Kitabı oku: «Come Clean», sayfa 2
CHAPTER THREE
A week late, dragging along an uninvited guest. That’s how we arrive in this world. It’s that time of day where people don’t know whether to call it night-time or morning and Mom’s been in labour for going on ten years. She alternates between a shade of puce and a white so white you could lose her on the gurney if you crossed your eyes. The doctor shouts at Mom to push and she pushes and pushes and pushes.
‘I can see the head!’ bullhorns the doctor. Then, in a motion that might seem sudden if everyone hadn’t been congregating so long round Mom’s nether regions, you slide out.
‘It’s a boy!’
You’re holding on to your winky and wailing. Mom throbs in strobe-light fashion, one constant pulse of pain, but still reaches out to draw you to her bosom. ‘A boy.’ Her lips flutter into a feathery smile.
‘Here comes another one!’ announces the doctor.
‘Another what?’
‘Eh?’ The doctor’s clearly half deaf. How else can his missing that second heartbeat in the first place be explained?
A fresh contraction doubles Mom up as one of the nurses wrenches you from her. And then here comes me, follow-the-leadering you right out the trap door, a little soggier, a little quieter, with nothing to hold on to but Mom’s umbilical cord, which I let go of pretty swift-like.
That’s how we imagine our birth, anyway. We can’t say for sure. Mom never told us particulars. When we got to an age of wondering after such things, she’d answer vaguely. ‘It was such a long time ago,’ she’d say. Or, ‘They had me so drugged up, kids, I didn’t know who was coming or going.’ Or, if maybe we’d been why-ing her for awhile already, she’d just snap, ‘Because,’ even though it wasn’t a ‘because’ kind of question in the least, or, ‘Does it really matter?’
This is what we know for sure: we were born sometime in the morning (5:00 a.m.? 11:52 a.m.?) on 25 August at the University Hospital in Piedmontville, North Carolina, home of the Central State University, where Dad was finishing up his dental degree. You came out first and, seven and a half minutes later, I appeared.
We’ve never had it confirmed but we strongly suspect Dad was nowhere in the vicinity of the hospital when we made our grand entrance. We figure he arrived later, at a respectable hour, the sun high in the sky. Maybe he’s been taking an exam or memorising a textbook or practising with his drills. Or maybe he’s late because he’s picked Grandma and Grandpa Shirland up from the airport. Grandpa’s still alive at this point though already ancient and doddery, gone soft in the head with age. He clings to Grandma’s arm and stops to let his heart slow down after the excitement of the doors that whooshed open and closed all by themselves.
Meanwhile, Dad barrels past the nurses’ desk unannounced, his leather soles dog-whistling along the swept salmon-and-lime-speckled tiles. He heads the wrong way, striding purposefully towards geriatrics until some doctor or orderly or whoever it is at the hospital on glad tidings duty recognises him and steers him in the right direction while attempting to share said tidings. Dad listens with one ear and nods his understanding, but all he hears is ‘boy’ and ‘twins’. And his mind adds those two words together in an equation that goes boys + twins = identical = two sons. Because twins mean identical, right, and identical means, if nothing else, same sex. Right?
You’d think they would have taught him otherwise at some point in all that expensive medical education of his. But what do budding orthodontists know? Dad knows twins are identical and boys are little creatures who grow up into men who carry on the Ziegler name. He hauls up at the viewing station and shoulders his way through some other newborn-gawkers to the front of the glass so he can size us up. We’ve been stashed in the same crib and, to be honest, we’re not too impressive. Downright tiny, only five pounds apiece and drowning in hospital regulation cotton. And we’re yellow, shrivelled and flaky – overcooked, as Mom used to say – these are things she remembered to tell us. But we’re men-to-be. Dad eyes his progenies and, without consulting Mom who’s got many days and weeks of drugged-out-ness ahead, he decrees us Joshua and Justin. He tells the nurse or orderly to write it down. And they keep shtoom, do as they’re told and write down Joshua and Justin Ziegler.
‘How adorable,’ coos Grandma who’s just caught up, towing Grandpa behind her like a badly hitched trailer.
Then Grandpa judders to a halt and follows Grandma’s finger to where it crooks at us through the glass. Just a bundle of baby under a single snowy blanket. He lowers his chin, squints and peers through his Norman Rockwell bifocals. ‘Amazing, Jeff,’ he says to Dad. ‘How on earth did you and Helen manage to have a two-headed baby? Ain’t that funny.’
That last bit is true, Grandpa really did say that, or words to that effect. Grandma Shirland has been telling us that story for years and others around the family have been retelling it to their neighbours, their friends, mailmen and each other until it comes full circle back to us and they tell us again like we never heard it before.
And the naming thing was also true, though Dad didn’t let that one get round quite so far. I imagine he was pretty disappointed when he realised I didn’t have a winky. He tacked an E on to my name on the hospital form, wrote it in himself, a big messy capital letter that didn’t match any of the pretty orchid-like penmanship that blossomed across the rest of the page. And I became Justine.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Amazon woman named Hilary repeats the question. ‘What drugs have you used?’
‘None.’
She sways slightly in her seat, left to right. Hers is one of those office swivel chairs with wheels for feet. All of the chairs in the intake room are woefully mismatched. Four chairs, none the same. Mine’s a correct-your-posture ladder back, splintering wood, no cushion. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘Alcohol is a drug too.’
‘OK, then, alcohol, I’ve had alcohol.’
Dad grunts. He’s lumbered with a forest-green garden chair, plastic and stackable. It’s not a piece of furniture that’s kind to the spine or accustomed to bulk. Its front two legs splay out beneath Dad as if in pain; he struggles to keep his neck and shoulders straight despite the sag. On the wall above his head hangs a needlepoint godsquad quote: ‘Believe in Him’ it commands. The rest of the walls are whitewashed, bare except for a few dusty cobwebs that cling to the furthest reaches of the ceiling. The spiders have vanished.
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
A checked, Formica-topped table is shoved up against the wall just behind Hilary. On top of the table sits a pile of papers – some normal-sized and lots of little scraps – and on top of the pile is a clipboard. She picks up the clipboard and taps her pen against the metal clip. I focus on the tabletop. The Formica is yellowed, curling up at the corners like a half-peeled banana.
I’m hungry. And thirsty and tired. But I’m struggling to hold myself together. I saved Mark and Leroy the effort of flexing their muscles. Raised myself up, held my head high, carried myself into this dingy place with as much dignity as possible. I’m still thinking, though, that bruises, broken bones, abrasions or come what may, I might have been better off jumping from the car.
Hilary curls the top pages over the back of her board. ‘According to our files, there may have been other substances.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Marijuana perhaps. Mary Jane, grass, dope, weed, call it what you will.’
That makes me giggle because I never knew marijuana was called Mary Jane which only puts me in mind of my shoes, a girl I knew in kindergarten, and the nougaty candies in the mustard-coloured wrappers we used to love to chew even though they stuck to your teeth for hours on end. That candy business infuriated Dad, who made us floss three times on the spot.
‘Something funny?’
‘No.’
‘So how many times have you smoked marijuana?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
She checks the page, glances from it to me and back and forth again.
And waits.
I wonder. She couldn’t mean that time with you, could she? That doesn’t count. I just wanted to know what you and those weirdo friends of yours were doing. I remember it, last summer, how for weeks on end I heard you stirring in the night, watched from my window as you crept out and down the drive to where that trash-heap of a car was idling with its lights off. Where were you going, my Joshua? I had to know.
One night, past twelve, I crept down the stairs and met you at the front door. ‘I’m coming too,’ I announced.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I am. Unless you want me to wake Mom and Dad.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
I opened my mouth as if to scream.
‘All right, all right, come if you must.’ I followed you outside in my slippers and, by the time we reached the car, my feet were sodden from the puddles formed by Dad’s sprinkler system.
I didn’t recognise the three other boys in the car. They didn’t look much like boys at all. They were older, their features harder, their faces in need of a razor. ‘Who the hell is this?’ snarled the driver, who had a perm and sideburns resembling cotton balls.
‘My sister. She’s cool.’
We drove around a lot, stopping occasionally in deserted parking lots. You and your friends nursed a case of beer, smoked and shared a bottle round, even the driver swigged at it. I slouched down on the hump in the back, wedged between you and a chubby guy with an earring. You passed the bottle over me.
Finally, we parked down by the river and you and the driver went for a walk. You didn’t say goodbye to me or tell me where you were going, and the other two just kept smoking and talking over my head. I wished I was home, tucked up in bed, fast asleep. After a while, the one in the front rolled another cigarette and offered it back to Chubby. He eyed me suspiciously as he took a long drag, then he jutted his elbow in my ribs and handed it over. I knew it was no Marlboro, I wasn’t that stupid. I could tell by the sweet smell, by the way they pressed it up against their lips with their thumb and forefinger and held their breath afterwards, their chests puffed out and faces screwed up in constipated expressions. I could tell but I accepted the thing anyway and tried to do like they did.
That’s when you reappeared. You reached in through the open window, whacked me on the back and started me coughing. ‘Stop it! Don’t do that. You hear me, don’t ever do that.’ Then you hollered for a while at Chubby and the other guy. What the hell did they think they were doing, you wanted to know, just what the frigging hell.
They drove us home after that and you never let me join you on midnight rides again, no matter how much I threatened to scream – as if I would. I didn’t want to come, though, not really.
‘Once,’ I concede. ‘I smoked marijuana once.’
Our mother wags her head despairingly and tears at her hankie. Mom has the only comfortable chair in the room. An armchair that’s deep-sea blue and coffee-stained. But it’s low slung and she’s sunk down into it, engulfed, making her seem even smaller than usual.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Any other substances?’
I’m tempted to snap ‘no’ again but am not in the mood for more backpedalling. ‘You tell me.’
‘Prescription drugs maybe?’
‘Only when they’ve been prescribed.’
‘And other times?’
‘Nope.’
Hilary pokes her pen through the hole in the metal clip of her board, where the nail would go if the board was hanging on the wall. ‘Your father is a doctor.’
‘He’s an orthodontist.’
‘I stock painkillers,’ Dad interjects, defensively.
‘Painkillers perhaps?’ Hilary asks.
Do they think I’ve been tiptoeing into Dad’s office on the weekends? My eyes drift unconsciously to Dad’s denture fob which peeks out of the pocket of his jacket, now draped over the arm of the garden chair. All other eyes trail mine. I blush.
‘Could I have a glass of water?’
‘There’s time for that later. Please answer the question.’
‘No, I haven’t used any of Dad’s painkillers.’
‘OK then. How about caffeine?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, I drink Diet Coke but I’m not much for coffee.’
‘I mean caffeine pills. Vivarin, No-Doz, that kind of thing.’
‘You can get those over the counter.’
‘Many things sold over the counter can be abused,’ Hilary informs me. ‘So, have you used caffeine pills?’
‘I still don’t think it counts. I was cramming for exams.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes then. How about solvents?’
‘I don’t even know what a solvent is.’
‘Glue, paint thinner, lighter fluid, aerosol sprays, nail varnish—’
‘Be serious.’
‘Magic markers?’ Her eyebrows hike knowingly.
‘That definitely doesn’t count! We were just kids, we liked the smell.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ She lifts her pen to her mouth and chews on the cap. I’m hungry, tired and so so thirsty. ‘Tell me, Justine, why do you use drugs? Do you know?’
‘I don’t use drugs.’
‘Alcohol, then.’
‘It was one time.’
‘Last night you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, assuming last night was the only time you’ve used alcohol—’
‘There’s no assuming, last night was the only time.’
‘Fine, assuming it was the only time, why don’t you tell me why you drank last night?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug my shoulders, cross and recross my arms and then my legs. My chair couldn’t be less comfortable. ‘I was upset, it was there, it was no big deal.’
‘No big deal?’
‘No.’
‘Do you feel guilty when you use?’
‘I don’t use. Would you stop saying use that way? It’s not like that.’
‘Do you feel guilty about last night?’
I address our parents now, beseechingly. ‘Yes, yes I do. I feel very guilty. I wish it had never happened. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t even any fun.’
‘Interesting,’ she nods. ‘You were expecting it to be fun.’
Dad seizes on Hilary’s implication. ‘Is that what you wanted, Justine?’ he demands. ‘A little fun?’
Can’t they hear anything I’m saying? Don’t they understand? I feel like I’m speaking a different language. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything. I hadn’t thought about it enough to expect anything. I’m sorry. Mom, are you listening? I’m sorry.’
Mom slides her eyes away from me, and Hilary lets my apology hang there for a moment, unanswered. Our father shifts in his chair, the green plastic legs creaking beneath him; Hilary wrests back control. ‘How much money do you spend to support your habit?’
‘I don’t have a habit.’
‘How much money do you spend on drugs?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Alcohol included?’
‘Alcohol included.’
‘Have you ever been to a party?’
‘What’s wrong with parties?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with parties per se,’ she concedes. ‘Do you go to them?’
‘Not counting my parents’ dinner parties or country club socials?’
‘Not counting them.’
‘No, I’m a complete and utter social outcast. I never get invited anywhere.’
She doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and neither does Dad, whose eyes are boring into me like I’m one big, blackened cavity. ‘Please answer the question.’
‘Yes, I’ve been to parties.’
‘Is there drinking and drug-taking at these parties you go to?’
‘Don’t know about drugs.’
‘But drinking?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘What radio station do you listen to, Justine?’
‘Q105.’
‘The rock station?’
‘Yeah.’
There goes the eyebrow again, arching in Dad’s direction as she scribbles. ‘Have you ever been to a rock concert?’
‘Yes, I have, with Josh. And, before you ask, we had our parents’ permission, too.’
‘What was the last book you read?’
‘I suppose you want me to say On the Road or Naked Lunch or something.’
‘Just the truth, thank you.’
‘Great Expectations.’
‘For pleasure or for class?’
‘Class.’
‘What’s the last book you read for pleasure?’
‘That would be On the Road.’
She smirks.
‘Are you going to ask me about movies now?’
‘No. Thank you, Justine. That’s fine.’ Hilary flips to another page on the clipboard. ‘Now, if you could answer yes or no to the following questions. Do you ever have difficulty waking up in the morning?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Yes or no, please.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you often feel that something dreadful is going to happen?’
‘Well, I didn’t see this coming if that’s what you mean.’ Mom roots around in her purse with fierce concentration.
‘Yes or no,’ says Hilary.
‘No.’
‘Do you ever fear being enclosed in a small place?’
My eyes roam the walls. Where have the spiders gone? Did they escape or did they die and shrivel, plummet to the carpet, their carcasses vacuumed away in a twice-monthly tidy up? ‘Someti—Yes.’
‘Have your friends ever been in trouble with the law?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
Returning to the pile of papers, Hilary pulls out a wodge of pages belted with a rubber band. One-handed, she rolls the band off and shoots it on to the table.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh, for one lousy glass of water.
As she rifles the pages, the top one breaks loose and flutters to the floor. The thick black frame round the edge identifies it as a Xerox of a smaller piece of paper. The writing on the page within the page is fainter, but there’s no mistaking the loops of the ‘I’s, the circle-dots above the ‘i’s, the doodles in the margin, the date marked in the top right-hand corner and framed with a box. I haven’t had the strength to even look at it, let alone write in it, since before you left, but I still recognise it in an instant.
‘That’s my journal! What are you doing with my private journal?’
Hilary, ignoring me, finds the page she’s searching for. ‘According to this, your friend…Lloyd, is it? Yes. Lloyd Taggart. He was caught driving without a licence. He was also found to be in possession of a fake ID.’
I lunge for the entry fallen on the floor. ‘What the fuck are you doing with my journal?’
‘Language!’ gasps Mom and Dad hunkers forward, practically growling.
‘Do you want to answer the question?’ Hilary continues.
‘No, I don’t actually.’
‘Answer the question, Justine!’ Dad barks.
I glare at him. Journal-snatcher.
I can see it in the way his cheek twitches. I imagine him asking his receptionist, Zoe Micklebaum, to run the book through the photocopier for him. I can see her laughing, saying, you can’t run a bound notebook through a photocopier, Dr Ziegler, but cracking the spine and forcing the book roughly down on to the plate of glass all the same. Later at home, she’ll complain to her muscle-bound husband, Felix Micklebaum. ‘Photocopying little girls’ diaries ain’t part of my job description,’ I hear her saying, ‘but ooh the things that pass through that young Justine Ziegler’s addled brain.’ This is the woman who snorted like a hog when we last saw her. ‘Imagine,’ she’d said, ‘if I ever married your dad, kids, my name’d be Zoe Ziegler. Imagine, ZZ.’
‘Was your friend Lloyd in trouble with the law?’
‘Technically, I guess so.’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Yes. But something like that, it doesn’t really count.’
‘It seems a lot of things don’t count as far as you’re concerned.’ She swivels left, swivels right. The keys on her necklace chain shift noisily in the canyon between her breasts. ‘Have you ever run away from home?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you lie, Justine! Don’t you do it!’ Our mother’s near hysterical.
‘I haven’t.’
‘Yes, you have. That time your father grounded you over the cleaning rota.’
‘That doesn’t…we were at the library.’ Three pairs of eyes pin me down, unimpressed. ‘We were gone for less than four hours.’ Silence. ‘We were only eleven.’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Good grief. Yes.’
‘Do you hide things to cover up your habit?’
‘I don’t have a habit. No.’
‘Do you ever miss school because of your habit?’
‘Are you hearing me? I don’t have a habit.’
‘Fine. For the following questions, please answer Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always. Do you seek approval from others?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always, please.’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you fear criticism?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you overextend yourself?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you have a need for perfection?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Are you being honest?’
‘Occasionally.’
Hilary lifts her pen off the page. ‘I’m talking about now. Are you being honest now?’
‘Don’t I have to answer Never, Rarely or whatever to that?’
Hilary cocks her chin to the side in a wary be-serious way.
‘Yes, I’m being honest.’
‘So everything applies to you, but only occasionally? Does that sound truthful to you?’
‘Yup.’
‘Yes to which question?’
‘Both.’
Hilary sighs. ‘Fine. Let’s move on.’ She locates her place on the clipboard again, pen poised. ‘Do you isolate yourself from other people?’
I hear Mom draw in her breath. ‘No.’
‘Justine, please answer Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always.’
‘I thought we were back to yes/no.’
Hilary swishes her head in slow-mo. ‘Never, Rarely, Occasionally, Often or Always.’
‘Never.’ Mom pushes the air out of her lungs like it was noxious fumes. ‘OK, rarely,’ I concede.
‘Do you fear being rejected or abandoned?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you find it difficult to express your own emotions?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do you have trouble with intimate relationships?’
‘I’m only fifteen. Are you going to make me out be a sex maniac too?’
‘Are you?’
‘I’m a virgin.’ I expect her to say, ‘Sure about that?’ but she doesn’t. Mom and Dad appear momentarily relieved.
‘Do you respond with anxiety to authority figures?’
‘Yes!’ I roar, then make sure to add, ‘Occasionally.’
‘Fine. Now I’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with your brother.’
My vertebrae stiffen against the rungs of my ladder back. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
She distributes sympathetic nods to Dad, Mom and me in turn. ‘I realise it’s a sensitive subject but I think it’s necessary.’
‘I don’t want to talk about Josh.’
‘Do you think Joshua is more important than you are?’
‘That has nothing to do with anything.’
‘I’m not so sure. Did you feel rejected when Joshua started spending more time with his druggie friends than with you?’
‘Stop it.’
‘How did you feel when he ran away to Florida?’
I imagine you in Miami, tanned and smiling, wearing pastel print shirts and sipping matching cocktails in fluted glasses with umbrellas sticking out of them. How did I feel?
‘Stop,’ I tell her.
‘Did you think that he’d abandoned you?’
I think I say stop again. Stop, stop, stop.
‘Were you ever embarrassed by Joshua’s actions?’
‘Joshua never did anything to hurt or embarrass me.’
‘Maybe it’s not something he did, maybe it was just the way he was. He did have a certain reputation after all, didn’t he?’
‘No. I said, I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘Did you resent Joshua for not letting you help him?’
I fling myself into tantrum mode, just like when we were kids. I scream at the top of my lungs, pound my feet on the floor, slam my hands against the sides of my seat, splinters shooting into my palms like poisoned darts. ‘Would you fucking leave Joshua out of this?’
Mom’s crying but I don’t allow myself to cry. Dad uncrosses his legs and plants his feet full-sole to the floor. Hilary starts to gather up her papers.
‘OK, Justine. Thank you for being so patient. Just one final question. What do you want to get out of life?’
‘Right now? Right this minute?’
‘Sure.’
‘I want to get the hell out of here.’
‘Anything else?’
I pause, roll my shoulders. ‘I want a 1500 score on my SATs, I want to graduate from high school magna cum laude, I want to go to an Ivy League college and fall in love with a future Supreme Court judge and have babies and discover a cure for cancer and do lots and lots of great things. You know, the usual.’ Our mother beams and our father makes a comforting chip-off-the-old-block kind of noise. I’m the golden child again, I can feel the weight of my halo resting round my temples and I love it.
Hilary, too, manages a small smile. ‘Excellent. Well, we’ll see what we can do about that.’
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