Mary Miller - The Last Days of California

“We’re on a budget,” our father said. “How about I get you your own room? How about that?”

“That would be nice,” Elise said.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” our mother said.

“It’ll be fine,” Elise said. “I won’t let Jess out of my sight.”

Our father got out of the car looking beaten, and I started to get that crushing feeling again, like my whole body was welling up, but then it went away and I was just irritated and hot.

While we got our luggage, a man on a bicycle cruised around us in wide circles. His pants were so short his skinny brown calves showed. One of his irises was whitish, terrifying. He rang his bell, nearly losing his balance, and my father pulled a tract out of the trunk. We must have had a thousand of them, stashed all over.

“Hey,” he called, flapping it back and forth at him. The man looked alarmed and circled wider before pedaling off.

“I bet this place is full of hookers,” Elise said.

“I don’t see any hookers,” our mother said.

“That’s because they’re all busy.”

My father handed me some tracts. Then he took the cooler out and opened the plug to let the water drain.

“I feel like I haven’t handed out tracts in forever,” I said.

“Speak for yourself,” he said. “I handed out dozens yesterday.”

“I can’t remember yesterday,” I said. “I’m losing track of my days—what day is it?”

“Thursday,” Elise said.

Our father gave us each a key and said he loved us and we said we loved him, too. Then we kissed our mother and told her we loved her.

I slipped tracts under windshield wipers as we went.

“People are going to hate you,” Elise said.

“Maybe somebody’ll read it,” I said.

“No one’s going to read it, it’s just going to piss them off.”

I inserted my key and pulled it out; the light blinked red. I tried again and got the same thing.

“You never do it right—there’s a technique. You have to put it in real slow and hold it there a second before pulling it out.” She winked at me and opened the door. We set our keys and purses on the table.

“This is the kind of place people kill themselves in,” she said, and I thought about our wholesome-looking cousin—she hadn’t killed herself, she’d been murdered . It seemed impossible. In all of the pictures and videos I’d seen of her, she’d looked normal, just a regular girl, like me but prettier.

“Maybe we’re out of money,” I said.

“Well, yeah , but we have credit cards and that’s what they’re for, so we don’t have to stay in motels with bike thieves and hookers,” she said. “I think he’s trying to teach us a lesson, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“Maybe they’re maxed out,” I said, unwrapping the thin bar of soap.

“He’s been using them,” she said.

“Maybe they’re almost maxed out.” I brought the bar to my nose—it smelled spicy. I washed my face again, trying to get the yellow tint off. Then I sat in bed while she plucked her eyebrows. She told me I ought to start plucking mine, that they were getting out of control.

“Are you gonna wash that thing off your face?” I asked, digging around in my ear. I scraped out something that felt like a bug but was just the crust of a tiny scab I hadn’t known was there.

“I like it.”

“It makes you look insane.”

“Take a picture first,” she said, tossing her phone onto my bed. I took a picture of her posed against the wall, making some sort of gang sign.

While she washed her face, I turned on the weak light and went through the contents of my bag. I refolded a couple of tank tops, counted the number of clean panties I had left. I was going to have to start washing them in the sink.

Elise stripped down to her bra and panties.

“Put your clothes back on,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to see you.” She seemed hurt, so I said, “You’re too pretty—it makes me feel bad.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like when people compliment my looks.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know,” she said. And then, “Because it reminds me that I’m going to die. If someone says I have nice teeth, I think, One day they’ll rot . If they say I have nice hair, I think about it falling out by the fistful.”

“I’d love it if people told me I was pretty. I’d trade it for smart or talented or anything else.”

“That’s stupid,” she said.

“You would, too.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know,” I said. “You have no idea.”

“Let’s go to the pool.” She unhooked her bra and I turned my head. There was a baby in her flat, tan stomach. I pictured it fully formed, a perfect little girl that looked exactly like her except for one thing—the eyes or nose of someone else. “You see this triangle here?” she asked, sticking a finger in the empty space below her vagina. Her pubic hair was shaved nearly to nothing. “Factory air. It’s Dan’s favorite part of me.”

“Who calls it that?”

“I don’t know, boys.”

“Where’d it come from?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said.

“Look it up on Urban Dictionary.”

She picked up her phone and typed while I waited. “‘The space created between a woman’s thighs when she’s standing with her legs parallel to each other, and perpendicular to the floor. As in, Dude, that chick had some nice factory air. I bet she doesn’t ever get any duck butter.’”

“What’s duck butter?”

“It just occurred to me—his favorite part of me is a part that doesn’t exist.”

My phone signaled the arrival of a text message and I dug it out of my purse. Nobody had called or texted me in days. One time my cell phone rang and Elise said, ‘That’s what your ringtone sounds like?’ as if I hadn’t had the same one for a year. The text was from an unknown number in our area code. Bitch , it said. It made my heart drop and I looked around the room as if the person could see me. I thought about who might have a reason to call me a bitch and came up with no one. It was the wrong number but I couldn’t help taking it personally. Bitch , I thought. I’m a bitch. I deleted it without telling Elise, who was down on the floor doing pushups, asking me how her form was.

We put on our swimsuits and the too-short dresses we only wore to the pool, and walked around to the fenced-in area. We claimed a couple of chairs, draped the tiny motel towels over the backs of them. I stepped out of my flip-flops, nearly losing my balance. Elise looked natural out of her clothes but I didn’t; it was my attempt to look natural more than anything that made me so awkward. I felt like my limbs had been taken off and reattached in different positions.

Once we were settled, we turned our attention to the three boys drinking beer at a table. They were listening to the radio. The station played Nirvana and The Doors and Elise started naming all of the rock stars she could think of who had killed themselves or OD’d at twenty-seven.

“That guy from Sublime,” she said. “What was his name?”

“I’ve never heard of Sublime,” I said.

“But maybe he wasn’t twenty-seven, I’m not sure. Do you know Blind Melon? You know Blind Melon, right?”

“No.”

“That song about the rain, with the bee? How’s it go?”

“I don’t know it,” I said, watching a father and son in the pool—the boy was learning how to swim. “Let’s just do it one more time,” the father kept saying, and the boy was trying everything—he was tired, he had a stomachache—and then he was bawling. I looked over at the table of guys and the blond caught my eye. It forged some kind of bond between us. And then the blond and his friend were out of their chairs, walking over to us.