We Were Beautiful Read online

  “Oh,” I say. Because what else is there? All my life, my mom told us what a monster her mother was, how she was so controlling. So condescending. So cold. How she was incapable of loving anyone other than herself.

  I look at her out of the corner of my eye as our taxi weaves through traffic on the way to her apartment. I can see my mother in the line of her jaw, but I see my sister in her eyes. The cab barely slows as it turns, making me slide over the slick seat and toward my grandmother. She doesn’t even glance in my direction.

  Our cab speeds down a shaded street lined with trees and then slams to a stop in front of a bank of trash cans crowding the curb. I push open my door as far as it will go and squeeze out onto the sidewalk. My grandmother waits for the driver to get out and open her door. I can tell by the look on his face he’s thinking that’s not in his job description, but the press of bills into his hand leaves him smiling.

  I stare up at the building I assume will be my home for the next couple of months. A set of stairs leads up from the sidewalk to the front door. My grandmother walks around the back of the taxi and heads up the wide brick steps. A man in a uniform pops out of the front door like a life-sized jack-in-a-box.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Thompson,” he says. My grandmother nods curtly at him. He looks past her to me. “This must be your granddaughter.”

  I look up. His eyes open a millimeter wider at the sight of my face, but he’s clearly a professional. “Afternoon, miss,” he says without missing a beat. I bob my head in hello before following my grandmother inside.

  The ride up in the elevator is the same as the ride in the cab, except this time we’re traveling vertically and there’s nothing to look at but the numbered lights above the door. The doors slide open on the fourth floor. I follow my grandmother to the right and wait while she rummages in her bag for the key.

  She pushes the door open and we step inside. After a short hallway, there is a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows and shelves stuffed with books.

  She places her purse and keys on a table and leads me farther into the apartment. “That’s my room,” she says, pointing at a closed door, “and you’re in here.”

  I notice she doesn’t say it’s my room, and I soon understand why. The door barely opens wide enough for her to squeeze through, and as I slide in after her, leaving my duffle bag in the hall, it’s immediately obvious why the door won’t open more than a dozen inches. Other than a bed that is wedged in the corner, the room is filled floor to ceiling with old books. The earthy reds and deep greens line the shelves and spill onto the floor, and their musty smell reminds me of my mother. She used to hide book purchases from my father like other women might hide new shoes or an expensive new purse.

  I walk over to one of the shelves and study some of the titles as my grandmother clears her throat. “I talked with Mrs. Brunelli. She said you should stop by at four tomorrow morning,” she says before sliding out the door.

  “Wait,” I say, turning from the books to my grandmother. “Stop by where?”

  I don’t ask the seven other questions I have, leading with Who the heck is Mrs. Brunelli? And four a.m.?

  “The diner on the corner,” she replies, like I should somehow already have this information. “I got you a job.”

  “Oh,” I say. I touch the scar on the side of my face, a nervous habit I’ve developed over the past few months. The therapist I was seeing said it was normal for people who’ve been in accidents to touch their scars. It grounds you, she said.

  “I don’t want you lying around here all summer,” my grandmother says, but what I hear is: I don’t want you here all summer. And all I can think is something Rachel used to always say: Amen to that, sister. Because it seems she doesn’t want me here as much as I don’t want to be here. Though instead of being funny, it just makes me feel more alone.

  My grandmother squeezes back through the door, but stops in the hall and pokes her head back in. “I suspect you’ll want to make yourself presentable before Mass.” It’s more of a command than a suggestion. “It’s at seven o’clock.”

  “Mass?” I ask, but she doesn’t elaborate.

  She disappears, but then she’s back. Again. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, but her words are clipped and fast like she’s trying to run away from them. She stands in the doorway, waiting. I know I should say I’m glad to be here too, but I’m not. I settle for something else.

  “What should I call you?” I ask. It’s a valid question. She doesn’t answer immediately, and I wonder if she’s running through the options: Mimi, Granny, Nana, Gram.

  “Ms. Thompson seems too formal,” she says. My eyes widen only slightly. You think? “Since we’re family, I suppose Veronica would be appropriate.”

  I nod. Veronica. Fabulous. She pulls the door shut after her, cutting off anything I might have thought to say. I sigh and sink onto the edge of the bed. Hung above my bed is a crucifix. I remember what my mother used to say about growing up Catholic. They like to keep Christ on the cross where they can keep an eye on him.

  I lie back and stare up at the ceiling above my bed. There’s another cross hung over my bed. This one is plain wood, wrapped in barbed wire. I pull out my necklace and look at the locket, watching the light play across it as I hold it up. Then I close my eyes. I should rest, but I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep. And I’ll do just about anything not to sleep. The therapist said my dreams will probably intensify at first as my memory improves. She said they’d fade after a while, as my psyche assimilates the trauma. I have my doubts.

  The weird thing about my dreams is that there aren’t any images—just sounds. Like watching a movie with my eyes closed. Sometimes I try to open my eyes because I want to see, need to see. But other times, I’m grateful for the safety of the darkness.

  I sit up, wrap my arms around my legs, and lean my forehead against my knees. In this position, if I start to drift off I’ll fall over and wake up. I sit there with my eyes closed until my grandmother—I mean Veronica—knocks on the door and tells me it’s time to leave.

  Chapter Two

  Your problem is, you lack confidence,” Veronica says. I nod, trying to keep up as I follow her down the sidewalk leading to her church. “That and you slouch.” I nod again and try to stand a little bit taller.

  I have to jog a few steps to keep from losing her in the crowd that shares the sidewalk with us. The sidewalk is packed. Tall people. Short people. Yelling people. Texting people. Purple-haired people, and one almost-naked person wearing silver sparkle short shorts and playing an accordion.

  “Keep up,” Veronica says over her shoulder. I hurry across the intersection, stepping away from the front of a cab a nanosecond before the light changes. I feel the blast of heat from his engine on the backs of my knees as he passes. I frown at the back of Veronica’s head as she pushes past a couple wearing matchy sweats. It’s not so much that she’s fast, it’s that nothing and no one gets in her way. Confidence is not something she lacks. She walks purposefully, with her arms swinging. More than one person has already gotten his ribs clipped as she walks by.

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I walk past the matchy couple. That was a mistake. The woman looks at me with a smile, as if to say she understands difficult grandmothers, but her face morphs into shock and quickly into pity. People always do that when they see my face. I hate that last bit. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.

  I try to walk close to the buildings and keep my hair hanging over my right cheek. Only a young girl wearing a pink shirt with a unicorn on it smiles at me. For a second, I think it’s Lexi and I smile back. I’m so focused on the magic wand she’s holding in her hand that I end up running right into the back of my grandmother, who has stopped at the corner.

  “Sorry,” I say again. It’s become like a mantra to me. I’m sorry. “Do you go to church every week?” I ask as we cross the street and walk down the block toward a giant stone building.

  “I go every day,” Veronica says.
/>   And sure enough, the schedule posted on the front of the church states that they do, in fact, have services every day. Veronica sees me looking at the sign. “I go twice on Sundays.” She looks at me and adds, “I don’t expect you to go every day,” but the tone of her voice suggests she will find me lacking if I choose not to go.

  I do some quick math in my head. In two weeks, Veronica goes to church more than I have in my entire life. My family only went on Christmas Eve. It was as much a part of our Christmas as the stockings or the tree or the light-up reindeer we used to put in our yard. I loved it—the candles, the poinsettias, the music. I didn’t even mind that it was the one time of the year my mother insisted I wear a dress.

  Veronica didn’t make me wear a dress, but she did insist on something other than jeans and sneakers. I have one skirt, but I don’t have any shoes except my Chucks and a pair of hiking boots, so Veronica loaned me a pair of her shoes. So not only am I wearing sensible, old lady shoes, I’m wearing shoes that are a size too small, which is why I’m almost limping by the time we get to the steps leading up to the church.

  Veronica waits at the base of the steps for me to catch up with her. When I draw even, she starts ascending, expecting me to follow. But I stop for a moment to let my feet rest, and take in my surroundings. I have to lean my head all the way back to see the crucifix hanging over the door. The figure is nearly the same as the one mounted over my bed, but on this one Christ’s eyes are open, staring at me. This time I feel like it’s him keeping an eye on me.

  “Mia?” Veronica says from where she’s waiting for me again; this time at the top of the stairs. I climb slowly because my feet hurt, but also because I’m becoming increasingly nervous about entering the church. Even though I don’t believe in God anymore, something about going inside his house, as Veronica keeps putting it, makes me uneasy. My anxiety increases as Veronica instructs me to dip my fingers in the holy water and cross myself. It’s that I think my skin is going to suddenly start bubbling when the water touches me, like I’m some sort of vampire, but it feels hypocritical. Veronica waits while I wet my fingers and make a weak cross on my front.

  We walk into the main part of the church, where not more than two dozen people are kneeling in the rows. Veronica dips at the end of the aisle and crosses herself again. I follow her into the row. No bowing. No crossing. She folds a little cushioned bench down from the row in front of us and kneels on it before closing her eyes. I watch as her lips move silently as I kneel beside her, then look toward the front, where rows of candles flicker. About half the candles are lit. Every once in a while, someone will walk forward to light another candle and stand with their head bowed for a few moments before returning to kneel again in the pew.

  A part of me is jealous of that simplicity. Light a candle. Say a prayer. It feels like the same thing everyone else has promised. Surgery. Counseling. Time. Like all I need to do is follow these simple steps and I’ll be fine.

  A side door opens. Everyone stands up as the priest walks to the front of the room. We stay standing while he says a bunch of stuff about repentance and forgiveness and penance and grace. And the whole time I’m thinking, If only you knew.

  Then the priest is holding a covered dish, and he starts talking about bread and wine and bloodshed. The words repeat in my head. Wine. Bloodshed. Wine. Bloodshed.

  The church is hot, and the incense snaking through the air is sweet, almost cloying. We stand and Veronica nods toward the front. I start to shake my head, but she grabs my hand.

  “Just put your arms across your chest,” she whispers as we join the line of people. I try, but I don’t do it right and she has to correct me. I take deep breaths, hoping that will help clear my head. But all the deep breaths send more of the incense into my lungs and straight into my brain. The line slowly moves forward. I keep my eyes fixed on the flickering candles.

  When we finally make it to the front, Veronica steps forward, accepting the wafer, then moves to the side. The priest nods encouragingly at me, but my head is spinning and I can barely respond. Memories press at the edges of my mind. The priest makes the sign of the cross over me and motions for me to step toward my grandmother. I try to move, but my legs feel rubbery. Then everything turns green and suddenly the floor is rushing up at me. The last thing I remember is laughing, because for one crazy moment all I can think is that I’m shedding the blood too, but instead of it covering sin, it’s just covering the front of my skirt and my sensible, too-tight shoes. And then it’s simply dark.

  Veronica says we’ll get a cab to take us back to her apartment, but I tell her I’d like to walk. The fresh air will do me good. I apologize several times on the way home, although I’m not entirely clear on why I should be sorry. I mean, I passed out. The fact that I cracked my head on the marble floor and am wearing most of the Communion wine down my front seems like penance enough for whatever sin I supposedly committed. I shake my head a little, trying to dislodge all that church-speak out of my brain. It’s awful enough that I just embarrassed myself in front of dozens of people and almost knocked a priest to the ground. I can barely stand the added humiliation that Veronica seems determined to lay on me.

  “Your blood sugar is probably low,” Veronica says. “You need to eat more. Or maybe you’re dehydrated.” We walk up the steps into her building. The doorman nods at us as we pass. “Are you sleeping okay?” she asks me.

  “Not really,” I say. She presses her lips together and nods as if she just solved my problem.

  “I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” is all Veronica says to me on the ride up in the elevator. Once we are in her apartment, she tells me she’s going to lie down. “If you’re hungry after your shower, there’s some food in the refrigerator,” she says. The not-so-subtle reminder that I’m filthy hangs in the air between us. “There are the spare keys and a map to Brunelli’s Diner,” she says, nodding toward the kitchen counter.

  I look at the piece of paper laid there. The grid lines are so straight; it’s obvious she used a ruler to draw in the streets. She even inked in the newsstand on the corner, complete with its striped awning.

  “Thanks,” I say, looking up at her. “What will I be doing?” I ask.

  “They’ll tell you,” she says. Veronica nods, then turns and walks down the hall. She pauses in front of her bedroom door. “Do I need to wake you in the morning, or can you get yourself up?”

  “I’ll set my alarm,” I say.

  “Very well. Good night, then.” She steps into her bedroom, pushing the door shut behind her.

  I glance down at my skirt, which is still stiff and damp with wine. I decide that Veronica is completely correct. I could definitely use a cleanup.

  After my shower, I change into normal clothes and head into the kitchen. I decide to eat some dinner, because the only things I’ve had all day are the bruised apple and half of the granola bar I packed in my duffle. I pull open the refrigerator, expecting to see a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, but there on the shelf is a plate covered with plastic, containing a perfect mound of mashed potatoes pushed up against a slice of what looks like meatloaf. A small dish of peas sits beside the plate. It appears homemade, but empty cartons in the trash tell me it’s takeout. I debate whether to heat the food, but I’m afraid the microwave might damage the china.

  I find a fork and carry my food to the table. I take a few bites of potato, but quickly realize that despite not having eaten much, I can’t make the food go down. I replace the plastic wrap over the plate and slide it back into the refrigerator. As I do, I notice my arms have these weird pink stains on them. Rationally, I know it’s from the wine, but my mind only sees blood. And then it happens.

  Rachel is crumpled against the passenger door, her hair falling across her face. Her pale skin is streaked with blood.

  I slide down the cabinet and sit on the cold floor. I take deep breaths, trying to make it go away, but it won’t. It just keeps playing in my head, a loop. Rachel and the broken wind
ow and the blood. Over and over. The psychiatrist talked about triggers, seemingly random events that will jog something free in my brain. She said I’d probably remember things in spurts. Images without sequence or context. But she didn’t warn me about this.

  “Stop,” I whisper. “Please.”

  Finally, it does. I sit, shivering on the floor until my heart slows and my breathing stops coming in ragged gasps. When I feel strong enough, I stand and hold on to the counter until the buzzy feeling in my head goes away. Once I feel steady enough, I walk over to the window and look out, trying to see the sky in between the buildings. It’s dark, but not the kind of dark I’m used to. When night falls in Maine, light just ceases to exist. Rachel and I used to sit on the back porch in the evening, and if we tilted our heads back, all we could see were stars. So many that it looked like a bowl of them had been upended over Earth.

  Like holes to heaven, Rachel used to tell me.

  Here in New York, I can’t see any stars at all. Just the bright city lights and the darkness beyond.

  Chapter Three

  The good news is that I don’t have to wear a uniform like I did when I worked at Boom’s Ice Cream last summer. (Apparently Boom thought that baseball caps with huge brown pom-poms on top would sell ice cream.) At the diner, I can simply wear jeans and a T-shirt. The bad news is I assumed Veronica got me the early shift so I wouldn’t have to see anyone. And that might have been true where I used to live in Downeast Maine, but that’s not true here in Manhattan. Even though I’ve been at the restaurant for only half an hour, I’ve already seen eight people, and those are just the people who actually came into the kitchen. There have been another dozen or so in the front, stacking newspapers, bringing in produce, and delivering napkins and straws and those little paper thingies you use to grab donuts so you don’t have to touch them with your bare hands.

  I stand to one side, waiting for some kind of direction. The kitchen is dominated by a giant chrome table. Above it, hanging from hooks, are dozens of utensils—spoons and whisks and ladles of every size. Flats of strawberries and crates of eggs dominate one end of the counter, while the other is filled with wheels and logs of cheese.