Without Tess, page 14
Now it is my turn. I take a step forward. There is no turning back. The priest is standing in front of me. My stomach turns. I am Jewish. What am I doing here? Baruch atah Adonai, I whisper in my mind, but I don’t know the right prayer to say. Oh my God, oh my God. What am I doing here? I want to tell him this is all a mistake. I want to tell him I wandered into the wrong building, that I thought this was the local synagogue, that I am sorry but I wanted to pray for my sister and I got lost and found my way here.
The priest says, “The body of Christ.”
I whisper, “Amen.” And then I have no choice but to open my mouth like a baby bird and let the priest place the body of Christ on my Jewish tongue. When the deacon puts the golden cup in my hands, I am afraid my fingerprints will sizzle and my skin will be singed, but the cup is cool to the touch and the wine is sweet. I swallow. Jesus Christ slides down my throat. He slides into my belly. I have bones and skin and hair and blood and veins and sinews and brains inside me. I have fingernails and intestines and lungs and bowels inside me. I have thumbs and knuckles and kneecaps and blood vessels and body hair inside me. I sway on my feet. The church lurches beneath me.
Instead of going back to the pew, I make a run for it. I charge past Isabella, past the fishermen’s wives and out the huge wooden doors where the world is full of shadows and there’s the smell of salt water and pizza and the cold harbor below, and I hear waves and the sound of boats and church bells and my own jagged sobbing as I heave the body and blood of Christ out of my belly. I sink to my knees and shriek all my sorrow onto the pavement.
ORANGE JUICE AND HAPPY PILLS
Dr. Orca tells Mamma that the pills will help Tess stop believing in magic. Mamma cries a little, but says thank you very much and goes to the pharmacy to fill the prescription. Every morning and every night, Mamma makes Tess take a blue-and-white capsule with orange juice. She places the pill on Tess’s tongue and Tess swallows it down obediently.
Tess says they can’t force her to stop believing in magic, but Mamma thinks this is just the disease talking, and once Tess starts feeling better, the magic will go away and never come back. Poof. Like a dragon winking out of existence. Tess has to see a shrink doctor twice a week after school. That’s what Daddy calls Dr. Eugenia Orca, whose office is in the center of town, high up on the top floor. Dr. Eugenia Orca of the wonderful name, and the wonderful Spanish accent, and the wonderful black, black hair all tied up in braids around her head. She is the one who will help Tess turn away from Merlin and live in the real world instead, just like the rest of us.
Daddy says they call people like Dr. Orca headshrinkers because their job is to shrink perfectly good heads like Tess’s. Headshrinkers also shrink your wallet. He says when Dr. Orca is done with Tess there will be no more money left to pay the bills, and Mamma says, Stop saying things like that. You’ll scare them.
I’m not scared of Dr. Orca. She lets me sit in the waiting area while Tess goes in to talk. Sometimes Mamma goes in with Tess and they both tell the doctor things about our family. Other times Tess goes in by herself. Dr. Orca has a radio in her waiting room that she always keeps tuned to the classical station, and she always has at least four issues of The New Yorker, which Mamma and I both like to read. Mamma reads the essays and short stories. I like the cartoons. I sit with a November issue and scan through the pages for a cartoon I can understand. In this issue, most of the cartoons don’t make sense to me. Here are two old people sitting on a couch together trying to turn each other on with remote controls. The caption says Modern Love. I smile and show the cartoon to Mamma even though I have no idea what it means.
She pets my hair and I swing my legs. They always keep the heat pumped high in Dr. Orca’s building, and the waiting room is filled with the soft hiss of warm air coming up from the heating vents. The leather armchairs are set away from the closed office door so we can’t hear anything going on when Tess is inside being shrunk. Every once in a while, Mamma or I turn toward the closed door because we think we hear a cry, or a sob, or a giggle, or something else that might tell the secret of what Tess is saying about us in there. But mostly we just wait, page through The New Yorker and think our own thoughts about who that girl is going to be when all this shrinking is over.
At four o’clock Dr. Orca opens the office door.
Tess is standing there, grinning. This is the fourth appointment, and her head still does not look the least bit smaller. Maybe Daddy was wrong.
“Tess, why don’t you go ahead and sit down next to your sister over there. I’d like to discuss one or two things with your mother before you go.”
“Okeydokey, Dr. Orkey,” Tess says in a cartoon voice, still grinning madly. She spins over to an armchair and flops down. Then she turns to me and crosses her eyes. I glare at her.
“Lillian? Do you have a moment or two?”
My mamma places her copy of The New Yorker back down on the coffee table.
“Of course,” she says. “I have all the time in the world. Girls, will you be okay out here without me?”
“Oh yes, Momsy, we’ll be just fine.” Tess swings her legs up so she’s sitting Indian-style in the chair. She leans toward me and folds her hands in her lap like she is going to tell me a story.
Mamma glances at me.
“Go ahead, Mamma,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“It will only be a minute,” says Dr. Orca.
Mamma gives a weak smile and follows the doctor into the office. The door closes behind them. At first we don’t say anything to each other. I pick up The New Yorker and pretend to read. There’s a symphony playing on the radio. There are too many violins moving their bows too quickly so it sounds like a swarm of angry bees. I put the magazine down. Tess is still leaning forward and grinning at me.
“So what did you do in there today?” I ask Tess.
Tess looks sideways at me. “Well, mostly I talked and cried.”
“What did you talk and cry about?”
“I make things up. Today I told her that I was going to set our house on fire. I like to make her worry. She has such a cute little nose when she’s worried. It gets all wrinkled up. Like a pug.” Tess imitates Dr. Orca, pushing her nose up so I am looking inside her nostrils.
“You mean you lie?”
Tess huffs in disgust. “You make it sound so criminal. You think I’m going to tell some shrinky-dink doctor the truth? This lady doesn’t even believe in magic. And she wants me to stop believing in Merlin. I’m not ever going to do that, Lizzie. It would be like dying. So today I told her that I was going to set fire to Mamma’s curtains.”
“Tess,” I say, “I think you’re supposed to tell her about real things.”
Tess glares at me.
“Dr. Orca can’t help you get better if you don’t tell her the truth.”
Tess rolls her eyes. “You’ve gotten so boring, Lizzie,” she says. “Like a cow chewing her cud. Grass and hay. Munch munch munch. Too bad. I always liked you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair, sister.”
Tess uncrosses her legs and gets up from the chair. She paces back and forth in front of the closed door. When she hears the doorknob turn, she dashes for the armchair again. When Mamma and Dr. Orca come out she sits there like a princess with her legs crossed all prim and proper.
Mamma’s face is ashen.
Dr. Orca looks at Tess. “Are you going to try to remember the things we talked about today, Tess? And put them into effect before we meet again on Friday?”
“Will do, doc,” says Tess. She pantomimes lighting a match and setting the curtain on fire. She waggles her fingers like flames.
Dr. Orca gives Mamma a look. Then she looks over at me. Her eyes soften. “Lizzie, your mother and I talked about whether you might like to come in and meet with me on Fridays as well. Would you like that?”
I don’t say anything. My stomach is tight and I think I am going to throw up.
“I’ll talk to her about it,” Mamma says. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow once we’ve all had the chance to think. Thank you so much for everything, Dr. Orca.”
Dr. Orca shakes Mamma’s hand. “Keep on giving her the medicine. And remember, we’re upping the dosage. Two pills every morning and two every evening, with orange juice. And call me if there are any concerns, okay? There shouldn’t be any side effects, but if there are, I want to know.”
“More pills?” squeals Tess. “Oh goody!”
Mamma frowns. She puts a hand on Tess’s shoulder.
“And I do hope you’ll come talk to me, Lizzie. What Tess is going through can’t be easy for you. Think about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, looking at the rug beneath my feet. “I’ll think about it.”
On the way home, Tess falls asleep in the back of the car, and I sit in the front with Mamma. We drive in silence down the boulevard, past the harbor.
“I don’t want to talk to that doctor, Mamma,” I tell her.
“Okay, honey. You don’t have to.”
“And Mamma?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” Mamma says. She is looking straight ahead, driving the car, her fists clenched tight on the wheel.
“Tess told me that she isn’t telling Dr. Orca the truth. She’s just going in there and lying. She makes things up and pretends to cry.”
Mamma puts her hand through my hair, but keeps looking at the road. “I know, honey,” Mamma says. “Dr. Orca told me. And she also said that sometimes with a child like Tess, the things she makes up can be significant. Even the lies are worth listening to. I think Dr. Orca has a pretty good handle on things.”
“I hope so,” I say. “I really want Tess to get better.”
“Me too,” says Mamma.
* * *
That night, before we get into our pajamas, Mamma gives Tess two blue-and-white capsules with orange juice.
“These will make you feel better,” Mamma says.
“I don’t want to feel better,” whispers Tess, her eyes wide and pleading. “I like being like this. Mamma. Please. I want to stay the way I am.”
“That’s just the sickness talking,” Mamma says gently. “You keep taking the pills. Soon none of this will matter to you. You’ll forget all about it. I promise.”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“Of course you do. We all want you to be well, Tess. Can’t you see that?”
Tess nods. Her eyes are filled with tears.
“Good girl. Now open your mouth. I have the pills and the orange juice. You like orange juice. Here you go.”
Tess lets Mamma put the two capsules on her tongue. She holds the orange juice in her hands like a little baby learning to drink from a cup. Then she closes her eyes and swallows.
Mamma throws her arms around Tess.
“I love you so much, sweetheart. You know that, don’t you?”
Tess nods wordlessly.
We go upstairs to brush our teeth. I take out my green toothbrush and squeeze a line of toothpaste across the top.
Tess does not touch her toothbrush. She has tears in her eyes. She raises the toilet seat with trembling hands, spits the capsules into the water, and flushes. The two blue-and-white pills swirl and swirl in the water and then disappear.
I open my mouth to call to Mamma but Tess reaches out and touches me on the cheek. Her hand is warm. I close my eyes for a moment, rest my cheek on her palm. Then she hugs me. She hugs me so hard, I can feel her whole body press against me. She is so small. Sometimes I forget how small she is.
“Lizzie,” Tess says. “Please don’t tell. I’ll never do that again. I’m going to be good and get better. I promise. I promise.”
* * *
She does not get better. At night Mamma and Daddy argue about what to do. I can hear them below the floorboards, talking about how it isn’t working. Dr. Orca tells Mamma there’s a hospital nearby that takes children Tess’s age. A famous place, where kids can stay until they are out of trouble. There are doctors and nurses who can watch her every moment. Think about it, Lillian. Please. She’ll be safe there. And they’ll help her get better. I know you’re trying hard to make things work at home, but this might be too big for you to handle on your own. Will you think about it? And she hands us a pamphlet with pictures of children painting at easels and walking in gardens and holding hands with their parents, their faces filled with grateful smiles.
Mamma promises to think about it. She brings the pamphlet home. Puts it up on the refrigerator door with a magnet.
“We can’t afford it,” says Daddy. “Besides, I can’t believe you want strangers taking care of our daughter. We can manage this at home.”
Every morning and every night, Mamma gives Tess two pills with orange juice. Tess stands perfectly still with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Mamma places the pills on her waiting tongue and gives her the juice. Tess always nods to show it is finished, and Mamma smiles and kisses her on the head. Tess never spits them out in the toilet again. I know because I spend every moment I can with her. When Isabella wants me to come over to play, I lie and say I have too much homework to do. I close the front door and listen to her footsteps down the porch steps. At school, I make excuses to sit by myself. I don’t want a best friend. I want Tess back.
Then one night Daddy goes up to change her bed.
“Lillian,” Daddy screams down to the kitchen. “Come up here.”
Mamma comes up with Tess. They are holding hands.
Daddy picks up the mattress to show her. Pills.
“Oh Tess,” says Mamma.
Tess falls to her knees. She is undone.
Mamma and Daddy don’t speak. Slowly, systematically, they ransack her bedroom. They open her dresser. They slide their fingers into rolled-up socks. They shake the bindings of books. They turn her pillowcases inside out. They find pills tucked away here and there, hidden like insect eggs.
“Oh my poor sweet baby,” says Mamma.
“From now on, I am in charge of this,” my father says.
“Marty,” says Mamma. “Please.”
“I’m in charge,” he shouts, as though saying the words louder a second time might make them come true.
Daddy pulls Tess off the floor by one arm, wrenching her backward. He stands behind her, pinning her arms to her sides. He grabs two blue-and-white pills from their nest under the mattress and slams them into Tess’s mouth before she can struggle away. Daddy holds one big hand over her face. “Swallow them,” he says.
Tess is weeping. She thrashes her head back and forth against his chest.
“Marty,” Mamma pleads.
Daddy holds on. “Swallow the goddamned pills, Tess.”
“Let her go, Marty.”
“Swallow the goddamned pills!”
He whirls Tess around and smacks her across the face.
Mamma screeches and begins to weep.
I put my hands over my ears and back away toward the door.
I don’t know how long we all stay there like that. Daddy with his hands on Tess’s face. Mamma weeping in the corner. Me cringing by the door with my hands over my ears. Maybe it is only a few seconds and maybe it is an hour. I can’t tell. Because time seems to stop, and everything in the world swirls around this moment like a vacuum cleaner, taking up all the air and drawing it into its bottomless lungs. But at a certain point, either moments or hours later, Tess swallows and motions to her throat with her hands. Daddy wrenches her mouth open. He runs one finger across her gums, under her tongue, and behind her teeth to check. When he is positive she has really swallowed the pills, he kisses her face, takes her into his arms, and cries in her hair like a baby.
From then on, Tess takes her pills. Wordlessly, with eyes as empty as Dixie cups. She swallows them. Two every morning and two every night before bed. She opens her mouth and lets Daddy place the blue-and-white pills on her tongue. She holds the cup of orange juice between her two shaking hands and she swallows and swallows. Soon the magic will go away, Dr. Orca tells us. It will dry up, little by little until there is none left, not even a drop. She will forget how to turn invisible. She will forget the language of the seagulls.
On December 2, Mamma takes the hospital pamphlet down from the refrigerator. She replaces it with Tess’s new drawing. It is a square house with a triangle roof and two big curtained windows in the front. There is a yellow sun in the corner and a family all with smiling faces. They are holding hands in front of a garden filled with flowers. There are no jagged lines and no shadows. There is no poem. She does not sign her name at the bottom.
DEEP RIVER
She comes to me just before dawn, curling behind me in bed, her skinny arms around my waist, her toes scraping the heels of my feet. She whispers magic spells into my hair, words I could understand if I opened my eyes, but the sounds hiss into my blankets like wind from an open window and I stay submerged in dreaming.
I dream we are horses cantering together, our arms linked, our knees stepping high like Merlin taught us. I dream we have manes and tails that trail behind us, and moonbeam wings uncurling from our shoulder blades like smoke. Now we are lifting over the river at high tide and into the air together. She holds my hand while we fly. We look down at the river from above, the floating docks, the fishermen’s boats, the empty summer houses with their decks and windows.
Tess tosses her head and whinnies. It is a sound like laughter and church bells.
I dream that we are wrong about her. Dr. Orca and Mamma and Daddy and Isabella and me. We are wrong. Tess does have magic. She has always had magic. And I was wrong to stop believing. She comes to me on the dock with her hands cupped over something special, something she is hiding, like a piece of sea glass or a hermit crab. Something alive. I come close. She opens her hands and there on her palm is a white glow that crackles and leaps from her skin and grows to surround us both.
