THE LAST DAY OF PEARL FISHBACK

I

Ever since the scorching hot July afternoon my mother moved from Milwaukee to Marfa, she only ever wore one perfume— Blonde by Versace, which was a gift from my dad to her on the day of its release in 1995. Mother always claimed I was conceived on that very day.  I was very used to the smell, to the point where I couldn't tell the difference anymore, but anyone who walked into our house would ask how we made gardenias work in the heat. 

Mother loved my daddy more than anything— more than her perfume, more than her bars and bars of soap, more than her various cleaning liquids. Of course, ultimately, Daddy was too much of a man to stay and love her indefinitely. It devastated her when he left. I was ten months old. 

Twenty-eight years later, she still hasn't gotten over Daddy. He had dedicated Beauty Queen to her a few years after it came out. I do have to agree that it must be difficult to get over someone who dedicated that song to you when you weren’t a queen or particularly beautiful.

I wanted something special for today— for mother to have the best birthday of her lifetime. Because I knew that year after year she became even more emotional and missed Daddy even more. I never really had the time to miss Daddy. Mother did all the missing for me.

I stood in front of the meat section in Porter's and tried to decide what cut would be the best choice. I had my phone in one hand and softly scratched my arm with the other, using only my palm. My wounds were still healing, so I wasn’t allowed to scratch with my nails. I wondered how I looked, from a stranger’s point of view— a twenty-eight-year-old standing in the middle of Porter’s wearing a dress she has no right to wear, showing her skin wounds like this. I must have looked pretty creepy, every inch of my skin red and scabby, pus oozing from under some of the injuries. Yeah, mother would never have let me wear this dress out if she knew. But this was supposed to be a surprise.

I picked up a pack of sirloin steak and threw it into my basket. It hurt where the handles scraped against my fragile skin, but I wanted to look like I wasn’t fazed by it. Maybe I was just back from a vacation in Cancun, had forgotten the sunscreen. Or maybe I was a little too into gardening. Gardenias for mother’s perfume.

I didn’t have a lot left to get, just a bottle of wine and more bleach for mother. Bleach went like water in our house. And the wine, of course, had to be quality. Aromatic. People always talked about different “notes” in wine. Oceanic undertones? Hazelnut? Peppermint, or maybe the fuzz of a tennis ball. How would I know.

I made my way towards the alcohol aisle, and by that point I was no longer able to endure the friction of the basket handles on my arm. I decided to carry it in front of me with both hands. Made me look cute, like a proper good girl who was doing the shopping for the elderly man next door whose children completely abandoned him. I liked it. 

I immediately saw Sandra as I entered the aisle. Mother and she saw one another biweekly, playing bridge in our living room. Maybe she would know which wine mother would enjoy the most. I wondered if there was a wine with notes of soap, perfume, and bleach. That would probably be mother’s favorite.

Sandra was almost the only other person who I saw besides mother, and in turn, she was almost the only other person who saw me back. Don’t they say there’s a special place in hell for those who see evil and choose to ignore it? I would never, ever forgive her.

When I called out to Sandra, she raised her eyes towards my direction, her tortoise glasses hanging on the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, P— ”

“I hope you’re better at picking out wine than I am.” 

“Special occasion?” she asked, a questioning smile wrinkling her face.

I nodded and watched Sandra’s eyes closely. How long before they wandered around my face, then down towards my arms and legs? I swear I saw a glint of pity before she met my eyes once again.

“Well, if it’s not out of your budget, this is a good one.” She handed me the bottle that she was holding. It said Tyler on it. Pinot noir. I guess that was a good thing.

Before I could thank her and move on, Sandra asked how my mother was doing. I told her about the surprise I was trying to put together. Cook a nice meal for her birthday, make sure she had a good time.

“How nice of you,” Sandra said, but her smile faded away too fast. Or I was just too self-conscious about everything at that moment. My dress wasn't helping. Besides, I had always been a self-conscious person— never been the kind of person who unfastens her belt on the plane as soon as the light is turned off. Those people amaze me with their confidence, the sense of comfort they have with themselves that exudes power.

“I’ll see you next week dear,” Sandra said, sidestepping me to get out of the aisle. I must have been way too lost in my head to move out of her way. 

It was five forty-five, which didn’t worry me because mother liked having her dinner late, especially on hot days like this one. That meant I could hang out outside a bit, which wasn’t something I really did all that much. 

If someone put a piece of cloth over my eyes, and told me to find the cleaning aisle, I could do it with ease. The times when I did go outside were mostly for shopping, and it was always done at Porter’s since mother had worked here when she first moved to Marfa and kept a good relationship with everyone that came before and after her, earning herself an employee discount card with an infinity sign for the expiration date. No one would ever take away her discount, considering how much she contributed to the economy of the store.

I needed bleach today, and nothing else. My guess was that as she got older, mother wanted to stick to the cleaning agents that she knew by heart, rather than venture out and discover new things. I let my eyes wander among the colorful bottles and tubes and cubes and everything else. Why choose bleach when you could go for REAL violet scented Cuddles or whatever? Old age, I say.

I got four bottles of Clorox, regular size— they came in 121-ounce bottles, and I was so used to carrying them that they no longer felt like anything in my hands. This was probably the same sensation mother got every time she sprayed Blonde on her skin. 

For a Sunday afternoon, the two registers were pretty crowded. I decided to go for the longer line, because it meant going through Darlene’s register, who was probably the sweetest lady in all of Marfa, which didn’t really mean much, but she was still one of my favorite people here. 

Darlene spotted me as I took my spot at the end of the line, and it was comforting how her eyes never wandered. She just looked straight into my eyes. She smiled and waved at me, while scanning a can of sweet corn for a middle-aged woman in front of her. I could only see her in profile from where I was standing, but I couldn’t help admiring her skin. She had one hand on her hip, and with her other hand she was fiddling with a necklace. I couldn’t see what it was, but it wasn’t anything extravagant, just a simple little thing, gold in color, dainty. Her skin was like hazelnut spread, smooth and sweet, scab-free. My hand automatically went up to my arm, wanting to cover it as a reflex, but there was too much to cover, and I didn’t have enough hands to do the covering. 

I felt sad when the woman with the smooth skin left, because I wasn’t finished watching her. What was at the end of her necklace? I imagined it to be a name, or a date. I never had jewelry. It was impossible to wear almost anything on my sensitive skin. Even putting on clothes was like torture, but it had to be done. 

“Hey there beautiful!” That was Darlene. Her voice sounded like cowbells— pure and joyful. I could listen to her for an eternity.

I put my basket up on the conveyor belt and watched as Darlene emptied it and scanned the products for me. She smiled at the wine and the steak.

“Is it your birthday?”

“Mother’s.”

"How sweet! Wish her a happy birthday for me. Haven't seen her around these days. Is everything ‘kay?” Darlene sounded genuinely worried, which stung my heart. 

“She just hasn’t been feeling her greatest, that’s all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she put her hand over her heart, as if wanting to hold it from popping out. I looked at her extra-long nails, painted in a shiny pink color with a pearly shift.

“We’re okay, don’t worry about us.” 

“Do you need a bag, darlin’?”

“No, I got my own,” I said, holding up a tote bag for her to see. She smiled as I placed my things inside and kept on smiling as I reached for my wallet. 

“You know, if you take your ma to the bank, they should be able to tell y’all how to use y’alls phones to pay.”

“Sure. Sure, I’ll do that soon.”

“Bye now honey.”

I picked up my things and tried to move out of the way as soon as possible so that Darlene could scan the next customer. As I was walking out, I heard her holler "Hey there, beautiful!" to whoever was behind me.

The sun was still intense even though it was past six now. It stung to be out in the light like this, my face, arms and legs uncovered. But I was on a mission, and I had given everything I had in me to get out. For my surprise for mother. I wouldn’t let my wounds ruin this. 

I still had lots of time to kill, if one could ever kill time, that is. It always felt like it was the other way around. Regardless, I wanted to stay out as much as I could, and go back home around mother’s evening nap time, which was usually from seven to eight-thirty or nine, so that I could prepare everything without her seeing. Which meant I had about an hour to myself. Lucky for me, House Bar was close by, and they would be just opening up. I could treat myself to one drink, since it was such a special day. I didn’t want to get too crazy with it, because this wine that Sandra suggested was a hundred bucks and I wanted to savor it as much as I wanted to surprise mother with it. 

House Bar was cool. If mother had seen the décor and how everything started glowing after sunset she probably would have pressed her lips together and looked away, like she did every time she was disgusted with something. And she was often disgusted with something— she needed everything to be pristine at all times, me and herself included.

Like I thought, they were just opening the bar when I walked inside. I was the only one there, for now at least. I decided to sit at the bar, since there it would be easier to order, and easier to look like a scorned wife, a cheated-on woman out for revenge, a woman not afraid of a hot summer night. I wondered if I really looked like that from the outside. The skin wounds? That bitch. She did it. The other woman.

“What can I get ya?”

I was startled by the sudden movement in front of me, which made the bartender laugh. “Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to suppress another fit. 

“Uh, you’re good,” I said, my face burning even more now with embarrassment, on top of the exposed skin. “Can I get a Bloody Mary?”

“At this hour?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Why not?”

The bartender shrugged, an arrogant smile plastered on his face. 

“I’ve never had one,” I blurted out. “I want to try.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“Tomato and celery and something.”

My answer earned me another chuckle. “One Bloody Mary coming right up.”

I had tried some alcohol before, of course. Some bourbon, which I didn’t like, since it burned my throat and numbed my tongue and I had enough burning sensation in my body as it was. Had also tried some plum liquor that mother made. Very sweet, and thick. I liked wine, because it was smooth and cool. I liked waiting for it to cool down and pouring a glass for mother. I would always twirl the glass around my face before I took it to her, touching my cheeks, and the tip of my nose to it, feeling the cool droplets on the glass merge into my pores. It felt like therapy. 

Had never tried a Bloody Mary though. It sounded like something I would like. I liked tomato juice, I liked celery salt. Something of a salad, in drink form. Healthy. 

The speakers of the bar came alive and the sound of a smooth guitar filled the room. I was still the only one there, so it felt like a special song, just for me. The bartender placed my drink in front of me just in time, a glass filled with red liquid, adorned with a stick of celery. It was way too light of a red to look like blood, although I understood the reference. He gave me a soft smile, and I nodded in response, immediately going for a sip. My ears perked as I listened to the lyrics of the song— something about being loved just the way you are.

I wondered how it felt. How it felt to be in love, or for someone else to be in love with me. Was there ever going to be someone in my life who would dedicate Beauty Queen to me? I liked this song too. It made me think of mother. Maybe I really never would understand her, like she always said. Because I never knew love like her, so I had no idea how to console the loss of it either. I remember almost nothing about Daddy. Just the emptiness he left. If there is such an emptiness, I must have loved him, somehow. And of course I saw how mother loved him— volatile, in isolation, painful. If she loved him that much, how could I not?

I took out my phone and started a search on Google. Thankfully the crappy thing was able to connect to the internet, although very slowly. I clicked on a link that led me to Youtube, and watched as a man added bleach to a few different substances. There it was: I was right. In wine, bleach was changing its color to a bright, rusty orange, but only for fifteen minutes. Then, it would turn back.

“You alright?” 

Suddenly I could feel the tinge of salt on my cheeks. Tears. I stared at the bartender through his glasses.

“Your eyes are super brown,” I found myself saying, either to distract myself or because his eyes really were super brown. Maybe both.

“What does super brown look like?”

“Like… hazelnut spread.”

“Do you like hazelnut spread?” he asked. The song was about to end. 

“Just as much as the next person,” I lied, and took another sip from my drink. It tasted like V8 vegetable juice. 

“You sure you’re okay? You don’t seem drunk, but tears usually don’t mix well with Bloody Maries.”

I wiggled in my seat. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“Is that so,” he frowned. 

“Sorry. I just don’t do this much.”

“Small talk?”

“All of it, actually,” I looked inside my glass to avoid his gaze. “Small talk, cocktails, being outside.”

“Is it because of your skin?”

I froze for a moment, as if I had no idea about how my skin looked, and it was a sudden realization. That wasn’t it, though— it was the acknowledgement that came from an outsider. True, people stared, but they usually swallowed their words. 

“That didn’t sound like I wanted it to.” He paused for a moment as he poured something on top of some crushed ice. “Does it hurt a lot?”

I didn’t know what to say. “A little.”

“Have you seen a doctor for it? My mom has eczema. Her doctor is amazing, maybe I can—”

“No,” I said, trying to sound as gentle as possible. “I need to be clean. Can I get the check?”

“I— Yeah. Sure.”

I felt bad for shutting him off so bluntly like that, when it was probably the most genuine interaction I’d had in ages. Everything was going to be okay, though. I could come back and apologize to him soon. 

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, and waited for him to return with a card reader. “I’ll be okay soon.”

He looked at me. Nodded. His glasses caught the light and it seemed as if he was winking at me for a moment. I liked it.

He held out the card reader towards me, and I stretched my arm towards him. His eyes followed my arm as it extended out, raw and shiny under the lighting of the bar. My hand grazed his for a moment, as I tapped my card on the reader. He immediately shifted his gaze from my arm to my face. 

“Thanks for coming in,” he said. His lips remained parted, and I waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, I averted my eyes and fiddled with my wallet, trying to put my card back in instead. The card reader beeped and screeched as it vomited my receipt.

“I’ll definitely be back,” I said. 

“I’ll definitely be waiting,” he said. His hand holding the card reader, the one that I had just touched, seemed frozen in place, and maybe just like me, he was savoring the warmth of it. Grazing fingers with a stranger. Mother would be scandalized.

II

“P? Is that you?” Mother chirped as soon as I closed the front door. 

“Yes, mother.” 

She approached me, gloves on her hands, with her trusted bottle of sanitizer. 

“Can I do it myself?" I asked, flinching at the thought of alcohol touching my raw skin.

“No,” she said firmly. “You can’t do it like me.”

I turned my head. Held onto my tote bag. My life seemed to only consist of a never-ending burn. As mother sprayed me down with the sanitizer, I didn’t make a sound. 

“I’ll wash you after my nap. Did you get the bleach?”

“Yes, mother.” 

She turned her back and walked to her bedroom, without another word to me. So I began.

I didn’t know how to cook all that well. But sirloin steak was quality, and as long as I followed this online recipe I had found, it would be pretty hard to ruin. As soon as I heard mother’s lock click, I took out a pan and some butter. Sear the meat, the recipe said. One minute on each side for medium rare. A little blood would be fitting for such a special night.

I put the wine bottle in the fridge and prepared the glasses. The four bottles of bleach I placed on the kitchen table for now. I didn’t want them to get in the way while I was cooking. 

I added butter to the meat, melted it, used a spoon to transfer the melted butter on both sides. It smelled pretty good, if I should say so myself. I imagined myself going to House Bar again and bragging about my meat-cooking skills to the bartender. “I never go even one bit over medium rare,” I would say, and he would wink at me with his glasses again. I wished I had gotten his name. Maybe Bloody Maries would be our special drink, and we would eat sirloin steak once a week. He would reach out and hold my hand, he would bring it to his face, I would be able to feel his warm breath on my fingers. How good would he be with his fingers, if I let him explore where even mother’s bleach didn’t go? The thought made me shudder.

I removed the pan from the stove and placed the meat on two different plates. It looked good, but that was all I had. I wasn’t really thinking about side dishes and all that. Meat and wine sounded special enough. 

The kitchen table was where Sandra and mother played bridge, so it wouldn’t do for tonight. The dinner table in the living room was a much better choice, especially since it was so rarely used nowadays. Daddy and mother had bought it together, or so I was told. Mother avoided using it, but birthday dinner was more appropriate here, with a full view of the garden. It was awfully hot inside, though, since mother didn’t let anyone open any of the windows, and the air conditioning was an absolute no since it circulated dirty air over and over again. 

I got down on my knees in front of the buffet to gain access to our specialty tablecloths. I chose one that had little embroidered seashells through its lining, silver-colored and soft. I laid it down on the table, making sure it was the same length on all four corners. Then I placed our plates, and cutlery, all that good stuff. It sounds boring— but the excitement I felt was barred by none other. It was finally time to prepare the drinks. And then mother would probably wake up. 

In the kitchen, I opened the fridge and stared at the wine bottle for a second. Tyler. I thought it would have been pretty funny if that was Daddy's name. But life wasn’t convenient like that. 

Bleach usually did the trick for me— at least, in mother’s opinion. Every time she scrubbed my body, she looked like a priest after a successful exorcism session. I was the demon in her life that she exorcised little by little every day. Maybe when she looked at me, she saw Daddy, and heard Beauty Queen, and smelled Blonde, I will never know. All I knew was the pain of my skin. I picked at a scab near my armpit, making it bleed ever so slightly. 

That very morning, as I was just waking up, mother had barged into my room. She was livid. There was a piece of paper towel in her hand. 

“Explain this,” she said. My eyes were barely open. I tried to see what exactly she was showing me. It looked like a singular piece of paper towel, nothing more. But with mother nothing was that simple. 

“What is it, mother?” I asked and sat up on the bed. She took a step back, to avoid whatever I was radiating.

“This was on the kitchen floor.”

“I don’t know—”

“We need to be clean. You need to be clean. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

“No, you don’t. You are a filthy creature,” she went on. “You were born as filth.”

I thanked her in my mind but turned to look out into the hallway from the open door of my room. Anywhere to look but her. Wasn’t today her sixtieth birthday?

“I dream of your death sometimes,” she said. “You should have been dead a long, long time ago.”

Despite everything, I still had a surprise prepared for her. With sirloin steak. And wine. Considering I thought I was a pretty good daughter. 

Just like I had seen in the video, the wine changed color as I added the bleach to it. But I had to trust the process and give it time to change back. And I had time. The meat would get cold, but I could easily just say that I was aiming for a cold cut. That sounded fancier anyway, and mother was a big fan of fancy. 

I made a mental note of my glass, and mother’s glass— mine on the left, hers on the right. The color lightened to a dark orange as I waited and watched. Waited and watched. It was seven forty-five now. 

The scab I had picked earlier was still bleeding, very faintly but enough for mother to realize. And if she realized I was bleeding, she would immediately order a bath, and the birthday dinner would be ruined. As I continued watching the wine glass, and kept an eye on the time, I decided to hold the wine bottle under my arm, sort of like a cold compress. It was poetic, too. Who knew the first Tyler I let near my armpit would be a wine bottle? 

The bleeding stopped, and the wine started to darken into its normal burgundy again. I smiled to myself. I gathered the glasses, mine on the left, mother’s on the right, and took them to the dinner table. I sat down on the left side, at the head of the table, since I was the host. She could sit facing the window, to look out into the world that she hated so much. 

I waited for her to wake up and come find me, since she detested being disturbed during her evening nap. I think the bleach I had been adding to her drinks wasn’t helping with her moodiness either. On top of that, there was the heat, and heat meant sweat. Filth. 

“What is this?” 

Standing at the door, mother looked over the dinner table straight at me. I could hear the uneasiness in her voice. 

“Happy birthday,” I said, smiling big.

“It’s your bath time.”

“Please, mother.” I picked at a scab on my inner leg under the table. “I worked really hard for this. Besides, I’ll get cleaner if I have my bath after dinner.”

She was hooked, I could see. She took a step towards the table and then paused again.

“Come,” I said, tapping my finger on the table. “I ran into Sandra at Porter’s today. She recommended the wine.” 

That was it. Mother came over and sat down on my left side, and I could see her admiring the tablecloth right away.

“Do you like what I chose?”

“Very nice. But why all this? You know I don’t like the mess.”

“My treat. It is your sixtieth birthday, after all.”

“Oh, stop it,” mother shook her hand at me. “Who wants to celebrate getting old.”

“It’s good food. Good wine.”

“I see,” she said, and I could see a smile almost form. “What did you say the wine was?”

“Steak first.”

She looked at me with a tinge of contempt but didn’t say anything. Instead, she reached for her knife and fork and cut into the meat. It was juicy, just like I wanted, and soft like Turkish delight. 

“That’s really good,” she said. “It’s a little cold though.”

“Was aiming for a cold cut.”

“Now can we try the wine please? I’m really thirsty. My throat feels weird these days.”

“Sure,” I said, reaching for my glass. “Bottoms up, okay? For your birthday.”

She gave a hesitant chuckle. “Are you trying to get me drunk? You know, bottoms up doesn’t sound so bad in this heat. The wine feels cooled nicely.”

I nodded. I was too happy to utter a single word. 

We clunked our glasses. “To you, mother.”

We drank up. Boy, did the wine taste good. I don’t know if it was the wine, or the look on mother’s face. As I tilted my head to get the last drop, from the corner of my eye I could see her eyes squint. She swallowed air a few times, but I think she was aware it was too late.

“Pepper,” she growled my name. “Why—”

Her head fell on her plate, and I could see a faint line of blood flowing out of her parted lips. It looked like it was coming from the meat. I didn’t check if she was dead. I just stood up and took the bottle of wine from the fridge. When I turned back to the table, she hadn’t moved an inch. 

I decided to leave her like that as long as I could. I was curious about the smell— I wondered how long I would be able to endure it. I also wanted to see the maggots form. I would stay awake by her side for days if it took that, just to see the little filthy creatures come out of her mouth. 

Dear mother, did she think we would be mother and daughter in every universe?

Mother had never thrown out Daddy's vinyl collection, which stood atop the buffet I had taken the plates from. She had taught me how to use the record player when I was eight, but rarely ever let me near it.

Of course, to honor the moment, I would have to listen to Beauty Queen. 

“I could never see it,” I yelled over the song at mother. “I never understood what made you so beautiful.” 

Now I had the chance to be beautiful. One day. Soon. Soon, I would go back and beg that bartender to kiss every inch of my filthy skin.