Page 34 of Bent Heavens

Liv stared at the skinner. The spindly limbs, bent like triggers in expectation of pain. The huge, round, bulging eyes. The spumous mess of its mouth, reverted back to silence. It was inscrutable, obstinate, unsympathetic. Doug was right. She had to hate this thing, for her dad. She pictured him and searched herself for anger. Nothing, so she tried again, pushing herself toward specific recall, precise details that might bring Lee Fleming screaming back to life.

Up leaped a memory she’d long forgotten. Watching her dad put on a tie for a community theater matinee of Annie, jabbering about poetry again. Liv, in middle school back then, had scoffed, and Lee tsked at her as if she was missing the time of her life. Writing, he’d said, is the most dangerous thing there is. Because when you write, you’re only creating half the ideas. The reader brings the other half. And when you have two people involved in a plot, what’s that called?

Her answer: boring.

His response: a conspiracy.

Then she’d asked what the conspiracy of Annie was, and he’d replied that it must have something to do with how lousy kids are at keeping orphanages clean. Liv had laughed and said that if Miss Hannigan really wanted to punish Annie, she should have made her read poetry, and that made her dad laugh. There was no clutching bellies and rolling on the carpet; it was a small moment, one of a million, and that’s why, Liv figured, it hurt so hard. There would never be another moment like it. Because of this thing. This ugly, awful thing. And Doug was right—no adult, no matter who they were, would ever understand that.

In that way, she was trapped. She knew a lot about traps. The only way to get out of one was to fight and accept the wounds that came with it.

She had the first aid kit’s scissors in her hand. It was there to cut the medical tape. But in that moment, she could see herself plunging its blades into the center of the gauze, maybe the pulsing brown sack of the skinner’s heart, perhaps the softness of its neck. Hate returned. It had been waiting behind three small, unimportant sounds that bore a vague resemblance to English. Liv slapped the tape on the skinner’s bandage, but did it unkindly, and when she next glanced at Doug, he looked proud of her.

He went outside to fetch the hose. This was a responsibility, he’d said, and he didn’t shirk it. He came back and started to spray, creating a pink tide that sent clots of flesh like bitsy rafts into Liv’s shoes. Doug’s loathing of the skinner was all over him, and Liv was jealous. They ought to bear equal loads. There were, after all, two of them involved here. In Lee Fleming’s words: a conspiracy.

16.

They had only finished the hosing and floor scrubbing when they heard the gravel crackle of Aggie’s car pulling in. Liv and Doug had discussed this possibility before and switched into damage-control mode, turning off the shed light and huddling in shadow until the kitchen light turned on and another ten minutes passed. Only then did Doug and Liv slink around to the front of the house so that, when they did make their presence known, it would not bring attention to the backyard.

Doug got into his car, fired its sputtering engine, and drove off. There was no quiet way to do it. Her mother, of course, had eyes and ears, but Liv dallied outside anyway, muscles throbbing, hoping she might still evade conversation. She waited another fifteen minutes, listening for the clatter of a toilet seat so she might dart into her bedroom, shut the door, and get to the hard work of pretending to sleep.

It didn’t work. Aggie was a mother, and Liv’s sneaking appeared to remind her of it. What Liv had thought was the thunk of the toilet seat was the settling of a plate. Her mother sang out from the kitchen.

“I’m making you cookies.”

“I don’t want cookies,” Liv said.

“You love cookies.”

“It’s ten o’clock.”

“The perfect time for cookies!”

This felt to Liv like a penchant Aggie attributed to a long-gone child, one who could be appeased with easy remedies of cookies, dolls, park visits, and fairy tales. Instead of feeling irritated, Liv felt a dragging sadness. She’d give anything for all of it to be true.

The microwave kicked in. The realization that these were store-bought cookies took Liv’s sad heart and dropped it. She’d wanted to grow up so fast for so long, but it seemed that exhaustion was even more endemic in adulthood. Well, she’d got what she wanted: She was stuck in a deep, adult hole now, the crawling from which seemed impossible.

How could a plate of cookies mean so much?

Her mom set the plate on the table along with a jug of milk. Liv couldn’t believe it. No wine. Just milk. Aggie poured two glasses and brought hers to her lips. She was trying. Tonight, at least. Liv’s throat filled with the sticky raw materials of tears she no longer felt young enough to produce.

“Okay, I warmed up cookies. Eat them anyway.”

Liv picked up one. It melted to her fingers.

“School going all right?” her mother asked.

Liv knew the thin, worn pages of this script.

“Yeah.”

“They’re still doing Oliver!?”

“Yeah.” A word as short as car, or bow, or hole, containing even less meaning.

“You want to talk about it?” The subtext: While I’m sober.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”