Good Grief: A Novel

  “Well, what’s in there besides matches?” I point at her bulging backpack.

  “Stuff.”

  Clutching her wrists, I examine the cuts, some of which are snagged with black sweater fuzz. From the bathroom I grab a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and box of cotton balls. As I swab Crystal’s skin, pink foam bubbles up from the rust-colored incisions.

  “This doesn’t look so bad,” I tell her, averting my face toward the wall. Crystal’s shoulders relax.

  I fold her arms under the covers, then get up to leave the room, stopping in the doorway. “I bet your arms will heal nicely in a few months and you can wear short-sleeved shirts this summer,” I say, switching off the light. “You know, if you don’t cut them again.”

  The streetlight casts a stripe of yellow across the floor.

  “I don’t care,” she says.

  “I know. But—”

  “Leave the door open?”

  In the morning I wake to the cloying smell of burning butter and rush downstairs to see if Crystal’s started another fire. She’s curled on the sofa, showered and dressed, watching a nature show on TV. Her brown corduroy hip huggers expose a creamy stripe of flat belly, silver studs outlining the pockets. Instead of her bulky black sweater, she wears a little pink tank top that shows off two knobby bones on the tops of her shoulders and the crisscrosses of cuts along the insides of her thin arms.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Shh!” She points to a plate with a bowl over it on the coffee table.

  Lifting the bowl, I discover two soggy pieces of French toast. I sit on a pillow on the floor and dig in. The slices are lukewarm and a little underdone in the middle. “Yum,” I tell her, but she’s concentrating on her program.

  On TV, a tiny brown mole digs a hole in the sand and hides. I like nature shows for their slow, matter-of-fact approach. “In the desert,” the narrator says quietly, as though narrating a golf tournament, “a hole . . . is a very good thing.”

  You can’t argue with that.

  17

  Breathe, I remind myself, looking up from the library book on cutters. The fluorescent lights buzz noisily overhead and the library air is dry and dusty, parching my throat. I close my eyes for a minute, then continue reading.

  Cutting the skin with a knife, razor blade, or other sharp object. Sometimes the skin is scraped with a coarse edge, such as that of a bottle cap, or burned. This is a symptom of severe underlying depression, anger, or anxiety.

  I draw a deep breath through my nose and spread my palms across the cold, greasy-feeling table, bracing myself.

  When the body is injured, it releases endorphins, natural painkillers that have a numbing effect. In this way, cutting may literally be a form of self-medication.

  The book goes on to say that cutting is often misunderstood as a suicide attempt or dismissed as being a fad, such as body piercing, but that it’s actually a coping mechanism.

  It can also be said that cutting replaces overwhelming emotional pain with more comprehensible physical pain. . . . Cutters feel compelled to injure themselves, and the activity is typically performed in a trance-like state.

  I look up and around the room. A man draped in a giant green rain poncho snoozes in a nearby chair. A sign made out of a wedge of brown cardboard is propped against his backpack, large print reading: ATTENTION IM HUNGRY.

  I run my fingers under my sleeves and over the warm, smooth skin on my arms, which feels remarkably thin. And I thought smashing dishes was desperate. As I picture the delicate underside of Crystal’s forearms sliced up like lattice pie crust, I shudder. While I can imagine the urge to cut yourself—an urge like wanting to smack yourself in the forehead, only ten times stronger—I can’t imagine the ability to actually go through with it. In an odd way, I admire Crystal for being able to cut herself—for being able to endure this much pain. I shudder again, snap the book shut, and gather a small stack of volumes to check out.

  I hear the clacking of a keyboard in the background as I explain over the phone to the counselor at Big Brothers/ Big Sisters everything that’s happened with Crystal so far—the fires, the cigarette burns on her hands, the cuts on her arms.

  “What are you typing?” I ask her.

  “I have to file a report,” she says, sighing.

  “Okay. But Crystal’s not going to get in trouble, is she? She can’t help it. And I know she’s already seeing a psychologist.”

  “Right. But we have to file a report on any activity that may be harmful to the little sister, big sister, or others.”

  “I see.”

  “The social workers will review the report and contact Crystal’s mother and the school.” The woman takes a gulp of something. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “You’re doing the right thing.” She stops typing for a minute and says apologetically, “I know this is more than you bargained for. Please be honest and tell me if you think it’s too much for you to handle. We would certainly understand—”

  “No, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I figured from the beginning that this might be difficult.” But that’s not really true. I pictured games of Candyland and Disney movies. I never imagined self-mutilation and fires. Still, I can’t return Crystal as though she’s an appliance that broke before the warranty expired.

  At work, I’m determined to master fondant—a stubborn mixture of sugar, water, and cream of tartar that you heat and cool, then knead into a doughlike icing that forms a lovely satiny outer blanket for a cake. That is, if things go well. My fondant is more like cement than satin, gluing itself to the counter and under my fingernails. I’m working in a little more confectioner’s sugar one afternoon when suddenly the Shakespeare festival actor who played Charles in Blithe Spirit shoots through the swinging doors of the kitchen. I jump, dropping the measuring cup on the floor. The sugar explodes into a little white cloud.

  “Sorry!” Charles says, and smiles. Two deep dimples and a flash of bright teeth. I scoop up the measuring cup and toss a towel over the mess. It’s the quiet part of the afternoon before the waiters and waitresses arrive. Chef’s in his office. I’m not sure how Charles found his way into the kitchen.

  “How’s the scampi today?” He’s wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, and a black turtleneck that frames his square, cleft chin.

  Heat surges up my neck and into my face. The last thing I need right now is a handsome actor. I’ve always had a knack for getting crushes on performers. It started when I was ten and wanted to marry Elton John, obsessively sewing sequins that spelled E-L-T-O-N onto a T-shirt when I was supposed to be studying for French quizzes.

  “Honey, you can’t get married, you’re only ten,” my mother said gently. “Besides, I think Mr. John is gay.” What did this mean? I asked her. That he would marry a man, she explained. Still, I didn’t see how this would prevent him from loving me.

  “Drew Ellis,” Charles says, extending a hand. His narrow face is slightly wrinkled with laugh lines, and his blue-gray eyes are like slate. I squint, searching for flaws to prevent me from falling for him—a chipped tooth, bad grammar, dirt under his fingernails.

  “Um, hi. Sophie Stanton.” My thumb circles my naked ring finger, which is chalky with powdered sugar. I wipe my hands on my apron and reach for his hand. His palm is warm, electric. A bit of sticky fondant smudges his thumb. He smiles, looks around, licks it off.

  “You work in the kitchen, too?”

  He’s probably here to see if I’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill for the scampi screwup.

  “Uh,” I tell him, “I’m the salad girl now.” I hear my voice speed up and feel my smile stiffen. Although I was married for three years, suddenly I don’t know how to talk to a man. My mind is as blank as a sheen of lemon fondant. I spread my arms, showing off my workstation—the gleaming stainless steel counter and giant mixer on the floor, the case of butter lettuce waiting to be rinsed.

  “I hope that’s not my fault.” Drew has an actor’s perfect diction, with crisp consonants and slightly British pron
unciation.

  “No, I’d say it’s pretty much my fault. I accidentally sat on a customer’s lap.” I smack my forehead. Goofy! Don’t tell that story.

  Drew laughs, throwing back his head. He’s one of those hearty laughers who makes you feel clever. I giggle, remembering how nice he was when I spilled the scampi.

  “They don’t want to offer lap dances here,” I add. “Family restaurant and all. Would you like a piece of cake?” Before he can answer, I slice a wedge of chocolate rum cake and hand him a fork.

  “How long have you lived in Ashland?” Drew asks, digging into the cake. He’s got Ruth’s dance-student perfect posture.

  Suddenly I can’t open my mouth. I’m certain there’s spinach between my teeth. I haven’t eaten spinach all day or all week, as far as I recall, but I swear I feel a greenish black piece wedged there now. I want to dash to the bathroom to check.

  “Almost two months,” I finally say, casually covering my mouth with one hand. I realize that I’ve been counting my time in Ashland as a finite, temporary period that will eventually end. Then I’ll go home and my husband will be alive again and my life will return to normal. But my Gorgatech leave of absence ended a month ago. (When I called to tell Lara I wouldn’t be returning to work, she sent a dozen white roses and a bon voyage card signed by everyone at the office wishing me good luck. Good riddance! they probably thought.)

  “I’m sorry I spilled food on your guest,” I tell Drew, leaning over to escape eye contact by wiping globs of pie dough off the big mixer.

  “My mom.”

  “Oh, gosh! I’m sorry. How’s she doing?”

  “Fine. Preparing for the lawsuit.”

  I swallow hard, wondering what happened to the Isadora Duncan date he brought to the restaurant that night.

  “I’m joking,” Drew says.

  “You were great as Charles,” I tell him, wiping the counters now. Stupid. Gushing!

  “You saw the play?” His eyes brighten. He polishes off the cake and sets the plate in the bottom of the big stainless sink. “Delicious.”

  I busy myself folding a pile of kitchen towels.

  “Listen . . .” He bows his head toward his white Nikes. “I thought maybe you’d like to go to dinner sometime.”

  I fold the last towel until it’s too small to fold anymore.

  Drew glances across the kitchen at the giant boxes of canned apricots and olives. “But maybe you’re sick of food. Maybe something else? Bowling?”

  “You mean a date?”

  “I’ve wanted to ask you out since the night you were our waitress.”

  “Right. You were with . . .” I pause, remembering the Isadora Duncan girl’s tiny nose and elegant neck—how her lustrous strawberry blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. “Your girlfriend?”

  “Friend,” Drew says.

  Friend. Whatever! I already hate this woman. Hate her loud theatrical cackle and silk scarves with their pretentious fringe. What a glamour-puss.

  “Oh.” I reach into the refrigerator for a new clump of chilled pie dough, even though I’m finished making pies for the day. I want to climb in and hide behind the butter.

  “I hope I’m not being presumptuous and you don’t have a significant other.”

  “Nope,” I tell the bottles of milk. “I’m significant otherless.”

  “Great.” Drew catches himself. “I mean for me. How about Monday, around seven? That’s my day off.” He adds this fact apologetically, I guess because Monday is a B-list date night, unlike Saturday.

  I close the refrigerator door. “Sure.”

  “Great. It’s a date.”

  A watery wave of nausea rises in my throat, the word date like a food I got sick on. I had to fend off my last date with a tennis racket.

  “Monday,” I repeat, rolling out an unnecessary ball of dough.

  “Shoot, I’ve got a rehearsal.” Drew peels back his sleeve to look at his watch. “May I call you?”

  After ripping the corner off a sack of flour, I jot down my number and hand it to him, then return to the dough.

  “Great,” he says. “Great to meet you. Again.”

  Good, he’s leaving. By the time he calls, maybe I’ll be a new person with self-confidence and cute comebacks. Straight hair, a better job, a smaller waistline.

  Drew disappears through the swinging doors. I collapse onto a cardboard box filled with giant cans of tomato juice. Then Drew stumbles back through the doors as a woman crashes past him, lunging toward me.

  “Sophie Stanton?” she barks accusingly. Crystal’s mother, Roxanne. Rage in a blue angora sweater.

  Drew pauses, a questioning look crossing his face.

  “Yes?” I take a step backward.

  Roxanne’s tight-fitting sweater outlines a small waist and large breasts. Oddly enough, I’m optimistic for Crystal—hoping she’ll inherit this figure soon and become as popular as her mother was in high school. “Where you from, anyway, hunh?” she asks in a low, gravelly voice.

  “Be with you in a minute,” I say cautiously. I peer past Roxanne and wave at Drew, hoping he’ll leave.

  “You one of those East Coast girls who’s moved to Oregon to help straighten out the white trash?” Roxanne has ramrod posture instead of Crystal’s unconfident hunch. Her white-blond hair spills past her hips.

  Drew’s face sinks into a concerned frown.

  I wave at him. “See you soon!” This comes out like a command, and he disappears through the kitchen doors. I wonder if he’ll ever really call or if the fondant moment was our first and last date.

  “Daddy send you to college and now you’re the authority on raising a kid?” Roxanne flips her hair behind her shoulders, Cher style, snapping her head from side to side.

  Listen, Old Yeller: I earned a partial scholarship to college and took out student loans and worked at the library to pay for my books. Of course, all this is beside the point. “Can we please just—”

  She cuts me off, rising on her toes. “You need to butt outta my life, Big Sister Suzie.” Her full, heart-shaped lips shimmer with pink lip gloss. It’s the same color Crystal smears clumsily across her thin mouth. I wonder if maybe, despite claiming that she hates her mother, Crystal yearns to be like her. “’Cause you have no idea what it’s like to raise a bratty teenager.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” I tell her. “Can you please call me after work and we’ll discuss this?”

  “You think I don’t know she sets fires?” Her eyes are slightly sunken, with dark circles, the only thing about her that isn’t pretty. “You think I don’t know she hacks up her arms? I know. The shrink knows. And now, thanks to your little report, the school knows. You think that makes junior high better for Crystal? Hunh? When everybody knows she’s a freak?”

  “Crystal’s not a freak.” I can’t believe this woman has so much disdain for her own daughter.

  “She cuts herself.”

  “I know, but you shouldn’t write her off as a freak.”

  “Who the fuck are you to tell me what I should do?”

  “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying maybe we should have a little more faith in her.”

  “We? This isn’t about we. This is about me and my daughter.”

  I clench my hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “Well, your daughter almost burned down my house. Did you think I couldn’t say anything about this?”

  “Just mind your own business, that’s all.”

  “How do you expect me to spend time with Crystal and mind my own business?”

  Chef Alan charges out of his office, his toque tipping to one side on his head.

  “What’s the deal here?” he demands.

  “We’re just having a discussion,” I tell him.

  Chef’s eyes shoot straight to the U shape of blond hair that sweeps across Roxanne’s small rear, and suddenly the air is let out of him. He straightens his back, broadens his chest, and bows ceremoniously in her direction.

  “Well, hello
,” he says.

  Crystal’s mother reels around toward Alan, ready to tear into him. She stops when she sees him and tilts her head to one side, like a lion trying to decide whether an antelope is worth the hassle.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Chef murmurs, sashaying toward her.

  Roxanne curls her upper lip, irritated. But Chef begins layering on the compliments and slowly she melts, like an ice sculpture losing its edge and definition.

  “Are you an actress with the festival?” he asks. “You are stunning.” Roxanne looks up at him through lashes thick with black mascara. Her tongue sweeps across her small, even teeth. She seems to be calculating the benefits of Chef’s attention.

  I step back, clearing the path between them. Alan glides over, takes Roxanne by the elbow, and leads her toward his office.

  “May I interest you in some fresh cracked crab and a glass of Chardonnay?”

  She shoots me a glare over her shoulder, as if to say, I’ll catch up with you later.

  “I just love the veal Oscar here,” she coos to Chef. It seems easy for her to forget about Crystal for the moment.

  “Allow me to give you a tour,” Chef says. They disappear around the corner into the pantry area, Chef telling Roxanne how he has his olive oils shipped in from Italy, that olive oils are like fine wines, really, and many people don’t realize that.

  DATING

  18

  Status quo: I’m thirty-six years old, and my husband died nine months ago, and I’m locked in the bathroom getting ready for my first date in nearly six years. I stand over the bathroom sink watching with horror as my last disposable contact lens slithers down the drain. Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses! And my scratched tortoiseshell frames are about as stylish as saddle shoes. Choosing vanity over depth perception, I forget the glasses for now and move on to my hair. It’s the dull, unglamorous texture of yarn today. It doesn’t want to go on a date. It says, Let’s stay home and eat rhubarb pie!

  I believe every woman with curly hair has a graveyard of products under her bathroom sink that she resorts to in emergencies such as this. Canisters of mousse, gel, and pomade—each promising to be the miracle cure. The pathetic part is I moved my mousse collection from California to Oregon. Towed it up in the U-Haul. And now I’m on my hands and knees, burrowing through the bottles. I choose one: Frizz Eaze—the z’s on the can mirroring my own kinks. I rub the goo between my palms and pat my head. Now my hair has a shellacklike sheen. It’s frizzy, sticky, and crunchy all at once. I give up, tug it into a ponytail, and slide on my glasses for an overview. Great. The librarian look. Allow me to recommend this volume on the Dark Ages.