North Fork (13 page)

My problem with Bonnie is that it doesn't ever feel like you can touch her, like you're connecting to the soul part of her. I fantasize about someday, maybe after college when I'm on my own, being able to go out to lunch with her, just her, no Sterling, and drink a little wine with her so she'll loosen up. I want her to tell me stories about when she was growing up, about meeting my real dad, and whether she felt all the uncertainty I feel about life. She's my mom, but she's like this big mystery, and instead of helping me figure out how to live, she makes everything more confusing.

We don't fight much. Sometimes I wish we did. Natalie and Trish fight, but it's like they're sisters. They know each other really well and they get over it quickly. I don't feel like I know Bonnie at all. She has never talked about my real dad or about my other stepdad, the one I had when I was little. I must have
asked at some time, but I don't remember it. She's an artist at dodging. Before you know what's happening, she's anticipating the question and redirecting the conversation, so there's no good way to ask it. Now I know better than to ask. It's like one of those dog fences that you can't see. I've just learned not to go there. As you can imagine, finding the birth certificate was quite a shock. My real dad might live here in Victoria, or in Vancouver, or he might be dead. It would be nice to know.

Bonnie keeps herself in good shape. She looks great for someone who's nearly forty. She works out at the fitness center at least three times a week and spends a lot on clothes and makeup. Her taste tends to be pretty upscale city and, to me, she often seems overdressed for where we live. But I've learned a lot about clothes from watching her. She runs Sterling's office and seems pretty well educated, meaning her grammar and vocabulary are good and she's good at math, but she lets her religion do all her abstract thinking. (I got that from Smith. He's always talking about the difference between abstract and concrete reality and how the abstractions like love, greed, fear, envy, and things like that drive our lives as much as concrete things like food and shelter.) Bonnie doesn't read writers like Emily Dickinson or Emerson or Thoreau, or even current books like the ones Oprah talks about on her show. I don't think she reads the Bible much either, but she listens in church and picks up on its explanations.

I see the Bible as like an extension of Greek mythology. The stories are pretty good, and ideas like love and forgiveness are important to talk about. Like Smith's abstractions, they guide our lives. If everyone lived like Jesus said we should, the world would be a better place. But we don't do that. The people at church are pretty hypocritical and tend to be kind of narrow-minded. They use what they read in the Bible selectively, to support what they want to think instead of opening up and using it to try to become wise.

Using the idea of this loving God guy or Jesus guy to tell you what to do, or keep the loneliness away, is sure tempting. When I first started cutting myself, I used to try to pray, but it just made me feel worse, lonelier than ever, because when I prayed, nothing happened, absolutely nothing, and I was being sincere. I mean when I go to the beach, which I was doing here quite often before Grant, and when I look out over the water at the mountains on the other side, or just sit on a log and watch the waves, something happens. I actually start to feel happy. I feel soothed and it doesn't matter as much that I feel alone, because nature makes sense even if it is indifferent to individuals. Bonnie and Sterling's church had the opposite effect. It just made me feel more alone.

Okay, about the cutting. People don't seem to get it and they get all weird about it, but it seems obvious to me. You may be wondering about it. I'll try to explain. It's for the same reason people become anorexic or bulimic or alcoholics or sports fans, or watch tragic plays for that matter. It makes them feel better!

The first time I did it, years ago, I was in my room, and already feeling depressed, when these boys called. Bonnie was watching TV and Sterling was on the phone in the other room, talking real estate. I was doing my homework, which has always been a way of escaping from them. I don't dread it the way some kids do, because I actually like reading and learning new things. But sometimes it doesn't engage me enough to pull me away into a place where I can feel more excited about life. Although lately, as I've gotten older, my homework has been part of the problem. It makes me think about things too much.

That night I was working on a science project, a poster on tornados that I liked doing, but Sterling's voice kept getting loud, which broke into my thoughts and annoyed me and made me think about a story I was reading called The Education of Little Tree. It's about this Indian kid who lives in the mountains with his grandparents. Even though they're poor and white people don't
treat them well, it's obvious they love each other. Comparing it to my life made me feel trapped, alone and totally invisible.

I was in eighth grade and starting to develop, but I was still skinny and too tall, and really self-conscious. When my cell rang, I thought it would be someone calling to ask about a homework assignment, but it wasn't. The person talking tried to disguise his voice to make it all low and gravelly, but I could hear giggling in the background, so I knew it was a kid and he wasn't alone. Anyway, he said my name and that he wanted to (blank) me and some other stuff about my long, skinny legs and my nipples. It was gross, and the stupid part was that my phone had caller ID so I knew where the call came from. The kid went to my church.

I hung up and he tried to call back, but I turned the phone off. I didn't know Natalie yet or I would have called her. Crying might have helped, but I don't do much of that either. It's a lot like praying. It's only good if you think someone who cares hears you. I was trimming some construction paper with one of those razor knives that artists use. I was making frames for the tornado pictures I was going to glue onto the poster board. I started by poking the knife point into the back of my left forearm, maybe because I wanted to stab those boys, or maybe because I was mad at myself after finding out that I was someone guys thought of that way.

I wasn't really thinking that specifically. I just know that the pain in my arm made me quit thinking about what they said, and that it was a better kind of pain because it was easier to understand. So I decided to see if I was strong enough to actually cut the skin and draw blood. I did it on my upper arm so I could cover it with my sleeve. It was hard to make my hand do it, but I was able to, and it softened the awful feeling I had from getting the phone call on top of feeling low and empty already. Maybe it's the blood. I usually wipe it with my finger and lick it.

Until I came here, I was still doing it. I never told Natalie and I
didn't do it that much. I saved it for the big stuff. Like I did it after I found the birth certificate. I'm lucky because I have dark skin and scars don't show, especially fine razor scars. As soon as I get a little tan on them, they're pretty much gone, so I usually cut my thighs high enough above my knees that they're always covered and I go to the tanning booth at Bonnie's fitness center once in a while and no one knows.

I've wondered a lot about my life with Bonnie before Sterling, and who my real father is and if he's alive, but I didn't consciously come here looking for him. In fact, I didn't know I was thinking about him until it came out of my mouth when the customs guy asked why I was coming to Canada. So maybe this is all about me figuring out where the warmth will come from, and because I'm almost an adult and it's time to make decisions about college and real life, something big had to happen now for the next step to make sense.

Bonnie's my mom, but I don't feel close to her at all. Not much warmth there. Even though I can't say I've been miserable, for most of my life, just playing along sure hasn't made me happy. It's true that I wasn't hungry. I wasn't cold or in great physical pain. I didn't mind school. Sports were okay. People didn't tease me or single me out in a bad way very often. (When I heard that those same boys who called me in eighth grade had called several other girls, it made me feel better.) But in the last few years, it's like I've started thinking too much, and that's made the emptiness grow way too big, and I've been finding myself in this cold, dark, hopeless place with no way out.

I had to do something.

It's the same room where I saw my parents. The puke green paint is so old you can see how it faded where the light coming through the wire covering the little window hits it. There is, of course, the camera mounted from the ceiling, not as corny as a one-way mirror, but still annoying. There's nothing else but a beat-up old table with a scuffed-up, cheapo plastic top, and two battered wooden chairs.

Smith is already sitting in one of the chairs. He's wearing his usual khaki pants and a dark polo. His hair is graying but still has streaks of brown and is combed back—kind of wavy, old guy hair, not too long, but not the way a kid would ever wear it. It suits him though. He stands and shakes my hand. He doesn't usually strike you as an old guy. His eyes are really alive, but today, even through his glasses, they look tired.

“Hi, Corey.”

I look down, clear my throat and say,

“Mr. Smith.”

“They're not too big on warmth here, are they?” he says.

“Nope.” I still don't look up.

“How's the food?”

“Not good. Not bad. Like school food.”

“Okay, Corey,” he says. “I don't like small talk, and I didn't come here to talk about the food or the dreariness of the place. I'm sure being here is pretty miserable, probably a lot like doing chemo in the hospital. I'll just say it. You know how I've been fighting cancer and have been in remission. I've talked about it in
class. Well, last week I went to the doctor for my cancer check and got bad results. Nothing's certain yet, but it seems to be coming back. I drove by this place on the way home and thought about you in here, and I realized we have something in common.”

I don't want to hear this, not on top of everything else. I mean, Shit! Sometimes life just fucking sucks. I clear my throat and try to think of something to say, but nothing comes and I'm glad when he starts talking again.

“There are lots of ways of being trapped. You probably understand better than most people what I'm feeling now, and sometimes it helps just to know someone else is struggling with a similar situation. Maybe we can help each other. Having no control over your fate can feel pretty lonely.”

“Yeah, I guess I know about that.” I try to imagine having cancer and can't, except I think, for me, it might be a relief, a convenient way to check out.

“Maybe I'm here to say that good things sometimes come from bad situations and, at least from one person's point of view, it's worth it to hang on. Maybe I need to say it to you so I can believe it myself, because sometimes I think it would be easier to let go of hope and get it over with. Sometimes the uncertainty feels worse than just accepting my fate and letting go.”

Yeah, I know about wanting to let go. If I had cancer, I wouldn't have to imagine hanging myself from the sprinklers anymore. What the hell good can come from even your mother believing you did something awful? Jesus, Smith, at least you have a life, something you actually want to hold onto.

“Life is a crazy business, Corey, and you've drawn a tough hand to play. Maybe I'm just here to let you know I know that, and to tell you that my life is a little rough now too. I keep getting extensions, reprieves, and I haven't let go yet, and I'm glad I haven't, because a lot of good things have happened to me too since I first got sick. Teaching has been good for me. It's changed
my life and I wouldn't want to go back to being the person I was before, but I also wouldn't wish the cancer experience on my worst enemy.”

I'm still speechless. I mean what can I say?

“I told the detective after Kristen disappeared that I didn't think you could have hurt her and that I thought you were friends, but he didn't seem very interested. So I don't think I can help your case much. From what I hear and read in the papers, they don't have much evidence, even though they seem convinced you're guilty. What will you do if they let you out?”

“I don't know. Probably stay at my dad's.” Wait a minute. You actually told the detective you didn't think I did it?

“When I was first diagnosed I would daydream that the cancer would just go away and that I would go to the doctor and they would tell me it was all a mistake and they had mixed up the lab samples, even though it was clear that my body was really sick. I just didn't want what was happening to me to be true. I'll bet you find yourself hoping that Kristen is safe somewhere and just ran off, and that she'll show up wondering what all the fuss is about.”

Harold has a saying for this. “Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which one fills up first.” What I say to Smith is, “Fat chance.”

“That's what I would have said when I was first diagnosed if someone had predicted I would still be here ten years later, talking to you, but here I am. Strange things do happen. But you're right. It seems pretty unlikely. By now she would have found a way to contact Natalie or her parents, or you. But it won't stay a mystery forever. Eventually something will surface. Someone will know something. She didn't just evaporate from her car at the mall.”

“Mr. Smith, this is really important, so don't lie to me, okay.”

He meets my eyes. “Corey, I didn't come here to lie.”

“You didn't come here to trick me into confessing?”

“No.”

“Did you really tell the detective you didn't think I did it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still believe that?”

“Yes.”