Etched on Me Read online

  I’m not, but I know what she’s asking: Are you safe?

  “Yeah,” I say, because I am.

  She looks relieved. Reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Umm, your blouse,” Jascha says, and gestures towards my shirt’s crooked line of hurriedly done-up buttons.

  “Shit,” I mutter as I see Bradford coming down the hall.

  “Here.” Gloria unknots her silk scarf from her neck and drapes it around mine. “This should cover it.”

  I think of her in the girls’ bathroom at Hawthorn Hill, shrugging out of her own blouse in order to save my life. I think of my throbbing arm and dilated eyes and youthful, aching need that felt as though it would never be fulfilled.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Bradford’s almost at my side now, ready to pull me into a private meeting.

  “Just a second,” Gloria says to him, as she finishes tying the scarf. Then she puts her hands on my suddenly tremory shoulders and kisses me on the forehead, softly as I did my daughter just before I left her, and says the words my mother should have said to me just before I testified at these courts six years ago:

  “I love you. We’ll be waiting right here.”

  • • •

  In our consultation cubicle, I listen to Bradford’s litany of encouragements. “I can’t promise, but we’ve a new judge with a good reunification track record. You’ll have options.”

  I don’t think about them as he ushers me into the courtroom. I think of nothing. Zen till the end.

  Breathe.

  No cameras. No blinky eyes. No media allowed. Just the usual players: the children’s guardian, the solicitors, the file folders that weigh more combined than my Squidlet.

  Lord Justice enters.

  Dear Screaming Women, dear bare lightbulb, dear ersatz vase.

  Dear latte, dear Ulysses, dear soul cards.

  Dear Smartie-crapping unicorn, dear candle, dear pudding token ring.

  Dear Wise Mind, dear darkbright Vivaldi-Clash, dear everything that has brought me this far.

  “This case has proved itself to be a most controversial one, with compelling arguments on both sides of the ledger. I shan’t belabor its voluminous details, but will rather enumerate my judgment’s most critical findings.”

  I stare down at the legal pad in my lap. Reread the phrase I’d written over and over during my halfhearted lunch at Pret:

  NOT A FAILURE.

  NOT A FAILURE.

  NOT A FAILURE.

  “It is my belief that Miss Holloway does have significant challenges in regards to her psychiatric stability, as per expert witness Dr. Paul Orton’s assessment.”

  Breathe.

  “And her ability to skillfully parent may very well be impacted by those challenges in future.”

  Breathe.

  “Conversely, Miss Holloway has also shown herself to be proactive in managing her symptoms, resourceful in gathering supports about her, and possessed of a healthy self-awareness of her limitations—all qualities that decrease her safety risk.”

  Write that down. In calligraphy. I want to frame it.

  “Such a risk, of course, is not nil, and certainly justifies social services’ investigation, as well as its decision to create a child protection plan.”

  Breathe.

  “In fact, I shall go on record as stating that I am in favor of further concerted efforts to ensure the welfare of Baby H.”

  I clutch Bradford Kamen’s arm.

  “However, I also believe that the removal of Miss Holloway’s child at birth was an utterly inappropriate and heavy-handed measure, taken in flagrant defiance of previous rulings set forth in the European High Court.”

  Come on, Brussels. Save me.

  Excruciating pause.

  “Therefore, it is my ruling that custody be returned to Miss Holloway, with the caveat that she be monitored by Children’s Services for the foreseeable future.”

  I want to grin, but I can’t. I want to sigh down till my shoulders drop, but they’re stuck. Tense yet slack-jawed. It’s like I’ve been slapped.

  Are you deaf? He just said yes.

  “Congratulations, Lesley.”

  Shake Bradford’s hand, for fuck’s sake. He made this happen.

  My own hand shaking like Francesca’s.

  “It’s all right. I know you’re staggered.”

  Staggered, and staggering. He links his elbow through mine to walk me out, but I feel neither the shuffle of my feet nor the brush of his wool suit jacket against my arm.

  In the corridor, it’s like Sveta’s adoption in reverse: Imogen screaming “Team Six Percent, baby!” in my ear; Jascha pulling me to his chest in a gentle hug as Bradford rambles on in debrief. “Landmark case . . . never thought . . . really should contact the media again.”

  “No,” I say. “No more.”

  “But it’s critical we—”

  “You heard her,” Gloria says, taking my hand and ducking me out of the throng.

  In the ladies’, I lean over the sink and splash cold-as-it-will-go water on my face while she massages my shoulders hard from behind.

  “Feeling anything now?”

  “Yeah.” I look up at myself in the mirror. Gorgeous scarf. Strong face. “Like a fucking rockstar.”

  • • •

  Mussels have barely hit our celebratory table at Belgo before more people start pouring in: Curran and Vera and Sveta, Sophie and Dr. P., and even Francesca, who’s now back home and heaps mellower, stepped down to day rehab and a cane.

  I’m just about to reach across Immi for a top-up on my steak frites when, through the front window, I glimpse Squidlet, being carried in by a bosomy auburn-haired lady I’ve never seen before.

  My heart lurches. I wasn’t expecting this so soon.

  I scramble to my feet, almost knocking my chair into a waiter. As her minder brings her over, our table of ten bursts into applause.

  It isn’t till Squidlet startles at the sound, then leans her cheek into the woman’s neck, that I realize: Not just a minder. Her foster mum.

  “Diana,” she says, jovial and matter-of-fact, and hands my girl over to me.

  We sit together while I smooch on Squidlet, and she tells me about how she’s been fostering for twenty years: not just adorable, easy-to-place babies but also special-needs kids and teens. Turns out she once had a girl come to her straight from Claymoor Lodge.

  “How’s she doing?” I say, my mouth full of pavlova.

  “Quite well,” she says, and pauses. “For her.”

  I pass Squidlet over to Sveta, who’s been begging to hold her for the last hour, and watch as Diana gets out a small notepad. “I hope it’s not too presumptuous of me, but I wrote you a list. Things she likes, little—”

  I’m her fucking mother. I already know.

  Or do I?

  No. How can I? We’ve never spent more than two hours together at a time. Never left our bland-carpeted, supervised bubble.

  What does she eat? Does she loathe her bath or love it? What makes her—

  I swallow my pride. I say, “Please. Show me.”

  She goes down the facts, one by one—Been a bit grumpy lately, but she might be cutting a tooth; down to one nap in the afternoon, the busy little monkey; adores the bath and pureed sweet potato. And I sit next to her, full of gratitude and fear, thinking, Oh my God, she’s going to wish me luck and walk out and leave me here, and then I’m finally going to do this. I’m finally going to have to do this. Me.

  Not a fostering veteran, not a well-heeled couple with a live-in nanny, but me.

  (Careful what you wish for, Smack-Talker Brain whispers.)

  I tell it to shut its evil gob. I memorize the list. I hold Squidlet up for Diana to kiss good-bye, willing myself not to ponder this moment’s could-have-been mirror image.

  • • •

  Back home, we get settled on our ex-heartburn pillows and have some milk while watching telly.

  “See
her?” I point to Nigella, who’s making frittata with lots of cleavage-revealing egg-crack leans. “That’s Mummy’s wife. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Squidlet gives a liquidy gulp of approval, then pulls away from my nipple with a grimace, her face crumpling like mine before the medicine cabinet the morning after she was born. I’m about to heave her over my shoulder for a burp when she lets out a thin, reedy wail that quickly ratchets up into a scream.

  For the next hour, I walk her back and forth, taking all the steps I can in each direction of my studio, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten, aaand . . .

  No rest. Her face scowling red, her eyes agonized slits.

  I check her nappy. I feel her forehead. I hike my shirt up to my collarbone and unsnap my nursing bra, but she turns her cheek, all howling refusal.

  See? Smack-Talker Brain mutters. She doesn’t even want you.

  Turn, pace, turn.

  I cradle her against my shoulder. Bounce her a little. Glance at every pink object (blanket, cardigan) in the room.

  Think, Leslyochka. Think.

  Fever? No. Hungry? No. Poo? Thank God, no.

  Her screams chalkboard scratches in my ear.

  I bounce harder, higher. My arms cramp with her weight as a dark ribbon of thought unspools: Shake her want to shake her want to shake her.

  But I don’t.

  I stop. Close my eyes. Clench my jaw. Ride out the wave.

  Now the sigh. Now the shoulder-drop. My teeth relax.

  You idiot. Her teeth. The list. Remember?

  I lay her down on my bed. Settle the pillows around her, close enough that she won’t fall, but not so close as to smother.

  Her fists pummel the air as I uncap the tube of anesthetic gel. I crook my sticky pinkie finger past her lower lip, smear the thick goop on her aching tooth-nubs.

  For a moment she stops, stunned by the tingle, but then her mouth opens in delicate rage again.

  Crap. I wipe the clear crud on the nearest pillow with a swipe. As I bring my hands up, their fingers curl into claws.

  Breathe.

  I push my shoulders down. Hoist her up again.

  “Ja znaiyu, baby,” I say. “I know.”

  Turn, pace, turn. Eventually I start singing to drown her out, oddball maternal jukebox, everything I can think of. Not long after “Sour Times,” she starts rubbing her mouth against the seam of my shirt, like Clare only not, tiny tetchy moans.

  “Little light, shining . . .”

  I stroke her sweaty head. Feel and hear her snore’s whistle-snort inhale. Turn-pace a few more rounds for good measure, then set her on the bed in her pillow nest again.

  My unburdened arms shudder. I push my hair back from my head, hold it up in a painful ponytail.

  (“Miss Holloway has also shown herself to be proactive in managing her symptoms, resourceful in gathering supports about her, and possessed of a healthy self-awareness of her limitations.”)

  I take my mobile and go into the bathroom, keeping the door open. I sit down on the toilet lid, next to the cheerful turquoise curtain that hides a shower that hides a razor that I do not even consider using, and ring Gloria to tell her what just happened. “Smack-Talker Brain still says I’m Ainsley MacIntyre.”

  “Why? Just because you felt a less-than-charitable, seething-with-frustration impulse towards your own child?” She laughs. “Nice try.”

  “But—”

  “What? It happens.”

  “To you?”

  “Yeah, to me. And to every mother in the universe, if she’s being honest.”

  “So I did okay.”

  “You did fine, sweetie. Tell Smack-Talker Brain to take a long jump off a short pier, and go snuggle that delicious girl of yours.”

  • • •

  Soon as I crawl into bed, she rolls over against me, her pursed mouth suck-twitching in sleep. What about, I wonder?

  Lavender milk. Sheep dreams.

  I nestle her still-damp head atop my bad forearm. Close my eyes. Picture her at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, equal parts Victorian storybook and diffident anti-cool, wondering, asking, answered: every one of us etched on, brokenwhole, fragile, arise.

  acknowledgments

  This novel truly took a village to create, and I am profoundly and perpetually grateful to be surrounded by it.

  Like Lesley, I owe my life to dialectical behavior therapy, and by extension to the compassionate wisdom of its founder, Dr. Marsha Linehan, and the tireless kindness of the staff of Portland DBT. Special thanks are also due to Catherine Barlow, M.D., who patiently guided me back to creative confidence, both during the writing of Etched on Me and the long but fruitful search to find it the right home.

  That home would not have been found had it not been for the extraordinary persistence and faith of my agents, Jane Gelfman and Victoria Marini, who fiercely championed this dark horse of a literary comeback and guided it toward the wonderful team at Washington Square Press and Simon & Schuster.

  Chief amongst them is my amazing editor, Sarah Cantin, who saw the beauty in the brutality, loved Lesley as much as I did, and helped me fine-tune her story’s emotional resonance with astuteness and heart. It’s been a delight and a privilege to work together.

  I can wholly say the same for my MFA mentors and workshop leaders in the creative writing program at Antioch University Los Angeles:

  Gayle Brandeis, who nurtured my fiction’s poetry and my nervous foray back into graduate-level work.

  Frank Gaspar, who gave me the wise (and hilarious, to my gallows sense of humor) dictate to “do more cutting!” (Scenes, that is.)

  Program chair Steve Heller, who deserves a medal of honor for humoring all the despairing emails I sent him when my own Smack-Talker Brain was convinced I should stop writing altogether. (It was your sage advice to “rest, read, and don’t push the story” that allowed me to prove it wrong.)

  Alistair McCartney, who affirmed my accurate portrayal of UK bureaucracy (whew!).

  Dodie Bellamy, who offered me a role model for writing queer, embodied, and on the edge.

  Susan Taylor Chehak, whose reading list and workshops stretched my literary brain in ways I didn’t know it could bend, and ignited it so quickly I couldn’t take notes fast enough.

  And, of course, Leonard Chang, who kicked my complacency to the curb, daring me to get real and finally let Lesley speak. This book is what it is because you leveled with me.

  My Antiochian thanks wouldn’t be complete without a shout-out to my MFA graduating class, the Carnelians, who are without a doubt the coolest, most talented, and most supportive cohort ever. (Go, Carnies!)

  Yet more props go to my Tuesday-night critique group, the Tiny Tigers, who never tired of reading revisions of Chapter One over—and over, and over—again. Bless you, Cheri Lasota, Charity Heller, Wendy Grant, and Alissa Bohling.

  Thanks also to my test readers, Lyla Wolfenstein, Jen Harris, Karen Compton, Jillian Schweitzer, and Allison McCarthy, for their feedback and cheerleading, and as always to my undergraduate mentor at Goucher College, Madison Smartt Bell, who never fails to come through with avuncular advice even over a decade later.

  And to my “Dream Team” blurbers, Clare Allan, Jacquelyn Mitchard, Randy Susan Meyers, Amy Hatvany, and Erika Dreifus: Your early support and gorgeous praise for Etched on Me has left me humbled and thrilled in equal measure.

  To Jennifer Morales and Arwyn Daemyir, the dearest of supporters, friends, and literary midwives: thank you for loving the Lesley-ness in me, and for helping make this book possible.

  Finally, to my husband and daughter, Michael and Maya Luevane, the greatest motivators to “stay alive and show up” imaginable: Thank you for enduring the weeks I spent in L.A. for grad school, the nights I spent holed up in coffee shops, the twelve-hour days in which I wandered the world inside my head. You are the reason I’m still writing, and the reason I’m still here.

  Jenn Crowell

  July 2013

  Forest Grov
e, Oregon

  Questions and Topics for Discussion

  1. How does Crowell use visual imagery to give the reader greater access into Lesley’s psyche? For example, how did you understand the “ceiling” metaphor?

  2. Discuss the importance of music to Lesley. How does its role in her life evolve as the novel progresses? You might also consider the role of music in your own life, and how your taste or relationship to it has evolved. Have certain types of music (or certain artists or playlists) been influential to you at specific moments in time?

  3. How does the trip to Russia change Lesley’s relationship with the Kremskys?

  4. A poster that catches Lesley’s eye in the social services office asserts “You CAN break the cycle of violence.” What do you think this means for her—and what do you think the novel is saying about the possibility for second chances? How is the past shown to reverberate into the present within the narrative? Is this necessarily a bad thing?

  5. Lesley acutely experiences both dissociation and embodiment throughout the novel. Discuss some examples of these as a group. How do instances of each also serve as coping mechanisms for Lesley, and how does embodiment, in particular, become a sign of growth and mechanism for her healing?

  6. Turn to pages 47 and 48 and re-read Lesley’s analysis of self-harm, and her explanation as to why she does it. Do you think that causing deliberate physical injury to oneself, such as cutting, is different from other forms of self-inflicted harm (like addiction to harmful substances or eating disorders)? In what ways do you think we all engage in self-harm to some degree?

  7. Did Lesley challenge your assumptions about sexual identity? If so, what surprised you? Why do you think she ultimately described her sexual orientation as “queer” to Dr. Orton, rather than “bisexual”? In your discussion, you might also consider the historically fraught conflation of a minority sexual identity with mental illness (for example, the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—labeled homosexuality as deviant behavior until as late as 1974).

  8. Both Gloria and Lesley find that their identity as a mother enables them, in key moments, to draw upon a deeper reserve of strength than they otherwise felt they had. Can you find these instances in the text? Regardless of whether or not you are a mother, have you ever experienced something similar?