She didn't say a word. She hadn't precisely meant to capture him this way. But obviously he was afraid she would say something. He got out of his bed and stumbled out of the cabin. He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him to a remote spot under a huddle of date palms.
“Bridget, what are you thinking?” He was groggy, disoriented. “You can't come here,” he whispered.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to wake you up.”
He blinked, trying to focus his eyes properly. “What did you mean?”
The wind blew her hair forward. The ends grazed his chest. She wished there were nerve endings in hair. She was wearing only a white T-shirt skimming the bottom of her underwear. It was awfully hard not to touch him. “I was thinking about you. I just wanted to see if you were asleep.”
He didn't say anything and he didn't move. She put her two hands on his chest. In slow fascination she watched as he lifted his hand and put it to her hair, pushing it back from her face.
He was still sleepy. It was like this was the continuation of a dream. He wanted to fall back into this dream; she knew he did. She reached her arms around him and pressed her torso against his. “Mmmm,” he rumbled.
She wanted to know the contours of his body. Hungrily she reached up to his shoulders, down over the heavy muscles of his upper arms. She reached up again to his neck, into his hair, down his chest, his hard stomach. That was when he seemed to wake up. He seemed to shake himself, seizing her upper arms and wrenching himself apart from her. “Jesus, Bridget.” He groaned in loud, angry frustration. She took a step back. “What am I doing? You've got to get out of here.”
He still held her arms, but more gently now. He wasn't letting her have him, but he wasn't letting her go either. “Please don't do this. Please tell me you won't come back here.” He searched her face. His eyes were begging her for different things at the same time.
“I think about you,” she told him solemnly. “I think about being with you.”
He closed his eyes and freed her arms. When he opened his eyes they were more resolute. “Bridget, go away now and promise me you won't do this again. I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.”
She did go away, but she didn't promise anything.
Maybe he hadn't meant his words as an invitation. But that's how she took them.
“I want to sit here,” Bailey declared, pulling a chair close to Mimi's box.
Seeing Mimi reminded her. “Oh, shit,” Tibby mumbled.
“What?”
“I completely forgot to feed her yesterday,” Tibby said, grabbing the canister of assorted seeds. She hadn't forgotten in months and months.
“Can I do it?” Bailey asked.
“Sure,” Tibby said, not actually feeling sure. Nobody ever fed Mimi except for her. She had to walk herself across the room so she wouldn't micromanage.
Bailey finished feeding Mimi and sat down again.
“Ready?” Tibby asked, arranging the mike.
“I think so.”
“Okay.”
“Wait,” Bailey said, standing up.
“Now what?” Tibby asked irritably. Bailey wanted to be interviewed for their movie. But now she was being weirdly uncertain about how she wanted it to go.
She was fidgety. Obviously she had an idea. “Can I wear the Pants?”
“The pants . . . the Pants?”
“Yeah. Can I borrow them?”
Tibby was doubtful. “First of all, I really don't think they'll fit you.”
“I don't care,” Bailey responded. “Can I try them? You don't have them for too much longer, do you?”
“Rrrrr.” Impatiently Tibby retrieved them from her hiding place in her closet. She was terrified Loretta would throw them in the wash with a few cups of bleach, like she'd done with Tibby's wool sweaters. “Here.” She handed them to Bailey.
Bailey slipped off her olive-green cargos. Tibby was struck by the whiteness of her skinny legs and the big, dark bruise that spread from her hip to her thigh.
“Ow, whadja do?” Tibby asked.
Bailey flashed her the “Don't ask, don't tell” look and pulled on the Pants. Magic though they were, they were too big for Bailey. She was tiny. Nonetheless she looked happy, and she hitched the wrinkly legs up over her feet.
“All good?” Tibby asked.
“All good,” Bailey said, settling back into her chair.
Tibby held up the camera and pushed the On button. Through the lens, she could see Bailey a little differently. Her thin, almost transparent skin looked bruised and blue around her eyes. “So tell me things,” Tibby said, not sure what Bailey wanted to cover, instinctively afraid of asking her direct questions.
Bailey pulled her bare feet up onto the chair, resting her arms on her bony knees and her chin on her forearm. Light slanted through the window and set her hair aglow.
“Ask me anything,” Bailey challenged.
“What are you scared of?” The question got out of Tibby's mouth before she meant to ask it.
Bailey thought. “I'm afraid of time,” she answered. She was brave, unflinching in the big Cyclops eye of the camera. There was nothing prissy or self-conscious about Bailey. “I mean, I'm afraid of not having enough time,” she clarified. “Not enough time to understand people, how they really are, or to be understood myself. I'm afraid of the quick judgments and mistakes that everybody makes. You can't fix them without time. I'm afraid of seeing snapshots instead of movies.”
Tibby looked at her in disbelief. She was struck by this new side of Bailey, this philosophical-beyond-her-years Bailey. Did cancer make you wise? Did those chemicals and X rays supercharge her twelve-year-old brain?
Tibby was shaking her head.
“What?” Bailey asked.
“Nothing. Just that you surprise me every day,” Tibby said.
Bailey smiled at her. “I like that you let yourself be surprised.”
Carma,
I'm writing from the post office, and this express mail costs more than what I make in two hours at Wallman's, so it better get to you tomorrow.
I can't figure out what the Pants meant to me yet. It was either profound or not. I'll tell you when I know.
You'll do better because you are the one and only Carma Carmeena.
I better sign off, ‘cause the lady in the window is about to go postal (heh heh).
Love,
Tibby
Grandma looked stricken over lunch. She didn't want to talk about anything, she told them. Which turned out to mean that she didn't want to talk about anything Lena or Effie had to say. She was happy to listen to herself.
“I passed Rena this morning, and she didn't speak to me. Can you imagine? Who does that voman tink she is?”
Lena moved the tzadziki around on her plate. One thing about Grandma: She was never too distressed to cook.
Bapi was attending to some business in Fira, and Effie was sending a million assorted looks to Lena across the table.
“Kostos has alvays been such a good boy, such a nice boy, but how do you ever know?” she mused.
Lena felt heartsick. Grandma loved Kostos. He was a bit of a creep, but he was obviously a huge source of pleasure in Grandma's life.
“Grandma,” Lena broke in. “Maybe Kostos, maybe he—”
“Vhen you tink about the tings he's been trough, you vould tink he'd have troubles,” Grandma went on, undeterred. “But I never saw them before.”
“What kind of troubles?” Effie wanted to know.
“Grandma, maybe it didn't happen exactly like you thought it did,” Lena tried out timidly, talking at the same time as Effie.
Grandma looked at the two of them wearily. “I don't vant to talk about it,” she said.
As soon as an acceptable amount of food had been consumed, Effie and Lena quickly scrubbed their plates and then fled.
“What happened?” Effie demanded, less than a foot out of the house.
“Uhhhhh,” Lena groaned.
“God, what is up with ev
erybody?” Effie pressed.
Lena felt weary herself. “Listen, Ef, don't shout or scream or criticize until the end. Promise?”
Effie agreed. She mostly kept the promise until Lena got to the part about the fistfight, and then she couldn't contain herself anymore.
“No way! You are not serious! Bapi? Oh, my God.”
Lena nodded.
“You better tell them all the truth before Kostos does, or you're going to feel like an idiot,” Effie advised with her typical subtlety.
“I know,” Lena said unhappily.
“Why didn't he just tell them all the truth at the time?” Effie wondered aloud.
“I don't know. There was so much confusion. I don't know if he even understood what the fight was about.”
Effie shook her head. “Poor Kostos. He was so in love with you.”
“Not anymore,” Lena pointed out.
“Guess not.”
BRIDGET: Hi, uh, Loretta?
LORETTA: Hello?
BRIDGET: Loretta, it's Bridget, Tibby's friend.
LORETTA: Hello?
BRIDGET (practically shouting): Bridget! It's Bridget. I'm calling for Tibby. Is she there?
LORETTA: Oh . . . Bridget?
BRIDGET: Yeah.
LORETTA: Tibby no home.
BRIDGET: Could you tell her I called? I don't have a number, so I'll have to call her back.
LORETTA: Hello?
When Carmen went downstairs shortly before dinner that night, she was ready for a fight. She was wearing the Pants, which gave her a feeling of remembering herself again. Remembering how she felt when people loved her. Remembering her skill for confrontation. She needed to bring the real Carmen downstairs and talk to her father and Lydia before she forgot herself and turned invisible again.
Lydia had certainly told him about the disastrous dress fitting and complained about her behavior. Carmen was ready to have it out. She'd love to shout at Lydia. She'd love to hear Lydia shout back. She needed that.
“Hi,” Krista said from her homework station at the kitchen table. Carmen studied her for shades of meaning.
“Carmen, would you like a soda?” Lydia asked brightly, measuring rice and pouring it into a pot.
Her dad appeared in the doorway, not yet changed out of his work clothes. “Hi, bun; how was your day?”
Carmen looked from her dad to Lydia in amazement. My day was horrible! she felt like shouting. A dressmaker with fake teeth insulted and humiliated me. I acted like a brat.
She didn't say that. Instead, she gaped at him in silence. Did he have any idea how she was feeling? How miserable she was here?
He wore his game face. So did Lydia. “Smells fantastic,” he commented, keeping the scene on track.
“Roast chicken,” Lydia supplied.
“Mmmmm,” Krista said robotically.
Who were these people? What was the matter with them?
“I had an awful day,” Carmen said, feeling her opportunity sliding away. She was too wretched to be a wiseass.
Her dad was already most of the way up the stairs, going up to change his clothes. Lydia pretended like she hadn't heard her.
Even in the Pants she was invisible. And mute. She strode dramatically out the front door and pulled it hard behind her. Luckily, the door still was capable of making a racket.
“Sometimes a walk helped cool Carmen's blood. Other times it didn't.
She marched all the way to the creek at the edge of the woods. She knew there were cottonmouths lurking in this dense place. She hoped one would bite her.
She pried a wide, heavy rock from the packed soil of the creek bank. She heaved it into the water, gratified by the big, sloppy splash that sent droplets of water onto her pants. The rock settled there in the creek bed, slightly obstructing the smooth way the water flowed. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rushing creek that dimpled around her rock. Within a few moments, the water seemed to adjust itself. It tucked the wide rock a little deeper into its bed and flowed smoothly again.
Dinner was definitely ready by now. Were they waiting for her? Where they wondering where she'd gone? Her father must have heard the door slam. Was he worried? Maybe her father had gone out looking for her.Maybe he'd walked north and sent Paul south to look for her along Radley Lane. Maybe Lydia's roast chicken was getting cold, but her father couldn't be bothered with that because Carmen was gone.
She started back toward the house. She didn't want her father to call the police out to look for her or anything. And Paul had just this morning gotten back from his visit with his dad. Paul had enough to think about.
She quickened her step. She was even a little bit hungry after not eating much of anything for days. “I eat when I'm happy,” she'd mentioned to her father over her untouched plate of casserole the night before. He hadn't picked up on it.
Her heart was pounding as she made her way up the front steps, anticipating her father's face. Was he even there? Or out looking for her? She didn't really want to burst in if it was just Lydia and Krista.
She peered in the front door. The light was on in the kitchen, but the living room was dim. She crept around the side of the house to get a better look. It was dark enough outside that she wasn't worried about being spotted.
When she made her way to the big picture window that framed the dining room table she froze. She stopped breathing. The anger was growing again. It grew up into her throat, where she could taste it, coppery like blood, in the back of her mouth. It grew down into her stomach, where it knotted her intestines. It made her arms stiffen and her shoulders lock. It pushed against her ribs until she felt they would snap like sticks.
Her father wasn't looking for her. He wasn't calling the police. He was sitting at the dining room table, with piles of roast chicken, rice, and carrots on his plate.
Apparently, it was time for grace. He held Paul's hand on one side and Krista's on the other. Lydia was directly across from him, her back to the window. The four of them made a tight cluster, their linked arms circling them like a garland, their heads bent, close and grateful.
A father, a mother, and two children. One bitter, mismatched girl standing outside, looking in, invisible. The anger was too big to hold inside.
She raced down the side steps and picked up two rocks, small and easy to grab. Motions were no longer connected to thoughts, but she must have climbed back up those steps and cocked her arm. The first rock bounced off the window frame. The second one must have shot right through the window, because she heard the glass shatter and she saw it sail past the back of Paul's head and smack the far wall, before it came to sit on the floor at her father's feet. She stayed long enough for her father to look up and see her through the jagged hole in the window and know that it was her and that he saw her and that she saw him, and that they both knew.
And then she ran.
Tibby,
I love outdoor showers. I love looking at the sky. I've even started going to the bathroom outside rather than close myself up in one of the sick outhouses. I'm a feral creature. Is that the word? You would hate all this crunchiness, Tib, but it is perfect for me. The thought of a shower under a ceiling makes me claustrophobic. Do you think anyone would notice if I started going to the bathroom in the backyard? Ha. Just kidding.
I think I wasn't made for houses.
Love,
Contemplative Bee
Lena got directions to the forge and a bag of pastries from the lady in the bakery. “Antio, beautiful Lena,” the lady called. The town was small enough that all the locals now knew her as “shy and beautiful” Lena. “Shy” was the sympathetic interpretation she got from older people. “Snotty” was the unsympathetic one she got from people her own age.
From the bakery Lena walked herself to the forge, a low, detached brick building with a small yard at the front. Through the open double doors of the dark building she could see the blue-and-orange fire at the back. Was there seriously still a business in making horseshoes and boat fittings? She sudden
ly felt a kind of deep, twingy sorrow for Kostos and his grandfather. Kostos's bapi no doubt dreamed that his grandson would take over the family business and run it into the next century. But she also guessed that Kostos hadn't gotten himself accepted at the London School of Economics to spend his life as a blacksmith in a minuscule Greek village.
It was like how her father had become a respected lawyer in Washington, but her grandparents remained confounded that their son hadn't opened a restaurant. They were still sure he'd do it as soon as the moment was right. “He can always fall back on his cooking,” Grandma said confidently whenever the subject of her son's profession came up. There was a mysterious chasm between this island and the greater world, just like there was between old and young, ancient and new.
Lena stood nervously at the opening to the yard. Kostos would be taking his lunch break anytime now. She crumpled the top of the paper bag in her sweaty hands. She felt oddly self-conscious about her appearance. She hadn't washed her hair this morning, so it probably looked kind of greasy at the top. Her nose was pink from sunburn.
Her pulse began to throb as soon as he appeared in the doorway. He looked sooty and old-fashioned in his dark clothes. His hair was disheveled from the protective gear he wore and his face was flushed and shining with perspiration. She trained her eyes on his. Please look at me. He didn't. He was too polite not to nod a little in acknowledgment of her when he walked by. But now it was his turn to ignore her and not give her any chance to communicate.
“Kostos!” she finally called out. He didn't answer. She didn't know whether he'd heard and ignored her, or whether she'd waited too long to speak.
Carmen ran on legs that didn't feel connected to her body. She ran all the way to the creek, jumped over the water, and settled down on the far bank. It occurred to her that her magical pants were going to get dirty, but the thought was squeezed out by a million other thoughts, and she let it float away. She looked up at the sky, lacy patterns of oak leaves cut out in black. She threw her arms to the sides as though she'd been crucified.
She lay there for a long time—some number of hours; she couldn't guess how many. She wanted to pray, but then she felt guilty because she only ever seemed to pray when she needed something. She wasn't sure she even wanted to alert God to her presence here: The Girl Who Only Prayed When She Needed Something. It might irritate Him. Maybe she should just hold out, and pray when it was just for the sake of praying so that maybe God would like her again. But God (sorry, God), who could ever remember to pray when things were just okeydokey? Good people, that was who. And she wasn't one of them.