“You think your friend at the junkyard could trade it for something else?” I say dejectedly, watching Mary-Anne coiling the tow-rope up. “I need to be in— I need to be somewhere and I think that cop wrecked any hope of me making it if I wait for it to be fixed.”
“I’m sure, sweetheart. If she can’t fix it I’m sure she’ll have something to get you where you need to go. You go on in, I’ll be in in a moment. Grab yourself a water or a pop if you want, and there’s some pickle wraps in the fridge there too.”
She returns to looking under the hood. Her hands diving deep at the back of the motor to get hold of the mess of wiring he sliced through, her fingers already slick with the oil that erupted from a cut line when I tried to start the car. For a while she’s muttering about an oil cooler and something bleak about an ‘eh-quew’, whatever that is, before her commentary ends on a bleak sigh about how much it’d need to even get the car to start, let alone run decently.
As I turn towards the door, her voice drops so soft I almost don’t catch it when she says, “Geez, I need to warn Jen. I’m not sure what he might do.” She stands, stepping away back and staring at the wide open horizon. Her voice drops so soft I have to strain to hear, “How many bodies we gonna find out there?”
Slamming the hood down, she starts slightly as she sees me still standing on the deck. “Oh geez, I thought you’d gone inside. You shouldn’t oughta be out here in this heat. Not after what happened for sure.”
I drag a smile up from somewhere, “I was just—”
“It’s okay. Go on in, now.” She waves. “I’ll finish up and we can bring your things in after supper.”
#
Out of all the photos on the wall, there’s this one that pulls me in. Faded a little, the colors muted from the sun hitting it. I just know if I move it there’ll be a rectangle where the paint’s a different shade — it’s been here that long. It’s not like the pictures amazingly framed, it’s not even really well in focus. It’s just a prom night photo of a smiling teenager. From the dress she’s wearing, and the things around her, she’s maybe the same age as me, at most a few years different. But the thing is, there’s a mischevous grin plastered across her face, she’s doing something — clearly stupid — with some boy who’s with her, corsage still in a box in his hand, laughing. Its not posed — that’s the thing. Not like most pre-prom photos: the couple standing almost at attention, boy having had a lecture from dad, the girl covering the hint of freedom she knows is ahead of her.
In this shot, there’s unguarded life captured in the frame.
It’s not like the ones from mine. The photos with me shoved into some shapeless rented tux, disappearing beneath its fabric. I didn’t want to go — didn’t even have a date — and knew the best outcome would be spending the night drinking whatever from a smuggled in flask, then maybe some sneaking out for some weed under the bleachers. But the ’rents were dead set on me going.
Set on me being the perfect son, and with the picture of prom-me landing up on the wall to go with all the other ones of the son they never really had. The son I only ever pretended to be. I don’t know why I caved. But I did, so there it was. My image, posed like a fucking mannequin in front of the fireplace. A traditional photo, only it’s just me. No girlfriend there. I wasn’t even really there. In the end it’s a photo of nothing.
The photo was still up on their wall last time I was dragged myself into that place, Into that life. They’re still proud of their son. He’s a scientist, you know.
Dead fucking eyes beaming misery at me every time I walked in.
But I can’t stop thinking about that photo and that life as I’m staring at the smiling girl. Hearing that laughter. Wanting to reach back and rip me from my past; put me with her, there, in hers.
“Shit. Sorry.” I say, stepping away quickly from the wall of photographs. Mary-Anne’s already through the door, watching me. How long has she been there? “I just— I saw the photos and…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to show them off I wouldn’t have them up.” She pauses, takes in the wall. “My daughter,” Mary-Anne continues, her voice mixing pride and melancholy, “My world, really, for eighteen years. She moved away soon as she could — as soon as she got enough money together. I can’t blame her. If I could afford it, I would too. I was young and stupid and came down here for a man.” She stares at the photo, letting out a sharp laugh. “Honey, promise me you’ll never do that.” She fixes me with a glare and waits until I agree. “Don’t do it for a woman either.”
“No, ma’am. I won’t.” I resist an urge to salute.
“He was interesting. Only realized that when I got down here and was stuck with him. So it’s just me and him and a baby on the way. You know how it is.” A silence stretches out. One I’m afraid to break. “Anywho, got rid of him right quick, and I shoulda taken me and Sam back up north straight away. But I had a job, and a baby, and the start of a life. The girls were all here—” She waves her hand at a photo of a crowd of women all in neon sportswear, “—so I had support, and it sounds dumb to say it — but there was this great Tae Bo class that Francine, God rest her soul, used to teach. Loved that. And down in the Y they had step aerobics. We had a good gang! Sometimes after class we’d hit Jo’s bar, get wine coolers, talk about everything under the sun. It’s the community that made the heat worth it — I loved it here, then. Although near everyone’s gone now.
“But Sam, when she grew up turned out she was a city girl deep in her bones. Probably the only useful things she got from her dad — love of the city and working to be first. She comes to visit though, on the regular. Tells me there’s nothing like your mom’s hotdish in the middle of winter, and everyone looks at her weird when she tells ’em about it. That’s her fault for going to the west coast though! Though I guess I don’t get to say much.” She waves dismissively at the window.
When she turns back her mood’s shifted again. She points at another photograph; framed, but showing off its torn edge. A sweating, smiling young woman propped up in a hospital bed looking so, so proud and holding a newborn baby. I’d guess the person ripped off is the dad, presumably he was perched on the edge of the bed. A few fingers remain, too much in the picture to be removed with whatever else was torn off.
“She was so tiny when she was born. You don’t know until you do it how much they’ll change you. How much you’ll change your life for them.
“You have an— No, I promised no questions.”
“’s okay.” I swallow, since it seems hard to make words come out, and blink back the tears that are far too close to the surface. “I uh, I couldn’t uh. I didn’t want to have kids before for, um… Now I dunno. I really want to but I don’t know...” Tears start to leak from the corners of my eyes. I swipe them away. “Anyway.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She steps closer, wraps me in an embrace. A feeling of safety overwhelms everything and I’m wracked with sobs.
No one ever…
Before if I was hurting I’d just…
Maybe a hand on my back?
Sometimes someone might reach out and touch my arm…
Tension I didn’t know I was carrying drops away as I cry. Maybe for motherhood, maybe for childhood, maybe for all of it and none of it. Relief fills the void the tension left.
When she releases me and steps away I whisper, “Thank you. God. Thank you. I’d be dead or worse if it wasn’t for you. And here I am crying all over you with my stupid problems.”
“Hey, hey. That’s what Moms are for.”
I scan the photos for a distraction. I need to stop crying on this poor woman.
“Um, who’s this, if you don’t mind me asking?” The boy stands out, I think it’s the only shot of him, among very few shots of any boys, but it’s prominent. A grainy faded photo of some teenager sporting a feeble mustache, arm around Sam.
“He was her first real boyfriend — they went to senior prom together. David. He died a couple of weeks later; fell asleep driving, ran his truck into a telephone pole. Never had the heart to take his picture down.
“Right, honey. We should get some food in you, get your things unloaded, and get you into bed. I called Skye, she’s heading over with her tow-truck. Said she’ll take a look while she’s here, but she doesn’t have anything that’s a straight parts swap, so you might be down to trading it in with her anyway.”
Mary-Anne walks over to the freezer and pulls out a couple of ready meals. “I hope you’re not expecting gourmet dinner tonight.” She laughs, tossing them on the counter.
#
A low rumble and the crunch of tires on gravel stops my fork on the way to my mouth. If where I was was the middle of nowhere, Mary-Anne’s manufactured home is infinitely further off the track. There’s no reason for anyone to be out here unless…
When the engine cuts out I resist the urge to drop my fork and hide. Dive around the back of the island but what am I gonna do there? Crawl into a cupboard under the counter? Maybe I should sprint out the back door, out into the cooling desert.
Mary-Anne reaches across, places a hand gently over mine. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s just Skye. Christian only drives a cruiser or his cybertruck, but he wouldn’t dare bring that out here. Might get dust in the air suspension. Anyway, you can hear him coming. Drives like a rock off a butte.”
The woman who walks in a few minutes later is younger than I expected. Or at least looks younger. Her coveralls are stained with oil, but under the oil streaks on her skin she’s lean and tan. “Hey Mary-Anne. Hey—” She glances at me.
Shit. Another connection out here. Another person seeing me.
“Erika.” I mumble. I should have had another identity. One for the motel, one for after the motel, but before my new life. And the woman I’m meant to be. Now there might be something that puts him heading out east and me leaving.
“Hey Mary-Anne, Hey Erika,” she repeats, cheerfully. “That your shit-box out there that needs fixin’?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m in kinda a hurry, too.”
“Everyone passing through’s running from or to something out here sweetheart. You’re far from the first stray Mary-Anne’s picked up.”
Mary-Anne laughs gently. “This one was having a rougher day than most. Christian.” She adds, heavily.
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” She walks over, wraps an arm around me. “You okay?”
“Not— not really, no.” I admit. “But Mary-Anne, she’s been very kind.”
“Nothing I’m sure you wouldn’t do for any other girl.” She says, whipping the empty plate away and replacing it with a bowl of ice cream. “As promised.” She smiles. “Me and Skye here’ll get your car emptied.”
Skye nods. “I’ll take it back with me and see what I can do, I had a peek under the hood and… I’m not gonna lie, it’s not good. It doesn’t look like it was in great shape before Christian had his tender way with it. But now? You’re lucky it didn’t catch fire when you tried to start it. If you wanna trade it, I’ve got some decent runners in the yard. There’s a Corolla that’s in pretty good shape. Salvage title, but I fixed it up good. It’s silver...”
“Oh wow, Skye, the Corolla would be great. Don’t even worry about trying to fix mine, I’m not attached to it. Uh — I guess — How much did you want for it?” My breath catches in my throat as I ask. “Shit. Um. Mary-Anne. I’m sorry. I need to get something out… I had to… It’s not illegal...” I finally trail off, feeling like some kid caught in the act as she looks at me again. I take a slow breath. Revealing more of the tiny shard of my existence than I ever wanted to. “My money. I stashed it in the dashboard. The radio didn’t work anyway. I need to get it out.”
“Are you going somewhere safe, Erika?” Mary-Anne says. Something about her voice…I’m ten years old. After a car knocked me off my bike and my mum was there, at the hospital, at my bedside. Before it all went wrong, before I understood what I was, and how unwelcome that was.
Back when my mom’s voice was concern and care, before it became loathing and disgust.
“I think so.” I hear someone say. Apparently, it’s me.
“Okay.” She says. “You’re taking my number all the same. Just in case. You call me if something goes wrong.”
“Hey, Erika?” Skye says. “I know this isn’t the best time an’ all, but I gotta say, never let a bitch sell you a car sight unseen. Mary-Anne’ll vouch for me I’m sure, but I’m willing to bet you don’t know her from Eve, and I could take away your car and bring back a worse heap of shit. I won’t, because I’m not like that. But a lot of guys out here will fuck you — sorry — will rip you off as soon as look at you. So tomorrow morning, I’m gonna bring it over and you’re gonna take the Corolla for a drive with Mary-Anne and she’s gonna show you what to look for and the next time someone tries to sell you a heap of shit like that fucking Hornet, you tell them to sit and swivel.”
“Geez, go gentle on her, Skye.” Mary-Anne nudges her good naturedly. “She really went through it today.”
“I’m sorry.” She says first to Mary-Anne, then turns to me and repeats before grumbling, “No one teaches you city girls how to survive.
“Right girls. I’ve got to go if I’m gonna get that pile of shit off your driveway before bed tonight.”
#
The light here’s not like back home. The sky’s incredibly clear and the temperature’s dropped like a stone, but there’s no glow from streetlamps outside. It takes a minute for me to realize I’d zoned out entirely on the couch. The remaining stack of MREs is by the door, along with the few other bits and pieces that survived Officer Saint James’s destruction. Blinking I look around for Skye, realize she must have finished up hours ago, left, and that I must have fallen asleep.
“You look beat, sweetheart. You should get to bed, get some rest. And Erika, if you want to shower, I left you some of Sam’s old stuff in the bathroom. I couldn’t help but notice you don’t seem to have much in the way of luggage.”
“Yeah, I didn’t really—” I begin hesitantly.
“Honey, you don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.” Mary-Anne’s voice is gentle. “If you want to talk about it, you’re welcome to. But if you’re not ready, that’s okay too.” Silence surrounds us. I want to break it — I want to tell her so much more than I should, but what would she think? What would anyone think of me. Of what I’ve done. What I’m doing.
No.
“I should shower.” I whisper.
The bathroom’s small, a little tired. Everything here is. Worn by the relentless sun and heat, I guess. Hung from the back of the door is a cute pair of sleep shorts and a pink T-shirt, a cartoon picture of a cat in sunglasses licking whip cream off of a coffee smugly staring back at me. For the first time in what seems like forever, the pain is manageable. Maybe driven into insignificance by the experiences today. Perhaps overridden by the desire to remove the grime of the day. Maybe I am just, actually, getting over the infection.
I slip off my clothes, consider just throwing them in the trash. But I’ve barely got anything — however tainted they are, they are still functional. I turn the water up as hot as it’ll go. I want to sanitize myself. I want to boil his touch off me. I want it to be scalding but it won’t. She’s apparently still got it set to some safe-for-kids limit. A temperature that’s never more than comfortably warm. Regardless, I soap myself again and again. Imagning the damage washing away with the dirt and sand sluicing down the drain. But the dark blooms of his fingerprints on my arms remain no matter how hard I scrub. My wrists redden as I angrily rub and rub, trying to abrade away the stains of his contact. The water runs cold. I stand in it anyway, imagining a layer of ice forming over my skin, freezing the asshole out of my body, out of my fucking head.
When I finally step out, teeth chattering, I get to see me properly for the first time. Not through the hazy scratches of a motel mirror. Not reflected in the shades of an attacker-maybe-murderer. Not burning against the black paint of a cruiser hood.
And it’s just me.
Just a girl.
Drips of water pool on the tile as I run first my eyes, then my hands over my body.
My body.
Mine.
I fucking made this.
I fucking did this.
It’s amazing.
Yeah, it’s already damaged, already scarred by the world. What isn’t?
It’s still mine.
I hold my hand in front of me. Stare at the constellation of bruises wrapping around my wrist, twisting my arm back and forth. It’s right. It finally feels right. My brain tries to tell me it’s wrong. That I don’t look like this. That I’m too big, too unwieldy, too mannish to be a girl. It swears that it knows this. But my brain’s wrong. My brain’s filled with lies that can’t undo the new reality.
Back to the mirror.
Back to the dark circles around her eyes. Around my eyes.
Back to the shoulders, the breasts, the arms, the hands, the fingers. Nails still bitten to the quick; need to do something about that. To the feet, to the legs, hips. Fingers trailing across my skin, finally enjoying the sensitivity of this new body. Fingertips finally landing on my mound, pressing gently against the softness. Reveling in it. Reveling in all the sensations pouring in.
“You okay in there?” Mary-Anne calls.
“Yeah, just finishing up.” I smile, and catch a glimpse of the smile in the mirror as I grab the clothes. The girl there’s got a stupid grin on her face. Unguarded. A reflection of another girl in a photograph.
It’s okay Erika. You can get through this.