Love Is Red (15 page)

I sit on this comfortable black couch. I sit in this pleasant neutral office with its pale yellow walls and the box of tissues on the small table. I look at the woman who sits opposite me. I wonder how we will begin. Who makes the first move? We're like two gunslingers having a showdown.

Q: You seem anxious. Would like you to talk to me about that?

Where should I begin? What makes the most sense? There are some things that are more tangible. The messages, the drawings, the pennies. No, not the pennies. Maybe I'll start with the little things, the things I see out of the corner of my eyes. Like a woman sitting in a chair, and I'll turn around and there's no one. Movement just sliding on the side of my vision.

Last week I made an appointment with an eye doctor.
Spots?
he asked me.
Floating dots, shimmering?

Not dots but reflections.

A: “I'm seeing reflections of things that aren't there, reflections of people who aren't there.”

These are not reflected in the mirror but on the flat and neutral surface of the turned-off television screen or my cell phone. I turn these devices on more often these days, their pictures better than the ones in my mind.

It's early July. I'm here, sitting in this brown leather chair, unwilling to be comforted.

Q: Can you tell me what you think you saw?

A: “I thought I saw—”

Like the other day on the TV set I thought I saw . . .

“—a woman lying on a bed with her neck broken. Like in the drawing Lucas made.”

Lucas saying, “I drawed her a shirt, pink ‘cause she's a girl.”

There on my television screen's blank face was a woman sprawled on the bed, naked. A jagged triangle etched into her chest, red pooling out.

I looked again and there was nothing.

Q: Who is Lucas?

A: “He's my roommate's four-year-old son.”

Andrea is distraught. She was horrified when I showed her the first drawing. Now there are more. Women lying in twisted positions, blood scribbled red, mouths screaming black holes. The voice, an awkward bubble coming from the closet or from under the bed. She called the school, spoke to the teachers.
No, he hasn't
been drawing pictures like that or saying anything out of the norm
, but they would keep an eye out.
Hard with the news of course, children have a way of picking things up, ferreting things out.
She thinks maybe he found out too much.

I overheard her talking to Lucas, wanting to know.
How could you have heard about something like this? Have you seen any ladies? What did you mean, “the pretend man”?
She kept her voice low, steady, but there had been tears. He had picked up on her anxiety.

Over and over I heard him,
No, Momma, no.
He promises, promises, promises,
cross my heart
, he'll tell her if he hears anything from the other kids.

Did he see anything on TV? Hear something on the radio? She won't be angry, but
No, Momma, no.

Last night we sat up, drinking the last of the white wine that the guys had brought. Andrea had needed a drink. I wasn't so far behind. With our feet up on the couch, life seemed more manageable.

They wanted him to see the school counselor
, she had said.

Would that be so bad? It's nothing to be ashamed of.

It's not that.
She sighed and rubbed her neck.
It's just the counselor is a really creepy guy.

He's a man?

Yes, you sexist.
She smiled.

Ugh. Seems weird.

I don't care that he's a man but he's got this thinning hair and a soft saggy belly and a wet mouth and he always gets too close when he talks to me at parent-teacher conferences. A real space invader. I'm pretty sure he was trying to look down my top.

As I said, ugh.

The point is that I wouldn't want him looking after my dog, let alone my son.

You don't have a dog.

Well, if I had one.

Point taken.

Anyway, school's almost over. If he can just hang in till next week I can try to look for someone decent, though God knows how I'm going to afford it. I don't think my health care plan covers scared little children.
She sighed again.
I don't know, maybe it's those damn posters. They're everywhere. Kids are asking questions.

It's true. I just saw a new one.

What do you think? Think he can hold on, or am I being a shitty parent?

She looked exhausted and stressed out and miserable.

Then I said,
You're a pretty shitty parent, so why not hang on?

She grinned, poured me the final splash.

“And then there're the pennies.”

I still haven't told Andrea about Lucas and the pennies.

Q: The pennies?

A: “He's been putting these pennies in my room, pressed up against the wall, in a line.”

These days I avoid looking in the corner. It's ridiculous. I'll tell Andrea; I'll get it dealt with. I go to look at them, forcing myself. There are more of them. Pressed up against the wall. I bend down to look. I crouch down to look. When does he do it?
Why?

“But I'm not picking up these pennies because I need to show Andrea what he's doing and besides they're . . .”

They're art.

“But the thing is—the other day I decided ‘I'm just going to check, to see what dates they have on them.'”

If I get down close enough I'll see it. The first penny will have the tiny date engraved upon it. And all of them will have it.

All one to three, four, five, six, seven, oh dear God, all nine of them will have the same date.

Q: Was there a date you were looking for?

A: “1981, the year I was born.”

It's hard to look without touching them. My heart is pounding in my ears. This is stupid. I know what I'm going to see. 1981.

1981, 1981, 1981, 1981, 1981, 1981, 1981, 1981, 1981 . . .

I peer but the date is blurred. Am I crying? I think I'm going to pass out. Then I realize what it is. It's sweat. Sweat has rolled from my forehead into my eyes. I rub at my stinging eyes. I peer closer. The date on the first penny is . . .

1979.

1992, 1983, 1986, 1988, 1978, 1989, 1987, and—

There's a sound; it is me, gulping in the air. I'm breathing. Then I start giggling and then I am laughing. I am laughing like the idiot I am. Like the fucking moronic idiot that I am. Laughing like someone who was really frightened and who is now relieved, and what is there to be frightened about? Why am I so relieved when it's only Lucas? Of course it is Lucas. It's been Lucas the whole time.

Q: And was it there?

“I check all the dates and right up to the end there's not one 1981 penny. Random, random dates. Most of them are mid- to late 1980s, some early 1990s.”

The last date is 1996.

Oh Jesus, how could I have even thought . . .

“It doesn't matter and now I know I can clear them away.”

Q: And have you cleared them away?

A: “No . . . but that's because now it seems more sweet than anything else.”

It's a sweet gesture. His way of saying (
helo
) hi.

“Really, it's cute.”

Q: Tell me more about Lucas.

A: It happened when I picked Lucas up from school because it was a half day and Andrea had to be in court.

His teacher, an older, plump woman named Mrs. Ryder, had handed me a note asking if Andrea could contact her as soon as possible. She had also given me a sharp look, one I didn't understand.

I think about how, when we got home, he sat on the couch with his rabbit's foot, now a constant attachment, under his nose, watching a kid's show, a friendly show with baby animals bouncing about the screen. He seemed dangerously close to tears. I risked a conversation.

So, kiddo. How's it going?

S'okay.

What happened?

Mrs. Ryder wants to talk with Momma

Do you know what she wants to talk about?

The ladies.

My stomach tightened.
What about them?

I drawed them for you like they told me to and Mrs. Ryder saw them and now she want to talk with Momma.

No wonder Mrs. Ryder was giving me the stink eye. I just assumed she was an evil old bitch. She probably assumes I'm corrupting him.
Do you know why the ladies want you to draw those pictures for me?

They trying to tell you . . .

Tell me what, honey?
Oh God, I didn't want to know.

They say it's a secret.

Well, you know you can tell me anything at any time. Right?

Mmm-hmm.
Dark eyes on the screen, making the rabbit's foot stroke his nose, up and down and up.

Lucas?

Mmm . . .

I didn't want to scare him, but it had to stop.

Are the ladies making you put pennies in my room?

What pennies?

Remember I once asked you about some pennies in my room?

You s'posed to knock
, he said, just like the last time.

You're right, that's the rule.

Back and forth, tickling his nose with that rabbit's foot.

Okay, well, I'll be in my room.

Kat?

I turned when I heard him call. He held out his rabbit's foot.

You want me to hold it? Really?

Hold it.

I knew what an honor this was. No one is allowed to touch the sacred rabbit's foot. From the first moment it's been
strictly Lucas's private property. Andrea had told me the story.

We were waiting in the checkout line at the Associated when he saw some little kids getting some gum from the gumball machines near the exit. Who knows what first made him look over there but it was torture for him, like a fat man on a treadmill watching people eat ice cream. His lower lip was trembling but he knows I don't let him chew gum, especially not that kind of huge hard bubble gum. It's like a choking accident waiting to happen. So I shook my head and he got that hangdog look—you know the one? I felt terrible all the same, really guilty. He'd been so quiet lately and I really wanted to cheer him up. I'd bought him a little bar of chocolate that I planned to give him later, after dinner, but I still felt kind of mean.

We finally got everything belted and bagged and I paid, but as we were walking out one of those clear plastic balls literally fell out of the slot of the last gumball machine. It couldn't have been more perfectly timed. We both froze. It was epically creepy, like a movie. So we stood and watched and it rolled by Lucas's feet and he picked it up. I thought,
Well, at least it's not a gumball,
because then we'd have a scene on our hands. He looked up at me with that sad little face again.
Fine, clearly the universe wants my son to get a prize.
So I said, “Want me to open that for you? See if we can keep it?” Trying to keep my options open. Ha. He said, “Yes, please, Momma.” So I opened it, it took some squeezing and I almost broke a nail, and suddenly it went
pop
! There was this big bright green fake-ass rabbit's foot on a gold key chain. I've never seen a prize like that. It was the ugliest, most synthetic thing I have ever seen in my life. I wanted to throw it away immediately but he gazed at me with his hand held out. I took a deep breath and I said, “If I ever see you putting it into your mouth I'm taking it away, understand? This is not for eating. Do you understand me?” And he nodded. “Yes. I understand.” So I handed it over and he immediately brightened up. And I ended up eating the chocolate. That was that. Which goes to show that I should have just let him chew some damn gum, because now my kid has this weird lucky rabbit's foot key chain up under his nose like a cokehead. It's what they call a “teachable moment.” Shit.

She jokes about it, but I know how much Andrea resents that rabbit's foot. She resents it because it comforts Lucas when she can't; it seems to offer him some sort of safety. It seems to gloat at her, to say a mother's love isn't always going to be enough, to be the first thing that Lucas loves and she does not. The first diversion of their paths, and as small as it may be, it's still a divergence, a difference, a cleaving.

I hate the way he's started holding on to it during the day and now with the thumb, like a security blanket.
She sighed.
I guess I can't really blame him. It's like his talisman. I could do with one myself.

Now I tell the therapist what happened when I put out my hand and Lucas placed the fuzzy charm into my palm. How I closed my fingers over it, soft and slippery and cool, its fur feeling almost wet.

“I swear I felt a tingling, a light and tremulous buzz. Just for a moment I thought I saw . . . something.”

Q: Can you describe what you saw?

Hold it. It's lucky.

A: “For a moment I thought I saw someone standing in the corner.”

I drawed her a shirt, pink 'cause she's a girl.

I dropped the rabbit's foot and the tingling stopped.

You see too.
It wasn't a question.

I . . .
I began and then I paused. I looked down into his face, his round eyes looking back at me solemnly, trusting.
Maybe . . .

He seemed content with that one useless word and went back to his program again.

“Of course, I didn't see anything. I didn't see anything, but—”

Q: But what?

A: “Small, stupid things have me uneasy—”

Q: What things?

A: “I'm getting calls. Wrong numbers, all the time now. Mostly there are no messages, just ring-and-hang-ups from numbers I don't recognize, or just silence on the other end of the phone.”