A. Homes - The End of Alice

Her mother carries in a breakfast tray, bowl of farina, burned toast, cup of tea.

“Are you all right? It’s after noon. You slept like a log. How do you feel?”

The girl doesn’t speak.

The mother sits on the edge of the bed, sprinkles brown sugar on the cereal, and stirs it around. “When you were a little girl, sometimes I used to bring you breakfast in bed for no reason.”

A fresh flower is on the tray. The mother tries hard.

“Butter or jelly?” the mother asks, picking up a piece of toast.

The girl makes a face. The mother hands her the bread, dry. “I spoiled you. Maybe that’s what I did wrong. That’s what this is all about, you’ve had it too easy. But what could I do, you’re my only girl, you’re all I’ve got.” The mother dips the spoon into the cereal and holds it up to the girl.

“You’re not going to feed me?”

“Of course not,” the mother says, putting down the spoon. “You’re perfectly capable of feeding yourself.” Getting up off the bed, she picks up clothing from the floor, folds it, and puts it away. “Eat your toast. I burned it on purpose, the charcoal is good for you, very absorbent.”

The girl’s passport is on the breakfast tray. “That’s the thing about Mommy,” the girl’s father said late last night. “She keeps the details in order. She’s always got us ready to go at the drop of a hat.”

The girl gets out of bed, dresses. She feels thin like paper. Her head is hollow.

“If we hurry, the hairdresser can squeeze you in,” her mother says. “Mush, mush, let’s go.”

Theirs is an uneasy peace, a reconciliation based on near tragedy.

At the beauty parlor the girl puts a pink robe on over her clothing. The shampoo woman turns on the water, tilts her head back, and massages shampoo through her hair. On the shelf in front of the girl are glass vials, serums, special treatments.

“How come I never get one of those?”

“You’re not damaged enough,” the shampoo woman,says. “Just a little dry. This’ll straighten you out.” She pumps a few squirts of conditioner into her hands, smooths her fingers through the girl’s hair, then brings the girl to the hairdresser’s chair.

“She’s going to Europe tomorrow,” the mother says to the hairdresser.

“So, you want something easy that you don’t have to think about?” the hairdresser says.

The girl nods. The hairdresser begins to cut. Chunks of hair fall to the floor.

“You’re being made over,” the mother says. “How do you feel? Do you feel all right?”

The girl feels dulled, as if she’s been hit in the head with a brick. She secretly wonders if she doesn’t have a little bit of brain damage. “Tired,” the girl says.

“I forgot to tell you, Matt called this morning. He wanted to make a tennis date. I didn’t think you’d be in the mood for tennis today. I told him you’d call him later.” Her mother continues to talk. She is able to talk for hours about nothing at all.

The hairdresser turns on the blower, momentarily drowning the mother out.

“Much improved,” the mother says when the dryer is off. “A good cut, it brings out your face, and you have such a pretty face.” The mother hands the girl two dollars and says, “Go, give them to the shampoo lady.”

All down her shirt she can feel little sharp pieces of hair, a hair shirt; she squirms.

“You’ll need a few things,” the mother says, talking as she drives. Motion. The girl must be in motion. Moving against the world, it is the only thing that’s calming now, soothing. She doesn’t care where she’s going, just as long as she keeps moving.

The mall is nine stories. “We’ll just do a little bit,” the mother says. “I know you’re tired from all that vomiting last night, but you absolutely need a suitcase.”

A single bag. She will pour herself into a single bag.

“Something light,” the mother says. “You don’t want to be carrying lots of heavy baggage all over the world.”

It is ninety-two degrees outside and the stores are filled with fall clothing. Sweaters are on display.

“A suit,” her mother says. “Every young woman needs a beautiful suit.”

Her mother picks things out and she tries them on. She sits in the dressing room while her mother and the saleslady run back and forth, hunting and gathering, collecting clothing like nuts and berries, bringing it all back to the dressing room, the den.

“Oh, that’s it,” the mother says, clasping her hands together. “That’s it, that’s it.”

In the shoe department, the mother picks out a pair of pumps, the girl tries them on.

“How are they?” the mother asks.

“Crippling. I’ve had them on two minutes and already my heels are bleeding.” The girl turns to the salesman. “Do other people’s feet bleed from their shoes?”

The salesman looks at her.

“Who knows anything about what happens to other people,” the mother says.

“I just wonder.”

“Shoes aren’t supposed to be comfortable. You look grown-up, that’s what counts. People will take you seriously. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”

“Do you want them?” the salesman asks.

“Whatever makes her happy,” the mother says. “I want her to have whatever makes her happy.”

The shoes won’t make her happy. Just the idea that they’re supposed to make her happy makes her hate them. She takes them off and hands them back to the salesman.

“I’ll think on it,” she says, knowing she doesn’t want them, but thinking it impolite to say so.

Her mother buys her a camera, ten rolls of film, a folding alarm clock, two travel books, and an empty journal. “For your thoughts.”

My head is banging, my brain knocking against the walls, all the padding is gone.

“Daddy’s picking up your tickets,” the mother says when they are home. “It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” The mother is in her room packing the girl’s bag. “I’m excited, aren’t you?” The girl shakes her head.

“It’ll be such fun. I wish I could go.”

“You can,” the girl says. “Just go.”

“I can’t. Who would take care of your father?”

“There’s something I need to do,” the girl says after dinner. “An errand I have to run.”

Matt. She goes to Matt’s house. As she walks up the driveway, she instinctively, reflexively gags. She spits bile into the bushes. Matt is upstairs in his room. His mother is in the kitchen, cleaning up. His father, working late.

“I called you,” Matt says.

“I’m leaving.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m going to Europe and then back to school. My father bought me a ticket.”

“I love you,” he says. “I didn’t say it before because I thought it would gross you out.”

“We all love something once,” she says, her first effort at being philosophical. “That’s how it starts.”

“Will you come home at Christmas?”

“Too soon to tell.”

She has brought her new camera and a roll of film. She photographs him.

He gives her a small white jewelry box. “I’ve been saving this for you. It’s from my elbow.”

She smiles.

“Should we fuck farewell?”

“I should go,” she says, getting up to leave.

“Stay.”

“I can’t.”

Her parents drive her to the airport.

“Do you have enough money?” her mother asks. “Whatever you want, just put it on the card. Enjoy yourself. You only live once.”

“Don’t encourage her,” the father says. “It’s very expensive over there.”

“Call us, let us know you’ve arrived.”

“We hope you feel better,” her father says, kissing her good-bye.

She passes through the metal detector. She has three weeks, twenty-one days, to reinvent herself, to metamorphose.