In Her Skin(40)

“The father’s heavy footsteps, oily fingerprints on his pants from the girl clinging to his legs, desperate for him to stay. Swears from the father, soothing words from the mother, a change of pants. She is nine, for goodness’ sake. The friend is used to the girl’s outbursts, but she is still embarrassed, and pretends to be deeply interested in the Disney show, her nose nearly touching the TV. The girl grows quiet, a slow, controlled burn. The mother takes away the popcorn: choking hazard. Phone numbers are left, promises are made to return early. They will be just one door over, visible from the window of Daddy’s office. They will request a seat on the patio, and the girls can wave to them from the window.

“Doors are locked from the outside. Behind the door, the parents exchange sighs of relief and hold hands. It will be fine. She cannot control their lives. They are good parents. They’re no farther away than if they were sitting on their own front steps and the girls were inside. Inside, the friend wants to play with their American Girl dolls, hers brought for the occasion, a little blond doppelg?nger with hard cheeks. The girl has no interest. The girl walks to the father’s darkened office and stares out at the patio, at her parents being seated by a hostess, at her parents looking into each other’s eyes, and never once looking up and waving at the window, like they’d promised. The girl waits and waits and waits. The friend calls her to come, this is no fun, they can watch any show she wants. There is no specialness in this, of course, since the girl is always in charge of what they watch. The parents clink their drinks and smile at each other and touch hands, and the girl watches and grows cold. Inside her, the tiny flame that has burned dimmer and dimmer each passing year finally snuffs out. She turns away and glides into the kitchen on pale feet, big for a girl of nine. She will be tall.

“The girl turns the big old stove to four twenty-five. For good measure, she twists the numbered knobs on the front too, which go click-click-click. Nothing happens except a smell the girl associates with her mother cooking, so she thinks that must be right. From a deep drawer, she takes out a hand mixer, a shiny bowl, a cake pan, and a spatula. From the pantry, she takes out cake mix, and from the refrigerator, eggs and butter.

“She waits. A minute, two. Lets the darkness within rise and meet her. From the living room, the TV roars canned laughter.

“‘I want to bake,’ she calls to the friend. The friend jumps up with a cheer.

“The girl reads the box of cake mix. ‘It says we need oil. Can you get it from the top shelf?’

“The friend is small and stands on her toes to reach. The girl holds the hand mixer by its skinny neck and swings it like a bottle. The crack against the back of the friend’s head is swift and pleasing. The friend staggers, stunned, her eyes unfocused, inexplicably smiling. She says the girl’s name like a question. The oven dings. The girl walks wide of the staggering friend, who is reaching for her, and opens the oven door with a squeal. The friend teeters; her back is small. The girl grasps the back of the friend’s pajamas and shoves her headfirst into the oven, knocking the door partly closed with her knee. Holds her there. The friend barely struggles. The girl doesn’t know if she’s doing it right, but the smell of gas is strong and the friend stops struggling after a minute. Slowly, the girl drags the friend from the oven (so light! Filled with sawdust, this friend) and lays her on the floor back in the parlor in front of the TV. The girl considers the open wall; peels back the plastic. It is a lovely nook, a place the girl would like to hide in, if she needed to. Folding the friend makes her fit. The girl tapes the plastic back in place. Behind, the friend is a rosy blur.

“The girl follows the slug trail of blood back to the kitchen. She is getting a dull headache. Holding her head, she closes the oven door and reaches for the oil. Measures the oil, cracks the eggs, pours the powdery mix into the bowl. She cleans the friend’s blood off the base of the hand mixer with a paper towel and mixes the cake, a soft whir over the noise of the Disney show. She moves the bowl to a different counter so she can watch the show at the same time. When the characters do something silly, she laughs, even though it is a show she’s already seen. When the mix is poured and the cake is in the oven, she returns to the window, leaving the mess on the counter, because she is nine. Her parents have ordered dessert, and it has arrived, and they are sharing the small cup of crème br?lée. This is the girl’s favorite dessert, and she can taste the caramelized sugar in her mouth. They must hate her, to do this to her. To leave her alone with the memory of burnt sugar in a house smelling of gas and chocolate and blood.

“The girl remembers the cake. She turns on the oven light and peers inside, but it tells her nothing. She tries taking the cake out, but because she is nine, she forgets oven mitts and burns her palms, dropping the cake upside down on the floor. She runs her hands under cold water until they turn numb, and this is how they find her.”

The only sound is my ragged breathing as it slows to nothing. Temple gazes at her open hands, tilting them, as if they still shine with burns, and continues:

“The girl shows them her hands, but they ignore her. Shouts about the gas, running to throw open windows that will be barred in the months ahead. The mother hammers at her cell phone but it is dead and she blames this on the husband. At the same time, they see the cake on the floor. They want to know where the friend is. The girl points to the parlor. The father stares at the girl for a moment, recognizing that the light in her has gone out, while the mother rushes to the parlor yelling for the friend. The mother grows quiet. The father comes toward the girl. The mother calls the father’s name, unsure, trembling. The girl’s hands hurt. She holds them out for him to see. Her eyes are dry. The father rips his eyes away from the girl and joins the mother in the parlor. The girl twists the faucet back on and sticks her hands underneath.