I am alone. I am walking, slowly, but not aimlessly. I am numb. I am alone. Thank heavens I am alone. The blood on my cheek has hardened to a black scab. I would doubtless give a grievous fright to any person who may chance upon me. The road leading home is empty and I am alone. I am alone with myself and my voice and my memories, new and old. My steps are slow and mindless as I traipse through the dust. My mind is saturated. I am overcome.
I see Philip's face contorted in rage, twisted with desperation. I cycle through my reactions, my emotions - shock, terror, sorrow, loss of respect, pitiless apathy. It felt like hours I watched him there. But the sun is still so high. I couldn't have been in the apothecary for more than a quarter hour. My entire life, my identity was mutilated within one quarter of one hour, disfigured with broken glass, shattered at the hand of painful clarity. Shock. Terror. Sorrow. Disrespect. Pitiless apathy. Unapologetic disgust.
My disgust owes Philip nothing, I understand. It, however, owes me. It has robbed me of dreams and direction. It has robbed me of my sadly misplaced hope. It refuses to apologize. It threw open the shutters in my head, cracked them under its heat, bombarded me, trampled me, picked me up and possessed me until it was all I could be, unrepentant and without guilt.
On the horizon, beyond the wet fume mirage, young Philip stands waiting for me. He is earnest, still dreaming expansive, bombastic fantasies. He is waiting for me to join him, to embellish his world with detail. He is waiting for me to make it real for him. And how I have waited so long for him to come and make our childhood dreams real for me. His flaxen hair will not lie flat. It catches the radiant sun and produces a golden corona. He is my creation, and my creation is all I will leave, there on the edge of my mind.
Philip is behind me, following. He is tracking me. He is tethered to me. He has just returned from Europe. He has grown ever more handsome. His intellect is astounding, and I am embarrassed to speak with him until he laughs and asks me what books I've read since he's gone. His wit is dry and reserved. His smile betrays him. He knows something and I want to know it too. His experience, his manner collects and pools in the gaps and cracks in my own. Through him I can be complete. But, when I turn back, he is not there. He never was. He is an illusion I created and imposed upon the distracted shell of an old friend, a friend I lost the day he sailed for France. I hitched my star to a phantom, and as I release it now, my night is very dark.
It was no accident. Philip escaped. I wanted to escape too. The rest of the illusion aligned itself conveniently. It is not real. He is not real. Leaving is not real. I cannot leave Pa alone. I cannot leave Frank to fend for himself and for Samson. They need me to cover the windows when the dust comes and to sweep the dust after the storms. They need me to soothe them and care for them. They need me to cook and to clean and to sew. They need me to be silent and strong and support them. I need to stay in order to prevent life from disassembling all that Mama and Pa worked so long and so hard to build. I am not selfish and I am no fool. Philip said Daniel was a cyclone, but he was wrong. One must be connected to the lives that one destroys. I am the cyclone. I am the vacuum.
When I reach my front door I am hollow. I enter anyway. Franks stands there holding Samson against his shoulder. He turns to me and smiles. My mind is instantly quiet, a tomb.
"Hi," he says, and it is all he needs to say. He has no idea how much he resembles Mama. He has no idea that his smile can heal exactly as hers could.
"Whoa, what happened to your face?" he asks.
"Nothing, Frog," I answer, using his nickname. "Just a little accident. Hungry?"
"Yes," he answers. Samson giggles and my heart is full. The feeling returns in my arms and in my legs. I am free here to smile and to laugh and to love unconditionally. This is my home.
There is the slightest, softest feeling, deep in the most unreachable place within me, an itch. I almost don't notice it. I can't exactly feel it, but I am certain it is there.
The sun goes down. A chill takes hold of the dry night air. Frank lays Samson in his crib and returns to my side before the fire. Dry wood is abundant.
"I started reading one of your books," he says. Frank has never been to school, but I taught him to read as early as I could. "I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind," I answer. "Which one?"
"Great Expectations," he says, and it strikes me an wholly appropriate. It seems so to him too. "I like it. Pip reminds me of me. Though you are a much nicer sister than his."
I put my arm around him and kiss the top of his head. It smells like dust and dry sweat and little boy smell. I hold him there for a long time. When he begins to snore I wrap him in a blanket, add a log to the fire and tip toe to my bed.
From my knees I can reach deep under the bed, into an old hole in the pine floor. It is one of my very few secrets. From it, I unearth an old tin jewelry box. It belonged to Mama. She used to say it was the fanciest thing she owned. I don't think it ever bothered her that she had no jewelry to keep in it. For her it was enough. I grew up loving it too, but I keep treasure in it.
I opened the lid, fingering the turquoise, pink and gold fleur de lis printed there. Swirling vines creep gracefully around its corners and evoke reverence. Tucked within the folds of its red satin lining rests my photographic postcard of the Eiffel Tower. What wonder I felt when I first laid eyes on the many hundred twinkling electric lights. In the years since then many stores in Morrison have adopted electricity, but the magic of that tower never resigns. How often I held this card in the middle of the night to see Philip standing in or near the tower. He isn't there now, and he won't be back. The tower is empty, glowing in its own glory. The weight of the tower is on my chest.
The itch grows more acute. I could swear I hear a voice whisper,
"go..."
but when I listen closely only silence rings in my ears.
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