Mosquitoland

  On a throw rug a bald eagle soars atop snow-capped mountains; it is majestic, patriotic, and above all, obnoxious. Beyond the mountains, a purple sun sets on my electro-fuchsia shoes. A large bust of Daniel Boone stands tall in the corner, leading an army of oil paintings like a brigadier general: a wild lynx, an impossibly gorgeous horizon, a diagram of birds in their natural habitats—each painting in impeccable formation, awaits the trumpeting charge of their courageous General Boone (sic).

  It is this: ridiculousness magnified.

  Locating the nearest ladies’ room, I run inside and slam the door behind me. But there’s no escaping the resiliency of the eagles. They’ve soared their way in here as well, at least a hundred of them, flapping their wings for freedom, hovering, circling, diving, intent on breaking out of their embroidered wallpaper prison. An Aztec tapestry hangs on the wall above the toilet, adding a certain I-don’t-know-what . . . turquoiseness to the mix. A miniature cactus sits in a pot on the sink, crooked and lonely.

  I drop to my knees, lean over the toilet, yank back the seat, and heave.

  She’s here. In this awful, kitschy, eagle-soaring hellhole.

  It pours out of me . . .

  Lonely.

  All the semi-digested contents of my stomach . . .

  Lost.

  God, it stinks in here.

  She’s here.

  Sometimes, when it gets bad like this, I imagine my heart, my stomach, my liver, kidneys, and spleen, all the innards of Mary Iris Malone, pouring out of me like a hose, leaving behind a sagging skin–shell, a deflated air mattress, a soft mannequin. I’d be Born-Again Mim. A fresh start. One hell of a New Beginning.

  I collapse on the bath mat (an altogether hideous depiction of cowboys and Indians, complete with stampeding buffalo and six-shooters) and try to catch my breath. A minute later, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Mim? You okay?”

  I sit up, take a long pull of paper towels and wipe my mouth. “Be right out!”

  Above the toilet, a sign reads:

  USE TRASH CAN FOR PAPER TOWELS AND FEMININE PRODUCTS

  DO NOT FLUSH

  And like dominoes, the memories tumble; a yellow-tinted bathroom knocks over the most Carlish Carl, knocks over Arlene, knocks over old wisdom, knocks over youthful innocence, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over . . .

  Looking at the handle on the toilet, I smile. Young Mim of Not So Long Ago, upon discovering the well of friendship to be completely tapped, found new friends, an ensemble cast of saviors.

  Mom is here, in this stinking place. But this time, there are no Carls or Arlenes or Pale Whales or Karate Kids or Fabulous Walts or Consummate Beck Van Burens to save the day. There is only Our Heroine, and once again, she is on her own.

  At the sink, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. There is no mirror, so I stare at the droopy cactus.

  Lonely.

  Crooked.

  A trash can sits in the corner, boasting perfect trajectory. With precision, with skill, with lionhearted determination, I swipe the potted cactus across the room and into the trash can—hole in one. I wipe my hands on my jeans, exiting the Southwestern ladies’ room forever and ever, and good riddance.

  Down the hall, Kathy is talking to a guy at the reception desk. He’s tall, attractive, a few years older than me. As I approach, my stepmom straightens up. “You okay?”

  I nod, then smile at the receptionist, who, upon closer inspection, really isn’t good-looking at all. Like a connoisseur of fine wines lost in a hack’s vineyard, I have been spoiled rotten by the beauty of Beck Van Buren.

  “You must be Mim,” he says through crooked teeth. “And how are you today?”

  “Swell. Listen, I just chunked in your ladies’ room, so you might wanna spritz something piney in there. Or floral. Whatever you have in stock. It should be strong though. Weighty, you know?”

  He gapes at me, growing uglier by the minute. “I’m sorry, you . . . you what?”

  “I ralphed.”

  He tilts his head.

  “Drove the porcelain bus?” I say. “Ate in reverse? Buicked my Kia?”

  Now they’re both staring.

  “I vomited in your bathroom, man. And now the place stinks to high heavens.”

  They’re still staring, but with completely different looks on their faces.

  “Also, can I get a Mountain Dew?” I ask, smacking my lips. “It’s like I just chewed a tube of wood glue or something.”

  The receptionist gives Kathy a look that I interpret to mean Is she serious? Kathy’s eyes respond with Deadly. Mildly Attractive Male Receptionist scurries off, presumably after a Mountain Dew.

  “Come on,” says Kathy, starting down the hallway.

  “What about my drink?”

  “You wanna spend any more time here than you have to?”

  Next to me, Daniel Boone’s bust is wearing a who, me? smile.

  I jog to catch up with Kathy, noticing, not for the first time, what a curious walk she has. It’s equal parts sass, z-snap, and street smarts. Her earrings jangle, her artificial curls bob, her too-tight jeans ride, her acrylic nails click, her bedazzled belt sparkles, her pregger boobs bounce—in this moment, I must applaud Kathy, and all the delusional fashionistas before her, clinging just as fiercely to their lost youth as they are their fake Louis Vuittons.

  She hands me a slip of paper with the number 22 written in a mildly attractive handwriting. As we pass room 11, sweat beads across my forehead. I feel—and hear—my heart pounding against its adjacent innards, sending vibrations through my rib cage, my recently emptied stomach, my skin, my Zeppelin tee, my red hoodie.

  Room 17 passes in a blur. God, we’re walking fast.

  The narrow hallway is consistent in design with the rest of the place: nature-y oil paintings, plush carpeting, flowery wallpaper with a bunch of ridiculous eag—

  “You ready?” whispers Kathy.

  “What?”

  She points to the door: room 22. On the other side, I hear the clear, deep baritone of a man who has lived his life.

  40

  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

  41

  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, e
ven 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.