I’ve realized something these past few weeks, since the hospital. My mind is now clear and ideas are coming so easily. I’m beginning to think that when you’re in a relationship, it’s not about how beautiful the other person looks, it’s about how beautiful you become when you’re with them. With Michael I was beautiful, inside and out. I said the right things. I did the right things. I liked who I was.
And I have been thinking that maybe I’ve been Echo all the time—in my home, my neighbourhood, with friends. It’s not just with adults. It’s always. And maybe it’s not just the words I’ve been reflecting back to everyone. Maybe it’s also the ugliness. And the hate. And the fear. And the anger. And the self-loathing.
A while ago I remember believing that I was simply reflecting Michael’s beauty. But now, when I really, really think about it, perhaps because he was so calm and clear, quite possibly Michael was reflecting mine.
Up. Up. Up.
Sixty-Six
I am sleeping soundly the night before my court date when shouting from the living room wakes me up. A man’s voice. Someone I don’t recognize. And my mom’s high, screechy voice. They are both yelling in the living room, but I can’t really make out a lot other than swearing. It gets bad. And then it gets really ugly. I hear a fist in his voice. I’ve heard it before, in other men’s voices. It’s why I keep a baseball bat behind my dresser. All these thoughts and images go through my mind. My bloodied mother, dead on the floor. The man coming into my room to finish the job.
I rip open my door. They both turn to me. “Melissa!” my mom shouts, horrified because I’m holding the bat over my shoulder.
“Get out of here!” I shout, storming toward the middle-aged, muscle-headed man with a ball cap and a goatee.
He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering. “Hey, hey … take it easy, Honey …”
“Melissa!” my mom shouts. “Stop! Put it down.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I insist, still on the attack.
Wham. Black. Black. Throbbing in my ears. Then ringing. My face pains. I can’t see. Then little bits of light come into my eyes. Then little bits more. And I start to make out the guy standing in front of me, but I look harder and I see it’s my mother.
My mother hit me! “You fucking hit me …” “Melissa! Melissa!” she shouts, shaking my shoulders. “What the fuck? You fucking hit me?” I keep shouting,
because I just can’t believe it happened. “Melissa! Melissa! Look at me. Are you crazy? What are you going to do with the bat?” Her voice trembles.
I look over her shoulder and around the room for the guy. “Where is he?” My hands are still gripping the bat. My fists get tighter. I’m ready to use it.
I feel her hands on my hands. She pushes the bat down.
“He’s gone, Melissa. He took off when he saw you.” “You hit me?” I question her again, still a little out of it. “I’m sorry, Hon.” She reaches out a hand to stroke my cheek. “Ow!” I pull away at her painful touch. She reaches her hand back out and with a finger gently
dabs just under my eye. “You’re bleeding. It was my ring. Oh God, I’m sorry.” She pulls me into her. My arms reflexively go around her back, but I’m still holding the stupid baseball bat. I won’t let it go.
“Is the door locked?” I ask, pushing her away. Without waiting for an answer, I go through the kitchen, bolt the door, and put the chain on. “Who was that? What if he comes back?” I scream.
“I’m calling Giovanni.” My mom heads toward the phone. “No! Don’t!” There’s panic in my voice. Too much panic.
She turns and looks at me inquisitively. “Why not? What’s wrong with you lately?”
“Just don’t. We don’t need him. You’ll wake him up.”
She lifts up the receiver. “He’ll understand. He’ll come stay on the couch.”
She breaks down crying when she talks to Giovanni on the phone. I know he’ll be up in a few seconds. I leave the room to inspect my eye in the washroom mirror. The cut’s not deep, but I’m already puffy. So I get some ice from the kitchen, wrap it in a tea towel, and then go into my room. I sit down, my back against the door, head in hands, and wait. Wait. And I hear