Change Places with Me (7 page)

The Glass Coffin

“It feels like dead man’s finger!”

That was Clara’s excuse, why she wouldn’t hold hands with her stepmother when they were crossing the street. It was something her dad had shown her. If you put your palm flat up against someone else’s palm and, with your other hand, rub the outsides of both index fingers, your finger feels numb, like your hand isn’t yours anymore.

“Her hand does not feel like dead man’s finger,” her dad would tell her. His voice always sounded like he was smiling, even when he wasn’t. He was tall like a tree and had blue eyes with heavy lids, so sometimes Clara couldn’t see them. “You hurt her feelings.”

“She doesn’t have feelings.”

“Clara! That’s not my girl!”

“Read,” Clara would say, as she did every night, asking to hear the Brothers Grimm fairy tale “Little Snow-white”—that
was its proper title, with the word “Little” and a hyphen between “Snow” and “white.” Of course, Clara, at eight, could read it herself, but this was something she and her dad had always done, way before he met someone and married again. When he read, Clara always held tight to the elephant that had been her mother’s favorite childhood toy, loved so hard its fur was gone. If her room ever caught fire, this was the prized possession Clara would rescue.

These were the best times, hearing the story at night, no matter what might’ve gone wrong during the day. On that particular brisk September afternoon, her dad had taken her to the zoo. But Clara found animals so alien—they couldn’t talk, so how did you know what they were thinking?—especially the nocturnal creatures at the back of the House of Primates, in an exhibit dark as night. Ugly bats hung upside down and a weird thing called a slow loris had eyes as big as saucers. A woman who fed purple grapes to shrieking monkeys told Clara what “nocturnal” meant, though Clara hadn’t asked.

“Phil, she’s got to get some sleep. She’s got school tomorrow,” her stepmother said, standing now in Clara’s doorway, arms folded, a stern expression on her face, dark-blue eyes focused like a laser on the scene before her. She wore one of those dumb kimonos she always had on at home, black and white, tied at the waist, and she had that long hair, thick as vines. What had her stepmother been doing, before trying to ruin story time for Clara? Probably reading a book so thick the title fit across the spine instead of down it, or watching an old black-and-white
movie. Clara didn’t understand that. Movies were supposed to be in color. Life was in color, wasn’t it? Clara didn’t understand anything about her stepmother.

“Read,” Clara said again.

“Phil, she’s had such a long day at the zoo.”

“Clara didn’t like it,” her dad said. “Just like you.”

No, it wasn’t at all the same, Clara was sure, even if they both happened to feel the same way about something.

“I’m not a fan of zoos, it’s true,” her stepmother said, unfolding her arms. “I know they’re all ecological and environmental and animal conscious and all that. Still, I don’t like to see animals in cages. Humane cages, but cages.”

Which meant her reason wasn’t the same after all.

“Time to call it a night,” her stepmother urged him, still in the doorway, tugging on a gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, a gift from Clara’s dad. The stepmother wore no other jewelry except for a thin, delicate wedding band. They’d gotten married just that spring, and by a clerk at city hall. The ceremony, her dad had told her, took all of five minutes. “She likes things quiet,” her dad had said. “No big shindig for her.” Clara had never known her mom, who died so long ago, but there were pictures, including a large one in the living room, where she was laughing. Her dad said of her, “She was so much
fun
.” The stepmother wasn’t.

“Daddy, don’t stop reading,” Clara pleaded. “The Queen killed Snow-white after she failed three times.” Clara kept careful count. First the Queen ordered the huntsman to kill
Snow-white, but he took pity on her and wouldn’t do it. Then the Queen disguised herself as an old woman selling lace, and tied Snow-white up tightly in a lace bodice, but Snow-white was with the seven dwarves by then, and they unlaced her. Then the Queen disguised herself again and created a poison comb that she put in Snow-white’s hair; again the dwarves saved her, removing the comb. Finally, again in disguise, the Queen tempted Snow-white into eating a poisoned apple. The dwarves were at a loss and pronounced her dead.

“But she’s not dead, not really,” Clara’s dad said. “She’s in a kind of trance.”

“Can she see?”

“Her eyes are closed.”

“If she opens her eyes?”

“She’s in a glass coffin. Things would look far away, blurred.”

“Like clouds?”

“Something like that.”

“Can she hear?”

“Sounds would be muffled, too.”

“Like when you’re under water? In the tub I can stick my whole head under and hold my breath.”

“She asks these questions so she doesn’t have to go to sleep,” her stepmother broke in, still in the doorway, no closer. Sometimes Clara thought there was an invisible barrier there, keeping her out. Which was
good
.

“She’s always been full of questions,” her dad said, sounding proud.

“Stubborn,” her stepmother said.

“Strong willed.”

“How does it end?” Clara asked, of course knowing exactly how it ended.

But it was her stepmother who said, “Snow-white’s in the glass coffin a long, long time. A prince falls in love with her on sight and takes her back to his castle, and on the bumpy ride home the piece of apple in her throat comes unstuck and she wakes up and they get married. Strange ending, though. At the wedding, the Queen is forced to put on iron slippers that have been heated by fire, and dance until she dies. Whose idea was that? Snow-white’s?”

“Never. Snow-white is
good
.” Still, it worried Clara. What was Snow-white like deep down, where nobody could see?

“Phil,” her stepmother said, “if she doesn’t get enough sleep, she’ll be a wreck tomorrow.”

Clara hated those little comments, which were supposed to be helpful and were anything but. Clara knew her stepmother thought she was spoiled, always reminding her to say “please” and “thank you.” And there was that time, in Belle Heights Park, when Clara wanted her dad to hold her up over the spraying turtle fountain, even if that meant his special-occasion suit got ruined. Or the time when Clara begged for a stuffed unicorn that was way overpriced and then left it on the bus on the trip home. That was an accident! The worst was when Clara needed special markers for a school project, creating a cover for a made-up book, and she’d forgotten to get them on the way
home; she went into a panic that night and sent her dad out, and he had to go to three different places before finding exactly the right ones (not too thick, not too thin). Her stepmother had wanted Clara to tell the teacher she needed an extra day, but Clara couldn’t stand to be late, especially knowing that Kim had gotten hers done the day
before
. Kim’s book was called
The Birds of Belle Heights
, which was mostly pigeons, but she’d drawn them beautifully. Not that Clara was jealous of her best friend; they’d been inseparable since preschool; but she wanted her own book,
Colorful Cupcakes
, to be beautiful, too.

“We’re almost at the end,” her dad said now.

Her stepmother sighed and left the doorway.

Her dad read the rest of the story, and Snow-white was happy for the rest of her days. That was the ending Clara liked, when people were happy for the rest of their days. It never said how many days, but Clara assumed it was a great big number, not like what her mother had had.

“You’ll read again tomorrow?” Clara said.

“If you’re game.”

“I’m not a game!”

“Just an expression. It means if you’re willing.” He grinned and his eyes crinkled.

“I don’t like it when I can’t see your eyes.”

He opened them really wide. “Better?”

She didn’t much like that, either.

He clicked off the lamp on the little table next to her bed.

Clara hugged the elephant. “Leave it on.”

He clicked it back on. “If the story scares you—”

“I’m not scared.” But maybe she was. Her dad always said “Snow-white” was only a make-believe story and could never happen in real life, but Clara wasn’t so sure. Snow-white’s mother was dead. So was Clara’s. Snow-white’s father remarried, as had Clara’s. The Queen gazed in the enchanted mirror and wanted to know who was the fairest in the land. Clara’s stepmother—she looked in the mirror too, pushing back her hair to study her forehead, her arms and legs, even in between her fingers and toes. For hours, it seemed to Clara, who watched from behind the big blue armchair in the living room.

“I think you’re frightened,” her dad said quietly.

“I don’t like it when Snow-white gets lost in the woods. What if she gets eaten by animals?” She didn’t want to admit to the other stuff.

“Are you afraid of getting lost?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll never be lost as long as I’m here,” he promised her. “I will keep you safe and sound.”

Clara didn’t know what it meant to be “sound,” but if it was anything like “safe,” it was fine with her. “Go on,” she said.

“We’re done for tonight, love.”

“No, I mean you can leave now.”

Clara lay in a pool of light surrounded by dark edges.

Only a couple of months later, on a cold but brilliantly sunny November morning, her stepmother came into her room and gently shook her awake. “I have terrible, terrible news,” she said. “I can’t think of any way to say it except to say it.”

But Clara already knew her dad was dead. What other news could be so terrible, terrible? The smell of lavender—her stepmother’s soap, so sticky sweet—made Clara sick to her stomach. The sun’s glare off the heart-shaped pendant hurt her eyes.

“Phil was in the kitchen last night. He had what’s called a heart attack,” her stepmother said. “An ambulance came. I went to the hospital with them while Mrs. Moore from upstairs sat here in case you woke up.”

Clara hadn’t heard a thing, or even stirred in her bed. She would never again sleep so heavily, or through the night, or without her bedside lamp on.

“I’m so sorry,” her stepmother said. “There was nothing the doctors could do.”

Clara shut her eyes tight, put her hands over her ears, and pressed hard. Oh, her stepmother was evil. Evil Lynn, Clara would call her from now on; Evil Lynn—bearer of terrible, terrible news. Clara vowed on the spot never to talk to Evil Lynn again, or only when she absolutely had to, and never about her dad, not one word.

There was a crowded service. Kim and her parents came, and lots of other kids from school and their parents. Kim had long hair that glowed with light. She put her arms around Clara, and Clara gave her a big hug. But then Kim said, “Good thing your dad remarried.” Clara couldn’t believe she’d said that—Kim knew how Clara felt about Evil Lynn. Come to think of it, Clara realized, every time she had said something mean about her stepmother, Kim had said, “She’s not so bad,” or “Your dad seems really happy with her.” Clara had always thought it was just Kim trying to seem grown-up by saying things that sounded mature, nothing to pay much attention to. But now those remarks made Clara question her choice of best friend.

Clara wriggled out of Kim’s grasp and said, “You better sit far away from me. I’m getting sick and don’t want you to catch it.”

Clara didn’t know most of the people there. Her dad’s friends from the TV production company showed up, and there were a lot of them—camera operators, sound mixers, dolly grips, boom operators. Some made a point of telling Clara what a nice guy
her dad had been and how much he’d loved her. Others were sobbing, some loudly, some quietly; still others sat in silence. It was like they were demonstrating many ways for Clara to feel. But Clara began to feel something else. She could see and hear, but everything seemed distant, muted, as if she were behind glass, like Snow-white in the glass coffin. It was almost pleasant. This was a place she could stay, like Snow-white, for a long, long time.

Several months after Clara’s dad died, Evil Lynn took Clara to a psychologist. He had wispy hair and thick black glasses.

“When someone you love dies, there is no right or wrong way to react,” he told Clara.

Clearly Evil Lynn thought differently, or why drag Clara here?

“You are angry,” he said. “Every child is angry at the parent who died. How could your father have done such a thing, leaving you like that?”

Clara was well aware that her dad had done such a thing.
I will keep you safe and sound,
he’d said. He’d broken that promise, big-time.

“You are terrified, the terror of a child who fears she can’t survive. Such feelings may intensify as the anniversary approaches,” he said.

What
feelings? There were no feelings in the glass coffin.

“Why don’t you hit the couch with the noodle?” He picked up the noodle—a long, lime-green Styrofoam thing.

“I don’t want to hit the couch with the noodle.”

“Why not?”

“The couch didn’t do anything to me.”

“You are heartbroken that you never had the chance to say good-bye to your father. Would you like to write him a letter?”

“How would I mail it?”

He put the noodle down. “You must miss him dreadfully. Wouldn’t you like to tell him that?”

“If I could tell him that, then I wouldn’t be missing him.”

The doctor drew a deep breath. “If you could say one thing to your father, what would it be?”

“What’s it like to be dead?”

Clara saw this man a couple of more times; he tried to get her to draw with markers, punch and squash mounds of clay, talk to puppets, rip up old telephone books, go into a small, soundproof room and scream as loud as she could.

“She’s not willing to do any of it,” the doctor told Evil Lynn.

“That stubborn streak,” Evil Lynn said.

The years passed, and Clara grew her limp brown hair out and kept her bangs long so you couldn’t see her eyes. Her face rounded out like the moon, and she shot up practically overnight, between her tenth and eleventh birthdays, long skinny arms and legs like juice sticks. She began wearing denim overalls and flannel shirts in winter, and short overalls and T-shirts in summer, when Evil Lynn put her in day camps, which were like nonacademic versions of school. In both places Clara did what
was required of her, nothing more or less.

Occasionally Kim called and sent messages, but Clara didn’t answer her phone and ignored the texts and messages. What was the point? There was only room for one in the glass coffin. At school, when Kim tried talking about getting together, Clara said, “I’m really busy.” With what, Kim asked her, and Clara just shrugged. Kim and her family moved to Belle Heights Tower, right across from Clara’s apartment house. Clara never visited her. In the cafeteria, they didn’t sit together; Clara told Kim she used this time to do crossword puzzles on her phone, planting herself at a corner table with a view of a brick wall.

Though sometimes Kim spoke to Clara as if nothing had gone wrong between them. When they had the same phys ed class, for instance, in seventh grade. Kim was one of Clara’s spotters when Clara was on the trampoline. “C’mon, jump higher,” Kim urged her. “Do a double turnaround seat drop! I’ve got your back.” But Clara just did a regular seat drop.

Evil Lynn continued to take Clara to psychologists and therapists. “I believe there’s something or someone out there who can help you,” she explained.
Whatever works,
Evil Lynn made a point of saying again and again, whether they were trying talk therapy (which would have required Clara to talk), medication (which made her too sleepy), some new advance, an established treatment, or a combination; the list included anything that was reliable, proven, and safe.

Clara kept her word—or lack of it, ha-ha—when it came to
Evil Lynn, and only spoke to her when necessary. Clara’s preferred method of communication was by Post-it.
I need this signed for school,
Clara would write on a Post-it stuck to a medical form. Or Evil Lynn might leave Clara a note on the kitchen table:
Going to the drugstore. Do you need soap?
Clara’s answer:
No soap.
Which was one of her dad’s expressions. It didn’t mean he didn’t want soap. It meant no deal, more or less.

Without discussing it, they worked out the household chores. Evil Lynn cleared the table and Clara did the dishes—always by hand; they had a dishwasher with powerful suction, but it shook so violently Clara thought it might explode at any moment. Clara also vacuumed and did the laundry, folding clothes in piles so neat they still looked like they were in the store. Evil Lynn did the grocery shopping and made breakfast and dinner. If Evil Lynn had to work late, Clara had frozen pizza. Clara kept her room clean, and Evil Lynn was not allowed to enter. If Clara got ready for school too slowly, Evil Lynn stood in the doorway and told her it was getting late. When that happened, Clara glared at her stepmother and made extra sure she hadn’t set foot inside the room, not one inch, which, Clara was sure, would poison the atmosphere just as surely as Snow-white’s stepmother had poisoned the apple.