil maskriti. It will help.” And she is off to grab the thick, spicy brown oil. She shouts over her shoulder as she races back into the house. “The spare keys are—”
“I remember!” The house is huge compared to my apartment in New York.
My hands shake as I open the drawer for the spare keys. Death is still a moment for me. In America, the cycle of life is hidden. Broken. Beef ends up on our plates without reminding us of the process. My mother was raised on an island where meat meant cutting the throat of the chicken yourself. I reach into the drawer and feel cool metal hidden behind hard plastic. I pull the drawer farther out and see little baggies of unpopped popcorn. It’s strange, but I don’t say anything. If they are there, it’s because my mother wants them to be. I take the spare keys.
My mother returns with the oil. It is just as thick and musky as I remember. She dumps a sizable amount in her palms before I can stop her.
“Wait! I don’t have that much hair.”
“Le sech.” She hurls Creole at me before I can process it. In the seconds it takes me to translate the word “dry,” her hands are on my scalp and massaging in the smoky oil.
Her strong fingers carry me back to elementary school and firm braids in my hair in the mornings. Her steady hand pulling my strands through the brush to join in her palm. Girlhood rushes back to me. Perfectly parted plaits. Summer braids. A flash of long box braids and the jammy smell of hair gel creeps in the sides of my memory. I snap away from her.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You pulled my hair.” I press my hands to my short Afro and bring them to my nose. Just the spicy oil. No sweet gel.
“You have no hair to pull.” Her sharp tongue is harder to avoid in person than it is on the phone. I wish it could shock the memory away.
I scramble for a topic shift. “Have you put out the patio furniture yet?” I move over toward the sliding back door and start to unlock it. “I need some air.” It doesn’t budge.
“Wait!” She pulls a bar out of the track. Finally, the door opens.
“When did you get that?”
“Just”—she hesitates—“extra security.”
I duck outside and, thankfully, she doesn’t follow me. I breathe in deep with closed eyes. When I open them, the dark remains. I feel a strangeness I haven’t felt in years. An untethered fear latches in me. Instead of listening to anything roiling around inside, I look up. I search the night sky for stars. Ursa Major. The Great Bear. The Big Dipper. I trace the dark vastness between the dots to the handle of the Little Dipper and there it is. Polaris. The center of the sky. The North Star blazes like the beacon it is. I know where I am again. Johnstown. Pennsylvania. June. Near midnight. The day before Mel’s wedding.
My phone chimes. Despite the history, an impersonal row of numbers titles the thread:
212-555-1564: Hey.
The period is shitty and unnecessary. It’s meant to irk me. It’s working. I reply. I’m home. After a breath, I add, Asshole.
Send.
I flip the phone over. You just told him where you are, stupid. I grab my wrist and search my scar. I press away my panic. This time, everything hurts. I press anyway.
My phone buzzes.
Message failed to send.
No bars. The isolation of this place just saved me from myself. For now. I delete the reply, ensuring it never goes through.
Breathe.
I can still smell my memory of the hair gel. My mind is locked on it, searching for it in the night air. Another breath clears my lungs. My stomach churns. Finally, I listen to what my body has been trying to tell me. I’m home.
Home.
Coming back here was a huge mistake.
THREE
June 18, 2017
A man and his shadow live in the trees.
When they walk in time, both are pleased.
If one calls your name, or the other tempts you off the path,
You must ignore both, or face their wrath.
The same way I’m hesitant around large bodies of water and the police, I’m nervous around the woods. Not that I can’t trust these things, they just need to be proven worthy. Look at that rhyme. It’s two couplets of “Stay Out of the Woods.” The first time I heard it was junior year of high school. Mel recited it as she guided us out of the trees. Said her dad taught it to her. She tried to make it sound like fairies or something twee. She was attempting to comfort me and tell me I was going to be okay. She clutched my hand and assured me that I wasn’t going to bleed to death from the gash in my arm.
Now I’m standing outside her wedding venue. There is no mistaking it. Mel has dragged me back to the woods. I have to resist the urge to whirl around in circles, checking the spaces between the branches. Instead, I focus on the bits of civilization in front of me. In the middle of a clearing, there’s a barn—not one of those built for photographs and parties, a real barn. Thank God Nick has put some work into making it wedding-ready. Fresh coat of paint. There are outlets, a dance floor, and if I peer in, I can see a small kitchen and a bar. A few feet away from the barn are bathrooms, a welcome amenity. Two matching buildings on the side are dressing areas. Beyond all this, the field drops off to reveal a stunning view. Interlocking symmetrical hills. Densely packed greenery. It stretches out in front of me. I search for the end of it. There is none. Not a hint of a brick building or a paved road. My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow, but my throat clutches against itself in vain.
I turn away.
Walking toward the dressing rooms, I search for water when someone catches my eye. “Garrett?” I ask, because the Black man I spot in the corner of the venue is smoking. The love of Mel’s life, Garrett, does not smoke. He coughs to disperse the cloud around him. Too late. I’ve caught him.
“Liz!” Garrett smiles too big and greets me too enthusiastically. “How the hell are you?” Garrett Washington is fundamentally kind. I can tell. Some men, you can sense the danger lurking behind their eyes. Like with Nick. Men don’t have to be kind the way women do.
“I think I should be asking you that. How’s…well…everything?”
“Got everyone here in one piece.” He glances toward the dressing rooms. “Plan to stay that way if Mel and Mrs. Parker don’t tear each other’s heads off.”
“That bad?”
He gives a low whistle. “We thought they’d get it together for the wedding, try to make the day easy.” He leans in to share the secret. “It seems she thinks she can turn Mel into a runaway bride.”
“Jesus Christ.” I can’t help but feel bad. For Mel’s parents, it was okay to be friends with “The Blacks,” just don’t bring one home. It didn’t help that Mel was three months pregnant when she had.
Garrett manages a dry laugh. “Mrs. Parker loves my daughter. Always there if we need a sitter, picks her up from school, just loves her, right? Me?” Garrett points to himself and takes in what he’s about to say. “I’m the problem.”
I shake my head in solidarity. “That sucks. I’m sorry.” Someone needs to apologize for what they’ve been through. Might as well be me.
“You didn’t do anything.” Garrett puts out the cigarette. “Won’t have to put up with it much longer anyways.”
“Yeah, marriage has a way of shutting people up.”
“Exactly. I got to pick the location for the baptism. She gets the wedding.” I’m forever grateful they had Caroline’s baptism at a church in Philadelphia. It was closer for Garrett’s extended family and I didn’t have to travel all the way back here, till now. A wave of groomsmen descends on us and Garrett is pulled in another direction. I head for the dressing rooms.
There, I see that while there’s been a gesture at uniformity with the peach bridesmaid dresses, each is slightly different because we all got them on our own.
With finished hardwood floors and mirrored walls, the dressing room exceeds my expectations. I find a corner and am instantly reminded of gym class, where I perfected the art of changing clothes while remaining fully dressed. For the first time since arriving, I unzip my garment bag. My dress is peach tulle, midlength, and strapless. It was the only thing Bloomingdale’s had in stock that fit Mel’s parameters. Already sweaty, I get undressed as painlessly as possible and throw on my peach explosion. I try to shimmy it over my hips, but the dress stops at my upper thighs. I look at the tag—it’s my usual size. My mother’s right, I have gained weight. I pull it over my head. The slim hidden zipper slips out of my fingers. I pinch it hard and twist my shoulder down.
“Liz Rocher!” a woman shrieks inches away from my face. Instantly, she pulls me in for a hug. Gripped in her arms, I search the mirrored walls for clues. No luck. When she finally lets me go, she steps back and I get a good look at her. Her black hair and blue eyes make her pale skin even whiter; despite a full face of makeup, she looks washed-out. I’m quiet for so long she catches me thinking. “Lauren Bristol. I have a mind for faces. Don’t worry, it freaks people out.”
“Not freaked out at all,” I lie. My shoulder strains and I finally pull up my zipper. I do my best to hold my face. The Lauren Bristol I remember was not this friendly. We weren’t friends in school and we haven’t spoken since. While she hadn’t gone out of her way to make school absolute hell for me, she hadn’t helped. She’d been too busy trading gossip for social clout. She was that girl who was only in student government to get institutional levels of dirt.
I can feel Lauren giving me a once-over as I smooth out my dress, stretching it over my hips. I expect as much. This is what this weekend is going to be. Lauren, along with anyone else I meet, is going to be checking to see how I’ve changed: Do I have any visible tattoos? What kind of clothes am I wearing now? All of it fodder for small-town gossip later.
“Aren’t your eyes bright,” she says.
“Th—thank you?” Not sure about that comment.
“Where’s your plus-one? I can’t wait to meet him.” How does she know I had a plus-one? She’s been following the guest book, she had to be.
“Uh.” I got this. I have rehearsed this answer in my bathroom mirror for the past four months. “No. Not anymore.” Crap. The practiced answer gave Lauren more information than she asked for.
“ ‘Anymore’? What happened, hon?”
Shame burns in my face before I can stop it. “Um. Well. I. Um—” Each breath threatens to betray me. Tears wait beyond the hitch in my throat I’m desperately trying to control. I remember what my therapist says: Name things. Ground yourself.
False eyelashes.
Lipstick.
Peach nail polish bottle.
Blow-dryer.
Heels.
“I should stretch these shoes, or else they’ll give me blisters.” I rush away from the conversation to the other side of the room.
There is no privacy, so I literally turn in to a corner. I’m coming apart. Tears race out of my eyes. I press my hands to my face like I might physically put myself back together. It’s not just the breakup or my mother or the woods or being home again. It’s all of it and everything else. I clutch my shoes. I’m here to change all that. To conquer this. To prove to myself who I am: Someone who can come home. A good friend. Someone who can go to my best friend’s wedding. And have a good time. I can laugh. I am good.
“Liz!”
I turn at my name and see Mel. She’s in a white robe and slippers. Her thick blond locks are now in a curled mom-length bob. Her cherubic features never age. Mel is pretty in that way that can’t be named. Examine her for her secret, there isn’t one, which should make you hate her. But hating Mel is hard. She’s too damn nice. My dress crunches as a teenage hunch forms in my back. My red face matches hers. We’ve each found the other in tears.
Melissa reaches out and holds me so tight it makes my shoulders hurt. She pulls me over to the bridal dressing area and definitively pulls the curtain shut.
