turned red. “Look at my neck, Mom!” she shouted. “Who did you think did this?”
Mary sank her fingers in more deeply. She pushed her thumb into the skin beneath her collarbone until Liz yelped. “You were thrashing in your sleep. You’ve always been strange that way.”
“No, Mom.”
“You were, Liz.”
Liz didn’t answer, but Mary knew she almost had her. “You need to be careful with that imagination,” she said. “Crazy runs on your father’s side of the family.”
They locked eyes, and Mary could see Liz’s resolve slip away. First Liz’s shoulders fell. Then her eyes sank toward the floor. Then she sighed deeply, and it was all over. “Fine,” Liz said.
“Fine what?”
“You’re right.”
“About what?”
Liz swallowed. “I had a bad dream. I’m not going to visit her.”
“Did you tell Bobby?”
A silent communication passed between them, and Liz shook her head. “No. I never tell him anything.”
Mary nodded. “Good. Because he seems like a nice boy, but you never know. He hears those kinds of things and maybe he’ll change his mind about you. Maybe he’ll decide he likes blonde better,” she said. Then she sat back down and closed her eyes. She thought about the coming spring, bridge, the rain, new shoes. She thought about jazz musicians, Portland, her swollen knuckles that ached on wet days, the sofa that needed new fabric. She thought about these things until the flush left her cheeks, and the tenseness in her jaw slackened, and she was able to convince herself that she had done nothing wrong.
She smiled at Liz. “Eat something. You’ll feel better,” she said.
Liz blinked, and placed a forkful of rice in her mouth. She chewed mechanically. “You like it?” Mary asked. “I got it from the health food section. It’s not bleached so it’s supposed to have more vitamins.”
Liz nodded and continued eating until her plate was scraped clean. Then she stood.
Mary said, “Why don’t you stay home tonight? I’ll call in sick. We can snuggle. Watch a movie like when you were little.”
“Why?” Liz asked.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to,” Liz answered.
“You don’t want to what?”
“Be here,” Liz said. Again, her look was stony, not like the daughter Mary had raised, and Mary thought about how quickly you can lose your children. You turn your back, and they become monsters who live under your roof. “Then go,” she said.
Liz raced out of the room. A few seconds later, a door slammed.
Mary got up and poured herself another glass of Zinfandel. She knew she shouldn’t. She had to leave for work in another fifteen minutes. She did it anyway. As she sipped from her glass, she thought about Liz. Smart Liz, who had always taken A’s in her science courses. Angry Liz, who would go away to college and never come back. Probably not even for Christmas or her own wedding. In a way, the second daughter would follow the footsteps of the first.
Just then, in her mind’s eye, Mary saw Susan as a little girl. Pigtails tied with yarn. Small, white teeth. A speck of blood rolling down her chin. She took a step toward Mary, and it reminded her of that children’s game:
Mother, may I?
No, you may not.
Mary leaned against the counter. Up the stairs, Liz’s stereo blared. Down below, the boiler kicked. In her mind, Susan Marley approached with an angry smile.
SIX
Screaming Trees
A t six o’clock that Thursday evening, Georgia O’Brian finished what remained of her coffee and left the Mid-Maine Medical Center. Stuck to the vinyl of the passenger side of her white Honda, she found dried blood. She started to scrape it away with her fingernails, but then stopped, leaned back in her seat, and cried. She did so with her eyes fully open, looking out over a parking lot full of cars and falling rain. When she finished, salty tears dried to her cheeks, she was able to clean away the blood. She was able to start her car. She was able to turn on the radio, and
Mary sank her fingers in more deeply. She pushed her thumb into the skin beneath her collarbone until Liz yelped. “You were thrashing in your sleep. You’ve always been strange that way.”
“No, Mom.”
“You were, Liz.”
Liz didn’t answer, but Mary knew she almost had her. “You need to be careful with that imagination,” she said. “Crazy runs on your father’s side of the family.”
They locked eyes, and Mary could see Liz’s resolve slip away. First Liz’s shoulders fell. Then her eyes sank toward the floor. Then she sighed deeply, and it was all over. “Fine,” Liz said.
“Fine what?”
“You’re right.”
“About what?”
Liz swallowed. “I had a bad dream. I’m not going to visit her.”
“Did you tell Bobby?”
A silent communication passed between them, and Liz shook her head. “No. I never tell him anything.”
Mary nodded. “Good. Because he seems like a nice boy, but you never know. He hears those kinds of things and maybe he’ll change his mind about you. Maybe he’ll decide he likes blonde better,” she said. Then she sat back down and closed her eyes. She thought about the coming spring, bridge, the rain, new shoes. She thought about jazz musicians, Portland, her swollen knuckles that ached on wet days, the sofa that needed new fabric. She thought about these things until the flush left her cheeks, and the tenseness in her jaw slackened, and she was able to convince herself that she had done nothing wrong.
She smiled at Liz. “Eat something. You’ll feel better,” she said.
Liz blinked, and placed a forkful of rice in her mouth. She chewed mechanically. “You like it?” Mary asked. “I got it from the health food section. It’s not bleached so it’s supposed to have more vitamins.”
Liz nodded and continued eating until her plate was scraped clean. Then she stood.
Mary said, “Why don’t you stay home tonight? I’ll call in sick. We can snuggle. Watch a movie like when you were little.”
“Why?” Liz asked.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to,” Liz answered.
“You don’t want to what?”
“Be here,” Liz said. Again, her look was stony, not like the daughter Mary had raised, and Mary thought about how quickly you can lose your children. You turn your back, and they become monsters who live under your roof. “Then go,” she said.
Liz raced out of the room. A few seconds later, a door slammed.
Mary got up and poured herself another glass of Zinfandel. She knew she shouldn’t. She had to leave for work in another fifteen minutes. She did it anyway. As she sipped from her glass, she thought about Liz. Smart Liz, who had always taken A’s in her science courses. Angry Liz, who would go away to college and never come back. Probably not even for Christmas or her own wedding. In a way, the second daughter would follow the footsteps of the first.
Just then, in her mind’s eye, Mary saw Susan as a little girl. Pigtails tied with yarn. Small, white teeth. A speck of blood rolling down her chin. She took a step toward Mary, and it reminded her of that children’s game:
Mother, may I?
No, you may not.
Mary leaned against the counter. Up the stairs, Liz’s stereo blared. Down below, the boiler kicked. In her mind, Susan Marley approached with an angry smile.
SIX
Screaming Trees
A t six o’clock that Thursday evening, Georgia O’Brian finished what remained of her coffee and left the Mid-Maine Medical Center. Stuck to the vinyl of the passenger side of her white Honda, she found dried blood. She started to scrape it away with her fingernails, but then stopped, leaned back in her seat, and cried. She did so with her eyes fully open, looking out over a parking lot full of cars and falling rain. When she finished, salty tears dried to her cheeks, she was able to clean away the blood. She was able to start her car. She was able to turn on the radio, and
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