Bleed. Part 10

Brian's this guy from the Find-Your-Family Web site. He informed me that my biological father and aunt (my father's sister) may have lived here growing up. I paid Brian fifty dollars, and in exchange he told me that my aunt pa.s.sed away when she was fifteen years old, that the cause was a weak heart, and that he believes her body was buried in St. Mary's Cemetery.

But one year later, despite visits to city hall, fruitless hours spent setting time at the library conducting research, and frequent drop-ins at the cemetery office, I've failed to find out if any of these details are true. Because Brian won't tell me my aunt's name. Because I don't have the five hundred dollars it would take to buy my past outright.

And so, in the meantime, as I save up the required fee, it's been a ritual of mine-to visit the cemetery at least a couple times a week to see if I can feel something, get some vibe. But instead I've just been falling in love with headstones, with the idea that one of them might be a part of me.

I stroll down Hawthorne Boulevard to the bus stop, noticing how the air is multilayered today-chocolate-cake thick and Cinnabon warm-like I could eat it all up in a few long breaths. I hop on the 468 and choose a window seat-one that offers a view of the sky. It's actually the perfect time of day for a cemetery visit. The sun is starting to pinken and fall. I watch it over the trees in the distance; it looks so close, like I could reach out my window and pluck it out of the sky, poke a hole in the side, and squeeze all the orangey-pink liquid onto my skin to make me warm.

When the bus nears the cemetery, I ding the bell to inform the driver I want to get off, and begin my stroll along the pathway that leads to some of my favorite headstones. I've grown attached to this one woman. Her name was Carlene, and she pa.s.sed on nine years ago when she was eighty-two. Her headstone is made from the most dazzling polished marble-a dark ruby color like the inside of a tea rose.

I close my eyes and conjure up the mental image that I have of her. I imagine that she had soft white hands, like doves of peace, and a giant smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle up. A smallish woman draped in long and velvety A-shaped dresses, with jade-stone jewelry, and a tiny voice with a tinkling little laugh. I've decided that she bore four children-three girls and a boy-and had eleven grandchildren. I imagine that they often gathered at her house for Sunday dinner after their family prayer practice, that they reminisced about family campfires under a waxing moon, and that her oldest son would often retreat to the back porch in search of shooting stars and fireflies, like his dad, Carlene's late husband used to do.

I gaze up toward the sky for the last quarter moon, fantasizing what it would be like to wane-to get smaller and duller each night until I just disappeared, until my tiniest speck of light went out. Only to start anew the following day. I know that most of what I've imagined about Carlene is true, that the light inside her was as big and full as a harvest moon; I know it like I know the sun will rise up again tomorrow.

I take the turn that leads to Carlene's row and, to my surprise, there's someone sitting on the bench by Carlene's grave. Some girl, maybe a couple years younger than me-sixteen or seventeen-with twisty dark hair that stops at her shoulders, and a metal lunch box that rests atop her lap.

My heart tumbles slightly inside my chest, just imagining that it might be one of Carlene's relatives, one of her grandchildren, maybe. There's an enchanting arrangement of orchids and lilies in front of Carlene's stone; I'm hoping that this girl has brought them. I smooth out the front of my skirt and move toward her, wondering if it might be Rosa, Carlene's granddaughter. Of course, I'm not sure if Rosa is indeed her name, but that's what I've imagined it to be. I've also imagined that she believes in faeries and gnomes and goes searching for them in the woods at night; that she recently got jilted by her boyfriend after he found someone more grounded, less flighty; and that she's not the most secure about her appearance-how skinny she is and how long and blanched her fingers are.

"Good afternoon," I say, when I get close enough.

The girl looks so sad with her valentine-red face. Instead of responding, she merely nods in my direction, staring down at her rusty lunch box, at the scratched up picture of Princess Diana staring up from the lid.

"How are you feeling today?" I ask.

She's wearing a pair of short denim overalls and a T-s.h.i.+rt with holes in it, and there's a thin cotton jacket draped over her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she says.

"But your aura has such a murky haze."

"Excuse me?"

Her arms are all scratched, like seams in her skin have come unst.i.tched, revealing the dried-up blood lining underneath. "I read auras," I say, sitting down beside her on the bench. "Do you want me to tell you what I see in yours?"

She responds by scooting away from me, toward the end of the bench, drawing the jacket tightly around her.

"Are you afraid of what you might hear?" I ask her. "Of what your aura might reveal about you?"

But instead of answering, she gets up and wanders away.

Alone, I look toward Carlene's grave, thinking how I had planned on setting some time with her this evening. I wanted to tell her all about that Derik boy I met today, how he has such a luminous spirit but how he'll never know just how lucky he is.

But first I want to talk to this girl, to set time with her, to know why her aura has such a murky haze.

She's taken a seat on another bench farther ahead. I give her a few moments before approaching. "Are you a relative of Carlene?"

"Who?" She looks up at me finally; her eyes are like b.l.o.o.d.y red hearts-all troubled and teary.

"Carlene," I say, pointing back toward her headstone.

The girl shakes her head and focuses on her lunch box, tapping her fingers against poor Diana's scratched neck.

"Then why did you leave the flowers?"

She looks at me oddly, her lips twisting in confusion like she has no idea what I'm talking about. Then she gets up and walks away; there's just the sound of her rubber sandals flip-flopping as they smack against her heels.

I take a deep breath and return to Carlene's headstone for my visit, but I can't stop thinking about that girl. About how grievous she looked. About those scratches on her arms. Or that b.l.o.o.d.y-red heart face.

I blow Carlene a kiss and then hurry toward the street to see if I can spot that girl. It isn't too difficult to find her; she's sitting at the bus stop, her knees hugged in toward her chest.

I reach into my pocket for bus fare, since I'll need to head back downtown anyway. The girl sees me approaching and releases a sigh.

"Hi," I say to her. "My name is Mearl. That's pearl with an M."

But she doesn't respond.

"I'm sorry if I invaded your s.p.a.ce back there. It's just that I thought you were someone else."

She shrugs, pointing her knees away from me.

"Were you visiting someone?"

She clears her throat and shakes her head, making me wonder why she was there in the first place; if, like me, she goes seeking connectedness, fullness. Or maybe she feels even lonelier than I do.

"So are you just out enjoying the day?" I ask, in an effort to find my answer.

But in lieu of answering, she stands up from the bench and moves to the curb, gazing down the street in search of the bus. "What time do you have?" she asks, peering back at me. Her jacket is still draped over her shoulders. I wonder why she doesn't put it on to cover up those scratches. Or maybe she wants me to see them.

I peek up toward the sun; its pinky-orange glow sinks down between tree limbs. "It must be nearing six thirty."

She nods and chews at her bottom lip to study me a moment. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"A bubble-gum one," I say, reaching for my purse.

She gives me a spiteful look that makes me stop, that tells me she'd prefer to have the kind that contain tobacco, tar, and a.r.s.enic.

"You shouldn't smoke, you know," I say, almost wis.h.i.+ng that I had a real cigarette-for her, anyway.

"I shouldn't do a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"Like talk to strangers." She turns away to gaze back down the street. There are scratches on her legs as well-thin red lines that run down her calves.

"Do you live around here?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "What do you care?"

"I care a lot."

She turns around to glare at me, and I look toward the scratches on her legs, hoping she understands what I'm saying. "I'm not into that, okay?" she says, her lips bunched up in disgust. "I like guys."

"I like guys, too," I say. "See, we already have something in common."

"You're a freak," she says, but she's almost smiling when she says it, so it doesn't mar me one bit. It's good to see her almost smile after such a valentine-red face.

"Hey, if you like cemeteries, I know this really interesting one on Charter Street," I say. "It's from the 1600s. I could show it to you."

"No thanks."

"Well then, will you let me buy you a cup of herbal tea? It's the least I could do for invading your s.p.a.ce before."

"I'm all set."

"Then how about a palm reading?"

"Excuse me?"

"In addition to reading auras, I also read palms. I work at one of the psychic shops downtown."

"You're a witch?"

I shake my head. "I don't believe in organized religion. Why limit body, mind, and spirit in just one way?"

"I think people like you are full of s.h.i.+t."

"I like to call myself 'in touch,'" I say, rising above her remark. "On par with the lessons of nature. There's just so much to learn in Life School, don't you think?"

"I think I know all I need to."

The Jell-O nearly plops out of my bowl at the pa.s.sivity of her response, at the idea of living in a world where learning could ever cease. This girl needs me.

"Please," I continue. "Palmistry can be very illuminating." I hold my left hand, palm up, out to her. "See this straight line?"

She nods, venturing a couple steps closer to look.

"This is my headline. See how it's strong and unwavering? This says that I have to know and experience everything for myself."

"Like what?"

"Like, making lovecup with a boy. You know, getting a chance to actually experience the lovecup bliss before it's all over. I mean, don't get me wrong, the s.e.x is sunny and all, and I have experienced lovecup bliss before, but it's usually when I'm alone, you know, solo."

"Maybe that's something you want to keep to yourself." She makes a peculiar face, scrunching up her nose, like I'm offending her in some way.

"Oh, sorry," I say. "Does my openness repel you?"

"Why do you talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"All fake and full of bulls.h.i.+t."

I look back down at my palm, choosing to be strong. I point toward my line of fate. "See this line?" I say. "See how it's solid but how there are breaks along the way? This says I'll make it through the kinks. I sometimes think that's true, but other times, I don't know. Sometimes I don't know how anyone can make it through anything when they have no sense of who they are with respect to where they came from. Do you know what I mean?"

She shakes her head.

"I want to be from someplace. Growing up, my father was in this underground group devoted to the Rising Moon and its New Day Coming, so we ended up traveling all the time, not really rooting in any one place. It was good in one respect because it enabled me to see so many crimson places, you know ... to experience so many of life's purples and pinks. But at the same time, just when I was getting used to a place, when I'd met some kindred spirits, we'd leave."

"So?"

"So I never really got to root anywhere. And now, I've been doing all this research, trying to connect with people in my family. I've discovered that I might actually have roots here in Salem."

"Roots?"

I nod and run my finger over the crystal point of my necklace, trying to visualize strength, like a hot-air balloon that swells bigger and bigger but never pops.

"What is that?" she asks, gazing at it, at its hypnotic s.h.i.+mmer, perhaps.

"It's my crystal," I explain. "My guide. It helps me stay balanced; helps me focus my energy where I need it most, so I never feel lost."

"Well, that's bulls.h.i.+t," she says. "Because according to you, you're already lost."

I shrug her venomous words away since she obviously doesn't understand-since she's obviously a great deal younger than me. "I've been trying to follow a lead on my roots," I say finally. "The problem is I don't even know my real name. The name on my birth certificate isn't my family name."

"Where's your dad now?"

I shrug again. "Underground somewhere. Probably in Mexico. That's where he was bound for, last I heard. About ten years ago, when I was nine, he dropped me off with the owner of a floral shop and never came back. I remember it was Valentine's Day. The shop was really busy, and I got to help out by poking these plastic heart sticks into the center of bouquets."

"Are you kidding?"

"About the plastic hearts?"

"About him just leaving you there."

"He only did it because he loved me, because he was becoming so immersed in that group and wanted me to have a crimson life, you know? Normal. But ever since, there's been a hole. Rust." I look toward the holes in her T-s.h.i.+rt.

"So, what if you can't find all that stuff out?"

"I have to. It's just always been a dream of mine, you know, a goal, to find my roots, to connect with them, to be from someplace. I've never been from anywhere."

"That's f.u.c.ked," she says, running her fingers through that twisty dark hair.

"Why?"

She looks away. "Because I've lived here my whole life and never felt connected to anything."

I nod, having suspected that that was the way she felt. I peek down at her hands-a thick layer of olive skin; fingernails chewed down until the nubs are raw and bleeding; and knuckles the size of gum b.a.l.l.s. And then at her arms-thin blood-filled scratches up to her elbows, like grappling through bushes, trying to find a way out. "Let me prove you wrong about palmistry," I tell her.

"And what'll I get?" she asks.