Lisa Unger - Fragile

“So do you have a plan? Is someone expecting you?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been seeing someone in the city.”

“I thought you were with Ricky Cooper.”

“We’re just friends. No strings.”

He gave a sharp little laugh. “Does he know that?”

Charlene felt her face flush. And that smell was starting to make her feel queasy. Sometimes, on a long ride, she’d get carsick, start to feel that gray wobble of nausea, that expanding unwellness. All she needed was to get sick in this guy’s car.

“Can you pull over a minute?”

“Why?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

He pulled over quickly, and she got out into the chill of the night. She walked off the shoulder to the grass and sat, put her head on her knees. She could hear the rush of traffic, people racing toward whatever next event of their lives. Just like her, moving on, moving forward. She willed herself to be solid, to not fall apart by the side of the road. But it was no use. She managed to keep it off her clothes by getting on all fours, but she vomited until she was retching. It seemed to go on forever. When it was over, she sat sobbing.

“Are you all right?” he asked from behind her. She hadn’t heard him get out of the car, had forgotten about him altogether.

“Do I look all right?” she snapped. Then she remembered that he had gone out of his way for her, was her ride. “Sorry,” she said more gently. “No. I guess I’m not.”

She felt him just standing there, not saying anything. Finally, she got up and faced him. He was taller, bigger than she thought of him-when she thought of him at all. He opened the door for her, and she climbed back inside. The stink of the old car made her feel sick again almost immediately. She rolled down the window.

“I know it’s cold, but I need some air,” she said as he started driving again.

“It’s fine.” But he’d gone grim and sullen. Just like all men the minute you stopped being a sweet little flower. The second you ceased to please, they got shitty. Some of them, like Graham, got violent. She felt another wave of nausea at the thought of her stepfather, but she pushed the events of the evening away-a bad B horror movie she’d rented and turned off before the bloody conclusion. If she didn’t think about it, it wasn’t real. She could do that. Always had been able to. But her body was disloyal, puking by the side of the road, sobbing. Now her hands were shaking, adrenaline pumping for no good reason.

“Sorry,” she said again. “I’m not having a good night.”

But he didn’t say anything, just kept driving. Well, fine, fuck you, too , she thought. When the cold air got too much, she rolled up the window and leaned her head against the glass.

“Should we put on some music?” she asked.

“Radio’s broke.”

Her mother insisted that there was no way Charlene could remember her father. He’d died when she was very young, in a car accident on his way home from work. But she did remember him-how it felt to hold his hand or ride on his shoulder. She knew his face, a lot like hers, from the photographs she had of him. But that was not how she remembered him. Nor were there particular events in her memory of him. It was an essence, a feeling-just a good, warm feeling, a safe, secure happiness. When she was younger, she could access that feeling simply by holding his picture to her chest and closing her eyes. But as she grew older, she couldn’t do that anymore. It became elusive, a shadow slipping around the corner while she gave chase. How could she ever get it? That wonderful feeling? The safety of being loved by someone who didn’t want to violate you in return, who didn’t want to take something that didn’t belong to him?

She’d thought Graham was all right at first. She was nine when he and her mother married. There were fun times-a trip to Florida and Disney, a baseball game at Yankee Stadium. She couldn’t say she’d ever loved him; but she remembered feeling okay when he was around.

But Charlene had gotten her period when she was ten and started developing early. By age eleven, she’d needed a bra. He’d started looking at her differently then, averting his eyes, shrinking from her embraces. She felt the sting of a rejection she didn’t really understand. Around the same time, his marriage to her mother started to go sour. The good times were over; there were only fights and tears and slamming doors.

Then a few years later it happened. She awoke in the night and went to the kitchen in her underwear and a tank top to get a glass of orange juice. On the way down, she passed by the family room without even glancing inside. She might have done the same on the way back if he’d been quiet, but as she passed by the darkened room, she heard a low moan. The sofa bed was out, and Graham was on top of the sheets, wearing just a T-shirt, his bottom half exposed. He was masturbating. She stood staring, stunned. When she looked at his face, he was watching her. He didn’t try to cover himself. He just continued pumping his hand, watching her. She couldn’t read his expression-something between need and anger. She felt her face start to burn and her throat go dry. She backed away until she hit the wall behind her. It must have been seconds, but it felt like hours that she stood there, mouth gaping-disgusted, ashamed, and oddly fascinated.

Finally, she broke into a run for the stairs and locked herself in her bedroom. All night she waited for him to try to turn the knob and get in, but he didn’t. She thought about telling her mother, but she couldn’t imagine the conversation, the words she would use to say what he had done. Her mother was so sad already, so unhappy. Charlene knew she remembered Dad, too. I shouldn’t have bothered trying to marry again. I was lucky to have love like that once. I didn’t deserve him in the first place, the things I’ve done .

The next morning, Graham was sitting at the kitchen table with his paper and a mug she’d given him one Father’s Day-WORLD’S GREATEST DAD. She hadn’t even meant it when she bought it; she was just trying to be nice. Now she wanted to smash it across his stupid face.

“Good morning, Charlene,” he said. His expression, when he peered at her over the paper, was a dare.

“Want some eggs, baby?” her mother asked. A cigarette burned in the ashtray, the coffeepot gurgled, and morning show hosts bantered on the television. Outside, there was a depressing drizzle.

“I’m not hungry,” she said. “I may never eat again.”

Graham held her eyes.

“Oh, stop it,” her mother said. “You’re a skinny minny. Toast?”

“Sure, fine. Toast. Thanks.”

Her mother popped the bread in and then went upstairs to get ready for work. For a few minutes, they sat there. Graham pretended to read; Charlene listened to the television but stared at the wallpaper.

“I was thinking on the way home tonight I’d pick up a DVD player, get rid of that old VCR.”

She’d been begging him for one for months. You could only get VCR tapes from the library. It was embarrassing not to have a DVD player.

He put the paper neatly on the table in front of him and folded his hands over it. His hair was still wet from the shower. The denim shirt he wore brought out the blue of his eyes. She shrank back from him when he leaned toward her slightly. She saw remorse on his face, something sad.

“What do you think about that, Charlene?”

What was he offering her? Was it an apology? A bribe? She was nearly fourteen at the time; she knew what he’d done was wrong. Her mother would leave him. He could go to jail. She was old enough, smart enough, to know these things. You learned about it in school, what was okay, what wasn’t. So why did she feel dirty and small inside? Why did she feel ashamed and afraid? She kept thinking of him lying there, that hungry look on his face. But if she told her mother, the whole world would come crashing down around them. It wasn’t as if he’d touched her.