~*~
Begin at the beginning. Right.
She used to be good at telling stories. Used to tell some whoppers. Sometimes, her Momma'd get upset, the tales she told were so exaggerated, so distorted.
When she first got to the school she had to fight the urge to tell her story. After a while though, they asked so often, with such curiosity, she gave in.
Eight months, she would begin, eyes wide, trying - easily succeeding - to look the part of a scared, young girl. Their eyes were wide, too. They were wide with excitement and wonderment, and awe. They were in awe of her.
She told them a lot of things. She told them about the bus ride out of Mississippi. About running out of money somewhere in Illinois. She told them she had to hitch. She told them a lot of things.
She never told them the truth. She never told them why she left, or how she got to Canada. She never told them what she did in the months between May and January. What she had to do to survive.
~*~
Her father was on the phone. "Yes, I... I know Sue. I'm sorry. We didn't... There was no way for us... This has been terrible for us as well, but I understand what you mean. Yes... No. I'll make sure. Don't worry... Just tell Richard we're all very sorry. We're praying for David."
David...
It was the day after. She was in bed, covered from head to toe. Waiting. She was waiting for the constant murmur in her head to stop, for the day to be over, to wake up from her nightmare. She wasn't a mutant. She wasn't.
"Marie." Mom. Momma.
The blanket was pulled down so that she could see her mother standing by the doorway. Good, maybe she'd be safe there.
"Marie...I... Your father and I have been talking, darling. We think maybe you should see a doctor. Someone, I don't know, that could tell us what's wrong." There was the slightest hint of hysteria in her mother's voice that made her want to flinch.
She wasn't a mutant. She wasn't.
...and Marie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
"Shut up!" She screamed aloud and her mother ran from the room.
It wasn't until later, much later, that she decided to scrub herself clean.
She walked into the shower at midnight, a safer hour she thought, and ran the hot water. It burned. She took the loofah to her skin until it was raw, until she thought it would bleed.
First comes love...
When she was finished, she looked at her reflection. She looked like she had the summer her family had vacationed by the river, when she'd forgotten the sunscreen: her flesh red and taut.
She pulled on two pairs of pajamas, socks, and dug through her box of winter clothes for a scarf. It was eighty-five degrees out.
She covered herself again, buried deep under her blankets. Sleep eluded her. A tiny trickle of sweat moved down her back.
...then comes marriage...
David wouldn't shut up. He liked to sing the song he knew when he was seven, roaming the playground during recess, provoked by the slightest insinuation that a boy and a girl might like each other. She thought it was funny, now, that he would grow up to be the first boy she ever kissed.
The last, Marie. Or have you forgotten?
When she awoke, she thought she must have had a nightmare, but she couldn't remember it. Her flesh was cold and clammy, even under all the layers of fabric and her heart was racing. It was still dark out but she could see the faint glimmer of light that spoke of the impending dawn.
~*~
The doctor didn't want to treat her, said the case was too dangerous. She should be seen somewhere else, he concluded. Where, her father asked impatiently. (Rarely did her father lose his calm.) The doctor seemed nonplussed. Center for Disease Control? Did they think she was a mutant? Her mother shook her head for what seemed an eternity. It looked like she'd lost all muscle control in her neck and her head was left to wave back and forth, propelled by nothing but the ether. It was almost comical. They continued arguing for a while. She heard them in the background, talking about 'her' and 'she' and 'the patient'. Mutant, she added to the list. No.
No, she wasn't a mutant. She wasn't.
Mutie.
She took to wearing an old coat that had been buried in a trunk in the attic. It was green and reached her knees and it had a hood that covered her head. The day of her doctor's visit, a pair of cotton gloves had magically appeared on her dresser. While sitting in the backseat of the station wagon she could feel the eyes of drivers and other passengers and pedestrians drifting in her direction: (Funny to see a girl wearing such a heavy coat on such a hot day. And she's pulled on the hood.) She could see them as they frowned and made assumptions. Maybe, it was a new thing with the kids. (Kids are always doing something strange, aren't they?) Maybe she's a little crazy. (Her poor parents). Maybe, she's a mutie. (I would die if my child ended up being one of those.)
They were talking about her in the car, her parents were, as if she wasn't there. "What are we going to do about this?" her father asked, eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Her mother, slack-jawed, staring out of the passenger window, didn't respond. Instead, she seemed to be talking to herself: "Was it something I did? Is God punishing me for something? I don't know. I just don't know..."
A broken nail had snagged itself on a thread in her glove. She could feel it, pushing against the fabric, tearing it.
Her house was silent after that. Her father sat in his chair, glancing now and again at the newspaper in his lap. The kitchen produced the only sounds: the sizzle of chicken being fried, the sound of a knife tapping against a cutting board. Once, her mother had liked to sing as she cooked.
Staring at the map on her wall provided the only comfort. Anchorage, Alaska. It looked so close, on the map. She could span the distance with her hand. How long to get there, she wondered. Weeks? She would need money, of course. And then there was the real problem: would she be able to leave?
You're never going anywhere, Marie.
She was still wearing the coat when she made her way into the living room, to where her father sat. Anxiety gripped her as she looked around the room.
The newspaper was clutched tightly in her father's fist so she thought it would tear. She sat on the piano bench and she ran a finger along the edge of the keys. "Daddy?"
When he didn't respond she looked up to see him staring at her from above his glasses. He was waiting for her to finish.
"I... Are you going to send me someplace?"
Instead of answering right away, her father carefully folded his newspaper and removed his glasses. His head hung low, so his chin was very nearly touching his chest. "I very honestly do not know, Marie." A hint of anger mixed with the sadness and she caught the unmistakable surge of self-pity within her.
The call to dinner came from the kitchen, but Marie excused herself. She really wasn't hungry at all.
She began packing that night. Inside her closet she found a large duffel and began filling it with things she thought would be useful: four pairs of jeans, five blouses - all long-sleeved, except that lovely one she'd bought but a few weeks before and, although she felt stupid packing it, she couldn't quite let go. She tossed in her underwear and her map. From beneath her bed she pulled out a dusty photo album. A photograph of her parents was carefully placed in a side pocket. She considered packing an extra pair of shoes but decided against it; her boots would have to suffice. The bag was half-filled when she put it back into the closet.
It was two more days before she finally decided to leave, because she'd caught her mother singing before she walked into the room. The way her voice trailed off, as if her music had been wrenched from her, made Marie turn right back around. The nearest place to hide was the bathroom and there she sat, on the lid of the toilet, until the yellow tile she stared at began coalescing before her eyes.
She left her house in the middle of the night, even though she had to wait until morning to withdraw her money from the bank. In the park - not far from the elementary school she'd attended with David - she sat by the duck pond and waited.
I used to chase after the ducks and you'd get mad 'cause I made them get back into the water.
Images of David chasing after a flock of frightened ducks made her laugh.
Duck, duck, GOOSE!
The thoughts were becoming more and more sporadic - more nonsensical - but the presence was still there, looming. David was still there.
Once, at about 3 am, she thought she caught sight of a police car patrolling, but it was only a cab.
By morning her parents would know she was gone. She hadn't left a note but the missing items were proof enough. The thought lingered in her mind as she approached the bank teller, carrying a withdrawal slip for $378 - her life's savings.
"Do you have your ATM?" The woman was in her thirties, heavy set, with dry bleach blonde hair. She looked mildly interested in Marie's duffel.
"No." In reality, she'd never had one. Her father had insisted that having one would only encourage her spending. "If you need to buy something," he'd said, "you can just go to the bank for your money." Of course, that had only kept her from depositing her earnings - gained from odd jobs - at all.
The woman - Emma, her tag read - pursed her lips and said, "Well, lemme see your ID then."
The driver's license was slipped under the opening of the bulletproof glass. Emma glanced at it, took the slip and murmured, "I'll be right back" like it was the last thing she wanted to do.
When Marie finally got out of the bank, she was carrying three hundreds and an assortment of smaller bills. She walked to the bus station and looked to see how much it would cost to go as far north as possible. It occurred to her then that she would not be able to take the bus through Canada. She didn't have a passport.
"Girl?"
The man at the counter was waiting. She was next.
"Uh, how much is a ticket to the Canadian border?"
The man rolled his eyes and looked like he was about ready to laugh in her face. " 'Canadian border'? We don't have no buses go there, girl. You got to be more specific. Gimme a city."
Marie glanced at the board again. "Helena?"
"That's $139."
"Oh."
Let's see here. I was never too good at math, Marie. Don't that only leave $239?
And the trip to Alaska would cost more, and she'd need money for food...
You can do without for a little while.
...and a place to stay. Where would she stay?
For a moment, maybe longer she considered turning around and going home. There was no way she could pull this off.
"Hey." She looked up, suddenly aware that a line was forming behind her. "You want the ticket?'
Right then Marie decided she would not leave the station unless she was on a bus heading north. She glanced at the board. "Chicago," she said.
"Chicago," the man repeated in his big booming voice. "$83."
Pulling the wad of cash out of her jean's pocket, she extricated a crisp, newly-printed hundred dollar bill.
Going, going, gone.
~*~