The Empress Chronicles (4 page)

“Elisabeth, you must give up this dream world you favor,” Mummi lamented, tearing her hands away from her tear-stained face and grabbing Sophie back from me, “and learn to conduct yourself like a future queen.” Little Sophie was too young, thank goodness, to understand what her mother said next. “For if you insist on living in a bubble cloud, you’ll end up no better off than me. Stuck in a marriage with a dolt and tied to a nest of wild, selfish children who don’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

With that pronouncement, Mummi, her baby daughter firmly in her arms, strode angrily away, but not before reminding me that supper would be ready within the hour and she expected me to be cleaned up and sitting down before then. Or else.

All of my ponies’ filth had resettled upon my very person. Their coats now gleaming, it would take sixteen buckets of well water, lye and a lambskin to scour me half as clean. It seemed that most hours of my life I was washing dirt from my body or brushing the tangles out of my hair and, with the archduchess sticking her nose into our business (
heed the stains on her teeth. Once she’s of age, yellow teeth will prove a liability)
, it was bound to grow worse. With an impulse I could not forestall, I wound my arm up and hurled the curry brush toward the far end of the stable, aiming for wood, but woe and alas, the brush instead found its way to the head of a man who’d wandered in just at the wrong moment. The man, I was loath to discover, was my father’s good friend, the hunt master, Count S.

“Ouch,” yelped the count as the wooden handle clunked against his forehead.

“Heavens,” I countered, leaving Psyche and Cupid to rush toward my victim.

Count S., devoid of crimson coat and riding cap, looked the part of a lowly stable hand. As he rubbed his blossoming bruise, his face twisted in pain and his shoulders hunched over, I could see that he was not much more than a boy, really. Barely older than my eldest brother. His hair was stuck up in a cowlick and his shoulders were not nearly as broad as they’d seemed in the hunt jacket.

“Let me fetch some ice from the cold cellar,” I offered while trying to peek under his hand to assess the damage. “Or some balm from the medicine shelf.”

He stuck a palm out toward me, as though commanding a line of carriages to halt. “No need,” he managed as he straightened up, regained his countenance. He wagged his finger my way. “You are the duke’s second daughter. Duchess Elisabeth in Bavaria, yes?”

I nodded, then bowed, then curtsied, not exactly sure which form of salutation was required. “Yes. And you are Papa’s friend. You shot the vixen. You cut off the brush for me.”

The man chuckled and postured his carriage into a tougher, bigger version of himself, standing tall and deepening his voice before answering. “You are quite a good horsewoman, Duchess,” he said. “And you have the arm of a cricket champion.”

This made me all the prouder, though oddly, I was suddenly aware of the layers of grime upon my person and wished for a fan to cover up some of the more unseemly smears of dirt. I searched my mind for a social grace. “What brings you to Possi?” I finally managed.

“I’m readying some equipment. Your father and I are bound for Cairo by way of Munich. There are some materials we require for the Herzog Palace,” he said. Then, after a moment where he opened his mouth and closed it again, and then opened it a second time, he added, “And some poorly treated laborers we wish to liberate.”

Of course. He was a revolutionary. He and Papa were adventurers. Coconspirators. Before I could stop myself, I ventured, “May I come too?”

With that, Count S. gave a deep belly laugh, and I felt my cheeks grow as red as the jacket in which I’d seen him last.

“What is so amusing, Count? I am certainly a good enough rider and, as you just witnessed, I am quite strong.”

The count held up both hands this time, behaving as though I was armed with a thousand curry brushes and ready to strike. “As much as we would enjoy your company, Duchess, I sense your future going in another direction.”

I was baffled by this. And angry, truth be told. Who was this arrogant fellow to proclaim my future? It was as if he’d received an invisible telegram from the archduchess herself, she of the gray hair, dull eyes, sharp tongue, and gnarled fingers. But I knew better than to pick a fight. Especially after inflicting injury. The count’s forehead was already darkened to gunmetal—a small lump rose from its center like a mythic beast. “Very well,” I said. “I suppose there is nothing left to say but enjoy your trip. And give the
duke
my regards.”

I pivoted with the intention of leaving, but Count S. reached for the tattered and dirty arm sleeve of my pinafore. He turned me ever so slightly to him and he recited,

The gallant would gladly have made a meal of them,
but as he was unable to succeed, says he,
They are unripe and only fit for green boys.

I knew not what was meant by “
green boys
,” for the count’s eyes were blue, and my quizzical look must have incited this impudent man to add, “Elisabeth, the fox who cannot have the grapes is inclined to decide they are sour. Do not worry. Your time will come.”

I yanked my arm from his grasp and out I strode, like Mummi before me, completely aghast at the stupidity of men.

Dad and his girlfriend stare at me through plastic grins during our tea party. It’s as if they’ve discussed in advance how to handle the transition with the OCD psycho teenager, and the script calls for welcoming smiles and neutral expressions. I want to tell them it’s all right. They can just be themselves. I’ll be fine. I just need to adjust.

I want to tell them that, but it isn’t true.

I don’t feel
all right
. I miss Mom. It is as if there’s been a disaster—an earthquake, a tidal wave—and I was relocated to a school gymnasium because my real home was destroyed.

In this temporary place, a cat meows. I smell mouse droppings.

In this filthy granola kitchen, I picture ants crawling around the counter, and that conjures grime.

And so on.

I take deep, cleansing breaths and semi-listen to their chatter:

Dad: Let me get your things upstairs.

The Girlfriend: And then we’ll let you settle in.

Dad: While we go about the afternoon chores.

The Girlfriend: And then I’ll make your favorite dinner.

Dad: Lasagna.

The Girlfriend: We don’t eat wheat, but that doesn’t mean you can’t.

Dad: We don’t want you to feel …

The Girlfriend: Like we’re pushing you.

Dad plus The Girlfriend: Our home is your home.

They’re like wind-up toys. I smile politely. A whiff of cat urine intrudes. I try not to count the bobby pins in The Girlfriend’s hair as she nods for me to follow my father. Dad gestures with his chin, then turns sideways up the dark and rickety staircase so he can maneuver my two large suitcases. I grab my backpack and hoist a box containing my books, following my father up.

The windowless staircase is illuminated by a single antique sconce tossing its anemic light at a bent-over sunflower painted directly onto the wood paneling. At the top of the stairs Dad grunts and yanks my suitcases around a corner and continues down a long hall. I follow. We walk past a screened porch. Two wasps with spindly legs tangle with each other in the opening to the porch, and beyond them, a different cat than the one that had rubbed against me downstairs sits coiled in a yoga pretzel, licking its anus. Ahead of me Dad disappears into a doorway. My bedroom. Or, as The Girlfriend earlier described the accommodation,
the spare room
.

Damp air nestles between my throat and lungs. My box of books is heavy. I hip check my way into the room to find Dad thunking my suitcases onto a futon. I carefully settle my box and backpack on the only piece of uninhabited space on the floor.

“Here it is, Princess,” says Dad. “Welcome home.”

The room is cluttered. Wool frizzes out of wooden crates, and baskets overflow with magazines. A partially dismantled weaving loom is wedged into a corner. A heavy coat of filth, patterned with the halfhearted swipes of a lazy duster, layers most surfaces. The only window, one of those ancient, double-hung types, holds a pane of yellowed and cracked glass; it’s held partway open by a chunk of wood.

I can’t help it. I blurt, “She’s not much of a housekeeper, is she?”

Dad grins. “True. She uses her energy in other ways, though. Ways that I think will help you learn that there’s more to life than shiny surfaces.”

The couple of family therapy sessions where we talked about desensitization recommended
gradual
exposure to dirt. Ha! I watch the slight breeze coming in the window crack play with the strands of a cobweb near the ceiling. This feels like sink or swim in the deep end. The antibacterial surfaces of the Conrad are gone forever, and Mom is on a plane bound for her next chapter, and between now and six months from now my father’s girlfriend will be trying to get me to drink African tea and eat vegan soy hemp burgers, and I can’t help it, the feeling just comes out my nose in a giant sneeze, like it does, and then the sobs start up.

“Princess!” says Dad, his eyes exploding in surprise, his arms trying to reach around me from the other side of the floor clump of books and backpack.

The top half of me leans into his chest, smelling the weedy odor of him, his five o’clock shadow against my scalp and my growing-in hair. Dad is the only person I can touch without feeling nauseated. Without conjuring up images like the recent one on the porch: a cat licking feces from itself. But still, I feel like a complete baby. A loser. I hate anyone seeing me cry. Especially Dad. It’s even worse knowing that I’d let him down. He wants so badly for me to love this hellhole. He wishes he had a daughter who would sidle up to his farm girl and be instant best friends. A daughter who would slap on coveralls and hip boots and skip along behind him to milk goats and slop pigs and dig up fresh radishes for dinner.

The sobs come in bursts, like episodes of diarrhea the binge-purge girls at Providence gleefully reported; they happily recounted emptying themselves after porking out on nachos or ice cream, and I could hear in their voices the mixture of shame and relief. I push my cheek deeper into Dad’s chest and feel the organic cotton of his T-shirt soak up the leak from my eye.

“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay, Liz,” Dad soothes.

My eyes and forehead are doing that post-sob puff-up. The telltale sign of someone out of control. But it feels so good to hug him. It’s been a long time since I allowed it. My back muscles soften, all of me does, and then, a shrill “Is everything all right?” pierces the moment.

I cringe at the touch of an index finger poking me between neck and shoulder.
No!
I want to shriek.
Nothing is all right. Not since you swooped in on our life and ruined everything
.

Instead, I draw my arm across the front of my face, sop up salty tears and snot. Now I have to soak my shirt in vinegar for an hour.

Dad says, “Honey, can you give us a moment?”

Both The Girlfriend and I say, in unison, “Thanks,” in anticipation that the other of us is being asked to leave the room.

I win this round though. Dad is choosing me, this one time, and I sniff. Turn around. Smile at the woman who thinks she can just take over that special place in my father’s heart, and watch her bow, doing Namaste hands as she backs out the door. Right before she disappears, one of her bobby pins slips from her hair, making the tiniest
plink
when it hits the dirty floor.

Dad sits down on the sagging futon and pats the space next to him, and I take a seat. My bed, if you can call it that, is a moist, rumpled mattress, which smells of damp wool and mud puddles. I sniff a couple more times and make myself into a peapod next to him, resting my nose against my kneecaps.

“This will take getting used to,” he says.

I nod, mushing nostrils into knee.

“Even though she doesn’t have kids of her own, Willow is the oldest child of a large family.”

The Girlfriend again? An elevator-dropping sensation swirls around the inside of my ribcage just at the sound of her name. I refuse to speak that name aloud.

“She cares deeply about her brother, though. ‘The baby of the family,’ she calls him. If and when he comes up, I imagine things will get even more complicated.”

I accidently snort.
More
complicated? If only Dad knew how out of control I felt. Like free-falling from one of those giant oaks in the yard.

“We need to become a team,” he continues. “You, Willow, me. And that boy, I suppose.”

Back when Mom and Dad were in counseling, when they briefly thought they’d reconcile, we needed to be a team then, too.

“What about this brother?” I say. “How long will he be part of this
team
?”

Dad sighs. “For the summer, maybe. Kid’s some kind of soccer star. Been overseas these past two years, but now he’s back. Things didn’t work out for him there.”

Great. A delinquent soccer star. I sniff again. I need a Kleenex.

“Once you’re settled, I’ll walk you around the farm. You’ll love the goats. They have such great personalities.”

Three Billy Goats Gruff. Trip-trap, trip-trap, trip-trap
. Goats belong in fairy tales and petting zoos and the mountains of Switzerland.

“You’ll thrive out here. I promise,” Dad says.

Fairy tales. More fairy tales. But I keep nodding. I will be good. I won’t disappoint. I won’t end up back on the fourth floor of Providence. I won’t give The Girlfriend any reason to suggest I should be back in Adolescent Psych, where they take away your shoelaces and count the leftover peas on your plate and make you sit in a circle with the other psycho rejects demanding that you share how pissed off at the world you are.

With that, Dad stands up. The wet blotches from my tears make him look like a nursing mother. He pats my tufts of hair and blows me a kiss as he hops over my belongings. Then, he trip-traps back down the hall, down the stairs, back to his girlfriend, his goats, and his weed pipe that he keeps in the left front pocket of his jeans.

I unwind myself from my peapod and reach for my Kleenex-type box of 100 latex rubber gloves, which is nestled on top of my books. I pull a couple out, fit them on, then rip off my soggy shirt and use it to clean the dust from an empty space on a bookshelf. Then, up on the shelf go my
American Heritage Dictionary
, my art history books, and my thesaurus. I put my best art and photography books in storage, at Mom’s suggestion (
we wouldn’t want these to mildew
), but kept my little pocket Dickinson, my entire and pristine collection of Beatrix Potter, the rainbow assortment of multicultural poets my freshman English teacher demanded we become familiar with. The Angelou, the Hughes, the Neruda. My four different versions of fairy tales from the Brothers Grimm. Fairy tales the way they should be, with death and dismemberment as punishment for bad behavior. Then, the Russians: Nabokov, Tolstoy. With the still-clean sleeve of my snotty, dusty shirt, I polish my very favorite piece of reading material: the latest catalog from Mico Designs Bath Fixtures.

There are goose bumps on my arm now and on my stomach. I shiver in my sports bra and grab a hoodie from the outside pouch of my suitcase. The Lincoln High School Cardinals one, in an obscene shade of red that I never wear in public, but the fuzzy inside of it feels good next to my skin.

The books though: they aren’t lined up right. I alphabetize then group them by color, then by size. Then there’s the evenness of the spines to consider. I slip my ingestion-slash-behavior-mod-journal next to the biology book I forgot to return to school at the end of the year.
Living Matter
, it announces on its vivid spine. I ponder that. Living. Matter. Does living matter? And then, a surprise. I reach back into the box and pull out a book I had no idea I had. Another book I neglected to return when my life was interrupted by an express ride to the psych ward.
Death by Fame: A life of Elisabeth, Empress of Austria
. Mom must have slipped this into the box.

It’s a dark gold paperback, and on the front cover is a picture of a fancy woman in a sidesaddle on top of a horse. I leaf through to the series of photographs all good history books have embedded somewhere in the middle. In every picture the beautiful Empress Elisabeth stands stock-straight—perfect posture. Her thick hair is woven into various arrangements, her waist no bigger than mine. So this was Sisi, the child bride. Death by fame?

I wedge the Sisi book back on the shelf, its spine equal to the Grimms, and fling myself onto the futon. Mom is zooming over Montana, on the way to JFK, where she’ll take a connecting flight to Miami. I want to fill her phone up with text messages, but my cell doesn’t work out here.

I slide my iPod out of my pocket for a dose of
Ride of the Valkyries
, the piccolos screaming, the trombones blasting, the cymbals crashing. Of course, it’s out of juice. There’s only one outlet in the room, between the futon and the bookcase, and it’s plugged up with an octopus of cords. A cloud of dust bunnies and cat hair cocoons the space around it and I don’t want to electrocute myself. I yell out the propped-up window at Dad. “Hey, I need to plug in my iPod!” But he doesn’t hear me because at that very moment, the rattletrap, rusty engine, gasoline-sputtering noise of an ancient tractor pierces the air before settling to background idling. Dad and The Girlfriend launch their voices above the engine.

Dad: I think the plugs need to be replaced.

The Girlfriend: I saw a box of them in the lean-to.

Dad: Let’s go, baby.

The Girlfriend: Nothing wrong with your plugs.

Dad: You keep my engine going.

Then: overly loud laughter from the chorus of
them
.

I fold my cardinal-red arms tight and move the fuzzy inside of the hoodie up and down to feel it against the skin of my stomach.

A rooster cock-a-doodles. A line of Harleys zoom by the road out front. I unfold my arms and push at the piece of wood that holds the window open, and down it crashes, shaking the cracked and wavy glass inside. A couple of chips of dirty white paint flutter off the sill. Still, more noises: the anus-licking cat that scratches sand in a litter box under the toppled loom competes with the ticking of a vintage clock like in Dr. Greta’s office. The tractor engine noise outside rattles my back teeth. I reach up to the bookcase shelf beside
Living Matter
and yank down my journal/ingestion log.