The beginning of summer, two weeks after graduation from the world’s most tedious MBA program, saw Tracey McAlpine moving back home with her parents, whether she wanted to or not.
That Saturday, she ambled toward the main entrance of the Galleria trying to keep up with her mother, who was going on and on about God knows what. A few words registered: “…even though the house isn’t going anywhere. The more I think about it, the more it sounds like a good idea. Maybe we should get a storage unit near home. That way, if you decide not to come back here, then all the stuff will… I saw that look. Well, no, I guess we don’t need a storage unit. Besides, it’s only an hour anyway. We can get it any time. And your dad said he would check on the place on the weekends…” And so on and so forth, never stopping to realize that Tracey was going to catch fire. And she was going to catch fire. Even filtered by clouds and magnolias, Alabama sun burns.
Besides, everybody knew Southern heat and her condition did not go hand in hand. It was so hot and so sticky, and she was breathing so hard that particular day that catching fire seemed inevitable. Her hands tried to ease the pain in her lower back by pressing her hands there. Sweating like a pig by the time they got inside the mall, she stopped to wipe one hand repeatedly across her brow. Relief from the heat remained elusive even in the cool building. She was definitely going to catch fire. She wondered if that was what made her want to cry. Or was it her mother’s incessant chatting? Or was it those new female hormones that had changed her body so much?
Man, she hated him right then.
“Tracey, are you listening to me?”
“Yep.”
“Yep?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m listening to you.”
“Then what did I say?”
“So when exactly can Daddy make it?”
“Oh,” her mother breathed, digressing nicely, “he said he’d get out of his meeting late tonight. He’ll probably drive up with the truck tomorrow to pick up your things.” Tracey nodded, pleased with her diversion. Her mother was talking again, moving on to the subject of going to church the next morning.
It didn’t matter how many times she told her mother that she did not feel like going to church, Mrs. Carolyn McAlpine wasn’t having it. Tracey would be in church in the morning regardless of what she said. Her mother could always accomplish this feat by issuing an executive order, but hated doing that. She thought of herself as a benevolent dictator… which is why Tracey wasn’t surprised when she declared that her daughter wasn’t going to be a heathen and they were definitely going to church.
Her mother probably figured she was so far gone, it merited extreme action. There was no distraction that could prevent her from enforcing this decision. As she went on, Tracey paused to catch her breath, another mistake in a string of many.
“Tracey, honey, are you okay?” Her mother wrinkled her honey-colored brow as she spoke.
Tracey’s mother was 1940s movie star gorgeous. Like Lena Horne or Dorothy Dandridge. Classically pretty with big, warm brown eyes, a straight nose, and generous lips, she turned more heads at twice Tracey’s age than Tracey did. Her clothes were always perfect, along with her makeup and her hair, too. Though tall like Tracey, she had a slender figure that gave her sort of a sparrow-boned look. “High-school skinny,” Tracey had heard one of her friends call her. She had smooth café-au-lait skin that glistened. It was skin without a single mark or scar to prove she had ever been a child. When Tracey was little she’d wanted to be light like her, but was instead dark like her daddy. Tracey loved the way her mother’s perpetually straight hair shifted in the wind and then moved softly back into place. It fell heavily between her shoulders like that of her Cherokee grandmother. Tracey had real honest to goodness black hair. Perming barely tamed its autonomy.
On that sweltering day, her mother was wearing a salmon-colored pantsuit and looking the picture of comfort as she swished next to Tracey like royalty. Tracey felt even worse than she normally did walking next to her. She was a big, lumbering, unkempt thing trying to stay cool in a place with too many people and too many scents. On top of that, she was catching fire, burning up, and probably going to be sick.
Her mother repeated her question.
“Yeah, Mama, I’m fine.”
“You probably need to rest for a little while.” She started to press her hand to Tracey’s forehead as if her grown daughter were still a child. Tracey couldn’t let her. She would be calling an ambulance in a heartbeat. So she stepped back. Her mother scowled at her. “Well, just be a baby, why don’t you! Good Lord! Listen, I’m going to run into Barron’s to pick up the things we need for the house. You need to sit while I do that and rest. How come you didn’t tell me you were feeling bad? Never mind,” she said and began to rifle through her purse. She pulled out a perfectly folded bill. “Here.”
“Mama, I don’t need your money,” Tracey responded, keeping to a ritual that had spanned her whole college career. Out of grad school and plunging headfirst into a part of womanhood Tracey wasn’t halfway ready for, she was trying desperately to show her independence.
Her mother extended the bill toward her despite Tracey’s argument. “Why don’t you go to the food court and get yourself something to drink and eat? The liquids will help cool you off, and you know Dr. Singh wants you to eat more regularly. You need to sit down for a minute anyway. I’ll meet you in the food court in twenty minutes, tops. Okay?” Tracey nodded, not because she was in agreement but because she was trying to back off from her mother as she pressed her slender fingers to Tracey’s forehead again. “You feel warm,” she murmured.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
Her brow remained furrowed.
“I’m sure after I sit down I’ll be fine.”
Her mother chewed her lower lip, but in the end accepted Tracey’s words. “Here,” she said, attacking her daughter with the money again.
“Fine.” Tracey took the cash because her mother gave her no choice. Usually she would have debated until her mother got disgusted and stalked off, but that day she wasn’t up to it.
These days her mother was always looking at her as if she were trying to figure out where she went wrong. Maybe Tracey could have taken it better if her mother were angry with her. Instead, she got a pain in her chest when she could tell her mother was turning her disappointment inward. It was as if…as if her mother looked devastated and hurt in a way she had never seen. And when she looked that way Tracey could only do whatever it was she wanted and hope the expression went away.
Besides, this gave Tracey a chance to be alone and indulge in her favorite pastime. Feeling sorry for herself had been her signature practice over the past few months. She had become a pro. At home, she would turn off all the lights and let the fan blow instead of the air conditioner, which froze her regularly. Since the fan didn’t do much for the already stifling June heat, she wallowed in sticky hotness daily, sitting, as best she could, on the floor in her tiny bathroom. Its window opened beneath the shade of a great big oak that frequently sheltered a soft and fragrant breeze. Tracey would ease down, and because she couldn’t sit with her legs drawn up to her chest anymore, she spread them in front of her: one foot next to the shower, the other by the door jamb. She would rest her hands and forearms on her stomach because that was the most comfortable place to put them. Sometimes, she would move her hands down over her belly. Even in the dark she could see its outline plumped up on her thighs.
Too bad it was getting too difficult to get back up. No matter, she was already expanding her morose horizons. She felt sorry for herself whenever she could. Even there in the mall she was perfecting this science. It doesn’t get any worse than this, she told herself over and over again as she took her mother’s advice and went in search of the food court.
As she waddled down the main arcade, she felt alarming discomfort pulling and punching her face into a grimace. Her hands reflexively went down to her stomach as she stood still trying to catch her breath.
“Tracey?” Damn, how did she manage to catch the slightest pause even from fifty feet away? Her mother was next to her before Tracey knew it. “Tracey, are you sure Dr. Singh said it’s okay for you to be out? I wish I’d gone to that last appointment with you. I know I shouldn’t have listened to you. I know I should have gone. And I have you out here like this. I—”
Right then, Tracey’s head decided it wanted to spin. She felt tingling beneath her tongue and saliva pooling in her mouth. She needed to swallow, but that hurt. “I would have…come out…anyway.” She could hear her own voice drifting away. She tried to make the words stream together, the way they did when everything was fine. But she didn’t guess everything was fine. No, she was drifting, blissfully drifting, away from the heat, away from her mother.
In a vision, she saw Garrett. She whispered his name. She told him that she still loved him.
Her mother shook her. She put a hand to her head. Flames rippled over her skin like rapids.
“Baby, are you all right?” Her mother’s voice was shaky and urgent. She held on to Tracey, trying to anchor her.
“I’m fine,” Tracey answered and, with a herculean effort, smiled. She patted at her face with a napkin she got from God knows where, then shuddered as heat pumped through her again.
“Tracey… Good Lord, you’re burning up!” The sound of her mother’s voice barely registered.
And then she saw him again, as if she’d summoned him. He was coming towards her. He was running towards her. She was shaking. Her whole body quivered from the inside out. Hot blood rushed and she imagined she could feel it—actually feel it—surging from one place to another through her veins. From one place to another. She swallowed, but the lump growing at the back of her throat only got bigger. Her vision blurred.
He had her by the arm. He wasn’t saying anything. His eyes were just locked with hers. His breath was coming so fast that hers became more labored. She struggled to let the air in and out deep and steady, but it came out sputtering and erratic. Tears streamed from her eyes, mixing with the burning haze around her. She couldn’t focus. His broad hand wrapped all the way around her upper arm and she could feel him squeezing. He squeezed so hard that her arm was throbbing painfully, making her cry even more. He wouldn’t release her, not from his grip and not from his eyes. And he still stood there silently. He didn’t even know he was hurting her.
Tracey felt her mother wedge her body angrily between the two of them, but it was too late. Fire consumed her. She was about to die. She knew it. Then Tracey was falling, but there were arms catching her. She knew them. She called to him. “Garrett, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” The ground beneath her was still giving way. Moisture was bending all the images before her eyes; heat was making them swirl. Then pain took her into its heart and everything went black.