Aliens and Ice Cream Page 2

  Half an hour later, her phone buzzed with a message from Liz. Moving had been tough, and it was a lucky thing her parents picked this house with cool neighbors. As early as the first day, when the moving trucks unloaded her life, she and Liz shared shy glances from across their driveways. Girls could be tough to make friends with, but Liz was straightforward and honest. Within days, they were inseparable, often spending most of their time in the giant tree house in the center of the street. Kate would join from time to time, but mostly it was the two of them.

  Liz didn’t seem to be in the mood for much texting. She only sent Heather two words and then stopped responding. She had typed tree house. It was tough to read someone’s tone or mood over something as impersonal as a text, but the message gave Heather a bad feeling.

  Something was wrong.

  Liz

  Liz Stocking could tell when her mom, Alexandra, was going to hit her. After consuming enough alcohol to knock an elephant unconscious, the signs would come in small doses: a barked comment here, a hot glance there. On those nights, Liz would hide in her room and cross her fingers.

  Last night, her mom watched TV in the living room while doing some ironing, a miracle Liz was reluctant to interrupt. Her mom showed passing interest in home-making, at best, and the day-to-day duties often fell to Liz.

  She wondered how much of her mom's anger had always been there, waiting for the right combination of events to bring it out. It hardly mattered. When Alexandra Stocking got to drinking, the world was her enemy and overwhelmingly, drinks made Liz look like the world. Ever since her dad died, it had been getting worse and she should have known better than to provoke her. That many drinks in, any conversation with Alexandra was fraught. But her mom was watching an old rerun of Seinfeld, a show that her dad had loved, and seeing it made Liz stupid and sentimental.

  “Wasn’t this one of dad’s favorite episodes?” she had asked.

  Her mom turned, and Liz’s bladder almost emptied. Alexandra’s vacant eyes struggled to focus, filled with a distance that meant she was drunk enough so that any conversation would be dangerous. The best of her mom had checked out hours ago. Liz should have payed more attention or stayed in her room like she did most nights.

  “What do you know?” her mom snarled.

  “Nothing.” Liz put her head down and tried to walk away. Sometimes, if she made herself small, she could escape, but not this time. Her mom’s hand darted out and grabbed her by the wrist.

  “I said, what do you know?” her mom pulled her close, exhaling fetid alcohol breath into Liz's face.

  “Nothing, mom, I didn’t mean anything, okay?”

  It was too late now, and Liz braced herself, hoping she’d get away with only a punch or a pinch. It was rare that her mom hit her in the face or did anything too damaging. So, when Alexandra pressed the burning iron to her forearm, searing away multiple layers of skin, she didn’t see it coming.

  “What do you know!” her mom yelled, while Liz screamed and fought against the pain. She smelled her skin melt, filling her nose with the odor of hot-popping fat. She cried, wrenching away and falling to the floor with a thump. She barely registered what was happening. Her legs, however, didn’t have the same problem, and they lifted her to her feet and carried her up the stairs, into her room, where she locked the door behind her. Her mom yelled, calling her an ungrateful little bitch.

  After a few minutes, the yelling stopped, but the pain stayed. It hung like a flashing neon sign only inches from her face, making it impossible to do anything. She buried her face in her pillow, biting at the fabric, trying not to make any more noise. That would attract her mom’s attention and she’d had enough for one night.

  With a shaking hand, she pushed back the fabric of her shirt to survey the damage. Already, the skin was lobster-red, with tiny white blisters poking up across her forearm. Thankfully, she had a private bathroom and could put water on it without leaving the safety of her bedroom.

  Still crying, she wrapped a damp cloth around her arm and crawled into bed where she pulled the covers over her head. It was a trick her dad taught her when she was little. Monsters couldn’t get her through the safety of the blankets. Now that she was older, she knew the truth. Unlike the imaginary horrors of her childhood, real monsters didn’t play by the rules. But being enclosed made her feel safe.

  She debated texting Pete, her boyfriend, but she didn’t think she’d be able to make it through a conversation. He asked questions about the bruises that would periodically appear on her body and seemed less and less satisfied by her answers. How many times could she say she fell into a doorknob? But she couldn’t tell him, none of this was her mom’s fault, not really. Since Dad died, both she and her mom still mourned, and her mom was taking longer to process her grief. That’s all. It would pass.

  That night, she only managed a light doze, the pain keeping her awake. By the time morning came, her arm was a ruin of crabby red blisters. The outline of the iron stood out against her skin with the potential to turn into a scar that would cover most of her forearm.

  She left her room on timid feet, but She could have just as easily left with a marching band behind her. Alexandra snored, passed out on the couch, with one leg hanging over the side. Her shirt was hitched up to her chest and the underside of her faded beige bra peeked out the bottom. A thin line of drool ran from her mouth. Alexandra wouldn't remember any of last night, and Liz wondered if she’d sober up enough for tonight’s dumb street-wide barbecue.

  She tried to find herself in her mom’s face. They both had brown hair, although Liz wore hers shorter. People said she favored her dad, with her sharp chin and deep dimples that appeared when she smiled. There were less reasons to smile now.

  I could stab her, Liz thought, the idea coming from nowhere and startling her with its intensity. I could get a knife from the kitchen, pick it up and drive it into her eye. She stared at her mother, breathing hard, imagining the moment. How the knife would feel in her hand and how easily it would go through her Mother’s head. Would the bone of the skull slow it down? She didn’t think so. She could do it.

  Hot bile splashed into the back of her throat and she ran to the bathroom and vomited, only burning stomach acid coming up. She hadn’t eaten hours and there was nothing inside to throw up.

  I was going to do it, she thought, flush with guilt. What kind of daughter was she? What was her mother turning her into?

  Before meeting Heather in the tree house, she grabbed a bunch of stuff from the bathroom: a tensor bandage, some skin cream and a face cloth. It was difficult to carry everything with one hand. Her other arm useless, so she threw everything in a bag. Liz hoped Matty or Abby, the Cutler kids, weren’t there. They were okay, but she didn’t want to see anyone else today. She might snap.

  The tree house, a permanent fixture in the neighborhood, sat six feet off the ground, with stairs leading up on one side and a hanging rope for climbing on the other. Shingles covered the tiny roof with a runoff for water and everything. She wasn’t sure who built it, it had always been there, a relic from earlier neighborhood inhabitants.

  When she climbed inside, Heather was already there. A scrunchie held her thin blonde hair back, and she wore a grey t-shirt and sweat pants. Liz assumed she’d finished a jog. Heather was always training for something. Her friend sat in a beanbag chair, one of the few pieces of furniture, flipping through a magazine.

  “Oh my god, Liz, wait until you hear what happened with Matty Cutler today.”

  Liz opened her mouth to respond, but instead started to cry. Not little weeping, but big, racking sobs that shook her body and collapsed her knees. In less than seconds, Heather came to her side, enveloping her in a hug.

  “What did that bitch do this time?” No need to mention who the bitch was. They both knew.

  Liz only shook her head, and they stayed that way for several minutes, Heather trying to comfort her and Liz crying out all the fear and anger and pain from the previous night. She sniffled a
nd wiped her nose on her shirt. With shaky hands, she pulled back her sleeve to show Heather the damage.

  Heather sucked in air through her teeth but remained silent. She took Liz’s arm, being careful not to grip too tightly, and looked at the damage. “You should have gone to the hospital,” she said. “This will scar.”

  “I know,” Liz said.

  Heather didn’t rage or yell or scream or do anything to show it bothered her. Some kids at school found her remote. She had the best poker face out of anyone. You wouldn’t think she was angry, but Liz knew better. Heather breathed through her mouth and two red dots of color appeared in her cheeks. She spoke in slow and measured tones. This was Heather in a crisis. No hysterics, no screaming, only calm solutions.

  “I'll put cream on it and tape it up. This will hurt. When we’re done, we’ll go to my house and you’ll eat all the Aspirin I have.”

  Liz looked away while Heather went to work, and she was right – it hurt. It hurt worse than the actual burn, and Liz needed to bite her other sleeve so she wouldn’t scream. Heather didn’t stop, but murmured words of encouragement. By the end of the procedure, sweat matted Liz’s short, brown hair to her head.

  “What set her off?” Heather asked.

  “I don’t know,” Liz said, but she was lying. It had been the TV show. It reminded Alexandra of her dad and when she remembered him, things got bad. Liz should have known better than to interrupt. This whole thing had been her fault.

  “We need to do something about this, Liz. I'm telling my mom.”

  “No!” Liz grabbed Heather by the arm. “You can’t. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Heather bit her lip, frowning.

  “You don’t understand,” Liz continued, “this isn’t my mom’s fault. She’s been off ever since my dad died. If you met her before, you’d see what I mean.”

  Heather had only moved to the neighborhood a few months ago, but she and Liz formed a friendship almost overnight. Heather was the most driven person Liz had ever met. Within a week of arriving, she had already joined both the basketball and volleyball teams. She jogged five miles every day and nailed straight As. What did she even have to worry about? She didn’t understand what it was like to lose a parent. Still, she was a reliable shoulder to cry on and Liz welcomed her friendship.

  “We can’t do nothing. It isn’t right. Have you told Pete about any of this?”

  “Sort of.” Liz looked at the floor. “He knows my mom can be a shitty drunk, but it’s not always like this. There’s the occasional bruise he’ll ask about.”

  “I'll go to the police if she does anything like this again.”

  “You can’t. She might come after you.”

  Heather smiled with no trace of warmth. “Good.”

  They stayed in the tree house for another hour, passing the time talking about dumb things, school and boys, nothing important. Just being around Heather helped, and they stayed on safe topics. Heather told her the funny story about Matty Cutler puking on himself while trying to run-flirt with Kate and Liz laughed. It felt good to smile with her friend, it pushed back the fear and sorrow.

  At one point, Heather ran back into her house to get a bottle of Aspirin. After a close to dangerous number of pills, the fire on Liz’s forearm had shrank to a muted buzz. By now, enough time had passed that it would be safe to go home. She gave Heather a hug before she left.

  Alexandra was up when she ventured back into the house, puttering around the kitchen in her bathrobe. Liz suspected she remembered nothing of the previous night because her mom only hit when she got blackout drunk. Today she'd be hungover and in a bad mood, but nothing Liz couldn’t handle. 'Day After' Alexandra was nothing to worry about.

  “Tonight’s the barbecue, isn’t it?” Alexandra looked at the calendar that Liz kept updated on the fridge. Liz kept her mouth shut. It was tough to tell when she wanted a conversation versus an audience.

  “I wonder if Mr. Fancy-Pants will tell us all about whatever new barbecue equipment he’s gotten this year?”

  Liz wasn’t sure which neighbor Alexandra was referring to. They all contributed toward the day’s festivities and her mom hated them all equally. “Do you mean Mr. Cutler, or Mr. Keene? Or someone from further down the street?”

  “You’re so literal, Elizabeth.” Alexandra stopped and fixed Liz with a critical eye. “Is that what you’re wearing today?”

  Here we go. She was wearing comfortable jeans with a tank top underneath a long-sleeve button down. She had a feeling long sleeves were going to a permanent fashion choice going forward. Regardless, she hadn’t put much thought into her outfit.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Nothing. Even when you’re wearing something casual, you make it work. My beautiful baby.” Alexandra walked over, gave her a one-arm hug, and pecked her on the top of the head. “I’m hard on you, baby girl, but things will be different now, okay? I’ve been reading books on getting through loss. They're helping.”

  “That’s great,” said Liz, looking at the floor, thinking about the burn on her arm. Positive and upbeat Alexandra would sometimes show up after a bad night, mostly to confuse Liz and make everything harder.

  “I might not even drink tonight.”

  Liz had heard this story before. “Sure,” she said. “I'm going to hang out in my room.”

  “Okay. Love you, kiddo.”

  “Love you too, Mom,” Liz said, surprised when her eyes filled with tears. Alexandra fucking Stocking. She’d get you every time.

  Krista

  Barbecue day. Krista Cutler rubbed her temples. God help her.

  Ha. Reaching out to God. She was agnostic and grasping at spiritual help drove home how desperate she was to avoid this day and the problems that would come with it.

  She remembered a story from Sunday School, years ago, when she was young enough to believe the lie that everything will be fine. The story stayed with her. The way her teacher had told it, an atheist is jumping out of a plane and on the way down his parachute doesn’t open. With moments left, the guy turns to God for salvation. “Please save me, God,” he prays, while the ground rushes closer. God hears his prayer but shrugs and lets him die. He splats on the ground.

  The kids were silent, waiting for the punchline, but their teacher only looked at them, peering from beneath thin wire glasses while surveying the room, lips puckered. “Questions?” she asked.

  Every hand popped into the air.

  The teacher put her palm up and said, “Understand this. For God, the point is not that you live. Everyone will die. You, me, all of us. Death is inevitable and as natural as breathing. God knows this and when your time comes, He will be there to give you witness and comfort. No, for God, the real point of the story is that in the time of final distress, the atheist turned to God. That is all that matters.”

  Krista’s takeaway was that God might be a dick. Probably not the lesson the teacher was going for. Funny thing though, after she had kids, she got it. When your kid is crying and sad and dealing with the problems of life that are inevitable, you’re there for them. They turn to you in distress. You know you can’t stop the problems from coming, but you help them when they need you. And so it goes with God.

  Shit, she must be distracted. Musing about theology when she needed to deal with this potential train wreck of a day. Best to keep herself busy, get everything set up, and avoid her next-door neighbor, Martin Keene.

  It was three in the afternoon and she was sorting through the clutter of her garage, trying to find collapsible chairs and a cooler for tonight’s neighborhood barbecue. Martin provided the grill and most of the food, so everyone else on the block contributed what they could. Her husband Paul had run to the store to get a few bags of ice and soft drinks for the kids. From experience, Martin focused on the adults and forgot the kids existed. As she reached up to a high shelf at the back of the garage, she heard a clang and clatter of something being knocked over. She turned, expecting Paul.

&nbs
p; Instead, she saw Martin.

  Her stomach plummeted to her feet, and she felt her face burn bright and hot. She tasted sick, rancid guilt in her mouth. She had been trying to avoid Martin since the last barbecue, and until now, she had been successful. She and Paul didn’t spend much time with Martin and Sharon Keene, and after what had happened, that suited Krista just fine.

  “Whatcha looking for?” Martin asked, stepping over the assorted boxes and bikes and recycle bins that littered the garage floor.

  “The cooler,” she said, turning around to face him, but not looking him in the eye. She hadn’t been able to do that for a while. It bothered her. Krista Cutler looked life in the eye, spat at it, if needed. That was her whole thing. That she stared at a spot to the left of his shoulder made her feel small. Less, somehow.

  “Right. For the drinks.” He looked around the garage, his hands deep in his pockets. “Where’s Matty and Abby? And Paul?”

  “The kids are upstairs, Paul's gone for ice. He’ll be back soon. And you should leave.”

  “Can we talk? You’ve said three words to me in the last couple weeks.”

  “Nothing to talk about.” She made her way over to the door that led back into the house. Martin moved to intercept and took her arm. She jerked away, too roughly, and he backed off and put his hands up in front of him.

  “Just five minutes,” he said. “You owe me that much.”

  Ah Christ. Here we go. She had put this off long enough, he was right. She couldn’t avoid him forever. May as well rip off the band-aid.

  “I owe you something? How do you figure?”

  “I don’t mean that,” he said. He seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I didn’t think we’d go from whatever we were before to this. I didn’t expect much, but I didn’t realize we’d never talk again.”