Ripped from the Same Book

by Michaela Stephen

With her head between her knees, Faye watched the blood drip from her face onto the gravel. The sun beat down on the exposed three inches of flesh between her shirt collar and her recently buzzed neck. Faye pictured her skin as a newborn mole, peeking out at the world for the first time. If she stayed crouched like this much longer, her skin would burn, then peel. Once again, she thanked her mother’s genes for giving her oh-so-sensitive skin. Sweat prickled in the short strands of her pixie cut. She showered this morning, but her head still itched.

Faye kept her head down until the drips of blood from her nose began to slow and space out, before finally coming to a stop. The puddle seeped into the ground, leaving a stain on the earth. Maybe someone would come by later and think a person had been assaulted here. Did people call the cops if they saw a puddle of blood but no body? Faye wished she could take back the decision to drive the seven hours from Kamloops to Vancouver Island with Charlotte. Taking the greyhound would’ve been more fun.

She could handle the men with duffel bags who made too much eye contact or sweaty toddlers crying after being carsick. It was better than listening to Charlotte’s audio book on dealing with grief and preparing for loss. They hadn’t even been on the road two hours, and her sister had already left her on the shoulder of the highway in the middle of nowhere. Faye figured it would serve Charlotte right if some bearded hillbilly came out and murdered Faye. That would show her.

The dry, summer air wrapped around her skin like an oppressive cocoon. How long had she been sitting there? She slowly shifted her limbs and raised her head. Faye pressed her palms into the concrete meridian on either side of where she sat hunched. Even under the sunshine, the concrete still felt cold. Faye thought about her mother the last time she saw her, complaining about the cold while sweating profusely at the same time.

Faye stared off down the highway towards Chilliwack where the forest bore down on either side of the concrete strip like a smothering hug. If Charlotte didn’t come back, she’d go hide in the woods.

“Fucking bitch.” Faye felt no relief from the words. In fact, she was a bit embarrassed. They sounded cheap and moronic, too loud to her own ears. Her throat croaked as if it had been rubbed raw by sand paper and cheap vodka. She reached up and touched her face, groping the area between her mouth and nose, then down across her chin. It was crusted with dried blood. Scratching at the dip below her nose, she watched flakes of dark maroon flit away in the wind, like ash from a burning tree. Faye refused to clean off any more blood. She wanted Charlotte to see the damage.

Unseen cicadas sang in the trees. Nearby, a branch snapped. A faint breeze occasionally tickled Faye’s face, but never for long enough. Two cars drove past without giving her pause. The dusty air made a nest in her lungs. Although it felt like an hour, only twenty minutes passed before she saw her sister’s silver Kia coming down the road. The car pulled off the otherwise deserted Highway 1 and stopped in front of Faye, the gravel under the tires moaning in protest.

Faye didn’t move.

Charlotte unrolled the passenger window and waved a pile of napkins at Faye. “I had to drive all the way back to the Husky in Hope for these,” she said. “Get in the car.”

Faye glared at her sister, not saying a word.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Quit your pouting and get in the car.”

“I’m not pouting!”

Charlotte honked a laugh. “Yeah right, a helicopter could land on that lower lip.”

“Quit trying to sound like mom,” Faye said.“Well someone has to be the sensible one here.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to be you? Get over yourself, Chucky Cheese. You’re such a hypocrite.”

The smile disappeared from Charlotte’s freckled face. “Jesus Faye, you’re such a little pube. It isn’t my fault you got a nose bleed. You should’ve known better than to stick your head out the window like a dog in this weather. I wasn’t about to let you get it all over my new car.”

Faye turned her head away and pretended to watch a squirrel dart up a tree. Charlotte hated being ignored more than being sworn at.

“You want to walk to Victoria? Fine with me. Mom will be long gone by the time you get there,” Charlotte said.

Faye opened her mouth to respond, but stopped at the look on Charlotte’s face. In the silence between them, Faye almost missed the sound of someone telling them not to argue.

Faye harrumphed before standing up. She pulled open the door and slouched into her seat, slamming the door behind her.

Charlotte’s serious face dissolved when she looked at Faye up close. Charlotte’s mouth pursed to the size of a dried apricot as she stared at her little sister.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? You look like a weirdo,” Faye said.

Charlotte gave in and laughed out loud. “I look like a weirdo? Look who’s talking! You look like a hungover clown.” She licked her index finger on her right hand and reached over towards Faye’s face. “Here I’ll help you clean it off.”

Faye smacked her hand away. “Ew, I can do it myself. Don’t be disgusting.” Faye snatched away the napkins from Charlotte and turned towards the window. She wouldn’t give Charlotte the satisfaction. Despite how much of a neat freak Charlotte pretended to be, Faye knew the truth. Her sister loved to spit on people. Faye and Charlotte never hugged, but they used to wrestle and tickle each other. Whoever pinned the other done won the prize of spitting on the other’s face. As the bigger sister, Charlotte usually won, even after they reached university.

Faye stared through the glass for the next hour in silence, watching the passing pine trees transform into highway exits for Chilliwack then Abbotsford. How many times had she driven through these cities, never stopping for longer than to use a bathroom or fill up on gas? Her mother used to joke about the people who lived in the Fraser Valley, claiming they liked the smell of car exhaust. When she was thirteen, while stopping for gas in Abbotsford, Faye saw a bear galloping around the strip mall. He was terrified, his movements erratic, as if he didn’t know where to go. The bear was barely bigger than a cub. People were laughing and pointing, or screaming as if they thought he would attack them. Faye felt bad for the bear, even started to cry, but her mother said there was nothing they could do. Charlotte had to drag her back to the car. Later on, Faye heard on the news that they put the bear down.

The three of them used to make the trip to the island every year to go surfing. Their mother loved being near the ocean and hearing the ferry horn. She even enjoyed the smell of kelp and dead fish baking on the beach. Faye shouldn’t have been surprised when her mother insisted on going into hospice care in Victoria.

Faye left the blood on her face until they stopped for lunch. Only then did she splash her face in the bathroom after the Tim Hortons employee asked if she was all right.

Back in the car, Charlotte turned off the audio book. She plugged in her iPod and offered it to Faye to pick a song, the closest either of them would ever get to apologizing.