Eat Your Heart Out (22 page)

Mama snapped out of it. She moved from the mirror, patted her hair down, and threw water on her face. Then she yelled back that, yes, she wanted vodka.

Now that's what Cheryl drinks, but it still makes her sick when she has to serve it at the bar. When she drinks it, it moves like poison through her, but she craves it more than she's craved anything in her life. Familiarity, she guesses.

Cheryl pulls herself off the tub and ashes her smoke in the toilet, still looking in the mirror. She's not exactly beautiful. She wears too much makeup, and her face possesses a strange masculinity that is not off-putting but not inviting either. Her skin leathery from tanning beds is like a protective armour encasing her bones. She is a natural blonde but for years has dyed her hair jet black like the midnight sky, and it's growing out now.

She turns on the tap. She's thirsty but she can't find a glass. She bends down and drinks from the tap, like she used to.

Then she leaves the bathroom and heads to the bedroom she used when Lori was successful in convincing Mama that she was too drunk to drive home. The house still smells like mothballs, thinks Cheryl.

In the hallway, she sees a black-and-white picture of her mama hanging, crooked, next to a framed bible verse. It's Mama sitting on the lap of some man Cheryl doesn't recognize. She wears fire-engine red lipstick and laughs for the camera. Aunt Lori sits next to her. They must be about the age Cheryl is now.

Mama looks happy. In her leather jacket and with her wild hair, she is almost beautiful. Cheryl shifts her gaze and reads the bible verse.

It reads: “No one is righteous; Romans 3:9–20.”

When Cheryl lies in bed she can't sleep until she pretends Ben is holding her.

She never has to do that when she has her pills.

“You know, you
look just like your mama did when she was your age.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, identical. It's like Shannon is just right here, ain't it, Earl?”

“That's true. You do look like her,” says Earl.

“She was fatter than I am.”

“No, not when she was your age. You're the spittin' image of her. I swear, it took my breath away when you got out of that cab.”

“Cool.”

“Do you want more there, sweetheart? You're not eating much tonight.”

Looking down at a plate that's still crowded with macaroni and stuffing, Cheryl wonders when it would be a good time to mention she's allergic to wheat.

“No, I'm full.”

“Oh, okay.”

Aunt Lori smiles warmly.

Earl gets up and excuses himself from the table. Cheryl only knew Earl for a few months before she left. He's Lori's third or fourth husband, Cheryl can't remember. Cheryl doesn't mind Earl. He's quiet and he wasn't around for most of the shit that went down. She's got nothing to hold against him. After he's left the room, Lori looks at Cheryl, very serious.

Here we go.

“I know you don't want to be here, but it really means a lot to me, and I know it would to your mama too.”

Cheryl nods.

“You know, she made a lot of mistakes, but she was really trying to get better before, well, before she passed.”

“Was she still drinking?”

Lori is quiet for a moment.

“Sometimes. Less than she did. She was going to church a lot more too. She had an illness, Cheryl.”

“We all have illnesses, Lori.”

“She was trying hard to get right with God. She accepted Jesus Christ as her personal saviour. She let him into her heart. She was trying to get better, believe me.”

Cheryl laughs.

“That's rich.” Cheryl gets up to get some water from the kitchen.

“I know you wrote her off, but I never did. She wasn't as bad as you remember her to be.”

Cheryl wants to get a gun and shoot herself. Glass in hand, she turns back to Lori.

“Look, I'm here right now because it's the right thing to do and because you asked me to come. I'm not here because I want to make Mama out to be some saint. So this can all just stop.”

“I know, but she was your mama, and she really loved you—”

“I buried her a long time ago,” says Cheryl.

Lori stares at Cheryl, looks hurt and wounded, and like it's the saddest thing in the world that everything has turned out the way it has. Cheryl feels a lot of things in this moment—guilty, sad, angry, alone—but she doesn't want to identify them; the velocity at which they are all travelling is frightening.

“Okay?” Cheryl says finally.

“Okay,” whispers Lori.

Lori gets up from the table and clears her dishes. She goes to the fridge, pulling something out. Cheryl stares at the wall, numb.

I want a fucking drink.

“Do you want some pie, honey?”

Cheryl wonders if it was Shakespeare who said cowards die a thousand times before their death.

It's eleven-thirty and
Cheryl can't sleep, which is no surprise. As soon as she lay down, her skin felt itchy and on fire. She tried telling herself that there was no reason to feel itchy, but no matter how she moved it wouldn't stop. It made her want to rip her skin off her bones. Eventually, she decided to get up and pace the kitchen. Pacing makes her feel calm. She brings her cellphone downstairs with her.

She knows Ben's up. He's just finished work at the restaurant. He'll be walking home. She gets to the kitchen, paces in the darkness. Then she dials his number.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Why isn't he picking up?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He knows where she is. Why the fuck isn't he picking up?

He's not going to pick up. He's going to let it go to message. How can he let it go to message knowing where she is?

“Cheryl? Is that you?” It's Earl.

“Oh, hi, Earl. Sorry. I just couldn't sleep.”

Earl walks into the kitchen and turns on the light. He's fully dressed. He goes into the fridge and gets himself a glass of milk.

“That's fine, I'm not one for sleeping either.”

He drinks his milk, staring at Cheryl. He won't look away.

“So? Who you calling?” he asks.

“Just no one. It's no one, really.”

He nods. He knows she's a liar.

“Well, it's my, ah, he's my boyfriend, but it's a little complicated right now.”

“I see.”

Cheryl starts pacing again.

“You like pacing, huh?”

“Yeah, it's stupid. It calms me, though.” Especially when I don't have my fucking pills, she thinks.

“I get it. Your mama was the same.”

Cheryl stops.

“Oh shit, yeah. She paced a track in my kitchen almost. Calmed her down something big.”

Cheryl still feels like she needs to pace, but she doesn't want to, not anymore. She tries to remember Mama pacing when she was a kid. She can't.

Earl looks her up and down.

“You look like you want to go out.”

“Earl!” the whole
bar yells when they walk through the front door.

They're at Cap'n Jacks, smack in the middle of town. They listened to Willie Nelson on the drive over, so Cheryl is happy that the Kinks are playing as she walks in. The bar is lively, crowded with locals.

Cheryl remembers it's Saturday, and she figures this must be the regular crowd. The urge to pace goes away when she sits down in a dirty, damp leather booth.

She looks around for a face she might recognize, then realizes she wouldn't recognize anyone anymore. She used to come here almost every weekend, once she was old enough to wear a push-up bra and smoke.

She thinks she lost her virginity in one of the bathroom stalls here but can't remember. She remembers bleeding after. So, yeah, must have been the first.

She doesn't remember who it was. Not the face, not the name. It was rough, so he must have been older.

“Did you like that?” he asked when they finished.

She knows she nodded, but she couldn't speak afterwards. Too fucked on E.

But it looks a little different in here than she remembers, thank God. It's the one place in all of Wellington that's changed in ten years. Well, it's been painted, anyway. It smells like fake strawberries masking cigarette smoke. It used to smell like piss.

She turns and watches Earl order their drinks at the bar. The bartender looks over Earl's shoulder and motions to her and then turns back to Earl.

“Shannon's daughter?” he mouths.

Earl nods.

She turns around and waits for her vodka. She's not thinking about what's in her stomach until this week is done. A few drinks aren't going to hurt it. Didn't hurt her. Cheryl figures Mama was shitfaced during her whole pregnancy.

“Here you go, miss.”

“Thanks, Earl. What do I owe you?”

“Yeah, right.”

Cheryl smiles.

“Thank you.”

The vodka burns going down, but as soon as it hits her lips she feels her shoulders sink. She focuses on not thinking about the baby.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Earl says.

“What?”

“You been real quiet about yourself. I haven't seen you for ten years. Don't you think I'm curious about what you've been up to?”

“No, I didn't think you would be,” Cheryl says honestly.

“Come on, now. Start by telling me where you're living.”

“Toronto.”

“Yeah, I know. What part?”

“Near College. The rent's cheap, and it's close to work so I like it.”

“And where's work?”

“I work at a bar. It's called Nirvana. It's nice, gets a lot of traffic. I've been there forever, so it's easy. It's a job.”

He waits, drinks his beer.

“You go to school?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I did go to school. I went to some night classes and stuff, but I never finished a degree.”

“Why not?”

“I never found anything that I wanted to do, actually.”

Earl is quiet and looks at Cheryl like he's taking her in. It makes her uncomfortable.

“I mean, not like in a forever sense. I still don't really know. Or I'm still trying to figure it out.”

“And you're just at the bar for now?”

“I guess. You could say that, yeah.”

Cheryl wonders when “just for now” turns into forever.

“So tell me about this boyfriend.”

“Can we talk about something else?” asks Cheryl, taking off her jacket. She figures she can show some skin in here.

“Really?”

“No. Ah, he's, well, I don't know if he's my boyfriend anymore.”

“Right. How long you been together?”

“Two years, I guess. Two years and change, off and on.”

“You didn't want to bring him here, I guess?”

“He wouldn't come with me.”

Earl looks at Cheryl. He doesn't say anything.

“It's complicated,” she says.

“Where'd you meet him?”

“At the bar. He used to work there. It was supposed to be just, not for long, but here we are, two years in. I don't know . . . how it happened, really.”

He'd stolen the heart, beating, from her chest.

“Well, I hope it works out.”

Cheryl waits, then speaks.

“I don't. I hope it ends. For real this time.”

“Then I hope it ends for real this time.”

Earl smiles.

Cheryl smiles, but only a little and not for long. The vodka has loosened her, just a bit, and she has to ask him something.

“Earl, can you just, just level with me for a second?”

“Yeah?”

“How'd it happen with Mama? And just tell me. Don't give me any Jesus bullshit like Lori. Just tell me.”

Earl takes a sip of his beer. He looks like what he is about to tell her pains him. Cheryl feels suddenly nervous, wishing she hadn't asked.

“She was drunk. She lived alone, and no one was there to help her. She fell down the stairs.”

“Are you bullshitting me?”

“What do you mean?” He looks at the table.

He doesn't say anything.

“Earl, look at me.”

He looks at her.

“Your mama didn't do it, if that's what you're asking. She fell,” is all he says.

Hearing how it really happened hurts her in a new and unexpected way. She doesn't let it show.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“Can you smoke in here?”

Earl nods.

Cheryl lights her smoke.

“You know, this isn't what you want to hear, but she talked about you every day.”

“Okay,” says Cheryl, exhaling.

“I mean it. Every day she talked about you, how good you were when you were a little girl. The games you used to play alone in your room. She would sing that song you really liked, I'd catch her singing it to herself, that Bob Dylan song.”

“‘Don't Think Twice,'” says Cheryl without blinking.

“Yeah. ‘Don't Think Twice.' Anyway, I know you two didn't talk much, but I wanted you to know that she still thought of you. All the time.”

“Okay.”

“Shannon meant well. She did.”

Cheryl laughs. Always when she shouldn't.

“What?” asks Earl.

“I don't know why you're all so hell bent on me forgiving her. She's dead now.”

Cheryl puts out her smoke. She wants another drink.

“I think she wanted to make things right with you.”

Cheryl likes Earl. He is the one person she likes in this whole town, and so she wants to tell him how wrong he is.

“I was sixteen when I left. She didn't even try to fix it. So that's bullshit. I don't need . . . you don't need to tell me this to feel better. I got fine with it a long time ago.”

“She did try.”

“Not hard enough. Not after everything she did. She didn't try hard enough,” Cheryl says, venom in her throat.

Earl looks down.

“I'm sorry. It's not my place. I shouldn't be saying any of this.”