eyebrows giving off salt and her teeth full of gulls flickering away into flight from a pink deck. I can picture her mouth moving into a small black O, falling out again into lips drained of colour, the heaves of the imaginary waves carrying her face into further fractures as if it were a kaleidoscope, or a million people lending her a piece of their faces, meshing and unmeshing until it wasn’t her there at all, staring at herself. Perhaps one green eye, one brown, one azure, one red. Water splashed up and formed beads within the cracks, beads that held the same broken images, mirrors within mirrors. Reaching for the sink – propping herself up against it, the strawberry dress against the porcelain, her chest heaving – she felt a pair of arms wrap around her.
‘You okay?’
Mam’s face flicked up in the mirror again, meshed with the face of the woman behind her, so that it was all at once brown and white, smooth and pockmarked, full and emaciated.
Cici Henckle had a cigarette dangling from her lips, which the shattered mirror razored into five different parts. She bent my mother over the sink, a liquid sickness splattering her fingers. ‘You go ahead and get it all on up,’ said Cici, smoke billowing from her mouth. She was dressed completely in black, a turtleneck, an obsidian necklace, long skirt with tassels. Her hair was dark, too, lopsided and limp around her shoulders. Long hands held Mam up over the sink for half an hour. ‘You’re whiter’n a sheet,’ said Cici as she washed her hands and rubbed some rouge into Mam’s cheeks.
Mam said nothing. She was propped against the sink, accepting the rouge, watching the mirror settle itself down. Calcium marks ran like musical notes on Cici’s fingernails, moving around Mam’s cheeks. ‘Who’re you with?’ said Cici. Mam flicked her head towards the door of the bathroom.
Outside, my father was slumped in a chair, hat on. The magazine had told him that there’d been a mistake, they needed him in New York, they’d written to him in Mexico, the letter mustn’t have arrived. They gave him cash for the shots of the copper mines, told him to get on a bus across country.
‘Your girl here’s sick as a dog,’ said Cici, when they came out of the bathroom.
‘Come on, love,’ the old man said, ignoring Cici. ‘We have to go.’
Cici, nonplussed, guided Mam to the chair. She kept one arm wrapped around my mother’s waist, and with the other took out another cigarette, lit it, kicked my father’s outstretched feet as if it were all just one natural motion. ‘Say, lover boy, I said your girlfriend here is throwing up God knows how many years of food. And you’re sitting here doing sweet nothing. What sort of goddamn man are you anyway?’
‘We have to be somewhere,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘New York.’ He said the words breathlessly, as if there were all sorts of camera bulbs erupting from his throat.
‘She’s about as fit for New York as that goddamn hat of yours. She needs to see herself a doctor or something. Get some rest.’
My father nodded, lit a cigarette. ‘She’s just a little seasick.’
‘Seasick my ass – this floor isn’t rolling, is it?’ Cici sat down, leaned towards Mam. ‘You can come to my place if you like. Nothing special, but I got an extra bed. Lover boy here’s welcome, too. Long as he doesn’t make you carry the suitcases.’
Cici’s apartment was in an old house on Dolores Street, not far from the Mission. Sickly white azaleas ranged along the wrought-iron railings, and scraps of graffiti welcomed them along the stairwell. The apartment was filthy. Suitcases were stuffed with clothes, and around them lay papers, ashtrays, bottles, half-eaten biscuits, lamps shorn of their shades. A newspaper photo of James Dean, a voluminous quiff of hair on his head, was propped against a wall, three candles beside it. Cici threw the picture a kiss. Mam’s head still spun as they laid her down in bed.
Cici didn’t
‘You okay?’
Mam’s face flicked up in the mirror again, meshed with the face of the woman behind her, so that it was all at once brown and white, smooth and pockmarked, full and emaciated.
Cici Henckle had a cigarette dangling from her lips, which the shattered mirror razored into five different parts. She bent my mother over the sink, a liquid sickness splattering her fingers. ‘You go ahead and get it all on up,’ said Cici, smoke billowing from her mouth. She was dressed completely in black, a turtleneck, an obsidian necklace, long skirt with tassels. Her hair was dark, too, lopsided and limp around her shoulders. Long hands held Mam up over the sink for half an hour. ‘You’re whiter’n a sheet,’ said Cici as she washed her hands and rubbed some rouge into Mam’s cheeks.
Mam said nothing. She was propped against the sink, accepting the rouge, watching the mirror settle itself down. Calcium marks ran like musical notes on Cici’s fingernails, moving around Mam’s cheeks. ‘Who’re you with?’ said Cici. Mam flicked her head towards the door of the bathroom.
Outside, my father was slumped in a chair, hat on. The magazine had told him that there’d been a mistake, they needed him in New York, they’d written to him in Mexico, the letter mustn’t have arrived. They gave him cash for the shots of the copper mines, told him to get on a bus across country.
‘Your girl here’s sick as a dog,’ said Cici, when they came out of the bathroom.
‘Come on, love,’ the old man said, ignoring Cici. ‘We have to go.’
Cici, nonplussed, guided Mam to the chair. She kept one arm wrapped around my mother’s waist, and with the other took out another cigarette, lit it, kicked my father’s outstretched feet as if it were all just one natural motion. ‘Say, lover boy, I said your girlfriend here is throwing up God knows how many years of food. And you’re sitting here doing sweet nothing. What sort of goddamn man are you anyway?’
‘We have to be somewhere,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘New York.’ He said the words breathlessly, as if there were all sorts of camera bulbs erupting from his throat.
‘She’s about as fit for New York as that goddamn hat of yours. She needs to see herself a doctor or something. Get some rest.’
My father nodded, lit a cigarette. ‘She’s just a little seasick.’
‘Seasick my ass – this floor isn’t rolling, is it?’ Cici sat down, leaned towards Mam. ‘You can come to my place if you like. Nothing special, but I got an extra bed. Lover boy here’s welcome, too. Long as he doesn’t make you carry the suitcases.’
Cici’s apartment was in an old house on Dolores Street, not far from the Mission. Sickly white azaleas ranged along the wrought-iron railings, and scraps of graffiti welcomed them along the stairwell. The apartment was filthy. Suitcases were stuffed with clothes, and around them lay papers, ashtrays, bottles, half-eaten biscuits, lamps shorn of their shades. A newspaper photo of James Dean, a voluminous quiff of hair on his head, was propped against a wall, three candles beside it. Cici threw the picture a kiss. Mam’s head still spun as they laid her down in bed.
Cici didn’t
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