Читать книгу Quick Kills - Lynn Lurie - Страница 21

Helen calls from the water. Stop being scared. Think of all you’re missing. I’ll even hold your hand.

No. I call back. I am afraid of the tide. The waves are too high. Why even do you like it here?

The sound of the ocean, the taste of salt. She licks her inner wrist. The way I can get lost here.

Mama lies all day on her towel. Maybe she thinks the sun will turn her young. But the sand chafes my skin, scrapes my eyes, and gets caught in my belly button. They don’t like it when I complain, so I walk away. If I keep moving the sand won’t have time to stick.

The beach is the loneliest place, all one color and one sound. The echo of the waves is continuous, and even when I bring a shell to my ear, the kind that is pink and shiny inside, I cannot escape. All of it makes me sleepy, but I am afraid to sleep in the open where people can see me. Instead, I sit down and dig and don’t stop until black tar sticks to my fingers. I’m going to claw my way to China. Mother once told me it is possible.

The song about popcorn and Crackerjacks is playing at the concession stand. I know the words. Mama tells me to smile but I don’t know how to just do this, so I pretend she has a camera and is taking my picture. I want to be home counting the four walls and the cracks in the paint with the door to my room locked and the window shades pulled down.

As we are leaving, Helen begs Mama to buy her a beach ball. Mama keeps walking. Helen stomps her foot. You never buy us anything. Father’s parents buy us whatever we want.

Mother’s father asks the vendor. How much?

Mama turns and scowls at him.

Think how lovely she would look. He says, a photograph of Helen and the ball.