Mosquitoland (25 page)

The Drive Back

September 6—noon

Dear Isabel,

I write to you with the strongest of urges. I write of substance, and of despair. I write to teach and learn, purge and fill. I write to speak, and I write to listen. I write to tell the fucking truth, Iz.

To that end . . .

I was six when Aunt Isabel hung herself in our basement.

She was visiting from Boston at the time. I remember, the day before she killed herself, she sat in our living room and suggested I write a letter to her when she got back to Boston. But I was as impulsive back then as I am now. I decided I couldn't wait that long. So the next day, I sat in my room and wrote a letter about nothing . . . just a letter. And then I went to find her. I searched high and low, every room of our house. Finally, and as a last resort, I tried the door to our basement. It was one of those ancient, heavy doors that creaked when you opened it. So you can imagine, as a young child, how this frightened me. Also, it had a big brass lock on it, but for as long as anyone could remember the lock had been broken. (I've often wondered how differently my life would have turned out had that lock been fixed, or had I been too scared to go down there. But it was broken, and I was brave, and 'twas always thus.) I made my way down the dark stairs, calling out for Aunt Isabel the whole way. Needless to say, she didn't answer.

Nor would she ever again.

I found her hanging there, her feet dangling inches from the floor—inches from life. Later on, I would piece things together: Aunt Isabel was sick in the head; she came off her meds; at her doctor's behest, she went to stay with family; she wrote letters (of serious substance and despair, I would imagine) to her doctor; and, ultimately, she decided her life wasn't worth a damn.

There can be no question that our father blames himself, both for the suicide of his sister, as well as the ensuing shock brought upon his daughter (me, not you). There can be no question that this has fed his suspicions as to my own illness, that he thinks he could have done more to save Aunt Isabel, that maybe he could have done more to save me from
finding
Aunt Isabel. That maybe he can do more now to keep me from
becoming
Aunt Isabel. But I'm not her, and I never have been. One day, I hope he sees this truth.

So. The elephant in the room. They're naming you after her. Yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha. Hilarious, right? Or, if not funny, counterintuitive. I mean, Isabel is a great name, don't get me wrong. But blimey, that's a heavy-handed welcome to a world full of weak hands.

So why'd they do it? Why name you after the most tragic figure in our family? I'll tell you, but when you read what I'm about to write, remember what we determined about Reasons. They're hard. Damn near impossible sometimes.

Okay, then, here it is: I was supposed to be Isabel.

(Boom, right?)

So you're probably wondering what happened. Why am I
not
Isabel? Why am I Mary Iris Malone? (Why, indeed?)

It begins with a promise.

Before you and I were born, our grandmother, Mary Ray Malone, died of lung cancer. On her deathbed, or so the story goes, she asked Dad and Aunt Isabel to carry on her mother's name (Isabel) should they one day have a daughter of their own.

They agreed.

Enter Eve Durham (my mother), the firecracker from Across the Pond. Shortly after they were married, Eve informed Barry that she was pregnant, to which Barry informed her that should the baby be a girl, her name would be Isabel, to which Eve informed Barry that she hated the name Isabel. Barry pushed. Eve pushed harder. In the end, he gave in, on the one condition that they use his mother's name—Mary. Mom said, fine, but she wanted some kind of flower in the name.

BARRY MALONE'S FACE

(Upon Hearing the News That His Wife Wanted a Fucking Flower in Their Daughter's Name)

And so I was born, the improbable Mary Iris Malone, kaleidoscopic anomaly from the word
go
.

Mim was a quick nickname. Only occasionally has Dad called me Mary, and then, only by accident. But I can't blame him. My name—my existence—is a constant reminder of his broken promise to his mother.

That's where you come in, Isabel. You get to make Dad whole. Through you, he gets redemption. He gets to keep his promise. In fact, I make a prediction: Dad will never call you anything other than Isabel. You will have no nicknames.

God, I envy you.

Anyway . . .

I'm with your mom now, riding back to Mississippi. Mosquitoland. That's what I've been calling it. It's catty, I know, but how else does one kick an entire state in the balls? I've chosen mockery.

The truth is, Mississippi doesn't feel like home. Not yet. Until yesterday, I thought home was in Cleveland with my mom, but God, did I have that wrong.

Home is hard.

Harder than Reasons.

It's more than a storage unit for your life and its collections. It's more than an address, or even the house you grew up in. People say home is where the heart is, but I think maybe home
is
the heart. Not a place or a time, but an organ, pumping life into my life. There may be more mosquitos and stepmothers than I imagined, but it's still my heart. My home.

A real kaleidoscopic New Pangaea.

My hope for you, Isabel, is that your home will be easy. Obvious. Desirable. My guess is it will be none of these things. My guess is you'll have your own Mosquitoland to deal with. Good effing luck.

I haven't decided whether I'll continue writing to you after you're born, or if my Book of Reasons is more of a prenatal correspondence log. Part of me thinks it would be a great way to offer up a lifetime of advice, and tell my stories as they come, rather than wait for you to grow up to hear them. By then, you probably won't care anyway. Or I might forget them all, because I'll be old. Or dead. That's the thing about life—you don't know how long you have until you're dead, and by then, you don't know much of anything at all.

Maybe I will. Keep writing, I mean. It does make me feel okay. And feeling okay is at a premium these days.

Anyway, I suppose you'd like to hear my ninth and final Reason. The thing of Things, the gemstone talisman, the last layer in my Giant Onion of Reasons. Are you ready? Here it is:

Isabel Sherone-Malone,
you
are Reason #9.

And if I'm honest with myself, you were the only
Reason that ever really mattered. My dad wanted to divorce my mom? Fine. He wanted to marry another woman? Fine. He wanted the three of us to move way the hell away from my mom, my life, my world? Fucking
fine
. But he and the new wife were having a kid together?

Peace out.

And then yesterday happened. Sunrise Mountain happened. I walked into a room, and my life changed. (You should be ready for this. Sometimes you walk into a room one person, and when you come out the other side, you're someone else altogether.) My Objective, once achieved, turned out to be something else entirely. Your mother was a big part of this. She pulled back a dusty curtain to reveal oh-so-many truths. Someday we'll talk about it more. I'll give these letters to you and fill in the gaps as best I can. You'll probably have questions, and that's fine. I will provide honest answers. Because even though honesty is hard, you really have to murder people with it if you expect to be a person of any value at all. Remember that, Iz. Be a kid of honesty. Wave it like a banner for all to see. Also, while I'm thinking about it—be a kid who loves surprises. Squeal with delight over puppies and cupcakes and birthday parties. Be curious, but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you're making waffles. Don't settle for the first guy (or girl) unless he's the right guy (or girl). Live your effing life. Do so with gusto, because my God, there's nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence. Know yourself. Love yourself. Be a good friend. Be a kid of hope and substance. Be a kid of appetite, Iz. You know what I mean, don't you? (Of course you do. You're a Malone.)

Okay, that's all for now. Catch you on the flip side.

Blimey, get ready.

Signing off,

Mary Iris Malone,
Your Big Sister

Behind the Curtain

AS I WALK
into room 22, Mom's silhouette commands my attention, as it did that fateful Labor Day, one year ago exactly. She's sitting in an easy chair with her back to me, facing the window. Outside, the sun is setting. Its gentle glow casts my mother in an ominous light, made even more so as it seems to affect nothing else in the room. Next to her, a CD player sits on a coffee table. As the song comes to an end, the CD whizzes and hums, and the song begins again.

Elvis on repeat.

Shit.

It's bad.

“What are you doing here?” she asks without turning around. Her voice sounds beyond repair. I don't have to try hard to remember the last time I saw her. The night she sat next to Dad. The night of the one-line speech. My mouth freezes, my forehead melts, my hands tighten; I am 110 percent unprepared for this. My only response is so elementary, even I wince.

“Happy Labor Day, Mom.”

My Goodwill shoes carry me toward her. The shades turn as I walk, from brown to blue, lighter, then darker, then lighter again.

“Mary, you can't be here.”

“Eve . . .” Kathy's voice comes out of nowhere. It had only taken seconds for me to forget she was in the room. “She came a long way to see you. You have no idea—”

Mom turns her head and interrupts Kathy with a look. And in this, my moment of Moments, I see my stepmother's face, and realize how wrong I've been about her.

Mom turns her head back to the window and whispers, much too low for me to hear. I twist her lipstick in my pocket, even closer now, close enough to rest a hand on her shoulder. She looks into my eyes, fully, finally, and for the first time, I see her—God, I see her for what she is, was, and will be. I see a million miles of life, a million lives in one, a million headaches, heartaches, and brainaches, a million ingredients in her eyes. The recipe is this: natural joy and learned sorrow; love found and love lost; fireworks, fortune cookies, famous rock stars, empty bottles, true compassion, false starts, staying up late, moonlight, sunlight, being a wife, being betrayed, being in my corner, being my mother, being, being, being.

“I was lovely once, but he never loved me once.”

I nod and lose my shit. From my gut to my heart to the sockets of my eyes—one dead, one alive—tears don't discriminate. I am overcome by the urge to tell her about the Great Blinding Eclipse, and how I've been half-blind for two years, and how I've never told anyone. I want her to be the first to know. I want her to know everything about my trip, all the people I've met along the way. I want her to know about Beck and Walt. I want her to know about Arlene and the extra Carlness of Carl. I want her to know about Mosquitoland and our horrible house bought for the low, low price of Everything I've Ever Known to Be True. Because right now, looking at this shell that I once called Mom, it seems nothing could ever be true again. I miss Kung Pao Mondays and teaming up against Dad. I miss the mutinous cul-de-sac and giving money to Reggie. I miss the way things used to be.

I miss
home.

I want to tell her all these things, but I don't. I can't. It's like running a marathon, then stopping one foot before the finish line. So I stand. Thinking.

I think of a decade-old conversation. From the deformed mouth of a bubbly-skinned man, in line at a bank or a pharmacy or a fish market, it doesn't matter. The conversation travels through a black hole of time and space, beyond every star and moon and sun in every galaxy of the universe; for its final destination, it arrives at Planet Earth, USA, Ohio, Cleveland, Sunrise Mountain Rehab, Room 22, Mim's Ears.

“
Did God mess up?
” I asked.

“
Nope
,” said Bubbly Skinned Man, smiling like a fool. “
He just got bored
.”

From that moment to this, I've pondered the peculiarities of an angry Almighty. And now I know. I see it in the medicated drool dripping from the face of my once youthful mother. I see it in the slew of trained specialists assigned to her keeping. I see it in the Southwestern motif, from floor to ceiling of this nightmare called Sunrise Rehab, and I know what God makes when He's angry: a person with the capacity for emptiness. But not the always-emptiness of Dustin or Caleb or Poncho Man. A drained emptiness. A person who was once full. A person who lived and dreamed, and above all, a person who cared for something—for
someone.
And within that person, he places the possibility of
poof—
gone—done—to be replaced by a Great Empty Nothingness. I know this is true, because right now, a Great Empty Nothingness is staring me right in the fucking face.

“Mary,” it whispers.

I hold her hand for the first time since that fateful Labor Day, somewhere between mutiny and mediocrity. Crying, I look out the window, hoping like hell she doesn't say what I know she's going to say.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispers between sobs. “I never wanted you to see me like this. I'm just so sorry.”

“It's okay, Mom.” My words pour out in ugly, nasal globs, and I hug her as hard as I've hugged anyone. “It's okay,” I say again, because if I keep saying it, maybe it will be true.
It's okay it's okay it's okay it's okay
. I rest my head on her shoulder and gaze out the shaded window half expecting fireworks to go off in the distance. God, wouldn't that just be the thing of Things? There are none, but it's okay. It's still Labor Day. Just a different kind of mutiny.

And now Kathy is pulling my hand. “It's time to go,” she whispers, motioning toward the door.

I nod and kiss Mom's forehead. Turning, I notice a vanity—not
the
vanity, but one similar—standing just next to her bed. It's a dark wood, rife with the ornate vine etchings so popular in its day. Though the top of the vanity stands waist-high, a mirror attached to the back rises all the way to the ceiling, standing tall like it owns the place. I cross the room, noticing a hairline crack running the length of the mirror, from top to bottom. When I position myself in the middle, one half of my face is on either side of the crack.

Right Side Mim and Left Side Mim.

Split in half.

My reflection is a throwaway recipe of expired ingredients: gaunt, unfamiliar, worldly, homesick, aged, exhausted, to name more than a few. On one side of the crack, my right eye is almost closed. The zipper from my hoodie follows the crack in the mirror, down, down; I notice the red cloth is deeper, dirtier, a thicker shade of blood.

An image: Right Side Mim turning to Left Side Mim, asking oh-so-many questions. One hand on the vanity, I recall the dream I'd had only months ago: the old feet, the low whispers, the reflection of
our
faces. Her makeup tray isn't here, but her makeup is: the perfumes, blushes, eyeliners, and concealers. All of it, save one item.

I pull the war paint from my jeans pocket, and twirl it in my hands. Like me, it's different now, well-traveled, a little longer in the tooth. Having never finished my last application, there's still a little left. And I know just how to use it.

In even strides, I cross the room, stepping between my mother and her shaded windows. Head down, I see her feet in those same old ratty slippers—right next to my feet in those same old ratty shoes. So many similarities . . .

I twist the tube of lipstick, and like a phoenix rising from the ashes, so too it rises ready for work. Kathy stands silently by the door; she doesn't try to stop or rush me.

“You look different,” my mother whispers. It takes me off guard, because for some reason, she didn't look like a person who was going to say something.

I raise my eyes to meet hers. “I cut my hair.”

Mom shakes her head and leans into my ear. “You look like my Mary.”

The tears become a flood. And I have a new image now: my unopened bottle of Abilitol, the truest talisman of disappointment, snug in the bottom of my backpack. It's been days since I bowed to the king of habit, and yet, I feel more Mim than ever before.

I wipe my eyes, place one hand on my mother's shoulder, grip the lipstick between my thumb and forefinger, and lean in. “Let me show you a thing or two.”

She smiles a little, and so do I, recalling my first and last makeover. I paint her lips evenly, careful not to miss those elusive corners, careful not to go outside the lines. She's staring at me, her eyes full of I-don't-know-what . . . wonder, appreciation, embarrassment, love. All of it, and all at once.

Finished with the makeover, I step back and admire my handiwork. Still a shadow of her former self, there is something there, something absent only minutes ago—a glimmer of youth, or a little light behind the eyes. It's not much, but it's something.

“Look at you,” I whisper, smiling, crying. “Lovely.”

I kiss my mother's forehead and nod at Kathy. Before walking out of room 22, I set Mom's empty tube of lipstick on her new vanity, back where it belongs.