Oblivion (2 page)

Amputate cancer of the folds of years does the scent of her linger within you tempt her break her make her feel real devour her when she begins to bleed bleed bleed bleed her and feed.

A teardrop splats against a bleed, jarring the force in my head, silencing it, shaking me free, if only for the moment. I focus on the memory of Elijah. He always had an uncanny ability to bring me back to earth, and sometimes, if I think of him, the anxiety wanes and the words disappear. I breathe.

I draw in a deep inhalation, and slowly glance in Lindsey’s
direction. The first time this happened in her company, I was mortifyingly embarrassed, but now, six months later, it’s old hat. Not affected, she’s sitting with one ankle crossed over her knee, picking at the dried mud in the sole of her grape-purple, knee-high Converse All Stars, while the roach burns dangerously close to her fuchsia-tipped fingernails. When she finally acknowledges me, it’s with a steady stare, followed by a minute shake of her head.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Take the meds already, will ya?”

Ah, yes. The meds. Nothing kills one’s passion for living like antianxiety medication. “I flushed it.”

She brings the joint to her lips and breathes in the fumes. “Cool.”

I haven’t seen Elijah for a few weeks, and suddenly, the need to see him overcomes me. If he’s lucky, he’s long gone from his new foster family by now, but I hope he’ll be back to the harbor tonight. It’s a Tuesday. He promised.

He’s stuck with some host family, like me, bound by rules and expectations. Structure. That’s what the court-appointed shrinks call it. And maybe they’re right. But to people like Elijah, this cushy existence of square meals and therapy sessions is more confining than a jail cell. It’s hard to cage a butterfly who’s been free to flutter his entire life.

Lindsey rests her head against my shoulder. “Dude, I’m stoned.”

“I know.” I press a kiss to the crown of her head, directly atop a zigzag part, which divides her jet-black hair into two
spiky ponytails. “Will you tell your mom I’m volunteering tonight?” Lindsey’s parents don’t require us to work regular jobs, but we’re encouraged to do charity work.

“Don’t go to the marina.”

“I have to. It’s Tuesday.”

“Don’t come home crying to me if he’s not there again.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

Her eyes roll up to engage mine. “You’re better than this, you know.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am. But I’m addicted to Elijah the way Lindsey’s addicted to pot. Besides, ever since the day the cops pulled me out of that dingy apartment and stuffed me into a dorm at County Juvenile Hall, he’s been there for me. He’s the only person I completely trusted at County, and he’s the only person, next to Lindsey, I trust now. Unlike Lindsey, he knows everything there is to know about me. He understands me like no one else can. After all, he’s spent time at County, too.

“You gonna write something to Jon?”

“Yeah.”

“No
h
.”

“I know. I’ll remember.”

Her arms lazily drape over my shoulders. “I love you.”

She loves everyone when she’s high.

When I leave a few minutes later, I close the creaking door behind me.

Lindsey’s singing off-key.

B
efore she went away, and for most of my childhood, my mother waited tables at the Vagabond Café. This was in the days when the establishment was more a coffeehouse than a bar, when it was populated with an artistic clientele, when it appeared fresher than it does today. But the drunken yachters didn’t instill the stench of musty buoys and lake when they chased away the beatniks. The Vagabond has always smelled this way; the scent encompasses my earliest memories: three-year-old me watching in awe from the corner table as the minstrels and poets entertained one another. Breathing in the scent of the Chain of Lakes and biscotti while Mom read Tarot—which she didn’t believe in, but understood to the extent that
it garnered her a paycheck—on Saturday nights. Traipsing up the stairs to the apartment with heavy eyes to catch a few winks before being dragged off to the Church of the Holy Promise come sunrise.

This is the first place I remember writing, albeit I wrote for the sheer pleasure of it in those days. The tables inside are littered with poetic graffiti. Carved into tables are classic lines of Keats and Dickens, as well as witty and fresh creations of the local clientele. I wonder if my words are still visible atop table number fourteen. I see them in my mind’s eye:

Travel on, yellow brick road … wind her past throughout her soul.

The Vagabond is nearer the more affluent towns along the Chain. It’s close enough to the Hutches’ neighborhood that I can walk, but it’s a train ride away from Holy Promise. This minute distance—it’s only about fifteen miles—stands out to me now that I’m older: Mom saw this place as an escape. Just far enough away from the ties binding her, far enough away from Palmer Prescott and his version of the word of God. Far enough to breathe.

I suppose this is why I think of my mother whenever I’m in proximity to the harbor, and tonight she won’t leave my mind. I close my hand around the tiny golden ring with the marquise ruby, slung on a chain around my neck. The ring is one of the few items that still connects me to my mother. She gave it to me when I was very small. And sometimes,
if I press the ring to my flesh, I can almost remember the comfort of her touch. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, but I have the sneaking suspicion she isn’t keeping track of our visits.

Much like Elijah.

It’s a chilly night for the middle of September. Uncommonly cool, even for the lakeshore. I didn’t bring a jacket, partly because having one would jinx my chances of warming up in Elijah’s arms, partly because I look damn good in this T-shirt. It’s pink, a scoop-necked, snug fit. It sports the belief that
Lennon Lives
and more cleavage than I can muster on my own, thanks to Lindsey’s Victoria’s Secret plunge bra.

I rub my palms up and down my arms to ward off the nip in the breeze, and gaze down the rickety piers flanked with silvery waves at the Vagabond. Its vertical siding is painted dirty white and peeling. The mauve and mint shutters, unlike most in this area, are not solely ornamental, as they open and close over mullioned, wavy glass windows, perpetually filthy with droplets of lake. The shutters are open tonight, but probably only because no one’s had time to close them, as the wait staff is busy attending to the swarming crowd inside. The front porch gives the place a distinctly shanty presence—very bayou meets the Midwest—and if I gaze at it long enough, I fail to see the weathering of the old joint. Sometimes the Vagabond is just as majestic in my mind as it was in its heyday.

Mom and I lived there, above the café, on a few occasions and for only short bouts of time, but it will always be home to me. It’s like that, when a place is always there for you. Whenever Mom and I left Palmer, we’d camp above the Vagabond. No matter how rank, mildewed, and stuffy, I always felt warm and comfortable there. Safe. Secure.

Sometimes, Elijah and I break into the now vacant-slash-condemned apartment and spend the night curled in each other’s arms on the fuzzy, woolen pink carpeting. We eat greasy Chinese in the north dormer, and if we like, make out on the kitchen floor—a dingy depression-pink-and-green linoleum checkerboard. Life doesn’t get any better than waking up there in Elijah’s arms.

The trouble is that it rarely happens anymore, now that he’s been placed with a foster family. I wonder if Elijah realizes he’s missed the past three Tuesdays, if he knows that the three before that left me vastly dissatisfied. I’m beginning to think all he needs to feel sated and connected is a hookup, but I don’t want to believe it. That can’t happen to us; we’ve been through too much together.

I shift the weight of my backpack on my shoulder and suck hard on my eighth Tootsie Pop of the day—this one’s chocolate, which tastes better than nicotine and tobacco, thank you very much—refusing to shed the tears I feel welling up inside me. Palmer ruined everything. If he hadn’t committed Mom to the Meadows, I wouldn’t be leaning against the rails of this pier, staring over the water
at Highland Point, waiting for Godot.

Then again, everything had to happen just the way it did, or I wouldn’t have gone to County in the first place; I wouldn’t have met Elijah otherwise. And I can’t imagine life without him.

I feel someone looking at me—it’s a common occurrence these days—but when I turn around, no one’s there. I wonder sometimes if it’s my father’s spirit hunting me down, controlling me, even from whatever heaven or hell he landed in.

Elijah’s not coming—I guess I’ve known that for at least twenty minutes now—and he isn’t answering any of my texts. But I can’t go back to the Hutches’. Not yet. Lindsey won’t ask too many questions one way or another, but if I saunter in around ten, she’ll assume all went well with Elijah, and I won’t hear all the reasons why I shouldn’t come to meet him next Tuesday. Besides, if I return before dinner, the Hutches will know Lindsey lied about my volunteering tonight. They think their daughter wears a halo. I don’t want to be the reason they learn otherwise.

The pier creaks beneath my feet, as I make my way to the porch. Inside, a microphone pitches, then rights. Someone’s speaking poetic prose on stage. Tuesdays are open-mic nights, which is the reason Elijah and I originally chose this day as our default meeting time. Truth be told, though, we don’t often enter the place anymore, or even stick around the marina to hear the artful words flowing through the
atmosphere. We have other things on our minds, on the increasingly rare occasions we see each other.

If I concentrate—and lie to myself—I can see my mother whirling through the place, depositing oversized mugs of whiskey and coffee, hot cocoa and schnapps before patrons: her long, merlot-colored hair, pin-straight, bouncing against her back from beneath her paisley beret, her bangles jingling about her tattooed wrists, her subtle, oaky perfume wafting in her wake …

I press a hand to a window and imagine my mother placing hers against mine from the inside, connecting to me through the glass. I feel her, if only in my imagination. My skin tingles and warms with memories. When I think about things, I realize there were signs that all was not well with her, even when I was a small child. But for all her faults, she’s still my mom.

“Callie.” A hot breath drifts over my neck the moment before lips close over my right earlobe, and I smile. “Callie, Callie, Callie.”

In a split second, my back is against the windowpanes, my bag is on the ground, and my lollipop is stuck to the dirty planks at my feet. Elijah’s tongue flickers into my mouth and the taste of cinnamon pours into me.

“You’re late,” I say against his lips. His loose brown curls fall like silk ringlets through my fingers, and he’s clean shaven, for a change.

His hands firmly travel down my sides, coming to rest
on my hips. The heat of his fingers registers against my flesh.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

This is evident.

He feels bulkier, broader, like more man than I remember. He’s always been strong, but he’s hardened in all the places that count. Is it possible for a guy to fill out and bulk up in the space of a month?

Again, he nips my lips. When my hands fall upon his, his fingers entwine with mine. He makes a move toward the pier, but I resist. Elijah prefers to break into cabin cruisers, or hook up on the upper decks if he can’t pick the locks, but I want to be with him elsewhere. “Upstairs,” I whisper.

Even with just a hint of a smile, his brown eyes sparkle. Without a word, he grabs my backpack. We round the building, laced together at the fingers. We brave the iron spiral staircase, the type seen in city lofts, only this one is rusting and missing a few bolts. Once we’re standing on the tiny platform at the top, Elijah presses me against the siding, and nearly stops time with a deep kiss.

My heartbeat, or his, fills my ears. His tongue brushes against mine seemingly in slow motion. I feel his essence breathing me in, awakening the desire simmering in my soul, even when he breaks the kiss.

He licks his lips, flashes his grin—“One second, baby”—and turns to pick the lock.

My glance becomes an ogle as I scrutinize his six-foot
frame. He’s biting his lower lip. His hair has gotten too long, but I kind of like it. He’s wearing an unbuttoned, rusted-orange oxford over a beige T. The label on his jeans stuns me; I hope he scrounged the entire ensemble at a thrift store. The Elijah I know would never stoop to spending a cool hundred on pants. Of course, he wouldn’t wear them, if he’d found them in the gutter, either.

Nerves spin in my gut. I want to freeze him in time. Don’t change, don’t change, don’t change. If you change, we’re done.

Reality check: he isn’t the only one changing.

Burn her
.

It comes on with a whisper in my mind, but soon I know the force will be raging, carving its way through gray matter, like a worm burrowing through garden dirt in search of the summer sun. Not now, I plead with the wordsmith in my head.

Burn, burn, burn her
.