Read Online Rain Girl by Gabi Kreslehner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gabi Kreslehner
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every day . . .
She went to the grandparents’ house, fuming. They could hear the shouting out on the street.
Then she took Marie aside and asked questions. Gently. Cautiously. But Marie didn’t say anything.
Her husband said his sister was hysterical, always had been. They shouldn’t pay any attention to her accusations.
The sister-in-law went back to England, where she lived, but before she left she had pulled Marie’s mother aside and pleaded with her, “Don’t let her go back there! Promise me you won’t let her go back there!”
She had promised and didn’t let Marie return, but it was too late. Nothing went back to the way it was before.
They didn’t report the grandfather to the police. Her husband wouldn’t have anything to do with the police, said it was his father after all, and an old man on top of that. He had one foot in the grave and who knew what his sister had made up—and now it was too late anyway. Not long after that the grandfather did actually die, and they were glad not to have started anything.
Marie was thirteen when her mother saw the cuts for the first time.
Marie had always worn long-sleeved shirts, but on that day it had been so hot she’d rolled up her sleeves.
Her mother had approached her from behind, and Marie didn’t hear her. She stared at those arms, had never seen anything like it before, all those scars, so many scars.
When Marie had noticed her mother behind her, she lost it, became completely hysterical. That night she disappeared for the first time. Just like that.
They didn’t find her for two weeks. At some point the woman had thought Marie was dead. She tried to feel it, but she didn’t feel anything. She blamed herself for Marie’s disappearance. Then they found her and brought her back.
“I can’t remember,” the woman said, “where she’d been.” She tugged at the tablecloth with her long, thin fingers. “I wanted to forget.”
24
They went back into the yard. Felix had brought water and glasses from the kitchen and was standing by the fence, watching the heaving of the yellow ocean, thinking of his children—of his skinny eldest—and how life could rain on your parade whenever it wanted to.
What have we done right, he thought, and what have we done wrong, and will the right be enough?
The women sat at the table, and the quiet voice of Marie’s mother hung in the late afternoon air like a lament.
“Everything went haywire,” Marie’s mother said. “Sometimes she was here; sometimes she wasn’t. When she was here, she went to school; when she wasn’t, she didn’t. We tried everything, but nothing worked. We despaired.”
Social services got involved, the school psychologist—the wheels began to turn. Marie went through numerous institutions, state homes, private housing, charitable shelters, and every now and again was on the streets.
Then there was the last place. “I don’t know,” Marie’s mother said, “what was different there, why she stayed. Maybe enough time had passed, maybe she was old enough, maybe it felt right to her.”
But the fact was, she stayed. Appeared to have found something for herself. Went to therapy, went back to school, stopped the self-mutilation.
“She hardly ever came here,” Marie’s mother said. “So I went there regularly, to that house. Sometimes hiding just to catch a tiny glimpse of her. We opened a bank account for her, transferred money, the inheritance from her grandfather.” She laughed bitterly.
Every now and then Marie would call on the phone. “I’m fine, Mom,” she’d say. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
Occasionally—very rarely—she came to visit. The last visit had been the previous year, just before Christmas.
Marie’s mother smiled at the memory, then got up and went back into the house. When she came back she put a piece of paper on the table. A letter-size copy: Marie in black and white, copied in profile.
So this, Franza thought, was Marie without death
She went to the grandparents’ house, fuming. They could hear the shouting out on the street.
Then she took Marie aside and asked questions. Gently. Cautiously. But Marie didn’t say anything.
Her husband said his sister was hysterical, always had been. They shouldn’t pay any attention to her accusations.
The sister-in-law went back to England, where she lived, but before she left she had pulled Marie’s mother aside and pleaded with her, “Don’t let her go back there! Promise me you won’t let her go back there!”
She had promised and didn’t let Marie return, but it was too late. Nothing went back to the way it was before.
They didn’t report the grandfather to the police. Her husband wouldn’t have anything to do with the police, said it was his father after all, and an old man on top of that. He had one foot in the grave and who knew what his sister had made up—and now it was too late anyway. Not long after that the grandfather did actually die, and they were glad not to have started anything.
Marie was thirteen when her mother saw the cuts for the first time.
Marie had always worn long-sleeved shirts, but on that day it had been so hot she’d rolled up her sleeves.
Her mother had approached her from behind, and Marie didn’t hear her. She stared at those arms, had never seen anything like it before, all those scars, so many scars.
When Marie had noticed her mother behind her, she lost it, became completely hysterical. That night she disappeared for the first time. Just like that.
They didn’t find her for two weeks. At some point the woman had thought Marie was dead. She tried to feel it, but she didn’t feel anything. She blamed herself for Marie’s disappearance. Then they found her and brought her back.
“I can’t remember,” the woman said, “where she’d been.” She tugged at the tablecloth with her long, thin fingers. “I wanted to forget.”
24
They went back into the yard. Felix had brought water and glasses from the kitchen and was standing by the fence, watching the heaving of the yellow ocean, thinking of his children—of his skinny eldest—and how life could rain on your parade whenever it wanted to.
What have we done right, he thought, and what have we done wrong, and will the right be enough?
The women sat at the table, and the quiet voice of Marie’s mother hung in the late afternoon air like a lament.
“Everything went haywire,” Marie’s mother said. “Sometimes she was here; sometimes she wasn’t. When she was here, she went to school; when she wasn’t, she didn’t. We tried everything, but nothing worked. We despaired.”
Social services got involved, the school psychologist—the wheels began to turn. Marie went through numerous institutions, state homes, private housing, charitable shelters, and every now and again was on the streets.
Then there was the last place. “I don’t know,” Marie’s mother said, “what was different there, why she stayed. Maybe enough time had passed, maybe she was old enough, maybe it felt right to her.”
But the fact was, she stayed. Appeared to have found something for herself. Went to therapy, went back to school, stopped the self-mutilation.
“She hardly ever came here,” Marie’s mother said. “So I went there regularly, to that house. Sometimes hiding just to catch a tiny glimpse of her. We opened a bank account for her, transferred money, the inheritance from her grandfather.” She laughed bitterly.
Every now and then Marie would call on the phone. “I’m fine, Mom,” she’d say. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
Occasionally—very rarely—she came to visit. The last visit had been the previous year, just before Christmas.
Marie’s mother smiled at the memory, then got up and went back into the house. When she came back she put a piece of paper on the table. A letter-size copy: Marie in black and white, copied in profile.
So this, Franza thought, was Marie without death
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