Begin at the beginning. Right.
She used to be good at telling stories. Used to tell some whoppers. Sometimes, her Momma'd get upset, the tales she told were so exaggerated, so distorted.
When she first got to the school she had to fight the urge to tell her story. After a while though, they asked so often, with such curiosity, she gave in.
Eight months, she would begin, eyes wide, trying - easily succeeding - to look the part of a scared, young girl. Their eyes were wide, too. They were wide with excitement and wonderment, and awe. They were in awe of her.
She told them a lot of things. She told them about the bus ride out of Mississippi. About running out of money somewhere in Illinois. She told them she had to hitch. She told them a lot of things.
She never told them the truth. She never told them why she left, or how she got to Canada. She never told them what she did in the months between May and January. What she had to do to survive.
Her father was on the phone. "Yes, I... I know Sue. I'm sorry. We didn't... There was no way for us... This has been terrible for us as well, but I understand what you mean. Yes... No. I'll make sure. Don't worry... Just tell Richard we're all very sorry. We're praying for David."
David...
It was the day after. She was in bed, covered from head to toe. Waiting. She was waiting for the constant murmur in her head to stop, for the day to be over, to wake up from her nightmare. She wasn't a mutant. She wasn't.
"Marie." Mom. Momma.
The blanket was pulled down so that she could see her mother standing by the doorway. Good, maybe she'd be safe there.
"Marie...I... Your father and I have been talking, darling. We think maybe you should see a doctor. Someone, I don't know, that could tell us what's wrong." There was the slightest hint of hysteria in her mother's voice that made her want to flinch.
She wasn't a mutant. She wasn't.
...and Marie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
"Shut up!" She screamed aloud and her mother ran from the room.
It wasn't until later, much later, that she decided to scrub herself clean.
She walked into the shower at midnight, a safer hour she thought, and ran the hot water. It burned. She took the loofah to her skin until it was raw, until she thought it would bleed.
First comes love...
When she was finished, she looked at her reflection. She looked like she had the summer her family had vacationed by the river, when she'd forgotten the sunscreen: her flesh red and taut.
She pulled on two pairs of pajamas, socks, and dug through her box of winter clothes for a scarf. It was eighty-five degrees out.
She covered herself again, buried deep under her blankets. Sleep eluded her. A tiny trickle of sweat moved down her back.
...then comes marriage...
David wouldn't shut up. He liked to sing the song he knew when he was seven, roaming the playground during recess, provoked by the slightest insinuation that a boy and a girl might like each other. She thought it was funny, now, that he would grow up to be the first boy she ever kissed.
The last, Marie. Or have you forgotten?
When she awoke, she thought she must have had a nightmare, but she couldn't remember it. Her flesh was cold and clammy, even under all the layers of fabric and her heart was racing. It was still dark out but she could see the faint glimmer of light that spoke of the impending dawn.
The doctor didn't want to treat her, said the case was too dangerous. She should be seen somewhere else, he concluded. Where, her father asked impatiently. (Rarely did her father lose his calm.) The doctor seemed nonplussed. Center for Disease Control? Did they think she was a mutant? Her mother shook her head for what seemed an eternity. It looked like she'd lost all muscle control in her neck and her head was left to wave back and forth, propelled by nothing but the ether. It was almost comical. They continued arguing for a while. She heard them in the background, talking about 'her' and 'she' and 'the patient'. Mutant, she added to the list. No.
No, she wasn't a mutant. She wasn't.
Mutie.
She took to wearing an old coat that had been buried in a trunk in the attic. It was green and reached her knees and it had a hood that covered her head. The day of her doctor's visit, a pair of cotton gloves had magically appeared on her dresser. While sitting in the backseat of the station wagon she could feel the eyes of drivers and other passengers and pedestrians drifting in her direction: (Funny to see a girl wearing such a heavy coat on such a hot day. And she's pulled on the hood.) She could see them as they frowned and made assumptions. Maybe, it was a new thing with the kids. (Kids are always doing something strange, aren't they?) Maybe she's a little crazy. (Her poor parents). Maybe, she's a mutie. (I would die if my child ended up being one of those.)
They were talking about her in the car, her parents were, as if she wasn't there. "What are we going to do about this?" her father asked, eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Her mother, slack-jawed, staring out of the passenger window, didn't respond. Instead, she seemed to be talking to herself: "Was it something I did? Is God punishing me for something? I don't know. I just don't know..."
A broken nail had snagged itself on a thread in her glove. She could feel it, pushing against the fabric, tearing it.
Her house was silent after that. Her father sat in his chair, glancing now and again at the newspaper in his lap. The kitchen produced the only sounds: the sizzle of chicken being fried, the sound of a knife tapping against a cutting board. Once, her mother had liked to sing as she cooked.
Staring at the map on her wall provided the only comfort. Anchorage, Alaska. It looked so close, on the map. She could span the distance with her hand. How long to get there, she wondered. Weeks? She would need money, of course. And then there was the real problem: would she be able to leave?
You're never going anywhere, Marie.
She was still wearing the coat when she made her way into the living room, to where her father sat. Anxiety gripped her as she looked around the room.
The newspaper was clutched tightly in her father's fist so she thought it would tear. She sat on the piano bench and she ran a finger along the edge of the keys. "Daddy?"
When he didn't respond she looked up to see him staring at her from above his glasses. He was waiting for her to finish.
"I... Are you going to send me someplace?"
Instead of answering right away, her father carefully folded his newspaper and removed his glasses. His head hung low, so his chin was very nearly touching his chest. "I very honestly do not know, Marie." A hint of anger mixed with the sadness and she caught the unmistakable surge of self-pity within her.
The call to dinner came from the kitchen, but Marie excused herself. She really wasn't hungry at all.
She began packing that night. Inside her closet she found a large duffel and began filling it with things she thought would be useful: four pairs of jeans, five blouses - all long-sleeved, except that lovely one she'd bought but a few weeks before and, although she felt stupid packing it, she couldn't quite let go. She tossed in her underwear and her map. From beneath her bed she pulled out a dusty photo album. A photograph of her parents was carefully placed in a side pocket. She considered packing an extra pair of shoes but decided against it; her boots would have to suffice. The bag was half-filled when she put it back into the closet.
It was two more days before she finally decided to leave, because she'd caught her mother singing before she walked into the room. The way her voice trailed off, as if her music had been wrenched from her, made Marie turn right back around. The nearest place to hide was the bathroom and there she sat, on the lid of the toilet, until the yellow tile she stared at began coalescing before her eyes.
She left her house in the middle of the night, even though she had to wait until morning to withdraw her money from the bank. In the park - not far from the elementary school she'd attended with David - she sat by the duck pond and waited.
I used to chase after the ducks and you'd get mad 'cause I made them get back into the water.
Images of David chasing after a flock of frightened ducks made her laugh.
Duck, duck, GOOSE!
The thoughts were becoming more and more sporadic - more nonsensical - but the presence was still there, looming. David was still there.
Once, at about 3 am, she thought she caught sight of a police car patrolling, but it was only a cab.
By morning her parents would know she was gone. She hadn't left a note but the missing items were proof enough. The thought lingered in her mind as she approached the bank teller, carrying a withdrawal slip for $378 - her life's savings.
"Do you have your ATM?" The woman was in her thirties, heavy set, with dry bleach blonde hair. She looked mildly interested in Marie's duffel.
"No." In reality, she'd never had one. Her father had insisted that having one would only encourage her spending. "If you need to buy something," he'd said, "you can just go to the bank for your money." Of course, that had only kept her from depositing her earnings - gained from odd jobs - at all.
The woman - Emma, her tag read - pursed her lips and said, "Well, lemme see your ID then."
The driver's license was slipped under the opening of the bulletproof glass. Emma glanced at it, took the slip and murmured, "I'll be right back" like it was the last thing she wanted to do.
When Marie finally got out of the bank, she was carrying three hundreds and an assortment of smaller bills. She walked to the bus station and looked to see how much it would cost to go as far north as possible. It occurred to her then that she would not be able to take the bus through Canada. She didn't have a passport.
"Girl?"
The man at the counter was waiting. She was next.
"Uh, how much is a ticket to the Canadian border?"
The man rolled his eyes and looked like he was about ready to laugh in her face. " 'Canadian border'? We don't have no buses go there, girl. You got to be more specific. Gimme a city."
Marie glanced at the board again. "Helena?"
"That's $139."
"Oh."
Let's see here. I was never too good at math, Marie. Don't that only leave $239?
And the trip to Alaska would cost more, and she'd need money for food...
You can do without for a little while.
...and a place to stay. Where would she stay?
For a moment, maybe longer she considered turning around and going home. There was no way she could pull this off.
"Hey." She looked up, suddenly aware that a line was forming behind her. "You want the ticket?'
Right then Marie decided she would not leave the station unless she was on a bus heading north. She glanced at the board. "Chicago," she said.
"Chicago," the man repeated in his big booming voice. "$83."
Pulling the wad of cash out of her jean's pocket, she extricated a crisp, newly-printed hundred dollar bill.
Going, going, gone.
When she was eight she slipped while roller-skating and fell flat on her back. For a long time she just lay there, unable to move. The pain was so intense it froze her. She felt the pavement beneath her, a crack in the sidewalk digging into back. Her view was of a deep blue sky sprinkled with cotton clouds. Birds flew overhead, unaware, uncaring, of her plight. The sky, the clouds, the birds, became one to her unfocused eye. It was a long time before anyone knew what had happened, before her mother saw her and ran down the street, calling her name. What happened, baby, her mother had asked. Are you all right? She hadn't answered, the tears rushing down her face, tightening her throat, plugging her nose, making her gasp for air. Sitting up had been hard. Her mother pulled her up, cradled her head. Sitting up had been very hard. Standing up had been easier. Her roller-skates were taken from her feet, which became unbearably light so that when she walked she practically floated. Bit by bit, the pain faded and she was left with the inexplicable feeling of helplessness. Without her mother to pull her up, she may still be lying on the pavement.
Now, it was almost ten years later, and there was absolutely no one to pull her up.
"I know what you're talking about, Rita," the woman in front of her - all curly hair and loop earrings, shrieking voice - was saying. "The last thing I need is someone telling me what to do. Last time I was home, Mom just about killed me with her looks. You know those looks. God, if I have to feel that kind of guilt all of my life, I may as well spend it in a confessional. Sam told me it shouldn't matter, but it sure as hell does. And then, of course, I tell myself I won't go back, that I'll just ignore her. Sure. Sure, I will. Then, a week later she calls and, well, what can I do? She's my mother."
Rita was fairly quiet, making little noises of assent now and again. When it seemed her friend had finished talking she said, "She's a pain but whose mother isn't? She does it because she loves you, etc. You know the routine. So your mom doesn't like you living with Sam? Don't let it bother you. She's a thousand miles away, where she should be."
Marie tuned out the voices, found others, listened, and drifted in and out of sleep. For a long while she concentrated on Rita and her friend. They liked to talk about their mothers and their boyfriends and ex-boyfriends and their bosses and how lousy their apartments and/or cars were. They talked and talked because there really is nothing else to do on a bus. Unless you're alone. Those people had books and headphones on and slept a lot. People sleep a lot on buses, she noticed. After a few hours, she caught herself almost nodding off. She wrapped herself in her coat, pulled the hood up over her head, covering as much as possible, but it never quite seemed enough. And so every few seconds, she woke herself up, certain someone was about to touch her and that she would have more unwanted company, more guilt and shame to add to her mind, more reminders of what she was and wasn't.
Still here, Marie.
She had never traveled alone. There had been long car trips to Louisiana to visit relatives. She got car sick, she knew, and had bought Dramamine. Her mother had always remembered to buy it for her, knowing if she forgot just once, Marie would throw up in the backseat of the station wagon, and that was no way to take a trip. The hours were spent staring out the window, listening to the radio or her parents' chatter. When she was younger, she had dolls to play with. Recently, she had contented herself with music. Books were out of the question, considering the car sickness. The most exciting thing to happen on any of their outings was a flat tire.
She wished she could crank open a window on the bus. The heat was unbearable, underneath the layers of clothing, the unlucky break of a broken a/c. Her duffle was stuffed above the ledge opposite her, so she could keep an eye on it, aware that all her worldly possessions were in that bag. If she lost that, she would lose everything.
Except yourself. She'd already lost that.
The seat next to hers was empty until she reached ___. There a tiny woman, perhaps fifty maybe older, sat next to her. She was carrying a large tote bag, impossibly large for a woman her size, which she hefted onto her lap. She glanced at Marie and gave her a brief smile, perhaps noticing the girl's strange attire. If she thought anything else, it wasn't evident. It didn't matter. There was nowhere else to sit; the bus was full. After an hour or so, she began the small talk.
"Aren't you hot?" she asked, pulling an apple from her bag. "It sure is hot and you've got that big heavy coat on."
"No, I'm fine." What else could she say? 'I'm a mutant and I can harm people with a touch.' That would go over well.
The woman just shook her head and bit into her apple. Once she had swallowed, she looked at Marie and said, "I've got more. You want one?"
She did, actually. Hunger had not been a consideration that morning in Meridian, getting away had. Now she felt it, the gnawing feeling in her belly. "Thank you." She reached out and realized how ridiculous the gloves looked. The woman glanced down at them, but said nothing, carefully placing a bright red apple in the younger woman's hand. "They're good," she remarked. "I picked them off my brother's tree. I was visiting him and his wife."
Marie nodded. It was the best apple she'd ever had.
"My name's Rona," said the woman, still chewing what remained of her fruit.
"Marie." It wasn't until the word left her mouth that Marie thought maybe she shouldn't have used her real name. But that was silly. There must've been hundreds of Marie's, thousands. What was one more?
Rona wrapped the core in a napkin and sighed contentedly. "Marie, huh? You mind if I ask you something, Marie?" Marie shook her head. "How old are you?"
"Twenty," she said quickly. She had practiced this.
"Twenty. I have a daughter your age, but she was always ahead, looks-wise. She always looked a lot older than she was." Rona smiled. "You look younger."
Easily, she responded, "I get that a lot."
"My daughter," continued Rona, finally dropping the bag to her feet, "her name's Gina. She lives with me at home. Yeah, and I don't think she'll be leaving anytime soon. Her husband took off a few months ago and just sort of dropped her on me. Her and my little granddaughter." Her face brightened as she reached into her tote. "You want to see a picture?"
Marie nodded. "Sure."
Rona expertly opened her wallet so that a spread of pictures spilled from it, like an accordian. "This," she pointed at a chubby little baby, bedecked in a sailor's suit complete with hat, "is Claudette." Claudette looked cranky and tired, smiling churlishly for the camera.
Marie knew to say, "She's cute."
That was enough to please Rona. She smiled smugly and continued staring at the little bundle in the photograph. "Isn't she though? She's prettier than my Gina was at her age, bless her heart."
Marie remembered the picture her mother kept of her on the mantle. She was about Claudette's age, no more than a year old, sitting on her mother's lap, looking away at some unseen object or person. Her mother, however, had been gazing adoringly at her, as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Marie looked at Rona's smiling figure. She wondered how long her mother would keep her picture on the mantle, how long before she tucked it in a box, to be lost amidst other mementos, reminders of a person she wanted desperately to forget.
She should burn them. Scatter the ashes, like they do the dead.
"You live with your momma, Marie?" What a simple question. Usually went hand in hand with a simple answer.
"No." The lying was coming too easily, she thought. "I go to school. In Chicago."
Rona was folding up her precious pictures, tucking them back into her wallet. "Really? She must be so proud of you. I wish my Gina'd gone to school."
"She is." She thought she might cry, but Rona was still smiling wistfully and it would make no sense. It wouldn't go with her lies.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Chat chicks, for looking and approving.:) love ya.