mess. And Iâve forgotten the number-one rule of the Vagina American: be prepared. I really doubt Odd or Oddâs Gramma Dot has stashed a supply of tampons in the Cadillac for this possibility, so I reach down and pull off one of my socks and sacrifice it. Come morning I can replace it with a wad of paper towels. Thatâll be fun, sitting on a wad of that mess until we hit a pocket of civilization and I can do better.
Suddenly, for the first time I can remember, Iâm afraid of bears. I imagine I smell hot and bloody as an elk roast. My tent doesnât feel safe anymore. It just makes me blind. It makes me listen so hard my cheeks start to ache.
I give up, unzip the tent, and crawl out. The stars are bright enough to make me dizzy, but starlight doesnât open up the shadows. I drag out my sleeping bag and head for the Cadillac. I want a barrier a little more substantial than ripstop nylon. DâElegance will protect me. When I pull the door shut, all the world has to stay outside. She is my protective quarantine. The backseat is too small to feel comfortable, but I fold my legs up and cuddle my cheek against the velvety cushion. My sleeping bag is warm. Itâs quieter inside the car. I canât hear the constant motion of water and air. All I can hear is the stuff inside my head. I hear the song.
Â
Come away, human child
To the water, and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the worldâs more full of weeping
than you can understand.
Â
I hear the song, but itâs not in my voice. Itâs in othersâ voices, the voices I heard when my mom played the CD over and over again while I was in the coma.
Â
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances.
Â
She found it in my room on my desk and decided it must be special to me. It wasnât. It was just part of a multimedia thesis on Yeats for English. It was all the versions I could find of people singing and reciting the same poem.
Â
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star.
Â
I know my mom was sitting there, watching me sleep, because her whisper is all tangled up in the song, âItâs OK, Babykid. Itâs OK. Mommyâs here. Mommyâs here. Mommyâs here.â
Â
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams.
They donât have what I need at the gas station. They have tampons, but I need pads, with wings. Iâm not being picky, itâs a matter of life and death according to Mom. If I use a tampon, Iâll die from toxic shock. My body is a compromised system. A two-inch wad of cotton and string can kill me. Everything can kill me.
I pay for the gas. I have my sweatshirt tied around my waist to disguise my lumpy crotch. Iâve replaced the sock with paper towels: Absorbent? Check. Comfortable? So not.
Odd is leaning against the bumper scratching his cheeks. Whiskers itch, I guess. My problem is bigger than his.
âI need to go to real store, Odd. Like a grocery store or drugstore.â
âWe could use some real food,â says Odd.
âThatâs right, food and stuff,â I say.
âAlrighty then,â says Odd.
Â
Odd is pushing a shopping cart. I think we could have made do with a little plastic basket, but heâs pushing a shopping cart. If I were on my own with a basket, I could just turn away and hide if another customer comes our direction. I could be stealthy and this shopping trip could be over so fast. But Iâm with Odd, and heâs steering a cart down the narrow aisles making squealing-tire noises when he turns a corner. I wish we could just go our separate ways, but Iâm the one whoâs paying. He picks up a watermelon and starts thumping his knuckles against it. Whatâs he thinking?
âNo watermelon, Odd. We canât eat a watermelon in the car. You can have bananas or oranges . . . no juggling the food . . . we could get stuff for