Embrace Me (32 page)

Charmaine grabs my hand and holds it.

“When I look back now, I realize what happened next was a psychotic episode. Nobody really wants to burn their face off no matter how different it looks, no matter how gruesome a mask it's become.”

“I think gruesome is a little harsh, Valentine.”

“No, Charmaine. People didn't gasp on the set because I looked different from before. People gasped because I'd become a freak, some sort of Hollywood clown woman, a person who couldn't stop.

“Here's the truth of the matter—though it was Mother's and Drew Parrish's idea, I'm the one who drew the judgment from everyone. I alone was the one to turn away from. As I looked at myself in that gritty medicine cabinet mirror, something snapped in me. There was a lot of snapping going on around that time.

“I started clawing at my skin.
Get this face off of me
. The person inside the reflection was screaming.
Get it off!

“So I balled up a towel and reached for the Drano, squirting it onto the terry cloth. I slathered it onto my face and massaged it in. I hoped and prayed it would reach those implants in my chin and cheeks and just eat them away.”

“Oh, Valentine! You don't have to go on.”

“And then, the burn began as the acids in the drain cleaner met living tissue. My breath caught, I reached for another towel, but the world spun and spurted with reds and oranges. I fell. They told me I hit my head against the toilet rim, still open from the maintenance man.

“I woke up in a hospital to the pitying gaze of a young nurse. I didn't remember anything at first. She told me about my injuries.

“Tears soaked into my bandages. The last tears I ever cried. I promised myself that as I picked at my blanket, fiddling with a thread. A white blanket. Loose weave. You know the type?”

She nods. “How did you get to the hospital?”

“I found out later the maintenance man found me when he came back to check on the toilet, to see if the Drano did its job. On the whole, I'd say yes . . . yes, it did.”

Charmaine puts her arms around me. Just like I figured she would. “And so you disappeared.”

“Yes. The hospital called my father the next day and he came right over. I couldn't talk at that point. So I wrote, ‘Tell him not to tell my mother. He must come alone.' All caps, tons of exclamation points after each word. Along with his phone number.

“The pretty nurse nodded. Three hours later my father came into my room. The doctor had informed him of my injuries. He cried, apologizing, telling me he shouldn't have let Trician do this to me. That he tried to step in, but she wouldn't listen.”

“I should have tried harder, too, Valentine.”

“No. None of this was your fault. Anyway, I forgave him. He was weak. And so was I. We all were. Somehow he realized I'd done this to myself. Nobody broke into my room and slathered Drano on my face. I mean you hear about Drano bandits all the time, right?”

Charmaine smiles.

“I choose to believe he knew because he was my father and I was his child.”

Charmaine squeezes my hand. “Oh, he knew all right, honey. I'd bet good money on that.”

“Why do you think he never really stepped in until that day, Charmaine?”

“Why we do the things we do is a very complicated matter when you come right down to it. Behind most of our inaction we truly believe it can always get worse. And truthfully, maybe we're just a little lazy. Or scared. Add to that the fact you were an adult . . . I don't know, Valentine. You'll have to ask your father to know for sure. I never knew my father so maybe this isn't a question I can really answer.”

“But he showed up at the hospital. And he kept my mother away from me from then on out.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“The world she'd created came crumbling down. In a letter I forced her to admit that if the truth of my burning came out, the church and everybody who knew her would secretly blame her. She was the mother after all. She should have known better.”

“That's true enough.”

“What I do know is that she never really loved me, Charmaine.”

“It's the hard truth of the world that some mothers simply don't love their children. I know how that feels, Valentine. Thank goodness she didn't have more than one, just like my mama.”

“She packed up her things and drove to New York City, getting together with an old boyfriend who'd kept in touch and often told her if things ever went sour with my dad, he'd be there. And Lionel lived up to his word. They shacked up but she kicked him out once she was on her feet. She'd started a 900 number: Talk to Your Mom. She and her employees said all the right things mothers should say to people whose mothers, I guess, never said it to them.”

“That feels wrong.”

“Maybe it wasn't phone sex, but it felt creepy all the same, kinda like men that pretend to be babies for kicks. I'm sure those types of guys made up 90 percent of their clientele. Believe me, the irony wasn't lost on my dad and me.”

“People sure are strange.”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

“I'm sorry, Valentine.”

“Well, it is what it is now, right?”

“You don't have to be Lizard Woman. You know that, don't you?”

“Who would I be? I'm not rich. I've got to make a living. How else am I going to make a living?”

“Making a living and
living
are two very different things, honey. And don't I know it.”

Coming from anybody else, that would make me angry. Charmaine had all her troubles heaped upon her through no fault of her own. She may still be cute, but inside she's as scarred and ragged as my face.

“I guess I'll take that chocolate now.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls one out, the kind with the sayings written inside the foil. “Now, if you took all the advice written on these things, your life would be one big old mess. Harlan and I always laugh at these things.”

Mine says, “Do whatever makes you feel good.”

Gee, candy people, where have you been up until now? That sage advice is sure to make everything all better.

As I lift Lella from the car, I have to admit that Dahlia's better for Lella than I am. She chatters on in her delightful prattle about all she saw and did, the world big and new and opening up like a pearl-filled oyster. Dahlia backs out of the driveway, headed for the IGA with big plans for chips, dips, and movies later on.

“That's great, Lell,” I say, over and over again.

“I kept thinking about you, Valentine, and I said to Aunt Dahlia several times what a shame it is you weren't with us.”

“Sorry, Lell. You know it's impossible.” I settle her on the bed and gently lift the sweater over her head.

“I know, I know. But it would have been an even lovelier time with you there.”

I unstrap the prosthetic arms and lay them aside. “You must need to use the bathroom.”

“No. I didn't drink anything at the movie. I'm all set. I truly am.”

“Then, there you go.”

The Apostle John is sympathetic as always.

I have to let her go, don't I? Dahlia's going to reissue her invitation. I can't hold Lella back. Not if I love her like I say I do.

“How can I let her go, though?” I say out loud.

If Charmaine and I seemed clandestine when cooking for the Psalters, what I'm doing now must be on the order of the Knights Templar or something. At one a.m. I wind my scarves around my head, shrug into my coat, and lift the hood. Rain or not, I'm going to the Laundromat. I look at the disciples. “Let's just see if Augustine is as giving and holy as he seems to think. Let's just see what happens when Lizard Woman turns up in the middle of the night.”

Peter agrees.

Bartholemew says,
For goodness sake, Valentine. You know right now he's going to be fine with it. You're not so tough as you think.

“John, you need to do something about that guy,” I tell him.

Lella and Aunt Dahlia asleep in their room, I tiptoe down the hallway, thankful for the rain tapping on the roof.

I walk the streets under the umbrella I grabbed out of the holder on the way out. It's a big sunflower. Yeah, that's inconspicuous. But nobody drives by, nobody walks by, very few lights brighten the night windows, and only a couple of televisions flicker blue behind some front windows. I suppose they can't sleep either.

The cold rain of a southern winter eats at your bones from the inside. I pick up my pace, making it to the end of Oakly Road by one fifteen. Oh, good grief. The lights are still on. Do these monks never sleep? I peer in the glass door. Three people sit on the couch. Candles burn. And with their closed eyes and their respectful posture—two of them with Bibles in their laps—it's easy to see they're praying.

Wonderful.

Well, let's see what happens when their holiness is interrupted. That beats a sleep test any day of the week! Jessica leans forward and sips a glass of water. I've never met the other two: a woman with a dark pixie cut, a man with buzzed blond hair who's reading from a prayer book. I guess. Or a Bible. They have a lot of those inside the Laundromat.

I'd planned on lightly tapping on the glass. Instead, my knuckles impact the door in a full-blown knock.

Three heads turn my way. The man stands to his feet, shoves his hands in his pockets, and approaches the door. He turns the lock and opens it. “Hey. What's up?”

“I'm here to see Augustine.”

He swings the door wide. “Come on in. Want me to take your coat?”

“Okay.” I unzip my jacket, slink out of the sleeves, and hand it to him. “You're not surprised by a visit?”

“Nope. Actually Augustine attracts people at all hours of the night. How about the scarves?”

“I'll keep them as is.”

“No prob.”

Jessica stands. “Valentine?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“You want a hot drink? You must be freezing.”

“I bundled up good. But I'd like something to drink all the same. I'm sorry to interrupt.”

Oh, great. From his spot over the stove, John rebukes my lie. Mr. Holier-Than-Thou. Even if he is.

“I'm Justin,” the man says and shakes my hand.

“Good to meet you.”

“You too.”

“Okay, guys, I'm headed to bed.” He disappears down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bunkroom.

Jessica pats the sofa. “Have a seat. We were just praying Vigils and got a little carried away. Our”—she puts quotation marks around her words with her fingers—‘‘‘hearts were strangely warmed within.'”

“You're going to have to explain that.”

“Wesley. John, not Charles.”

“I didn't realize there were two.”

“Let me get you that tea.”

I sit on the couch. It seems homier in here now that the women have returned from Thailand.

“I'm Rachel,” the woman across from me says.