Mosquitoland (24 page)

Stick Figure Redemption

MAGNOLIAS!

Of all trees in all places at all times, it had to be magnolias, here, now. And in droves. Lined in perfect symmetry on either side of the lengthy driveway, the Mississippi state trees stand tall like a hundred marines at attention. Kathy's PT Cruiser rolls between them; through the passenger window, I observe the immaculate lawn, an abundant deep green, each blade trimmed with purpose and care. Like an arrow, the driveway leads straight and true, its tip piercing the heart of an old stone mansion. Or manor, rather. A stately manor: no shutters, no gutters, simple angles. This place would fit nicely in some boring BBC period piece. In fact, I wouldn't be one bit surprised to see Keira Knightley frolicking around in the fields, wrapped in a shawl, crying a little too passionately for the death of her sister's husband. (They were secret lovers, see. God, Keira, just give it a break.)

We pass a sign written in colorful rainbow:

SUNRISE MOUNTAIN

REHABILITATION CENTER:

HOLISTIC CARE FOR SUBSTANCE ABUSE AND DEPRESSION

My misplaced epiglottis suddenly seems more misplaced than usual. “What are we doing here?”

Pulling into a wide parking space, Kathy shuts off the engine. “You wanted to see your mother.” She checks her makeup in the rearview mirror, then opens her door and slides out. “You coming?”

I flinch as the door slams. For a moment, I consider just living in the belly of the PT Cruiser. I could eat here, sleep here, raise a family. Anything to avoid stepping outside, facing this scene.

Suddenly, Kathy's words from Principal Schwartz's office ring in my ears:
She'll beat this disease. Eve's a fighter.

I am a child. I know nothing about anything. And even less about everything.

Walt raps on the passenger-side window, grinning like a maniac, pressing the Reds program against the glass.

“Look!” he yells. “Just like your stick figure book!”

In something reminiscent of a preschooler's homework, Walt has drawn the most glorious stick figure diagram in the history of stick figures, or diagrams, or basically anything ever. It's a thousand times better than my “stick figure book.” Not one bit anemic. Three figures stand in front of explosive fireworks. Each one has multiple arrows pointing to various objects on, or around, their bodies. The figure on the left is taller than the others. He's standing next to a truck, and has something draped around his neck. Above his head, written in all caps, it says
MY FRIND
BEK
. Little arrows indicate the truck is
UNKLE FILL
, and the object around his neck is
CAMRA
. The figure on the right has giant muscles. Above his head, it says
WALTER.
An oblong object in his right hand is labeled
MOWNTAN DO,
and a square in his left hand is marked
COLOURFUL CUBE
.
The figure in the middle is me. Above my head, it says
MY FRIND MIM
. I have crazy big shoes, labeled
SHOOS (X-TRA STRAPS)
. I'm wearing sunglasses, labeled accordingly, and a backpack, labeled
BAKPAK
.
On the ground next to me, there's a stick labeled
MIM'S SHINY
—my lipstick.

We're holding hands, smiling from stick ear to stick ear.

I read once that the Greek language has four words for the word
love
, depending on the context. But as I step out of the PT Cruiser and tumble into Walt's perfectly huggable arms, I think the Greeks got it wrong. Because my love for Walt is something new, unnamed, something crazy-wild, youthful, and enthusiastic. And while I don't know what this new love has to offer, I do know what it demands: grateful tears.

I cry hard.

Then harder.

Then hardest.

Behind me, Beck's voice is a salve. “Hi,” he says. “I'm Beck, and we tell each other stuff.”

I pull back from Walt, wipe my eyes. “What?”

“Umm. Hello? She's
pregnant
?”

I grip my backpack, and tilt my head, and—damn it, there's my cute face again. It will be my undoing. “Oh yeah. That.”

“Oh. Yeah. That. Mim, that is
pertinent
fucking info. Also, it explains a lot.”

“Such as?”

He looks up at the top of the mansion's high stairs, where Kathy has just walked through the double-door entrance. “Such as a certain disdain for a certain stepmother, for which a certain someone snapped at a certain someone else when that certain someone else brought it up in the back of a certain truck. You know of which certain instance I'm referring to, certainly?”

I hold back a smile. “You know—I think my best course of action is to just let the ridiculousness of that sentence marinate.”

He throws one arm around me, one around Walt, and leads the way toward the stairs. It's a communal walk, full of life, love, and the pursuit of Young Fun Now. I am—north to south, east to west—globally slain.

“So you like the drawing, Mim?” Walt asks, cradling the program like a newborn.

Beck leans into my ear. “He worked on it the whole way over here. Kid was beyond pumped to show you.”

This Walt-Mim-Beck mobile sandwich makes me wonder if there's some kind of reverse Siamese twin operation. Or . . . triplets, as it were. “Walt, it's an absolute masterpiece. I love it. Every twiggy inch.”

We're forced to let go of each other, as simultaneous stair-climbing is basically impossible, not at all conducive to Siamese triplets.

“So,” says Beck. “Brother or sister?”

I don't answer at first. I can't. I've written the word, probably said it hundreds of times in other contexts. But never out loud, as it applied to me. I look Beck in the eye, and say it. “Sister.”

“Nice. They have a name picked out?”

“Isabel.”

Beck stops three steps short of the landing. I look back at him, and see something lighter than a shadow pass over his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-uh. Out with it, Van Buren.”

He takes one more step, pauses, runs his hand through his hair. “Last night, at the hotel—you may have mentioned her name.”

“What?” I look to Walt, as if he might offer some assistance. And by assistance, I mean resuscitation. CPR. The Heimlich. Those electric pads that literally shock your life back into its skin. Walt has his head buried in the Reds program. Probably not the best candidate for electric shock, come to think of it. “When?”

“During your . . . I don't know what to call it . . . episode?”

Sometimes my brain hurts. Not a headache. A brainache. Chalk it up as just another in a long line of Mim's medical mysteries, but right now, my brain hurts like hell. I take the last three steps, imagining my blackout and the host of private thoughts I might have announced: internal monologues, theories meant for no one but me, words that put the utterance of my unborn sister's name to shame.

And then Beck's hand is in mine, and my brainache subsides. (In place of the pain, curtains rise on a lavish Broadway song and dance, Rodgers and Hammerstein in their prime.)

At the top of the stairs, we are greeted by a rainbow-colored sign next to the entrance.

THIS IS YOUR NEW BEGINNING

PLEASE CHECK ALL NEGATIVITY AND SELF-DOUBT HERE, AS YOU WILL HAVE NO NEED FOR THEM INSIDE. FROM THIS POINT ON, YOU WILL LIVE
YOUR
LIFE.

“What a shame they didn't remind me to breathe my air,” says Beck, opening the door with a half smile. But it's not his signature half smile, all cute and coy. This one is different, lackluster. Supremely lacking in luster. “Mim,” he starts. And suddenly, my arms are around him, because I don't want him to finish that sentence.

They aren't coming inside, because this isn't for them.

This is my wooden box.

It's a deep, powerful hug, and Walt turns around, because even he understands there's nothing romantic or funny about it. My mouth, just inches from Beck's ear, whispers the familiar line on its own.

Beck kisses me on the cheek, and responds beautifully, simply, “Yes, Mim. You are.”

And I think of all the times I thought I wasn't okay, and all the times maybe I could have been, if only I'd had a Beck Van Buren around to tell me otherwise.

He steps back now, throws an arm around Walt. “We'll be starting a New Beginning when you get back. Right, Walt?”

“Hey, hey, I'm Walt.”

“Damn straight,” says Beck, winking at me.

An image: my two best friends with their arms around each other, so different and so alike, colorful and puzzling and alive, clicked into place like Walt's cube. I tighten my backpack, wondering if I'll ever again have friends like these.

“Damn straight.”

Sunrise Mountain

SUNRISE MOUNTAIN REHAB
slaps me in the face with its unapologetic frontier motif. Standing between a butter churn and a rodeo saddle, I'm thinking it should apologize—to me, yes, but not exclusively. This place owes an apology to all those who have had the misfortune of setting foot inside its hellish doors.

On a throw rug a bald eagle soars atop snow-capped mountains; it is majestic, patriotic, and above all, obnoxious. Beyond the mountains, a purple sun sets on my electro-fuchsia shoes. A large bust of Daniel Boone stands tall in the corner, leading an army of oil paintings like a brigadier general: a wild lynx, an impossibly gorgeous horizon, a diagram of birds in their natural habitats—each painting in impeccable formation, awaits the trumpeting charge of their courageous General Boone (
sic
).

It is this: ridiculousness magnified.

Locating the nearest ladies' room, I run inside and slam the door behind me. But there's no escaping the resiliency of the eagles. They've soared their way in here as well, at least a hundred of them, flapping their wings for freedom, hovering, circling, diving, intent on breaking out of their embroidered wallpaper prison. An Aztec tapestry hangs on the wall above the toilet, adding a certain I-don't-know-what . . . turquoiseness to the mix. A miniature cactus sits in a pot on the sink, crooked and lonely.

I drop to my knees, lean over the toilet, yank back the seat, and heave.

She's here. In this awful, kitschy, eagle-soaring hellhole.

It pours out of me . . .

Lonely.

All the semi-digested contents of my stomach . . .

Lost.

God, it stinks in here.

She's here.

Sometimes, when it gets bad like this, I imagine my heart, my stomach, my liver, kidneys, and spleen, all the innards of Mary Iris Malone, pouring out of me like a hose, leaving behind a sagging skin–shell, a deflated air mattress, a soft mannequin. I'd be Born-Again Mim. A fresh start. One hell of a New Beginning.

I collapse on the bath mat (an altogether hideous depiction of cowboys and Indians, complete with stampeding buffalo and six-shooters) and try to catch my breath. A minute later, there's a knock on the door.

“Mim? You okay?”

I sit up, take a long pull of paper towels and wipe my mouth. “Be right out!”

Above the toilet, a sign reads:

USE TRASH CAN FOR PAPER TOWELS AND FEMININE PRODUCTS

DO NOT FLUSH

And like dominoes, the memories tumble; a yellow-tinted bathroom knocks over the most Carlish Carl, knocks over Arlene, knocks over old wisdom, knocks over youthful innocence, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over . . .

Looking at the handle on the toilet, I smile. Young Mim of Not So Long Ago, upon discovering the well of friendship to be completely tapped, found new friends, an ensemble cast of saviors.

Mom is here, in this stinking place. But this time, there are no Carls or Arlenes or Pale Whales or Karate Kids or Fabulous Walts or Consummate Beck Van Burens to save the day. There is only Our Heroine, and once again, she is on her own.

At the sink, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. There is no mirror, so I stare at the droopy cactus.

Lonely.

Crooked.

A trash can sits in the corner, boasting perfect trajectory. With precision, with skill, with lionhearted determination, I swipe the potted cactus across the room and into the trash can—hole in one. I wipe my hands on my jeans, exiting the Southwestern ladies' room forever and ever, and good riddance.

Down the hall, Kathy is talking to a guy at the reception desk. He's tall, attractive, a few years older than me. As I approach, my stepmom straightens up. “You okay?”

I nod, then smile at the receptionist, who, upon closer inspection, really isn't good-looking at all. Like a connoisseur of fine wines lost in a hack's vineyard, I have been spoiled rotten by the beauty of Beck Van Buren.

“You must be Mim,” he says through crooked teeth. “And how are you today?”

“Swell. Listen, I just chunked in your ladies' room, so you might wanna spritz something piney in there. Or floral. Whatever you have in stock. It should be strong though. Weighty, you know?”

He gapes at me, growing uglier by the minute. “I'm sorry, you . . . you what?”

“I ralphed.”

He tilts his head.

“Drove the porcelain bus?” I say. “Ate in reverse? Buicked my Kia?”

Now they're both staring.

“I vomited in your bathroom, man. And now the place stinks to high heavens.”

They're still staring, but with completely different looks on their faces.

“Also, can I get a Mountain Dew?” I ask, smacking my lips. “It's like I just chewed a tube of wood glue or something.”

The receptionist gives Kathy a look that I interpret to mean
Is she serious?
Kathy's eyes respond with
Deadly.
Mildly Attractive Male Receptionist scurries off, presumably after a Mountain Dew.

“Come on,” says Kathy, starting down the hallway.

“What about my drink?”

“You wanna spend any more time here than you have to?”

Next to me, Daniel Boone's bust is wearing a
who, me?
smile.

I jog to catch up with Kathy, noticing, not for the first time, what a curious walk she has. It's equal parts sass,
z
-snap, and street smarts. Her earrings jangle, her artificial curls bob, her too-tight jeans ride, her acrylic nails click, her bedazzled belt sparkles, her pregger boobs bounce—in this moment, I must applaud Kathy, and all the delusional fashionistas before her, clinging just as fiercely to their lost youth as they are their fake Louis Vuittons.

She hands me a slip of paper with the number 22 written in a mildly attractive handwriting. As we pass room 11, sweat beads across my forehead. I feel—and hear—my heart pounding against its adjacent innards, sending vibrations through my rib cage, my recently emptied stomach, my skin, my Zeppelin tee, my red hoodie.

Room 17 passes in a blur. God, we're walking fast.

The narrow hallway is consistent in design with the rest of the place: nature-y oil paintings, plush carpeting, flowery wallpaper with a bunch of ridiculous eag—

“You ready?” whispers Kathy.

“What?”

She points to the door: room 22. On the other side, I hear the clear, deep baritone of a man who has lived his life.