water until a wash of diluted blood puddles under my feet and swirls down the drain. I comb my wet hair and touch the black scar of my chin.
I can barely walk.
I roll my belongings into my sleeping bag and head out of town anyway. As soon as I do, I can’t feel him anymore, though I know he went this way. East. Due east. Sunset at his back, sunrise in his face. But I can’t feel him. And in losing him, I lose myself.
I try to move my legs, but my steps remain short and jerky, like an old woman hunched over a walker. A little cry of pain accompanies each step, but this is the least of my worries.
The tunnel slams in, full and extensive, so long that no light filters along its length to meet me.
Somewhere in this siege I lose several days. I suppose, looking back, that they are days well lost.
I remember finding a creek, drinking my fill, rolling in it to soak my clothes in its icy relief, a strike against the gathering heat. I remember a glimpse of light as I do, and traces of blood left on the rocks as I step in and out.
Other than that, there is no accounting. No Simon, no time.
Still, life gives us so many days, often more than we would have ordered. Perhaps this is my way to strike back.
THEN:
Grandma Sterling’s house looked scarier in person and in color. It was the first thing I saw when I woke up. Then I saw Simon, resting his head on the steering wheel, his eyes open, unblinking, staring at his feet.
“Hey, Simon, how many people live in there?”
“Just one, I think.”
I wanted to ask Simon why only one person would live in a house clearly big enough for twelve, but he seemed busy in his own head. I stared out the window.
Grandma Sterling trained roses to climb trellises on the sides of her house. She trained ivy to climb the gazebo in the side yard. Every window was framed by open shutters, every blade of grass a uniform green.
“Simon? How come we’re not going in?”
He lifted his head as if a great, invisible weight rested on the back of his neck. “Okay, let’s go, then.”
On the way up the walk I took in the weedless border gardens, the two floors of smudgeless windows, and I wondered, when a person does all this, do they have time left over for other things?
On the way up the walk my heart pounded too hard, a sensation I could feel in my chest and hear in my ears, and I wanted to ask Simon if that was what scared meant. I didn’t. Maybe he thought I already knew, and I didn’t want to complicate his thinking.
I walked so close behind him I almost stepped on his heels, and I remember thinking the sun must have gone behind clouds, turning the red and green and white world a little grayer. I didn’t know yet what that meant.
Simon stopped at the door and I slammed into his back, accidentally pushing him forward to knock once with his forehead. He stepped back in a stupor, as though he’d planned nothing so radical as knocking, but it was too late.
A woman opened the door, a woman with gray hair done up in a deliberate style, her dress starched and white, an apron flecked with roses. She smiled at Simon, exposing a row of large, perfect teeth, each one seeming to perform its role with grace. I had to wonder why, with those teeth going for her, her smile wasn’t beautiful, like Mrs. Hurley’s, and why I knew I’d never play a game designed to make Grandma Sterling smile.
“Yes, may I help you children?”
Simon spoke up. “Mrs. Sterling?”
“Yes, young man. How may I help you?”
“I’m Simon. This is Ella.”
“Simon who, dear?”
“Simon Ginsberg.”
A cloud passed across her metallic blue eyes, like the cloud I blamed for blocking the sun, turning Grandma Sterling’s face a little grayer.
“Yes, I see.” She looked past Simon to our car, as if expecting a busload of Ginsbergs. Then she conceded that we had best come inside.
We followed her to the parlor, her steps a smooth glide that tossed her skirt about her calves. I walked behind Simon, clutching the
I can barely walk.
I roll my belongings into my sleeping bag and head out of town anyway. As soon as I do, I can’t feel him anymore, though I know he went this way. East. Due east. Sunset at his back, sunrise in his face. But I can’t feel him. And in losing him, I lose myself.
I try to move my legs, but my steps remain short and jerky, like an old woman hunched over a walker. A little cry of pain accompanies each step, but this is the least of my worries.
The tunnel slams in, full and extensive, so long that no light filters along its length to meet me.
Somewhere in this siege I lose several days. I suppose, looking back, that they are days well lost.
I remember finding a creek, drinking my fill, rolling in it to soak my clothes in its icy relief, a strike against the gathering heat. I remember a glimpse of light as I do, and traces of blood left on the rocks as I step in and out.
Other than that, there is no accounting. No Simon, no time.
Still, life gives us so many days, often more than we would have ordered. Perhaps this is my way to strike back.
THEN:
Grandma Sterling’s house looked scarier in person and in color. It was the first thing I saw when I woke up. Then I saw Simon, resting his head on the steering wheel, his eyes open, unblinking, staring at his feet.
“Hey, Simon, how many people live in there?”
“Just one, I think.”
I wanted to ask Simon why only one person would live in a house clearly big enough for twelve, but he seemed busy in his own head. I stared out the window.
Grandma Sterling trained roses to climb trellises on the sides of her house. She trained ivy to climb the gazebo in the side yard. Every window was framed by open shutters, every blade of grass a uniform green.
“Simon? How come we’re not going in?”
He lifted his head as if a great, invisible weight rested on the back of his neck. “Okay, let’s go, then.”
On the way up the walk I took in the weedless border gardens, the two floors of smudgeless windows, and I wondered, when a person does all this, do they have time left over for other things?
On the way up the walk my heart pounded too hard, a sensation I could feel in my chest and hear in my ears, and I wanted to ask Simon if that was what scared meant. I didn’t. Maybe he thought I already knew, and I didn’t want to complicate his thinking.
I walked so close behind him I almost stepped on his heels, and I remember thinking the sun must have gone behind clouds, turning the red and green and white world a little grayer. I didn’t know yet what that meant.
Simon stopped at the door and I slammed into his back, accidentally pushing him forward to knock once with his forehead. He stepped back in a stupor, as though he’d planned nothing so radical as knocking, but it was too late.
A woman opened the door, a woman with gray hair done up in a deliberate style, her dress starched and white, an apron flecked with roses. She smiled at Simon, exposing a row of large, perfect teeth, each one seeming to perform its role with grace. I had to wonder why, with those teeth going for her, her smile wasn’t beautiful, like Mrs. Hurley’s, and why I knew I’d never play a game designed to make Grandma Sterling smile.
“Yes, may I help you children?”
Simon spoke up. “Mrs. Sterling?”
“Yes, young man. How may I help you?”
“I’m Simon. This is Ella.”
“Simon who, dear?”
“Simon Ginsberg.”
A cloud passed across her metallic blue eyes, like the cloud I blamed for blocking the sun, turning Grandma Sterling’s face a little grayer.
“Yes, I see.” She looked past Simon to our car, as if expecting a busload of Ginsbergs. Then she conceded that we had best come inside.
We followed her to the parlor, her steps a smooth glide that tossed her skirt about her calves. I walked behind Simon, clutching the
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