The Impossible Knife of Memory

  “No, you have to leave.” I pointed at my father. “Back up, Daddy, and put that thing down!”

  It took some arguing, but he finally walked to the garage, leaned the maul against the chopping block, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched as I climbed out of the Acclaim. Unfortunately, Finn got out, too.

  “Man Law,” he whispered.

  “Idiot,” I said.

  “Who are you?” Dad growled as we walked toward him.

  “Daddy, this is my friend, Finn.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Finn stretched his hand out to shake. “I’m Finnegan Ramos. I go to school with Hayley.”

  Dad kept his arms crossed. “I didn’t give you permission to take my daughter out.”

  I tried to smile. “He doesn’t need permission.”

  “The hell he doesn’t,” Dad said, slurring.

  It took a lot of booze to make him slur.

  “Go home,” I told Finn.

  “It wasn’t a date, sir,” Finn told Dad. “We were at the library.”

  “Sure you were,” Dad said. “Did this boy touch you, Hayley Rose?”

  Something was wrong with his eyes, too. They weren’t red, but pupils were tiny and he didn’t seem to be focusing.

  “It wasn’t like that, Daddy. You’re overreacting.”

  He glared at me. “So you let him touch you, is that it?”

  “I didn’t touch her, sir,” Finn said. “Can I explain?”

  Dad pointed at Finn. “You arguing with me?”

  “Stop it!” I shouted.

  “No, sir.” Finn’s voice got louder. “But you’re jumping to the wrong conclusions.”

  I stepped in between them. “Finn’s the editor of the school newspaper. I have to write for that paper. Benedetti thinks it will help with my attitude. You’re the one making me go to this school. You can’t get upset when I follow the rules and try to act like the other kids.”

  He grunted.

  “Please go,” I told Finn.

  He nodded and shuffled backward. “Yeah. I’ll . . . I’ll see you.”

  I lifted my hand and waved good-bye as Finn backed his car down the driveway. He didn’t wave back.

  Dad put a log on the chopping block.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I said.

  “What do you want from me, huh?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he swung the splitting maul so hard that the two halves of the log flew off at different angles, one disappearing into the dark, the other one almost taking me out at the knees.

  “It’s your own damn fault,” Dad muttered. “Stand that close and you’re gonna get hurt.”

  44

  Gracie showed up after noon on Saturday with a duffel bag and pounded on the door until I woke up. When I opened the door, she announced, “You have to let me stay here.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “If you don’t let me, I’ll sleep in the park.”

  I yawned. “What’s going on?”

  “Garrett is at Dad’s and I’m stuck with Mom. Blood will be shed, I swear, but I don’t know if its going to be hers or mine. Maybe both.”

  “My dad’s sick,” I said. “You can’t stay here.”

  “Then come with me,” she urged. “My mom won’t lose it if you’re there, she’ll act like everything is normal. I’m begging, Hayley, please.”

  I sighed. “Give me five minutes.”

  I stood outside the door to Dad’s bedroom and told him I was going to sleep over at Gracie’s.

  He muttered something, half hungover and half still-drunk.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I said leave the door unlocked!” he shouted. “Michael’s on his way over.”

  I packed fast.

  * * *

  Gracie talked nonstop as we walked to her house. Not only was her mom a wreck and her dad feeling guilty and her little brother angry enough to break his favorite toys, but Topher’s old girlfriend, Zoe, had been texting him and asking him for help on an English paper and other incredibly slutty things.

  “How is asking for help on an English paper slutty?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding me? It’s Shakespeare! Look at Romeo and Juliet; they’re what, like, fourteen years old, and they meet at a party and bam, jump in bed. They hook up in her bedroom with her parents in the house, and then they get caught and everybody dies.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “Slutty fourteen-year-olds and gang violence. I can’t believe they make high school kids read it.” She kicked a rock down the street. “I hate Zoe.”

  I decided to wait for a less bitchy moment to tell her what happened when Dad met Finn. I had already decided not to tell her—or anyone—about what had happened at the quarry. I still hadn’t figured it out myself. If I’d been afraid of heights like Finn, it would have made sense: dizziness, followed by a drop in blood pressure brought on by anxiety. But heights didn’t make me dizzy, they made me laugh. Maybe there something in the rock, a weird magnetic pulse that messed with my brain or my sense of balance. Maybe nobody ever planned to kill themselves there. They’d just gone up to enjoy the view and the rock energy messed with their heads and they’d tried to fly.

  At Gracie’s house, we baked cinnamon scones and chocolate chip cookies and bread that refused to rise. As the first batch of cookies went into the oven, her mom pulled into the garage, where she stayed for ten minutes, sobbing and yelling into her phone, before she backed out again and drove away.

  Gracie told me to leave the mess that we’d made, but I couldn’t. I said that I liked washing dishes and then Topher called her and she walked up the stairs yelling into her phone at him, her voice sounding so much like her mother’s that it gave me goose bumps.

  When we’d moved back to town, Gracie had taken me all over the place to help me remember living there: the church basement where we went to Sunday School (Gramma had played the organ, she said), the graveyard where we once played hide-and-seek and got hollered at by guys with shovels, the grocery store where we’d push our kid-sized carts behind her mom, the park where the slide got so hot in the summer that it would burn the back of your legs if you went down it too slow. It was like listening to a fairy tale or the life story of a total stranger. It upset Gracie when I said I didn’t remember any of it so I started lying and pretended that, yeah, of course I remembered the time we made cookies with salt instead of sugar, and the time Gracie’s old dog got skunked and we poured all of her mom’s perfume on him to cover up the smell.

  Gracie and Topher were still arguing when I finished the dishes. I wandered down the hall, past the school pictures of Gracie and Garrett hung in chronological order, and into the family room.

  (Is it still called a “family room” after your parents split up?)

  The photos on the wall and on top of the piano were of younger Gracie and toddler Garrett and Mr. and Mrs. Rappaport, all four of them at Disney World and a zoo and on a beach, always squinting into the sun. There were no photos of Gracie’s grandparents or anyone else. It was like the four of them had magically appeared and lived, happy for a while, in a plastic bubble with bright lights. I picked up a photo of five-year-old Gracie in an angel Halloween costume and carried it to the coffee table.

  The house smelled like a bakery. Gracie was still arguing upstairs, but at least she wasn’t cursing anymore and her voice was quieter. I curled up on a couch and flipped through the shiny pages of Mrs. Rappaport’s magazines. The pic of little angel Gracie watched me. I kept looking up, half expecting her to flap her wings.

  I didn’t like admitting it, but the truth was that my memories were starting to surface. First in Ms. Rogak’s class after I got Trish’s letter and then in the quarry. Maybe Gracie was right. Maybe visiting childhood
places helped. Or maybe it was because I was older or angrier, or maybe because I was forgetting how to not-remember. It was also possible that we’d finally stayed in one place long enough for our yesterdays to catch up with us.

  And now. Sitting alone in the not-family room, paging past recipes and haircuts and celebrity baby sightings, there, just out of the corner of my left eye, I was seeing myself playing with a cat, with a kitten, black and white. I kept turning the pages (fifty fabulous turkey recipes, whittle your middle like the stars) because if I looked at it head-on, the memory would evaporate. . . .

  . . . a black-and-white kitten playing with yarn,

  . . . yarn in my hand, the sound of needles clacking,

  . . . clicking and the sound of women and the smell of lemons and face powder, clicking,

  . . . clacking, the yellow yarn in my hand and the green yarn that went from the basket up to Gramma’s needles,

  . . . her voice with other women chattering like birds in a tree, laughing, the laughter floated down to the floor like feathers and

  . . . I leaned my head against my grandmother’s knee.

  I went back to the kitchen to rewash the pans in very hot water.

  * * *

  When Gracie stopped fighting with Topher, I piled a plate with chocolate chip cookies, put it on a tray with a quart of milk and two glasses, and carried it up to her room.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “He promised never to speak to her again.” She blew her nose and tossed the tissue on the pile by her desk. “He’s mad at me for not trusting him.”

  There was no safe reply to that. I bit into a cookie.

  “Wanna watch a disaster movie?” she asked, picking up the remote. “Something where everybody dies?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said, pouring the milk.

  As the movie started, she fished her mint tin out of her purse, swallowed one of the pills in it, then handed it to me. It had more pills in it than before, different ones: small yellow ovals and pale pink diamonds and white circles.

  “Did you steal all these from your mom?” I asked.

  “Bought them,” she admitted. “You want one or not?”

  “What do they do?”

  “Depends.” She pointed. “Those ones make you sleep, that one wakes you up, the rest of them make the world suck less. It’s not like they get you high or anything. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m not looking at you like anything.”

  She shrugged. “My parents started it; they put me on ADD meds when I was in fifth grade. You watch, by the time we have kids, they’ll have a pill for everything, even cheating boyfriends.”

  “He’s not cheating, Gracie.”

  “Everybody cheats.” She closed the box. “Want some popcorn?”

  Her mom walked in without knocking an hour later, and stopped, confused to see me there. “Oh,” she said. “Hello, Hayley.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Rappaport.”

  “Hey, Mom.” Gracie smiled, her glassy eyes wide and innocent. “Hayley has to stay here tonight. We made cookies, want some?”

  “I don’t remember giving permission for a sleepover,” Mrs. Rappaport said.

  “I told you,” I said to Gracie. “I’ll go home.”

  Gracie pushed me back down. “No, you won’t.” She turned to her mother. “Her dad went away for the weekend. We can’t let her stay alone, can we? What if someone breaks in?”

  “Where did he go?” her mom asked.

  I thought fast. “Hunting. With some army buddies. I’ll be fine, really. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Rappaport sighed. “All right, you can stay. Just keep it quiet. I have a migraine.”

  * * *

  Finn never called. Never texted, either.

  Some time during the second movie, the box of mints that were not mints placed itself on the bed next to me and opened its lid and before I knew it a pill was in my mouth and I washed it down with milk.

  I thought I had taken the waking-up pill, but soon my eyes started to close themselves and I drifted off as Gracie talked about going to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. I curled up under a quilt on her bed, her ancient cat perched on my hip and purring, and I sank into a heavy, soft sleep as Gracie’s voice faded. The rumbling purr of the cat sounded like a well-tuned diesel engine, and I was on the road again, at night, safely buckled into the passenger seat as Dad’s truck shot through the dark, the driver’s seat empty, the steering wheel too far away for me to reach.

  45

  We drink tea made with dirty water over an open fire near the village, far from the mountains. The radio cuts in and out; we can’t account for the interference. We swirl the tea in metal cups, waiting. Not sure what we’re waiting for.

  Then the screaming starts.

  Fire boils in the desert-colored sky, breathing poison down his lover’s throat and eating her children. A moving mountain, alive, hungry, thundering toward this village, our tents: simoom.

  We throw the tea in the fire. Shout in seven languages, guns, arms, fingers all pointing to the wind coming for us. We race. We hide. Pray.

  The crippled camel-girl limps. The hungry wind is coming and all she can do is limp. I turn around. Someone grabs my arm, pulls me inside, screams in my head, but I watch her. The red scarf is torn from her hair. She limps. The village disappears. The wind is a lion, jaws open wide. He swallows the crippled camel-girl and scours the color from her eyes.

  Sand fills my mouth, stuffs my head with the stench of the lion. Pours into my ears the screams of every corpse. The winds of the desert have names. They feed on the bodies of broken children and rip out the beating hearts of men.

  46

  Gracie’s mother woke us up on Sunday morning and said that Gracie had to go to church with her and that I could join them if I was in the mood. She didn’t want me tagging along, I could tell, so even though Gracie looked like she wanted to strangle me, I said I had too much homework and, after a small bowl of cereal, packed up my stuff.

  “We never go to church, this is ridiculous,” Gracie said as we stood on her driveway.

  “Maybe she wants to ask God to help her get back together with your dad.”

  “As if He cares.”

  * * *

  I went to the park and sat until I saw Mrs. Rappaport’s car speed away, Gracie slumped in the front seat, staring at her phone. I walked back to their house and keyed in the entry code that opened the garage door. (This took no skill; I’d seen Gracie do it—112233—at least a dozen times.)

  I set the alarm on my phone to make sure I’d be out of there long before they returned.

  Back in the not-family room, I paged through the magazines again and then the photo albums that stood in a neat row on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, but saw nothing out of the corner of my eye. The pages stayed flat and shiny. The room didn’t share any secrets or replay scenes that happened more than ten years earlier.

  The person who went upstairs to Mrs. Rappaport’s bathroom looked a little bit like me. I saw what she did, watched it in the mirror. She opened the medicine cabinet, took out each pill bottle, and read the label, then put them back. Except for one. She poured the pills into her hand. They looked like generic vitamins or allergy medicine, something ordinary. Could it be this simple? She spilled the pills from one palm to the other like they were coins or cheap pearls. Her father swallowed pills to make the hurt go away. A long time ago they came in white bottles that had labels printed with the pharmacy’s phone number and the doctor’s name. Now they came in empty cans of chew or old baggies. It didn’t matter where he got them. They didn’t fix anything. They blurred the lines and turned the voices into ugly static.

  Her face in the mirror melted, morphed one centimeter at a time the way pictures in a flip book do when you slide your thumb down the edge of the pag
es. She waited to see what or who she’d turn into. Her skin lightened. The freckles vanished. The color drained from her lips and then her hair. Her eyebrows and lashes turned white, then transparent, and then they no longer existed. Her chin faded away next, then her mouth and her nose. The eyes smudged like they were being wiped off with a fat pink eraser, and then they were gone, too. The mirror was empty.

  I blinked.

  When I opened my eyes she was gone and I was back. My eyes. My freckled nose. My absurd hair. My sweating, shaking hands that poured the pills back into the bottle. I ran out of the house before I turned into someone I didn’t want to know.

  * * *

  Our living room smelled a lot like chicken wings and pizza and a little like weed when I walked in the front door.

  Dad looked up from the television. “Hey, princess,” he said with a grin. “Have a good time?”

  I hung up my jacket in the closet.

  “Giants are playing,” he said. “Philly, first quarter. I saved you some pizza. Double cheese.” He frowned. “What’s that look for?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “You love double cheese.”

  “I’m not talking about the pizza.”

  “Is it the wings? You gave up being a vegetarian two years ago.”

  “Are we going to play ‘pretend’?”

  “Vegetarians can eat double-cheese pizza.”

  “It’s not the food,” I said.

  “Are you still upset about the cemetery?”

  “What?”

  Dad muted the television. “I was thinking about what you said. I’ll call the cemetery and find out how much those special vases cost. Mom didn’t like cut flowers, but she hated being outdone by her neighbors, and that headstone looks awful. Good idea?” He let Spock lick the pizza grease off his fingers. “Why are you still wearing the pissy face?”

  “Did you run Friday night through the Andy-filter so instead of looking like a total ass, you can feel like you were a hero or something?”