“Oh, those,” Tad says. “Yeah, I kept trying to replace them. But your mother said it was no use. I still tried one time when she was away. But the crack was back the next time I came. Like I hadn’t done anything. Weird. Something to do with the air? The building settling, maybe?”
“The building settling?”
“Sure. All buildings have energies, you know. This one has some energy, let me tell you. In fact, I think it was having a bit of an effect on her. Your mother.”
My heart skips. “An effect on her? What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to verbalize it. Language feels so meager, you know? In the face of certain things?”
For a moment, I picture him gripping a tambourine. “Can you try?”
He shakes his head. “Oh man, listen to me talking my shit. Energy. What do I know, right? About life or death? About anything, really?” He tucks the rolled cigarette behind his ear and smiles. “I’ll get out of your hair now.” And in spite of myself, I picture Tad’s fingers combing through Mother’s dark red hair.
“Oh hey,” he says in the open front doorway, “thought you were moving out?”
“I am.”
He points to the box outside. I forgot about it when I heard the noise, which I thought was an intruder. Which turned out to be Tad. Grinning at me now.
“Looks like you’re moving in.”
6
After Tad goes, taking his music and his beachy scent with him, the place is quiet. Just me on the floor with Tad’s beer in my hand, watching the sky darken through Mother’s immense windows. Tad offered to stay, but I said, I’m fine, thank you, Tad, and again his name mocked me. I am fine. Really. Just an apartment. Just Mother’s apartment. Filled with her furniture, all of it sharp-edged and winking in the light. Shouldn’t be afraid, it’s silly. If Mother knew I was afraid, she’d laugh and laugh. She’d say, Ridiculous. I stare at the wall of cracked mirrors in their heavy frames. Were there always this many, Mother?
Angelica has disappeared, slithered whitely away. A clock somewhere ticks and ticks. Didn’t know Mother had a clock like that. Tick, tick, telling me I should move along. All I’ve done so far is unpack the box Sylvia gave me from the shop basement. Disappointing. Mostly old dolls—my childhood dolls, I guess. They all looked exactly alike, like Mother, in fact. Pale skin. Blue eyes of glass that stared up at me unblinking. There was an old clock in there too, with a picture of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves on the face. Funny, I don’t remember owning a clock like that. There was a red diary, locked, no key. A picture book of what looked like a Snow White story. The Beautiful Maiden, it was called. Very worn. Spine cracked. I must have loved that story once.
The shoebox was a little curious, I guess. I thought it was just the dolls, the clock, and the books in the box at first, but something told me, Put your hand in deeper. And there was the shoebox at the very bottom. Taped up just like the box itself had been. Taped tighter than the box. Someone had wrapped the tape around and around. I had to take a knife to all sides to get it open. Then what? I held my breath a little. Maybe this would be… something. What was I looking for? But it was nothing, really. Just an old torn poster of Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Some magazine clippings, mostly of Tom Cruise too, it looked like. All of Tom Cruise, it turned out. Each one carefully folded. I stared at page after torn page of his glossy face, the cracked mirrors shining in my eye corners. Dizzy, I felt then. Cold suddenly in the very white room. Who ripped these out? I wondered. But I knew. I knew before I even saw the childish handwriting scrawled across one of the clippings—Tom smiling in his sunglasses in Risky Business. I’m yours, I’d written in tiny red letters. How funny. I’d even drawn a heart, how very funny. Right around Tom’s face in red ink. I looked back at the torn Top Gun poster. Half was missing. Kelly McGillis, his co-star, torn out so it was just Tom alone on his motorcycle. I looked at Tom’s face, the mirrors nearly blinding me now with the light of the dying sun. His eyes were in shadow, so they looked like black holes. I must have had a crush or something at some point.
Now I stare at the open box brimming with dolls, the clippings, that worn little picture book. Just more shit to pack up, really. Are you moving in or moving out? Tad joked again as he was leaving.
Moving out, Tad. Moving out.
So get going, I tell myself. At least now you have a box. Her books, her clothes, dishes, just fucking pick something. Beer in hand, I wander the apartment, my footsteps clicking along the floor. Belle, Mother would snap, shoes!—but I keep them on. As I go from room to room, my heart sinks like a stone. Because her hobgoblin lawyer was right. Her place is in terrible shape. The more closely I look, the more I see. Cracks in the white walls. Water stains on the ceilings like ink blots. Paint peeling everywhere. In the bathroom, where I hid away yesterday watching Marva, I notice chips in the sink now, decaying grout around the rim. When I pull back the flowery shower curtain, I see the tub’s filled with cracks. The shower head yields nothing but a thin stream of rusty water. I try to turn off the tap, but it comes off in my hand. The kitchen is a disaster. Ancient stove, I can’t see the numbers around the dials anymore. Fridge that hums, that’s the humming noise I was hearing during the memorial. I thought it was Sylvia playing some Gregorian chants. I take a long swig of beer. This is bad. Mother, did you really live like this?