Read Online A Private State: Stories by Charlotte Bacon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Bacon
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life, instead of having been there all along, his child from the start. Naomi was peering at her fingers and seemed amazed they were still whole.
I put my sack of bad lemons on the counter and pulled out the cutting board. Slicing the first one into quarters, my hand shook. I took a wedge in each fist. Naomi still stared at her fingers. I put a lemon between my lips and bit hard. Pure acid washed my gums, my mouth pouched with a pool of spit. I swallowed, slick seeds and all. A shiver sang down my neck and spine. I slid another wedge between my teeth.
"What are you doing?" my father said. Naomi finally glanced up. I finished the first lemon and carved the next in fours. "What's going on?" the Doctor said.
"Stop it, Chlo," said Naomi. "Stop it, honey," she said.
But I had eight more to go. Chalky roughness coated my teeth, and I was getting used to the sour spray, the shiver of the cloudy acid. I felt cleaner than soap had ever made me, clean from inside. I couldn't stop. Juice sank into papercuts. My eyes streamed. I took bite after bite, cut lemon after lemon until thirty-six quarters lay like cramped yellow smiles on the red counter.
My parents just stared at me until Naomi finally said, "I'm sorry, baby," and went upstairs. Two days later, she was gone. No one noticed I wasn't talking. There wasn't much to say when you
Page 57
saw your father wrap your mother's pearls in chamois cloth. Or twitch a hair from her collar just to have a chance to touch her.
She was going to her mother in Omaha. Before, Naomi said "Nebraska" like she'd escaped from a prison but not without a cost. Now it was the only safe place. She pressed against me a few seconds, chin sharp on my collarbone. I was taller now and she had to reach to stroke my hair.
"Naomi's got some things to work out," the Doctor said as we watched her plane take off. He clapped me on the back so hard I nearly choked. He didn't notice 'til that night I wasn't speaking. "What's wrong here?" he asked when I refused to discuss my bad grade in French. We were at dinner, picking at omelets. I didn't think my body could say everything quite yet, so I wrote on a prescription pad that I wouldn't speak until he said we wouldn't leave here. I couldn't move again, and I underlined "move" twice. He started to cry. I couldn't eat eggs for a long time after that. At the sight of one, even whole and brown, I'd remember the jiggle of the salt shaker as his crying shook the table.
A week before Independence Day, the Loiseaus took off. I overheard Mrs. Marcotte say they were out West, as if it were a slightly criminal destination. Leaving Maine was suspect. When Naomi'd flown away, we'd found sacks of beans and carrots at our door, though neither of us ate a lot that summer.
The Doctor was too busy mending careless tourists. When he realized I really wouldn't tell him what I'd done all day, he'd grab Louis to show me which bones he'd helped to save that shift. Once he went inside to shower, I'd settle back inside of being quiet.
At night, I lay in bed and listened to the spirals of sound the crickets made. To the crunch of my father's feet on the gravel when he came home late and the suck of rubber on the icebox door as he opened it in search of beer. I'd keep an ear tuned to my body's own invisible flow and listen to my bones click longer.
I also nursed a superstition: if I ended my silence, Naomi would
Page 58
come back too soon and it would all start over. It was good to have a break. For once, the Doctor wasn't looking for a job and I appreciated my stillness, though I knew that when Naomi returned, she'd whirl through the house, banishing all signs that time had passed and we had settled. She'd start angling for a fresh start, scared, it seemed, of turning into a woman who just stayed and aged in one place. But for now, the house was ours. Even so, all the way from Omaha, I felt her watching as I made small moves to hunker in.
Despite the Doctor, we didn't own a first-aid kit. I
I put my sack of bad lemons on the counter and pulled out the cutting board. Slicing the first one into quarters, my hand shook. I took a wedge in each fist. Naomi still stared at her fingers. I put a lemon between my lips and bit hard. Pure acid washed my gums, my mouth pouched with a pool of spit. I swallowed, slick seeds and all. A shiver sang down my neck and spine. I slid another wedge between my teeth.
"What are you doing?" my father said. Naomi finally glanced up. I finished the first lemon and carved the next in fours. "What's going on?" the Doctor said.
"Stop it, Chlo," said Naomi. "Stop it, honey," she said.
But I had eight more to go. Chalky roughness coated my teeth, and I was getting used to the sour spray, the shiver of the cloudy acid. I felt cleaner than soap had ever made me, clean from inside. I couldn't stop. Juice sank into papercuts. My eyes streamed. I took bite after bite, cut lemon after lemon until thirty-six quarters lay like cramped yellow smiles on the red counter.
My parents just stared at me until Naomi finally said, "I'm sorry, baby," and went upstairs. Two days later, she was gone. No one noticed I wasn't talking. There wasn't much to say when you
Page 57
saw your father wrap your mother's pearls in chamois cloth. Or twitch a hair from her collar just to have a chance to touch her.
She was going to her mother in Omaha. Before, Naomi said "Nebraska" like she'd escaped from a prison but not without a cost. Now it was the only safe place. She pressed against me a few seconds, chin sharp on my collarbone. I was taller now and she had to reach to stroke my hair.
"Naomi's got some things to work out," the Doctor said as we watched her plane take off. He clapped me on the back so hard I nearly choked. He didn't notice 'til that night I wasn't speaking. "What's wrong here?" he asked when I refused to discuss my bad grade in French. We were at dinner, picking at omelets. I didn't think my body could say everything quite yet, so I wrote on a prescription pad that I wouldn't speak until he said we wouldn't leave here. I couldn't move again, and I underlined "move" twice. He started to cry. I couldn't eat eggs for a long time after that. At the sight of one, even whole and brown, I'd remember the jiggle of the salt shaker as his crying shook the table.
A week before Independence Day, the Loiseaus took off. I overheard Mrs. Marcotte say they were out West, as if it were a slightly criminal destination. Leaving Maine was suspect. When Naomi'd flown away, we'd found sacks of beans and carrots at our door, though neither of us ate a lot that summer.
The Doctor was too busy mending careless tourists. When he realized I really wouldn't tell him what I'd done all day, he'd grab Louis to show me which bones he'd helped to save that shift. Once he went inside to shower, I'd settle back inside of being quiet.
At night, I lay in bed and listened to the spirals of sound the crickets made. To the crunch of my father's feet on the gravel when he came home late and the suck of rubber on the icebox door as he opened it in search of beer. I'd keep an ear tuned to my body's own invisible flow and listen to my bones click longer.
I also nursed a superstition: if I ended my silence, Naomi would
Page 58
come back too soon and it would all start over. It was good to have a break. For once, the Doctor wasn't looking for a job and I appreciated my stillness, though I knew that when Naomi returned, she'd whirl through the house, banishing all signs that time had passed and we had settled. She'd start angling for a fresh start, scared, it seemed, of turning into a woman who just stayed and aged in one place. But for now, the house was ours. Even so, all the way from Omaha, I felt her watching as I made small moves to hunker in.
Despite the Doctor, we didn't own a first-aid kit. I
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