In Her Skin(19)

A wave of guilt and sickness washes over me. My mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

“Vivi!” you yell, commuters swirling around your upturned face. “We’re going to miss our train!”

Wolf’s jacket flaps in the wind and he extends his hand toward me. His wrist is pale and thin. I feel your eyes on my back, impatient. Wolf is sinking and reaching for me and I have to go.

“I’m so sorry,” I mouth to Wolf.

His eyes storm. Wolf is a boy who becomes more beautiful when he rages, which is why he glazes over when he hustles. People walking past eye him, and though he is obviously homeless, his beauty is magnetic, and those who can’t have him will stare. A middle-aged man in a suit stops and says something to him. Wolf stares only at me. He tells the man something—his fee, I know this—still looking at me. I know this is one of those moments that I will regret the rest of my life, but yours is not a life I can live, and Wolf, I need to leave you.

“I have to go.” My whisper is lost in the length between us.

“Vivienne!” you call over the screech of the inbound train. You’re fidgeting halfway down the stairs, looking at the train over your shoulder and back at me.

You throw up your hands, mouthing, “What the?”

When I turn back around Wolf is in front of me.

I have exactly one choice. I dig in my pocket and pull out the twenty-dollar bill. I hand it to him, and say loudly, “God bless.”

I run down the stairs, pressing my fist into my mouth to hold back the sob.

*

We’re getting knocked around, holding the same train pole when you ask me why I gave that street kid money.

“I felt sorry for him. Pay it forward, you know? Make the world a better place,” I say, looking at a spot on the floor.

“That’s a generous outlook for someone who’s been through what you have,” you say.

I’m grateful when the train stops and a mob of people press in. I make a big deal out of rearranging myself, pretending to forget your question. But you stand with your feet planted, hardly noticing people cramming around you, some fixing dirty looks.

“I mean, I’d be hating the world right about now,” you say.

“I try not to focus too much on what happened,” I say, squirming.

“In the shed?”

“Yes.” I stare hard at the top of a child’s head.

“We all have pasts we can’t change. Would you rather not talk?” you offer.

I nod. You smile and shift to give me room. The rest of the ride we’re silent and this is a good thing, because I can hardly hold myself together after having seen Wolf, and you think I’m having Bad Shed Thoughts. I imagine Wolf waiting for me to come home the night that I left, then the next morning, and the mornings after that, choosing not to believe I won’t come back. His saying nothing as I passed him on the library stairs was strange and unexpected and I am grateful. The pain isn’t the same as when Momma died. It’s loss dunked in guilt, and I hate myself so much I want to bite my fist. As we walk down Commonwealth Avenue and approach the brownstone, I shove my hand in my pocket to keep from biting it. My fingers brush something velvety. I stop and pull it out of my pocket. You sense I’m not behind and turn at the top of the stairs. Your hair, loose now, lashes your cheeks in the wind.

You wear a small smile.

I blink in disbelief at the scrap of paper between my fingers. The year 1866 is scribbled with faded pen strokes, and the words PROPERTY OF BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY are stamped inside a red oval.

“It’s fine,” you say, climbing down slowly. When you reach the last step you giggle, brushing a loose hair from my cheek. “I won’t tell my parents you stole it.”

*

A death blow

is a life blow

to some

Who till they

died did not

alive become.

Who had they

lived, had died

but when

they died,

Vitality begun.

I do not appreciate having this and this is wrong and you know it. There is no way to return it and we are on camera and it’s on record that we were the last ones to have it. Now I’m stuck waiting until you get home to explain how we’re going to fix this. You hid from me all night and I heard you leave in an Uber early this morning, while I was still in bed, and you have my precious parts in your hand right now.

And yet it is cool, owning something that was written by a famous poet in 1866. I wonder what the value of an original Dickinson poem is. The Lovecrafts haven’t given me access to the Internet, not that I’m stupid enough to do searches anyway. I mostly care about this because it’s going to piss the Lovecrafts off. They can never know. You are sneaky and a troublemaker, but you are also warm and goofy, and this is your idea of fun.

I brush my teeth like mad, because Vivi’s teeth were bright and strong.

“Vivi?”

I spray the mirror with Crest. Mrs. Lovecraft stands behind me. I cringe, dabbing at the mirror with a towel too fancy to be used to clean up toothpaste, and then cringe at that, apologizing.

Mrs. Lovecraft reacts to none of it. “I wondered if we might have a word?”

This is it. I am going down. Temple, you are a foxy trickster, and this is your way of getting rid of your unasked for, unplanned for new sister, the reappearing playmate you didn’t want or need, given your “loads of friends.” I was a fool to think this would work.