Page 52 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
MAGDALEN
‘How was last night?’ my mother asks from the windowsill. Her hand curls around a coffee mug, her wedding ring clinking against the ceramic as if tapping out the rhythm of an old tune only she can hear. Papa sits next to her, oblivious to the conversation, absorbed in a new report from the museum.
‘Interesting.’ I nod my head, looking down at my own coffee. Seeing myself in the dark liquid.
‘I heard Anika and Dante come home,’ she says in a sigh laced with accusation. With curiosity. What she really wants to say is: Since when do you do things more reckless than Dante?
‘Cinzia didn’t hear Theo come home, either,’ she says, and I go still, unable to think of an excuse fast enough.
‘Someone was out late,’ she pushes. I move my gaze from my coffee to the stained oak table, not ready to look up at her yet. Last night’s alcohol and this morning’s regret swirl inside my stomach in a nauseating cycle. Since when the fuck does Dante come home before me?
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I get out, as she sets the mug down. Her ring is now tapping against the bench. I know this is a signal of impatience. Warning me to confess, or else. Or else. What could possibly be or else any more? Else was a terrifying threat once. But now? Hit me. Ground me. Bury me deep in the garden until I decompose and something beautiful becomes of me. I want to feel something besides this sickly shame that grows with each passing second. Give me else.
I crave my innocence. I want it back. A tear burns at the corner of my eye. Use me, Mag.
‘Your dress was tight last night,’ she continues, not waiting for my reply. ‘Girls in tight dresses are dangerous for men,’ she tsks. ‘Even Dexter noticed, right, amore? I saw him looking.’
My father huffs something unintelligible. He’s very good at tuning her out when he needs to.
My mother seems to always know how low I feel and want to see more of it, prodding at my pain. I wonder what I must’ve done to trigger her intolerance. Was I too quiet where she was loud? Too skinny in the places she felt heaviest? She sets her cup down in the sink. A tear slips angrily off of my cheek, plummeting into my coffee. I take a long sip, gulping down my own weakness.
She groans as she rises from the bench. ‘Be careful, amore.’ This time she says it condescendingly. Her hand drags down against my hair, her ring getting caught in the strands, and she pretends not to realize it and tugs until I wince. I look down to see she’s exposed the hickeys. I want to say something, but she’s already gone, the sound of her slippers dragging against the tiles. I hold my breath until she leaves.
When I hear the lock on her bedroom door click into place, my breath stays stuck in my throat, unwilling to escape. Papa looks up at me and smiles. I hope I smile back.
30
THEO
Music blares from somewhere downstairs. A high-pitched voice whines about love and lust through melodic guitar chords, and Anika screams along with such passion it sounds like she’s in pain.
‘Fucking hell, Anika,’ I yell, palms pressed against my ears. ‘Who the fuck do you have to sing about?’ I say less loudly, already knowing she can’t hear me.
I try to continue writing, telling myself this summer, I would finish this bloody fucking thesis. ‘The Origins of Apotheosis in Ancient Egypt’ seemed a relatively interesting topic while in Egypt, but the desire to write about men who believed in their own importance reminds me too much of my father. Divinity negating sin. Replacing error. Forgiving fault. But I told myself I would finish it without telling anyone and become the fucking doctor that he never did. And, when I have that diploma, I can say I became a doctor without complaint, that I mastered something he failed at, and I did it better than he ever fucking could. Flipping through the pages, the word bruised appears about some clay pot, and it causes me to stop.
Magdalen with her back against the dirty wall. What she’ll see when she looks in the mirror. My breath becomes unsteady, and I close my eyes. In, out, in, out.
But it begins as it always has. Images of Magdalen are replaced with the same hazy memory. It’s become less clear as the years have gone on. The split wood of the attic ceiling. Was it morning or night? Yet the whole scene unfolds despite the fading details...
I try to breathe through my nose, but it’s as if someone has stuffed cotton down my throat. I remember a torn, dirty skirt. A hot trail burns my cheek, and I slap it to bring myself back to reality. Am I fucking crying?
It’s been ten years, you fucking pussy. Ten years to get over this same thing. Get a grip, Theo. Remember who you are. Remember to breathe. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’ll pass, you weak piece of shit. Everyone’s over it. Get the fuck over it. You fucking freak. Jesus Christ, you should have done something. You cry now, but you didn’t do anything! Should’ve told someone, anyone. Written it down so it wouldn’t fade away like it has. Was she crying? Do you remember how she shoved his face, how her nails pressed into his cheek? They were so short, they did nothing. Were your nails as short? If you would have fucking moved, do you think you could have gotten a scratch on him? Remember how his drool covered the palm of her hand as she tried to break free. Do you remember that? Of course you do! You’ll never forget it; because you let it happen. You let her hurt. You let her hurt for so long. And you watched. You watched, and even if there were tears in your eyes and a tremble down your spine, you still fucking watched and left quietly through the attic door. She’ll never be the same again, and you just watched.
I need help. Help. Think of how quiet she was after. Remember the zipper? How loud it was when she was quiet. Birds stopped chirping; I know you remember that. I’m fucking hurt, and I need help.
My shirt is unbearable, wrapping around my neck until I realize I’m gagging. Standing up, I pull at the neckline, faintly aware of a tearing sound, but it still clings to me so tightly. Blindly, I find scissors and try to find my neckline, but I can’t fucking see. I hold the scissors by the bladed part, thinking I can just slice the shirt, but everything is fuzzy. Briefly, I think of my mum. Of her clapping on the bleachers at my tennis match. I still feel the blood pulsing through my fingertips, but now they’re her fingertips, clasped together with uncontained joy. I lost that match. She’s so happy. Amore, amore, amore. Okay, I put the scissors down. Amore, come! You were excellent. Oh, you were so excellent. Mamma, I lost. Stai zitto, your swing! I almost cried it was so good. Okay, Mamma. You hungry? Yes, Mamma. Okay, let’s get something to eat. Okay, Mamma. Gelato, I feel like a nice big gelato. Chocolate! Mhmm, I love chocolate in the summer. Yes, Mamma. I like chocolate, too.
I wake up on the bathroom floor to someone banging on the door.
‘Theo, did you fucking die in there? I need to pee and Mamma’s blow-drying her hair downstairs.’
‘One minute,’ I say, my voice far away, still in the memory. Her music has stopped. I look up and count how many rings there are in the bathroom curtain. Thirty-two. I feel very small down here.
Anika clears her throat. ‘You—’ She starts. Tries again. ‘You okay?’ I can see her feet shift behind the door, and I bolt upright, banging my knee against the toilet bowl.
‘Ehm, yeah. One sec.’ I flush the toilet. Hearing any concern in Anika sends a dreadful realization that I have been here too long. How did I get into the bathroom? I remember things in blurred greyscale. Blood and chocolate. Fuzzy fingers. My head feels swollen, like someone has filled me with water. ‘If I told you I shat myself, would you believe me?’ My voice is still not fully there, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
‘No, you fucking didn’t!’ she cackles, and I check to see her shadow bouncing from one foot to the other. I take a deep breath through my mouth: relief. Time. I have time back.
