BY SAGE TYRTLE
At the Shell Station your dad is pumping gas into the pick-up truck. You are standing next to him in a long denim dress and cardigan and slip and bobbed wig and on the hood of the truck it says God’s Spirit Ministry. The words are glossy. Slick-red. The man who came to the Compound to paint all the trucks wouldn’t take any money. “It’s God’s work,” he’d said, gathering his expensive paints. “It’s a blessing to help.”
Across the street the bank clock is scrolling ... FREE CHECKING ACCOUNT ... 3:45 PM ... 107F ... LOW INTEREST RATES ... Sweat worms down your cheek, because underneath the wig is your real hair coiled in a braid. Hair so long it feels like another person in bed with you at night.
Your dad’s arm grazes the metal on the truck and he pulls back. Hisses. He is wearing shorts and a T-shirt that says Timothy 2:12. You want to touch the back of his hand, you want to say, “I might have heat stroke.” You want to touch the back of his head, you want to slam it neatly into the pick-up truck. You want to run to the nearest police station, you want to say, “I am trying to breathe. I am trying.”
Instead. Instead you whisper that you have to go to the bathroom. There is whisper and there is wail and nothing in-between. You wait until your dad has nodded (God tells Man what to do, Man tells Woman what to do, Woman... does it) and you go inside the convenience store. You stand just inside the door for as long as you can, feeling the air conditioning on your hands, on your face.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter is the same middle-aged woman who is always there. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts and her grey hair is cropped short. Her nametag reads SHIRLEY. And every time you’re at the Shell Station with your dad you come inside and ask for the bathroom key and every time she looks at you with such sorrow and sometimes as you are falling asleep in your long sleeved nightgown as the cicadas rage outside you imagine that Shirley is your mom, your mom who is alive, and the two of you live in a small tract house with peeling linoleum and when Bonnie Raitt comes on the radio the two of you sing along with arms outflung.
Shirley gives you the bathroom key, which is attached to a ragged Barbie doll. And just like last time she is opens her mouth like she’s going to touch the back of your hand, ask if you’re okay, ask if you want scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow. Ask if you like “Something To Talk About” or “I Can’t Make You Love Me” best. And just like last time she closes her mouth and you and Barbie go into the bathroom.
Inside you push the deadbolt home. The cement floor is damp, but Shirley keeps the bathroom as clean as a person can keep a gas station bathroom. You put Barbie on the floor and sit on the toilet. You look up at the window, which is only a few inches wide, but through it you can see the sky. Paint thinned clouds. Your back itches. You check the deadbolt. You take off your wig and place it on the edge of the sink. Your long braid swings free. You take off your cardigan. And in the time before your dad discovered God’s Spirit Ministries, when your words cost nothing, when your words were a torrent that only stopped when you were asleep, before, before, you could have asked him. You could have said, “If I dress this way to protect me from men, why don’t I ever feel safe?”
You take off your dress and your slip and your bra. You check the deadbolt. You unlace your boots and take them off too, putting your socks inside them. Your sweat dries. Even your heart slows. This is the place you take out your favourite memory. The one you’re almost sure happened. You, riding down the sidewalk in corduroy pants — pants — training wheels rattling. Dad walking at your side smoking a cigarette. The library, and your small legs running to the shelves of bright colours. Of words. And you talked, and you talked, and you talked.
Did you imagine it? Did you imagine going home to sunflowered kitchen walls, crumb-covered counters? Dad holding a piece of broccoli, saying, “I know, it’s so gross, but I promise if you eat one I’ll eat one too.” Your alive Mom on the phone with her sister, shouting with laughter. Twirling the phone cord around her wrist. Maybe you imagined all of it and God’s Spirit Ministries are the truth, God’s Spirit Ministries are the way and the sunlit love that filled the kitchen when you were little is nothing more than soap bubbles. Something you made up so you keep breathing.
You stand and stretch your hand to the window. The shy breeze on your skin makes you want to weep. If you were to leave the bathroom now, in your underwear, someone would call the police, wouldn’t they?
Wouldn’t they?
When the knock comes on the bathroom door every part of you turns to pins and needles. You can’t catch your breath and squawk something incoherent and struggle to put your shaking hands through your bra straps.
“It’s okay,” says a low voice, says Shirley’s voice. “It’s okay. I just got worried, you were in here a long time.”
You’ve managed your slip and dress now, but you’re still barefoot and the wig is still on the edge of the sink. Barbie stares up at you from the floor with her painted smile.
“Sweetheart...” says Shirley, still in that low voice. “Do you need help?”
And there’s your hand, reaching for the deadbolt. There’s your fingers pushing it open. There’s Shirley, stepping back from the door. There’s your voice, that only has whisper, that only has wail, there’s your very small voice saying, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Sage Tyrtle's work is available or upcoming in X-R-A-Y, The Offing, and Apex among others. She's told stories on stages all over the world and her words have been featured on NPR, CBC, and PBS. She runs a free online writing group open to everyone. Twitter: @sagetyrtle