The Life Before Her Eyes
Laura Kasischke
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
...
Dedication
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Sunlight
Whispers
Heartbeat
Daisies
Footsteps
Part Two
Thunder
Peonies and Lilac
Humming
Blood
Part Three
Silence
Skin
Light and Shadow
Glass
Glare
Part Four
Birds
Cold
Dust
Steam
Part Five
Music
Breath
Rumbling
April
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
A HARVEST BOOK
HARCOURT, INC.
San Diego New York London
FOR BILL
Copyright © 2002 by Laura Kasischke
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work
should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,
Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead; events; or localities is entirely coincidental.
www.HarcourtBooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kasischke, Laura, 1961–
The life before her eyes/Laura Kasischke.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-15-100888-4
ISBN 0-15-602712-7 (pbk.)
1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Choice (Psychology)—Fiction.
3. Female friendship—Fiction. 4. Murderers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A6993 L54 2002
813'.54—dc21 2001024311
Text set in Garamond MT
Display set in Garamond MT and AGaramond
Designed by Cathy Riggs
Printed in the United States of America
First Harvest edition 2002
G I K J H
Voici que vient l'été, la saison violente
Et ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printemps
Summer is coming, the violent season
And my youth, dead with the spring
—APOLLINAIRE
Prologue
April
They're in the girls' room when they hear the first dot-dot-dot of semi-automatic gunfire. It sounds phony and far away, and they keep doing what they're doing—brushing their hair, looking at their reflections in the mirror...
Dot-dot-dot.
The mirror is narrow and institutional, but also brilliant. Earlier that morning, the janitor wiped it with Windex and a cloth, and now it's like a piece of mind there, opening. Clean as a thought in the mind of a god. A thought cast by the creator of everything onto perfectly calm water.
They have to stand shoulder to shoulder to squeeze both of their reflections in:
The dark-haired girl, smiling, her arm hooked into the arm of her friend.
The blond, who's been crying, but who's laughing now. Still, the crying's made a blurred photograph of her face—her mascara smeared, her image occurring to her as though from the surface of a shimmering pool.
"I'm just so happy for you," she says to her friend's reflection.
"Then why are you crying?" her friend asks. She laughs.
"Because I'm happy!"
"Are you sure you're not jealous?" the dark-haired girl asks, passing the hairbrush to her friend.
Dot-dot-dot.
Dot. Dot. Dot.
"What is that?"
The blond stuffs her hairbrush, which is now spun with gold and black silk (a miniature angel's nest) back into her backpack next to her anthology of English literature. The pages of that anthology are so thin, they're like dead girls' dreams, translucent skin. On them it seems that everything that has ever been thought has been written.
Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.
This time it's followed by a soft and gurgling scream. The scream of someone slipping suddenly into a warm bath.
"Shit," one of the girls says.
"What the hell—"
One of the girls starts toward the door, but the other grabs her elbow. "Don't go," she says. "What if?—"
"What?"
"I don't know." She drops her friend's elbow.
"It's just a prank. It's probably Ryan Asswipe..."
Dot. Dot—
So loud this time—close and mechanically bright—that both girls scream. Their screams are followed by a silence that sounds foolish, cold and hard as the tile on the girls'-room walls. One says in a whisper, "It's Michael Patrick. Yesterday, in trig, he told me he was going to bring a gun to school, that he was going to kill..."
"Who? Kill who?"
"Everybody."
"What?"
"'All you fuckheads,' he said. I thought he was joking, you know what a freak—"
"Why didn't you tell anybody?"
"I—"
On the other side of the door to the girls' room, there's another scream. It sounds desperate and pointless as music, and it's followed by a man asking for help.
"Help," is all he says.
Mr. McCleod?
Then silence, except that one of the girls is wearing seven silver bangles on her right wrist, and both girls gasp when they jangle. The other grabs the bangles on her friend's wrist and holds them still with her hand.
Then he opens the door slowly, and steps in. He's holding a big blue-black gun with both hands, pointing it in front of him, aiming at nothing.
When he sees them, Michael Patrick laughs. "Hey," he says.
One of the girls, trying not to sob, swallows, then says, "Michael."
He's wearing a shiny shirt—a clean and pale white shirt, but there are large ugly sweat stains under his arms. There's an angry rash under his chin, where he must have shaved too fast that morning.
Michael Patrick smiles. He's breathing hard. He takes one of his hands off the grip of the gun and puts the hand in the pocket of his jeans. He's wearing white shoes with blue lightning bolts on the sides, laces untied.
"So," he says too loudly in the quiet softness of the girls' room, and both girls flinch.
"So," he says more softly, as if sorry to have startled them. "Which one of you girls should I kill?"
Neither girl breathes.
Both of them look at his face as if for the first time. What is he, standing in the girls' room with a gun? How many times have they passed Michael Patrick in the hall and never looked at him? A hatred moving among them, waiting. An ugliness, a nothing—a solid hole of it, swallowing.
Then he points the gun at one of them and then at the other and shouts, "Which one of you girls should I kill?!"
This time they don't flinch. Behind him there's still the mirror ... a bit of infinity, which in its disinterest still holds their reflections safely in it.
One of the girls swallows, takes a deep breath. "Please," she wh
ispers, "don't kill either of us."
Michael Patrick smirks, then says, "Oh, but I'm going to kill one of you, so which one should it be?"
He holds the gun closer to their faces, and they can smell it. Sulfur, oil.
The dark-haired girl clears her throat and says clearly, as if she'd been ready to say it for years, "If you're going to kill one of us, kill me."
Michael Patrick nods at her and smiles. He isn't in a hurry now, if he ever was.
"Well?" he says to the other girl. To the other girl he says, "What do you have to say?"
The blond sees her own face in the mirror behind him, feels the heat of her friend beside her, moist, alive, and she shifts her weight away. She looks down. Her friend is breathing calmly now. There are tears on the gray linoleum, and strange specks of gold among them, as if someone has ground jewelry into the floor with the heel of a shoe.
She closes her eyes.
The girls' room is sacred and full of waiting.
There is no one in it but the three of them. No one beyond it, either, it seems. No flag snapping in the breeze at the top of the flagpole outside. No bike rack glinting in the sun. No orange double doors, open or closed. No glass case full of golden trophies in the hall. No gym, shined up and smelling like rubber. No principal's office. No principal's desk cluttered with framed photos of confused-looking children and wives who are all different and all the same—young and beautiful and smiling, middle-aged and overweight—staring blankly out of the same, changed face.
No principal. No Venetian blinds casting slatted shadows across his face.
No students standing with their backs against the brick walls, watching.
No vending machines purring in the cafeteria, and no elderly woman cutting Jell-O into emerald squares behind the chilled cafeteria glass, laying them trembling onto little white dishes.
There's no one out there. Not a janitor, not a secretary, not a soul, not God.
No one is going to hear what she says, whether she speaks or not. Simply, she could close her eyes and never speak again. She could suck all of the air in this room—every dust mote, every atom—into her body and hide it inside her....
She is about to do it, about to inhale, when the silver bangles on her wrist make a tinny, unholy sound.
Her friend's grasp on them has slipped with trembling and sweat ... the silver bracelets she bought at a boutique downtown last summer and which she'd slipped over her own thin and miraculous hand that very morning a million years ago.
Now that they are free of the other girl's grasp, they will not stop jangling.
They are cheap bells on the doors of convenience stores. They are small bells worn around the necks of cats. They are brass bells on reception desks... RING BELL FOR HELP. They are Salvation Army Santas' bells ... the smell of gasoline in the grocery store parking lot, a handful of quarters dropped into a bucket, her own breath pouring out of her in the snowy cold, like a living scarf.
And beyond the distant sound of all the bells she's ever heard and loved, she can hear the sound of her own heart thumping dully inside her, pumping blood through her body, and she loves it, too ... has always loved it, whether she knew it until now or not ... loves it so much she would stay right here, like this, right here in this bathroom stall, terrified and violently alive for the rest of her life ... an armful of silver bracelets, a rose tattooed on her hip—a bit of fatal beauty sewn directly into her skin—gold in her hair, a blush made of blooming and blood on her cheeks. She has crooked teeth, but it is her best flaw. She simply smiles with her mouth closed, and it makes her more mysterious. She would smile like that, beautifully, for the rest of her life if she could.
If she could.
But then Michael Patrick puts the gun near her ear. It touches her temple, and its blue blackness is a terrible, intimate whisper....
She has to whisper back to it.
"Don't kill me," she whispers to it.
And when he asks, "Then who should I kill?"
She hears herself answer, "Kill her. Not me."
Part One
Sunlight
IT WAS ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL DAY IN A PERFECT LIFE:
June again, and all the brilliance that came with it All the soft edges of spring were gone, and a kind of clarity had taken their place. There was a sharpness to the trees and leaves, which were the green of bottle glass, while the sky beyond them had hardened into a pure and cloudless blue.
Diana McFee opened her eyes, and she might as well have been seeing the sky for the first time. Such a mundane surprise to be alive! A forty-year-old woman in the middle of June, looking straight into a very blue sky, a sky that looked like the center of something entirely fresh that had been neatly sliced in half with a sharp knife. A mind full of ether. A breathtaking emptiness, like a clean kitchen, a clear conscience.
She realized that she'd drifted into sleep while idling in the minivan, waiting for her daughter outside the elementary school, and had been startled awake by the hysteria of bells within the school's walls, up there on the hill, where the school day had just ended.
Inside, Diana knew, the girls were grabbing their jackets, pulling up their kneesocks, lining up outside the orange double doors that would burst open like a can of confetti in a moment. The green hillside would become a chaos of windbreakers and pigtails and the terrible bird shrieks of little girls.
But she was still in the process of waking, of rematerializing after her brilliant dream ... a soccer mom stepping out of sleep as if it were a mirror, her body and mind coming together again atom by atom in the brightness where she waited.
She rubbed her eyes and inhaled.
Summer.
She loved summer. The way it dried and tidied everything up. All through March, April, May, Diana had been waiting for the struggle to be over—the smell of rotting and newness, the grass and the roots like damp hair. So much moisture involved in resurrection! The dirty puddles full of worms. The moist privacy of turtles scrambling out of the muck. All that birthing and blood, and the blatant sexuality of it. The teenage girls, too flushed, looking as if they'd just been dragged out of the mud by their hair.
In May, Diana could hardly stand to look at those teenage girls wearing their first short skirts and tank tops of the season after so much winter whiteness ... those teenage girls waiting for the bus, crossing the street. The skin on their limbs looked barer than bare skin, as if the top layer of it had been peeled away, exposing to the air something more tender than flesh. Winter lasted a long time in the Midwest. For five months those girls had been buried in snow.
But by mid-June they were wearing human skin again.
Diana loved June.
She realized again how much she loved it, as she unrolled the driver's side window of the minivan and breathed in the glassy air of it, knowing how much she loved it ... all of it:
Summer, and her life ... loved it with a heart that might as well have been made of tissue paper, it fluttered so lightly in her chest. There was the taste of pure sugar in her mouth. What had she last eaten? A peppermint? A sugar cube? Whatever it had been, it had been white and sweet, and she craved another.
She loved the sun on the side of her face, the smell of warm vinyl filling the minivan. She loved being herself in her forty-year-old body ... being a wife, a mother ... the bake sales and the field trips; the Band-Aids and the small sweaters coming out of the washer soggy and smelling of rain; the flour blended into butter and brown sugar, and the chocolate chips folded into that.
Now as she thought of it she realized that she loved all the material details of her days. The rolling heft of her silver minivan, the way the air parted to let it pass like a bullet on its way to the grocery store, the library, her child's elementary school, her part-time job.
She loved the sparkling clapboard house in which she lived on one of the nicest, shadiest streets—Maiden Lane!—in one of the most picturesque little college towns in the country.
Her daughter was pretty and happy
.
Her husband was sexy, attentive, successful.
The world was very round. Round like a fishbowl. Thought swam around in circles in it.
How could they have ever believed it was flat? So much slipping and bending and arcing into space. Even at that moment, still stepping from her dream, Diana McFee could feel the roundness and hear the wind whispering as the earth turned in its grasp.
We are afloat in the sky, she thought, cradled, buoyed...
Mr. McCleod—a sad, short man with yellow teeth—looks up from the lesson he's trying to teach...
He almost never looks up. He is a painfully shy man, who makes teaching look like torture. His classroom is full of props that he can hide behind. Magnifying glasses. A television monitor. Computers. Microscopes. A transparency projector. And a map of the world beside a map of the human body—all its muscle groups and major organs labeled. Even the face on that human map looks like meat And a skeleton, a real skeleton, which hangs from the wall at the front of the room ... a skeleton with whom Mr. McCleod is rumored, jokingly, to be in love.
"She's a teenager," he told them on the first day of class in September.
He pointed out the narrowness of the pelvic bones and showed them how some of the bones that an older female skeleton would have were missing on this one. He explained there were bones in the female body that didn't ossify—ossify: "to convert into bone," he wrote on the board in his lurching scrawl—until the human female was out of her teens.
Femoral bones, spinal vertebrae.
Those bones stayed soft inside the body for a long time, and if the girl died young, they simply melted away with her flesh.
Teeth and bones, Mr. McCleod told the class, would identify them—who they'd been, what they'd done—long after they were dead....
HER HUSBAND? HAD SHE BEEN THINKING OF HIM? Counting her many blessings?
Sexy, attentive, successful.
He was a respected professor of philosophy at the university. She'd been—the old story—his student.
And Diana herself was successful, though in a more modest sense than her husband. She was an artist—a sketch artist—and taught a few afternoons a week at the local community college. She spent her mornings in the studio her husband had finished for her above their garage, and drew. Pen and ink, graphite pencil, charcoal. Her work was sometimes used on the covers of poetry collections, literary magazines, church programs, calendars. She worked strictly in black and white ... shadow and light.