Pieces of Eight Page 3

  As I grabbed shirt after shirt from the closet, it felt even less like mine. Sure, my shit was hanging in the closet or, more likely, slung over the side of the laundry basket in the corner. But it felt like someone else had put my stuff here. It didn’t belong any more than I did. Like I’d taken a vacation at someone’s house, and I’d long overstayed my welcome. I couldn’t feel an attachment to anything—not the bed Six had picked out for us or the shaggy, plush rug I curled my toes into after every shower. But I still took the rug, anyway.

  Downstairs, my studio room was the only place that still felt like mine. Probably because every single piece was mine. From the unpainted canvases to the ones half-finished—like most of them were. All of these were things I’d touched, things I’d put in this room with intention. If it were possible, I’d pick up this room and move it with me. But I had two arms and a tote bag the size of a body with which to pack and carry my shit. I could only reasonably carry a few of the paintings and most of the paint and tools.

  The blank canvases were sacrificed. The finished ones meant not nearly as much as the half-finished ones, with one exception.

  The woman wrapped with a serpent, with love on the scales. I looked at her serene face, tried to imagine the moment I’d painted it. It’d been the day we’d moved into this place. I’d been in here, with Six watching me paint until warm yellow came through the windows, reminding me that I’d been at it all night.

  The serpent’s head lay on the woman’s hand like it belonged there, like it was comfortable there. But there was nothing comfortable about suffocating in the name of love.

  I debated a number of things for that painting in particular. One, I could hock it at the Dry Run, sell it for a pretty penny. Two, I could leave it here for Six to decide what to do with it. Or three, I could take it and stare at it forever until I destroyed it.

  The first one was the most sensible, especially since I didn’t have Six here to support me anymore. But it was hard for me to imagine that anyone else could see this painting and feel the intention of it, the emotion that gave birth to it. And really, did anyone deserve having this if they didn’t love it as much as I did?

  The second option, leaving it for Six, was the most appealing. Mostly because a part of me wanted him to have this small piece of me left behind. But then I imagined him tossing it in the dumpster along with my cheap wig collection, and my heart broke deep in my belly.

  The third option was the winner and also the one that would surely cause me the most emotional pain—because I had to stare at it until I destroyed it—and the most physical pain—because it was the largest painting I owned and would take nearly all my strength to get it the fuck out of here.

  I heaved it between my body and my arm, already regretting my decision as I carried it out of the room and set it down by the door. Maybe, if I could get a cab to pick me up, it wouldn’t be too bad, and I could take more.

  Turning back into the studio, I debated what to take next. The swirl painting I’d started so long ago? It was unfinished. But it was best that way, wasn’t it? The woman wrapped in a love serpent was one thing, but the thing that Six had first inspired, left unfinished, was another. It was the only one of my unfinished paintings that could be considered finished at any point. And I decided this was that point, as I left it against the wall, swirl facing inside. There was something proud about it being face forward—something that I didn’t want to leave Six with necessarily.

  It was then that I realized I wanted him to be hurting as much as I was. I wanted him to return home, see my things missing, and feel a little bit of hurt. Which was—something I could objectively see—a completely shitty thing to want for the person you loved. I ached for his hurt as much as I ached for my own, but mine was a tangible thing that lived within me, like a cyst that wouldn’t leave—too deep to reach. And his was out of reach entirely. Which was best, I knew. I couldn’t hurt for us both, couldn’t carve that deeply.

  Six had once told me that people who hurt deeper, loved more deeply too. And I could see it now, could see what he meant. I carried my hurt, my grief, but to carry his had been asking too much of me. I imagined hurt as a melon baller, digging its way into me until it reached the other side, leaving me like a human fucking donut.

  My eyes stung, and I blinked rapidly, setting my phone and keys on the stupid table that I’d once destroyed, the table that was still her, in the entry. Stubborn to a fault, that table.

  I turned to the living room, taking in the furniture I couldn’t reasonably carry, the stack of papers Six had shoved into the corner by the television. There were blankets everywhere, slung over the back of the couch like someone had just been lying there under them. It was surreal to take it all in with eyes wide open, eyes that had looked into the eyes of the man I’d shared this space with and then forced from my life. I walked into the kitchen, locked the back door, and took one last look at the space. On the counter sat my little fish tank—a bowl, really. Henry just kind of hung there, his shifty eyes moving back and forth like he couldn’t remember what humans looked like. Beside his tank was a pack of food meant to feed him during our extended absences. If I’d bought him these all the time, well—one of the Henrys, at least—I’d have much fewer dead Henrys.

  I really should’ve left him for Six. He took care of all the Henrys better than I ever had, replacing them after I’d forgotten about them.

  I was a really shit pet owner. I couldn’t believe Elaine had let me leave with Griffin.

  He was mine before he was Six’s, I decided, pocketing the food and then scooping up his tank in my arms and carrying it to the entry table. I dialed the only cab company I knew of that ran this late on this side of the city and waited by the door.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t look away from the stupid fucking table all my shit rested on or against. It was the table I’d fucked up, the table Six had brought to my apartment so long ago. And yet, despite me shattering one of its legs, it still stood proudly in its dimly lit corner of the foyer. If I looked closer, I could see all the flat brown lines, where Six had lovingly glued it back together with wood glue after my night of insanity.

  I traced its lines, pushed the tip of my nail against the line of wood glue that had bubbled slightly out one side. I wondered idly how easily I could break it again. Not because I wanted to, but just to see if I could.

  Mother fucking metaphors. Nope, I wasn’t there for the damn table. The plush bathroom rug was one thing, but I was not taking the table that Six built and rebuilt.

  The cab pulled up and I shook my keys off the keyring, placing them on the table before turning and walking down the sidewalk to where the cab driver parked. I’d only managed the serpent painting and my body bag of clothes and tools. “Hold on,” I told the driver when he shifted the car into drive. “I’ve got a fish tank.”

  Much the same way Brooke had the night I’d moved her in, the cab driver looked at me in confusion. Holding up a finger in a “wait or I’ll kill you” gesture, I ran back up to the house. It was only when I was crossing the threshold that I realized, in the cloak of night, I probably looked more like a burglar than someone moving out.

  I picked up the fish tank and stared one last time at the space. I’d only managed to take three of the paintings, including the love serpent one but excluding the swirl. I looked around the foyer, pocketing the key that was mine: one, lone key to Brooke’s home.

  Once I walked out of this place, I didn’t have a place to belong anymore. I didn’t have a home, or a heart besides the one rotting in my belly, to call my own.

  And that’s why I took the fucking table. Because the table Six had built had been the first thing he’d given me that wasn’t just an object. The table meant more than just a place to sit at; it meant a place to belong.

  And that was why I grabbed the damn swirl painting. Even though it was unfinished, even though it reminded me of him. I couldn’t leave it behind.

  The cab driver stared at me, slack jawed, a
s I heaved the table under one arm and the fish tank and painting under the other. “Want to open the hatch?” I asked, motioning to the back of the car.

  He did and helped me heave them in so I didn’t drop the tank, and then we were off into the night, heading back to Brooke’s.

  I refused to turn around and look out at the place Six had bought with the intention of giving me a place that couldn’t be taken away. Neither of us could’ve known that I’d be the one walking away, but here I was, a new season in my life, heading toward an unknown future.

  3

  I awoke to the sounds of bare feet running directly above me. When I popped open one eye, the light coming through Brooke’s blinds was still hazy, telling me that the early morning fog was still present. Griffin’s head was lifted but she blinked slowly, clearly already about to pass out. Just watching her eyes made mine close again and I settled back into the couch cushions. Griffin let out an easy snore. I envied her ability to fall back asleep so quickly. I wiggled deeper into the cushions, trying to fall back asleep, when I heard a shriek upstairs.

  Instantly, I was on alert. I pushed to sitting up and glanced at Griffin, who acted like nothing at all had happened. As if the sounds of shrieking were common for her, though I highly doubted she’d experienced that at Six’s mom’s house. “Griff,” I whispered loudly. I knew she heard me because her tail wagged once—a slap on the floor—but she didn’t move otherwise. “You’d never be Lassie,” I told her, but didn’t really regret that about her. Lassie was a high-maintenance pup with a hero complex. Griffin was lazy and maybe a little slow, but she didn’t try to be a hero.

  Around the time Griffin had first starting morphing into the size of a bear, I looked up Newfoundlands to learn more. I saw photos of Newfoundlands working for the Italian coast guard, jumping out of fucking helicopters to save people and—like I always did when I thought of it—I laughed, trying to imagine Griffin doing such things. Maybe she’d jump out, but she’d probably chase her own tail in the water for a solid ten minutes before the thought to save a person drowning would ever cross her mind.

  My laugh roused Griffin, and she sat up looking at me expectantly. “What?” I asked her, just as another shriek erupted above us.

  Shushing followed the shriek, and then excited tones followed that.

  It'd been a long time since I'd seen Norah, and I wondered how much she’d grown since then. It had been at least six months, but she grew so fast that each time I saw her again, there was something new to marvel out. A new tooth as a baby, her soft round face losing weight as she became mobile, angling into a sharp jawline, high, puffy cheekbones and then gaps in her smile where those new baby teeth had left her. She resembled her mom, but darker, reminding me of how I’d looked at her age. And, like the first time I held her, I felt strangely protective of her.

  Placing a hand on my belly, I moved to adjust myself on the couch before remembering that there was nothing beneath my shirt anymore. What once was full was now…not. Abruptly, I dropped my hand and pulled the blanket off my lap when I heard footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then a softer set of footsteps following that.

  Repeated shushing was for naught, because Norah barreled into the living room, her bright eyes looking from me to the dog and back again. “Hi Mira!" she said, and her mom followed her with another shush before she saw that I was awake and sitting up.

  I stared at Norah while she stared at the dog, giving myself that brief moment to think of what might have been. What would my child have looked like, seven years from now? Would she have Six’s mossy green eyes, my dark hair? Would she be serious and calm, like Six, or a tornado of fire, like me?

  The what would have beens would kill me faster than any amount of drugs or alcohol could, especially if I indulged the fantasies for too long. Mentally, I pushed the thoughts to a box in the back of my head and put the lid on. There’d be a time for unpacking, but when the wound was so fresh, now was not that time.

  Norah looked at the dog, her expression excited and impatient. “Griffin!” She said, and Griffin didn’t stir. Way to make me look good, I thought. “Do you think she's going to wake up soon?" Norah asked.

  "Oh yeah, all you gotta do is open the fridge and she will be up in a jiffy." I rubbed my knuckles over my eyes and looked at Brooke who watched her daughter. She looked at me with a tiny bit of trepidation. She’d done this before, when her daughter was small. Back then, she’d looked at me like I was about to kidnap her child. Now, she looked at me like I would eat her child. I wasn't sure which was better.

  Norah ran into the kitchen, a storm of gangly limbs and wild hair. Griffin finally stirred thanks to the noise, but as soon as Norah swung open the refrigerator door, Griffin barreled to her feet and trotted to Norah. She never moved so fast as she did when somebody had a fridge open.

  "How'd you sleep?" Brooke asked. She had a tiny bit of flour in her hair and her hands were bright red, which made me think she had scrubbed them raw.

  "Just fine, thanks. I hope I didn't wake you when I came in."

  "Oh no, not at all." Brooke glanced at Norah, who was feeding Griffin a hotdog. I probably should’ve advised Norah on what to feed her.

  "You know," I said to Brooke, "she's probably going to need to shit in about five minutes."

  "Well, if you'd like you can walk us to Norah’s school?"

  "Really?" I looked at Brooke like I wasn't sure I was really talking to Brooke. Maybe an alien had invaded her body overnight. Not once, in the seven years since Brooke and Norah had moved out of Six’s, had Brooke invited me to do so much as a walk in the park with her and her daughter. Maybe she was confident that I wasn’t going to eat her kid. "You want me and Griffin to walk with you to Norah’s school?"

  Brooke shrugged. “Give us some time to talk before I go back to work.”

  But talk about what? I wanted to ask her supplementary questions, to prepare myself for whatever she was about to say. To prepare myself for whatever I was about to tell her.

  She turned to the kitchen, which was small but tidy, and instructed her daughter to get breakfast. Griffin chomped her hot dog like it was a bone that needed excessive chewing, but I knew I’d seen her shot gun whole hot dogs before.

  Then I realized I hadn’t actually fed her since picking her up the night before.

  Shit. Not for the first time, I asked myself why I thought I was better qualified to care for her than Six, but the answer was that I wasn’t. I was just more selfish than he was. “Is there a store on the way there or back that we can hit up? I need dog food.”

  “Yes. I need more milk anyway.”

  That threw me for an unexpected loop. Milk. Motherfucking milk instantly triggered my own mother sending me to the store, when I was in Norah’s age bracket, instead of going herself.

  I flicked my gaze to Norah who was happily chomping through her bowl of cereal, bare feet kicking the metal underside of the kitchen island. She was producing a kind of music doing that, kicking, chewing, and even the wiggling in her seat looked like dancing. I looked between Brooke and Norah, realizing that they could be a mirror for my mother and me, except for the fact that Norah looked unaffected and light and Brooke looked alert and responsible. She was even wearing clothes. And despite the lived-in looked of the home, with its second-hand sofas and shabby furniture, it was clean. Not a speck of dust or an errant, still-burning cigarette dropping ashes onto the couch.

  Brooke made coffee and pulled a bottle of brightly colored vitamins from above her stove, shaking out two and then handing them to Norah like a move she’d performed so many times that it was natural for her, to take care of her child.

  Brooke was not my mom. I knew that. But I wondered if I’d been Norah, before my mother’s influence had changed my destiny. I knew mental illness was often genetic, but could some of it be nurture and not nature?

  Norah made a sound and milk dribbled down her chin onto the counter. Instantly, my eyes searched for paper towels to clean it up. My moth
er, for all her mania, had been a fucking stickler about messes when it came to me making them. She was blind to the messes she made and left for me to clean up, and that wasn’t just the physical messes but the emotional turmoil she’d caused within me too.

  But Norah looked sheepish, not fearful. She lifted the collar of her purple pajama shirt and wiped at her chin. My heart thudded, imagining doing that myself as a child and the slap that would surely follow it.

  Brooke just tsked playfully and handed Norah a napkin with one hand, wiping the mess with the other. And then Norah continued to eat as if the interaction hadn’t just rocked the fuck out of my world.

  I didn’t have much experience witnessing other mother-daughter relationships. Sure, I’d gone to other kids’ houses growing up, but their parents had always seemed to be rehearsed, as if they were on their best behavior because company was there. I never viewed it as natural, not until I witnessed Brooke and Norah’s interaction. The latter was unfazed, and the former watched her daughter with a love in her eyes that made my stomach hurt.

  It was easy to imagine that when my heart had collapsed into my belly, that it took up the space my unborn baby had once occupied. Even though, realistically, I knew my heart was still stubbornly beating behind its cage of bones, I fantasized that it actually lay bleeding in my belly. And even though the fetus had occupied my womb—not my stomach—I thought of them, in that instance, as one and the same.

  I glanced back at Brooke and wondered if I’d tell her about my miscarriage. Did I even want to? I didn’t want her pity; and that’s what I’d get if I told her, I was sure.

  I ruminated over that thought as Norah hopped down from the island and ran upstairs, returning minutes later dressed in jeans and a sweater. Brooke held the point of her chin and mimed a wide smile as she inspected her daughter’s teeth.

  On one level, I knew it was rude that I was watching them as if they’d consented to my staring. But on another level, their interaction fascinated me. How had Brooke learned to be such a capable, attentive, easy-going mother? Was that a class she had to take, or was that instinctual? If it was the former, why had my mom skipped it? And if it was the latter, why had it skipped my mom?