Good Grief (15 page)

It’s stopped raining and the sky brightens overhead. We sit listening to the high-pitched whir of the brushes and the rumbling
whoosh
of the dryers at the car wash.

“Does anyone else know?” I finally ask. “About the cutting?”

“I go to a shrink on Tuesdays after school.”

“Does he help?”

“It’s a lady.” She shrugs, raises her eyebrows. I can relate to this reaction. How exactly do you know if you’re getting better? “You’re not grossed out?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“My mom says it’s disgusting.”

“There’s nothing about you that’s disgusting. Besides, I’ve seen it all: tubes, bandages.” I recall the incision in Ethan’s back, which oozed and scabbed over, how I cleaned it gently with Q-tips, chattering while I worked, trying to distract him from the pain.

“I’m sorry about Edgar,” Crystal says softly. I think this is the first nice thing she’s said to me.

“Ethan.”

“Ethan.” She says his name again slowly, her tongue resting for a moment on her front teeth. “E-than.” She looks at me and wrinkles her nose. “Was he, like, your boyfriend for a long time?”

I cave in and let Crystal sleep over. She calls her mother’s cell phone twice before reaching her. Roxanne doesn’t seem to mind
where
Crystal spends the night. Isn’t this beyond the definition of a latchkey kid?

I set Crystal up in the guest bedroom beside mine. She sits cross-legged on the bed, jams her Walkman headphones over her ears, and cranks up the volume. Tinny music tinkles around her head. I’ve noticed from her CD collection that she favors dead musicians—Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain—as though death’s the ultimate cool sulky thing to do. She pulls her math book from her backpack. The spine makes a cracking noise as she opens it.

“You’re going to study now? With music?”

“Dude, I’m going to
ace
this test.” She is serious, manic.

I shrug and head off to bed.

As I crawl under the covers, I wonder if there are cuts anywhere else on Crystal’s body. I’ve never seen her bare legs. Colonel Cranson stares down sternly from the sepia portrait on the wall, his handlebar mustache drooping into a permanent frown. Mrs. Cranson’s black dress is buttoned to her chin, and her slick black hair is pulled into a tight braid. The sheets are chilly as I tug them over my shoulders. I still hate sleeping alone, hate the absence of heat and weight and someone to discuss the day with. I pull
The Joy of Cooking
from my night table, lay it open across my lap, and turn to meringues. I imagine the Cransons spooning in this big brass bed. Maybe the colonel wore a nightshirt and cap, like the man in “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” I inhale the crisp smell of the bleached pillowcase, imagining Mrs. Cranson’s long white eyelet nightgown. Then the bed is a cloud and I’m floating and the colonel is leaning over to whisper that the house’s smoke alarm is shrieking.

Fire, Crystal, slippers, run,
my sleepy brain tells my feet.

As I lurch out of bed, the cookbook smacks the floor. I bound across the hall and shove open Crystal’s door. She’s perched on the edge of her still-made bed, peering into a metal trash can. Thin gray smoke spirals toward the ceiling. An orange flame curls over the top of the can, then dips back inside.

“Crystal!”

“Take
x
and
y
and shove them up your ass,” Crystal grumbles, tearing a page from her math book and stuffing it into the fire.

“Crystal!”

She stands and stares into the trash basket, her arms straight and stiff at her sides. “What?”

“Fire, that’s what!”

“It’s
in
the can.” She scratches through the fabric of her sweater at the scabs on her arms.

“My God!” I scramble down to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher and sprint back up the stairs two at a time, repeating the words I once learned during an office safety drill:
Pull, aim, squeeze, sweep. Pull, aim, squeeze, sweep.

As I grab the fire extinguisher’s cold chrome handle, yellow foam shoots across the room, hitting the trash can and caking in globs on the bedspread. The fire dies. I cough, waving my hand in front of my face. Stinky yellow talc coats the Oriental carpet, which is strewn with Crystal’s broken pencils and torn papers. I should have just thrown water in the can.

“Ruined.” It’s the only word I can muster and I think I mean this relationship, too.

Crystal sits on the edge of the bed, one foot maniacally tapping the floor.

“I don’t even know if I can fix this beautiful carpet now.” I hear my voice quaver. “It’s old and fragile.” Like me.

“I got stuck on a problem.” Crystal flops onto her back and talks to the ceiling. “Besides,
you’re
the one who wrecked the place with the fire extinguisher.”

I snatch a towel from the bathroom and swab the carpet, tapping and then pounding the foam. “You got stuck on a problem so you’re going to start another fire?” I hear my voice getting louder and faster, like a train approaching, and can’t stop it. “Burn down this beautiful house that’s in the
Historical Register
and I can barely afford to rent?” I’m shouting now. My head pounds, and the tacky fire extinguisher powder makes my fingers itch.

“My mom says there was no Colonel Cranson.”

I stop blotting the carpet and stare at the baseboards, fighting the urge to throw something, to break a lamp.

“Get your things together,” I finally tell Crystal. “I’m going to call your mother and have her pick you up.”

“No! Don’t call her.” Crystal sits up and frantically rubs the insides of her arms. “She’s sleeping at her boyfriend’s.”

I spread the towel over the stained carpet, crawl into the armchair beside the bed, and lean my head against the wall for support. “I’m confused,” I tell her. “Do you want to spend time together?”

She nods, squeezing the insides of her arms and rocking.

“Well, we can’t do that if you have no respect for me or my house.”

“Okay. Sorry,” she mumbles.

I move to the edge of the bed and peer into her face, looking for a sign of anything I can reason with. Her pale blue eyes are smoky, vacant. She nods and rocks, nods and rocks, working her jaw back and forth, her teeth sawing into her lower lip.

I sink toward the soft center of the bed. “Don’t bite like that.” I grab her chin. “Here, have a drink.” I pass her a can of root beer she left on the night table. “Algebra’s hard. A
lot
of students struggle with it. Did you know that?”

She shakes her head, holding the soda between us. Her lips are swollen and cracked, and the color has drained from her cheeks.

“I barely passed,” I tell her. “Then guess what? You get geometry. It’s worse, like someone’s forcing you to learn to play the tuba. But that doesn’t mean you get to start fires.”

I feel bad that Crystal has no one to help her with her homework. It took me lots of help from my dad just to get a C in algebra. On Sunday mornings he fixed us pancakes and sausages, then helped me study at the dining room table.

“If Lucy baked three more than twice as many cookies as Sally, and Julio ate a fourth of them, how many would be left?” he’d coax gently. My brain seized up like a tangled bicycle chain. Instead of answers I produced tears. I’d hunch over the sour-smelling pages of the book as the sunny morning passed outside the window, the smooth, empty street begging me to roller-skate.

“I think you need a tutor,” I tell Crystal now. “I can’t help you, because I stink at algebra. But I’ll help you find someone.”

“I don’t care if I flunk! I fucking
hate
school.” Her face tightens into a red grimace, like a baby’s. She sobs.

I loop my arm around her shoulder, my elbow sore from where I smacked it while taking a corner too fast with the fire extinguisher. She recoils from my touch.

“I hate fucking Amber and Tiffanie. As if I
want
to be invited to their stupid parties. They don’t even know who Janis Joplin
is.
They are such losers!”

She starts to rock again, hugging herself and shivering. I want to tell her to watch the language. Instead I try to hug her. Despite the fact that she’s skinny, it’s hard to get my arms around her. She’s sharp and angular—all elbows and shoulder blades. I pull her closer. I’m embarrassed by my effort and give up. But as soon as I let go of her, Crystal’s arms tighten around me.

“Here’s a secret,” I say, rocking with her but slowing her down. “Ninety percent of the world hated junior high.” Her short hair is bristly against my cheek.

“Not my
mom.
”

“Okay, not your mom.” My realtor, Kit, told me that Crystal’s mother was quite popular in junior high school. “Oh, Roxanne Lowman’s daughter,” he said, blushing and tipping his head when I told him about Crystal. Turns out she was two grades ahead of him and all the boys had crushes on her. They called her Foxie Roxie. I got the sense that this was her apex, though, and it’s been downhill for her since.

“If you want to know what hell’s like,” I tell Crystal, “you’re in it: junior high. You’re not crazy.” I remember bumbling through school without a mother, doing my best to avoid the scary gum-snapping girls who trolled the halls in packs. Fighting every morning to wrestle my curly hair into Farrah Fawcett feathers like theirs.

Crying in quiet hiccups now, Crystal untangles herself from my grasp and leans back into the pillows, listening attentively, as though I’m telling her a bedtime story.

“I know school’s hard, and your dad left you, and you don’t get along with your mom. I’m sorry, and I do want to help. I’m on your side.” I nod at the carpet and the disaster of a room. “But you have to go easier on me.”

Crystal rubs her eyes until they squeak under her fingers. “Okay.”

I take her hands and hold them in mine, examining her bitten fingernails, which are raw and rubbery, like erasers. “You have to realize that life isn’t easy for other people, either, Crystal. That’s the part you’re missing, and that’s the part that’s hard about growing up. It seems like a conspiracy—like life’s only hard for you, but it’s not the case.”

“But those bitches have
dads,
at least.”

“I know they do. It’s not fair.”

Crystal slides under the quilt with her clothes on.

“You can stay tonight. But this is your last chance.
No more fires.
”

She nods.

I reach under the covers and help her tug her sweater off over her head, static electricity snapping at my arms. Her little white T-shirt exposes her mottled arms.

“Where are your pajamas?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Well, what’s in there besides matches?” I point at her bulging backpack.

“Stuff.”

Clutching her wrists, I examine the cuts, some of which are snagged with black sweater fuzz. From the bathroom I grab a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and box of cotton balls. As I swab Crystal’s skin, pink foam bubbles up from the rust-colored incisions.

“This doesn’t look so bad,” I tell her, averting my face toward the wall. Crystal’s shoulders relax.

I fold her arms under the covers, then get up to leave the room, stopping in the doorway. “I bet your arms will heal nicely in a few months and you can wear short-sleeved shirts this summer,” I say, switching off the light. “You know, if you don’t cut them again.”

The streetlight casts a stripe of yellow across the floor.

“I don’t care,” she says.

“I know. But—”

“Leave the door open?”

In the morning I wake to the cloying smell of burning butter and rush downstairs to see if Crystal’s started another fire. She’s curled on the sofa, showered and dressed, watching a nature show on TV. Her brown corduroy hip huggers expose a creamy stripe of flat belly, silver studs outlining the pockets. Instead of her bulky black sweater, she wears a little pink tank top that shows off two knobby bones on the tops of her shoulders and the crisscrosses of cuts along the insides of her thin arms.

“Hi,” I say.

“Shh!” She points to a plate with a bowl over it on the coffee table.

Lifting the bowl, I discover two soggy pieces of French toast. I sit on a pillow on the floor and dig in. The slices are lukewarm and a little underdone in the middle. “Yum,” I tell her, but she’s concentrating on her program.

On TV, a tiny brown mole digs a hole in the sand and hides. I like nature shows for their slow, matter-of-fact approach. “In the desert,” the narrator says quietly, as though narrating a golf tournament, “a hole . . . is a
very
good thing.”

You can’t argue with that.

17

Breathe,
I remind myself, looking up from the library book on cutters. The fluorescent lights buzz noisily overhead and the library air is dry and dusty, parching my throat. I close my eyes for a minute, then continue reading.

Cutting the skin with a knife, razor blade, or other sharp object. Sometimes the skin is scraped with a coarse edge, such as that of a bottle cap, or burned. This is a symptom of severe underlying depression, anger, or anxiety.

I draw a deep breath through my nose and spread my palms across the cold, greasy-feeling table, bracing myself.

When the body is injured, it releases endorphins, natural painkillers that have a numbing effect. In this way, cutting may literally be a form of self-medication.

The book goes on to say that cutting is often misunderstood as a suicide attempt or dismissed as being a fad, such as body piercing, but that it’s actually a coping mechanism.

It can also be said that cutting replaces overwhelming emotional pain with more comprehensible physical pain. . . . Cutters feel compelled to injure themselves, and the activity is typically performed in a trance-like state.

I look up and around the room. A man draped in a giant green rain poncho snoozes in a nearby chair. A sign made out of a wedge of brown cardboard is propped against his backpack, large print reading: ATTENTION IM HUNGRY.

I run my fingers under my sleeves and over the warm, smooth skin on my arms, which feels remarkably thin. And I thought smashing dishes was desperate. As I picture the delicate underside of Crystal’s forearms sliced up like lattice pie crust, I shudder. While I can imagine the urge to cut yourself—an urge like wanting to smack yourself in the forehead, only ten times stronger—I can’t imagine the ability to actually go through with it. In an odd way, I admire Crystal for being able to cut herself—for being able to endure this much pain. I shudder again, snap the book shut, and gather a small stack of volumes to check out.

I hear the clacking of a keyboard in the background as I explain over the phone to the counselor at Big Brothers/ Big Sisters everything that’s happened with Crystal so far—the fires, the cigarette burns on her hands, the cuts on her arms.

“What are you typing?” I ask her.

“I have to file a report,” she says, sighing.

“Okay. But Crystal’s not going to get in trouble, is she? She can’t help it. And I know she’s already seeing a psychologist.”

“Right. But we have to file a report on any activity that may be harmful to the little sister, big sister, or others.”

“I see.”

“The social workers will review the report and contact Crystal’s mother and the school.” The woman takes a gulp of something. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “You’re doing the right thing.” She stops typing for a minute and says apologetically, “I know this is more than you bargained for. Please be honest and tell me if you think it’s too much for you to handle. We would certainly understand—”

“No, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I figured from the beginning that this might be difficult.” But that’s not really true. I pictured games of Candyland and Disney movies. I never imagined self-mutilation and fires. Still, I can’t return Crystal as though she’s an appliance that broke before the warranty expired.

At work, I’m determined to master fondant—a stubborn mixture of sugar, water, and cream of tartar that you heat and cool, then knead into a doughlike icing that forms a lovely satiny outer blanket for a cake. That is, if things go well. My fondant is more like cement than satin, gluing itself to the counter and under my fingernails. I’m working in a little more confectioner’s sugar one afternoon when suddenly the Shakespeare festival actor who played Charles in
Blithe Spirit
shoots through the swinging doors of the kitchen. I jump, dropping the measuring cup on the floor. The sugar explodes into a little white cloud.

“Sorry!” Charles says, and smiles. Two deep dimples and a flash of bright teeth. I scoop up the measuring cup and toss a towel over the mess. It’s the quiet part of the afternoon before the waiters and waitresses arrive. Chef’s in his office. I’m not sure how Charles found his way into the kitchen.

“How’s the scampi today?” He’s wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, and a black turtleneck that frames his square, cleft chin.

Heat surges up my neck and into my face. The last thing I need right now is a handsome actor. I’ve always had a knack for getting crushes on performers. It started when I was ten and wanted to marry Elton John, obsessively sewing sequins that spelled E-L-T-O-N onto a T-shirt when I was supposed to be studying for French quizzes.

“Honey, you can’t get married, you’re only ten,” my mother said gently. “Besides, I think Mr. John is gay.” What did this mean? I asked her. That he would marry a man, she explained. Still, I didn’t see how this would prevent him from loving me.

“Drew Ellis,” Charles says, extending a hand. His narrow face is slightly wrinkled with laugh lines, and his blue-gray eyes are like slate. I squint, searching for flaws to prevent me from falling for him—a chipped tooth, bad grammar, dirt under his fingernails.

“Um, hi. Sophie Stanton.” My thumb circles my naked ring finger, which is chalky with powdered sugar. I wipe my hands on my apron and reach for his hand. His palm is warm, electric. A bit of sticky fondant smudges his thumb. He smiles, looks around, licks it off.

“You work in the kitchen, too?”

He’s probably here to see if I’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill for the scampi screwup.

“Uh,” I tell him, “I’m the salad girl now.” I hear my voice speed up and feel my smile stiffen. Although I was married for three years, suddenly I don’t know how to talk to a man. My mind is as blank as a sheen of lemon fondant. I spread my arms, showing off my workstation—the gleaming stainless steel counter and giant mixer on the floor, the case of butter lettuce waiting to be rinsed.

“I hope that’s not my fault.” Drew has an actor’s perfect diction, with crisp consonants and slightly British pronunciation.

“No, I’d say it’s pretty much my fault. I accidentally sat on a customer’s lap.” I smack my forehead.
Goofy! Don’t tell
that
story.

Drew laughs, throwing back his head. He’s one of those hearty laughers who makes you feel clever. I giggle, remembering how nice he was when I spilled the scampi.

“They don’t want to offer lap dances here,” I add. “Family restaurant and all. Would you like a piece of cake?” Before he can answer, I slice a wedge of chocolate rum cake and hand him a fork.

“How long have you lived in Ashland?” Drew asks, digging into the cake. He’s got Ruth’s dance-student perfect posture.

Suddenly I can’t open my mouth. I’m certain there’s spinach between my teeth. I haven’t eaten spinach all day or all week, as far as I recall, but I swear I feel a greenish black piece wedged there now. I want to dash to the bathroom to check.

“Almost two months,” I finally say, casually covering my mouth with one hand. I realize that I’ve been counting my time in Ashland as a finite, temporary period that will eventually end. Then I’ll go home and my husband will be alive again and my life will return to normal. But my Gorgatech leave of absence ended a month ago. (When I called to tell Lara I wouldn’t be returning to work, she sent a dozen white roses and a bon voyage card signed by everyone at the office wishing me good luck.
Good riddance!
they probably thought.)

“I’m sorry I spilled food on your guest,” I tell Drew, leaning over to escape eye contact by wiping globs of pie dough off the big mixer.

“My mom.”

“Oh, gosh! I’m sorry. How’s she doing?”

“Fine. Preparing for the lawsuit.”

I swallow hard, wondering what happened to the Isadora Duncan date he brought to the restaurant that night.

“I’m joking,” Drew says.

“You were great as Charles,” I tell him, wiping the counters now.
Stupid. Gushing!

“You saw the play?” His eyes brighten. He polishes off the cake and sets the plate in the bottom of the big stainless sink. “Delicious.”

I busy myself folding a pile of kitchen towels.

“Listen . . .” He bows his head toward his white Nikes. “I thought maybe you’d like to go to dinner sometime.”

I fold the last towel until it’s too small to fold anymore.

Drew glances across the kitchen at the giant boxes of canned apricots and olives. “But maybe you’re sick of food. Maybe something else? Bowling?”

“You mean a date?”

“I’ve wanted to ask you out since the night you were our waitress.”

“Right. You were with . . .” I pause, remembering the Isadora Duncan girl’s tiny nose and elegant neck—how her lustrous strawberry blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. “Your girlfriend?”

“Friend,” Drew says.

Friend. What
ever
! I already hate this woman. Hate her loud theatrical cackle and silk scarves with their pretentious fringe. What a glamour-puss.

“Oh.” I reach into the refrigerator for a new clump of chilled pie dough, even though I’m finished making pies for the day. I want to climb in and hide behind the butter.

“I hope I’m not being presumptuous and you don’t have a significant other.”

“Nope,” I tell the bottles of milk. “I’m significant otherless.”

“Great.” Drew catches himself. “I mean for me. How about Monday, around seven? That’s my day off.” He adds this fact apologetically, I guess because Monday is a B-list date night, unlike Saturday.

I close the refrigerator door. “Sure.”

“Great. It’s a date.”

A watery wave of nausea rises in my throat, the word
date
like a food I got sick on. I had to fend off my last
date
with a tennis racket.

“Monday,” I repeat, rolling out an unnecessary ball of dough.

“Shoot, I’ve got a rehearsal.” Drew peels back his sleeve to look at his watch. “May I call you?”

After ripping the corner off a sack of flour, I jot down my number and hand it to him, then return to the dough.

“Great,” he says. “Great to meet you. Again.”

Good, he’s leaving. By the time he calls, maybe I’ll be a new person with self-confidence and cute comebacks. Straight hair, a better job, a smaller waistline.

Drew disappears through the swinging doors. I collapse onto a cardboard box filled with giant cans of tomato juice. Then Drew stumbles back through the doors as a woman crashes past him, lunging toward me.

“Sophie
Stanton
?” she barks accusingly. Crystal’s mother, Roxanne. Rage in a blue angora sweater.

Drew pauses, a questioning look crossing his face.

“Yes?” I take a step backward.

Roxanne’s tight-fitting sweater outlines a small waist and large breasts. Oddly enough, I’m optimistic for Crystal—hoping she’ll inherit this figure soon and become as popular as her mother was in high school. “Where you from, anyway, hunh?” she asks in a low, gravelly voice.

“Be with you in a minute,” I say cautiously. I peer past Roxanne and wave at Drew, hoping he’ll leave.

“You one of those
East Coast
girls who’s moved to Oregon to help straighten out the white trash?” Roxanne has ramrod posture instead of Crystal’s unconfident hunch. Her white-blond hair spills past her hips.

Drew’s face sinks into a concerned frown.

I wave at him. “See you soon!” This comes out like a command, and he disappears through the kitchen doors. I wonder if he’ll ever really call or if the fondant moment was our first and last date.

“Daddy send you to college and now you’re the authority on raising a kid?” Roxanne flips her hair behind her shoulders, Cher style, snapping her head from side to side.

Listen, Old Yeller: I earned a partial scholarship to college and took out student loans and worked at the library to pay for my books.
Of course, all this is beside the point. “Can we please just—”

She cuts me off, rising on her toes. “You need to butt outta my life, Big Sister Suzie.” Her full, heart-shaped lips shimmer with pink lip gloss. It’s the same color Crystal smears clumsily across her thin mouth. I wonder if maybe, despite claiming that she hates her mother, Crystal yearns to be like her. “’Cause you have
no
idea what it’s like to raise a bratty teenager.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” I tell her. “Can you please call me after work and we’ll discuss this?”

“You think I don’t know she sets fires?” Her eyes are slightly sunken, with dark circles, the only thing about her that isn’t pretty. “You think I don’t know she hacks up her arms? I know. The shrink knows. And now, thanks to your little
report,
the school knows. You think that makes junior high better for Crystal? Hunh? When everybody
knows
she’s a freak?”

“Crystal’s not a freak.” I can’t believe this woman has so much disdain for her own daughter.

“She
cuts
herself.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t write her off as a freak.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I should do?”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying maybe we should have a little more faith in her.”

“
We?
This isn’t about we. This is about me and my daughter.”

I clench my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “Well, your daughter almost burned down my house. Did you think I couldn’t say anything about this?”

“Just mind your own business, that’s all.”

“How do you expect me to spend time with Crystal
and
mind my own business?”

Chef Alan charges out of his office, his toque tipping to one side on his head.

“What’s the deal here?” he demands.

“We’re just having a discussion,” I tell him.

Chef’s eyes shoot straight to the U shape of blond hair that sweeps across Roxanne’s small rear, and suddenly the air is let out of him. He straightens his back, broadens his chest, and bows ceremoniously in her direction.

“Well,
hello,
” he says.

Crystal’s mother reels around toward Alan, ready to tear into him. She stops when she sees him and tilts her head to one side, like a lion trying to decide whether an antelope is worth the hassle.