Clara lifted her face reluctantly, and he stared down into her watery eyes. He didn’t know what to do, so he kissed her. She drew back, but he only pressed his lips to her harder. He wanted to erase what he said, thought that he could wipe the lie from his mouth with her lips. And then he panicked that she would swallow it, that it would plant an evil seed inside of her, and she would hate him forever. He wrenched himself away from her at the frightening thought.
She sat confused for only a moment. And then she lunged at him. She kissed him feverishly, desperately, and he knew the lie had already latched itself deep inside her belly, turning her into a little wicked flame. She burned his lips with that flame, the force of her kiss, and he knew she meant to make him pay for putting the lie in her, tricking her into believing it, if only for a moment.
She trembled as she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, sucking his lips hard, squirming to get herself inside of him. He twisted his fingers in her hair, trying to get some form of control over her, trying to pull her back to tell her he was sorry. She gave him an opening as she stilled, her lips gently pressed to his but no longer kissing him.
“I’m sorry!” he blurted. “I won’t do it again.”
His words reverberated in her mouth, and she swallowed them.
“Don’t ever put your lies in me, Evan,” Clara said. “Or if you do, make them believable.”
Chapter 17
Christmas seemed like a faraway dream, a distant, fading jingle into black night. Silence descended as thick white dust, spreading and blanketing the earth, muting even the birds in the trees that no longer had a song to sing. Clara tried to conjure Beatrice’s Switzerland tune; she thought she could teach the birds and give them their music back, but she couldn’t remember it. It slid out of her once the chill set in.
She trudged through the thick snow, her boots making squish squash sounds all the way to the front door. She held the envelope in her gloved hand, afraid to open it but knowing she had no choice. She stood on the porch staring at the door. She couldn’t go in until she rearranged her face, plastered the smile and widened her eyes to a cheery hopefulness. She had to do that for Beatrice.
She took off her right glove and stared at her hand. She watched it move to the door handle, then grip it hard, feeling the shock of cold shoot into her fingers. They begged her to let go, but she needed to punish herself a little longer. She felt the cold travel angrily up her arm, through her chest and into her face. It made the back of her eyes ache, and then she felt it in her nose before the liquid began to ooze.
I should wipe my nose, she thought. But she didn’t. It wasn’t important.
She pushed through the door and felt the instant warmth. She almost thought it was too warm and turned to Beatrice who was sitting at the kitchen table to ask if she adjusted the heat.
“No, Clara,” Beatrice said. “And your nose is running.”
“Is it?” Clara plopped her bags on the floor and walked to the kitchen. She had a stupid smile slapped across her face and wondered if Beatrice was clever enough to realize it was fake. She dropped the mail on the counter and searched for a letter opener.
“Clara, your nose is still running,” Beatrice observed. She had been watching her sister the whole time.
“Well, get me a tissue.”
Beatrice disappeared to the bathroom and returned with a wadded bit of toilet paper.
“Thank you,” Clara said, and finally wiped her nose. “Where’s the letter opener?”
Beatrice looked at her perplexed. “Huh?”
“You know, the letter opener. It looks like a small sword,” Clara explained, still smiling.
“Clara, we’ve never had a letter opener. You just use your fingers,” Beatrice replied. She eyed her sister warily, wishing she would stop smiling that way.
“I’d like one,” Clara said. She continued rifling through the drawers.
“Why do you need a letter opener, Clara?”
Clara stopped rifling and turned to her sister. “Isn’t it obvious, Beatrice? I’d like to open the mail with it,” she said, the smile gone.
And then the murky sludge sloshing about in the bottom of her heart bubbled over, threatening to coat all of her insides with meanness and madness.
“I don’t understand why we just can’t have a fucking letter opener in this fucking house so that I can open the fucking mail!” She looked at Beatrice. “You know what I’m saying? I’m just asking for a fucking letter opener. Is that too fucking much to ask for? A fucking letter opener? Because I don’t think it’s too much. But what the fuck do I know?”
“I’ll find it for you, Clara,” Beatrice said carefully. “Go take your coat and gloves and stuff off, and I’ll find you the letter opener.”
She watched as Clara went to the front closet and hung her coat. It seemed a laborious task for her, every movement in slow motion, and Beatrice thought it was a good time to call. She could leave Clara alone at the closet knowing Clara would still be there taking off her winter gear when she returned.
She snuck into the laundry room and closed the door.
“Hi Evan,” Beatrice whispered into her cell phone. “Are you busy? Do you think you could come over?”
***
“I’m fine,” Clara snapped, and then looked at her sister. She tried again. “Bea, I’m fine,” she said gently.
Evan sat beside his girlfriend thoroughly assessing her. She was visibly agitated, sitting with her body closed up tightly, arms and legs wrapped in what looked like a leftover holiday present that somebody decided not to give because it was a bad one. He tried to open her carefully with sweet soothing words, but her arms stayed wrapped up like the ribbons secured with knots that can’t be untied but require scissors instead.
“Are you, Clara?” he asked. He didn’t believe her for a second.
Clara waved it off with a forced chuckle. “I had a freak-out moment. Doesn’t everyone? I was just tired from work. I’ve been working so much lately.” She looked at Beatrice again. “Bea, I’m so sorry. I should have never said that word in front of you.”
“It’s okay, Clara,” Beatrice said. She was relieved that Evan was there and hoped he would stay the night. She didn’t trust being alone with Clara, a feeling that frightened her more than Clara’s bizarre behavior.
“Would you like me to make you tea or something?” Evan asked.