53. MAGDALEN
53
MAGDALEN
We walk in silence as we approach my garden. The back of my hand still hums with the impression of his lips.
‘What do you need to tell me?’
Theo inhales deeply and stops walking, letting go of me. He guides us underneath the veranda, the smell of hydrangeas and rosemary enveloping us as he sits on top of the table. I stand in front of him, unsure of what’s going on and suddenly, Theo turns to me. Grabbing my face in both his hands, he brings me to him and kisses me, devouring my lips, licking, sucking, massaging his tongue against mine until I think my head is going to fall off. He breaks off the kiss and presses his forehead against mine, catching his breath.
‘It’s like lightning,’ he murmurs, running his lips against the bridge of my nose. ‘Every time I kiss you, it’s like swallowing lightning.’
And then he’s gone, stepping back, running his hands through his hair. It’s only when he looks at me that my heart sinks. Preoccupied with my own anger, I didn’t realize how upset he looked before. How dark the circles under his eyes are, having nothing to do with the healing bruise from Dante. His tiredness is potent and he sits further onto the table, beckoning me to join him.
‘You know, I saw you around eleven o’clock at night once; I heard the back door open because of that creaking sound it always makes.’ It’s like I can see his body cave inward the more he talks, so I sit down quietly, afraid that if I make any noise, he’ll spook. ‘I would get so excited when I heard that sound, because it meant that wherever that person was going, I could go with them. No one ever said no. Anyone in your family, I would run out the back door and go with them. And it was late, and I heard the door, and I thought that it was odd because Dante would have told me if he was going out. So I was in the shower, and I looked through the little window above the soap shelf to see who it was, and it was you.’ He looks at me, eyes wide and so vulnerable, but his gaze never wavers. Brushing a piece of hair from my forehead, he continues.
‘It was you, and your hand was covering your mouth like you were trying to be quiet, and I thought, Isn’t that weird? You rarely used that door. And here was the quietest girl I’d ever known, trying to be even more quiet . But I kept watching. I remember absentmindedly washing the shampoo out of my hair long after it was gone because it made that squeaky noise against my palm, you know? And my fingers were all pruned, but I didn’t... I didn’t realize, I didn’t feel anything, so I was still scrubbing because the streetlamp across from us had a spotlight on your face and I could see that you were crying.’ He turns his shoulder away from me, so absorbed in the memory it’s almost as if he forgets I’m here.
‘You were crying. And it was so awful to watch. When I think back, I still don’t remember ever getting out of the shower. But one second, I was under running water and the next, my hand was on the front doorknob, so ready to turn it, to run out and see if you were okay. Even though we never talked, that you think I never noticed you, it hurt me to see you so upset. It felt like a razor burn across my chest. So I was about to unlock the door when I looked down and... and I was, I was naked.’
He laughs, and I flinch. His voice is hoarse, and the sound is painful against the quiet of his story.
‘I forgot to put clothes on or even a fucking towel because when I saw you were upset, I forgot everything. Nothing mattered. You, you were family.’ He breathes deeply, facing me now.
‘And now, you’re my lightning, my summer.’ His eyes are red, and slowly he walks towards me, hands cupping each side of my face, fingers tangled in the knotted waves of my hair.
Exhaling harshly, he searches my eyes and whispers, ‘I’m going to tell you something that I know will end whatever the fuck is happening between us.’
I blink, confused by the shift. ‘You want to end this?’ I try to remove my head from his hold, but he doesn’t let me. His fingers cradle my head, and his thumb glides against my cheekbone in absentminded strokes.
‘Why I left.’ He squeezes my face between his hands so tightly that for a moment I can’t hear anything but the rough pressure of his palms against my temples. Tears rim the edges of his eyes, his breathing becoming sporadic, yet he looks at me with a wildness I’ve never seen before. The words rush out.
‘I’m sorry, mi dispiace. I’m so sorry.’ He releases me and stands up, stumbling against the corner of the bench.
‘Theo, you’re scaring me.’ His back faces me, strong shoulders slumped in defeat. I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m scared to disrupt his thoughts. I can tell he’s pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, steadying himself even now.
‘I went back upstairs, to put jeans on.’ It takes me a moment to remember his story, to recall my own tears from that night.
‘To find you and see what was wrong.’ The memory begins to creep back and for some reason, I begin to feel sick. Knowing he never found me, knowing I slept in the grass of his backyard that night because Anika wasn’t home.
‘But when I came back outside you were gone. I looked everywhere and even called Anika to see if you were with her.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I whisper.
He turns around to look at me, sighing before agreeing. ‘No, you weren’t.’ Slowly, he walks towards me again, tilting my head to look at him. ‘So I went into your house.’
The finality of his words causes a cold sweat to break across my back. How close we were to finding each other that night. Who knows if I could have turned out different if Theo had found me that night?
‘Okay.’
‘So I went into your house because I thought maybe you went back in there. But, obviously, you weren’t there. And for some fucking reason I went upstairs.’ He squeezes his eyes shut as if to escape the memory. ‘Your mamma was there.’
‘Of course she was; she’s the one who—’ Suddenly, the memory floods my mind so intensely it feels like my skull expands to accommodate the details I’d forgotten. I remember the red plastic chair. The unopened tomato jar sitting on the island. The smell of oil. But even now, after everything I have shared with Theo, I cannot make myself say it.
‘She what?’ His voice is cold and, when I don’t answer, he bends down, opening my legs to fit himself between them. My cheeks burn, embarrassed, still, by the intensity in his eyes.
‘I can’t. Please,’ I whisper, looking only at his lips. My limbs feel like lead, not a part of my body any more. With a heavy breath, I try to block the unwanted images from resurfacing, but it’s too late. I’m there, in the kitchen.
‘What did she do, Magdalen?’ His elbows rest on my thighs, fingers brushing my chin to get me to look at him. Humiliating. I shouldn’t have to tell him anything. I should be able to have this secret, to bury it beneath the veranda where only I can watch it die. But he presses on, keeping my chin locked, so I must look at him. And then I see the anger fade, melting into pure concern, into overwhelming worry, and the desire to ease his comfort surpasses the need to keep my secret. The words bubble out before I realize I have ever wanted to tell someone.
‘I have a few burns,’ I begin, unsure where to start. ‘Underneath my ribs and across my back, on my right side. There’s about six or seven—’
‘Eight,’ Theo interrupts, his voice rough. ‘There are eight.’
‘Right. There are eight,’ I blush, forgetting that Theo has seen every inch of my body. ‘Well, I was in the kitchen reading – I... I can’t remember what I was reading.’ I try to recall the cover of the book. A name of a character. But my mind draws a blank. For some reason, this makes me more upset than remembering just what happened. If I can’t remember the book, then it surely wasn’t worth shattering the fragile bond between mother and daughter.
‘And my mother asked me to watch the garlic to stop it from burning and I swear I don’t even remember saying yes, I was that obsessed with the book – whatever it was. And I guess I didn’t end up watching it at all and, when she came back into the kitchen with the jars of tomato, the garlic was burnt in the oil. Completely charred. Like ashes.’ Theo’s fingers flex against my legs, pulling me closer to him and settling his hands on my thighs. Anchoring me to reality, maybe knowing I don’t want to enter into the folds of this memory alone.
‘Well, of course she wouldn’t stop screaming. Telling me I’m selfish and stuck in la la land , which she says so often that I don’t even hear it any more. And the book was so good, that I just took it off the island and started walking to the dining room table while she was yelling. Obviously, that was rude. I should have apologized, but I just got so sick of being the one she yells at that my head went silent. But I guess I tuned everything out too well, because then all of a sudden I just fell over.’
The memory doesn’t make me sad, but replaying the scene in my head – the absence of time, and the darkness from those few moments of staring at words in a book to the grout in the tile – my stomach drops. A sick feeling crawls up my throat.
‘You fell?’ His eyebrows furrow in confusion.
‘Well, she threw the pan of hot oil at me, so yeah, I fell.’
Silence. He takes a breath in. Then out. Closes his eyes. When he opens them, there is nothing. I try to recall feeling pain. But it’s so distant. I can only remember the oil seeping into the dips in the floor and thinking how difficult it would be to clean up. Anger seeps off his fingertips. I see the slight tremor of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. I begin to worry. Worry for my mother, oddly enough. That this will ruin how he sees her.
‘Jesus, fuck, Magdalen.’ Theo grips my waist, fingers splayed across my stomach as he presses his forehead against my ribs.
‘The pan, it must have hit my head or something. I woke up alone, burned. Smelling this awful smell. And then there they were, just me and my new burnt flesh.’ I laugh softly, running my fingers through his hair, but he jerks his head to stop my hand and stares back up at me, the darkness now directed at me.
‘How can you fucking laugh?’ The disgust in his tone is palpable, and a wave of anger fills me.
‘What else should I do? Cry? Throw something back at her to get even? It happened years ago. I don’t care any more.’
‘It’s abuse.’
‘It’s life,’ I say, louder than I mean to. ‘And she apologized the next day, of course.’ I feel compelled to defend her. She is my mother, supposed to be my mamma.
‘Don’t ruin this for me, Theo. Don’t tell me that my mother abuses me.’
‘You’re seriously fucked if you don’t see that.’
‘You’re not allowed to come here after years and tell me my mum hates me.’
‘Well, Magdalen, what the fuck do you call someone who scars their daughter over tomato sauce?’
‘You’re foul.’
‘And I guess you’re delusional.’ He stands back up, grabbing his chin with his hand, biting down on his index finger.
My voice is quiet; I’m trying to think of a way to make him understand. Angry that I’ve betrayed my mamma to this boy.
‘She was always there for me. She just messed up one time.’
‘Those scars are permanent, Magdalen.’ He whips his head towards me. Everything about him has changed. He’s harsh, all hard edges and rigid.
‘You made me tell you. I didn’t ask for your opinion. I could say a lot of things about your dad. You have no right to lecture me about perfect parenting.’
‘That’s not what I’m—’
I cut him off. ‘What happened after you went upstairs?’
‘What?’ He stares at me blankly, consumed by a memory he wasn’t even there for.
‘I told you. Now it’s your turn. What happened after you went upstairs?’
‘This was a mistake. The upstairs part, that doesn’t fucking matter. It’s before.’ He paces around the dark garden nervously and even when I hate him, I feel drawn to protect him.
I reach out my hand, an olive branch of understanding. I hear myself whisper, ‘Our parents’ mistakes do not have to bleed into us.’ My fingers stay wrapped in his, hoping that, for now, this is enough. ‘Please, tell me.’