Such a Pretty Face (30 page)

I did not have to worry about her pouring shampoo into a teaspoon and taking little sips of it. I did not have to wonder what embarrassing thing would happen when we took Helen into town. Would she stop at the TV shop and say, “They’re talking about me, can’t you hear that? Why can’t they stop talking about me?” I didn’t have to worry about her putting her hands up like claws and hissing at my girlfriend, Toby Mae. And I did not have to figure out how I would react when she kicked a lamppost and said, “Get out of here, Command Center. You’re not supposed to be here. This is my planet.”

I didn’t have to examine her coat for large black spiders before she put it on or check her chair. I didn’t have to witness her breakdowns, or how she cried and grunted in corners sometimes and nothing I did comforted her, which made me feel useless and sad.

On the most basic level of emotion I did not have to deal with the fact that my momma did not love me, didn’t appear to like me that much, and gave me little warmth. Now and then she would hold my hand, which gave me a warm glow initially, but then she would turn my palm up and study it, often saying, “You have knife marks on your hand” or “Are you spying on me?”

A child’s bond to her mother cannot be understated, and my bond with Helen was a ragged, baffling, disheartening, chaotic mess. I felt crazy, often, around my own mother. I grew up questioning what was normal, asking what reality was and wasn’t, and not trusting the outcome of different situations. She scared me and I couldn’t predict her behavior, so I was often off-kilter and worried.

Anxiety followed me around as if I were wearing an itchy blanket I couldn’t shake off. I dealt with anger, too, which I felt I had to smother. Anger at how much in my life Helen spoiled, how she needed so much attention, how she wouldn’t take her medications so she could act nicer, how she argued with voices.

I told myself that I loved Helen, but sometimes I thought I hated her. That made me feel guilty, and I was sure I was going to hell.

Had I not had my grandparents in that house, constantly,
constantly
telling me that Helen had a disease in her head, that it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t cause it, that they loved me dearly, and had they not shown me that love each and every day in a hundred ways, I do not think I would have been sane by the end of my childhood. As it was, I constantly danced around my own breakdowns, especially after the bridge incident.

But my grandparents’ love saved me.

That is the truth.

In a couple of weeks, after we visited Sunshine in the hospital every day, my baby came home. It was the best day of my life. Sunshine wore a pretty pink outfit with bunnies that I picked out and pink booties. On the deck that evening watching the sun go down, Grandpa put Sunshine in my lap and I held her close and gave her a kiss on the forehead. One of my tears dropped on her small nose. “I’m so happy I have my baby,” I said. Another one of my tears dropped on her nose. “Hey! She smiled at me! She smiled at me!”

Grandpa cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. I thought he’d gotten something in his eyes. “Makes sense that Sunshine would smile at Stevie first, wouldn’t you say, Glory?”

My grandma must have had something in her eyes, too, because she was also wiping away a tear. “I would say so.”

I kissed my baby again and tried not to let another tear fall on her face.

So we kept the name Sunshine. We all called her that, not Sunny, but Sunshine, the name I gave my baby when she was born in a hidden cave with Native American drawings on a hill behind a rock on Grandma and Grandpa’s farm.

She was Sunshine to everyone.

Except Helen.

Helen didn’t call my baby Sunshine.

Helen called her Trash Heap.

Trash Heap.

Her first words to Sunshine? “Command Center sent you to kill me, didn’t he?”

We naively believed that she would not hurt her. Grandma and Grandpa could not get their minds around their daughter hurting their granddaughter.

That was a mistake.

If I went back to Ashville I’d have to deal with this type of memory. I couldn’t do it.

Could I?

Portland, Oregon

“W
hat is that?” She giggled, then covered her mouth.

My eyes followed Eileen’s gaze to my latest house decoration. I’d found two white pillars at a rummage sale, placed them on either side of my fireplace, and wrapped them with white lights.

“They’re pillars. I think they came from an old building. You can see the carvings on the top and bottom. It’s fun. I have a piece of Portland history right in my house—”

She smothered her laughter. “You have very…
creative
tastes, Stevie. Who would ever have thought to thunk down two pillars in a living room when they have nothing to hold up?” She smiled at me with patent condescension. “Here, eat one of these doughnuts. They’re from that great bakery you love off Hall Boulevard.”

“No, thank you.” Sugar had not tasted the same to me since my operation. In fact, sometimes it made me get dumping syndrome. I braced myself for her response.

“You’re obsessive about your weight, Stevie. It’s disgusting. One doughnut won’t make you fat.” She ate another doughnut. She had come over uninvited. She was doing that more and more. It was nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. She was wearing an overly large green shirt and matching green pants. She had beautiful jewelry—all jade—on her ears, neck, and wrists, along with her usual collection of diamonds and another $1,000 purse.

She was panting as she’d come in from her car, and she settled in my rocking chair. It groaned.

“No, they’re not going to hold anything up, they’re there for…” My words dropped off.

“For?” She arched an eyebrow at me.

“It’s decoration, Eileen.” I hated the way my voice sounded so insecure.

“Decoration? Honey, a $2,000 glass vase made by Michel Solange is decoration. So is a handmade sofa by Nick Tatakanos imported from Greece. My marble surround in my bathroom from Italy is decoration. So is the wood floor from Central America in my den with its carved inlays. Now that’s decoration. Quality. Class. Decoration is not something you find off a demolished building.”

“It depends on who thinks it’s decoration—”

“No, it doesn’t, Stevie.” She slapped her thighs as she laughed. “Honey, I’m not being mean, but the way you decorate your house—”

I peeked at the white outdoor lattice I’d propped against a wall and hung with hats, the long white shelf I’d built on three of the walls, one foot from the ceiling, so I could display my colored glass collection, my eclectic collection of clocks, and my antique books. In a corner was my comfy purple chair with a leopard print blanket. “What’s wrong with it?” My voice: weak.

“I know you’re on a budget.” She reached over and patted my hand. “But less is more, and you need…less. For example, those birdcages. Gotta go, girl. They gotta go.”

I loved the three old birdcages I’d hung in a group in a corner. One was iron, one was blue, one was made of wicker.

“Haven’t you noticed the way I decorate, Stevie?”

I had. I had noticed the cold formality, the pristine cleanliness (Two maids. Both “lazy girls, you wouldn’t believe how lazy”), the dark artwork next to modern monstrosities in loud colors. Eileen’s bedroom, covered in mauve and white flowers, was almost the size of my house. Her living room was pure white.

Nothing went together. All expensive, then thrown in.

“Yes, I’ve seen it.” I smiled cheerfully. I could not be mean.

“About a million times you’ve been there, but sometimes, it takes a while to rub off, don’t you think? Finding your own style can be difficult, and you’re in the middle of it right now. Plus you’ve been so busy with other…things.”

“Yes, I have. I work a lot, Eileen, and—” Why was I trying to defend myself or my home?

“You think you have the lock on working?”

And we went from there. I wasn’t a good friend, where was I at night, she called and I never called back…. She ended up slamming my door and stumbling down my steps. I ripped open the door.

“Are you all right?”

“Shut up, Stevie.” She struggled to her feet, hands down, butt in the air, huffing and puffing. She got to her feet, wobbled, and said, “Shut up, you stuck-up, skinny snob.”

Mr. Pingle was so pleased with me. Ever since I started prancing and preening on the street, their sales had increased twenty percent. I cannot take full credit for this, nor can I be proud of my rhythmic efforts, but he was ecstatic.

“You’re my good-luck charm, Stevie! My good-luck charm!” He clapped his hands together. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a better chicken!”

I thanked him. As I left the joint, two young employees with piercings flapped their wings and cawed at me. I rolled my eyes.

I studied my vegetable garden that night in the dark. It continued to grow, colors flashing beneath the leaves, my sunflowers coming up, and I felt this rush of pride. I had shown Jake my garden recently, and he’d loved it.

“Who made the trellises?”

“I did.”

“Who made the pathway?”

“I did.”

“Did you make this mosaic design?”

I nodded, grinned.

He shook his head, amazed. “I think you’re pretty special, Stevie Barrett.”

“I think you’re pretty special, too, Jake Stockton.”

Right on my mosaic design we kissed, slow at first, then with such passion it made my toes tingle. The wind ruffled on by, the cherry blossoms floated down, and the birds flew to my birdhouses.

With the moon winking at me, I decided to get one other thing done I’d been meaning to do.

I grabbed four sticks in my backyard. With simple raffia I tied them together to form two crosses. I dug two holes and stuck them in the ground by the back fence, under the tulip tree.

Then I sat there with them, my arms around my legs, the darkness wrapping me up tight. They looked lonely, and lost, and alone. Those crosses are not for who you think.

His last words to me were, “Good-bye, fat cunt.”

I don’t know why Eddie was so furious. He got the house. He did have to write me a check for half the equity, so I received about $20,000, but he got to keep his old boat, his fancy car, and his motorcycle. I left with my clothes, my car, all my saws and paints, and my retirement account from my job, about $50,000. He took the $25,000 in credit card debt, which he’d run up, not me. I had no credit card debt.

He did end up with a huge bill from his divorce attorney. If he’d done the slightest bit of research he would know that Tito Zaro was the Supreme and Glorious Leader of all Greedy Attorneys and overcharged men going through a divorce by making them madder and madder and inventing dire problems and angst and testosterone-driven macho emotion where there should be none. Tito charged him $42,000 for the divorce. Cherie charged me nothing.

“You and Zena are the best legal assistants in this galaxy,” Cherie told me. “No way am I going to charge you a penny for this, Stevie, but you have to promise me you’ll stay and work for me till you’re a hundred.”

My problem with Eddie Norbert came about because I had refused to follow the advice of my grandparents.

My grandpa told me to marry a man with integrity, who would give me a happy marriage like he had with my grandma. “The glorious love of my life, she is my life.”

I did not do so.

He told me to marry someone honest and smart, who knew how to treat a lady.

I did not do so.

Grandma told me to marry a man who would dance under the stars with me but still get up to milk the cows the next day, praise the Lord.

I did not do that, either.

She told me to use my brain. “Fall in love with your head first, honey. Know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will love you forever, be loyal and true, and then let your heart sing with his, let your destiny be bound from now till heaven, like it is with your grandpa and me.”

Nope. Not that.

Because I blocked out the sweet voices of my grandparents, because it hurt too much to do otherwise, I followed my own, depressed, desperate, semicomatose, troubled self into a relationship I never should have been in. I had never been on a date, didn’t think anyone would ever want to date me, and didn’t really care that much, either. So when Eddie asked me out, it was a shock.

Eddie worked for my uncle. He was an average man, sort of paunchy, with narrow eyes. He thought I’d come with money. He told me that later. “You mean your uncle isn’t going to help us buy a house at all?” He was aghast, furious. He threw a clock across the hotel room. We were on our honeymoon.

“No, we both work. We can do it, Eddie. I’m not taking a penny of his money. Ever. Not that he would offer it. You know how I feel about him. I told you how he treated me as a child, how he treats me and Lance and Polly—”

“Get over it, Stevie, I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. You suck up to him. I work for him, I want to be vice president in his company, and your attitude is not going to stand in my way, got that?”

I nodded meekly.

I tried to be a good wife to him. I was pathetic.

I made his breakfast, his dinner, kept the house, worked full time, washed his car, took his shirts to the dry cleaners. He took my check and put it into his account. He handled the money. He gave me an allowance. Forty dollars a month. He refused to allow me to see where the money was going. I allowed him to refuse me that information.

“Get me a beer…. Get your ass home…. Rub my feet…. Where’s your check? Why haven’t you asked for a raise?…You embarrass me, Stevie…. God, you’re getting fatter everyday…. Why the fuck can’t you keep beer in the fridge? Is it so damn hard?…I don’t know what went on in your past and I don’t want to know, but get over it. I’m sick of you acting like a whipped puppy…. Here, doggy, here…. You looked at my cell phone calls? How dare you, you bitch. That’s none of your fucking business. I don’t have to tell you who Morgan is. I don’t have to tell you who Elisa is, either…. You can’t satisfy a man, Stevie. You’ll never be able to. Deal with it…. Shut up…. Close your fat trap…. Talk to your uncle. I want that promotion…. Ask him for money. Tell him you want to buy me a boat. No? What the hell do you mean, no? I’m not giving you any money for clothes. I don’t care if it’s been two years. You’re fat, woman, and nothing you wear is gonna slim down that ass.”

I was heavy on our wedding day and gained 100 pounds during my marriage. I ate everything. I could consume large pizzas by myself, half-gallon ice-cream tubs, an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies, bags of chips. I hated myself afterward, but during my eating, everything went away, the memories, the sadness. I was lost in a blurry, distant land of binging bliss.

We had agreed not to have children. I love kids, but mental illness was speckled all over Grandma’s family line and no way was I going to risk having a child who had to endure what my mother did. It wasn’t fair to the child. My first pregnancy was within the first year of my marriage. One night I told Eddie to get the condoms, but he refused because it wasn’t “as slippery” for him, especially since he had to deal with “all your rolls of fat.” I tried to push him off; he refused and slapped me. Twice. Then he finished his business with a groan and rolled over with a fart.

Eddie was so ticked at the pregnancy. “This is your fault. We can’t afford it. You’re hardly making any money, and you sure as hell aren’t going to stay home with it…. Find a day care…. Don’t expect me to help with it. This was your idea, not mine. I’m not ready to be a dad. You’re too fat already.” He was so mad, he wouldn’t sleep with me for two months. “You’ve pushed me out of bed, Stevie, so now you’re responsible for the consequences.”

Except for his response, though, I was thrilled…and scared to death for the mental health of my child. Memories of my experience with Helen in the cave deluged me, and that brought on another wave of emotion that I battled back down with piles of food, but the joy was still so…present. Continual. At the end of three months, he moved back into our bedroom and forced himself on me. “You better lose weight after you have this brat or we’re done.”

That was his foreplay. I was dry because I wasn’t remotely turned on, and he told me, “You can’t even get yourself oiled up, can you? God, you’re bad in bed. You can’t even move. You squish around. You’re gonna smother me. I can’t even find your hole!”

I cried into my pillow. The next day I lost the baby.

Eddie said, “Good. We weren’t ready. Don’t screw up on the birth control again, Stevie. That was stupid of you. How come you haven’t got that raise yet?”

I mourned for the baby until I thought my heart would burst.

Another year into our marriage, I got pregnant again. The pill had made me sick, so I had gotten a diaphragm. He had refused to get off of me so I could put my diaphragm in one night. I had told him I didn’t want to have sex with him because he was drunk so he had to exert control. He told me I was getting to be a shrilly, fat, fishwife nag head. (His father had been a fisherman.) I told him to get off. He told me he was my husband and that was his right and he hated working for Herbert and had I bought more beer?

That was his foreplay.

He blamed me when I told him I was pregnant. I lost that sweet baby in the fourth month. I bled profusely, left work, called him.

He never showed up at the hospital.

In fact, he came home drunk, and I mourned that baby until I thought my heart would burst a second time.

And I still stayed with Eddie.

If that, folks, doesn’t give you an idea of how screwed up I was, how profoundly depressed, I don’t know what will.

In the middle of the night, for weeks on end, I blamed myself for both miscarriages. The doctors had been blunt: I needed to lose masses of weight. I wasn’t healthy enough to be pregnant. I was high-risk. I could put the baby at risk and my own life. Don’t try to get pregnant again, Stevie, until you’ve lost weight.

Devastating.

My fault.

My guilt. More guilt.

I went on a low-dose birth control pill that made me nauseated only one week out of the month, and stayed for another miserable year, sinking deeper and deeper into a sludge-filled emotional pit. I quit thinking, quit reacting, quit making chairs out in a shed in our backyard that Eddie had reluctantly let me have for my “fucked-up brain.” I quit being a person the second I walked into our home each night after work. I could help handle the complex litigation at our firm. I had attorneys tell me all the time that I “saved their lives,” I had attorneys (seriously) fight over who got to work with me, and Cherie told me repeatedly that Zena and I easily do the work of four people.