A Blue So Dark (2 page)

Heaps, gobs, buckets, mountains, worlds of gratitude to Brian Farrey, who was the first person to fall in love with A Blue So Dark, and who has been a terrific editor as well as a fantastic ally and friend to have through the entire bookdevelopment process.

Thanks, too, to Rhiannon Ross (for her humor as well as her editorial know-how), to Ellen Dahl (for an absolutely stunning cover), to Sandy Sullivan (for her sharp revision suggestions), to publicist Courtney Kish, to production manager Nanette Stearns, and to the entire-and I really mean entire-crew at Flux, for their unbridled enthusiasm and for making my debut a book I am so, so proud to call my own.

... And to Team Schindler (which consists of my first reader and my greatest cheerleaders) ... thank you ...

hen I was ten, I took my best friend Janny on our family vacation. I really thought we were going someplace special, white sands and blue water, tropical paradise, just like Dad told me. "I'll teach you how to swim, Aura," he promised. "I'll show you how magical the ocean is. Someday, you and I will be riding on the backs of dolphins. Surfing off the Baja Peninsula. Snorkeling along the coast of South Africa. It all begins with this trip. Floridaa fairy tale drop-kicked into the real world."

But the coastal Florida I saw then, after a string of brutal storms had practically turned the whole ocean upside down and washed every ounce of trash up on the shore, was a freaking lie. Brown seaweed, that's what Florida was. Murky, brown, nasty, smelly seaweed. Water that reminded me of the aftermath of floods back home in Missouri, when the lake banks smelled like rotting fish scales and the sour insides of beer cans.

Dad tried-he really did-with his long hair plastered against his forehead and cheeks as he shouted at me, "Kick! Kick, Aura!" But who ever heard of learning to swim in an ocean, anyway, where the tide grabbed you up like a giant's fist while you were trying to get the hang of the stupid breaststroke? No matter how hard I flailed, how hard I fought, the waves kept tossing me aside, pulling me under. And the salt water up my nose didn't make me giggle, like Dad said it would. It just stung.

Dad rented boogie boards, a kayak, a parasail. But I felt like I'd made the journey to the land of fairy tales only to find out that the magical world was identical to the real one. Even in fairy tales, the sun still burns, sand still works its way into your bikini bottoms, and the diner next door to your motel still scorches toast.

I just couldn't get past the thickness of the water along the shore, the sand and the sticks and the dirt that mucked everything up. I wanted an ocean like a swimming pool-I wanted to see my flippers as I tried to tread water. I wanted to see bright-red coral and schools of rainbow-striped fish. I wanted to see ancient shipwrecks, too, their gems and gold coins glittering up from the ocean floor. But when I looked into the water, all I saw was something that reminded me a little of a chocolate milkshake. It scared me, throwing myself into something that I couldn't see the bottom of.

"Who knows what's out there?" I asked Dad. "Maybe jellyfish. Maybe giant fish hooks."

"Janny likes it," Dad tried to tell me, pointing as my best friend raced into the frothy white tide, liking the feel of being knocked over, engulfed. I guessed, for her, it was a little like being on an amusement park ride that didn't have seat belts, or a defined course, or tracks. It was a ride that could take her anywhere.

And, I guess, that was exactly what was terrifying me.

"Yeah, well, there could even be sharks out there," I said, loud enough to get Janny's attention, because we'd seen jaws at her house earlier that summer.

"Sharks?" she asked, pulling herself away from the lip of the water. "Sharks?"

That was enough to convince her to mope with me all down the coast-two skinny girls, all kneecaps and elbows, in our matching silver bikinis, dragging the soles of our flip-flops like a couple of old women who were both too arthritic to lift our feet anymore.

Late August had bloomed, like a giant sweaty orange marigold. Janny and I wouldn't have to slide into school desks until after Labor Day, but college had already snagged its students, and late in the afternoons, frat boys liked to clump around beach towels and coolers and surfboards. On a Friday, two beers into their weekend-long good time, they started hollering at me and Janny, teasing us, calling us dykes, lesbos, queers, because we still held hands like a couple of babies.

"Lesbos," they said, all singsong, like they thought there was absolutely no way that we'd actually know what it was. Like it was their trashy little inside joke.

I recoiled, red with embarrassment. But Janny-God bless her-she just turned, threw a pit bull of a face toward their blond heads and tanned limbs, and shouted, "Piss off, you dumb fucks."

Poetry.

Mom had seen it all from her chaise, where she'd been drawing in her bathing suit, fingers flying across the thick pages of her sketchbook while her olive-skinned body soaked up the sun like a paper towel could soak up spilled milk. I stared at her, all curvy and fleshy and strong, jealousy and shame opening up in my chest. Because I didn't think I ever would be-strong, you know? Not like Janny. Not like Mom. I hated being such a wuss in front of the people I loved the most.

Back then, Mom could read me, just like the big print in a kid's easy reader. She winked and closed her sketchbook that was never more than an inch from her fingertips, perpetually stained black from her charcoal pencils. Twisted herself out of her chaise and stuck her feet in her sandals.

"Come on," she told me as she pulled a neon Sunshine State T-shirt over her head. "I'm throwing you a life pre„ server.

The rescue was shopping-and I was so glad to get away from the crummy water, I didn't even care that it was some lousy souvenir shop with painted seashells and shot glasses and plastic flamingos galore. Janny zipped right for a hot pink sequined tank top and a tube of equally obnoxious matching lipstick. Dad started plunking the tips of his fingers against a steel drum in the back, goofing around, acting like he had a clue how to play it, while Janny started to dance, holding her shirt to her chest, begging us all to imagine how pretty she would look in it.

I stood at the counter, watching the man at the register, all gray and scruffy, take a knife to a piece of driftwood.

"You like mermaids?" he asked, staring at me over the top rim of his readers. "I've seen one, you know. A real, live mermaid. You believe me?"

"Might," I said, coolly.

"You might," he laughed as he used his knife to cut the details into her hair. "She twinkled, the mermaid I saw. But not like the light on water, or diamonds, or stars. Ever since that day, I just can't quit carving her likeness. Used to come up with all sorts of different things-fish, cars, palm trees. Now, I just carve her, over and over. Can't quit. Think it's because I can never get her quite right. Never can show just how much she sparkled."

He sighed, shaking his head as he tossed the whittled piece of drift into an old galvanized tub on the floor in front of the counter. I followed after it, finding the whole tub full of mermaids-some painted, some dotted with glitter, some stained, some (possibly half-finished pieces) left so natural they seemed to have actually washed onto the beach with faces and long flowing hair and scales.

I dug through the lot, picking up each new treasure and turning it over the way I'd imagined, before leaving Missouri, that I'd turn over seashells along the fringes of the exotic Florida shore. Mermaids $2, advertised a sign taped to the gray metal tub, and suddenly, I knew exactly what I wanted to take home from our disappointing trip. I was still trying to pick which mermaid I'd buy when a redheaded sea creature with a shiny gold tail was snatched from my hand.

"How much for all of them?" Mom asked, tossing the mermaid back the way a fisherman tossed back a tiny catch that just wasn't enough. Her smiling face glowed from behind the curtain of her long black hair. God, that smile, it had a thousand watts of pride in it, and stretched farther across her cheeks than the grin she'd worn when I'd won Best Painting in the All School Art Exhibition the year before.

"All?" the man at the counter laughed. "Good grief, lady, waddaya want 'em all for?"

"For my daughter," Mom said softly. She looked down at me, her eyes not just glittering, but snapping with fire, like two 4th of July sparklers. "She can't decide which one she wants. I know, because I'd never be able to, either." She ran her finger down the length of my nose, almost like you'd stroke a favorite pet, adding, "We're just alike, me and Aura."

And you know, back then, the idea of that didn't scare the absolute hell out of me.

Schizophrenia: A psychotic disorder characterized by withdrawal from reality, illogical patterns of drinking, delusions, and hallucinations. See also: Nightnnare.

ickles," I repeat for the four hundredth time, unscrewing the lid. "Mom, do you want pickles on your sandwich?"

She doesn't answer, so I dip my hand into the cold, yellowy brine, and take a step toward the kitchen table where she sits, staring out across the yard. Her whole body's so stiff and still, she could be one of the mermaids hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

They've been there ever since we got back from our vacation to Florida, the mermaids. Dangling from slender threads of fishing line tied to the eyehooks Mom screwed into the backs of their necks. In the beginning, the long, magnificent, scaly tails of the painted mermaids caught the sun brilliantly. Now, more than five years later, they're all gray, since they're too high up to dust. The heat of the sun that pours through the sliding glass door has cracked their faces. They look exactly like what they are: sad leftovers of a life that no longer exists.

"Mom!" I try again as I pull a dill slice from the jar and wave it in front of her face. I lean so close to her, I can smell the sour skunk of her underarms, see the glitter of oil on her scalp next to the sloppy part in her long black hair. It's not like her to go without showering, especially on a Saturday, when she's got a full day of drawing and painting classes to teach at the art museum.

She turns to me, finally, her frown deepening like I'm being the worst kind of disrespectful. Like I've just told her I have too many back issues of Teen magazine to read right now to waste my time going to my father's funeral.

My father-not dead, but not around anymore, either. A man who snipped himself free of his old life, easy as whacking off that decades-old ponytail. He shares a loft now on the opposite end of town with his second wife, Brandi, and their daughter. Grits his teeth through my occasional visits (why do I even bother, I wonder), and prefers to drink hazelnut lattes in place of thinking about his first family, the trial run.

"What's wrong with you?" Mom snaps, pushing my hand away like I've been waving a dead kitten under her nose.

"Mom, it's just a pickle," I insist, hot chills breaking out across my entire body. "For lunch, right?" As I'm staring at her, I remember how I'd sworn, Sure, Mom, no meds, no more, not ever again. I'll never make you take them.

Dad had been the one who'd wanted Mom on meds. The one who'd insisted on them after a particularly brutal episode when Mom had run away from home (like an overly emotional little kid) and headed for the Rocky Mountains. He'd been the first one to actually use the word-antipsychotic-even though Mom had begged him not to make her, though she'd sworn that we were really okay, that we didn't have to resort to amber bottles. "Just tell me what's real and what's not," she'd pleaded. "We can manage it just fine on our own."

"Manage?" he'd screamed at her during the flight home from Colorado, anger having officially replaced the fear that had threatened to swallow us both during her two-day disappearance.

I slumped deep in my seat while the passengers in the first three rows closed their magazines and paperbacks, craning their necks. Rows four and five followed, a ripple effect that made it seem like everyone in coach was watching. No movie today-but for your viewing enjoyment, you're just in time to watch a strained marriage crumble into bread crumbs.

"Manage?" Dad had bellowed a second time. "With what? Meditation? Holistic medicine? For God's sake, Grace. You do not have a cold. You can't fix this thing with some damn herbal tea."

So she took them, each pill an attempt to hang on to someone who was already gone, at least in spirit. She hated it so much that I really believed I was helping her when I dumped those meds long after Dad left in body and belongings, too-after he'd moved out, scrawled a giant cursive The End across the life the three of us had shared. I thoughtJesus. Like some dope, I thought I was scoring up a whole slew of brownie points. I thought I was being Mom's friend. Please don't take them for me, Mom. No, Dad won't have to find out. He's already been gone two years. It's not like he ever once glanced back over his shoulder. I swear I won't tell. I swear I won't ever make you. I love you more than that.

Now, though, I wish I could take an eraser to my stupid promise. I wish I'd saved some of that Risperdal he'd forced on her, gotten us some just in case before she and I flushed it all. Because I get this awful feeling that we're teetering, you know? Like we've been walking along just fine, hand-in-hand on a gorgeous trail lined with wildflowers, only to glance down and-holy shit-our toes are on the edge of a cliff. And our arms are going around like the blades of a couple of windmills as we try to steady ourselves and keep from falling.

Correction: Mom is floundering, and I'm trying to pull her back. It's my job, my role: The Savior. Only I don't remember signing up for it.

"Come on," she barks. "We don't have time for this." As if I'm the one that's holding us back. The bitchy side of me wants to bare my own teeth, tell her I've been rushing to the museum once school lets out so that I can eaves drop on her afternoon classes-that I watch her through the window while I sit under a maple just outside her classroom, looking down only long enough to work the occasional geometry proof. I want to tell her I didn't even get to work last weekend because I spent it sitting in the back of her classroom, analyzing her every move and listening to the drawing-with-the-right-side-of-your-brain lecture I've heard so many times, I can practically lip-synch it:

"Don't get lost in what it is," she always tells her students, propping a chair onto a display table. "Don't get frustrated in your first line on the page-of course that first line doesn't look like a chair. It won't until you shade it in and get the shadows right. Don't let your idea of what a chair should look like dictate what you draw. Draw what you see, not what you think you see."

But the thing is, there are times that the line between what Mom sees and what she imagines is completely gone. Because Mom's a stark raving lunatic. And that's not some figure of speech, either. No, my mom, Grace Ambrose, is a schizo. A real-life crazy woman. The kind of person who used to get locked in the attic. The kind of person that shows up in movies, eyes bugging and hair dancing like currents of electricity, swearing the "voices" told her to whack her father, mailman, lover, etc. into a thousand tiny, bloody pieces of flesh. The kind of person who, in another era, might have volunteered for a lobotomy, because she was so terrified of her own thoughts, she'd jump at the chance to let some whack job of a doctor stick an ice pick up her nose and swing it around in her brain, cutting it in two.

"You're taking too long," she says, like I'm the baggage. "It's lunch hour, not summer break."

She pushes her chair away, stumbling, her feet tangling as she tries to stand. I slam the jar of pickles on the table, put my arms out to catch her, but she falls anyway, smacking her knees against the linoleum, hard. "Goddamn it, Aura," she says, pushing me away like I tripped her. Like I'm the reason she's down there on the floor. She won't even take my hand when I offer.

We leave the half-made sandwiches on the counter and pile into our rusted '86 Tempo. She grips the steering wheel so tightly, the bones of her knuckles try to tear through her skin. And she keeps gulping air like she did last winter when she had the flu and was trying to settle her stomach.

"Maybe you should call in sick," I manage to squeak.

"What the hell for?" she asks. When we get to a stoplight, she looks at me with those probing eyes, reading me, but not really like she used to. These days, it's like the words smeared across my face get scrambled. Because what I'm actually thinking and what she sees are two completely different things. "Sick, huh," she growls.

"That's not what I meant," I try. "It's just-" Its just that there are times, Mom, times that I'm afraid you really are getting sick. Its been more than a year now without the meds and sometimes, when I look in your dark eyes, I see waters as muddy as the waves that break on the Florida coast. I see murky depths that could swallow me whole.

Mom guns the engine at green, and we wind up speed ing past the yellow metal sticks (the city's ridiculous idea about what makes great sculpture) piled on the corner to mark the turn-off to the Springfield Art Museum. We're parked and she's stomping toward the entrance before I can even attempt to figure out what to say.

I follow her inside, straight to the classroom, where I take my seat in the back-the same one I've had since I was seven, maybe eight, and started coming with Mom for her lessons. Technically, you're supposed to be eighteen to get into Mom's adult courses. But the faces that usually show up for enrollment are either slathered in preteen volcanic zits or wrinkles so deep, they look ironed in. To keep from feeling like she works in a nursing home, Mom's always made exceptions, rolled her eyes at the rules, allowed anyone in-even the occasional second graderwho cringed at the idea of being in the baby classes where you were shown how to make funny little animals out of squishy balls of clay.

Even so, this class is full of white-hairs; three of the grandmas dote so intensely on the only two young girls in the room (I peg them for middle schoolers) that when the girls' cheeks turn pink, I figure it's caused by the uncomfortable friction of all that damned petting.

I pull out a tattered sketchbook from my sloppy canvas bag, grateful none of the retirees have zeroed in on me, as Mom unrolls a van Gogh poster at the front of the room and tapes it to the blackboard.

"Bedroom in Arles," she says, pointing. "It's hard to copy." She pushes her grimy hair from her face, which looks a little like the ash at the bottom of a barbeque without a stitch of makeup. "Hard," she says, as she digs through the pockets of her jeans, "because-because-"

My stomach knots up as she searches for the words. Her eyes zero in on something halfway across the room, and her face scrunches, like she sees something-some phantom that dances as inexplicably as the images that pop up in my dreams. But the thing is, a schizo can't wake up. And as her face gets harder, more pointed, I think I can see it-a distant sharp curve in the road up ahead. I think I can see some outburst-the kind of thing that will send her students scattering off like bees from a hive that's been struck with a baseball bat. Because thats what mental illness does. It takes something beautiful and fragile and perfect-like, say, the love between my parents-the kind of love that once had Dad planting pink rose bushes around the entire house (because pink is for joy and admiration ... and grace, jeez, grace, just like Mom's name), and smashes it into a thousand unrecognizable parts. It carves Mom's face into something monstrous. And I'm a damned idiot for thinking we'd be okay without those amber pill bottles.

"... because..." Mom stammers. "Hard ... hard to copy, because..."

I start to push myself away from my stool, ready to grab her arm and run.

But I stop short when Mom's fingers finally emerge from her pocket with a ponytail holder, and her face comes back to life, smooths out. "... because the perspective is skewed," she finally finishes, tying her hair back. "The picture frames in van Gogh's painting look like they want to fall off and clatter to the floor. The chair next to the window sort of seems like it's sinking into the wall. The corners don't match up right, either-the room looks more like a trapezoid than it does a rectangle. Everything's tilted just a little too much in the wrong direction.