Watch How We Walk (15 page)

— It's kind of a personal question, so I hope you're not offended.

Emily sucks in her breath quickly and swivels her head toward Agnes, then coughs, trying to signal her to be quiet. Even Lenora has stopped eating and watches her, waiting to hear what she'll ask. The room goes silent and Emily can hear the clock tick louder than it ever has, every second, she counts six of them before anyone speaks.

— How come you're missing two fingers on your left hand? Was it from an accident?

Emily's face burns, her mom drops her fork, and the clatter echoes. Lenora blows a low, slow whistle between her dark red lips.

No one speaks. Her father folds up his napkin and sets it gently onto his plate. Then he looks at his deformed hand, turns it palm-side up, then back again, as though seeing it for the first time.

— There was an accident. I was just a kid. I don't remember very much.

He doesn't seem to say this as much to Agnes as he does to himself, but Agnes persists.

— I think you went to school with my dad. Cal Vandergroot? Do you remember him?

— I don't think so.

— Are you sure? He remembers you.

He says nothing more, just stands up and walks out of the kitchen, still looking down at his hand. His footsteps recede as they reach the top of the stairs. The bedroom door snaps shut.

They finish eating in silence.

— Would you like some help with the dishes, Mrs. Morrow?

— No, thanks. Go outside and play or something. You have about an hour until your mom will be back.

In the living room, Emily asks Agnes what she wants to do. She avoids looking her in the eye. She wishes she'd just go home early.

In the yard, they take turns on the tire swing. Agnes climbs on top of it, swaying and holding on to the rope.

— Push me harder!

Emily does, then stops her and stands in front of her.

— Why did you ask my dad about his hand? I already told you he was in an accident a long time ago.

— I think there's more to the story than that. Don't you?

Emily shrugs.

— And why did your sister say all that stuff? She's weird.

— I know. She wasn't always this weird though. She's a teenager.

Emily says this almost proudly, as though teenagers are rare and exotic creatures, as though it explains everything. Agnes gets off the swing and grins and points behind them.

— Let's go way back there by the bush.

Without waiting for a response, Agnes jogs toward the woods at the rear of their lot, through melted patches of snow and muddy grass and slush. Emily bites her lip and looks back toward the kitchen window. The sun is starting to set, and she isn't allowed to play far from the house after dark, but she doesn't see her mom at the curtains. Knowing her dad will be mad at her about what Agnes said, she doesn't want to go inside either.

— Wait up!

Agnes is fast and plunges into the trees while Emily flails behind her, snapping twigs and trying not to fall. There is still enough light to see flashes of Agnes' white-clad legs as she weaves between oak and poplar and maple trees. Unlike Agnes, Emily picks her way carefully, watching that she doesn't step in any mud or trip over a log. She's surprised; she always thought Agnes was so prim.

Ahead, Agnes stops and bends down to the ground.

— Look what I found!

She catches up with Agnes, who holds something in the air with both hands. Emily comes closer and screams. She backs away from Agnes.

— Don't be scared. It's just a plain old garter snake. It won't hurt you.

She moves toward Emily, still holding out the snake. It tenses and twists in her grip. A real, live serpent.

— He must be confused by the warm weather this week. Maybe the snow melted wherever he was hibernating, so he woke up early. Poor little guy!

Agnes coos and smiles at it, like it's a kitten or a puppy, and Emily covers her mouth when Agnes leans in to kiss it.

— Put it down!

It writhes and twists, trying to get free, and Emily backs away. She's never seen anyone touch a real snake before. After what feels like hours, Agnes the Pentecostal tosses the snake into the undergrowth behind her.

— Scaredy-cat!

— I am not!

— You are too! You looked like you were going to cry!

— Snakes are disgusting, that's all. I wasn't scared.

Agnes smirks.

— Last month a real live snake handler came to our church. He was from Tennessee.

— What's a snake handler? Where's Tennessee?

— In the States somewhere. He talked funny and had a gold tooth, right here. She points to her upper left incisor. Emily's stomach churns and she cringes; Agnes touched her own mouth after holding a filthy snake.

— What was he doing here?

— He tours North America with his copperheads and rattlesnakes and comes to Pentecostal churches in every town. It's an honour.

Agnes nods her head up and down. Emily wonders if this snake man is like their District Overseer, who tours the region, giving talks at all the different Kingdom Halls.

— But what does he do with the snakes?

— He puts them around his neck and holds them up and lets other people take them.

— What for?

Agnes pauses.

— You know. For faith.

— Like a test?

— Yeah, testing your faith. Like in the Bible.

— Do they ever bite?

— Sometimes. But he's a holy man. God is stronger than the devil and the snake handler won't die from the venom. It's like in the Bible, when it says, ‘They shall take up serpents . . .'

— So he brings real live poisonous snakes into your church? Emily wonders if it's Satanism.

— Yeah, real live rattlesnakes. I wanted to hold one, but my mom wouldn't let me. She was scared, just like you!

— I don't believe you.

— It's true! I might even be a snake handler when I grow up. I'd be really good at it.

— Where does it talk about that in the Bible? Emily knows the Bible very well, and she can't think of any scripture that tells you to tease deadly snakes.

— It's in Mark something. Chapter sixteen, I think. Look it up in your own Bible, there's one in every room in your house.

— I will. But I still think you're making it up.

— I never lie! Lying is a sin!

— What's the scripture then?

— ‘They shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them . . .'

— That doesn't sound right to me.

— Well it is. You want to know something else, a secret?

— Not really.

Emily has had more than her fill of other people's secrets.

They pause and nudge the slush with their toes and finally Emily speaks.

— What, then?

— I'm not allowed to say.

— Don't then. I don't care.

— Promise you won't tell? Especially not your parents?

— Okay.

Emily's stomach feels weird, like before she puts up her hand to give an answer into the microphone at the meetings.

— My dad told me something about your dad. He knew him when they were still kids.

— He did not. My dad said he didn't even remember your dad.

— He did too! He said they're exactly the same age and went to the same school.

The bare branches rattle and Emily shivers.

— Well, don't you want to know the secret?

— I don't care.

— You can't ever say that I told you, okay? Promise?

— I said I don't care if you tell me or not. Emily shrugs and wishes she'd never asked Agnes to come over to her house.

— Well, I think you should know.

Emily bites her lip. Agnes doesn't slow down.

— It's your right.

— What is?

— To know the truth.

— But I do. I already know the truth.

— No, you don't.

— Yes, I do.

— Then how come I know stuff that you don't? And it's not even my family!

— You do not.

— I do too.

They both look at each other. A nearby branch rustles and a huge owl rises out of a tree and flaps off, screeching, into the dusk. Emily shivers again.

— My dad said that your dad killed his little brother.

Agnes takes a step closer to Emily, her hands on her small hips, chin thrust forward, and the wind stops blowing, the trees are still, and everything stops, even the birds, waiting for Emily to say something.

— That's a lie! He's an only child.

— It's the truth. He used to have a brother. When your dad was ten and he was seven.

— You're a liar!

The macaroni and cheese turns into a hard lump and it pushes against her stomach so hard she almost falls down, but she grabs a tree instead and lets it hold her up.

— I'm not lying. My dad told me. Ask him yourself. That's how he lost his fingers. I swear to God.

Emily's eyes burn. Agnes just stands there, watching her with her round, hard eyes that look like a crow's.

— He did not.

Emily can only whisper. She doesn't know what's true anymore and what isn't.

There is a car horn in the distance, and soon after, Emily's mom calls them.

— Come on. We better go.

— Maybe I'll let you be my assistant snake handler someday, unless you're too chicken.

Agnes runs back toward the house and Emily trudges in the slush far behind. She doesn't say goodbye, and the car door slams in the distance. The sun dips behind the trees and disappears.

23

I WAS READY TO BEGIN.
The light, hot and metallic, buzzed and glared above the bathroom mirror.

In one hand I held a small, worn photograph, and in the other, a roll of tape. The edges of the picture were soft and curled at the corners, as though dropped in a puddle then left for years in a dark drawer. Two teenage girls in black pouted against a row of dented metal lockers.

I set the photo face up on the counter beside the sink.

The tape stretched and crackled when I tugged it, dangling sticky sinews of glue. I tore off the end, and the serrated edge of the dispenser gouged the side of my thumb, leaving a neat row of bloody dashes. I gritted my teeth against the sting.

— One, two, three, four, five . . . I tried to count each tiny cut before they oozed into one solid line. The blood was about to drip onto the picture but I moved it in time. A tiny red splash landed on the bathroom counter. Red on white. By then, I was used to seeing my own blood, but this time it disoriented me, as though I were spinning backward in time. The bathroom seemed to tilt and I grabbed the sink to steady myself. I stumbled and blurred, my stomach muscles clenched, and I sucked in as much air as I could. Eyes closed. Don't look. Don't look down.

I cranked the cold tap and held my thumb under, counting to thirty, then twisted the tap off. My left hand throbbed from the icy water but it quelled the sting. I bandaged my thumb and continued my new ritual.

This time, I avoided the dispenser's metal teeth and wrenched off a gooey length of tape, looped it, and stuck it on the back of the picture. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and pressed the photo against the wall to the left of the mirror.

Her hair was bleached and parted on the side, one half shaved to her scalp and the other side teased up high and sculpted down across her left eye. I remembered shouting matches between Lenora and our parents over her hair, her torn clothing, her black and blue nail polish, her loud music. The arguments eventually all seemed the same, and after that melded into one.

Her hair had been shorter than mine, but I'd get it as close as I could. I took a deep breath, picked up the scissors, and hacked a bit off one side. It fell to the floor, and as difficult as it was, I resisted the urge to clean it up. I glanced back toward the photograph, and she peered out, unsmiling, sophisticated, her dark red lips a half-pout, half-sneer. Marla was at her side, in black leather pants and a red shirt with a plaid vest over it. She was grimacing and giving the finger to whoever had taken the photograph.

— I can do this.

It became an incantation. I practised the pouting sneer. I looked like someone who had unwittingly swallowed something rotten. I tried again, reminding myself it wasn't me in the mirror anymore. Better.

In the drawer to the left of the sink, beneath the picture, was my brand-new lipstick.
Vixen Red
. Almost identical to
Blood Red
, but new, not dried and crumbling. It would have to do. I smeared that across my lips and my stomach fluttered.

— I can do this.

The clippers buzzed alive when I flicked the switch and I quickly sheared off the hair above my right ear. It felt strange; I wasn't used to the prickle of air against my scalp. The gel was wet and shiny and easily shellacked my hair down and to a point over my left eye. Then I sprayed it in place, solid and sleek. That was the easy part. The rest of my damp hair then needed volume and height. I sprayed a mound of mousse onto my palm and smeared it into the rest of my hair, then began to tease it into tangles with a fine-toothed comb. I pulled fistfuls of it straight out from my head and ran the comb backwards through the clumps until they were ten times their usual size. It took seven back-comb strokes per section to get it right.

— Comb that bird's nest down! I could hear my father shout, as I achieved the kind of look that could scandalize a Kingdom Hall full of devoted, gossipy Witnesses. I smirked and made my hair even bigger.

It wasn't difficult. The hard part would be getting it back to normal later, but I tried not to worry about that. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and coated the entire thing with a thick layer of hairspray. I checked the picture: pretty close. I reapplied the Vixen Red, sneered, then pouted.

My skin erupted into goosebumps. The resemblance was exact.

I stood up straighter and pushed my chest out against the red flannel shirt. I watched myself undo the first button. Something — excitement, blood, danger, pleasure — surged and tightened between my thighs. I undid two more. My face flushed.

Under my plaid flannel shirt, I wore her black lace bra.

I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt and let it drop to the floor. Again, I didn't fold it and tuck it into a dresser drawer; I didn't tidy up at all.

Where did you get all this stuff? Bras, bustiers, garters, thongs . . .

None of your business.

Did you wear it under your Hall clothes to the meetings? Your dirty little secret?

Questions I hadn't dared to ask ten years earlier. I stared at the pouting punk rock girl in the mirror. One bra strap slid down my shoulder, and I left it like that. Every bit of my skin tingled. The setting sun streamed red into the bathroom, dousing it with a hot, pulsing eeriness. I turned off the light.

I unzipped my jeans, tugged them off, and kicked them toward the shirt. More black lace. The throbbing between my legs increased. I slid my cool fingertips over my exposed nipple and it hardened. A moan slipped between the crimson lips in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. I sneered, then grinned.

Four steps to the bathroom door. I counted steps like the blind. Funambulists, too; they had to know without looking how far to walk. One. Two. Three. Four.

In my bedroom, I kept the black lace on. Explored the warm, slippery folds and tasted my fingertips. Briefly, I cringed. Freak. Disgrace. Aberration.

No. I blocked out the guilt and treated it as an invader. Pictured it as fist-sized black lumps that I dashed to the ground from way up on the high wire. Inhaled and exhaled and started again. Looked at my half-off bra like someone else might. Pictured a tall, hard, boot-clad Theo above me: kissing my neck, licking my stomach, sliding downward. I moaned again. I bucked against my palm until all the colours in the world exploded and flooded me.

I lay damply on my bed in the darkening light, feeling a mix of pleasure, exhilaration, and shame. As my breathing slowed to normal and the pink blotches on my chest faded, so did my elation. Guilt overwhelmed me and quickly ignited into disgust.

I had gotten turned on by wearing my sister's underwear.

The phone rang. I started but didn't get up from the bed. I tore off the flimsy black bra and thong and threw them across the room. One, two, three, four, five rings until the voicemail kicked in. My number was unlisted, and very few people even had it. Probably just a wrong number or another telemarketer.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. It rang again. A few minutes later, a third time. My heart beat faster, as though I was being chased. I pulled on my bathrobe, walked slowly into the living room, and stared at the slate blue phone. It didn't ring again.

53235. An indelible transmission — my pinkest, deepest scar. A fragment flitted back and that was enough to finally decode it. The coordinates of a scripture, etched into my skin forever.

Vengeance is mine, and retribution.

I tightened the belt on my robe and wrapped my arms around myself. Paced the nine steps across the living room, and nine steps back.

I told myself to calm down. It was probably just Kameela or someone from work wanting to trade shifts. I wanted to stop being ridiculous and just check the messages, but I couldn't separate what I'd just done from the phone calls. I felt like I'd been found out, like someone had been watching me the whole time. I shivered. It was almost entirely dark in my small apartment, and I switched on a lamp. In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. Then I went back to the phone and quickly punched in my password, 53235. The monotonous voice told me I had three new messages.

I recognized her voice immediately and my mouth went dry. I held the receiver away from my ear but I could still hear her.

— We've been frantic trying to find you. Why didn't you give us your number? We had to get it from the school. I've barely slept for weeks . . . please call us at home . . .

The next message was the phone number. As if, by some miracle, I had forgotten it.

I hung up in the middle of the third message. Strode into the bathroom. Touched my hard, sticky hair. Looked at the picture. Looked back at myself.

This is me. This is me. This is who I am.

I narrowed my eyes, bit the insides of my lips, and took a deep breath. I could do it. I wasn't afraid of them. In the living room, the phone sat in the centre of a small table, cold and menacing, poisonous. I stared at it for so long it seemed to move on its own, sliding slightly to the left or right every time I looked away.

Finally, I stomped over to it and grabbed the receiver, almost surprised that it didn't leap from my hand and smash itself on the floor.

I listened to the message again, this time all the way through.

— We've been so worried. We don't understand why you won't even talk to us. First Lenora, now you. It's not fair! This is no way to treat your parents. Please call us back this time.

Her voice cracked and there was silence, but she didn't hang up. After some rustling, she came back on the line.

— At least, if you won't call us back, mail the pictures of your sister. Why would you take them? Why would you do that? It was the only thing we had left. How could you take them all?

She was shrieking by then, howling
How could you
over and over.

But they were mine; that was why I took them. The photos didn't belong back in that house, because she didn't want them there. She wanted me to have them.

I had no choice but to take them, to take everything of hers. They didn't deserve her then and they never would. They weren't good enough for her. Only I was. Only I understood. Only me.

My mother paused, then asked another question, her voice wavering.

— Why do you say Lenora on your voicemail? Why do you say
Leave a message for Emily or Lenora
?

This is me. This is who I am.