The Eye Unseen (6 page)

Why was she giving all her memories away?

Mom suddenly looked at me as if she had had no idea I was there.

“Go somewhere else. Go to your room. Go to the basement, I don’t care. Just stay away from me,” she growled.

My movements were swift and silent. I had learned stealth from my sister and practiced it at all times now.

Sitting in Brandy’s room, I tried to smell her. Her pillow contained a smidgeon of her scent, and I sucked it in, trying to imagine her life without me. I wondered where she was, if she had found a place to stay, a job, a new family. I couldn’t imagine her fear. The bravery it took to survive on her own.

As I listened to Mom’s frustration grow, I quietly crept back into my room. Mom didn’t need the aggravation of finding me on Brandy’s bed.

While I waited for her anger to settle, I realized that no one had ever come to ask about me—not the police, not the school, not even Reverend Baxter from church. Brandy had been gone long enough now that someone should have come after me.

I swallowed my heartache and tried not to give way to tears. My sister was dead, smashed like the photos in the trash bin. She had to be. Brandy would have told. She never would have left me alone like this.

With Mother.

*  *  *

I pilfered. I knew it was wrong, taking things from the house and hiding them in my closet.

The adventure began with my sister’s tablets from school. I stole two from her bedroom and added them to my bookshelf. Then, when Mom didn’t notice, soon more of Brandy’s possessions became my own.

Her knitting needles and the pile of half-started projects she had in an old box under her bed slid easily under my box springs. An old pair of jeans I was certain my sister couldn’t even wear became mine. Her orange-and-white nail buffer. A ceramic kitten that I strategically placed on the window sill, in the corner behind my curtains.

From the bathroom I took a few aspirin, some cough drops, band aids and added them to the pockets of my dressier clothes that hung unused. Then boldness settled in and I started to lift things throughout the house.

Small things, at first. Food. Kleenex. The Lois Lowry books Brandy had left behind.

Then my priorities changed. I cut through the thin sheath covering my box springs and started a collection of goods that I tucked up under my bed. Water bottles, snack foods, a flashlight that I found under the bathroom sink. Brandy’s barrettes and the stuffed rabbit, Bernie, from her bed. Pencils. Lots of colored pencils.

Sometimes I felt like a feral cat, chasing after anything whimsical while also keeping my eyes peeled for fresh food.

Old Mom never returned. I liked to imagine that Brandy had stolen her away, could picture the two of them strolling down city streets in Phoenix, talking about the harvest weather back home and how they never missed it.

Or me.

My sister hadn’t been gone three weeks when everything changed again.

I had become complacent. Not content, not slacking in my chores, still tiptoeing around Mother. But as each day passed without a steady threat of violence, I eased out of the fortress I had built around myself. Let the walls down. Found pleasure in life’s small moments.

Tippy and I took to singing loudly while I pressed Mom’s work clothes or prepared dinner. We boogied about the kitchen, sometimes even daring to flash through the living room in a bold ritual dance of our own creation, striking bizarre poses and chanting while we dusted or ran the vacuum.

Sometimes we just needed to burn off a bit of pent up energy and smooth out our edges. Tippy never argued with my decisions to run amok while Mom was at work.

Perhaps she should have.

I had the dog in my arms, waltzing by the head of the dining room table, when Mom came home sick from work. She didn’t drive all the way to the back of the house as was her habit. Instead she parked near the front and collected the mail. Mom startled me when she stepped into the living room; I was so wrapped up in my mid-morning talent show that I hadn’t even heard her key in the lock.

For an instant I was relieved that the person entering our house was Mother.

Until I saw the look on her face.

She swung the door shut with such force I thought for certain the windows would crack.

“How dare you!” Mother screamed. Red streaks shot up her neck, settled in her cheeks.

“We were just dancing.” My defense was lame.

“Dancing? So close to the windows that I could see you from the road?”

I noticed the part in the curtains, the sunlight that stopped right by my feet. Mom’s brow creased and turned such a dark shade of red that I thought she might have a heart attack before she ever took off her coat.

“I didn’t realize…I’m sorry, Mom.” I knew the apology would do no good.

“You didn’t know? How could you NOT know?”

The coat came off. Mother dropped it into the recliner and came at me so fast I almost fell over. Tippy jumped out of my arms and fled the room without so much as a goodbye.

“Don’t you get it, Lucy? Don’t you understand that I don’t want people to know you still live here?”

I had understood that for quite some time now, though I was loathe to admit it.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever thought how much happier I’d be if you were really gone?”

Mom backed me into the corner. When the wall stopped me, my heart fell. After the shed incident I no longer tried to run from my punishments. But I still wanted to have that option. This time I knew I was trapped.

I tried to maintain eye contact but instead found myself cowering. Her words pained me almost as much as her fists. 

“Go to your room. Don’t come out until I say you can.”

I rocketed away, Tippy quick to follow. We bolted into my room and shut the door.

*  *  *

That evening Mom allowed me downstairs for dinner. After running to the bathroom, I fed Tippy and then joined Mom at the table for a somber meal.

She had calmed down but her unpleasant mood lingered.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” I said, trying to start a conversation.

“If I wanted to speak to you, I would. You’re lucky I let you out to eat.”

For an instant I stared at the steak knife in her hand, the glint it made under the lights attracting my eye. I wanted it. My heart jumped a beat as I realized that I had been assembling the wrong types of things in my box springs.

I shook that thought out of my head. Mom might be crazy, but my idea was even worse, lusting after that blade like I might have to use it against her.

My cheeks colored with shame.

I finished my meal and sat politely, waiting in the quiet for her to do the same.

*  *  *

My eyes flicked open when Mom started working on my door. I had been sleeping for hours and thought her rage had finally dissipated.

I was wrong.

Tippy jumped off the bed but ran back up with me when she felt the waves of anger radiating off Mom.

“I wouldn’t get upset if I were you. You made your own choices. I trusted you, and you shit on that trust.”

In my sleepiness, I hadn’t even really pieced it together. I watched Mom with the hook and eye lock and realized that she intended to trap me in my bedroom.

“Mom, I’m sorry! It was a mistake! I didn’t know anyone could see me!” I sat up but had to put my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

“You knew exactly what you were doing. You were flaunting it. Why didn’t you just stand right in front of the windows and let the world know you’re still here?”

“I was just playing with Tippy. I wasn’t paying attention to the windows like I should have.” 

“And it has cost you. Big time.”

The tears came and amplified my shame. I hated breaking down in front of her.

“Please, Mom. Please don’t do this to me. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t leave the back of the house.” I gave my best effort, but it only angered her more.

“You and I both know that this would have happened sooner or later. I’ll get a dead bolt tomorrow.”

With a quick slam of the door, Mom sealed me in. I heard her click the temporary lock into place and clung to Tippy while fear roiled inside me.

Panic made the room spin. I found it difficult to breathe, to even open my eyes and acknowledge my surroundings, the four walls that barred my exit. The flowered wallpaper that seemed to smile and ridicule me, its captive.

I put my hand on my battered white nightstand and tried to regain my balance. Looked across the room at its older sister, the matching dresser, furniture I’d had as long as I could remember. Besides Tippy, these were the only things to keep me company now that I was locked inside. I didn’t even have so much as a picture of Brandy to lend me comfort as Mom’s steps creaked down the hallway toward the stairs.

But at least this time it wasn’t the shed.

*  *  *

Mom was thoughtful enough to come home for lunch every day after that.

While she let Tippy out for a run across the yard, I was allowed bathroom time. By then my bladder was so close to exploding that I almost had to crawl to the toilet for fear of peeing myself in front of Mother.

While she was busy with the dog, I refilled my cache of water bottles and snuck them back into my bedroom.

We ate sandwiches or sometimes soup, had iced tea and fruit. Once Mom developed a routine it rarely changed, so day after day we consumed the same meals. I wished I hadn’t lost my privileges and could still be the one in charge of cooking.

“You have fifteen minutes,” Mom would say each day.

I ate standing up, leaning against the sink. She could not have cared less; she was absorbed in her newspaper, ignoring me as usual. But from my vantage point I could see the world outside our windows. The road. The wall of corn, frail and yellowed from the weather, ready for harvest.

I could spot the three trees in our front yard. Every year Brandy, Mom and I had had an autumn contest to see who could decorate their tree the best. Our family competition had gathered quite the following in town. Friends from church would cruise past our old white two-story on their Sunday afternoon drives to see what we had accomplished. Some of our teachers and those of Brandy’s friends who had cars and could navigate the country roads would pause and wave as their tires kicked up the gravel dust that coated all the vegetation girding our lawn.

They were never allowed to stop and join us, even if we promised not to venture off the front porch or take our conversation across the road where the Hanleys kept their cows. Mother wouldn’t allow it. Instead, Brandy and I stood right at the edge of the terrace, giddy with all the attention, gesturing as the cars passed and worked their way back to the paved road, the four miles back to town.

Mom usually lost the contest; she liked corn stalks and pumpkins, which we girls thought pretty boring. My decorations usually centered more around Halloween, with ghosts and bats hanging from the branches.

But Brandy always put us to shame.

She worked on her tree plans for months. Sometimes she would ask me for my input, but often Brandy didn’t involve me until she needed someone nimble to climb the tree and help her drape or dangle things. Mom gave her free rein with her creativity and even footed the bill for supplies without question.

Last year—when I was still alive to the outside world—my oak had held fifteen cardboard bats and two dozen fabric ghosts. I had had a fantastic time pulling myself as high as I could, balancing against the sturdy trunk as I tied my creations to branches and watched as they instantly spooked about in the breeze.

I loved being so high up I could spy on all our neighbors, even the Millers, who were never home. From my vantage point I could see they had added an old bath tub to the collection of trash strewn between their outbuildings. If I looked the other direction, and really strained my eyes, I could see the blacktop and the occasional car that cruised along it like a tiny ant. This high up, I felt close to God.

As Halloween neared, I carved three pumpkins (one for each of us!) and lit them every evening around my tree. At night the bats could barely be seen. But I knew they were there, floating about like the faintest of whispers.

Brandy’s tree usually attracted the most attention. Last year her theme had been a bonfire. She managed to get the Thompsons, who went to our church and owned the feed store close to town, to donate a dozen huge pumpkins for her display and spent two months’ allowance on orange and yellow fabric at Joanne’s in town.

We had fun that day. Buying her cloth. Mom tucking the cash in Brandy’s hand. The two of us getting on our bikes and pedaling the four miles to town.

Closing my eyes in the kitchen, I could jump into that earlier me. I could feel the sting of the wind as it hit my face and caused tears to cloud my eyes, the absolute freedom of my hair flying behind my head as I raced down the road. Brandy was always ahead of me, turning back to check and make sure no one had clobbered me with their John Deere, smiling in anticipation of her great plan.

We were not only sisters then, but co-conspirators. Brandy’s look of unfettered joy, the devotion with which I shared her secret, made us members of a special club that no one else was allowed to join.

When we arrived we were breathless. I propped my bike next to the Hallmark store and had to lean over for a second to catch my breath.

“That was a great ride!” Brandy, as always, hadn’t even seemed to break a sweat.

We left with two big bags of cloth, then rode straight to the hardware store to pick up nails and a little rope.

“You’ll have to drive by. If it goes as planned, I’m going to call the paper to have them come take pictures.” Brandy bragged to the clerk, her confidence amazing. Her project was still only in the planning stage, but already she considered herself successful.

“I shore will, honey. I shore will.” Mrs. Leighton told my sister as she bagged our goods.

 The woman never even glanced my way. But I was the quiet one and used to being ignored. Brandy, on the other hand, was the center of attention everywhere we went. Not one person we passed didn’t know her name. I felt like a wilted flower beside her.