“Say this over and over.” One of them says. She gives each of us a little business card. “It’s a chant. Close your eyes. Say it again and again, thinking of what you want. Then it will come to you.”
Bronwyn says nothing. She seems hypnotized by the strange words printed on the card.
The women walk on, making their way to enlighten some other lost and vacant mall pests.
Dominic shakes his head and laughs. “Man, there’s always some fucking weirdos hanging out here.”
We pass by a transient asleep in a doorway. Dom leans down and slips his card into the front pocket of the man’s old, dingy jacket. “It’s a magical chant, dude.”
Bronwyn hasn’t stopped gawking at her card. Her eyebrows knit together, showing silent confusion.
“What does ‘Nam Myoho Renge Kyo’ even mean?”
“I dunno.” I shrug. “I don’t think they’re real Buddhists. Buddhists don’t walk around the mall looking for recruits, handing out business cards. Do they?”
“Mormons do,” Dom says. “You seen those guys in suits on bicycles going door to door? Mormon recruiters.”
“Those are Jehovah’s Witnesses, you jackass,” Bronwyn says.
“What’s the difference?”
“Remember those three kids in elementary school who always had to go home early when we had class parties for Christmas and Halloween and stuff?” I put the card in the pocket of my jeans. “Those kids were Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Uh-huh.” Dom skips around a trashcan to avoid running into it. “But, I still don’t get what the difference is.”
“I don’t get it either,” I say. “I don’t think there’s a way to tell a member of one group from another. They just have a different sales pitch or whatever.”
Bronwyn shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disgust. “You guys don’t know jack shit. They’re all different paths to finding peace.”
“Well, maybe they should all try to mix and match a little more,” Dom says.
“What does that mean?” I wonder.
“I’m just thinking, if they all shut the hell up and put their heads together, the Jehovahs or the whatevers could have cars instead of bicycles. Those kids could’ve had cupcakes in class at Christmas, that bum back there could wear fancy silk scarves and I wouldn’t have to get fucked with when I’m on the mall trying to score.”
“Wow. That's dumb.” Bronwyn laughs so hard she almost starts coughing, then slides the card into her back pocket, slow and careful as though it were a delicate thing that might shatter if handled too roughly.
8. SEARCHING WITH MY GOOD EYE CLOSED
IN ALL DIRECTIONS it’s shoppers and street musicians. More bums and countless neo-whatevers.
“We should get off the mall,” I say.
“Yeah.” Dom nods and flicks a cigarette butt. “Maybe we oughta head over to the park.”
Bronwyn trudges along between us. “Augh. I hate the park. It’s all hippies and frat boys.”
The frat boys. Cruel, shallow, good-looking, confident types is what she means. Theresa despised them, fraternity membership or not. All college guys were frat boys in her mind. New and improved Theresa, the finished product, would be something else. Her metamorphosis, once complete, would let her belong.
Her superficial cocoon. An escape route from awkward.
A life boat to acceptance.
“We won’t stay long,” Dominic reassures her. “Just long enough to scope shit out.”
None of us have much to say as we make our way to the park. Bronwyn lumbers along, Dom bounces around, kicking the occasional rock or bit of trash in the gutter. Each of us is lost in our own mind, our own weird set of priorities.
“Why did you ditch therapy again today?” He kicks an empty cigarette pack someone discarded in the grass next to the sidewalk.
It hadn’t occurred to me that during our silence, Dom had been pondering my motivations for skipping yet another therapy session.
“It just gets old, you know? The shrink asks me the same questions every single time and every single time, I tell him the same answer: that I don't remember shit.”
“Is he trying to make you remember, or what?”
“Yeah, but I don't want to. He says I'm repressing, holding things back. Indra remembered everything, but she was older.”
No one had seen my older sister Indra after she took off four years ago. As soon as she turned eighteen, she was gone. “I can't stay here,” she’d told me. “There isn't a single person in this fucking town who doesn't know why we don't have parents, why we live with Aunt Stacey and why we're so messed up.”
The thing she hated most was what she called “pity stares.” At the grocery store, pity stares. Her teachers and friend’s parents, all gave her the pity stare. It was something that annoyed me, too, but it was worse for Indra. She had a clear image of our family’s entire picture. Me, all I ever had was my angry older sister and my sad Aunt Stacey. Looking at the two of them every day wasn't enough to gauge the whole spectrum of emotions surrounding our situation; of how those living outside our house viewed us. My aunt and sister experienced the loss more clearly. I never had the strong grasp on death that they did.
“Most everyone in town remembers it,” Bronwyn says. “You might be better off not remembering.”
“That's what I think,” I say. “And that’s why therapy is bullshit. I don’t believe in it.”
“You don’t believe in anything, Ivy. What if it helps?” Dominic looks right at me, his attention now devoted to harping on me about therapy instead of kicking random objects in his path.
“Helps what? I was locked in a closet with Indra the entire time. When we came out, it was already done and they were dead. Indra remembered and it never helped her any.”
“Exactly,” Bronwyn says.
“But—”
Bronwyn gives Dom a light shove, knocking him off the sidewalk. “C’mon, Dom. Change the subject, already.”
Most people, they’d get pissed at Dom for badgering them
