She'll Take It (29 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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“She was in the kitchen with us,” my mother said. “I'm waiting for that apology,” my dad added, putting his arms on my shoulder.
“Where is it?” Zach yelled, turning to me.
My father stepped toward Zach. “Apologize or go to your room.”
Zach kicked the dirt angrily. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.
“That's okay,” I said. “I can help you find it,” I added.
“See?” Zach raged, jumping up and down. “I told you—she stole it!”
“That's it,” my father said. “Go to your room.”
“But—”
“Now.”
I had to sit down on the grass and catch my breath as Zach stalked off to his room. My parents had defended me. They sent Zach to his room. On his
birthday
. It was too much for my little brain to take in. I had my first taste of the thrill of “the take,” and although I couldn't help feeling bad for Zach, another feeling was edging its way in, pushing out the guilt and laying the groundwork for a long love affair with what I would start to call “the taking.” The feeling was pure, unadulterated power. And I was positively swooning in its wake.
I waited two weeks and then left Zach's moon rock out in the driveway one Saturday morning as we followed my father out to the car for a trip to the hardware store. “Well look what we have here,” my father said, picking up the moon rock and tossing it to Zach, who again screamed like a girl and accused me of having something to do with its disappearance all over again. But I could care less. I was too busy gripping my Barbie backpack and shaking with sick excitement over what I had decided to do.
You see, I hated going to the hardware store. But my mother had discovered something she called “me time,” and so every Saturday we were forced to follow my father into these horrible stores with lumber and nails and lightbulbs and other things too hideous and dirty to mention. I usually sulked all the way there and all the way back. But this morning I was dying to go. This morning I was going to see if my superpowers would work on more than a rock. This morning I was going to practice “the taking” at the hardware store.
I followed my father and Zach up and down aisle eleven, dragging my purple backpack along the dusty concrete floor. My heart was beating so loud I had to look around to see if anyone else could hear it.
No one sees me
, I thought.
I am a superhero
.
I have the power to take
. With my new, laser-like eyes and lightning-quick fingers, I scanned the bottom shelves as I walked, and the moment I spotted the pile of shiny, crystal doorknobs, I shook with love. I had been practicing for this all week in my room, taking objects off my toy shelf and dropping them into my backpack until I had it down to three seconds start to finish. I was ready for the real thing.
Dad and Zach had already rounded the next corner, not once glancing back at me. A man with overalls was behind me, but he was facing the other shelves. It was now or never. I dropped to my scabbed knees, grabbed a doorknob, and held it in the same fist as my backpack as I walked. I looked over at the man whose head was bent down. No one could see me. I quickly dropped the doorknob in the backpack and sped up to find my father. My suspicions had been confirmed. I had the gift for “the taking.”
By the end of that year I was stealing two items a month and hiding them under my bed. At age thirteen I began showing off for a few select friends, and a small but appreciative group of girls had begun to gather around me, admiring me, inviting me out, begging me to pass on my special powers.
And even when I started lying awake with massive headaches and a queasy stomach, I couldn't bring myself to stop. I waited, instead, to get caught. I imagined all sorts of scenarios about how it might happen. In some daydreams, I sobbed and begged for forgiveness; in others I fought like a wild animal while a dozen cops dragged me away in handcuffs and took me to jail. But until then I continued to steal.
Then one day when I was struggling to get my books out of my overstuffed locker (I couldn't fit any more objects underneath my bed and I had begun selling a few things here and there to friends), my high school guidance counselor, Mr. Clements, happened by as a waterfall of stolen objects careened out of my locker and spilled onto the floor. My parents were called in, and we all sat in his little office and stared at the desktop where the counselor had arranged every single item for my parents to see. My mother gasped.
“She's a compulsive shopper,” she cried, clutching my father's arm.
“Is this where your babysitting money goes?” my father yelled, picking up a vibrator.
“I've always wanted a neck massager,” I said, quickly taking it out of his hands and hiding it underneath a box of Tide.
“You think she's
buying
all of these things?” the counselor asked incredulously, picking up a set of plastic straws and a package of lip gloss. He stared at me, daring me to fess up. “Melanie? Are you telling us you
purchased
all these items?”
“I'm afraid so,” I said, breaking eye contact with him and turning to my parents. “I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad. I can't help it. Money just—burns a hole in my pocket,” I said, borrowing from a favorite phrase of my father.
“Mr. and Mrs. Zeitgar,” the counselor said, slowly looking between them, “have you considered the possibility that Melanie may be a compulsive
shoplifter
?” My mother cried out and dug her nails into my father. The two of them sprang out of their seats like they had been ejected.
“That's preposterous!” my father boomed. “Do you know what I do for a living?”
“Yes, Mr. Zeitgar—”
“I'm a lawyer,” my father said, gathering himself up. “My children have a deep and abiding respect for the law, Mr. Clements.”
“Perhaps she could show us the receipts,” Mr. Clements started to say, but my father cut him off at the pass.
“I've already told you my daughter would never break the law. And unless you want an up-close-and-personal lesson in the law then I'd strongly suggest you stop lobbying false accusations against Melanie and curtail any further damaging and prejudicial remarks.”
“Yes, curtail yourself,” echoed my mother, who always needed to hide behind someone else to stand up for herself. “However, we thank you for bringing our daughter's
shopping
problem to our attention.”
My father nodded curtly to the counselor and took me by the arm. “We're cutting off your allowance,” he said sternly as he guided me out of the room. “And you'll hand over all your babysitting money to us for the next three months.”
I nodded my assent, not daring to look back and see what I assumed was a dumbstruck look on Mr. Clements's face. Denial is a family affair.
Chapter 31
I
'm having a nightmare. “No, no, no!” I'm screaming inside my head. I wake up in a sweat. It takes me a few minutes to remember that I'm sleeping in a storage unit in New Jersey and another minute to remember why. I turn over, touch the side of my nearest box, and feel a sense of calm wash over me. I wonder which objects are in this one. All of the items in my boxes are brand new, everything is still in its original packaging, and every object has a story.
A long time ago I divided my objects into three categories : Throwaways, Gifts, and Sacrifices. Throwaways are the items I allow myself to use. Lipstick, food, office supplies. Gifts are the things I steal for other people (bags of coffee from Starbucks, candles, wallets, gravy boats), and Sacrifices are the ones I never allow myself to open. The objects in this storage unit are all sacrifices. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to rip into them and use them; I'd love to light the scented candles, wrap myself in the cashmere scarf, and write with the Japanese quill. But I won't. The stories behind them deserve to be honored. The thought of returning them causes me physical pain, as if I would be abandoning one of my children.
The stories call to me now as I caress the box. I remember the package of bathing salts I acquired after a particularly horrendous Visa bill, the silk pajamas I took the summer I gained ten pounds, the hand-dipped candles the time the saleslady was rude to my mother, the set of chopsticks the night I was followed by two guys on the Lower East Side, and the cashmere scarf I stole the day after I had a one-night stand with the guy from the Rebar. We didn't use a condom, and I lifted it while waiting for the results of my AIDS test. Every object has a story. Every one of them I've earned like medals in a war.
Just thinking about them isn't enough. I need to touch them. I lift the top box from the pile and open it. Touching each item is like flipping through a photo album, each package invoking a memory, a need, a longing. I stop when I reach the brilliant topaz ring I lifted from a holiday sale at Nordstrom. It's beautiful, but I'll never wear it. My stomach tightens when I hold it; this is one story I don't like remembering. This is the button I don't like pushed.
It was winter break and my third year at NYU. They talked about the party for months; it was going to take place on an entire floor of an apartment building in Hell's Kitchen. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and ho, ho, ho. It was going to be
the
place to be—the party they would talk about for years to come. I went with my roommate Jo Ella, and since we planned on getting as trashed as possible, we made an agreement we would take a cab home together and we would go whenever one of us wanted to leave. But she hooked up with some guy, and when it was time to go home, I couldn't find her.
I remember vodka. A lot of vodka. I stumbled around the party looking for her. Someone tells me she's gone. And then, there he is. I don't know his name—he was sober, and his shirt was pink. He had not been at our party—I learn later that he lives in the building and drives a Porsche. That's all I'll ever find out about the man in the pink shirt. And who would ever think to be afraid of a man in a pink oxford shirt? I've given up on Jo Ella and I'm searching for my purse when he materializes in front of me.
No, I'm sorry I wouldn't like another drink. Can't you see that I can't walk a straight line?
I walk out of the party and stagger to the elevator.
Where are all my friends? They're too drunk to notice or maybe they think I know the man in the pink shirt. Either way he's followed me out into the hall and guided me past the elevators. “I have to go,” I slur. “I have to get a cab.”
“We can call from in here,” he says, unlocking an apartment door down the hall and pushing me inside. The rest I remember in close-ups as if I'm watching a film. Close-up on his telephone. It's white and it's sitting right there on a little end table. I'm sobering up now; even swimming in vodka my brain is sending out faint warning signals. Don't take candy from strangers, never hitchhike, and beware of helpful neighbors. I don't scream. Why don't I scream? Would things have been different? But I know why I don't scream, and the reason haunts me to this day. I don't scream because I don't trust myself. I don't trust my trusty little voice who is warning me of danger. I listen to the man in the pink shirt and ignore my voice. The man in the pink shirt is still pretending he wants to help me call a cab. What does my voice know? She's drunk and unreliable.
I'm so sorry, voice. I'm very, very sorry. If I could replay the evening, I would scream. I would start screaming in the hall before we reached his apartment, and if he still managed to get me to his door, I would fight like a wildcat. But even drunk, the one thing I always learned from my mother—one thing I could not fight against back then—the mantra of little girls everywhere—“be polite.” Don't make a fuss. Don't make a scene. The phone is right here. It's white. It sits on a desk. He's just being nice. He's going to let me use his phone. I pick it up. His hand closes over mine and he puts it down.
The film jumps here, and suddenly I find myself upstairs, lying in his bed. I'm not sure how I got up here. The ceiling is spinning and somewhere a fan is blowing. My shirt and bra are already on the floor, and now he's taking off my jeans and then my panties. I can smell a trace of my own urine. I am ashamed.
Wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident.
Then I realize that maybe he thinks I want this. I tell him no. He doesn't stop. Now I do scream. He clamps his hand over my mouth and then pulls it away. “Go ahead,” he says. “I like it when you scream.” I try to fight him, but he's way too strong. It's happening, and after a while I stop fighting it. I don't even pray to the Saints. I just pray for it to be over. And then it is.
My shame doubles now. In another replay I would run out of his apartment as fast as I could. I would wait for him to fall asleep and then pull on my clothes and get the hell out of there. Instead, I pass out. I sleep next to him all night long. When I wake it's light outside. He's still sleeping. I quietly fetch my clothing off the floor piece by piece, roll my underwear up in a ball, and stick them in my jeans. I'll end up burning them in the dorm. I don't call the cops. I don't tell anyone. As far as I'm concerned, it's my fault for getting so drunk. But I don't forget it. I dream about silent white phones and missing cabs. I see him on top of me, in me, above me. And then I start to look for him. Is that him behind me in line at the deli? Is he lurking in the alley? Who is that sitting in the third row of my Algebra class? I spend more time in bed. I stop going to parties and bars altogether. I miss a few classes. And then I miss my period. And it's nothing in the scheme of things. There are billions of stories like mine in this concrete jungle. At least I'm alive. I get an early term abortion and wait for the results of my AIDS test. It's negative, but there's no relief. My nightmares continue, and I unofficially drop out of school. I sleep with the light on; I steal the topaz ring. It doesn't cure me, but it makes everything burn just a little bit brighter. People want to know why I steal; I want to know why they don't.
Only the salve doesn't last long. And one night when I can't take looking over my shoulder anymore, I pick up a dull Bic razor and start slicing. I call Zach, and he drives me to the hospital. And this is my chance—with Dr. Phillips to really heal. To get real with myself. And there's no doubt that my stint in the psyche ward helps me—it does—but I never tell anyone about the man in the pink shirt or my kleptomania. I think I was waiting for someone to catch me. I assumed a trained psychiatrist would be able to see right through me. I especially thought they were going to figure it out when all the Band-Aids and sutures and potato chip packets started disappearing from the floor, but they never did.
And even though I confessed most of my childhood traumas to Dr. Phillip (I talked nonstop about Zach and Mom and Richard and the boys and my father—after all I had to blame my problems on someone didn't I?), I don't say anything about my kleptomania. I like the feeling of having a secret. It makes me feel strong; it makes me feel safe. But now I seem to be losing my grip. Now the highs aren't lasting very long, and the lows are reminiscent of that dark time years ago. I'm slipping up. Of course the salt and pepper shakers weren't worth losing Greg. But I don't know what to do.
Do I turn myself in? Do I go to therapy again? I can't even face Kim. She'll never forgive me for lying to her, and if I live with her again where will I hide my things? I could stop stealing of course, and I will—I will someday. But today, I still want to steal.
A part of me fears it's the only way I'll ever know power. It's the only thing I have to place between me and obscurity. I started stealing because I thought I had been granted a superpower, and I've continued because I've never found anything to replace it that gives me the same sense of mastery and belonging. I know it's sick—I belong with the outlaws, but at least I belong. I've failed at absolutely everything I've ever tried to do in my life. Relationships, school, temping, acting, and now I've failed my best friend and my new, wonderful, amazing boyfriend. I'm a failure at everything except stealing, and I know no one would ever understand me if I told them that for me, stealing like feels like an old friend. A sick, perverted friend who comes and goes like a boyfriend you just can't kick out of bed, but a friend nevertheless.
And even though it's eating me inside out, I don't want to give up the one thing in the world that I happen to have a knack for. The truth—which I've been fighting all morning in this musty, dark storage tank—is this: I've been taking things all my life because I'm trying to fill myself up, trying to take back everything I feel the world is taking from me. But I'm a bottomless pit and I take and I take and I take and I'm never full. I'm always wanting, always reaching, always waiting my turn. But I stopped waiting to take my turn the day I stole the doorknob in the hardware store, and I've been “stealing” my turn ever since. I'm the invisible girl, the law-breaking girl, the obscure girl, the girl on the moon.
I've fallen down the rabbit hole and broken every fingernail trying to claw my way back up. But like many others before me who've taken the wrong turn, I just keep going in circles and I don't know how to go straight. I've been doing this so long—I've gone so far off the path—I don't think I can ever get back.
In fact, I've been fighting the urge to steal all morning and I'm losing the battle.
I don't want to face anyone ever again, and it's making me want to take a huge canvas bag into the nearest store and stuff it with items. Luckily, I can't do that because it's the middle of the night. But this storage unit smells bad, and now that I've gone through the box I can't stand being next to my objects anymore. I have to get out of here or I'm going to die.

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