Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [47]
Theresa fell asleep in our room after lunch. I wandered into the hall looking for Jan. Pieces of sunlight jutted through the half-open blinds, a warm yellow pipeline for the dust particles floating lazily through before landing on whatever was in the room. Soft silence screamed and screeched in my brain, a tantrum of loneliness like the ones I used to drown with beer or gin or vodka or scotch.
Those first weeks after Alyssa died, earthquakes of silence shook the house. Rooms would have seizures, and I’d have to fling my arm on a wall to steady myself. Sometimes I collapsed on the floor, pushing the carpet with both hands to keep the ground from breaking.
We have to take her now, Mrs. Thornton. Please. We know how difficult this must be for you. It's time, Mrs. Thornton.
Time was all I had after they took her away from me that morning, carrying her out in her pink crocheted blanket. I refused to let them cover her face. Please don’t, I begged. Please, don’t. She’ll be afraid. She looked like one of the Madame Alexander dolls Carl's mother bought her. Translucent and tranquil. Softly angelic. And still. Tragically still.
“Leah?” Jan's hand rested on my shoulder. She handed me a tissue. “Runny mascara.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“Your visitors are downstairs,” she said.
20
I took advantage of Theresa's nap to snag some mirror time. Maybe that face I thought I’d seen all those years ago would finally appear.
When I was little, I’d play a game where I’d look in the mirror, but the face I’d see there wouldn’t be mine. A wicked witch, insanely jealous of my be-yu-tee-full face, had put a spell on all the mirrors in the world. The only face I’d ever be able to see was oh so plain. A brown-eyed, nothing remarkable face.
I dusted powder on my face with the same vengeance I dusted the furniture. I hoped I could mash down the new roundness of my cheeks. Carl would notice the change. Nah. Other parts of my body were much rounder and much more obvious. I was sure he’d notice those first. He always noticed those first. Even when I was full-bellied pregnant with Alyssa, I’d scoop vanilla ice cream over my equally pregnant slice of apple pie, and he’d say, “Do you really think you need that? You know, you’re just making it harder on yourself to lose the weight later.” Of course, he’d never say I was fat. He didn’t have to.
Theresa was snoring when I left our room. At least she’d be doing something constructive during visiting time. At lunch Theresa told me she wouldn’t be seeing her kids or her husband today. “My old man, he's working, so the kids don’t have no way to get here.” She shrugged, tugged on her bra underneath her striped tank top, and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her shorts’ pocket. “Going to find a light. See ya upstairs.” By the time I saw her again, she was already asleep.
I slipped out and closed the door behind me in slow motion to avoid suffering whatever the consequence would be for waking Theresa. Could they be worse than the one I’m about to deal with? I should have worn something else. The denim skirt. Or the khaki pants. I should have looked more L.L. Beanish. The black shorts still didn’t camouflage the food that had made regular deposits on my thighs. The yellow Polo shirt. What was I thinking? Great. I’m going to look like a midget bumblebee.
But there was no turning back. I was Odysseus stuck between two equally disturbing forces. Stuck between the rock of Theresa and the hard place of the elevator doors that just opened.
Carl and Molly arrived at the same time.
Maybe that God of Cathryn's was on special assignment this weekend.
The visit wasn’t so bad in the way that shots aren’t so bad. Once the swift, intense burning jab was over, the dull pain throbs only when you touch the bumpy spot where the needle punctured your skin.
Carl and I hugged as if someone had wrapped each one of us in cardboard from head to toe. He’d barely stepped back when Molly's long, tanned arms, almost as thin as the tennis racket she swings, wrapped