Skinny (10 page)
Hours later, when they are brown and tired and happy with the modest, white-bellied bass, fat enough for four but not too
many to anger the god of good fishermen, later, they come home. Me and Mom stand on the porch in our aprons, our faces dusty
with the pies we have baked.
After dinner, Holly sits on his lap while he bounces her on his knee, knocking her around as if she were riding a jittery
pony. She tries to open her drooping eyes, because the family is happy and laughing and full-—the salty lemon taste of fish
melting in our mouths, we are saying her name:
Holly Bolly Polly
Holly. Girl! Wake up! There's strawberry pie! Your favourite!
Sucking on a rubbery fish skeleton, seeing us from his eyes, she kicks out her leg, flings her arms wide, about to hug the
world.
Holly throws herself into the air. Flying. Climbing over Dad, thrashing her limbs at him: she jumps.
Never hesitating for a moment that she will be caught.
And staring at that stupid, too-small hearing aid, I start to cry. For Holly, who lost the man who loved her best, for Mom,
who lost them both, for our warped little suburban trinity of women that won't hear a man's step on the stairway, or his cough
in the night, or ever taste the paprika stew he made in the winter when none of us was home and he listened to gypsy music
at top volume. 1 cry for myself, because I don't even know which man to start mourning. Loss doubled, loss tripled, loss endlessly
multiplying is infinite.
You had the chance to love me, but you gave it up. Is it true? Or was it
your only way? I
stare at the monkey skull Thomas gave me after I had perused his travelling kit one too many times. I once used his scissors
and knives to bury little birds and squirrels in our backyard. I received a terse slap from Thomas and a lecture on sterilization
and the potential dangers I could be inflicting on his patients. I stood in front of him sniffling, apologizing.
Feeling sorry for me, Thomas leaned over, still wearing his green scrubs, smelling like the hospital, sterile but like a toilet.
He held out the one object I could have: a tiny monkey skull.
"Use this for your little explorations. Don't touch my stuff," he said before pushing me out of the room.
I remember the first time I held the little skull, feeling its weight in my hands. Besides the Christmas and birthday presents
bought by Mom from both of them, it was the only gift Thomas had ever given me. Holly, dressed in a pink velour jumpsuit,
sensed my fascination with the object, and intent on possession, grabbed it from me with her sticky hands. But I'd had the
skull clutched next to my heart, and she couldn't get at it. In a loud clear voice I said:
"This is
miner
Holly pulled her hands behind her back obediently and, nodding at me in a businesslike way, moved on through the living room.
This is mine. This is
—my brain repeats, making words from the sobs that wrench up like chunks of diamonds caught in my esophagus . . .
this, this is you.
And the last time I let him get tome.
—
This is it, we are even. And you are dead.
They think, the kids at school, they think I'm nuts. Today, my first day back, I climbed the ten-foot wire fence that wraps
around the schoolyard. I don't know why I did it but it scared me, that stupid fence, with the barbed wire at the top poking
up into the sky. So, at lunchtime, I just went up it.
"What're you doing?" Jen said, putting her hands on her hips. "Get the hell off, someone's going to see you." But there was
ringing in my ears and the gauze on my ribs was itching me 'cos Giselle didn't wake up early enough to get me in the shower
and by then some other kids were standing around watching so I had to do it.
When I got to the top, I gripped the barbs, bent my knees back, and turned around to face the crowd. Mr. Saleri was standing
in front, looking up at me.
"Holly, I want you to come on down now."
"OK, sir, just wanted to see if I could do it."
I tried to wave at him but the barbs poked into my hands and shot spikes of heat up my spine. I lowered myself, facing them,
gripping each square piece of the fence tightly. About five feet from the ground I jumped off and landed on my knees. Mr.
Saleri picked me up under my arms and took me inside to bandage me up.
He looked sad when I sucked in air through my teeth as he doused my hands with rubbing alcohol.
"You know, I have to tell Mr. Ford about this."
"Why, sir?"
Mr. Ford is the principal and I'm already pushing my luck with him; he doesn't want me to graduate, says I'm lucky to be back
in school with only a week's suspension after the fight.
Mr. Saleri took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Because Mr. Ford is my boss, because he's going to find out anyway and
it's better if he finds out from me." He put his glasses back on and looked at me, his eyes magnified. "Why do you do these
things, Holly?"
I shrugged. "I hear stuff, there's noise in my head, like a radio that's kinda fuzzy, and my head hurts . . . I can't explain
it, something gets in me." My heart started beating faster.
He held my gauzed hands in his. He suddenly seemed old. Outside the small window in the nurse's room, the wind was blowing
tornadoes of garbage around and the buzzing, the hotness, came inside my head again. I bent my hands and watched the blood
seep slowly through the gauze while I spoke.
"Giselle's home and sometimes it's hard because she's kind of moody and I'm moody too but everything's OK, really, it's OK,
and the fight, well, you were there, sir, the fight wasn't really my fault—I got shit for it but you know as well as I do,
sir . . ."
"Don't say
shit,
Holly."
"Sorry, sir." I offer out my hand. He unwraps the bandage and takes a paper towel to wipe the fresh blood off.
I wanted to explain it more to Mr. Saleri but the words didn't come.
"There are only two weeks of school left, Holly. . . Tell you what, you make me a promise." "What's that, sir?"
"You be a good girl, no more of this garbage, please, and I'll make sure you get out of St. Sebastian. You
and]en."
Mr. Saleri taped up my hand again and we both sat there looking at it, waiting for the bleeding to come through, but it didn't.
"OK."
Lunch was over, the schoolyard was empty, and there were big puffy grey clouds all over the sky. Suddenly the buzzing was
gone and I could hear all the boys in Mr. Saleri's classroom yelling and whipping chalk at the board. He could hear it, too.
. . .
You can feel the cool rise up from the river even on the hottest days, that's why we go there, though the river is poisoned
and there is no time. We both have places to be: Jen has to go to her sister's to babysit her nieces and I should be home
studying for my math final. But, instead, we meet up by the convenience store next to school, split a grape and lime Popsicle,
and walk through the park without talking.
When we get to the top of the hill, we throw our school bags down and sit there, high on the ravine, inhaling the toxic mixture
of the polluted river sludge and the lilacs bursting up between the trees. I take my shoes and knee socks off and wade into
the river. When the water's up to my knees, Jen lights a cigarette she stole from her sister, Joanne.
"Want one?" she yells. I shake my head as Jen coughs on her first drag and then I take a further step, trying to balance myself
on the slimy moss-covered stones. I look back at Jen and she gives me a crusty smile. Her eyes are turning yellow from blue
bruises, and there's a small cut on her cheek. I know it's probably not very Christian of me but I'm glad Jen has black eyes.
Glad I'm not the only one with battle scars.
"I'm sorry about your face, Jen."
"Well, my mom only yelled for about half an hour and then she didn't have the heart to ground me, so I guess it worked out
all right." Jen skips a rock upriver: one-two-three-four times the charm.
"Mine too. Jen?"
"Yeah?" she says, blowing out blue smoke.
"Who's he got starting next game?" I miss playing with Jen, the way our bodies find each other on the court like two crazy-in-love
tango dancers, the way we can pass and defend each other blindfolded and nearly always score.
"Practice sucks without you, Hoi," she says, pulling on a pair of sunglasses.
"Yeah."
"How's your sister? Still skinny?"
I nod. Jen throws a rock at my ass, then another, and starts laughing. I step back to the shore and pull myself up the hill
and start pitching leaves and garbage at her. I think about how next year Jen's going to be joining all her sisters and cousins
and Italian friends at high school and how I'll fit in, or not. Then Jen teaches me Italian swear words and we laugh, counting
the ducks that go by.
"How come your parents never taught you Polish? Or Hungarian, or whatever you are. Manga."
Manga. Manga-cake. Only the Italians aren't mangas. I shrug and wipe my wet feet on Jen's bag. "Giselle knows a little."
"Maybe they wanted to forget, have their own secret language."
"Maybe."
. . .
When I get home Giselle is lying under a pile of blankets on the living room floor, sweating. When I touch her forehead it
feels like she has a fever. She opens her blanket and I coil up next to her and whisper, "What's wrong?"
"Me," she says.
"Yeah, what's wrong with you?"
"My stomach hurts . . . I think I ate too much."
I place my hand on her slight belly and put my hand on her forehead.
"Are you OK? Should we call someone? Take you to the hospital?"
She groans, collecting herself into a ball. "No, no hospital, I think it's just cramps or something."
"You're doing so good, G., we're so proud of you."
Giselle doesn't say anything, only wipes her nose on the blanket.
I have so many things to say to her I can't even get the order straight. I want to ask her: why did you spin so far out when
there isn't even that far to go in this bastard world?
At night, when the house is dark and I can't sleep, I pray for her body to grow strong. I pray for her soul to stand straight
up, for the end of her nightmares. I pray even though I'm past praying. I call on Jesus though he never calls on me.
When I was stupid in my ears, when I stuffed my hands into the mouths of growling dogs because I couldn't hear, she'd grab
me, just in the nick of time, always a second before the blood and tears flew.
Because Giselle put thoughts in my head and letters in my mouth when no one had the patience. She thinks I don't remember
but I do, sitting on her lap, hour after hour, going over it, till I had it perfect. A B C D E . . .
It was always her voice that sounded clear when everyone else's faded or tweaked so loud I had to lock myself in the bathroom.
I uncover her face so she can get some cool air. Her skin is hot. She looks like a dishevelled angel, with the white duvet-wings
folded over her shoulders. I want to tell her about this image but she says, "Everything feels like a struggle, Hoi, why is
that?" Her question makes me forget that my sister is a hippie-angel and then suddenly I have another picture in my head of
Jesus holding his bloody, thorny heart in his hand:
Mercy.
. . .
The next day I see my father's ghost. He's disguised as a little boy, a six-year-old wearing a striped shirt, but I can tell
it's him. I recognize his baseball cap; it's the same one I saw him in at the track.
After Mom leaves for work, I'm doing the dishes when I look out the window into our yard and see him, the boy, standing there,
in the middle of our overgrown lawn strewn with old dandelions. He's doing yo-yo tricks and stops every once in a while to
look up at me as he winds up the string. His hat and yo-yo are both red.
He reminds me of Egg, somehow, the little kid from
Hotel
New Hampshire,
the John Irving book Giselle's making me read 'cos Sol made her read it. I guess my dad and Egg do have a lot in common. They
both died unexpectedly. And Egg wasn't a real person, just a character, and so sort of a ghost in my mind already, I guess.
When I finish the dishes, I hear Giselle stirring upstairs, so I dry my hands and go outside. I know he won't talk to Giselle,
that he'll go away if she comes downstairs, but that he'll talk to me. As I approach him he smiles and asks me for a glass
of water. I go back to the kitchen and get him one and, on the way back, I use my free hand as a machete, skimming over the
grass at my knees. He giggles at this and does it himself before I hand him the water. He drinks it quickly; ghosts get thirsty
too, I guess.
"Hi," I venture.
"What? Oh, hi." He continues lopping off heads of dandelions with his small child-doctor hands making
chuuuu a chuuu
noises until I ask him to show me his around-the-world again. He fits the string on my finger and shows me the proper method
of flicking the yo-yo around.
"Just keep doing that," he says, stuffing his hands in his little jean pockets and
chuu chuuing his
way out of the grass and onto the pavement.
"Thanks for the water." He waves, and runs down the street pumping his little arms at his sides and making rocket explosions.
When I come inside, Giselle is stumbling around the kitchen, still half-asleep, trying to pour milk into a bowl without cereal.
I put the yo-yo on the table, in front of her.
"Want some eggs?" I pull a pan onto the front element and motion to her to sit down.
"Sure, thanks." She sits there, rubbing her eyes and moaning for a while as I make breakfast.
"Why are you in such a great mood?"
"Daddy taught me yo-yo tricks," I declare, in our sunny kitchen, as my sister wakes up and looks at me queerly. The yellow
yolks bubble as the new day's light blinds us both for a moment or two.
. . .
I'd really like to tell Mr. Saleri everything because I think he would understand and not drag me to some child psychologist.
But there's a thunderstorm coming, and my hands are cut open, and it all seems too complicated to frame into words: my Daddy's
child-ghost, not to mention Giselle's late-night fried-sardine sandwiches and how they drive Mom absolutely mental.
Still, I'd want to tell him not to worry, because you tell people, that's what you do, you explain weird stuff about yourself
and your family to people who love you. Because he loved me, he loves me. Me, fucked-up little Holly Vasco. I know Mr. Saleri
sticks up for me when none of the other teachers do. Thinks I'm smart but not in the normal way. Every day I twist my knees
for a wing stride till it torches liquid venom on my tongue; he knows, he sees me, counts the seconds of my pace until night
folds over our cold, lonely track.
And I want to tell him it's going to be OK. Because I know that he loves me, that he loves me best.
But there's a trick with me: I have to knock my head against the wall sometimes to get it to stop. Sometimes I need to jump
fences, throw myself off the edge of this spinning core.
Sometimes I land so hard my head stops making its noise, then the dead go quiet, at last.