Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(29)

In the mirror you think: I don’t look like a girl anymore.

And then: I look like such a pathetic little girl.

And then: maybe this is what a woman looks like.

And then: I look sexy like this. Beaten. Theirs.

And then: I wish I were a boy.

And then: I look like every other girl there ever was.

You do your best with the sample powders, rub the beige cream under your eyes. Your mom will notice the mess of you, you’re sure. You are nothing like your mother. Since drying out, your mother is clean and smooth as a candlewick. Pressed creases. Adored.

You buy each of your parents a present with their own money. A teacup for your mother. A baseball cap for your father. You buy a large bottle of orange soda from the food court—your favorite. You want the fizzy orange chemicals to dye your mouth, to blame the bloom of your lips on this simple thing.

Your parents pick you up from the entrance of Burdines at four o’clock. Those lips! they say, and you agree. You lift the empty bottle of soda, Sorry, I must’ve drunk too much.

You look like you’re bleeding, says your father.

I tripped on the escalator, you say.

You sure about that? asks your father.

I’m super sure.

Something happen in there with Beth? he says.

Your father was never a great father, but, when sober, he was always a great man. He was the person who loved you most, and, fifteen years later when he dies, when you’re talking to that rocking chair in New Hampshire hoping it is he who has possessed it, you consider this moment in the car—how the trajectory of your life and your relationship to him could have changed had you told him the truth. If there was no mother in the driver’s seat, no fear of getting in trouble; if there was no escalator in that mall. It’s a father’s job to protect his daughter, he told you, more than once, but your story never got there. That story is not yours.

Just shut up about it, you say.

The only person you ever tell is Clarissa, sitting on her bed under her painted-on clouds. You tell the story calmly, sucking on your fingertips, no big deal. You tell her they both wanted you, they both had to have you, and you were very good at it. Their cocks were big, and you took the whole thing like a goddamn champ.

You are such a slut! she screams.

Jealous, you think. You want so badly for her to be jealous.

You gonna do it again? she asks.

Nah, you say. They’re graduating soon. I don’t want them to get too attached to me.

The truth: you never heard from Gil again. You heard from Chad only once, online. He asked if you might be willing to meet up with him the following weekend at the mall again, if next time you would let him fuck you in the backseat. He promises it will feel good, after it hurts. He warns you not to tell Beth. You block his screen name, unhook your private line. You begin sleeping in your parents’ bed every night, a habit you were never able to fully break.

It was just so romantic, you say. You believe these words. That’s how it works.



Gil’s e-mail address is listed on his law firm’s website.

It’s late at night in the New Hampshire library, your bracelets clattering against the desk. Another colonist named James watches your hands shake, says, Are you sure you want to do that? Are you sure you want to open up all of that?

You are.

Do you remember me? you type. I have some questions. I would be grateful if you might be willing to answer them.

Why did you hurt me? is the only question, the only one that matters, but you do not write this.

Of course I remember you! he replies, almost immediately. I will give it my best to answer any questions you have. I hope you are doing good!

You ask if he might be willing to share his memory of that day at the mall. Your point of view would be helpful for my own closure, you say, no matter what that may be. You ask if he has ever thought of it again, if the experience ever held any weight for him. You tell him there are no right answers. You believe this is true.

Gil responds from a different e-mail address. His personal one.

Let me really think about it, he says, so I can give you my best recollection.

I want to help you, he says, in any way that I can.

You never hear from Gil again.



On Skype, the twenty-eight-year-old Beth looks exactly the same. There is a reason I am so difficult to find, she says, but I’m so glad you found me.

She is still so beautiful, Beth. You cry as soon as you see her face on the screen.

I’m doing well, she says.

I love living somewhere with seasons, she says.

I heard about your dad, she says. No one could ever forget him.

Thank you.

Beth tells you that she still works every day to forget her experiences with Chad. She says she doesn’t blame him, that blaming him would give him power. Beth believes that blame would add fuel to a dangerous situation, and anyways, it’s a chapter she’s closed. She is religious these days, at peace with her thirteen-year-old self and the decisions she knows she was not prepared to make. She says, If I can wish him well, I feel that I have won.

Do you feel that he assaulted you? you ask.

No, she says. I think he only ever wanted love.

You talk for an hour, maybe two, but these are the only details you can share here, right now. Remember, there is a reason she’s so difficult to find. By now, you both are.



One day, in the spring, Beth hands you a diamond-shaped note, not looking at you: Meet me at the flagpole after class.