Finding Alice (20 page)

She and Simon begin moving toward the front door now, and I hear Faye telling me it’s time to go. I wonder if her nephew thinks I’m retarded or just socially impaired. I decide I don’t really care as I climb into the backseat of his old cream-colored Saab. The backseat is draped with a wool army blanket that is covered with light-colored hair. I suspect he has a dog, or his wife or girlfriend has a dog. Anyway,
it seems clear that a dog’s been back here before. Could be just an enormous cat. I try to imagine a huge, sleek, blond cat sitting back here. I see her with her legs crossed at the knees and lighting up a cigarette in a long cigarette holder and saying words like “dahling” and “fabulous.” She probably wears a diamond tennis bracelet.

I hear Simon and Faye conversing like normal people up in the front seat, and I wonder why I can’t be like them. I wonder how it was that I got trapped behind the looking glass in the first place. I suspect that everything is backward here in the backseat. Most of all, me. And, not for the first time, I am trapped in my crazy world and I wonder—I rack my brain trying to figure out what I must’ve done to deserve this kind of life. Pastor John and the church ladies would say it’s because I have sinned. But Faye has told me that God doesn’t punish us for our sins, that he forgives us for sinning. While I know this can’t be true, I do wonder why she would lie to me about it.

chapter
TWENTY-TWO

A Christmas Maze

I
feel as though I’m five years old and following my parents around the Fred Myers store. Although I must admit we make a rather odd-looking family. Faye slowly strolls along in her molting fur coat, her purple hat with its long feather bobbing up and down at each step, while Simon just keeps pushing the cart and chatting away like we are perfectly normal. I trail reluctantly along behind them like a disgruntled child, wearing scraggly braids and several layers of mismatched clothing. I can sense people looking at us—those quick back-and-forth glances. Or maybe it’s just me. Although I suspect we look weird. I’m sure I would’ve looked at something like this myself, back in BC.

The store is like a giant holiday nightmare. Santas and snowmen and bright lights pop out of every aisle, along with singing reindeer and angels that light up in neon colors. Honestly, it’s enough to make you swear off this holiday for good. Talk about sensory overload!

No one else seems to notice the madness. I guess it takes a crazy woman to see that the world has gone completely nuts. Or maybe it’s just me.

Finally I am standing in front of this life-size manger scene, the kind with plastic figurines that light up from the inside. I suspect it’s expensive and would require a large front lawn to contain it all, but the characters seem almost real to me. I just stand there, slightly awed, as I stare at the baby sleeping so peacefully in the manger, trying to understand this whole thing. I mean if it’s really true, if God is for real and he actually sent down his son to be born on this earth … well,
what was he thinking?
If
I
had a baby—which is completely unimaginable—well, I would never send him to a place like this. What kind of father does something as irresponsible as that? I shake my head in disgust and turn away.

“Too much commercialism?” asks Simon. I suspect he might’ve been watching me while Faye was picking out her holiday paper towels. I notice she finally chooses the ones with the dancing candy canes.

I shrug but say nothing, just continue following the two of them through this maze of row after row of stuff. I wonder where they get all this stuff. Does it come by ship or train or truck? Perhaps all three. I imagine giant ships hauling this stuff across the ocean, then loading it on trains and finally big trucks. Why should people go to so much trouble? I remember how only days ago I was living on the streets without anything. Don’t people realize they can survive without all this stuff? What is wrong with this world?

“What?” Simon turns and looks at me as if I said something.

“Huh?”

“Did you just say, ‘What’s wrong with this world?’ ”

I shrug again and pretend to study a display for baby diapers that are printed with little green elves that are supposed to turn red when
the diaper needs to be changed. Too bad Mary didn’t have some of these with her in Bethlehem.

Simon laughs. “Hey, it’s okay. I think I know how you feel.”

I turn and study him closely. I want to say, “How on earth can you possibly know how I feel? You are normal! Whereas I, the crazy girl, am stuck on the other side of the looking glass!” I hope I did not say this. I really don’t think I did because he is still smiling at me and acting as if we two share some private little joke. Oh, if only he knew!

Finally Faye’s cart is nearly full, and she announces she is done. I sigh in relief and follow the two of them through the maze, presumably toward the cashiers. As we’re passing the life-size nativity again, for some reason this makes me stop, and I can’t take my eyes off that baby. I feel so sorry for him. I think I know how he feels because that’s how I feel too. I have been tossed into a strange and foreign world, like an orphan, a place where I will never fit in.

Then I look over at his mother, Mary, and I see the look of love in her eyes and think that perhaps it will be okay for him after all. Perhaps Mary will protect him and take care of him. Suddenly I remember how his story ends, and I shudder and step back. Pastor John loves to tell the story of how the cruel soldiers killed Jesus on the cross. How he was brutally beaten and how the nails were pounded through his flesh. I realize that poor little baby’s life is as hopeless and futile as my own.

“Go back,” I want to tell the baby. “Go back to heaven where you will be safe. Tell your father that earth is a bad place. Tell him that you don’t want to live here, that bad men are going to kill you if you stay.” I’m crying now. I can see that all is hopeless, and I wonder why
people spend so much time and energy and money to celebrate a holiday that is all about death. What is wrong with this world?

“Alice?”

I turn and see Simon standing next to me. I wonder how long he’s been there and whether I’ve uttered these things aloud or simply shouted them within the confines of my troubled mind.

“Are you okay?” He reaches for my arm. “Faye is worried. She thought you were lost.”

I look him in the eye and say, “I am lost.”

“Hey, join the human race.” Then he kind of smiles and begins to guide me toward the front of the store, and I wonder what he means by that.

The human race is not so very human, I am thinking. Or maybe I mean
humane
. But what difference does it make anyway? Hopefully, I didn’t say this though. At least, I don’t think I said this. I press my lips together and wonder how difficult it would be to contract lockjaw as I allow Simon to lead me over to where Faye is now standing with a cart full of bagged groceries near the exits. She looks relieved to see us, and tired.

“Alice, dear, I thought we’d lost you.”

I apologize for dawdling but am really thinking, You have no idea how lost I am. Maybe I say this aloud, maybe not.

Simon pauses by the door as he drops some money in the red Salvation Army pot, and the old bell ringer smiles happily and thanks him. I think I have seen that bell ringer at the mission before, only he wasn’t nearly as sober as he appears to be today. I wonder what Simon would think if he knew that I used to hang out with people like that or that I plan to again. It’s weird actually, because I
almost miss the streets right now. It’s almost as if life makes more sense out there than it does in super shopping centers like this.

Simon and I carry all the groceries into the house. Both of us seem to sense that Faye is worn out from her shopping excursion. I urge her to sit down in her comfy chair, assuring her that I can put the groceries away, although I am not sure if I will get them in their proper places. What if I put the eggs in the oven?

Simon offers to help, and I do not reject his assistance. He seems to be neither pushy nor proud as he puts things away, and he certainly doesn’t appear to be the least bit controlling as he makes every effort to stay out of my way. I suppose I am almost beginning to trust him, although I must admit this scares me quite a bit. For already I can hear Amelia’s familiar warning to “Trust no one!” Fortunately she seems to be lying low at the moment.

Finally we are done, and I think he will leave.

“I noticed some leftover chicken soup in there,” he says as he closes the fridge. “Should we heat some up for Faye?”

I suspect it must be well past lunchtime now, and I know that Faye is pretty worn out, so as much as I am ready to have Simon leave, I agree. He seems to be comfortable turning on the stove and setting the pan on it to heat. I try my best to set the table, and I think I get it right, and Simon doesn’t tell me otherwise. I even remember to get out some saltine crackers. It seems like soup and crackers go together. How nice for them to be part of a couple.

Finally all is ready, and I go to tell Faye. She looks a little better now and seems delighted that the two of us thought to fix lunch. “There’s a jar of peaches in the pantry,” she tells me. “I think that would go nicely with the soup, don’t you?”

I quickly locate the peaches and manage to open the jar without help. Then we all sit down, and Faye asks Simon if he would like to pray. He agrees, and to my surprise he prays in a way that is surprisingly familiar. I realize that his way of praying is a lot like his aunt’s. I wonder if it runs in their family.

Just as we are finishing our lunch, Simon speaks up. “Hey, what are you doing this afternoon, Alice?”

I shrug and look away.

“I thought maybe you’d like to help me decorate for the Christmas party.”

I glance nervously at him, wondering what on earth ever gave him this absurd idea, but before I can even make a plausible excuse, Faye jumps in. “What a lovely idea, Simon. I’m sure that Alice would be happy to help you. Wouldn’t you, Alice?”

“I, uh, I don’t know much about decorating for parties …” This is absolutely true since our church didn’t believe in decorating for or celebrating any holiday.

“That’s okay. I just need someone who’s willing to work hard,” says Simon as if it’s settled. “You ready?”

“But, I, uh, I should stay and clean up—”

“Nonsense.” Faye waves her hand. “You two did such a nice job with lunch. I can easily clean this up myself. You go with Simon, Alice. You two kids will have fun.”

“But I—”

Faye stands now. “We won’t take no for an answer, will we, Simon?” She looks firmly at me, then smiles. “It’s settled.”

That is how I find myself sitting in, not the hairy backseat with the sleek blond cat, but the front seat, next to Simon. I have no idea
where he is taking me or what he plans to do to me, but I am extremely worried. He’s driving up a hill because I can hear his engine whirring, and I know we are just slightly out of town because I can still see the city lights in the gray fog below us. But I also know there could be no place up here that needs to be decorated for Christmas. Why did I ever fall for this? I guess I’m just hopelessly stupid when it comes to these things. I’m dismayed that Faye would betray me like this, but then I should’ve seen it coming. Three days for company and fish—time to either fry them up or throw them out. It’s clear she is throwing me out. I wish I’d left on all my layers of clothes.

So it seems I have made a very big mistake and been duped again. How is it that I am so easily tricked? I am certain I will never see Faye or my dear Cheshire Cat again. Of course, Amelia is sitting in the backseat now and shrieking at me. I am surprised Simon can’t hear her, but he seems oblivious as he drives merrily along this twisting road that is engulfed by towering and sinister looking evergreen trees. Amelia is cussing at me, using such vulgar profanity that I am actually blushing.

Each time Simon slows down for a curve, she tells me to open the door and leap from the car. When I don’t, because I am too scared and because a part of me doesn’t want to, she rewards me by calling me more names. For the most part, I must agree with her. I am a stupid, ignorant moron and then some. Oh, how do I get myself into these messes?

chapter
TWENTY-THREE

Simon Says

A
s Simon drives up the hill, I try to calm myself by pretending that we are just playing a game, convincing myself that none of this is real. I hope this will help shush Amelia’s irksome heckling. My game is like Simon says, and this is how it goes. Whatever Simon does or says, I decide that I will simply imitate him. Then perhaps I will appear normal, and it will go well for me. If not, well, maybe I can make a fast break and get away before he notices.

“They say it might snow,” Simon says as he slows down for another curve.

I nod. “Looks like it could snow.”

“It’d be fun to have a white Christmas. I don’t think we’ve had one in years.”

I shake my head. “A white Christmas? Not in years.”

He glances at me with what appears to be suspicion, and I wonder if I should think about jumping now.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

“Nervous?” I echo.

“About being with me?”

I look at him and wonder how I could possibly explain all the various thoughts and feelings and voices that are continually pummeling my mind. Then I remember my game. “Are
you
nervous about being with me?” I stare at him now, wondering if I might actually be able to turn the tables and make him uncomfortable for a change.

He chuckles. “No, you don’t make me nervous.”

I sit up straighter. “Well, you don’t make me nervous either.” I notice he’s slowed to a stop now, and I turn to see that we’re passing some sort of a wrought-iron gate. On closer look, it appears to be some kind of security fence! My heart pounds within my chest like the Saab’s engine straining up the last hill we just crossed. Not again!

“What’s going on?” I reach for the door handle, but it’s too late. He’s already inside, and the gates are closing behind us. Why, it’s like they were expecting him! I fumble to undo my seat belt and move closer to the door, grabbing the handle, ready to bolt.