Glass

            by Rose Fadem-Johnston

 

I wasn’t happy with the seating arrangement.  Every bump in the road made nausea jump into my throat, then sink back down into my stomach.  It carved an acidic path in me.  I wanted to just throw up, at least that way Carrie would feel guilty and relinquish her spot in the front seat.

            Carrie’s cigarette dangled between thin fingers out of the passenger window.  Its smoke came back in through the window in be back and filled the car.  The cigarette never seemed to go out, and Carrie never seemed to stop talking long enough to take a puff. But she always held it, like it was a prop. Like it was her magic wand of nicotine for “just in case.”

            I thought Carrie was a failure as a mother. Mothers read Surgeon General’s warnings, Carrie just trilled on about he broad shoulders of the surgeon general.  She sat on the sunken car seat with a sort of ridged contempt for the car itself. She talked at her husband, my father, who sat silently behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road and his mind undoubtedly fixed elsewhere. My father sat with one thumb loosely hooked on the wheel and the other hand gripping the gearshift, even though we had an automatic. He only had to give the occasional “mhmmm,” and her words would keep right on marching out. Carrie never paused long enough to realize he wasn’t listening.

            “Hey Dad…” I called from the back seat over Carrie’s monologue about a rude waiter.  He didn’t reply.  “Dad?” I tried again.

            Carrie jabbed him in the shoulder with three fingers, and with a dripping voice she sang out, “Listen Henry dear, your darling daughter is talking to you!”

            He snapped out of his daze and glanced at me through the rear-view mirror, “Oh, huh?”

            “Do you think you could turn on the radio?”

            “Oh, ummm—” He began to reach for the dial, but she cut him off,

            “No dear, no point now, no point… we’re almost there.” She turned back to my father, continuing her long stream of words about waiters and restraints and the number of calories in a slice of pecan pie.

            We turned off the bumpy highway onto a curving drive, lined with trees.  Now the acid began to swish back and forth. The car slid to a halt outside of a powder blue, one story house.  The plaque over the door read ‘Mountain View Cottage,’ though we were close to the coast now, and the only dunes sat within eye sight, rolled up in fog and sitting off in the distance. As the car came to a stop, Carrie leaned back and whispered in her rough voice, “I think there’s a new boyfriend, see what you can find out!”

            “Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, and climbed out of the car. I coughed as the sharp clean of salt air hit my tobacco-filled lungs.  I had never been here before. And while Carrie and my father drove up weekly for the required family therapy with Carrie’s daughter Kate, I had never been asked to join them.  Perhaps this meant I didn’t cause Kate any mental damage, perhaps it meant I simply wasn’t part of the family unit that was intended by the term “family therapy.” Either way, I really didn’t mind missing the sessions, especially given the rage Carrie came home in each week after their visit.

            One car door would slam, the other clicking shut inaudibly, and then I would hear her voice before they got up the front steps.  “Unsafe! Why the hell would she feel unsafe? How could she? We gave her everything! I gave her everything!” Then, like clockwork, her foot would touch the living room floor, and she would turn her voice on my dad. “What did you do to her? You son-of-a-bitch did you tell her I didn’t love her? You sick, jealous son-of-a-bitch-coward, how could you keep my baby from loving me?”

            Then Carrie would run upstairs to sob loudly, in hopes of getting a reaction from my father.  My dad would drift outside and barbeque something. We would eat in relative silence, ignore the fact that our dinner had charred, and repeat the process the next week.

            Well, according to the therapists who seemed to instigate these weekly events, Kate now felt safe enough to spend the weekend with us.  So here we were. Ready to pick up my clinically depressed drama queen of a step-sister and carry her off for a weekend vacation of fun on the beach.  Here to sweep Kate away from the full time therapy that was coming out of my college fund. My father honked the horn and we all stepped out of the car. 

            Kate came out of the house with her overnight bag and a grin. Her soft gray eyes blinked in the light, blinded momentarily by the bright sunshine, which glinted off of her many bangles and belly chains.  She had, of course, made sure there was no “belly” for these many chains to hang around, and had been almost admirably steadfast in her dedication to starvation. The luggage bumped down behind as she raced down the stairs and threw her arms around Carrie.

            “Mommy!” She squealed, as she tackled her around the middle. Carrie looked concerned at the affection.

            “How are you, dear?” Kate dodged the question and dove for my father.

            “Daddy-pie!” she jumped up and tossing her arms around his neck, she swung there as he smiled down at the top of her head. Then she hopped down and turned to hug me. “I’m glad you came.”

            “Of course,” I replied. “It’s good to see you.”  Kate looked at me and the sticky smile dropped for a second. But then she glanced at our parents and picked it up again.  She bounced on her heels and patted my head, an awkward movement given our three-month age difference.

            “All in!” Carrie decreed, lighting up a new cigarette while holding the front passenger door open for Kate.

            Kate swung her long legs into the car and turned on the radio as Carrie and her cigarette settled beside me in the back.  Loud 90’s pop music trailed behind us along the highway.

            The beach house we arrived at was on a thin paved street in a cluster of 20 other little vacation homes, all sitting quietly together on a small hill overlooking the ocean.

We lugged our baggage into the house. Inside doilies covered every available space from tables to lamps and over the back of every chair. A huge sliding glass door in the large living room looked onto a balcony, the handrail of which was lined with colored glass bottles and more doilies. In the living room, on the opposite wall from the balcony, was a large screen TV, surrounded with piles of movies. There were two bedrooms and a small kitchen off of the living room, and a loft above with a mattress laid on the floor.  Kate and I pulled our stuff up to the loft and began to unpack.

We could hear Carrie runing around downstairs following the instructions left by the owners of the house. Occasionally she would call out, “Water heater ON,” as if she could command it into being. My dad went outside to “take in the ocean,” clean off the grill, and “test” the hot tub.

We unloaded our suitcases onto the mattress. Her double D lace bras spilled over my pile of t-shirts.  From her mound of silk and lace she snapped up a white bikini, which strangely resembled the doily on the nightstand.

            “Beach time!” she sang.  I looked at the harsh sun now hitting the pavement and rolls of sand outside, reluctantly picking up my one-piece suit. Its pale blue fabric looked to thin for the harsh light that danced outside.

            “You could totally get away with a bikini honey! I mean, your abs and thighs aren’t great, but your boobs are big! Here try this!” Kate tossed me a bright orange two-piece with a yellow sun on one side.  “It might be a kinda small for you around the hips, but no worries sweetie, I know how to make you look totally amazing.”

 I let her dress me, as she had since we were ten. I climbed into the orange swimsuit, and the little yellow sun settled directly over one breast, blatantly meant to draw attention. The other side of the bikini was just orange, both bright and boring.  Kate wrapped and draped various necklaces and scarves around my waist. The patterns felt strange and lopsided and I pulled a large sweatshirt over the whole mess.

We trudged down to the beach and out to the wet sand. Kate chattered about ‘Mountain View’ and the newest boyfriend “Jake.” She had an amazing ability to never run out of stories about herself long enough to need to ask a question. She punctuated each of her far-fetched plans for the future with a kick to the water rolling past.

“I’m going to get an apartment with my roommate,” she said as she swung her leg and caused a cascade of water to jet up from where her toes hit. “She thinks I’d do well as a model,” another kick. “I’m getting out of that place in time for graduation, and a guy from Stanford said I could get in, and Stanford sounds ok,” she stamped a passing wave with her foot. This time the droplets of water sprayed me, getting the sweatshirt wet.  I took off my sopping sweatshirt as we climbed up the sand dunes to the pavement, and walked along the thin road back to the house.

When we got to the front steps we looked up to see my dad standing on the balcony, “Hulllooo Daddy-pie!” Kate called, “finished in the hot tub already?”  My dad looked down and gave a little wave, then turned his attention back to the display of colors playing out across the water. As we opened the door we could just make out the tinkling sound of Kate’s cell phone from up in the loft on our bed.

“Oh gosh!” she cried in panic, and dashed up the stairs.  She picked up the phone in time, and for a while I tried to listen to the hushed voice that drifted down the staircase.

Carrie spoke from behind me, “It’s probably him.”

“Who?” I asked out of reflex, trying to catch my breath from the surprise.

“The new boyfriend, up there on the phone now. It’s him isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know, it’s her phone call.” I turned and walked into the kitchen, hopped up to sit on the counter and grabbed a bag of chips. Carrie followed me in.  Continuing her train of thought.

“She’s been talking about him, and I know she is saying she loves him, but I- I can’t, I just don’t like the sound of him. Old. He sounds old and odd.  I want her to be happy, you know that? But all these boys, and boys and more boys, and she tells them… I don’t know what she tells them- tells them she’s off… off at a boarding school, something.  Whatever it is, it’s not the truth.  I don’t want her to think I’m getting in the way, if she could just be my little girl and be happy, you know that’s what I want. But I don’t like the sound of him…” Carrie leaned on the counter next to me, taking a rattling breath from the remainder of the cigarette.  Her hands were shaking. 

It was no different then the normal Carrie monologue, but it caught me off guard.  Carrie didn’t normally address her speeches to me.  When I was younger she would come in and sing to me at night, and a few times a week I would find candy under my pillow.  She never talked, and I was content to go to sleep with a lollypop in my mouth. But after five cavities in one year, that part of our relationship ended, and nothing had taken its place.

 I offered her some chips.  She put a small one in her mouth, “You should talk to her, ya’ know? Make sure she’s happy.  I mean, you’re always so happy, and you never have crazy boys hanging around. Talk to her about him…make sure he’s good. Make sure she’s happy, will you?”

It took me a moment to realize her dialogue warranted a response. She was breathing heavily through the cigarette, her eyes locked on my face, eyebrows clenched with worry. With each exhalation the embers of her nicotine wand glowed red.  “Yeah” I said, “yeah, sure.”

I ascended the staircase to the loft and found Kate sprawled, face down on the bed. Her cell phone lay on the floor in front of her, a dial tone humming softly, muffled by the thick rug.  I picked it up and ended the call. 

Kate’s rib cage shuttered. “You ok? What’s going on?” I sat next to her and put a hand on her back. “Kate, talk to me… dinner’s almost ready, what’s going on?” She sat up and wiped her eyes. Reaching across my lap she picked up a dress off the pile. Standing, she shrugged the fabric over her head.  Her fingers ran under her eyes one more time, tidying up the smeared mascara. Then she smiled, and walked down the stairs without a word.

After a silent dinner we moved into the living room, rummaging through the assortment of movies. We turned off the lights and settled in to lose our minds in the blinking lights, lose our hearts to the scripted characters. He was cool, she wasn’t, but pined for him. Then, by some twist of fate, he found he liked her too.  So she changed herself for him, he fell for her, they kissed. End of movie.

            When I turned the lights back on I realized that Kate had left the room.  It took a moment before I saw her. Her face just visible over the plastic edge of the hot tub, head resting on the plastic edge, neck gracefully arched. We put in the next film, but about half way through the third plot-irrelevant car chase, I decided Kate had the right idea for once, and I went out to join her on the deck.

            The night was cold, sharp.  All warmth that had radiated from the dunes had evaporated.  They sat blue and menacing beyond the little line of houses. Each tiny bit of sand reflected the starlight and created a world, which was both beautiful and desolate.  Eyes on the stars and the sand, I moved over to the hot tub, sitting on its edge.  I let the steam rising from the water warm my face and hands.

I wondered if Kate even noticed I was there.  All but her head was submerged in the water, she was lying on her back, arms out stretched to the side, white bikini blending into her pale skin.  The water had a pinkish tint.  I looked around to see what it was reflecting, but in the dim porch light everything seemed to exist only in shades of blue-gray.

            Kate was very still, floating half way between the bottom of the tub and the surface of the water.   I considered getting the camera, if she was serious about modeling, which I doubted she was, this would be the shot that would make her portfolio.  I reached down to touch her hand, to let her know I was there without startling her.

            The wrists seemed to have opened up.  Along side her many crisscrossing scars, the skin had forgotten how to hold itself together.  Out from the gashed openings drifted her blood, making tiny swirls until it dispersed in the water, an inch away from her wrist.

I stared at the pale skin, and the deep reds beyond. This wasn’t like looking into the animals we sliced open for biology, and it wasn’t like the thin dry body of my mother at her wake. Through these cuts I was looking into life itself. It poured out in a delicate display in the dim light.

            I wondered if the pink water would stain her bikini, or if the chlorine would keep the fabric safe. I wondered if the filters would clean out the blood.  I wondered if the cold dunes were watching, if anyone had died in the car chase yet, if Carrie’s lungs still looked as red as Kate’s wrists, or if they were black and blue like the ocean in the distance.  Had my father cleaned the grill? Maybe it was still black. Why did we always eat meat? Did the chickens bleed like this? Chickens didn’t bleed in water.  Kate was in water.

Kate was in the water and her life was trickling out in beautiful little swirls while she floated in perfection.  Even when she was running away she got to lie there in perfection.  And the world could still revolve around her after she died, when we were left to filter out the blood, she would look beautiful at her wake and she knew it. Her perfect chest moved ever so slightly up and down as she dragged breath through her perfect lips and became closer and closer to finally getting away from us all. She was getting what she wanted. She was escaping.  She thought she could abandon me.  She was leaving me with her mother. Leaving me with her life and her shards and pieces that she didn’t want to deal with anymore.  She would just get what she wanted.  She always got what ever she wanted. She always got whatever the fuck she wanted and left me, “I’m sick of this Kate!”

I sprung up from the plastic ledge and wrapped my arms under hers, lifting from under her shoulders, dragging her out. She flopped down on the wooden planks.  I grabbed for the doilies amongst the bottles on the railing, tying them around her wrists.  I was screaming. Tied more. Tied them tighter. They were red. They kept turning red. I couldn’t hear myself but my throat was raw and my father was running.

Carrie stood by the glass door, unable to move, cigarette stopped on its way to her lips, hovering mid air, burning, ashes falling, frozen. My father lifted Kate, her arms flopped around his neck, and her bathing suit was dripping and pink. I wrapped her towel around her shoulders. My father ran. Back through the glass door past the frozen Carrie he turned and locked eyes with me, “Stay here. We’ll call you from the hospital.”  He turned to Carrie, “Get the first aid and a blanket, then get in the car.” 

She nodded. The cigarette fell from her fingers and landed on the balcony, it bounced once.  She moved inside as though sleepwalking, sliding the door behind her. I could hear her move through the house, and then the rev of the car engine. And then they were gone. It was silent.

I turned around, picking up the bottles that had fallen in my mad dash for the dollies. Green and red and blue, they glinted in faint light as I lifted them up, placing them, one at a time, back in their place.  I wondered if Kate would forgive me, “I’m sorry,” I said aloud, letting my mind replace the dunes with Kate’s face, “But you can’t always have it easy…the state might have prosecuted for neglect, or Mountain View would get in trouble for letting you come with us.  It just would have caused an awful lot of trouble.  You’ve got to stop causing trouble Kate. Please just stop…just stop it…” I wanted to wipe my eyes clear, but my fingers were covered in her blood.

A few of the bottles had broken, and there was a green one lying away from the rail, shattered next to the hot tub, its largest shard rested on the plastic ledge, hidden by the dark. When I picked it up it was sticky. 

I collected each broken piece carefully, making a neat pile in my hand.  Then I turned, and walked inside to put them in the trash.  While drifting out to the balcony I saw, next to the door, Carrie’s burning cigarette.  Picking it up I walked back to the railing.

I tried to take a drag, but vomited onto the ground far below instead. My hands shook. I tapped the cigarette out on the rail, watching the ashes shudder off and fall into a neat pile.  I dropped the butt into one of the bottles. I then gave the bottle a little flick with my ring finger. I let it fall, watched it crash open in a cascade of blue sparkles beneath me.