Good Grief (20 page)

22

The old wooden door of what used to be the Fudge Shoppe on East Main is swollen shut, and Kit has to heave his weight into it. Finally it gives and he tumbles into the store, the bell on the door clanging cheerfully.

“Here we are.” His voice echoes into the empty shop. There are two rooms: a sales area up front and a kitchen in the back, beyond a row of glass bakery cases.

This is the first of a number of commercial rental spaces Kit wants to show me, but I don’t think I need to see the others. A few blocks from the theaters, this location is perfect. I picture tourists from San Francisco and Portland pouring down the street in the summer, the smell of baking pies luring them in.

The store has been closed for almost two months, since the Fudge Shoppe owners retired, and the air inside is warm and stale. A fly buzzes lazily against the glass in one of the dingy bakery cases. I notice that the racks are rusted. Still, I imagine the shelves sparkling and filled with cheesecakes.

I’d like to get Drew’s opinion of the shop, but that might make me seem needy. Hot waves of date memory wash over me: port and flannel and skin against skin, slick with perspiration. The mattress moaning under our weight, the comforter tumbling off the bed.

“What do you think?” Kit asks.

Blushing, I shudder and turn to survey the shop. A long oak counter with bun feet runs perpendicular to the glass cases. The rest of the room is empty except for a wooden bench scabby with peeling paint. I picture a table by each window, where people can look out onto the street. “Perfect,” I tell Kit.

“It’s a bit grungy,” he admits. “But nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix.”

I follow him into the kitchen, where a row of black ovens towers to the ceiling. I plan to use money from the sale of my house and stock from Ethan’s company to start the bakery. I’ll also need a bank loan.

“You may need some fireproofing work,” Kit says, peering into one of the ovens. “But I’m sure it’s nothing major. And look at this ceiling!” As we tip back our heads to admire the embossed tin ceiling overhead, I’m dizzy from my late night.

Maybe Kit’s unflinching optimism is what lured me into getting a crush on him before. He made starting over seem easy, even fun. But thankfully I’m not fantasizing about going to the Ramada Inn with my realtor now that I have a . . . lover? Pending significant other? Drew needs a job title.

“I’ll bet there’s a great wood floor underneath here,” Kit says, tapping his foot on the old black linoleum, which is flecked with gold sparkles.

We sit at a rickety table in the kitchen and go over the lease. It’s for two years, with a five-year renewal and an option to sublet, which Kit says is optimal. That way, if things go well, I won’t have to move anytime soon. “Then you’ve locked in five more years at a good rate,” he explains.

The words
locked in
send a pain through my head. “Five years?”

“With the option to sublet, you have a backup plan in case you change your mind.”

“Or the place flops!” I picture tourists sucking in their stomachs and hustling past the bakery toward the chain coffee shop down the street for a nonfat latte. Who needs all those sweets before a long play? Who wants to add to the calorie count after that heavy French onion soup and buttery escargots at Le Petit Bistro?

Kit smiles and squeezes my hand. “Sophie, you worry too much.”

“Let’s see what the bank thinks,” I tell him.

Ruth helps me put the finishing touches on my business plan, which I take to the bank in town to apply for a loan. The loan officer, a thin woman with a pinched nose, is as brisk and humorless as a school nurse. The more she frowns at my loan application, the more I jabber on nervously about the savory cheesecakes. (“They
sound
strange, but really they make a wonderful hors d’oeuvre or first course.”) Finally she says, “Everything looks satisfactory, Ms. Stanton. We’ll be in touch. Good day.” I sit in the chair beside her desk for a moment, trying to think of a compelling detail to add.

“Toppings will be sold separately for the sweet cheesecakes,” I explain. “Cranberry at Thanksgiving.”

She smiles stiffly. “I guess that’s good. I’m diabetic.”

After the bank, I stay up several nights poring over cookbooks and choosing recipes.

One or two nights a week I sleep at Drew’s house, and a couple of nights a week he stays at my place. He leaves his deodorant, razor, and toothbrush in my bathroom. Meanwhile, I carry a toothbrush in my purse, not quite ready for bathroom cohabitation. Still, I’m grateful when Drew dotes over me with the concern a spouse would harbor. He doesn’t think I should walk home alone from work every night.

“Can cars see you?” he asks. “In the dark?”

“I’m on the sidewalk.”

“Well, there aren’t very many streetlights. You should have air bags.”

“I’m walking!”

“I know.” He giggles. “Personal air bags. In your coat.”

One morning a social worker from Big Brothers/ Big Sisters calls. At first the graveness in her voice makes me worry that I’ve done something wrong. Did she find out about the time I let Crystal drive my car? It was in an empty parking lot. We wore our seat belts and only circled around a few times. Crystal was very good at shifting gears.

But the social worker’s calling to tell me that Crystal’s been expelled from school for blowing up M-80s in the girls’ room. She explains that the whole student body had to evacuate and gather on the front lawn for over an hour. The band missed its recital. I clench my teeth angrily as I listen, sickened by Crystal’s selfishness. The woman says that Crystal got the M-80s from her friend Melvin; she coerced him into stealing them from his older brother. Melvin has been suspended for two weeks, and his parents won’t allow Crystal to see him anymore.

No more sleepovers with Pop-Tarts and Pringles,
I think. Well, it’s Crystal’s own
fault.
Trying to blow up the school! Everything had been going so well for her lately. She was passing pre-algebra, and her science project on mica was chosen to be exhibited in the state science fair. I just took her to get a cute haircut. But it’s as though Crystal doesn’t want to allow herself to do better, as though she doesn’t know
how
to be anything other than in trouble.

“Crystal hates gym class,” I explain to the social worker. “The other girls are very mean to her.” I know this is a weak defense, but I’m not sure anyone realizes how hard school is for her.

Crystal said that one day Amber asked if the two bony knobs on top of Crystal’s shoulders were Crystal’s breasts. “No, but they’re larger than your brain,” Crystal reputedly told Amber. I felt proud of her for at least having a comeback. But now I’d like to shake Crystal and yell at her.

“Since she’s been expelled, she may want to spend all of her time with you,” the social worker warns. “So be firm about your boundaries and don’t feel bad about limiting her visits to once a week.”

“Okay.”

“Just remember, you’re not her only resource. You’re making a positive impact just by spending time with her. It’s not your job to save her.”

“I
like
spending time with her.” That is, when she’s not trying to burn down my house. Or steal lipstick at the drugstore. Or hang from the windmill at the mini-golf course until the motor whines and the manager yells at us.

“Crystal really seems to connect with you. I think it’s because you’re empathetic. Often, family and friends are disdainful of cutters. That just lowers the child’s self-esteem, and the cutting gets worse.”

I tell the social worker that I’ve seen my share of gore, that my husband died of cancer.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” I want to tell her that I think I’m feeling better now. Finally. And I’ve actually met someone else.
Slept
with someone else. Is this okay? But we’re not talking about me.

I can’t imagine what Crystal’s going to do home alone all day in her pink house other than chain-smoke, burn things, and start cutting her arms again.

“What if I put Crystal to work?” I ask the social worker.

“Doing what?”

“I’m starting a business, a bakery.” This is the first person I’ve told about the bakery other than Dad, Ruth, Drew, Kit, and the loan officer. I feel a rush of excitement as I describe this new stage in my life. My loan hasn’t gone through yet, and I haven’t signed the lease or received a business license from City Hall. But I’ve got what seems like the most difficult component: the confidence that I can do this. Maybe I’m crazy. But I’d rather be crazy with optimism than crazy with pessimism—crazy in my pajamas and unable to leave the house.

“That sounds good,” the social worker says tentatively. “A job can help build a child’s self-esteem.”

As I head up the front walk to Crystal’s house the next morning after class, I try to prepare a tough-love speech in my head. All that comes to mind is:
What were you thinking?
The metal storm door bangs open and shut in the wind, and the wind chimes clatter an eerie dissonant tune. Several stubbed-out cigarette butts line the porch steps. I’m surprised to find that the door is unlocked. I push it open and enter the hallway, which is dark and cold. Something crunches under my feet. I look down to see a broken Coke bottle, shards of glass strewn across the wood floor.

“Crystal?” Nothing. Sleeping in, probably. Hopefully. Like a normal teenager.

I crouch to sweep up the glass, using mail from the table by the door as broom and dustpan.

Maybe I should have agreed to let Crystal sleep over last night when she called and pleaded. It was around midnight, when Drew and I were just settling into bed. She said that her mother and a new boyfriend had gone up to Crater Lake and she didn’t want to spend the night by herself. I paused, considering, worrying about Crystal being alone, then remembered what the counselor at Big Sisters had warned against. I told Crystal no to a sleepover but promised we’d get together today.

“How come?” Crystal had asked, sucking noisily on a cigarette. “Is actor boy there?” Drew’s bare leg was hot and bristly against mine. I shuddered at the thought of him and Crystal sleeping over on the same night. But what difference would it have made, really?

This is the first time I’ve been all the way inside Crystal’s house. Aside from the broken glass, it’s remarkably tidy. Crystal’s mother’s favorite colors are obviously red and pink. The pink curtains are splashed with red hibiscus flowers, and the couch is lined with matching red chenille pillows. Two logs are stacked neatly in the fireplace, and the mantel is crowded with photos of her mother posing with various friends and boyfriends. There’s only one picture of Crystal—a school portrait in which she’s wearing a little too much blue eye shadow and smiling a little too fiercely at the camera, as if to say
Look at me, I don’t hate junior high.

The kitchen has a sharp acrid smell, like burned hair and rotten eggs.

“Crystal?” I call out, panicking.
“Crystal?”

Nothing. There’s a pot of congealed bright orange macaroni and cheese on the stove. I run water into the pan, then open the window over the sink to let in some air.

I head down the hall, looking for her room. “Crystal?”

Last night I told her I’d take her out to lunch today for veggie burgers. “Whatever,” she said listlessly. I could tell something wasn’t right. Still, I hung up and went back to Drew.

Now, I find a closed bedroom door and push it open.

The room is dark and the air smells of cigarettes. Crystal lies curled on her side in bed, facing the wall. She’s so light that she hardly makes an indent in the mattress—a narrow boomerang lump that takes up only a tiny slice of space. A blue-and-yellow-checked down comforter is pulled all the way over her head. Just a few spikes of her blond hair stick out across her pillow.

“Crystal?”

“Unh,” she says, not moving.

“Time to get up. Just because you’re not going to school doesn’t mean you can sleep all day.”

“Un-unh,” she groans, tugging the quilt higher.

I open one curtain, letting in a stream of sharp light. Sitting on the edge of her bed, I think of how this is like my dad trying to get me out of bed back in San Jose.

“Come on. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

Crystal rolls over on her back, the quilt falling away from her face. She stares at the ceiling, her cheeks flushed and creased from the covers, her eyes glassy, as though she has a fever. Her lips are swollen and chapped, with bits of peeling white skin.

“Honey, are you sick?” I splay the back of my hand across her forehead, which is sticky and warm.

“Un-unh.” She slowly turns her head toward the wall and blinks, trying to focus.

I slide one of her arms out from under the covers and run my fingers lightly up and down her skin. I used to beg my mother to tickle my arms like this before bed. Crystal’s scars are fading. They could just be lingering poison ivy now. Maybe a mild case of eczema.

“Your arms look better,” I tell her. “I’ll take you shopping today. Get you some new short-sleeved tops.” I feel myself being too cheerful, overcompensating for the guilt from a lusty night with Drew.

Crystal doesn’t say anything. She licks her lips and closes her eyes.

“Come on. Get up and take a shower and I’ll make your bed.” I slide my arm under her shoulders, trying to lift her. She curls toward me. I shove two pillows behind her to help hold her up.

Then I peel back the covers and see what’s wrong.

At first I think there’s something stuck on her leg: a purplish black leathery circle the size of a plate draped over her thigh. But then I realize it’s her
skin,
which has been burned all the way through to a white, sinewy layer of flesh underneath. The top layer of skin hangs in white wrinkly blisters that weep yellow, staining the sheet.

Watery saliva rises in my throat. I’m afraid I’m going to vomit. I look away, at the floor.

“Crystal,” I say slowly, “what happened?”

She stares at her leg vaguely, as if she knows it from somewhere.

“I burned myself,” she finally says through shallow breaths.