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***
I came back from the white place in the fall, quieter, more watchful than before. The leaves were red and orange and brown, the skies were crisp and blue. I was worried that Carol A
I went back to school that year. Mama had been keeping me home before, teaching me herself, but she figured it was time for me to leave the nest. I needed to be around more girls and boys my age. I was so happy that she sent me to school at last, because Carol A
We didn’t exactly pick up where we left off. Carol A
The school year progressed without incident until Carol A
Of course, they found out when I was doing the heart pushing on a seventh-grader named Jo. I got suspended, and the fun stopped. No more pass-out game. No more Carol A
They rezoned us for ninth grade, decided we were big enough to go to high school. I had to take the bus, which I normally hated, because it drove past the Johnsons’ farm, and their copse of pine trees with the hanging man in them. I knew it wasn’t a real dead man, but the branches in one of the trees had died, and they drooped brown against the evergreen—arms, legs, torso and broken neck. Mama used to drive me to Doctor Halloway this route, ignoring my requests to go the long way past Tappy’s place. I hated this road as a young girl, just knew the Hanging Man would get out of that tree and follow me home.
When the bus would pass it by, I’d try not to look. Since I was a little older now, it wasn’t so bad in the daylight. But as winter came along and the days shortened, the hanging man waited for me in the dusky gloom. He spoke to me, the deadness of the pine needles brown and dusty like a grave.
The next year, Carol A
But mostly, we sat together in the back, those idyllic days, talking about boys and teachers, the upcoming dances and who was doing it. I knew Carol A
She snuck vodka from her parents’ house and slipped it into her milk some mornings. She’s share the treat with me, and we’d get boneless in the back of the bus, giggling our fool heads off. She taught me how to make a homemade scar tattoo, using the initials of a boy I liked. She took the eraser end of a pencil and ran it up and down her arm a million times until a shiny raw burn in the shape of a J appeared. She handed the pencil to me, and I tore at my skin until a misaligned M welled blood. I have that M to this day. I don’t remember which boy it was for.
The bus driver, Mrs. Bean, caught us with the vodka-laced milk. Carol A
***
Now that I’m grown, away from Mama’s house, away from Carol A
So you can imagine my shock and surprise when the doorbell rang, late one evening, and Carol A
I live in the A-frame house I grew up in. Mama’s been in a home over in Spring Hill for a couple of years now. They have nice flowerbeds, and I visit her often. We walk amongst the flowers and she reminds me of all the terrible things I did when I was a kid. No one thought I’d ever grow out of my awkward stage, but I did. I went off to college and everything. Carol A
But here she was, in the flesh, rain streaming down her face. Her blond hair was shorter, wet through, darker than I remembered. She was a ski
I was frozen at the door, unsure of what to do. She knew better than to come calling, that was strictly forbidden. We’d laid those ground rules years before, and she’d always listened. I was saved by the phone ringing. I glared at her and motioned for her to stay right where she was. Carol A
The phone kept trilling, so I turned and went to the marble side table in the foyer, the one that held the old fashioned rotary-dial. I picked it up, almost carelessly. It was Mama’s nurse at the Home. I listened. Felt the floor rushing up to meet me. Everything went dark after that.
***
When I woke, the sun was streaming in the kitchen window. Somehow I’d gotten myself to a chair. There was coffee brewing, the rich scent wafting to my nose. Carol A
“Hey, stranger.” Her voice was soft, that semi-foreign lilt more pronounced, like she’d been living overseas lately.
“Hey, yourself,” I replied. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You needed me.” She’d shrugged, a lock of lank blond falling across her forehead. “I’m sorry about your Mama. She was a good woman.”
I had a vision of Mama then, standing in the same spot, her hair in curlers, rushing to finish the preparations for a garden club meeting, stopping to lean back and take a sip of hot, sweet tea and smiling to herself because it was perfect. She was perfect. Mama was always perfection personified. Not flawed and messy like me. My heart hurt.
I forced myself to do the right thing. To do what needed to be done. My heart broke a little, and my head swam when I said, “Carol A
She looked down at the floor, then met my eyes. Tear glistened in the corners, making the cornflower blue look like a wax crayon. “C’mon, Lily. We’re blood sisters, you and I. We’re a physical part of each other. How can you say you don’t need a part of yourself? The best part of yourself? I make you strong.”