Cackle, page 16
“Yeah, so we went to this random psychic in the Village. She told me that I had a dark fate or something along those lines. Actually, she said she sensed a darkness. She couldn’t see my fate.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Sophie asks. I thought she’d be more interested in the story.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
She smiles. Boops me on the nose. “You want me to tell you that she was full of shit?”
I laugh. “I guess. Maybe, yeah. That’s what I’m after.”
“She probably was, yes. It’s very likely. Or it could be that your future is uncertain. That you’re in a place where your path diverges, and not even fate itself knows which way you’ll go.”
“Oof.”
“Don’t despair,” she says, running a thumb under my pouty bottom lip. “I’m also full of shit. To be honest, pet, I don’t even believe in fate.”
“No?”
She scoffs, waves a hand in the air. “If it does exist, I’ve eluded it so many times.”
“You’re special, though.”
“So are you.”
Now it’s my turn to scoff.
“Fate is just another invention to trick us into complacency. Inaction. If one assumes that they cannot change their circumstances, they won’t try. When you think about it, really, there’s a myriad of ways we’re conditioned to passivity. Women, especially. Of course, I realized all of this a long, long time ago. It saved me. It could have just as easily drowned me.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Literally,” she says. “They tried to drown me.”
“Who?”
“The townspeople,” she says. Her tone is casual. She’s not looking at me. She’s browsing shows on the TV. The remote is making that bloop-bloop sound as she scrolls.
“When?”
“As I said, a long time ago.”
“In the well?”
“No, that was a different occasion. There were many attempts over many years,” she says. She shakes her head.
“That’s awful,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” she says, “don’t be. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are.”
“I’m on your couch with you watching Netflix!” she says. “And they’re all dead.”
She pats my knee twice. “I should get home. I’ve got so many chores to do around the house that I’ve been neglecting.”
“Busy taking care of me,” I say. “Your sad, pathetic friend.”
“Next time you insult yourself in front of me, I’ll tie your tongue in a knot,” she says, putting her coat on. “Will you come over next weekend, please, pet? I really miss having you around. The ghosts won’t bother you. I promise.”
“I’m skeptical.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that,” I say. “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be,” she says. Like it’s that simple. “It’ll be fun. Come over, yes? Come Saturday around noon. I’ll make us treats.”
“Okay.”
“Yes! Lovely,” she says. She kisses me on the forehead. “You’ll be all right, darling. Better than all right.”
“Thanks, Sophie.”
“I left food in your icebox,” she says. “Fridge. Whatever you call it. Good night.”
As soon as she’s gone, as soon as I hear the door close, I open my laptop and go straight to Facebook to look at the picture again.
I stare at it.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but there’s a nagging evil inside me, a little devil brandishing its pitchfork, compelling me. Punishing me. Its sole mission is to deprive me of any momentary relief I might have if I were to escape the hard evidence of my heartbreak.
Eventually, the screen blurs and my eyeballs recline.
I shut my laptop.
I put myself in the shower. I turn the water as hot as it will go so I can disappear into the steam, let it transport me somewhere else. If I can’t see anything, I can pretend I’m anywhere.
I pretend I’m in the spa of that Italian villa from the luxury real estate show.
I pretend I’m in a Diane Lane movie. I masturbate.
Afterward, I put on soft cotton pajamas and carry a sleeve of crackers and a glass of water into my bedroom. I settle in bed and eat the crackers slowly while staring out the window. I’m too lazy to get up and close the curtain.
It’s a mystery hour. The sun has been setting earlier and earlier. The daylight selfish, sparing. Soon my entire day will be spent in darkness. The drive to work. Teaching in my basement classroom. My drive home after.
Why bother to get up at all?
I put the remaining crackers on my nightstand and roll over. I didn’t brush my teeth today and I can smell my own breath. Acrid. Stale. My hair is still wet from the shower. I couldn’t be bothered to dry it, and I know when I wake up, it’ll be a tangled nightmare. I’m also 99 percent sure I forgot to put on deodorant.
I should just live like this. Abandon my ablutions. Let my teeth go yellow with rot, gums red and receding. Allow my skin to break out, forget exfoliation. Let the dead flakes congregate, create societies of zits on my face. Evil empires.
I should let my hair gnarl together. Form a giant nestlike mass on top of my head. I could keep things in there. Credit cards. Snacks.
I should develop a smell so terrible that no one will ever come near me. Create a force field of stink.
Wouldn’t that be easier? To be left alone in my misery. To lean into what I feel, match my exterior to my interior.
I won’t do it, though. I’ll wake up in the morning and floss and brush my teeth and my hair. I’ll put on deodorant and perfume. A little mascara. Apply some tinted lip gloss.
I’m not brave enough to be who I am.
HOPE IS STUPID
“Can I have lunch in here, Miss Crane?”
Madison stands in the doorway of my classroom, holding a thermos in one hand and a copy of The New Yorker in the other. I would much prefer to be alone for the opportunity to put my head down on my desk and whimper softly to myself for the next forty-five minutes, but . . . I’d feel guilty saying no to a student who’s just looking for somewhere to be. I’ve been that kid.
I still am that kid.
“Sure,” I say.
She sits in the desk directly across from mine. “Beth is absent today and I cannot deal with the rest of them. I cannot.”
She unscrews her thermos. I get a whiff of an earthy smell.
“It’s kombucha,” she says. “I brew it myself. It’s really good for you.”
“Is that all you have?”
“I eat. Don’t worry,” she says. “I just don’t really believe in lunch.”
She opens The New Yorker and I gather a stack of papers that I’ve been putting off grading.
When the bell rings, she screws the top back on her thermos and smiles sweetly.
“Thank you for letting me hang in here, Miss Crane,” she says on her way out, her eyes wide, her expression earnest. She looks so young right now. She is young. It’s easy to forget that kids these days don’t act like kids.
Kids these days. Oof. Let me just disintegrate into dust and be carried off by a gentle breeze.
“You’re the only cool teacher here,” she says.
I wish it were possible to catch a compliment, to hold it in the cage of your hands like a firefly and never let it go.
But . . . it isn’t. The high is transient.
After school, I stop at the Verizon store in Aster to get a new phone. The guy who sells it to me seems annoyed by my very existence, and to be honest, I find it deeply relatable.
I go to Tops Friendly Markets and get a rotisserie chicken and a liter of ginger ale. Then I stop at Simple Spirits for a bottle of bourbon.
“What’s the occasion?” Alex asks me, her eyes narrowing with their usual judgment.
“Had a hankering,” I say, surprising myself with my lack of shame.
If I want to drink straight from a bottle of bourbon on a Monday night, that’s nobody’s business but my own.
I let this attitude keep me company as I plow through a hefty fraction of the bottle while eating the rotisserie chicken with my hands, sitting on the kitchen floor.
When I’m done, I leave the carcass on the counter and go straight to bed.
* * *
—
On Friday, I run into Jill while getting coffee in the teachers’ lounge.
“Hey!” she says. “I was just thinking about you.”
I don’t say anything. I search the fridge for half-and-half.
“Are you sure you don’t want to meet Pascal? We saw him last weekend and I just really think you guys would hit it off.”
“There’s no half-and-half,” I say. I give a long, defeated sigh as I pour 2 percent milk into my tumbler.
“We could all do dinner. Or drinks?” She’s persistent. “Double date.”
Of course, I’m thinking about the picture. Of course, I’m thinking about Sam and Shannon.
I wonder how he’d feel if he saw me with someone else.
Probably indifferent.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
“Really?” she squeals.
“Yeah,” I say.
“It’s going to be so fun,” she says. “When are you free? Next weekend?”
“Whenever.”
“Yay! I’ll talk to my husband and see what we can see! I love setting people up,” she says. “I’m good at it, too.”
“High success rate?”
She nods, her ponytail bobbing.
“All right,” I say. “I have class.”
“I’ll let you know about plans!”
I give her the thumbs-up on my way out. I hate myself for it.
On my walk back to class, I begin to regret my decision to accept Jill’s offer. What have I just gotten myself into?
Why am I willingly subjecting myself to a blind date? A blind double date. And they already know one another, so they’ll either be rehashing shared memories the whole time with me just sitting there pretending to be engaged, or they’ll be asking me questions about myself. Questions like: Where did you grow up? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Did you play sports in school? Do you like Star Wars?
And what if Pascal sucks? What if he chews with his mouth open or watches golf for fun? What if he owns a red hat?
How is it that when trying to climb out of a hole, I always seem to dig myself deeper?
* * *
—
The next morning, I stop at the Good Mug for coffee on my way to Sophie’s. No one is there, except for Oskar, who is pouring coffee beans into the grinder.
“Morning,” he says. “What can I get for you?”
“Thinking,” I say. “I’m heading to Sophie’s. Wondering what I should bring her.”
He frowns.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Let’s go with vanilla cinnamon,” I say. “Two larges, please.”
“Yep,” he says.
I turn toward the windows to observe the street. It’s getting cold out, but the flowers haven’t died yet. They’re not as vibrant as they once were, but they’re hanging on. I wonder if Sophie has anything to do with that.
“You shouldn’t go out there,” Oskar says, so low I can barely hear him.
I turn around. He’s frothing milk.
“Sorry?” I ask.
“You shouldn’t go out there. To the woods.”
“To Sophie’s?”
“Some people go out there,” he says, “and they don’t come back.”
The hiss of steam interrupts him. He begins to pour the milk into cups in the slow, meticulous way he always does. His jaw is clenched, but that’s its permanent state. He gives nothing away.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Eleven,” he says, setting the cups down on the counter in front of me.
I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Why the hell would he say that?
“Cash or card?” he asks.
I search my bag for my wallet. My pockets. I find it in my jacket and promptly fumble it onto the floor. When I reach down to get it, I narrowly avoid smacking my head against the counter.
Oskar doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just stands there, stoic.
I hand him my credit card. He swipes it and gives it back to me. When he does, he grabs my hand. It’s so quick and unexpected I almost scream.
He’s looking at me, his blue eyes bright and intense, like the sky on an all-too-perfect day. I wait for him to say something, to tell me something else. Explain. But he just releases my hand and says, “Have a good one.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You, too.”
I take the coffee and step out onto Main Street. I start toward the woods, toward Sophie’s, but my body is reluctant, my legs suddenly rubber.
What did Oskar mean?
Does he not know that I know the truth about Sophie? Is that what that was about?
I guess if I knew only what Sophie was and not who she was, I’d fear her, too.
I continue in a daze toward the woods.
It requires a lot of focus to walk through the woods holding two large lattes. It’s a feat of balance, especially on rubbery legs.
I also have never gone to Sophie’s without having Sophie herself to guide me, so I have to pay close attention to every familiar tree, every distinct dip in the ground, every unique rock. I get myself to the well. Part of me is tempted to peer in to see how far down it goes, but I’m afraid to get too close.
And the hut, too. I’m curious to look inside, see what it’s like, but I don’t have the nerve.
The circle of headstones I’m totally good with avoiding. All set there.
When I walk down the hill to her house, I see the front door is already open, and she’s standing there in a black gown with a plunging neckline. She’s waving to me. Waving me in.
“I’m coming,” I say.
“I’m impatient,” she says.
“I brought coffee,” I say, handing her one of the cups.
“My sweet! Come, let’s drink it in the parlor. I’ve cleaned it up.”
She leads me to a room I’ve never been in before, one with silky wallpaper and dainty furniture. There’s a baby white marble fireplace, an excess of reedy plants, a few watercolors depicting bucolic landscapes. We sit on two pretty but uncomfortable chairs, drinking our lattes.
Sophie tells me about her week, about a new balm she made for her cuticles and about how Monday is Halloween and no one in town likes to celebrate because of her.
“I don’t know what they think,” she says. “I threw a party one year, and nobody came! I like those tiny little chocolate bars just as much as the next person. It’s beyond aggravating.”
“Yeah,” I say, debating whether to disclose Oskar’s weird comment.
“There’s such a stigma,” she says, sighing. “You know I don’t believe in self-pity, but if I give myself one night a year to feel sorry for myself, that’s the one. I’ll probably mix myself a cocktail in a cauldron and get bloody drunk.”
“A cauldron?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
“Mm,” she says.
I don’t have a response, which results in an awkward pause. The quiet recalls Oskar’s voice. Some people go out there and they don’t come back.
I look up at Sophie, and she’s looking back at me. Her amber eyes have gone dark.
“What is it, pet?” she asks, her chin ascending.
“Um, no-nothing,” I stammer. The coffee cup begins to crumple in my hands. I’m clutching it too tightly.
“Oh, I don’t believe that,” she says. “You can tell me.”
“Really, it’s nothing.” Why would Oskar say that to me? Why would he say it if he didn’t have good reason?
Have I been too accepting? Have I glued on my blinders for the sake of this friendship?
I always thought I was an exceptional judge of character. That I could see people for who they really are deep down. But isn’t that the kind of arrogant thinking that gets people called to the witness stand? Ted Bundy had a wife, didn’t he?
Oh, God. Would I have married Ted Bundy?
“Annie,” Sophie says, coolly examining her nails, “we’re friends, yes? Friends don’t keep secrets from one another, now, do they?”
“No,” I say. I don’t have a choice now. “It’s just . . . It’s Oskar.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“He said something to me. I just . . . It was weird. I thought it might . . . I don’t know. I thought it might hurt your feelings. You know, the stigma.”
She laughs. “Oh, pet. You don’t need to worry about Oskar hurting my feelings, though I am curious. What did he have to say about me?”
“It wasn’t anything bad,” I say.
She laughs again. Louder this time.
I swallow. “He said that I shouldn’t come out here. He said . . . he said . . .”
She leans forward. Closer to me.
Closer. Closer.
“He said . . . he said some people come out here and don’t come back.”
She latches onto me, her hand on my knee. She sinks her fingertips into my skin. Her eyes are wild. A sneer possesses her lips. “Did he really?”
I nod.
She lets go, settling back into her chair. “He still blames me. I suppose it’s easier than accepting any responsibility himself. He can’t bring himself to confront the reality of what happened. It’s too painful for him.”
“What happened?” I ask, nerves churning.
“His wife. Helen. Erik’s mother. She was unhappy. She was very young when she married Oskar, when she had Erik. She felt trapped, completely overwhelmed. So she came to me. We spent some time together. She was so lost. I thought she was seeking friendship, direction.” Sophie’s eyes catch on something. Some memory. She’s quiet for a moment. “Then she left.”
