Honeysuckle Love (29 page)

I should wipe my nose
, she thought. But she didn’t. It wasn’t important.

She pushed through the door and felt the instant warmth. She almost thought it was too warm and turned to Beatrice who was sitting at the kitchen table to ask if she adjusted the heat.

“No, Clara,” Beatrice said. “And your nose is running.”

“Is it?” Clara plopped her bags on the floor and walked to the kitchen. She had a stupid smile slapped across her face and wondered if Beatrice was clever enough to realize it was fake. She dropped the mail on the counter and searched for a letter opener.

“Clara, your nose is still running,” Beatrice observed. She had been watching her sister the whole time.

“Well, get me a tissue.”

Beatrice disappeared to the bathroom and returned with a wadded bit of toilet paper.

“Thank you,” Clara said, and finally wiped her nose. “Where’s the letter opener?”

Beatrice looked at her perplexed. “Huh?”

“You know, the letter opener. It looks like a small sword,” Clara explained, still smiling.

“Clara, we’ve never had a letter opener. You just use your fingers,” Beatrice replied. She eyed her sister warily, wishing she would stop smiling that way.

“I’d like one,” Clara said. She continued rifling through the drawers.

“Why do you need a letter opener, Clara?”

Clara stopped rifling and turned to her sister. “Isn’t it obvious, Beatrice? I’d like to open the mail with it,” she said, the smile gone.

And then the murky sludge sloshing about in the bottom of her heart bubbled over, threatening to coat all of her insides with meanness and madness.

“I don’t understand why we just can’t have a fucking letter opener in this fucking house so that I can open the fucking mail!” She looked at Beatrice. “You know what I’m saying? I’m just asking for a fucking letter opener. Is that too fucking much to ask for? A fucking letter opener? Because I don’t think it’s too much. But what the fuck do I know?”

“I’ll find it for you, Clara,” Beatrice said carefully. “Go take your coat and gloves and stuff off, and I’ll find you the letter opener.”

She watched as Clara went to the front closet and hung her coat. It seemed a laborious task for her, every movement in slow motion, and Beatrice thought it was a good time to call. She could leave Clara alone at the closet knowing Clara would still be there taking off her winter gear when she returned.

She snuck into the laundry room and closed the door.

“Hi Evan,” Beatrice whispered into her cell phone. “Are you busy? Do you think you could come over?”

***

“I’m fine,” Clara snapped, and then looked at her sister. She tried again. “Bea, I’m fine,” she said gently.

Evan sat beside his girlfriend thoroughly assessing her. She was visibly agitated, sitting with her body closed up tightly, arms and legs wrapped in what looked like a leftover holiday present that somebody decided not to give because it was a bad one. He tried to open her carefully with sweet soothing words, but her arms stayed wrapped up like the ribbons secured with knots that can’t be untied but require scissors instead.

“Are you, Clara?” he asked. He didn’t believe her for a second.

Clara waved it off with a forced chuckle. “I had a freak-out moment. Doesn’t everyone? I was just tired from work. I’ve been working so much lately.” She looked at Beatrice again. “Bea, I’m so sorry. I should have never said that word in front of you.”

“It’s okay, Clara,” Beatrice said. She was relieved that Evan was there and hoped he would stay the night. She didn’t trust being alone with Clara, a feeling that frightened her more than Clara’s bizarre behavior.

“Would you like me to make you tea or something?” Evan asked.

Clara laughed coldly. “We don’t have tea.”

“Well, I could warm up some milk for you,” he replied, and thought it was the dumbest suggestion he’d ever made.

Clara looked at him flatly. “I don’t need warm milk. I’m not two. What I do need is a hot shower and my bed.”

She jumped up from the couch and stood over Evan, waiting for him to leave.

“I think I’ll just hang out here tonight,” he said casually.

“Well, I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” Beatrice said. Hope dripped from her words.

“Completely inappropriate,” Clara said. “And your parents would go crazy.”

“They think I’m staying over at Chris’s house,” Evan replied.

“Please, let’s have Evan stay over, Clara!” Beatrice pleaded. “We can pop popcorn and watch a movie!” And she wanted to add, “And I won’t have to be here alone with you.”

“It’s a school night,” Clara said.

Beatrice looked over at Evan. “Clara, it’s Friday night.”

Clara tensed. She quickly thought back through the day and realized that Beatrice was right. It was Friday. She remembered Meredith’s words, how Fridays were the best because the weekend stretched out in front of you waiting with all kinds of promise. It was the beginning, she said. The beginning of something special. But all of the days were starting to meld together for Clara, no one more significant than the other. No rest, no carefree weekends. Always work or school.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Clara said. She decided the best thing was to ignore the fact that she had forgotten which day it was. She walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

She knew Beatrice and Evan were talking about her. That’s what people do when someone around them starts to crack up—they talk about it. They want to be helpful, but they mostly want to gossip about it because it’s new and exciting and scary. And people love a good story. Clara imagined the conversation as she stripped her clothes.

“Your sister has gone crazy,” Evan said.

“Does this mean you’re breaking up with her?” Beatrice asked.

“Oh, no no,” Evan replied quickly, thinking he’d never had sex with a lunatic and that he’d like to give it a try.

Clara snorted with laughter, and she heard a tiny, tentative knock on the bathroom door.

“Are you okay, Clara?” Beatrice asked. Clara could hear the other statement underlining the question: “Please don’t use the razor to slit your wrists. I should have taken it before you locked the door.”

“Beatrice, I’m absolutely fine,” Clara said. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another loud laugh.

There was a pause.

“We’re going to start the movie when you get out,” Beatrice said through the door.

“No no,” Clara replied. “Just start it now. It’ll take me awhile anyway. I’ve got to shave.”

She could hear the sharp intake of Beatrice’s breath. Or she thought she could.

“Okay, Clara,” and Clara was left alone.

She turned on the shower and waited for the water to reach a hot, steamy temperature before getting in. Her body broke into goose bumps as it slowly acclimated to the heat. She stood with her head lowered, letting the water soak her hair, drawing it forward around her face in heavy clumps of seaweed.

She thought about cutting her hair. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the mass of it. She thought about a pixie cut like Katy’s, but then she wouldn’t know how to style it right. And she might end up looking like a boy. What would it be like to be a boy?

She thought about Evan just yards away from her. He’d already seen her naked, but she still felt weird taking a shower with him in the next room. She knew he wasn’t thinking one sexual thought about her. He was more concerned about the letter opener. Why did she have to freak out over a letter opener? It was so important at the time, she was sure of it, but now it seemed silly. She would pretend it never happened.

She thought she heard a voice on the other side of the shower curtain and froze. The shampoo ran down into her eyes, but she didn’t dare wipe at it. She strained hard to listen. More voices, and they were having a conversation about her.

I guess she’ll go stay at that children’s home on the north side of town.

They’ve been wanting to move that thing. No one wants an orphanage near their million dollar houses. Can’t trust those kids.

They have problems, but can you blame them?

Perhaps her sister will fare better and get into an actual foster home.

She deserves to. She’s cute and sweet, unlike the other one.

“Stop talking about me,” Clara hissed as she pulled back the shower curtain. The room was empty, but she heard them. She knew they had been there. They must have left quickly, and she wondered if they locked the door behind them.

She went back to washing her hair. Maybe they were here, in her head instead, and she scrubbed vigorously, hurting her scalp, trying to erase the sound of the voices with her fingertips. She rinsed her hair and convinced herself that they ran out of her head and down the drain, disappearing forever. She paused and listened, but she heard nothing. Just the constant stream of water shooting from the showerhead.

She walked to her bedroom wrapped in a towel. She threw it carelessly on the floor once she closed the door and stood over the vent feeling the heat run up her legs and in between them. She thought it felt odd and delicious and warm and wanted to keep feeling the heat tease her body. Her nipples grew hard and she felt a little ashamed letting her body be a plaything for the central heating unit. She wondered what was wrong with her, unable to move from her spot even when she heard a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she called huskily.

“It’s Evan. Are you dressed?”

Clara looked down at her nude form.

“Yes. Come in,” she heard herself say. Did she mean it?

Evan walked in, then quickly closed the door and locked it once he saw her standing naked.

“Clara!” he gasped. “You said you were dressed!” He went about searching for something to give her to wear.

Clara giggled. “Don’t you like what you see?”

Evan opened a drawer and found a T-shirt.

“Yes, I do,” he said not looking at her. “But your sister is out in the living room.” A new fear pierced his heart. Something was definitely wrong with her. It didn’t make him want to run from her, but if he stayed, he knew he was powerless to help her.

“Put this on,” he said, handing her the T-shirt. He found a pair of flannel pajama bottoms in another drawer.

“Why don’t you kiss me,” she said tossing the T-shirt on the floor. The heat continued to stroke her, growing the sexual desire that curled and ached in her lower abdomen.

Evan patiently retrieved the T-shirt and placed it over her head. He helped her arms through and then pulled it down. She trapped his wrist with her fingers, and with a wicked grin, guided his hand in between her legs. He drew in a sharp breath at the feel of her slipperiness. She leaned in close, eyes looking up at him through long thick lashes. Her hair was tousled, and she looked like a brazen temptress. He wondered if she would bite him; he secretly hoped she would as he bent down to listen to her whisper in his ear.

“Finger me.”

Evan paused for a moment. He looked at Clara and then at the door. And then he ignored his conscience and backed her up against the wall, pushing apart her legs with his knee. He slipped a finger into her and listened to her moan softly. He remembered they weren’t alone and placed his other hand over Clara’s mouth. He stroked her softly, eliciting muffled cries, and watched her vacant eyes go wide when he slipped another finger into her. His fingers left her for a moment only to touch her again, somewhere different. A small place on her that ached and throbbed, and she could do nothing but moan into his hand and push herself against his rotating fingers.

He felt guilt and desire. She wasn’t well, and he was taking advantage of it. This wasn’t Clara with her back against the wall. This was some other person in Clara’s skin, moaning and trembling at the touch of his hand. He didn’t recognize her but was drawn to her lust, her aggressiveness. He thought she would make him crazy—this imposter—and his fingers stroked the depths of her once more searching for his Clara.

Her legs shook with the first wave of her orgasm. It was a crystal blue ocean wave, pushing up onto shore then receding only to push up onto shore once more. Over and over. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she rode the soft waves, pushing then receding, and she wondered if she would be trapped in the cycle forever, her body a prisoner to the sweet aching ripples. They never stopped, and he never took his hand away.

“Keep coming for me, Clara,” Evan coaxed into her ear, and she did. Over and over, soft whimpers from far away, and she was tired. Her body sagged against the wall. And then it jerked to life as she was forced to ride the wave in. And ride it out again. Sag. Jerk. Violent jerks. Up and down, in and out of her inner thighs and twisting around her heart until she let out a pitiful cry and collapsed on the floor from exhaustion.

He thought he did it. He drew out the bad, the ugliness in her mind that threatened to steal away the Clara he knew. He looked at her sprawled on the hardwoods, breathing deeply, purged of the imposter. His Clara had returned. He lay down beside her feeling the rush of relief, the first tingles of hope. She curled against him lazily, provocatively, her hand snaking down the front of his body to grip him hard. He jumped and looked at her.