Janet Fitch - White Oleander

“Claire, open up.” I jiggled the doorhandle.

Then I heard what it was she was saying. “Sorry. So sorry. I’m just so goddamned sorry.”

“Open up, please, Claire. I want to talk to you.”

“Go away, Astrid.” Her voice was almost unrecognizably drunk. I was surprised. I thought she’d be sobering up or passed out by now. “Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.” I heard her sobbing dryly, almost retching, almost laughing, it became a sort of hum through the door.

I almost said, you’re not broken, you’re just going through something. But I couldn’t. She knew. There was something terribly wrong with her, all the way inside. She was like a big diamond with a dead spot in the middle. I was supposed to breathe life into that dead spot, but it hadn’t worked. She was going to call Ron wherever it was he went, and say, you’re right, send her back. I can’t live without you.

“You can’t send me back,” I said through the door.

“Your mother was right,” she said, slurring the words. I heard things crash to the floor. “I am a fool. I can’t even stand myself.” My mother. Making everything worse. I’d sent back all the letters I could find, but there must have been others.

I sat down on the floor. I felt like an accident victim, holding on to my falling-out insides. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the urge to go back to my room, fall into bed, under the clean sheets, and sleep. But I fought it, tried to think of something to say through the door. “She doesn’t know you.”

I heard the squeak of her bed, she was up, staggered to the door. “He’s not coming back, Astrid.” She was right on the other side. Her voice fell from standing height to sitting as she spoke through the crack. “He’s going to divorce me.”

I hoped he would. Then she might have a chance, the two of us, taking it slow, no more Ron coming home, trailing fear, selling hope, leaving her on Christmas, arriving home just when she was getting used to him being gone. It would be fine. No more pretending, holding our breaths, listening in as he talked on the phone. “Claire, you know, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

She laughed woozily. “Seventeen years old. Tell me, baby, what is the worst thing?”

The wood grain of the door was a maze I followed with my fingernail. I was about to say, try having your mother in prison, and the one person you love and trust is going off her rocker. Try being in the best place you ever had and they were talking about sending you back.

But then again, I would not have wanted to be Claire. I would have rather been myself, even my mother, imprisoned for life, full of her own impotent ferocity, than be Claire, worried about burglars and rapists and small teeth mean bad luck and my eyes don’t match and don’t kill the fish and does my husband still love me, did he ever, or did he just think I was someone else, and I can’t pretend anymore.

I wanted to hold her close, but something inside was pushing her away. This was Claire, who loves you, I reminded myself, but I couldn’t feel it right now. She couldn’t even take care of herself, and I felt myself drifting off. I felt her reaching for my hand, she wanted to come in. I didn’t think I could save her anymore. The maze trail I was following dead-ended in a peacock eye. “My mother would say the worst thing is losing your self-respect.”

I heard her start to cry again. Sharp, painful hiccups I felt in my own throat. She banged on the door with her fist, or maybe it was her head. I couldn’t stand it, I had to back down into lies.

“Claire, you know he’ll be back. He loves you, don’t worry.”

I didn’t care if he came back or not. He wanted to send me away, and for that I hoped he wrecked his classic Alfa that matched his gray hair.

“If I knew what self-respect was,” I heard her say, “then maybe I’d know if I’d lost it.”

I was so sleepy. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I leaned my head against the door. Out in the living room, the lights on the Christmas tree flashed on and off, the needles scattered on the unopened presents.

“You want something to eat?”

She didn’t want anything.

“I’m just getting something to eat. I’ll be back in a second.”

I made myself a ham sandwich. The Christmas tree needles were all over the floor. They crunched underfoot. The sherry bottle was gone, she must have taken it with her. She was going to have the hangover of a lifetime. She had left my portrait on the coffee table. I took it into my room, propped it on the desk. I looked into her deep gaze, I could hear her asking me, what do you want, croissant or brioche? Where would you go if you could go anywhere in the world? I traced my finger over her high rounded forehead, like a Gothic Madonna. I went back to her door, knocked.

“Claire, let me in.”

I heard the squeak of the bedsprings as she turned over, the effort it took to get up, stumble the three steps to the door. She fumbled with the lock. I opened the door and she fell back into bed, still wearing that red bathrobe. She pawed her way under the covers like a blind burrowing animal. Thank God, she wasn’t crying anymore, she was ready to pass out. I turned off Leonard Cohen.

“I’m so cold,” she mumbled. “Come in with me.”

I got in, clothes and all. She put her cold feet on mine, her head on my shoulder. The sheets smelled of sherry and dirty hair and L’Air du Temps.

“Stay with me, promise. Don’t leave.”

I held her cold hands, rested my head against hers as she fell asleep. I watched her in the light of the bedside lamp, which was always on now. Her mouth was open, she snored heavily. I told myself, things will turn out all right. Ron would come home or he wouldn’t, and we’d just go on together. He wouldn’t really send me away. He just didn’t want to see how damaged she was. As long as she didn’t show him, that was all he asked for. A good show.

CLAIRE WAS still sleeping when I woke up. I got up, careful not to disturb her, and went out to the kitchen. I poured myself some cereal. It was very bright, quiet, a pure crystalline light. I was glad Ron was gone. If he were here, there would have been phone calls, the whine of the coffee grinder, Claire might be up making breakfast with her smile painted on. I decided to stay in my silk pajamas a while longer. I got my new paints out and painted the way the light looked on the bare wood floor, the yellow tray of sunlight, the way it climbed the curtains. I loved when it was like this. I recalled days just like this when I was young, playing in a patch of sunlight when my mother slept in. A laundry basket over my head, squares of light. I remembered exactly how the sun looked and felt on the back of my hand.

After a while, I checked on Claire. She was still asleep. The room was dark gray, no morning light penetrated the west-facing French doors covered with blinds. It smelled stale. She had one hand flung across the top of the pillow. Her mouth was open, but she wasn’t snoring now.

“Claire?” I put my face right in hers. She smelled of sherry and something metallic. She didn’t move. I put my hand on her shoulder, shook her gently. “Claire?” She didn’t do anything. The hair stood up on my neck and arms. I couldn’t hear her breathing. “Claire?” I shook her again, but her head flopped like Owen’s giraffe’s. “Claire, wake up.” I lifted her by her shoulders and dropped her. “Claire!” I yelled at her, hoping she would open her eyes, that she would put her hand to her head and tell me not to shout, I was giving her a headache. It was impossible. She was playing a trick, pretending. “Claire!” I screamed into her sleeping face, pumping my hands on her chest, listening for her breath. Nothing.