Tell Me What I Am, page 16
He read several pieces that previous groups had wanted to share with others in grief. Nessa listened. They were poetic; the writer read them slow, lists and lists of ephemeral moments. The repetition of I remember, the specific details. Nessa looked around the room at the others and wondered if she was the only one without a body to grieve. She thought how strange it was that she envied them their finality, the irrevocable deadness of the body they mourned. After the article about Deena’s mental health, she’d stopped telling people about what had happened in case they thought what it had said was true, that Deena had just left of her own accord and that Nessa was a grief imposter or something.
It was hard to think back to the time that pre-existed Lucas, the memories that he could not ever touch, the things that belonged to just her and Deena. The writer had said to take half an hour. Nessa pulled her chair to the window and concentrated on the bare branches, the clumps of leaves gathered at the base of the trees, the autumn light hitting the side of a grey boulder. Deena was all her earliest memories. Around her she could hear pens and pencils against paper. She had to start somewhere.
I remember there were leaves on the ground and you were holding hands in a circle of friends across the schoolyard, and I was happy just to know you were there in the distance.
I remember that I had a mullet in all my kindergarten pictures because you gave me a haircut before my first day. I remember that you hid the hair cuttings in your bottom drawer.
I remember you buried me in the sand in Ocean City and you put seaweed around my head for long hair because I wanted to look like you.
I remember the glow of our room at night when you read under the covers with your flashlight. I remember that sleeping between you and the wall was comfort. I remember now that it is you I have slept beside more than anyone else in my life.
I remember you shaved my legs first for practice and took a strip off my shin. I remember you bandaged me with gauze like I was a wounded warrior.
I remember you loved Bon Jovi passionately and then later passionately denied it.
I remember hot days when we got water ice from Rita’s and sat on the swings in the park, the red colour dripping down our hands.
I remember you cried when Mom said it was time to wear a bra.
I remember when you laugh how the sound bubbles and that you bend your head to the side as though shy to have revealed that part of you.
I remember the weight of your hand on my head, French-braiding my hair, and I remember its grip walking up the steps to the first day of school.
I remember you sewed handbags for me and my friends from old jeans with beads and flower patches stitched on.
I remember that for every photograph of you there is a photograph of me in the same outfit a few years later.
I remember when I got drunk at Anna Murphy’s house you came and got me and brought me to the park until I was sober enough to sneak back inside the house.
I remember the first time I saw you holding Ruby and when I think of that I remember that I have two griefs.
I remember the three of us together driving in the car along the river, windows down, singing ‘Kiss Me’ by Sixpence None the Richer, and Ruby knew the words, or her version of them.
I remember I can’t get you back, or her.
I remember every fucking day, forever, that I must help her to remember you.
Nessa put the pen and paper down and held her head in her hands, concentrating on not tearing up in front of people she did not know. She was biting her bottom lip so hard she could taste blood.
*
Late that afternoon, Henry Crofton called her at work. He had pictures, he said, and information.
Ruby isn’t enrolled in school. By law she should have started at age six.
She turned eight in January, Nessa said. She should be starting third grade.
There’s more. Lucas Chevalier has not filed his curriculum with the State of Vermont for home-schooling. This is where you exercise due vigilance. We report this to the Department for Children and Families and help ensure she is either enrolled or that a curriculum is registered with the state that meets the official criteria. There is further scope here to report concerns about her social and emotional development and opportunity to mix with peers.
She needs us, said Nessa. Whatever we have to do.
Okay, said Henry. We can start that process straight away. There’s two parts. We file a complaint with the claim of educational neglect and then we also file a complaint with Family Services about Ruby’s right to play and socialize that’s not being met. The latter complaint might impinge on the first and force his hand a bit. If she goes to school, he kills two birds with one stone and in the long run it’s probably best for her.
Yes, Nessa said. I want to do this immediately.
Okay. We’ll need to make an appointment to get you to sign the paperwork.
Henry?
Yes?
Can I see the pictures?
They were put through your letterbox at home earlier today.
Oh my God. I’m kind of overwhelmed. I haven’t seen her in over four years.
I know.
Nessa hung up and walked back home. Ruby hadn’t been in school. What had been happening to her during that time? She had to see her, hold the tangible proof that she existed.
Two large photographs were in the envelope between sheets of cardboard. One looked like it had been taken at a traffic light: Ruby, in the passenger seat of a car – Nessa recognized it as the old Pontiac she’d seen parked outside the house – the grandmother driving, but in shadow and hard to see. In the picture the windows are rolled down, the shot in profile, as if taken from another car. Ruby is talking, her face animated, her mouth wide open, a gasp of breath or a smile, or both. Her hand is out the window. She is tanned and looks just like Ruby from four years ago. Spirited and chatty. The second photograph stopped Nessa’s breath. Ruby and Lucas, in a boat, Lucas’s back to the camera as he steers the boat away from what looks like a gas pump at a pier. Ruby is staring toward the shore, toward the camera. She looks older than her eight years. The eyes are shadowed. Hair loose. Face serious. Pensive. Something care-worn or resigned, like the expression of an old woman.
16
Ruby
2016
What was your mother’s last name? Nathalie whispered to her at the lockers.
Ruby froze. She’d avoided talking about her mother to Nathalie since she’d googled her. It had been three years, and she’d hoped that not talking about her had made Nathalie forget.
Why?
Google.
Don’t.
Was it Chevalier?
I don’t think they were married.
Ruby’s heart raced. She didn’t want Nathalie to look her mother up. Instead of saying that, she turned and walked away.
Every time she thought about it for the rest of the day, a surge of terror squeezed her chest. Nathalie was going to read all that stuff about her mother and Lucas. And more. Ruby hadn’t looked further. What if there was even worse stuff she hadn’t read. She didn’t want to know. What if Nathalie found her mother? Knew who she was now, without Ruby?
Nathalie wasn’t on the bus the next morning. She wasn’t at the lockers at first period. When she came into language arts class late, she didn’t take the seat next to Ruby, where she always sat. At lunch Ruby sat on a different side of the cafeteria from their usual seats. Sophie and Nathalie were together at the hot food counter but Ruby pretended not to see them. Sophie spotted her anyway and slid her tray next to Ruby’s. Nathalie sat across from Sophie and mumbled, Hey.
Sophie was oblivious to it all.
Nathalie, look. Sophie squeezed Ruby’s bicep. Ruby’s become an athlete. She said it as if it were a disappointing thing. There was hardly a day since high school started where Ruby didn’t do something connected to rowing. She was on the river, and when the river was too cold and the water rough she rowed on ergometers and did weights. She’d started running. She’s even sitting on the jocks’ side of the cafeteria today, said Sophie.
Blame Nathalie, said Ruby. She made us be joiners.
Nathalie didn’t laugh or add anything. She and Ruby ate in silence while Sophie talked. Ruby pushed back her chair from the table and lifted the beige plastic tray. She said something about getting her books and left. Nathalie followed.
Ruby spun around when they were in the hallway. What?
Here. Nathalie unzipped her backpack on the floor and pulled out an envelope. I’m giving this back to you to keep. I can’t keep it in my room anymore.
You can’t keep my mother’s letter anymore?
No. It shouldn’t be in my house. And anyway, it’s not a letter. It’s a picture. Anybody could have sent it. Her tone was defensive, as if Ruby had asked her to believe a lie. Nathalie wouldn’t look at her.
Ruby said nothing, just took the envelope and slipped it between the pages of her chemistry book.
That afternoon, walking alone across the football field toward the gym, Ruby turned several times, certain someone was behind her. Maybe Nathalie, coming to apologize, but there was no one, just cropped grass, and a plume of birds rising out of the brambles that edged the school. Her chest ached. It seemed unfair. She’d said not to look her up. She hadn’t said her mother’s last name. Ruby didn’t know what Nathalie had read but she knew she’d looked her up and didn’t want to have anything more to do with her because her mother was sick or because there were things said about Lucas. It was Nathalie who had started the Memory Games, had pushed Ruby to try to remember.
For several days Nathalie sat separate from Ruby and Sophie on the bus.
What’s wrong with the two of you? Sophie asked.
Ruby shrugged. I don’t really want to talk about it.
Yep. Fine with me, said Sophie. You know how I hate drama.
Ruby almost smiled. Sophie thrived on it.
*
Lucas was relentless. Ruby’s driving test was in a week and it didn’t matter that she had driven since she was young – in fields and on logging roads, round and round parking lots on Sunday afternoons – they’d still look for reasons to fail her, he said. Not stopping long enough at a stop sign, not checking your rear-view mirror, tailing a car in front; the slightest thing that will give them an excuse so you have to pay the government for another test. They had practised parallel parking, changing lanes, and four-way stop signs. Ruby begged for a break. He cracked a smile and they stopped for pastries and coffee. Then it was straight back to three-point turns, parallel parking and merging into traffic. Ruby had just pulled onto Route 2 when Lucas’s phone pinged. He bent over it, lifting his hand to try to block out the light.
Christ, he spat. Christ Almighty. Drive, Ruby. Step on it. Home.
Is Clover okay?
Someone’s outside the house.
And Ruby knew that the cameras had alerted his phone. Nathalie had told her that’s how they worked.
Ruby pushed the gas. She was already going forty, the speed limit. She watched the speedometer crawl up to fifty.
Faster, Ruby, faster. I said step on it. Lucas was pushing the heel of his hand against the dashboard, as if it would make the truck accelerate harder.
She was going sixty. Then seventy. Her hands started to feel slippery on the wheel and she had to slow down.
Fucking bastard!
Ruby turned onto the road toward the house, checking her mirror as she cornered, though Lucas wasn’t watching her anymore. His eyes were fastened to the phone. Dust rose in her wake as the engine geared up again and she pushed the pedal toward the floor. Lucas turned to the rack behind their heads and took down the rifle.
Faster, he said.
Ruby’s vision started to waver on the periphery. She could feel panic building up, like she would crash if she turned her head or loosened her grip on the wheel. He reached under the seat and pulled out a box of rounds and loaded three.
What is it? Ruby said. What?
Just drive.
She turned onto their road. Was something happening to Clover? They were a few hundred yards from the house.
The truck was bouncing around the road. Usually Lucas would say something about the axle. The rifle sat in his elbow, the barrel pointing toward the floor. Ruby’s foot hovered over the brake; she’d have to slow down soon.
Stop! Lucas shouted.
Ruby slammed the brake. The truck fought on, crunching in the dust and cinders until they came to a final halt, skidding sideways.
Out. Get out, go into the woods and stay down. Do you hear me? You stay down until I tell you to come out.
Ruby opened the door, stumbled through brambles and down a small embankment into the trees. Lucas slid over to the driver’s seat and accelerated forward.
Ruby staggered about a hundred yards through the undergrowth and crouched down, her breath ragged. She couldn’t be seen here. All around her were sprouting jewelweed leaves. In late summer they would bloom in fiery tangled thickets. Her heart pounded and she pulled her T-shirt over her knees, trying to make herself into a small ball. She touched a leaf. Her first week in Miss Bukowski’s class at Middle Lake. A nature walk to Champlain down a side road brimming with jewelweed. October. Miss Bukowski had told them it was called touch-me-not, because the seedpod exploded when grazed or brushed against. They’d all scrambled through the hedges, torn pods from pale-green stems, laid them in open palms and pressed stubby fingers against the casing, watching the seeds hurtle out of their hands. She rubbed her open hand, her chin on her knees, and rocked slightly.
A car was speeding back up the road. Was it Lucas? She huddled lower. It was close, driving fast, a flash of green in the haze. She stayed perfectly still. Heard it take the turn on the second road. She didn’t move until Lucas called her name. Her legs were scratched and small streaks of blood trickled from her thighs to her ankles. They were shaking. She walked toward his voice and met him coming, still holding the rifle.
Did he see you? Lucas grabbed her elbow. Did he see you? Ruby. Answer me.
Ruby was trying to say no. She’d lost her breath. Lucas was angry. The veins on his neck bulged and moved under the skin.
No. Ruby shook her head and tried to say the words, He didn’t see me. But they were swallowed by the black hole rising from her stomach. Lucas was furious. His face thunderous and dark. No, she tried to say again.
Have you ever seen him before? A green car anywhere near the house? Lucas was shouting.
No! came out as a choking sob. She could never tell him.
Lucas let go of her elbow. Brushed his shirt with his hand. Wiped his forehead.
Ruby took several steps back from him, her arms crossed.
Stop it. Stop. He’s gone. He was annoyed with her for being upset. He stepped toward her. She flinched. He exhaled and took a few steps back and reset the safety on the rifle. Calm down. It’s nothing, he said. Just some out-of-towner tearing up side roads. I’ll talk to Ethan and we’ll watch out for him. I don’t think he’ll be back here anyway. If you see that car or any car around here you let me know straight away.
She shook her head yes. Lucas kept looking at her as if checking to see that she meant it.
I’ll have to get you a phone. After lunch we’ll head to Burlington. You drive and we’ll get a phone. That way, when you’re away rowing or if you’re out driving and have car trouble, you can call me. And if you see someone around here who shouldn’t be.
Okay, Ruby said.
Okay, then. He patted her back. You better get up to the house. Don’t worry Clover about this.
*
Lucas dropped her to the high school at five in the morning. When they pulled into the parking lot there was a coach waiting, its undercarriage open. The students were loading their bags.
That’s a pretty big bus for a small team, Lucas said. Where’s the minivan?
The swim team are travelling with us. They have a meet in Boston.
The swimmers were loud. They told stories, shouted, sang, made jokes, showed each other stuff on their phones. Ruby knew some of them from classes but had never really talked to any of them. Wyatt Smith was sitting a few rows back; he had been at Middle Lake, a grade above her. One of the boys who had played Destroying Angels and Hunger Games with her and Nathalie.
The bus dropped the rowers at the lake in Worcester and went on to Boston. Ruby raced late that afternoon. She could never really remember details, what she did or didn’t do. At the stake boats she concentrated on the space just in front of her. Then the adrenalin surge in those first few seconds, quick out but measured, nothing crazy, and then into the rhythm, watching buoys, ensuring she was steady on the course. In every race she counted strokes because it calmed her and helped her manage oxygen. But the details floated past. The shell beside her, people shouting from the riverbank, a bird. She knew when she was sculling well, when everything was fluid and not separate – catch, drive, finish, recover – like one sweeping motion and one stroke into the next, with no beat between. She could see she was putting distance between herself and other scullers but she didn’t notice how much. She didn’t know she’d won until she looked around and someone said it.
