I Am Not Thirteen

2016 The tip of the knife presses into my throat. “Don’t scream,” my sister says. She’s the one holding the knife. We’re in the church vestibule, my back pressed against the wall. I can’t see the knife, but I know it’s big—the kind you use to skin a deer. Or a younger sister. “Leah,” I say. “Leah, look at me.” “I’m looking right at you,” Leah says. Her eyes, huge in her hollow-cheeked face, flit over me without ever meeting my eyes. The tip of the knife presses in. “Let’s go inside. We can talk about this.” “You’re not going anywhere till I get my money.” A bead of blood slides down my neck. “Yeah,” I hear myself say, “I know. Let me get my wallet, okay?” I’ll give you the money after you’re clean, I used to say. Go to rehab, get in a sober house, do ninety days. That’s what the interventionist said—no support until she gets sober. That’s what’s best for your sister. But my sister never pulled a knife on me before. A woman passes us without a glance. My hand, deep in my purse, won’t hold steady. The wallet flips and dances out of my grasp. The knife presses in. “Hurry up.” Two minutes ago, I was lighting a candle to my father’s memory, trying and failing to pray. Thirty seconds ago, I was deciding what to cook for dinner, what kind of leftovers would last the longest. When I first saw my sister standing by the outer door, I thought, Here we go. And now I’m going to die, and she’ll use my money to score. My phone vibrates in the belly of my purse. I can feel it through the fabric. Must have slipped behind that hole in the lining. My hand closes around the wallet. I lift it, shaking, out of the bag. Somewhere above us, prerecorded bells ring out. Dah duhh dah-duhhh…duh-dah da-duhhh. Leah snatches the wallet out of my hand. The knife comes away from my neck, hovering in front of me. It really is big. A slick of dark blood glints on its tip. Her gaze wanders my face as she tucks the wallet in her hoodie’s front pocket. The deep brass bell rings eight times overhead. s**t. I’m already late for work. “Bank. Let’s go.” Leah grabs my free arm and pulls me forward. We march down the steps together. Leah holds the knife underneath my jacket, pressing just below my ribcage. Her other hand clasps my arm at the elbow. I watch myself walk down Mission Street, watch the purse dangling from my hand, feel nothing but the knife at my rib. I eyeball every passerby, trying to catch their attention. Can’t they see the blood dribbling down my neck? A man, staring glass-eyed at his phone, bumps into me. “Sorry,” I hear myself mumble. He doesn’t look up. This isn’t normal, an inner voice insists. Most muggings last a couple minutes, if that. If she’s taking you somewhere, it’s to hurt you, kill you, or sell you. Run. The light turns green before we reach the crosswalk. We’ve stepped into the street when the white pedestrian turns to a red hand. The numbers count down: 10, 9, 8…My pulse pumps against the knifepoint. “ATM,” I say. “Where?” “We passed it.” Leah turns. Her grip loosens. The knife drops a centimeter or two. I bolt, wrenching my arm out of her grasp. I run into the street. You’re dead, stupid. You should have turned back. A horn blares. A bumper taps my legs, hard enough to throw me to the ground. I look up. Leah’s running down the street. There’s a large canvas patch on the back of her hoodie, showing a black sphere with a white halo. Her own artwork—I’d recognize it anywhere. Pain, radiating out from my side, overtakes me. Reality grays out, like a radio station fading into static. I come to as the paramedics strap me into a gurney. “What’s your name?” “—hasn’t lost too much—” “Honey, is this your purse? Where’s your—” “What’s the date, hon?” I hear my own voice answer. “August…nineteenth? I’m not sure, sorry.” “What year is it?” “2016. As if I could forget.” The paramedic above me smiles grimly and looks away. The hospital is a blur of fluorescent tubes, hallways, MRIs, blood draws, people talking overhead. Sharp pain throbs at my side. A nurse sews stitches into my neck. Mina Sirota, my boss, wails over the phone; there’s a new diagonal crack across its screen. My crown braid slips out of place. Someone tells me I’m lucky. “One millimeter this way or that, we’d be cutting you open downstairs.” Lucky indeed. I have a broken rib, which only hurts every time I move or laugh or talk or breathe, and stitches along my neck and my side. There’s also the splitting headache that makes the world throb with every heartbeat. Stars wink and burst open in my eyes. Officer Rampling, a forty-something cop with a red-gold ponytail, takes my statement. Officer Kwan shifts from foot to foot as we talk, his face set in a frown. I tell them everything that happened, from the church to the ambulance. “How much older is your sister?” Officer Rampling asks. “Almost five years. She’ll be thirty…no, thirty-one this December.” “Has she ever stolen from you before?” “Only my college fund.” “Any other issues between you two?” “We’re sisters. What do you think?” Not even a courtesy laugh. Officer Rampling watches me, pen hovering over her notepad. “She got clean, once,” I say, to break the silence. “I got her a job at a café, set up a website for her paintings, helped her register for classes. I really thought she was gonna make it. Then she met this prince of a guy at Narcotics Anonymous. He shot her full of drugs, pimped her out, locked her in his apartment…” I sneeze. A starburst of pain explodes from my ribs to my eyeballs. I curl up on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. There is none. “What happened to him?” “Jail. For five seconds. He pleaded down to…misdemeanor assault, some petty shit.” “What’s his name?” “I don’t remember. Kind of repressed it, you know? It went to court in, ah, San Rafael. Maybe four years ago.” Rampling writes in her notebook. “After he got arrested, Leah went around the bend. She told everybody I stole money from her website. The number gets bigger every time I see her.” Rampling asks with her eyes. “Not one cent. No good deed, right?” I laugh, then wish I hadn’t. “Maybe I should have. I had to take out an emergency student loan because of her. Do you have any idea what the interest is on an emergency student loan?” “You guys keep in touch?” “No. Last I heard, she was down in Santa Cruz.” “When was that?” “When I last heard? A year ago, maybe two. I assumed she was dead.” “How’d she seem to you today?” “Dead. Like something was wearing her body and walking it around town.” “Any reason she’d visit you now?” I rub my eyes, watching the kaleidoscopic patterns swirl. “The money, I guess? Maybe she’s reliving her glory days. She used to stand on Lombard Street with this sign: Majored in English, Anything Helps.” “That’s where I know her from,” Officer Kwan says. He turns to Rampling, beaming. “‘The English Major.’ Did you know her?” “I read about her. She sold drawings, right?” “Yeah. Good ones. I told her, these should be in a gallery downtown. She drew me once—it was me as the Hulk, with huge green muscles.” He laughs. “I always wondered what happened to her.” “Now you know.” Silence, punctuated by Rampling’s pen gliding across her notebook. Kwan looks out the window. I will myself to breathe deeply, like the doctor told me to. “If you can, leave the city for a little while,” Rampling says. “Don’t post anything on f*******:, don’t tell people where you are.” “What about my mom?” “Where’s your mom?” “Woodacre. It’s in Marin, uh, west of Fairfax.” Rampling smiles to herself. Kwan frowns absently at me. I wonder if he’s comparing my face to Leah’s, looking for similarities, wondering what separates us. “I’ll call West Marin P.D.,” Rampling says. “They can station a car outside your mom’s house. I’m sure they can spare someone.” A knowing smile flits across her face. “Does your mom, ah, talk to your sister, give her money—” “No.” Rampling and Kwan hand me their cards. “Call us if you want to add anything to your statement, okay?” “Hang in there, Amy.” A few minutes later, a nurse comes in. He asks me if I want acupuncture, for the pain. I do. The acupuncture helps a little. I wait for the doctor to come back; he got weird when I asked for “non-opiate painkillers.” “My sister’s a junkie,” I explained, which didn’t help. I still haven’t called Mom. What would I say? “Hey, you know my older sister, who we don’t talk about anymore? Well, she tried to kill me. She almost did.” A cough comes, harder for my attempts to make it go away. Pain shoots out from my rib, winding me. I’m still crying when my phone rings. Tom Templeton, mobile says the screen, next to a picture of Tom’s smiling face. Maybe it’s better not to answer. We haven’t talked once since the breakup, not even, “I still have your sweater” or, “Do you want your mail?” Why would he call me now? Do I want to know? I do. “Hey, Amy,” Tom says. “Sorry about that. I was in a meeting. You’re at the ER, right? You okay?” Shit. He’s still my emergency contact. I didn’t even think of that. “I just passed the security doors. Wait a sec.” Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. “You don’t need to come back here,” I stammer. “I’m fine, I sw—” Tom stands in the doorway, phone to his ear. We stare at each other. He brings his phone down in slow motion. “Amy. What happened?” He glances at my neck. “I made myself a new man,” I say, pulling up my blouse. “All it cost was a rib. Pretty good deal, right?” Tom greets this joke with an exasperated pause. “I wanted to make sure—” “Well, you’ve made sure. See you later.” “It’s not, um, self-inflicted?” “Tom.” “It was your sister, wasn’t it?” “It wasn’t my sister.” “Amy.” I cross my arms. Pain sings up my side in bright white lines. You wanna know the story, Tom? After what you did? I came home to a half-empty apartment and a wad of cash on the table. Like I was a w***e you’d grown tired of. My life is closed to you. “Let me take you home.” “No.” “Don’t you live in El Cerrito now? That’s way too far to—” “It’s fine. Mina will lend me money for the—” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m not being ridiculous. Leah took my wallet, my cash, my credit cards…” “Leah, huh?” Tom smiles his infuriating, victorious smile. Dull heartache returns, transfigured into venom. “How did you feel when Holly didn’t run off with you?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Now you have to hold your peace. Forever.” Tom falls into a sulk. We stay like this for a moment, trapped in a mutual silence. Holly is Tom’s “one that got away,” a girl he’s been more or less in love with since high school. I thought it was less, the tiny ember of an old flame, until the day he left me. Ten days before her wedding. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he says. “I found some of her drawings in one of my boxes. I’ll mail them to you.” “Why? They’re worthless.” The laugh hurts as it leaves my chest. “They belong to you.” He pauses, wipes the corners of his mouth, his eyes passing over my face. “If she took your wallet, you’ll need money for—” “Stop. You can’t make every problem disappear by throwing money at it.” Tom walks into the room, pulling out his wallet. “This is your problem, not mine,” he says, dropping a few bills on the bedside table. “And ‘throwing money at it’ will get you home. You can figure it out from there.” Our eyes meet. For a moment, I see the Tom I loved. He’s the man who texted me Latin poems at work, who read me his stories, who sang with my family on Christmas Eve. And then the moment passes. I look away. This is the last time I’ll ever see him. There’s no emotion attached to this thought: I might have thought the sink needs cleaning or the pharmacy closes at seven. Six weeks ago, Tom Templeton and I were destined to leave this awful theme park of a city, get married, make babies, live together forever in love. In my head, I’d planned everything, from our wedding invitations to the plants in our front yard. None of that will happen. “I’m sorry I left you like that,” Tom says. “It was spineless. If I could turn back time, I’d…I’d be a man about it.” This, it turns out, is the one thing I don’t want him to say. I don’t want you to be sorry, Tom. I want you to not be the kind of person who’d do that to me. “Too late now,” I say instead. “It’s done. Temporus edax rerum.” “Tempus edax rerum,” he says gently. “Time, the devourer of all things.” “Even love,” I murmur to myself. Tom’s footsteps grow fainter and fainter down the hallway. Zuckerberg San Francisco General is three miles from my job. Too far to walk. I wait at the northbound tram station. The next one arrives in thirty minutes. When I call her, Mina tells me to take the day off. “I already told you to, an hour ago. You don’t remember?” “Not specifically.” “Everything’s a disaster here. That new video from Hellstar, the one he’s been promising to drop off for six weeks? Ten minutes after you called, he came. They’re in some file format that won’t convert, even in VLC. Oh, get this—all the lights exploded in the gray room, again. Thank God no one was in there. I swear, there’s some crazy bad juju in the air today. You feel it, too, right?” “Did that guy from Modus ever call back?” “If he did, I don’t know about it. Anyway, honey, don’t come in. I’m not having you bleed out on the floor. If you do, though, make sure to write an artist’s statement first.” “I love you too.” I work as an assistant manager at Orpheline, an art gallery south of Market. It’s part sales, part crisis management, part body English, part schmoozing. I’m trying to “build my skillset” to get a job as a grant writer. This skill-building mostly involves standing in front of the mirror, saying “I’m very detail-oriented,” and trying to look like I’m not lying. Cars glide down Potrero. The midday sun shines on my face. A low breeze ruffles my skirt, sending a thick lock of hair across my eyes. My crown braid must look a fright; I don’t dare check it in the glass. My purse dangles from my hand. I try shouldering it. Bad idea. I look around the station. Someone’s pasted stickers all over it, all of the same image: a circle of thick black rays, all converging in the center, surrounded by a snake eating its own tail. Not Leah’s artwork. “We could use that,” I murmur, thinking of my employer. Our gallery’s name comes from L’Âme d’une Orpheline (The Soul of a Girl Orphan), a nineteenth-century novella about a girl’s s****l awakening. It’s a rude awakening, starting with her r**e at thirteen and getting more grotesque from there. Orpheline takes many lovers, including an English Duke, a Russian anarchist, a consumptive poet, a s****l psychotic, and many other charming gentlemen. At the end of the book, the writer shows us Orpheline in an all-night café, alone, her shaking hands bringing a cup of coffee to her mouth. Whether it’s the name or the attitude, our gallery draws in depraved artwork, even by San Francisco standards: oil paintings of porno stills, fake snuff films, mannequins splattered with blood and semen. Despite all this, the office culture is easygoing, even with Trump’s campaign putting everyone on edge. I hate the art, but I’m barely qualified for anything else and I need the health insurance. That’s what I tell myself, anyways. I look at my phone, count down from twenty, then hit the green button. Dialing Mom, the screen reads. The picture shows Mom smiling in the backyard, the forest dark behind her. Here we go. “Hi, you’ve reached Jacqueline De Paul Snowberger. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Thank you.” Beep. The story tumbles out of me in fits and starts. I pace as I talk. I’m still talking when the line beeps off. I hang up. I walk back to the tram stop and check the display above the station map. Twenty-two minutes until the next tram. Should I bite the bullet and take an Uber? Today wouldn’t be complete without a dollop of s****l harassment, would it? I glance at my phone. One text from Cassidy Clark, my best and oldest friend: WAIT. Wait, what? I didn’t text or call her today, according to the phone’s call history. Maybe someone (and I think I know who) called her on my behalf. In any event, I’ll tell her about it later. First, I need to get home. I zone out, walk back and forth along the platform, watch cars and people pass. The sky is blue and cloudless. Sunlight glints off the tram rails. Two girls, maybe sixteen, run shrieking down the sidewalk. I check the clock again. Seven minutes until the next tram. There it is, rolling out of the shimmering haze at the end of Potrero. I watch it come closer, try not to think. My phone vibrates in my purse. Mom calling. My heart flops. “Are you okay?” Mom’s voice is a string ready to snap. “I’m fine,” I say in a near-whisper, my hand over my mouth. A man in scrubs glances at me. I walk away from the tram station. “She wanted money. You know how she thinks I stole from—” “Yes.” Leah’s a Voldemort figure between the two of us, someone to be hinted at, never invoked. I always call Mom on Leah’s birthday. Beyond that convention, my sister’s a ghost. This is the closest we’ve come to discussing her in at least a year. “It couldn’t come at a worse time, could it?” Mom says, laughing without humor. Worse time? “I can come by,” I say, brushing off her cryptic comment. “How? You’re an hour away.” I can hear in her voice that she wants me to. “You had this commute for years, Mom. I can handle it for one day.” “It’s a terrible commute. I don’t know why I did it for so long. Didn’t Tom take the car, though?” “I can take the bus to San Rafael, meet you at Greenhall,” I say, hurrying past the mention of Tom. Greenhall Holdings is Mom’s long-time employer, a commercial real estate firm with branches all over the bay. “What do you want for dinner? I’ll make you something.” Confused pause. “What was that dish you told me about?” Mom says doubtfully. “Vandelay something?” “You mean vindaloo? Sure. We can make it with lamb, pork, chicken—” “Is it spicy?” “Everything I eat is spicy, Mom. You want something else?” The tram judders to a stop in front of us. “Where are you, sweetie, I—” “Mom, the tram’s here. I gotta go.” “Honey, let me—” “Mom, I’ll talk to you—” “Yo, Amazing Amy! Get off the phone!” I look behind me and see Cassidy Clark, my best friend in the world, grinning out the window of her car. CHAPTER TWO