Story Girl (22 page)

I
F MY SKIN
could speak, it would beg me to set it ablaze.

Worried voices were shouting at me on the other side of the door. I had to clamp my teeth over a thick bathroom towel to keep from fainting. My swollen eyes were shrinking my vision; my tongue was expanding at the back of my throat. I bit down as hard as I could and watched my eyes and veins popping in the faucet reflection. If I didn’t clamp, I would scratch – and if I scratched, I just might have to slit my wrists with one of my father’s razors.

“Tracy, are you alright?”

It was my mother’s voice.

Nails on a chalkboard
.

“Tracy?”

The same voice again. The voice of the woman whose face I’d inherited. Maybe these were her fucking hives; she was the ventriloquist and I was the dummy. I’d just bet that was the karmic deal – her mountain range of angst was somehow fighting through my epidermis.

I heard my grandmother recounting our day in pained detail, promising ever so absurdly that we hadn’t done any acid, grass, or ‘shrooms.

My mother tapped on the door with what sounded like a wooden spoon, wanting to know if we’d injected anything illegal.

“I’m fine, Mother! Just some hives. Might be allergic to baby ducks. Can’t talk now.”

It killed me to yell after exerting so much pressure on my jaw. It felt like it might break, but I knew the pain was less than if I started scratching.

“Let me in,” my mother said.

I had to ignore her now, and focus on the repetition of my desperate mantra:

Scratch and die, scratch and die, scratch and maggots will consume you whole. Don’t you dare scratch!

And while you’re at it, Tracy, don’t think about your grandmother’s awful secret, the new shed, your utter failure as a writer – and for God’s sake, don’t you dare think about James and the petite little thing he’s surely screwing by now.

From a galaxy far
far
away, I could hear my father vowing to bust down the door.

Fine, Buster – bust it down!
And for the rest of your life, you’ll have to deal with the image of your naked adult daughter, covered in starch and sickening blisters.

I was breathing through my nose, alternating nostrils, 1-2-3 in and 1-2-3 out; my hands were balled into tight fists, and my toes were ballerina points.

The voices outside were loud and clear, threatening to use force and pick locks. I didn’t care about any of it. A swat team could barge in and stare at my flabby stomach and sloppy breasts that had now fallen off the sides of my chest into the frigid bath water.

I wondered if each hive somehow represented one of my characters that would never have a voice on the screen – the scared mother who overdoses on valium, the pilot who flies blind, the doctor who moonlights as a thief. In my head, they were all fifty stories high and begging to be born – somehow – through me.

And then the screen went black. The itching had stopped.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. All I really knew was that the itching had stopped. I’d been sleeping in my mother’s big bed, wearing her silk pajamas. My skin smelled like oatmeal and there was a cup of cold tea and a bowl of red grapes on the bedside table. Candles in glass jars lit the room in a very gentle amber glow. No one was here to nag me with questions about what the hell my freaky problem was. I was gloriously alone.

But someone had taken exceptional care of me. I opened the bedside drawer where she stored her alarm clock; glowing red numbers informed me that it was 5.07 am. I studied the inner sides of my arms, gentle and smooth. There were no battle scars on my skin indicating what I’d suffered through so many hours earlier. Only the pulsing ache in my jaw proved that my ordeal hadn’t just been a nightmare.

I had no clue how I made it from the tub to the bed. The last thing I remembered were faces coming at me. I wondered if my father had burst through the door or if it was still secure on its hinges. I considered getting up and checking it out, but damn, if I wasn’t the most comfortable I’d ever been in this house. I rolled over and sank back into the cool heavy warmth, hoping that no one – real or imagined – would ever disturb me again.

When I finally made my way downstairs and into the kitchen, it was early afternoon and the three of them were seated patiently around the table. The euphoria I’d felt at being alone instantly died. I poured myself some coffee, and devoured the lemon cupcake that had been offered at my place setting.

“You look much better, sweetheart,” my mother said.

“I feel better.”

“Should we go to the doctor?”

“No. I just need to rest.”

“What was all that about?” my father asked. “You looked like you were in so much pain.”

I ignored his question, hoping to God he hadn’t seen my naked gut flaps.

“You looked so incredibly bad, Tracy.”

“Thanks, Mom. Who got me out of the tub?” I asked.

“You don’t remember?” my father asked.

I shook my head.

“Your mother eventually unlocked the door with a paper clip. She gave you some medication, bathed you, and put you to bed.”

I was rather embarrassed that she had witnessed me in such a state; I was also a little annoyed, considering that a viable argument could be made that the panic pimples were more or less her fault – and part of me wanted to say so. Instead, I just asked if there were any more cupcakes. My mother handed me a ruby red one with butter cream topping and baby jujubes.

Now that I was sick and dependent and no longer a threat, my parents were both comfortable spinning around in their caretaker orbit. My mother had firmly re-established a familiar dynamic with me, and there was relief in her expressions – relief that had come at my expense.

“Your mother went and bought you those from Chips and Sprinkles,” my father said. His tone was eager and needy, like he felt responsible for my affliction.

“Thanks.”

“Do you like them?” he asked.

“Are you putting up the shed, Dad?”

He leaned back from the table, and stared at me as though I’d just taken a chainsaw to his Cadillac.

“Not yet. Why don’t you try the banana swirl?”

“I thought you wanted to keep the old one.”

I was well aware that I was risking the pampering I’d earned with the hives, but there was no way I could stop myself.

“The new one is better,” my mother said. “It’s
new
.”

I never took my eyes off of my father, “But Dad says that the new one will ruin his garden.”

“Let’s not be paranoid,” she said.

My father started to fiddle with his pager that hadn’t beeped, and had probably never once beeped in all the time he had owned it.

“Did you get a page?” I asked him.

“No, but I think this thing’s busted.”

“Are you
trying
to break it?” I asked.

He sighed and put the pager down.

I knew I was pushing him, but I wanted to bust the dam and let the floodwaters burst and flow and maybe even heal the thing that had turned me into a big ugly allergy ball. And if he was going to continue to be such a wimp, I would show him no mercy.

“Why don’t we start working on it then. I’m feeling a little better so maybe I could start counting screws and keeping track of them. We wouldn’t want any screws on the loose, now would we? Didn’t that very thing happen with Mom’s big bookcase?”

“Okay fine, Tracy. Thanks for the offer. Maybe you should go lie down upstairs. You’ve suffered quite a medical fright. Let me know if I can take you to the emergency room.”

“The emergency has passed, let me start on the shed.”

“You must rest. We’ll bring you an early dinner – whatever you want. Just go and rest. Please!”

My father’s urgent tone was immensely funny.

“I can’t rest until the new shed is up. Then everybody can go back to their normal lives.”

“We’re not going anywhere near that
thing
,” he seethed. “So I suggest you get to bed.”

I felt six years old again, being scolded after taking my pocketknife to Jenny’s giant doll head – the one she practiced make-up on.

“Go rest, sweetheart,” my mother said. “And I’ll bring you whatever you need.”

Even though she sounded sweet, I knew she was on to me – aware that in challenging my father to stick up for himself, I was threatening the whole power structure, including her reign as the undisputed queen of 1221 Petrie Lane. But if she was bothered by any of it, she wasn’t letting on.

“And take my room again, sweetie. Much better mattress.”

That was a point I wouldn’t argue with her.

chapter
32

T
HOUGHTS OF THE
shed were scattering my wits.

I tried to burrow back into my mother’s bed, but I was stiff with aggravation. My father was actually going to decimate his own needs once again.

I called our home line and my mother answered. She asked me if I needed anything. I told her I needed a well-toasted feta cheese sandwich and extra crunchy pickles on the side – nothing soggy was to touch my plate.

Twenty minutes later she entered my room with a full tray of my demands, along with tea and another cupcake. She sat on the edge of her bed while I quickly chomped away at my snack.

“Are you okay, Tracy?”

I nodded and crunched.

“I was very worried about you last night.”

“Where did you sleep?” I asked her.

“On the couch in the living room.”

“You took the plastic off?”

She scowled at me, “That plastic’s been off for ages.”

I sipped my tea, “Not even with Dad when you’re out of a bed, huh?”

My mother looked away from me, and stared at the wall.

As I peeled away the wrapper of the cupcake, I figured I’d indeed begun the perilous descent into eating through my woe. It would be just typical if I was destined to follow in Aunt Mertyl’s house slippers. Still, the unexpected sour cream center nearly had me in a full-blown swoon. Who needs love or sex or fulfillment of any kind when chocolate cupcakes explode sour cream in your mouth?

“I used to get hives exactly like that,” she said. “Same exactly.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I was quite a bit younger then, of course. But they finally went away, after I had settled in with your father.”

“I can’t believe they haven’t returned.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

I could only shake my head.

“The doctor said it was onions, salt, heat, and sweat – or any combination of those.”

“What exactly did you settle into with Dad?”

“A family, a home, a life – exactly what you’ll have someday.”

She started re-folding the square doilies that were already perfectly folded on the rectangular table at the end of her bed. I knew by the abruptness of her hands that her defenses were operating at full force. I didn’t care.

“My hives are caused from
stress
– not from onions, sweat, or an invading army of ear-wigs. They come from not having a clue where I belong or what I should be doing in the world. I don’t want a husband and I don’t want kids and I’m not gay and I don’t want to be alone when I’m old. There – got it? Nothing fits. So I guess they just don’t have anything in my size.”

My mother looked shocked and ridiculous at the same time, with her handful of faultless doilies.

“Nor do I want to fold doilies or ever even
care
about doilies. And I’m tired of you trying to tell me what I should want or how I should feel because, quite frankly, you and Dad don’t seem all that thrilled with what you have.”

I could see the tears in her eyes and knew I had landed in the vicinity of somewhere important.

“What has Mary put in your head?”

“This has nothing to do with her and you know it.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“Is that really true? Or do you want me to be happy only if it gives you a sense of validation and reinforces your
own
choices? What if my happiness looks like nothing you’ve ever seen before? What if I want to go to Botswana and swing in a hammock or spend a year in Hawaii learning how to barbecue coconut?”

“Tracy?”

“What if I’m content to live in the moment and not have a clue about anything at all and not be trapped in any commitment where every day is identical to every other day, and any sense of freedom or creativity has to be banished away for the rest of my life on Earth. Aside from, of course, folding doilies, painting walls, or putting up a different fucking shed when it’s completely unnecessary.”

My mother sucked in her breath and I knew that I had hurt her, but I had never felt more liberated – like a wounded critter dragging itself out of some dank hole into the curative radiance of sunlight.

“You said you wanted to be a writer, but so far I haven’t read anything. Not one thing for us to read since you were in school here.”

“Please don’t go there right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I have to pitch half a script to some hotshot jerk who’s going to decide that it sucks bricks, and then I’m going to be blackballed from a town that doesn’t even know I exist.”