The Art of Losing Yourself (7 page)

G
RACIE

I crouched behind a firebush beside the pool shed as a navy-blue Kia Optima with a dented front fender pulled up beside the police cruiser and out stepped Evelyn Fisher 2.0—a younger, sober version of my mother, with the same curly brown hair, the same wide-set eyes, the same delicate nose and fair skin. Flawlessly wrapped in a white blouse, pale-pink skirt, and matching pumps. Carmen Hart, a walking billboard for perfection.

She and the redheaded cop chatted awhile before disappearing inside. I pressed my knees together. I had to pee. Bad. But I couldn’t leave. I had to stay and make sure they didn’t confiscate my duffel bag. Apart from going back to Apalachicola (which I would not do), it contained everything I owned, including my dead cell phone and the measly three dollars I had left of Mom’s purse money.

My stomach let out an angry growl. Over the past few days I had subsisted on the food I bought at the gas station near Navarre Beach. It had been a four-mile round trip in the glaring Florida heat. I had returned to The Treasure Chest, soaking with sweat and burnt to a crisp. If I didn’t die of starvation, I’d probably die of melanoma.

The deputy with the long red braid moseyed back outside with Carmen right behind her. She had my duffel bag! I crouched farther behind the bush, trying to decide if I should come out from my hiding place, because I needed that bag, or if I should stay hidden, because cops and I didn’t have the best track record.

The two exchanged some words. Then Officer Red climbed into her cruiser and drove away. Carmen brought her hand to her forehead like a visor and did a slow three-sixty, searching, I presumed, for the owner of the bag. I deliberated. When I came here, reuniting with my sister had never ever been a part of the plan. Sure, I understood our paths would cross from time to time, but that didn’t mean I had to talk to her. Now, however, I wasn’t sure I had much of a choice. I couldn’t let her take my duffel bag.

She opened the back door of her Optima and set the bag inside.

I stepped out from the firebush and made my way toward the parking lot. My lack of food must have made me exceptionally light on my feet, because Carmen didn’t notice me until she turned around and I was basically right there and she about jumped out of her pretty pink pumps. She clutched her hand to her chest and nearly fell through her opened door into the backseat of her car.

I let her catch her breath.

“Gracie, what in the world are you doing here?” she finally asked.

“Getting my bag.”

She looked around, like maybe I brought some friends, then returned her attention to me—dirty, sweaty, sunburned, greasy-haired, ash-tray smelling, famished, needing-to-pee me. “How long have you been here?”

“Three days, give or take.”

“Three days!” Carmen’s eyes went all kinds of buggy. “Does Mom know?”

“If I had to take a guess, I’d say no.”

She stared at me for a moment longer, then pulled a purse from her car and fumbled around inside of it until she drew out a cell phone and started punching numbers.

“What—you’re calling the police on me?”

“No, I’m not going to call the police. I’m calling our mother. She has to be worried sick.” She stuck her thumbnail between her top and bottom teeth and pressed the phone against her ear. “How did you even get here?”

“I hitchhiked.”

Her eyes went buggy again. “You hitchhiked?”

“Save yourself the aneurysm. I have no plans to do it again.” Of all the hitchhiking stories out there, mine was undoubtedly lame. I wasn’t robbed or held at gunpoint or anything dramatic like that. But after four hours of listening to Deborah tell crass jokes about her ex-boyfriends while smoking her way through a pack of Marlboro Lights, I would have preferred gunpoint.

The only thing that had kept me in that smelly car was the thought of this motel. I had imagined a welcoming hug from Ingrid. I had imagined a warm meal and a hot shower and a comfortable bed. I’d imagined staying indefinitely, doing whatever odd jobs needed doing in exchange for a room. Maybe it wasn’t a glamorous fresh start, but it was the only one I wanted. Instead, I got
this—a boarded-up, vandalized motel with no air conditioning, no electricity, no running water, no bathroom, no food.

“I really love what you’ve done with the place,” I said, motioning toward the rat hole before us. “It’s taken on a whole new feel since my last visit.”

Carmen hung up the phone.

“You’re not going to leave a message?”

“Gracie, please tell me what’s going on.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Where’s your aunt Ingrid?”

“We had to move her into a care facility a few years ago.”

“Why?”

“She has dementia.”

“And that’s it—Ingrid gets sick so you leave The Treasure Chest to fend for itself?” It was so typical Carmen that it wasn’t even funny. She’d done the same thing to me. The only surprise was that I thought she actually cared about the motel.

“We hired a manager who turned out not to be such a good manager. We had to close the place down last spring. Then, apparently, someone decided to damage the property.”

“Don’t look at me.”

Carmen cocked her head, like my comment and the quick way in which I said it couldn’t have been more interesting. I rolled my eyes and tried to step past her to get my bag, but she moved in front of me. “Why don’t you come to my house?”

“Thanks, but I’d rather stick a needle in my eye.”

“I can’t let you stay here.”

I crossed my arms and concentrated on not wetting myself. “Can I please have my bag?”

“Come on, Gracie. At least let me feed you some lunch.”

My stomach let loose a traitorous growl. As much as I hated it, I really didn’t have a choice. I was out of food and I was sick of peeing on the beach. My big plan for a fresh start turned out to be one giant flop. “Fine. But I have to go do something first.”

“Gracie.”

“It’ll just take a second.” My bladder had zero concept of patience, and one last trip to the beach wouldn’t kill me. Although going home with her might.
Thanks to all the practice, it didn’t take long. And just like that, I was in her car reluctantly snapping the seat belt across my lap.

Neither of us said anything on the drive. Carmen left her radio off. And it was too hot to roll down the windows. So I sat there glorying in the cool blast of the air conditioner on my fried skin while she kept darting glances my way.

“When did you color your hair?” she finally asked.

“Last week.”

She tapped the steering wheel. “What happened to your neck?”

I touched the scratches. Over the past couple days, they had turned into scabs. “Sadie Hall fights like her gender.”

Carmen shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I could tell she didn’t know how to take me. Not many people did. After my bad choice at the end of last school year, I was forced to see a counselor for “anger issues.” The counselor was a young woman who hung her shiny new counseling certification proudly on her wall. She had called my behavior a defense mechanism. “You push people away so you won’t be the one rejected,” she had said, looking overly excited about her revelation. I’d asked her if she wanted a gold star.

Carmen turned down a street called Magnolia Avenue and pulled into a driveway. Turned out, she lived in a human-sized Barbie dollhouse. Complete with pale-blue siding and white shutters, double-hung windows, and a deep-set front porch with a small gabled balcony off the second floor. The inside was every bit as postcard-perfect as the outside—all spotless floors and shiny surfaces and
Better Homes and Gardens
magazine.

I dropped my duffel bag by the door and took a few steps inside the foyer, examining the large framed picture of gorgeous Carmen and her gorgeous groom on their gorgeous wedding day, gazing lovingly into one another’s gorgeous eyes. It was enough to wake up my gag reflex. I ran my finger along the frame of the photograph and brought it away without a speck of dust. “Your house is freakishly clean.”

“Thanks?”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

With a sigh she picked up my bag and led me up a carpeted staircase, into a wide hallway. The entire upstairs smelled like dryer sheets and lavender. Carmen set the duffel in the first room on the left—a spacious bedroom with buttery walls, a matching dresser and nightstand, a full-length mirror in one
corner, and a four-poster queen-sized bed with a snow-white down comforter and plush pillows. Sunlight filtered in from the large window, making everything look extra sparkly. “The bathroom is across the hall. Towels are in the linen closet. I’ll go make us some lunch.”

“Aye, aye,” I said with a salute.

As soon as she left, I shut the door and plopped onto the bed. The mattress gave a few jostles, then stilled as I kicked off my boots.

A canvas hung over the dresser, painted with the words
Behold, I make all things new. –Revelation 21:5
in bold font. They reminded me of my life in New Hope, Texas, and my mother’s semimonthly dips in the creek. But all the baptizing never made a bit of difference. Mom was the same person before she was wet and the same person after.

I guess being made new was an illusion.

C
ARMEN

I held the phone to my ear as I gathered a smorgasbord of food from the refrigerator—carrot sticks, ranch dip, hummus, grapes, pretzels, all the trimmings for sandwiches. I still couldn’t believe Gracie was here, in my house, or that I’d found her there, at The Treasure Chest, or that she looked like such a homeless person. Or that her accusation left such a lasting sting.

“And that’s it—Ingrid gets sick so you leave The Treasure Chest to fend for itself?”

Yes, that was exactly what I’d done.

The ringing continued. Mom didn’t answer.

I removed a couple plates from the cupboard and dialed her work number at the bank. A young man informed me that Evelyn Fisher had not come in today. I drummed my fingers on the counter and tried her cell a third time. She had to be worried. Her teenage daughter had run away from home three days ago. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t called me yet.

She finally answered on the fourth ring, her voice so croaked I double-checked the clock on the stove. “Mom?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Gracie, is that you?”

“No, it’s not Gracie. It’s Carmen.” I opened the sliding-glass door and slipped outside onto the back patio.

“Carmen?” It was only my name, but the sloppy way she strung the two syllables together dredged up an entire host of unpleasant memories. Drunk before noon. Unbelievable.

“Do you know where Gracie is right now?” I asked.

“Gracie?”

“Yes, Mom, Gracie. Your seventeen-year-old daughter.”

“I don’t know. She won’t answer her phone.”

“So that’s it? You call. She doesn’t answer. And you go about your day like it’s not a big deal?”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“Call the police!”

“I’m not going to involve the police. Gracie’s a big girl. If she wants to run away from home, then it’s not my problem.”

“Actually Mom, it is your problem. You’re her mother.” The fact that she got to wear that title—a woman who’d rather go on a bender than search for her own daughter—rankled with injustice. I took a deep breath and expelled my rising exasperation. “In case you want to know, I found Gracie squatting at The Treasure Chest.”

“The Treasure Chest?”

“Yes. And apparently, she hitchhiked.”

I waited for something—concern, embarrassment, relief. Even some confusion would have sufficed. Anything was better than nothing. “Mom?”

“Where’s she now?”

“I brought her home with me.” I glanced over my shoulder into the kitchen. “She’s upstairs taking a shower.”

“Do you mind if she stays?”

“What?”

“She doesn’t listen to me, Carmen. She’s completely out of control. Last May, she was arrested for criminal mischief.” Mom hiccuped. “She had to go to court and do community service. The judge said she was lucky she was a minor. A few weeks ago, I found a bag of pot in the pocket of her jeans when I was doing the wash. And on her first day back to school, she got suspended for starting a fight in the girls’ bathroom.”

Gracie had been arrested?

“I don’t know what to do with her anymore. You were never like this as a kid.”

That was because I’d taken the opposite track, trying my hardest to supersede Mary Poppins’s “practically perfect in every way” status by being completely perfect in every way. As long as everybody was complimenting me, they never noticed her. Family dysfunction at its finest.

“I—I need a break. Give me a few days and I’ll come get her. I promise.”

Judging by the slur of her words, she needed a lot more than a break. I wasn’t, however, about to point that out over the phone, especially not when
she was so inebriated. I shook my head. Ben and I were in no position to take on a troubled teenager for a few days, but what other choice did I have? Troubled or not, Gracie was my sister and she needed my help.

She came into the kitchen wearing black jeans with a series of tears running up the front of each leg, an oversized T-shirt that said
Bazinga
, and bare feet. The faint scent of strawberry shampoo replaced the cigarette smell that had clung to her hair in my car.

“How was your shower?” I asked, pasting on my best smile.

“Wet.”

I laughed a little, then opened the refrigerator. “Can I get you something to drink? We have water, milk. Nestea. Cranberry juice.”

“Any beer?”

I poked my head around the refrigerator door.

“Not funny? No sense of humor in this house? Okay, then. Water it is.”

I handed her a bottle.

Gracie slid onto one of the stools with one foot tucked beneath her, her opposite knee drawn up to her chest. She snagged a piece of deli meat and rolled it into a tube before taking a bite.

“If there’s something else you want to eat, you’re more than welcome to rummage through the refrigerator or the pantry.” I took a few grapes from the bowl, more for an excuse to have something to do than any real desire to eat them. “I got ahold of Mom.”

She finished her turkey roll and spun another slice. “And?”

“And if it’s okay, I’d like you to stay here for a few days.”

“You would or Mom would?”

When I didn’t answer, Gracie scoffed.

I shuffled my fruit from one hand to the next, searching for something to say. The longer the silence stretched, the more awkward everything started to feel. “So…how have you been doing lately?”

Gracie stopped chewing and stared at me like I was the world’s biggest idiot. At that moment, I probably was. “Just dandy.”

“Mom said something about community service over the summer?”

She dunked a pretzel into the ranch dip and popped it into her mouth.

Stubborn determination sprouted like one of Jack’s beans. If Gracie was going to play the role of brick wall, then I’d take up my sledgehammer. Call it one of my fundamental flaws, but the harder it was to get something, the more I wanted it. Right now, I wanted to make some progress with my sister. “What happened?”

“I became well acquainted with litter.”

My phone buzzed on the counter. My friend Natalie Jane’s number lit up the screen, probably wanting to invite me to CrossFit. I sent the call to voice mail. “I don’t mean what happened during community service. I mean why did you have to do community service in the first place?”

She rolled up her third slice of meat.

“Gracie?”

Nothing.

I inhaled slowly and decided to try a different track. “Why did you run away?”

“Because our mother wanted to dump me at my dad’s.”

“And you don’t want to stay with your dad?” I didn’t know Gracie’s father very well, but it seemed like a better option than living with an alcoholic parent.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not getting into this with you.”

“Getting into what?”

“Family dynamics.”

I set the grapes on the counter. One rolled off and fell onto the floor. “How long has she been off the wagon?”

Gracie looked up from her meat roll. “Do you remember how old you were the last time she went to rehab?”

“Twenty-two.” The answer came quickly. It had been the summer I met Ben. When Mom called from the rehab facility, I’d been both shocked—because I didn’t know she was drinking again—and relieved, because if she was at rehab, then she and Gracie wouldn’t be visiting me at The Treasure Chest in July. I’d have all that time with Ben.

“Well then. Take the age you are now. Subtract twenty-two. Add a month.” Gracie grabbed a handful of pretzels. “And you have your answer.”

I opened my mouth, but before I could think of anything to say, Gracie slid off the stool and walked out of the room.

My phone buzzed a second time against the counter. This time it wasn’t Natalie. It was my dad. He asked about The Treasure Chest. I told him the bizarre story that had unfolded since last we talked, starting with the tragic condition of The Chest, followed by the duffel bag and ending with Gracie in my house. “I locked the place up when we left, but I’m not sure what to do about the broken windows. Deputy Ernst said we should board them up again, which I can do tomorrow if you want.”

“I think it’s time, Carmen.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to hear what he was about to say. The second he put the motel on the market would be the second some developer bulldozed it to the ground and replaced it with another overpriced “you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all” luxury hotel. “Dad, it’s part of the family.”

“Sweetie, I’m a tenured professor with no intentions of retiring into the motel business. Last I checked, your uncle Patrick has no intentions either. You’ve chosen your career path. Your cousins have chosen theirs. And as much as I hate to say it, Aunt Ingrid isn’t coming back. It’s time to put the motel up for sale.”

The finality with which he spoke the words punched a hole in my chest. The Treasure Chest was a piece of me, a piece of me and Ben as a couple. If Dad had his way, it would become nothing but rubble.