Burn Girl (2 page)

Jane let the moment hang heavily between us. She did this when she wanted me to keep talking. If she pressed any harder, I might start screaming and never stop.

“Do you think he'll seek you out one day?”

“What would he want of me?” I asked. “And why do we even have to talk about him?”

“Because he still causes you pain.”

I used to think Mom was paranoid for thinking Lloyd lived and breathed with the sole purpose of hunting us down. When she'd have nightmares about him, I'd be the one to console her, to convince her he'd probably gone to Mexico or California to start a new life. But the night she died, the universe seemed to transfer her nightmares to my subconscious—and the paranoia followed soon after.

I stared at the clock on the far wall and wondered if I'd have the guts to kill my stepfather if he ever found me. I shuddered at my own thoughts. He definitely deserved to die, but I wouldn't be the one to make it happen. If he still ran with the same drug crowds, he'd end up in the ground before he became an old man anyway.

“He made her a drug addict,” I said. He was the reason for everything bad that had happened in my life. Mom's death was no different.

“Addiction is complicated …”

Jane's words receded into muted gibberish. I watched the sunlight change the color of Perins Peak and wondered how cold it was outside where Mo waited for me.

“What are you thinking about, Arlie?”

“What to wear to Mom's funeral.”

Jane looked confused. “The county set a date? When?”

“Monday,” I said. “My foster mom is taking me. And I think the social-services lady will be there.”

“Why'd you wait until the end of our session to share that news?” she asked.

Jane already knew the answer. It was the same reason I didn't tell her that social services had discovered I had an uncle living in Texas. And that he'd be in Durango in time to help bury his sister. Secrets were the only thing truly my own.

“Did you cry?” Mo struggled to keep up with my long strides. Her short legs required two steps for each one of mine so I slowed down.

“Why would I do that?” I asked.

“She probably wants you to show some emotion … you know, to prove you're in touch with your feelings, that you're dealing with everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well, your mom's death for one.”

“And?”

“You know … your face. The accident.”

“Technically, I think her job is to make sure I'm not permanently messed up. She can take her pick of the reasons why.”

“I wish you'd take this seriously. I'm sorry you're being forced into therapy, but I think it's a good thing.” Mo and I were both sixteen, but you wouldn't know it by the way she mothered me.

“I appreciate your analysis, Dr. Mo.” I elbowed her in hopes of knocking the seriousness from her expression.

“You haven't cried much. At least not around me.” She squinted against the sun in her eyes, which gave the impression that she was smiling, not grimacing.

“Is that how you gauge that I'm ‘processing'?” I put air quotes around the word. “I'm not a crier. You know that.”

“Sometimes that worries me,” she said.

As an emotion, worry was overrated. Just an attempt to feel useful and in control, when we can't control anything except the moment we're in—and sometimes not even that.

“Okay, you didn't cry. Then what did you talk about today?”

“She wanted to know if I was making friends. I said I didn't need friends, and she wanted to know why.”

Mo grabbed my elbow so forcefully that I almost stumbled off the sidewalk curb.

“What do you mean, you don't need friends?” she asked. “What the hell am I?”

Fury showed up as ruddy splotches on Mo's otherwise pale cheeks, but today something flashed in her eyes—an unnamed emotion that made me want to hug her and say I was sorry.

I hip-bumped her instead, then grabbed her hand. “Maureen Elizabeth Mooney. I only need one friend and that's you.”

“Arlene Marie Betts. Then don't you ever forget it.” She returned the bump.

“Fine. As long as you quit calling me Arlene.”

“You called me Maureen first.” She pressed her forefinger into my chest, and I batted it away.

We walked down Main Avenue for a few blocks. The pavement and sidewalks were dry—unusual for late January in Colorado—and the temperature was warm enough that I only needed a hoodie. Smiling tourists were everywhere, searching for recreation or food, or both, since the snow was a no-show at the resort this season. Even the man-made stuff was melting.

Mo, however, wasn't smiling. Whenever a group of tourists passed us, she stopped at a boutique window and pointed something out to me, shielding me from their stares.

“Stop it, Mo. Really. They can't help it.” I flipped back my long bangs to better see our reflections in the window. Cords of pink scar tissue pulled at the edges of the slick, taut skin on my left cheek. The grafted skin wrapped from my eyebrow to my jaw-line and down my neck. The area lacked natural pigment and looked even paler next to my dark hair.

“It's rude,” she said loudly enough for a couple to hear as they walked past. Her disapproving stare quickened their steps.

“Well, if it doesn't bother me, then it shouldn't bother you.” I pulled my hair back down over my face.

“You don't get to decide what bothers another person.”

We walked in silence for another block before I took her hand.

“The freckles on your nose get darker when you're mad,” I said.

Mo rubbed her nose. “Don't joke.”

I had to joke. Things had been too serious between me and Mo since Mom died. Mo's mothering had kicked into overdrive. I owed her so much, but it was getting harder and harder to be around her. She stared at me, like all the time, trying to gauge my mood. It was worse than the assholes who gawked at my scar.

“Did you tell Jane about your uncle?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

Mo shook her head. “This isn't some game. She could help you. Things are going to change when that guy shows up. He'll be your guardian.”

She didn't have to state the obvious. When Mom died, rules emerged where rules had never been. A foster family. High school. Therapy. Now, an uncle. I had no idea what to expect from Frank, but I could always make it on my own if things didn't work out.

“Tammy is driving me to Mom's funeral,” I said. “She asked for a day off from work. Said it was her responsibility as my foster mother. Plus, we have an appointment at social services later in the day.”

“You don't want me to go?” Mo's defensiveness couldn't hide the hurt behind the question.

“That's not what I meant. I just know how you feel about funerals. I'd understand if it's too hard.”

Mo's sister, Celine, had died from leukemia when she was five years old and Mo was eight. Just a couple of years ago, Mo couldn't even bring herself to attend her grandmother's funeral.

“CeeCee died a long time ago. I'll be fine.”

I knew Mo was lying but didn't call her on it. Everything in my life was changing, even the way she and I were around each other.

We made our way down the street, hand in hand but not talking. I assumed we were headed to the Book Nook. Mo insisted on buying me a book for each therapy session I attended—sort of like the lollipop a doctor gives kids after a shot. I didn't need babying. I resisted the initial offer, since the court required me to see Jane twice a week for the foreseeable future because of my “unusual family circumstances.”

We'd finally agreed on one book a week and I'd accepted, especially since her parents probably wouldn't mind book purchases showing up on their credit card. And Mo usually ended up borrowing the books she'd purchased for me in the first place.

When we reached the bookstore's entrance, Mo kept walking.

“No Book Nook?” I asked.

“Not today,” she said. “Your mom will need something nice to be buried in. I'll help you pick something out. My mom gave me money. She didn't want you to worry.”

Embarrassment flooded my cheeks. I hadn't thought about a dress for Mom. Of course Mo's mother would know what had to be done. I experienced an odd panic that there were other important decisions and I'd never even know they had to be made.

I found it strange that with all the instructions Mom had left me, she never mentioned how to handle her funeral. Maybe she hadn't planned on leaving me after all.

Mo parked in front of JCPenney and suggested we walk the length of the mall until we found a dress. She opened the car door. After a moment she shut it again when she noticed I wasn't getting out of the car.

“You want to go somewhere else?”

“No … I don't know.” I leaned back against the headrest. A ferocious headache had been brewing since my therapy session ended.

“Arl?” Mo placed a hand on my thigh.

“I never asked for anything from her. All she had to do was stay alive. And she couldn't even do that for me.”

Mo turned the key partway in the ignition so that the heater would work. She held both hands in front of the stream of warm air. “You know it's never been about you, right?”

“Well, it should have been,” I said. “She took the easy way out.”

“You're right,” Mo said. “You deserved better.”

I stared out the passenger window, which had begun to fog over. I wrote my name in the condensation, then wiped it off with my sleeve.

“I never begged her to be anyone other than who she was, even though I wanted to almost every day. Maybe things could have been different if only she'd tried.”

Mo shook her head. “Did you really think she'd ever turn things around?”

“You didn't know her.”

“Maybe not, but I've known you for five years. Nothing changed in all that time except that she relied on you more and more. Do you know how hard it was for me to see you play the tough girl when she disappointed you over and over again?”

“Mo, stop.”

“I'm not trying to hurt you. I have no idea what it's like to lose a mother,” she said. “But I did lose a sister. I know what it's like to beat yourself up with what-ifs.”

Did Mo expect me to give them up so easily? What-ifs had been the mainstay of my daydreams since I was small.
What if Lloyd got in a car accident and died? What if the explosion hadn't happened and my face hadn't been burned? What if Mom got a job and we could afford a nice apartment? What if my real dad returned one day and forced Mom into rehab?

I reached over and turned the key a half turn more so that the engine came back to life. “Would you mind if we went to Goodwill instead?” I asked.

The dress I finally chose was too lightweight for winter, but Mom would be in a closed casket, not wearing it outside on a snowy day. The fabric was lipstick red with just the slightest sheen, probably someone's discarded holiday dress. She would have liked the color but would've said it wasn't short enough. She didn't have a say in the matter. Besides, the dress met my main criterion: it had long sleeves to cover the track marks on her arms.

While I browsed through the crowded racks, Mo found a pair of black patent pumps in a size six and a wide, black leather belt she insisted would look great with the dress. Mom had never worn anything remotely like the items we selected. It felt like picking out a Halloween costume. At the checkout counter, Mo looked through the glass case full of costume jewelry. Before she could even ask, I touched her arm and whispered, “No.”

The cashier stuffed the items in a plastic grocery-store bag. Mo handed over eleven dollars and change while I rushed out of the stuffy store into the brisk air.

Mo suggested seeing a movie or going for milk shakes, but I refused. “It's okay. Just take me back to Tammy's.”

My foster mom left me alone for the most part and didn't pry about Mom's death. She did insist that all her fosters have breakfast and dinner together because she said it created a sense of family even if we weren't related by blood. I could tell these meals meant something to the younger kids so I did it more for them than for Tammy.

“Is she expecting you at a certain time?” Mo asked. “I don't want to leave you when you're upset like this.”

“I'm fine. I'm just tired.”

We didn't talk as Mo drove up North Main. The afternoon clouds hung low and pale gray. I'd never known what people meant by “snow clouds,” but I hoped these weren't that kind. I wanted Mom to be buried on a sunny day. It was hard enough to think about her casket in the rock-hard winter ground.

When we neared the City Market, I asked Mo to pull over. “Just drop me off here. I want to buy some hose to go with Mom's dress. I can walk the rest of the way home.”

“Arlie, don't do it.”

“Do what?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what she meant.

“Don't go back there.” She looked across the street toward the Animas View Motel where Mom and I had lived off and on the last few years.

“I haven't told Dora about the funeral. She'd want to be there.”

Dora was a long-term resident of the motel and probably the closest thing to a friend my mother ever had, although they never did anything socially and Dora was almost sixty years old. In truth, Dora had hung around mostly to check up on me, to see that I was safe and fed. Like Rosa had done years before in the apartment complex in Albuquerque, Dora stepped in when Mom disappeared into a meth binge and forgot she had a daughter.

“You can call her,” Mo said.

“I owe Dora more than that. Please understand.”

There was no reasoning with Mo where Dora was concerned. I'd stopped mentioning her after Mo blew up when I gave Dora the Subaru. Mo thought I should keep it and get my driver's license, but I didn't want it. The car reeked of cigarettes and memories I'd rather forget. It was the car we'd used to escape from our life with Lloyd, and I wanted nothing to tie me to him. Plus, Dora would never be able to afford a car. It made me feel good to thank her for what she'd done for me and Mom.