"Momma," I asked, "has Flock's Rest always looked this bad?"
"Well, honey," she said, "a town gets old."
It was more than that, though. I pointed out a garden we passed. "Just look at that!" I remembered that garden―it used to be all full of rosebushes, but now it was half-dead, and the few hardy plants still alive looked like the weeds that pop up in a highway divider.
Momma shrugged. "It's just the time of year, dear. Even though we're not in a snow zone, not all that many things grow in the winter. And besides, maybe the owner likes it growing wild."
I would have argued, but just then we hit a pothole that nearly ejected me from the car and completely rattled my thoughts. Seemed to me there were more ruined roads in town, too.
I looked at the barren gray streets and sad, sallow faces around me, day after day, and I began to long once more for that place of color and light. That valley more beautiful than a painting. Because I might have been the queen of Flock's Rest, but I couldn't imagine a life where there was no beauty to see except for my own reflection.
On Valentine's Day, I walked home from school alone, just as I had in the days when I was ugly. I had begun to feel sick halfway through school that day, but I had become so good at denial, I told myself it was nothing and believed it.
When I came through the gate of our trailer park, I had to do a quick double take to make sure I was in the right place. Our park, which wasn't too attractive a place to begin with, had fallen into the realm of utter squalor. The lawn blight sweeping through town seemed to have begun here. It had killed much of the grass, but no one cared. They were as untroubled as my mother was with her window boxes, which now grew nothing but mildew and toadstools.
When I stepped inside the door, Momma was standing there, holding the phone and looking a bit ill herself.
"Yes," she said. "I understand. Our prayers will be with them."
"Prayers?" I asked. "Who are we praying for?"
"Sit down, honey."
It's never a good thing when one of your parents tells you to sit down. Especially in that deeply understanding tone of voice. I did as I was told.
"I'm afraid something awful has happened," Momma told me. Then she took my hands in hers. "It's Marshall Astor," she said. "He's had a horrible accident."
21
Consumption
The whole story came over the phone line in bits and pieces that night from neighbors and family friends. I sifted the truth out of rumor and exaggeration, and had a pretty good idea what happened.
Marshall Astor had taken his mother's car out for a joyride. He went speeding on bald tires and lost control on a bridge, halfway across the river―the same bridge where his father had gone sailing off into oblivion. The county, however, had reinforced the guardrails after his father's accident, so instead of crashing into the river, Marshall ended up with a smashed front end, a deployed air bag, and an unspecified number of broken bones. Although everyone called it an "accident," and a "coincidence" that it happened to be on the same bridge, I don't think there was anything accidental about it. . . And I don't think Marshall ever once lost control of that car.
I went to visit him the next evening, after he got home from the hospital. I wasn't sure what to expect from him, but I knew that I had to go.
His mother looked at me with frightened, distrustful eyes― like she might have looked at me when I was still ugly.
"Come in," she said. "Let me tell Marshall you're here."
I waited in the living room until Marshall rolled out in a wheelchair a few moments later. He had black eyes from the punch of the air bag against his face. Both of his ankles were in casts. The impact had broken them.
"Hi, Linda."
"Hi, Marshall."
As sweet as revenge had felt a few weeks before, it felt empty now. Empty and dark. Just by looking at him, I knew that I was really the one who had driven him off the bridge. He was in love. People in love do desperate things. My own responsibility in this was almost impossible to bear, because no matter how black my heart had become, it was still beating. No matter how deep a coma my conscience was in, it couldn't ignore this.
We sat there for a long time, not saying anything. I tried to look everywhere in the room but at him, and yet I kept being drawn back to his gaze.
"Why did you do it, Linda?" he finally said. "I loved you. Why did you do what you did?"
I thought about all the answers I could give him―or, more accurately, all the ways I could worm out of answering him. "It's complicated," I could tell him―or "We weren't right for each other." But I knew I owed him far more than an excuse.
"Why, Linda?" he asked again. And so I told him.
"Because my name isn't Linda. It's Cara."
His face went through a whole series of emotions. Disbelief, denial, and finally acceptance. All in about five seconds.
"Cara DeFido," he said, and repeated it, maybe just to make sure he heard himself right. "Cara DeFido."
I nodded. "I'm sorry." It was lame to say it now, but still, I had to do it.
As I watched him, I saw his face going red. He began to bite his lower lip, and tears began to flow from his eyes. Not just flow, but gush. "You had a good time that night, didn't you?"
"What?"
"The homecoming dance. I promised you'd have a good time, and you did, right? At least until I puked in the punch bowl."
He laughed the tiniest bit through his tears.
"I did have a good time," I admitted. "I wish I hadn't ruined it."
Marshall tried to wipe away his tears, but he didn't have much luck, because they just kept on coming. "I agreed to do it because of the car," he said. "I guess that makes me a creep."
I tried to put myself in his place. If someone offered me a car to go on a date with Tuddie―with Aaron―a few years ago, would I have done it? Even if I was the most popular girl in school? When it comes down to it, who wouldn't?
"I'm no one to judge," I told him.
"For what it's worth, I had a good time that night, too," he said. "I wasn't expecting to, but I did."
By now he had gotten his tears under control. He moved his legs and grimaced slightly. So I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. A paper that was woven from strands of swan gossamer.
"Here," I said, handing it to him. "Tear this in half, and slide a piece of it inside both of your casts," I said. "It will help you heal."
He rubbed it between his fingers. "Feels nice," he said. "What does 'find the answers' mean?"
"Nothing," I told him. "Nothing at all."
As I walked home from Marshall's that night, I felt dizzy, weak, and feverish. My head pounded, and it took all my strength just to make it home. Harmony had warned me of this. Why hadn't I listened?
"Did you see Marshall?" Momma asked as I came in. "How was he? Is he all right?"
"He'll be fine," I told her.
Then she took a good look at me. "Cara, are you feeling all right? You're not looking yourself."
I was afraid to think about what that meant. "I'm fine!" I pushed my way past her, went into my room, and tried to lock the door behind me, but this was one day that Momma wasn't giving me my privacy.
"Honey," she said, "what happened to Marshall isn't your fault. He's a troubled boy."
"He's a shallow boy," I told her. "He wasn't troubled until I came along to trouble him."
Momma smiled slightly. "Don't give yourself that much credit, dear. You may be beautifrd now, but you're not Helen of Troy."