Look at You Now (8 page)

“I don't know, I guess.”

“Well, do you need anything? Anything at all?”

I paused, fighting the tears, and then said, “No, that's okay.” And then I changed my mind. “Actually . . . I do. Could you tell my dad I need a hotplate and some bath towels and a clock, and . . . I guess some food for the hotplate.”

“Sure, and what about some clothes? Do you have stuff that fits you?”

“Not really.”

“How about I get some stuff that'll fit you and the other things and I'll overnight them to you? Would that work?”

“Yeah, thank you, Kate.”

“And when your dad gets in I'll have him give you a call. He has a number for you at a phone booth there, is that right?”

“Yes, that's right. Thanks again, Kate.”

“Anytime. And don't forget to look for your stuff tomorrow afternoon wherever it is you get mail there; I'll get the address from your dad.” Wow, Farrah Fawcett was such an incredibly nice person, which made everything so confusing.

As I hung up the phone I noticed a girl hanging around in the hall, watching. If I weren't in the facility, I would have thought she was homeless. I figured she needed to use the phone, so I quickly opened the door.

“Sorry, did you want to use the phone?”

“No, I'm just bored. I'm Tilly.” She was the skinniest pregnant girl ever, like an-olive-on-two-toothpicks skinny. Not tall, not short, just regular. Her hair was shortish, straight, and floppy. She had a long nose and pale skin and was wearing what looked like an art smock, with grimy blue jeans and sneakers that were way too big for her.

“I'm Liz,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.”

After an awkward silence I said, “Well . . . see ya.” I made my way down the hall and back toward my room. The other girls were all in the lounge, as usual; the TV wasn't on, but I could hear the chatter. Then from down the hall there was a shout. “See ya around, Liz!” Tilly was waving so I waved back. She reminded me of a Raggedy Ann doll.

I sat down on the bed and thought about my mom. Maybe she had to work, but maybe also she didn't want to see me. Maybe it would be too hard for her. I was a nightmare for her on top of her already broken life. Maybe she would never come, and I would be there alone forever. I remembered something my grandfather used to say when I'd tell him my mom had forgotten to pick me up somewhere, like that day at CCD when Father Joseph scolded her. He'd chuckle and say, “Out of sight, out of mind, sweetheart.” I felt a pit in my stomach, remembering his words. It was like I was quietly disappearing and I didn't know where to reach to hang on to myself.

My guitar was leaning up against the bed. I reached for it and started picking. I started singing and playing one of the songs I'd played a thousand times for people,

As the music filled the room, something let up. The walls stopped staring at me; the sun stopped yelling at me; everything felt a little less horrible. I'd paused the war zone that had become my mind. The lyrics had nowhere to land—I had no one to need—but the music knew me, it reminded me who I was, no matter where I was, no matter what was happening. I played song after song, I couldn't stop; I wanted to stay inside the music forever. It took me away from the facility, and it felt like home. But while right in the middle of Kenny Loggins's “House at Pooh Corner,” I
heard a loud banging on my door. Louder than loud, with voices behind it. It startled me off the bed. I dropped the guitar on the floor and immediately looked for something to block the door, but the dressers and beds were attached to the walls. The window only opened a foot; there was no way out. I was trapped. What did those girls want? Like a caged animal, I ran around the room looking for something to help me escape. I thought about locking myself in the bathroom. The banging was relentless; I covered my ears and then tripped over my guitar and landed on the floor. I crawled my way into the bathroom.

“You in there?
Open the door
.”

I went up to the door and softly answered, “What do you want?”

“
Open
the
goddamned
door.” That voice—it was for sure the voice of the girl with the big red earrings, the one who told me to stay the fuck away from her. I was certain she wanted to kill me. But the door was not locked, so if she was going to kill me, she probably would have come in and done it already. With my hand shaking like crazy, I opened the door a few inches. There were at least five or six girls standing at my door with the red-earring girl at the front.

Red-earring girl angrily asked, “You got a radio in there?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you do, show me your fucking radio.”

“I—I don't have a radio.”

“We heard the music.” The olive-on-two-toothpicks girl Tilly was standing in the back of the group. And the big pregnant screamer girl, the one with the boils on her face, was on the side looking at me.

I said, “Well, I really don't have a radio or a Walkman or anything. I guess that was me. I don't have a radio, I honestly don't.” Red-earring girl scrunched her face up and leaned closer. Her eyes were filled with rage.

“Why you lie, why do
people
lie? What do you mean, it was you?”

“I have a guitar. I play the guitar and I—I . . . sing. So that was me I think you're talking about.”

“No shit?”

“Um, no.”

“Well, we want to hear it close up then.” All the girls started talking, asking, “Yeah we do, can we?” Red-earring girl scoffed, still skeptical. “That wasn't her, she's full-a shit. That was a radio.” She blew past me and into my room, looked all around in the closet, everywhere. And then she saw my guitar on the floor. She looked at me, and then sat down on the empty bed opposite mine. The other girls filed in after her. They sat on the bed and the floor. One of them handed me the guitar off the floor.

My hands were still shaking; I wasn't sure I could actually do it. I sat down on my bed, with Henry at the pillow. They were all looking at me, waiting. Red-earring girl grabbed Henry off the bed. “What the fuck? How old are you, you still got a stuffed dog?” They all laughed.

“Yeah, I know, too old. I've had it since I was like seven. I just can't get rid of it, I guess.”

“I don't got nothing from when I was seven years old,” red-earring girl barked. “That's a long time. Now go, radio girl, you go on and play us something.” I was trying to calm down, calm my heart from racing and stop my hands from shaking. I'd played “There's a Place for Us” at my aunt's wedding a couple years earlier, in front of a hundred people. But I felt even more petrified in front of these girls—all of these strangers in a strange place. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pretended they weren't all sitting two feet away. They were looking around the room now and talking, almost like they'd forgotten what they asked me to do, so I just started. I played the Eagles' “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” and within a few seconds everyone was quiet. I played the whole song, sang all three verses, never looked up.

When I finished they were clapping and whistling. Something lifted inside me. Red-earring girl was biting her nails and watching
me carefully. She threw Henry back up on the bed and said, “Well, no shit, you can fucking play. Play another one.”

I played a few more. I'd gained some confidence and gradually began to feel stronger. When I finished, red-earring girl stood up and said, “Give the radio girl some space, man, get out of her room.” Several girls left—clearly they listened when red-earring girl spoke. The really small young-looking girl with the horrid scar running all the way down her cheek walked up to me and whispered, “You sounded like an angel.”

I smiled and asked, “How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”
Thirteen?
She was thirteen? The big pregnant girl with the boil face, the screamer, was stuck on the floor. She looked up at me with a sweet smile that surprised me and said, “That's one of the only times I ever heard the little kid talk. I'm Nellie.” She stuck her hand out for me to help her up. I grabbed it, and she grunted as we hoisted her up off the floor. Panting, she said, “This sucks, doesn't it? Fucking fat, tired, pregnant bullshit.” I couldn't get over her face—it was so repulsive I could scarcely look at her—but then she smiled again and all I could see was her smile.

I answered, “Yeah, when is your baby going to come? You look really uncomfortable.”

“I got twins in here. Not for a long time, can you believe that shit? I won't be able to fit through the door.” I couldn't help thinking about my twin sisters. They were born almost three years after me, numbers six and seven, the end of the Pryor kid line. My mom referred to them, always, as her caboose.

Red-earring girl walked over to my dresser and picked up the jar of peanut butter. She turned to me and said, “I need some of this.”

I looked at the peanut butter and answered, “Take it; take the crackers too.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Well I will, then. It ain't stealing if she told me to take it. You hear that, girls?” She walked out with the peanut butter and crackers.
Nellie followed her. I felt myself exhale as the girls walked out of the room, and maybe I felt a pinhole of hope too. Maybe a small part of me could still feel okay about something. Tilly—Raggedy Ann—stayed in my room. She sat on the bed, smiling. Beyond the horrible clothes and floppy hair and shoes that were three sizes too big, there was something about her. Her eyes, I guess. They were sharp and bright. There was a kick to everything about her. These girls looked different when you got up close, really different. Tilly was as close to happy as anyone I'd seen in there, and it made me feel closer to safe. My mind and heart quieted, just for a moment, for the first time since I arrived.

“Who were you talking to on the phone before, Liz, your boyfriend?”

“No, my parents.”

“You got a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So do I. His name is Rick. I can't wait to bring this baby home to him.” Her eyes were twinkling and she was rubbing her stomach.

“How old are you, Tilly?”

“Fifteen. Deanna's fifteen too. Don't mind her, by the way. She's not all that bad and mean as she seems.”

“Deanna, the girl with the big red earrings?”

“Yeah. Her foster dad raped her. Everyone says she tried to kill him after, but she didn't. She has to go back to juvie after this, but she can't bring her baby to juvie so the baby will have to go to foster care, and, well, you can guess how she feels now about foster care.”

“What's juvie?”

“You
never heard
of juvie?”

“I don't think so.”

“It's prison for kids. You don't know that? You can't go to prison till you're eighteen, so they have juvie. She's waiting to go to court on something but she's been in and out for a couple years.”

“Why doesn't she give her baby up for adoption?”

“What?” Tilly looked at me like I was crazy—out-of-my-mind crazy. Like the idea of giving away a baby was completely nuts. The baby couldn't possibly come out and go live with someone else.

I was starting to understand just how truly different my life was from the other girls'. How polar opposite our experiences of the world were. Tilly looked at me, her face cocked like a confused little puppy, and said, “Are you kidding? Why would she do that? Why would anyone do that? She wants that baby; it's
her
very own. Who would give their own baby away?”

chapter
4

L
ater that day, I could hear the girls in the lounge getting ready to go to dinner. I hoped the Alice woman wasn't going to force me down to the cafeteria to eat that horrible food. I waited for the voices out in the hall to die down. When it was finally quiet, I headed out toward the vending machines I'd seen a few days earlier. They were down in the basement, buzzing a loud, unfriendly sound. I bought Fig Newtons, a Heath bar, pretzels, Fritos, cherry Life Savers, and a 7 Up and stuffed all the food in the pockets of my big coat. I was feeling slightly dizzy, walking back up the stairs, when I noticed a phone booth in the main hall. I sat down for a moment, holding the door open with my knee and trying to eat some Fritos. When I looked up at the shoddy black phone I thought of my best friend Laurie and how many hundreds of hours we'd spent on the phone. I wanted to call her badly, but I just couldn't. I couldn't tell her the truth. I hadn't spoken to her in weeks.

Laurie and I had been attached at the heart since fourth grade.
Nothing had happened to either of us that the other didn't know. We pondered most of our questions about life and the world in the dark, lying on twin beds in Laurie's bedroom on the edge of the lake in Winnetka. We spent dozens of summer nights down at Laurie's beach in front of the bonfire, laughing and talking until we fell asleep under the stars. Laurie was the one person in the world who knew the inside out and upside down of my heart and soul. She was a year older than me, and had gone off to college earlier that fall just like Daniel. What would happen when Laurie found out I was gone? When her calls weren't returned? When she came back from her freshman year at the University of Michigan in May, and I wasn't home? All my friends were a year older and off to college now. I had no contact with any of the girls in my own grade. People would no doubt begin making up stories about where I was and what I was doing—maybe Laurie would hear those through the grapevine. I hated the thought.

I unbuttoned my wool coat, put my head down, and tried to count how many days had gone by since I was sitting on my dad's wooden schooner in the crystal clear Caribbean waters, fighting with my sisters about whose sunburn was worse, happy, and unaware of what was happening to me. It was only
nine
days ago. And six days ago, I'd been dropped off and left here on the other side of the world.

I took a deep breath and stepped back out into the hall. As I threw the soda can in the trash, I passed a familiar man, the doctor from my fainting day yesterday. I smiled a little and got out a meek “Hi.” He looked right at me but ignored me as he passed.
Geeeez
. And then I heard, farther down the hall, voices. A few of the girls were heading back from dinner in the cafeteria.

“Asshole Dr. Ratched.” I turned around and saw Nellie, the boil-face girl. She caught my eye, smiled her big smile, and said, “Hey, Liz.” Then she asked me really loudly, “Isn't
he
a fucker? That doctor? Isn't he such a fucker?”

She walked up next to me. I quietly answered, “Yes, he was rude to me when I fainted.”

She shouted, “THAT'S 'CAUSE HE'S A FUCKER!” The doctor was still in sight and he heard Nellie. He turned around to look at us. It made me think of the times in my life when somewhere, way back in my mind, I would imagine but never, ever,
ever
say out loud something so terrible but true. It was almost impossible to wrap my mind around the idea that a kid could call a doctor a
fucker
. Nellie was unabashed in her shameless disrespect—but she was also right.

“We call him Dr. Ratched after the movie, you know,
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
? Nurse Ratched?”

“Yeah, that fits.”

“He's such an asshole. He shouldn't work here if he hates all of us, ya know? And he does, let me tell ya. And, shit, if we have to go to him every week and spread our legs, God, I hate it more than anything.”

What?
Was
he
the doctor Ms. Graham said I would be seeing every week? What did she mean? Spread our legs? As my mind raced, I noticed Nellie gingerly holding her side, looking terribly uncomfortable. We slowed our walking to a stop. She leaned over her big stomach and pulled up the bottom of both her pant legs.

“Look.” Her ankles were so swollen they looked disfigured. They were bulging out around her sneakers. It looked unbearably painful.

“Holy crap, what happened?”

“Pregnancy fucking happened. It's water swelling or some shit. Does that suck or what?”

“What can you do for that?”

“Nothing. Dr.
Ratched
says to stop eating salt . . . Whatever, I bet he's not even a real doctor. He doesn't know shit.”

“Does everyone pregnant get that?”

“I don't know; I don't think so. Maybe it's 'cause I'm having twins.” We walked a bit longer before she asked, “You having a party?”

“What?” I was distracted, wondering if my ankles were going to swell up. Being pregnant was such a weird thing.

“What are you doing with all that?” Nellie pointed to the candy and vending machine stuff sticking out of my coat pockets.

“Oh, I was trying not to faint again.”

“Well, good thing you didn't eat the fish downstairs. Tilly almost threw up when she walked in and smelled the cafeteria. I guess I'm used to it.”

I stuck out my hand. “Want some?” I offered, hoping she'd say no; I was pretty hungry. “No, that's okay, you better eat it,” Nellie said, and then added, “unless you're not gonna; then I'll have some.” She was looking at the Heath bar in my left pocket, so I handed it to her. A little later she asked me how old I was.

“Just turned seventeen; how about you?”

“Me too, a month ago. Lucky we're not eighteen. We couldn't be here; we'd have to be there.” Nellie made a scary face and pointed to a door on the opposite side of our wing. “The people who live in there? Those are the over-eighteens,
high
-security fucking psycho crazy girls.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you're eighteen you can live wherever the hell you want in the world; you're an adult. But the girls in there are crazy, with major problems, and they're pregnant, ya know? They
have
to be in there. We call it the real
Cuckoo's Nest
.” What? There was a wing full of eighteen-year-old pregnant psycho girls?
What?
How many were there?

“If you could be any character from
Cuckoo's Nest
who would you be, Liz?” Nellie was chomping on the Heath bar. I was still stuck on the psychos.

“What? You really like that movie, don't you?”

“You're catching on. I fucking love that movie; who doesn't love Jack Nicholson? Come on, it's soooo good. Who would you be? Tilly would be Billy; even though he dies, she likes him. I would be Mac, of course. What about you?” We were back in our wing by now, almost at the lounge. Alice spotted us and immediately came up to us.

“Nellie, you're behind, you know that, right?” she said, in her scolding tone.

Nellie put her hand on her hip. “I'm . . . what do you call it . . . damn, what's the word? I got it, I'm . . .
fatigued
, Alice. Yeah, I'm fatigued, and I got edema, and I got twins in my body. I don't know why you think I can get down on my hands and knees and do chores. I can't, and I ain't.”

“You can and you will,” Alice said. “And, Liz, you should start tonight, latest tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, doing what?”

“What is wrong with you girls?” She seemed annoyed. I noticed the girls listened when Alice was not happy. They didn't always obey her, but she had the power. She was the mother hen in charge. She pointed to the big chore board in the lounge where it was clear as day: Liz P.—Sweep Lounge and Hall.

“Oh yeah, sorry, yes. How often do I do that?”

“Every day. Read the board!” Then she walked away with her weeble-wobble walk, shaking her head. Nellie's chores were toilets and phone booth. Nellie whispered, “Every day my ass. We do them maybe twice a week.”

Tilly rounded the corner and tripped right into us. She smiled. I loved how happy Tilly always was. “Why is Liz out of her room?”

Nellie rolled her eyes. “She's not a dog, Tilly.”

“I know, what I meant was that she's never out of her room. Hi, Liz, you're here in the lounge, that's great!”

Nellie pointed to the vending machine food in my pockets.

“Liz, show her your dinner.” I pulled out a half a bag of Fritos, the whole roll of Life Savers, the pretzels, and the Fig Newtons. Tilly's eyes widened. I was still hungry, but I saw how badly Tilly wanted it.

“Want some?” I offered.

“Can I?”

“Take it.” Tilly took the pretzels and opened the cherry Life Savers. I guess I could eat the Fig Newtons. There was a round
table in the corner of the lounge with several chairs. Nellie sat down in the farthest corner chair.

“That's her spot,” Tilly whispered. “Everyone has a spot. She plays solitaire there all day long, don't you, Nellie?”

“Well, if you morons could play anything, I wouldn't have to play solitaire so much.”

“I know how to play cards,” I said. My family loved cards.

“What do you play?” Nellie asked.

“Gin, crazy eights, spit, spoons, war, whatever.”

“Thank fucking God. Maybe you can teach Tilly; I don't have the patience.” The other girls began meandering into the lounge, on their way back from dinner. I sat in a chair at the round table next to Tilly. It had taken a little while, but maybe I'd found my spot. Deanna came in last, with her big red earrings. She told a girl to shut the fuck up when she walked in, and then plopped down in the empty La-Z-Boy chair. That must be her spot. I made a note never to sit there. The young girl with the scar walked in, with another strange-looking girl with long hair down to her butt, dyed black. Her skin was translucent white. She looked like Morticia from
The Addams Family
. They sat on separate sides of the couch, both of them staring blankly at the TV. There was another girl sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of the TV. I felt as though I'd been plopped down in the land of the misfit toys. Tilly was smoking and ashing in the ashtray every five seconds. Everyone was smoking except for Nellie.

Nellie tapped my shoulder. “Let's see what you got. Gin?”

“Sure.” Nellie and I went at gin. I liked Nellie. She made me laugh, but she also had something about her that made me feel . . . not scared.

I started teaching Tilly how to play spit. Then Nellie, Tilly, and I began a loud game of spit all together. We slapped the cards hard on the table with our palms, shrieking at one another. The other girls slowly gathered around, watching us play. The little girl with the scar was inching her way closer and closer. Suddenly, there were six of us at the table. After half a dozen games, Nellie told
them all to clear out of her space. I lit up a cigarette and noticed Nellie staring at me.

“What? What are you looking at?” I said.

“Your coat. I like it; looks real warm.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you steal it?”

Tilly threw her head back, laughing. “Liz didn't
steal
it. She didn't even know what juvie was until I told her; she never stoled anything in her life.”

Nellie thought about it. “I guess she doesn't need to steal, then.”

“No, I didn't steal it; my mom gave it to me for my birthday.”

Nellie smiled. “You got a good mom?”

“Yeah, she's good.”

There was a long beat. Nellie lifted her head a little and said,“I'm gonna be a good mom.” Her wire-framed glasses were taped on one side, and I could see she had some sort of medicine on the boils all over her face. I didn't really want to talk about being a mom. I didn't think of myself, or any of the other girls, that way. It's true that was the reason we were all here, but I still didn't want to think about it. I looked at Nellie's big belly and said, “I have little sisters that are twins.”

Her jaw dropped. “You
do
?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know
any
twins, what are they like?”

“They're fine, good. It's cool to have a twin. I mean, they have the closest relationship of anyone I've ever known. They get to go through everything together. Kind of like having a friend who always has your back, you know?”

Tilly looked over at me. “What's the matter, Liz?”

I laughed a little as I wiped my face. “I don't know why I'm crying,” I said.

Tilly looked at Nellie. “I think she misses her family?”

“Obviously. Don't be a dumbass, and quit talkin' about her like she's not here.” They were quiet until Nellie shuffled the cards again and said, “You got a good family, don't you?”

“I guess.”

“You seem like someone with a good family,” Nellie said.

We were all silent until Tilly added, “You know what, Liz? They can come here and visit, your twin sisters can. You can have visitors here. That would make you happy, I bet.”

Right. Like Dorothy was going to waltz into the misfit toy teenage pregnancy wing with the twins and take me out for a club sandwich.

“No, they can't come here,” I said. “They won't be visiting.”

“You're even hiding from your own family?” Tilly said. She immediately looked busted. “Sorry, we know you're hiding; they told us.” The girls knew? I was strangely relieved that I wouldn't have to cover that up while I was there. I continued, “Yeah, my sisters don't know I'm here; only my parents know.”

“Heavy shit, Liz. But don't worry, none of us have anyone who would visit,” Nellie said.

“I do, I have Rick,” Tilly said.

“Not
one
of us has had a fucking visitor since I been here, Tilly.”