Read Online A Private State: Stories by Charlotte Bacon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charlotte Bacon
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Dusseault to shut up or else he'd make the bleeding worse. I don't think he understood because he yelled "Ma sainte mère" the whole way to the hospital. I sat in the back, a stream of cold sliding down my thigh, too thin to be anything but melting ice.
Inside St. Dympna's, I saw that spots of red had spattered Naomi's shirt, buttoned askew. Then my father rushed into the waiting room. "Naomi?" he said. As a student he'd burned up yards on playing fields, football curled to his ribs, dodging from men the shape of sides of beef. We watched his old movies sometimes and he'd shake his head, smiling slightly. Tonight, hurtling toward my mother, he looked unnerved and tired. I ran to him and pushed the bundle of Mr. Dusseault's finger into his hands. He cradled it to his chest, as if it were a precious, broken toy.
All kinds of people came blinking into the E.R. , bent into their particular hurts. I tried to coil myself into the plastic chair, but I'd grown too tall. Then I saw my parents. "Let's go," my father said. In the car, Naomi didn't bother with the seat belt, but the Doctor didn't seem to notice. "Couldn't save the finger," he said to the windshield. "A bad cut.'' Then silence fell, that terrible kind, where nothing is said but everything that's thought moves sharp and fast. I couldn't have spoken anyway. I felt like I'd swallowed
Page 55
a pot of paste, as if, inside my throat, all the words had hardened to a clear and solid plug.
They waited 'til I'd shut my door for the night. From my bed, I heard shouts shatter in the kitchen. "Tell her to leave," I thought to my pillow, my voice still glued inside my body. I kept imagining her with Mr. Loiseau and was glad my father hadn't heard the curl of their voices, the pleasure.
"I'll do anything you want," he yelled. "What do you want, Naomi?"
"I don't know," she yelled back.
Smelling yew bush on my fingers, I imagined our house on fire, my parents beating at hot panes of glass. Scared at how clearly I could see this, I went to take a shower and made it as icy as I could stand it. Through the sheets of cold, I could still hear them.
The next morning, I walked gingerly through the house as if I were frightened of dislodging something. At school, it was nearly a relief to stare at an old map of the Soviet Union still whole. Science didn't meet today; I could cut math. Then in the midst of the year's last French test, things started to fall apart. Slapping at one of my first black flies, I realized I almost liked Maine. I liked the smell of pine and on windy days, ocean. I liked the drafty house and the row of spruce that lined the fence. I liked knowing Madame went to Lewiston on Tuesdays. It could have been home. In every blank, I wrote in large clear letters "merde."
In history, where we'd just emerged from Gettysburg, I thought that if we stayed, I might acquire an accent. Looking at my classmates, I thought I might acquire friends. I might have had conversations that went beyond "Mr. Feiken is such a dork" or "cool shoes." We listened to Mr. Lincoln's speech. So little, such an echo. I decided to go further. Not a single word at all. Nothing until they agreed to stay.
I'd never spoken much; it got you so involved. I was already tall and didn't need to draw more notice to myself. My thoughts were
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loud, but when I spoke, the noise seemed like a small rip in the silence. Not talking would mean sealing the quiet off, keeping it whole. Thinking of Jake and how much grace he could capture merely flipping to the next chapter in math, I decided to go further, to do without writing.
I left school early and went to the Purity Supreme, where the only lemons for sale were the sort Naomi never chose for tintings, lesser creatures, small and tough. I bought nine, the number of states that at one time or another we'd called home.
They were sitting at the kitchen table. The Doctor said, "Chloe," like he was surprised to see me. As if I'd been dropped fully formed into his
Inside St. Dympna's, I saw that spots of red had spattered Naomi's shirt, buttoned askew. Then my father rushed into the waiting room. "Naomi?" he said. As a student he'd burned up yards on playing fields, football curled to his ribs, dodging from men the shape of sides of beef. We watched his old movies sometimes and he'd shake his head, smiling slightly. Tonight, hurtling toward my mother, he looked unnerved and tired. I ran to him and pushed the bundle of Mr. Dusseault's finger into his hands. He cradled it to his chest, as if it were a precious, broken toy.
All kinds of people came blinking into the E.R. , bent into their particular hurts. I tried to coil myself into the plastic chair, but I'd grown too tall. Then I saw my parents. "Let's go," my father said. In the car, Naomi didn't bother with the seat belt, but the Doctor didn't seem to notice. "Couldn't save the finger," he said to the windshield. "A bad cut.'' Then silence fell, that terrible kind, where nothing is said but everything that's thought moves sharp and fast. I couldn't have spoken anyway. I felt like I'd swallowed
Page 55
a pot of paste, as if, inside my throat, all the words had hardened to a clear and solid plug.
They waited 'til I'd shut my door for the night. From my bed, I heard shouts shatter in the kitchen. "Tell her to leave," I thought to my pillow, my voice still glued inside my body. I kept imagining her with Mr. Loiseau and was glad my father hadn't heard the curl of their voices, the pleasure.
"I'll do anything you want," he yelled. "What do you want, Naomi?"
"I don't know," she yelled back.
Smelling yew bush on my fingers, I imagined our house on fire, my parents beating at hot panes of glass. Scared at how clearly I could see this, I went to take a shower and made it as icy as I could stand it. Through the sheets of cold, I could still hear them.
The next morning, I walked gingerly through the house as if I were frightened of dislodging something. At school, it was nearly a relief to stare at an old map of the Soviet Union still whole. Science didn't meet today; I could cut math. Then in the midst of the year's last French test, things started to fall apart. Slapping at one of my first black flies, I realized I almost liked Maine. I liked the smell of pine and on windy days, ocean. I liked the drafty house and the row of spruce that lined the fence. I liked knowing Madame went to Lewiston on Tuesdays. It could have been home. In every blank, I wrote in large clear letters "merde."
In history, where we'd just emerged from Gettysburg, I thought that if we stayed, I might acquire an accent. Looking at my classmates, I thought I might acquire friends. I might have had conversations that went beyond "Mr. Feiken is such a dork" or "cool shoes." We listened to Mr. Lincoln's speech. So little, such an echo. I decided to go further. Not a single word at all. Nothing until they agreed to stay.
I'd never spoken much; it got you so involved. I was already tall and didn't need to draw more notice to myself. My thoughts were
Page 56
loud, but when I spoke, the noise seemed like a small rip in the silence. Not talking would mean sealing the quiet off, keeping it whole. Thinking of Jake and how much grace he could capture merely flipping to the next chapter in math, I decided to go further, to do without writing.
I left school early and went to the Purity Supreme, where the only lemons for sale were the sort Naomi never chose for tintings, lesser creatures, small and tough. I bought nine, the number of states that at one time or another we'd called home.
They were sitting at the kitchen table. The Doctor said, "Chloe," like he was surprised to see me. As if I'd been dropped fully formed into his
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