Ash Eater Page 2

  “The doctor didn’t say anything else?”

  “Well, he mentioned depression as a possibility.”

  “She just turned twelve. Depression can’t be a possibility. I mean, it could, but she never demonstrated it before we moved here. We would have seen it when she was younger.”

  I stare off, like a fly on the wall.

  Depression is something for older people. Right?

  Hear my prayer, Lord;

  let my cry for help come to you.

  ~ Psalm 102:1

  Chapter 3

  Why Did You Write This?

  “Um, Ms. Myrtle?” I tentatively approach my sixth grade teacher’s desk, hoping I can’t smell her infamous coffee and cigarette breath.

  “Miya, aren’t you supposed to be outside at recess?” Wow. Apparently there is no getting far enough away from breath like that.

  I wonder if my breath is that bad. I did smoke a cigarette on the way to school. “I…I wrote something and I wanted to know what you think about it.” My sweat-covered palms crinkle the edges of the pages.

  “Sure. Is this something you wrote?”

  I nod.

  “I like that. I’ll be sure to take a look at this.”

  Do people realize what agony takes place in a writer’s heart when she places her latest masterpiece in someone’s hands? Apparently Ms. Myrtle doesn’t.

  I did hope she’d ask me to stay rather than force me to venture out into the torture chamber that is the recess yard in spring. All the pretty girls prance about in their skirts and all the boys try their hands at dodge ball while laughing about the least popular kids, namely me, and glancing at the pretty girls’ legs.

  I sit under the jungle gym at the far side of the school yard. Here the teachers can’t see me. They won’t ask me to get up and play with the others. The darkness I fight threatens even here in the school yard. It swallows me whole, up until the teachers call us all to line up again.

  I shake away the last remnants of my internal struggle. I need to focus. Maybe Ms. Myrtle has read my story by now.

  *

  It’s the end of the day and Ms. Myrtle still hasn’t read it.

  *

  First thing the next morning, while I struggle between dejection and relief as my peers ignore me, Ms. Myrtle calls me to step outside into the hall with her.

  She’s holding my story in her hands. And looks at me with a measure of sternness and a greater measure of compassion.

  I smile and try not to cry.

  “Did you really write this, Miya?”

  “Um, yeah. Is it bad?”

  She shakes her head and looks to be on the verge of tears. “Not at all. For someone your age, this is really good. Really good.”

  I smile, my eyes welling up. “Do you think it’s good enough to be published?”

  “It’s about rape, Miya, and about death. Is this—is this from something you heard on the news? Are—are you okay? Are you in danger at home? Why did you write this?”

  My whole body shakes. I can’t let her learn any of our secrets. I can’t form a response. I can’t find my breath.

  “Here’s a pass,” she says. “Go to this office. It’s beside the principal’s office.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  She sets firm hands on my shoulders. “No, sweetie. This is to make sure you aren’t in trouble. She’s read the story already and she just wants to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  But I am a worm…scorned…despised by my people.

  ~ Psalm 22:6

  Chapter 4

  Counselor

  Suzanna Shields, the plaque on her door reads, Counselor. This office is a mess. Can this lady do anything to help me? She’s on her hands and knees picking up a stack of papers from under the desk when I come in. I walk out again and tap lightly on the door frame.

  “Oh!” She bumps her head on the desk as she crawls out. “Ow! Sorry!” She dusts her knees and stares at me. “Are you Miya?”

  I nod. She seems both inviting and terrifying. Her warm smile scares me.

  “You can come in. You’ll have to forgive the mess. I just started here a few days ago and the last counselor…well, you don’t need to hear me complain.”

  I shrug, hugging my body close to the door frame. “I can understand. We all want to complain sometimes.”

  She smiles at me in a way that calms me a bit more. “He was messy. And unorganized. To say the least. I hardly have space for another chair in this office. You can take my chair. Come on in. Really, I don’t bite, and I don’t complain, most of the time.” She rolls her eyes and smiles in a friendly, unassertive kind of way. “I want to know about Miya.”

  I edge toward her comfy executive chair. “You’re not going to call my mom, are you? I mean, am I really in a ton of trouble?”

  “Why don’t we just talk, and we’ll leave the phone calls for what’s legally necessary.”

  “Did I break the law by writing that story?”

  She lets forth a tinkling laugh. “Not at all. But I tell you what—all the best storytellers had their books banned at one time or another.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know if that should make me want to read one of those books or not.

  “Maybe you can tell me the inspiration behind this story you wrote.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Like it? Well, it was well written, but the themes weren’t ones that I gravitate toward in terms of liking. Two girls get raped in a park and one of them dies. It was well written, but disturbing, wouldn’t you say?”

  I shrug. Then I remember how to get out of telling any family secrets. “There was a story on the news before Christmas about a woman who was jogging in Central Park and had gotten raped. I guess that got me thinking.”

  She nods, leaning against the window pane, and stares at me. “I can see how that story would be disturbing.” She lifts up an obviously photocopied version of my story. It makes me wonder how many photocopies my teacher made. “So this was your way of processing what happened.”

  “Yeah.” I run my fingernail over the upholstery nail holding the leather to the wood of the chair.

  “So…how are things at home?”

  I concentrate on running my fingertip round the circumference of the nail. “Home is fine.”

  “Are your mom and dad both with you at home?”

  “It’s my mom and my aunt. My dad lives in the city with his new wife.”

  “That must have been hard. Did you feel rejected?”

  “No. I chose to live with my mom. I see my dad on Sunday afternoons.”

  “Do you miss him during the week?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I wish my mom and dad could be together, but I’m happy with the way things are.”

  “Do you get along with your aunt?”

  I analyze the way she said ‘aunt,’ afraid she heard the rumors, afraid she knows the truth. “Yeah, she’s great. She’s really smart and calm. She’s a history teacher.”

  “Really? Where does she teach?”

  “At the state university.” I regret as soon as I tell her the place. A look of recognition crosses her face. Panic clenches a firm grip on my stomach. “Am I missing some important lessons in class?”

  “Ms. Myrtle said you were a straight A student. I think you’ll be fine.”

  “But I don’t want to miss anything.”

  She looks down at some papers. “It looks like you have almost perfect attendance, except for a doctor’s appointment last month. That’s remarkable for April. I’ll let you get back to class. But if you ever need someone to talk to, remember that I’m here. You can call me Suzanna.”

  I nod nervously. “Okay. Thank you.” I extract myself from that leather chair and scurry out of her office.

  With my head so full of panic and relief, I lose my way back to class.

  “Are you lost?” an older man asks. I wonder if he’s a teacher since he’s too dressed up for a janitor. My theory that elementary schools only hav
e female teachers must be wrong.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you in third grade, or fourth?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Am I still that short? Do I still have such a baby face? “Sixth. Ms. Myrtle’s class.”

  “So you’re one of the smart ones.”

  “I—I—”

  “Ms. Myrtle teaches the smartest of all the kids in this school. She’s a sharp one. I’ll walk you up there, since I have to talk to a teacher on that floor.”

  I walk behind him, steering clear of the shadows, wondering why I feel so nervous and afraid. Up the stairs, I keep two to three steps behind him. “I know where I am now, thank you.” I skirt past him toward the door of my classroom.

  My teacher looks up as soon as I came in.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Myrtle,” I say, ducking on my way to my desk.

  Ms. Myrtle looks differently at me as if she will learn my secrets if she doles out an extra dose of compassion. I’ve been trying as best as I can to keep the truth locked up. I guess I have to try harder.

  I am like a desert owl, like an owl among the ruins.

  ~ Psalm 102:6

  Chapter 5

  The Move

  Two weeks before school ends we start moving into our new house, new neighborhood, new beginning. We’ll have to paint and repair the place. But looking forward to that makes each agonizing day of school better.

  Mom scored a good deal on the house because of its history. Murder-suicides reduce costs exponentially. The house was worth $300,000 or more and we bought it for $100,000. My brothers won’t have to share a room.

  The first day we show up, I walk tentatively up the porch steps. Nate, the fearless pioneer, climbs over the moldy carpets first and checks out the whole house for us.

  “There’s no blood anywhere,” he declares from the staircase.

  “See, I told you,” Abbie says. “I’m pretty sure you won’t find any ghosts here either.”

  “Besides, we’re more real than ghosts,” Mom assures me.

  It can’t be any more haunted than the house at Silver Meadows. I breathe through my mouth to avoid the smell of the moldy carpet as I follow everyone else in.

  “Go upstairs and pick out which bedroom you want,” Mom says.

  Ryan and Nate are already up there picking out their rooms. We choose by the unbelievably bright colors on the walls. Rather, they chose by that method and leave me the color no one else would ever want. Blindingly bright sunshine yellow.

  “See, Miya,” Nate says as he slides past me into the echo-y room, “it’ll be good for you to have colors that make you happy. You’ve been all too depressed at that school.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “You’ve had darkness around you for months, Miya. What’s going on?”

  “The kids at Silver Meadows always throw rocks at me when I walk home from school.”

  “Did that start a few months ago?”

  “It’s been since autumn.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  I shrug. I’m not sure if I want Nate to know what it’s like for me. He has battles of his own in school.

  He looks at the north facing wall that has the late spring sun shining against it. “At least you’ll have light. You need lots of light around you, sis. Sorry I haven’t been that for you.”

  I stare at these yellow walls wondering how I’ll ever be able to sleep. Does a color this bright glow in the dark? Its contrast with the eggplant purple walls in the hall nauseates me. “What sort of drugs were these people on that they painted the walls this color?”

  “Hey, at least it’s not red like the living room.”

  Yeah, cherry red walls with a burgundy red carpet. Clearly these people were disturbed.

  But the physical work of cleaning and clearing this house has its own reward for me: life doesn’t hurt quite so much in the midst of this activity.

  And there is camaraderie in my family again, or something close to it. Ryan and Nate work beside me scraping paint and hauling the mess out to the curb.

  *

  The week school gets out should be joyous. It’s lonely. I paint in solitude, pausing to watch the dust particles float through the blindingly bright room.

  When I was a little kid, I’d watch those dust motes for a full hour, sinking into a daydream, pouring all my questions into a new story evolving in my mind.

  I rarely have stories anymore, just darkness.

  One good thing about all the light bouncing off the walls is that the darkness doesn’t envelop me here. It hasn’t in a full week. I hope it never comes back.

  I stare at these dust particles, so beautiful, so peaceful. The brightness arrests me.

  Spinning, swirling, spiraling, eddying, they’re no longer dust particles. Snowflakes fall gently, softly, silently around me. I’m caught up in the dance

  I gaze up until all I can see is snow. It descends slowly, gliding upon a gentle breeze. Evergreen trees are my new roof. The brightness that had once blinded my eyes fades into a pinpoint: a solitary glow from a light post in the distance.

  I’m cold, but the harshness of it doesn’t hurt. I shiver and smile, expecting at any moment for a faun or other mythical being to show himself from behind a tree.

  I’m always afraid in forests. In forests I feel hemmed in, choked. Like I’ll go into a seizure again at any moment.

  In this forest, among the snow, where I dance while snowflakes kiss me, I am not afraid. In this forest I feel light and free. Have I found the portal to Narnia? If so, where are the children? Where are the talking beasts? There’s no one here but me. In a way, I’m glad for the solitude.

  But I long for the lion. The memory of that story and the lion cloak me with sudden warmth. Which is helpful. Unlike the children from that story, I don’t have a fur coat. But I long for that lion, so I can bury my hands in his thick mane. Isn’t there something that happens when he shakes his mane? Whatever it is I need that to happen to me.

  Cold sweeps over me again, but this time there’s no comfort in it. I creep over to a pine tree, yearning for warmth, friendship. All I feel is the scrape of the bark and the loneliness of an empty forest. Even the light of the lantern burns cold.

  In the distance I hear the hoot of an owl.

  Do owls ever long for friends? They’re born with siblings then they branch off on their own, but they call out with such a lonely, hollow, desolate sound.

  Does this owl talk? Would he talk to me?

  *

  “Miya, are you okay?”

  I look up at Nate. When did I get back in my room? And how did twilight fall so quickly? I want to run away, run away fast enough that twilight never catches me. Is it possible to never see twilight again?

  “I’m okay,” I reassure him.

  He looks down at my jeans.

  The paintbrush full of white paint rests against the pair of jeans mom bought for me last fall. I gulp, throw the brush into the tray, grab the drop cloth and scrape as much of the white off me as I can.

  Nate shrugs nonchalantly. “We’ll just wash them later. No big deal. Come with me, I want to show you something.”

  That simple shrug and the beckon in his eyes chase away the loneliness of the forest and fear of twilight.

  I follow him through the eggplant purple hall to his emerald room. There have been a few dabs of white here and there, but on the whole he seems reluctant to paint it.

  Or he’s been too busy doing other things.

  The window is wide open and Ryan is already on the roof over the porch. He’s smoking another of those silly slim cigarettes. “Come on out, sis.”

  “Won’t Mom and Abbie be mad that we’re on the roof?”

  Nate crawls past me onto the roof. “They’ve gone to the store, so they won’t be back for a while. We thought you might want to join us.”

  “Sure.” Smiling feels strange as if I haven’t worked these muscles in a week, but it bursts out of me anyway. I slip through the wind
ow and feel for my footing on the roof. Although it’s not too steep, I press my body against the side of the house and sit.

  Ryan hands me his already lit cigarette and lights up another.

  A neighbor I haven’t seen before pulls up to the house across the street. All three of us wave amicably at him as he steps from his Volvo. Even in twilight we can see him, the whites of his eyes like small moons, the gape of his mouth like a drain pipe. He clutches his brief case to his chest and rushes to his door, never once taking his eyes off us.

  Nate laughs boisterously. “I take it we’re the most frightening thing he’s ever seen come into this neighborhood!”

  Ryan laughs, then coughs, choking on the smoke. “I bet he’ll be fun over the next few years.”

  “Don’t torment him,” I beg.

  “We won’t torment him.” Ryan continues to cough. Then he spits over the edge of the roof.

  I really hope someone isn’t walking in front of our house right now.

  Ryan flicks his cigarette, which arches into the air and lands in the road. “I’m going in.”

  Nate stamps out his cigarette and flicks it beside Ryan’s. When did he get to be such a good shot? “I’m going in too.”

  I look up at both of them, willing them with my glance to stay. “I’m going to come in too.”

  They both look at my half-smoked cigarette.

  “If you keep wasting half my cigarettes, I’m not going to let you smoke them,” Ryan says.

  I shrug. I didn’t really want the cigarette. I don’t like it much, and I’m terrified of Mom catching me. But I want to be around them, and if this is the cost, I’m willing to pay whatever it takes. “Okay, let me finish this and I’ll be in when I’m done.”

  They crawl back in the window. I hear their footsteps on the stairs. I gaze on the glow and ash of my unwanted cigarette. I feel as desolate as that owl in the forest.

  Those who hate me without reason

  outnumber the hairs of my head…