Excerpt: Lapochka

Chapter 1

July, 2000

Just about the last thing I wanted to see when I came around the corner from the bus stop was Christopher’s shit-green Chevy Nova parked in the driveway. _What the hell’s he doing home?_ Maybe he got fired from his latest whatever job.

My stomach sank a little. If he did, he was going to be in a crap mood, and dealing with Christopher’s crap was not what I had in mind for my afternoon.

I worked the early shift at Kinkos. Getting up to be there by six in the morning sucks, but it’s great for having afternoons free. Nevertheless, I was already tired, irritated at an unusual number of customers today who couldn’t find the double-sided button if their lives depended on it, and I had a toner headache.

No, dealing with my skeezy step brother was way, way down on my list of pleasant ways to unwind. Much higher on the list: a nice hot shower, a late lunch, and maybe some Oprah on the couch if Mom wasn’t camped out in the living room making calls.

I turned the doorknob and gave the door a shove. We’ve got these ridiculously huge wood front doors. They probably weigh 200 pounds, easy. But the door flew open like nothing. I did this clumsy half stumble, only just catching myself. Christopher was right there on the other side, yanking the door open for me.

How fucking gallant.

He stuck a can in my face as I was getting up. “Hey, Anna, you want a beer?”
I shot poison, explosive-tipped darts at him from my eyes, but sadly, that only works in cartoons.

“No. What are you doing here, anyway? You get fired again?”

“What, you afraid I’m gonna card you?” He laughed his stupid chuckle, the one that’s reserved for the lame ass jokes he makes when he wants to change the subject.

I sighed. “Just get out of my way, asshole.”

My Mom hollered from the living room “Hey! Keep it down.” Crap. Strike two for my afternoon plan.

Christopher took a slug from his own beer, and I took the moment to shoulder past him. He trundled after me like, I dunno, like the kind of puppy whose owner taught it to hump your leg rather than to shake. That apple? Not so far from the tree.

I made for my room, where there was a lock on the door. Not that I’d had any help in that department either. When Mom married Chris last year, they moved in and it couldn’t have been more than a week later I found Christopher in my room, yanking his hand out of my underwear drawer. Like I couldn’t see. I’m pretty sure he stole at least one pair of panties.

So I asked Mom for a doorknob with a lock, and she said no. She was all “What if you get stuck in there? What if you fall and hit your head?” She’s big on the what-ifs like that. Major paranoia about shit that just isn’t likely to happen is her own particular kind of crazy. It’s not like crazy crazy, at least I don’t think, but maybe I’m just used to the way she doesn’t see things the same as everybody else.

Anyway, she wouldn’t help so I did what I’ve been doing since Dad went away. I bought a new knob at the hardware store--I sprung for one with a lock, key and everything--and put it in myself. It took like five minutes.

So I locked myself in. Never one to take the subtle hint, Christopher actually knocked at my door.

“Go away, Christopher.”

“Aw, come on, Anna. Have a beer with me. It’ll be fun.”

“Dude, seriously, go the fuck away. This isn’t gonna happen, and you know it, so just go, ok? Save yourself the embarrassment.”

He rattled the doorknob. Hope springs eternal, I guess. I kept quiet. Maybe half a minute later he whined a defeated “Whatever” through the door.

I flopped down on my bed. My mom sure can pick ‘em. There was Adrian. He smoked a lot of weed but still he was probably the smartest of the bunch. He figured out Mom’s particular kind of crazy pretty fast, and decided he wasn’t into it. I felt bad for Mom, but I couldn’t really blame him.

Then she didn’t see anybody for a while, until Brian. Brian was one of those long-haul trucker guys. He was only around about one day every other week. When he was here, he was always super horny and they’d pretty much spend the whole time in bed. But Mom got to thinking he had a girl in every port, I guess because he seemed to need so much nookie all the time, so she dumped him. Personally, I always thought Brian really did love her, and it was just the newlywed thing plus the whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing. Like I said, she doesn’t always see things like everybody else.

And now there’s Chris. He’s around plenty. He’s a short order cook at Denny’s, so he always smells like fry-oil and bacon. He works lunch through closing, though, so with my early schedule I don’t see him much. Which is just fine with me. I don’t like the way he looks at me, either. Mom hasn’t noticed, or pretends not to.

Maybe she’s hoping husband number three will be the charm. Except there was Dad, too, so really Chris is number four. Whatever. She probably still feels like this is her last chance. I just wish she’d found somebody less, well, disgusting. With a less disgusting son.

I laid there listening for Christopher moving down the hall, but I didn’t really hear anything. All I could hear was Mom in the living room making calls. It sounded like her gig for the day was selling attic ventilation systems.

Then two minutes later, I had to pee. I’d just as soon have waited, but you know how it is. Once you have to go, there’s nothing you can do because the more you think about how you wish you didn’t, the more you just have to.

I tiptoed up to my door and listened. All I could hear was Mom. I guessed Christopher must have slunk off—probably in his room with my panties wrapped around his head or something—so I made a break for it.

No such luck. He was right there outside my door, leaning up against the wall, trying to put on this whole suave cool guy pose. It wasn’t working for him.

“Change your mind about that beer?” He held the can out to me again and moved off the wall, blocking my path to the potty.

“Dammit, Christopher, I’ve got to pee!” I pulled my door closed until I heard the lock click, ‘cause the last thing I need is to have him invade my room, and I tried to shove him aside. But he’s actually kind of beefy so it didn’t really work. Instead, he swooped one hand around my waist and pulled me in close.

“Fine. Kiss me and I’ll let you by.”

I could feel my jaw clenching up. It was tempting to kiss him, actually, just for the opportunity to bite the fuck out of his lip or something. That’d teach him. But I’d heard enough about him from Chris that I thought he might actually hit me or something. Still, I did have to pee.

I gave him a sultry look and moved to straddle one of his legs. The look of utter confused, surprise on his face was priceless.

“You’re going to do it?” he asked.

I pressed my crotch into his thigh, and my best Bette Davis voice, I said “No, stupid. I said I had to pee. You can let me go, or I can pee all over your leg. What’s it gonna be, big boy?”

Honestly, I’m not sure if I’d have really gone through with it. Mom would have a cow, that’s for sure, and I’d end up cleaning it up. But by now I really did feel like I was trying to hold back Niagra Falls, so when Christopher said “Ok, ok,” I didn’t stop to argue.

So I peed and washed my hands, and wonder of wonders Christopher didn’t even try to come into the bathroom to watch or anything. Maybe his skeeziness has some bounds after all.

But then when I came out, he was waiting right in front of my door. That did it. I kind of flipped my shit a little. I stormed down the hall right at him, both middle-fingers extended in salute. He backed up against the door.

“If you don’t cut this shit out, right here and right now, I will tell Mom and I will tell Chris exactly what kind of sick bastard you are. I’ll tell them about the panties. And I’ll tell them about that other thing, too.”

He kind of cocked his head a little and gave me a look. Ok, so I was bluffing, but I figured there had to be something else he didn’t want his dad to know about.

“You know exactly what I mean,” I said.

“Ok, be cool,” he said. And he stepped aside. But he had a stupid sort of grin on his face as he did it. “You win.”

I suppose I should have seen it coming. As I stepped past him, he reached around from behind me and grabbed my left boob. And he squeezed it. Hard, right on the nipple.

“Ow! Fucker!” I yelled, and without really even thinking about it I spun around and socked him in the jaw. I have a bunch of those little rings on my fingers—just cheap silver ones but I think they’re pretty—and I felt one of them click against his teeth.

He hands flew up to his mouth. “Bitch!” he screamed. He took a swing at me, a slap that connected across my cheek. Now I was backed up against my door, which of course was still locked, and there was no way I was turning my back on him to unlock it. I held up my key like a little dagger.

He didn’t seem to see it, though, or he didn’t really care. He grabbed both of my wrists and moved up on me. I heard a phone slam down as he hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that.” There was blood on his lip.

Mom stormed around the corner, looking just as pissed off as Christopher. I had no idea how I looked.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she screamed. “I’m trying to work in there! I asked you for quiet, is that so fucking hard?”

“Mom, he copped a feel on me!”

The words hung there for a moment. Nobody said anything. Christopher let go of my wrists and took a big step back. He and I were both staring at Mom.

She looked at Christopher, then at me.

“I had a sale on the line,” she said. Her teeth were clenched. “Do you have any idea how hard my job is? Do you? That was a bona-fide sale I just had to hang up on. You get it? You never hang up on a sale. That’s a four hundred dollar commission, gone.”

“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said. Christopher slunk back another yard or so. “But he—”

“You’re sorry? Do you have any idea what it’s like? Cold calling people to sell them washing machines and siding and whatever the fuck else is on the list today? Do you know what it’s like getting hung up on and sworn at all day long, just hoping for that miracle call where somebody actually happens to want what I’ve got and can afford it? Do you?”

Actually, I did know what it was like to get sworn at all day. The hanging up part, not so much, but you’d be amazed how pissy people can get if we’re out of the exact right résumé paper they want or when you politely explain to them that yes, they have to pay the color price for copies of black-and-white originals because that’s what machine they used. Still, I didn’t think it would help to mention that.

I pointed at my boob and said it again. “He copped a feel, Mom! Do you get it? My skeezebag step brother—” Pause. “Felt me up!”

“I’ve got a quota, you know,” Mom said. Crap. She wasn’t going to see it. “And we need that money. Do you know how many extra hours I’m going to have to put in to land another sale? Do you? Four hundred fucking dollars, Anna!”

That pissed me off. I mean right off. “Oh, so that’s it, is it? You’d sell out your own daughter for four hundred bucks? Have I got that right?”

“What does it fucking matter?” Mom screamed back. “It’s not like you’re related!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Christopher chimed in. He had skooched way down to the far end of the hall.

Mom was on a tear and she ignored him. “He’s not even your real step brother! What do I care if you guys make out?”

That caught me up short. I mean, not seeing things like the rest of us do is one thing, but that just didn’t make any sense. I hoped she wasn’t about to spring some kind of clinical crazy like trying to tell me Christopher was a robot or an alien or some shit like that.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re not really my daughter!”

Chapter 2

“The hell I’m not your daughter! What the fuck, Mom?”

But Mom didn’t let up for a second. “You bleach your hair blonde, but the roots come in black! I dye mine black, but my roots come in blonde! You ever wonder what that means?”

“It means you’re going gray!” But my stomach dropped all the way down into my shoes. “You’re lying! Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” She spat the words at me, one at a time, with this deep gravelly edge to her voice.

I swear I just about took a swing at her, but that voice made me stop. “Bullshit! I’m 20 years old, Mother, if I’m adopted, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Then she laughed. Not a full on ha-ha-ha laugh, but still, it was a laugh. I didn’t see what the joke was. “I’m not sure I’d call it that,” she said.

“Well what, then? What would you call it?”

She chuckled again. “I don’t even know. You know I never even asked to have a kid. It was all you father’s idea. He brought you home, just like that, after one of his European trips. He didn’t ask me or warn me or anything. I asked him where he got you, but he wouldn’t tell me. Would even tell his own wife! For all I know he bought you on the black market. Some fucking souvenir! Other guys bring back chocolate or perfume or whatever, but no, Peter has to go and bring me a fucking kid!”

“No, you’re lying! You’re lying you’re lying!” And I did start to slap at her.

She just shoved me away from her and turned back towards the living room. “It’s true, Anna,” she said, her back to me. “Sorry to have to tell you like this, but get used to it. There are some records up in his study to prove it. Now quiet the fuck down so I can get back to work!”

The study. Jesus, she never talks about that. I was pretty young when Dad vanished, only five, but I still remember we were never allowed in there. It’s this room over the garage where-- Actually, I don’t know what Dad did in there. After he disappeared, Mom never went in there because she thought he was going to come back or turn up or whatever, and she knew he’d be mad if we went in there.

Even after she had Dad declared legally dead when I was twelve, so she could marry Adrian, she never let me go in there. She hid the key someplace. Every once in a while I’d ask her what was in there but she always got weird about it so I stopped asking. The study just became this place we all know is there but we pretend it’s invisible.

I used to think she’d eventually get around to cleaning the place out or something, and that I’d get to help. But she never asked. And I never pushed it.

Well fuck that. I’m pushing it now, dammit.

I could hear Mom on the phone again. She was past her opening and into the pitch. Christopher was still down at the end of the hall, peeking out from the doorway of his own room. I flipped him off as I stomped into the living room.

Mom said something about cubic feet per minute as marched up to her. I stood right in front of her, my arms crossed. “Where’s the key?”

She totally ignored me. Fine. I reached out my index finger, pointed it downward at the phone, and hung it up.

She stared up at me, her jaw hanging open.

“Where’s the key to Dad’s study?” I was keeping my voice flat, but wasn’t sure how much longer I could manage it.

She slammed down the receiver and said “You did not just hang up on a customer!”

I wasn’t about to let her change the subject. “I fucking well did. You can give me the key, or I can go up there and break the goddamn door down. At the moment, I don’t really care which.”
I don’t know if I could actually break the door down, but I wasn’t bluffing. I’d sure as hell try. Maybe I could use her big cast iron skillet to bash it in.

She didn’t say anything. She just stood up and marched off to her bedroom. She was back less than a minute later. As soon as she came into the living room, she chucked the key at me.

She’s a lousy shot, though, so the key just bounced off the wall to my left and onto the couch.

“You know I never asked to have you,” she said. “But I did. I changed diapers and took you to the doctor and everything else even after Peter went missing. After everything I’ve done for you, I’d think you’d be at least a little bit grateful.”

I picked up the key, which was attached to a funky brass keychain. Sort of a rectangle, with this onion-shaped thing on the top like a weird ice cream cone.

“Fine. Thanks. I’m grateful for the key--” I paused. What the hell was I even supposed to call her now? “I’m grateful for the key, Betty.”

* * *

I walked out the kitchen door and up the outside steps of the garage. I was hoping, actually, that Mom really was just crazy. _This has to be a mistake. She must have finally gone clinical. I’ll look, but there won’t be anything. No records._

I shoved the key into the lock. It was hard to turn. Stiff after what, fifteen years? But it turned. The lock clicked open and I went inside.

I flicked on the light and it was like stepping into a museum of the 70s. Shag, wood paneling, the whole bit.

And it was musty and hot as hell. Shut up like that in the summer sun, it must have been a hundred and ten degrees in there. There was dust all over everything and I stirred up a big cloud of it coming in. I pulled the collar of my shirt up over my nose and opened up all the windows.

Then I just looked around, sweating, waiting for the dust to clear out. I was kind of afraid to touch anything.

There was a big wooden desk, with one of those pen holder things that swivel around and some papers scattered here and there. There was a picture in a frame, and a pipe in a little stand with an ashtray next to it. In front of the desk was a chair, the kind with wheels that spins around. Its black vinyl seat was all cracked and splitting open.

Across from the desk was a cabinet. It looked expensive, with fancy carved doors and some glasses stacked upside down on top of it.

Next to the desk were three filing cabinets, the tall gray metal ones, and beside those were some cardboard boxes.

And then there were shelves. Pretty much the rest of the place was bookshelves, and those were mostly full.

I fanned the dust off the chair with one hand and sat down. I didn’t want to go through all of Dad’s stuff. Or did I need to start calling him Peter, too?

Dad or Peter, I didn’t want to go through his stuff. I wasn’t even sure where to start.

I turned and pulled myself up to the desk. The chair squeaked horribly. I reached for the picture. The glass in the frame was so covered with dust I couldn’t even see what it was. I wiped the dust off with my sleeve.

It was a grainy old black-and-white picture of him, holding a little kid. A girl, probably me. It looks like we’re at a picnic by a river or something. I don’t remember it, but then the girl looks like she’s only about two or something. The girl looks so happy, and he looks so happy. I guess Mom was probably the one taking the picture.

Then I got all choked up, because it was just weird and sad to see a picture of myself so happy when I can’t really remember ever being that happy.

Mom--Betty--put away the old pictures after she got married to Adrian, so I haven’t really seen any pictures of Peter for a long time.

It was good to see his face again. To remember it. Then I started missing him like I haven’t in years and years. Angry with myself for forgetting what Peter looked like.

No. Not Peter. Fuck that. I’m not calling him that. Unless I had evidence, unless I found some real proof, Dad was still Dad and Mom was still Mom. Crazy, maybe, but still Mom.
And until then, I was still Anna Schoeffer.

I sat there in the chair for a long time, just staring at that picture. The room cooled off and the sun went down and after a while I closed the place back up and went inside for that lunch I’d never gotten.