Meeting Mary

Meeting Mary

At thirteen years old, I looked so odd and uncomfortable no one would have
been surprised if I had told them I was raised at a laboratory, or hospital, or
desert island with only monkeys for company and coconut milk to live off
of.

I was already my full height- five feet four inches-, which I would remain
the rest of my life, but I must have weighed forty pounds, and was mostly leg
with a short, flat torso and spindly arms. My looker years had yet to come, but
at the time, my features could be compared to those of a cross between a cat and
stork- unrelenting gray eyes, highly arched brows, a wide forehead, slim nose,
pointed chin, and pursed lips always kept in an indifferent line. To be quite
honest, I looked and felt nothing more than unhappy. Which I was. School was
hell, home was worse. I could not relax- which explains why, in the few
photographs I have of that time, why I was so stiff and suspicious-looking. That
year, my mother’s big cheat was Archie (Arsie, to me- he was a complete arse),
and my father took to hosting several parties, if only to keep my mother at
home, and not with the Arse.

Parties were miserable, in my opinion. Stella (my mum) liked to dress me up
in ridiculous outfits and style my hair like I was a doll and show me off (for
what ever ridiculous reason) to all the important and equally as stiff as I
acquaintances of her and my father. But I learned things at each and every one
of those horrible parties- people are liars; stupid or nasty children (of which
there were many at these parties) should not be cut any slack because they are
going to end up stupid or nasty adults and I will be forced to deal with them;
marriage is not something I ever will be interested in; bathtubs are lovely
hiding spots; and adults love to fornicate in other people’s bedrooms. But there
was one party, in September, as the summer died and the days grew cooler, that I
would never forget.

It was not held in my miserable home, the Manor of Respected Sir Sheldon
Heath and his wife. It was held in Paris, a romantic city by any standard, in
the home of my mother’s sister-in-law, known to me as Aunt Mona. I can’t say I
liked or disliked her- she was as uptight as any adult, but she didn’t treat me
like an idiot, and she had a huge library. My father had just sold her the
Parisian house, and she could find any excuse to drink wine. A new house was as
good as any, I suppose. My mother had dolled me up in a ridiculous purple frock
with big black buttons down the front, with stockings on my legs and shiny Mary
Jane’s on my feet. Worst of all, she had tied a horrific plum bow in my hair; it
was simple, but I was thirteen and by no means interested in the least amount of
frill. Still, several adults declared me a lovely child, if only for the fact
that I was quiet and intelligent and polite.

“Hello, Mona, darling,” my mother and aunt exchanged a quick peck on the
cheek and a few words of greeting. I stayed quiet at Stella’s side as she
presented me to Mona, who smiling shook my hand before swooping down to plant
her lips briefly on my cheek. No sooner had she stood up then she began waving
at someone behind me. “Oh dear!” she called. “This way!”

I turned to see another woman approaching, a young girl at her side, who
stared at me with wide, fearful eyes. In her hands she clutched a jar of round
candies, gripped in a such a way that if someone were to try to pry her fingers
off, they’d need a crowbar. My brows rose as the pair of them, both quite
similar in looks (much like my mother and I, almost mirror copies, only twenty
four years and four inches apart, when my mum wasn’t wearing heels). They both
had soft brown hair that fell in waves, round eyes, and soft features.

“Stella, this is-,”

I was much too bored to pay attention to another introduction. With
furrowed brows, I turned my eyes to the girl and the jar of candies clutched to
her chest. What was with that? What sort of person, child or not, carried with
them a glass jar of colorful sweets? Under my incredulous glance, the girl
seemed to shrink into her mother, who only then acknowledged her existence. “Oh,
Mona, you know my daughter. This is Mary. And that must be the lovely Octavia,
am I correct?”

Smiling down at me, the woman looked much to nice to be in the company of
my mother. I blinked up at her. Poor thing.“Yes, ma’am. How do you do?” And I
shook her hand and prayed that Stella didn’t read my willing politeness as a
threat- which, she would have, had Mona not distracted her.

“Oh, Vee, you’ve never met Mary before? Oh, I know you two will hit it off.
Mary talks enough for you, I’m sure,” Mona grinned and winked at Mary. I was
certain then that Mona was an idiot- I was fairly certain that this Mary was a
mute. Begrudgingly, my mother dismissed me.

“Why don’t you show Mary around the house, Octavia? You’ve seen it before,
plenty of times,”

Does this prove what a lying sack of shit my mother was? I had never
before seen the house; but earlier, I had noted a deck from the outside, and it
had to be much quieter and cooler out there, as the sun set and the sleepy
streets of Paris dimmed, then in here with a few dozen adults making small talk
and sipping alcohol and tea. “Come on,” I said quietly, and without a word of
opposition, Mary trotted behind me as I sped off on the sticks that were my
legs. I slunk into the kitchen, and out the sliding glass doors onto the deck. I
leaned against the wrought iron railing, sliding out of my uncomfortable, tight
shoes.

“I hate parties,” I said passionately, staring at the French horizon. The
sun had begun to sink, along with any hopes of me surviving that night. I’d end
up butchering all the guests with a steak knife…or diving off the deck
head-first onto the pavement below. “Especially business parties. What is there
to celebrate about business? What is there to celebrate? Happiness cannot be
expressed in a party, and a party cannot make anyone happy, or closer, or
whatever these stupid things are meant to do. No one enjoys them, anyway. They
all complain about having to go to parties, when they’d much rather stay home
and drink, rather than do it in the company of others, where they have to reign
their actions in. Which no one wants to do, especially when they have a glass of
wine or mug of beer in their hands. Though,” I eyed Mary dully. “By the time you
understand what I’m talking about, you’ll likely be like the rest of them.
You’re way to little to be drug to these things. What did your mum do- offer you
that as a bribe?” I nodded to the jar of sweets. She blinked at me
blankly.

“I’m not to little for these things,” she said with a light Irish accent.
“I’m twelve. And no, they weren’t a bribe.” The way she said it made it sound
like ‘Duh, you idiot.’ I gaped at her. Twelve years old? She had to be yanking
my chain- she looked barely nine, let alone twelve. Being twelve made her a year
younger than me, but I felt decades ahead of her. I felt decades ahead of most
people.

“Me dog likes them, but they make him sick. And he’s fat enough
already.”

Something about the matter-of-fact way she said it made me laugh. Lightly
and briefly, but very rarely did I laugh. Especially at that age; I laughed so
rarely then, you’d never recognize the sound as mine. “But you can’t be twelve
years old. You’re so little looking.”

She gave me an appraising glance, looking both affronted and suspicious.
“Just because you’re about twenty three doesn’t mean everyone else is
little.”

That deserved a giggle as well. For one thing, I did not look twenty-three,
and I knew it. But I suppose, compared to the youth and innocence of Mary, I
appeared to be jaded, old, worn. I inclined my head as she opened the jar,
popped a candy into her mouth, and munched away.

“I suppose you’ll want to try one, eh?” she asked, shivering, though it
wasn’t that cold. Before I could answer, she held one out to me. Why not? I
thought, taking it and slipping it past my lips. Holy. Hell. I spat the thing
out, and watched the bright yellow sweet drop down to the pavement and crack
apart. My tongue burned, as if someone had dumped highly concentrated acid and
lemon juice into my mouth at the same time, followed by ten gallons alcohol-free
vodka. I waved my hand frantically, as if trying to push air into my
mouth.

“What the ‘ell wath that thing?” I screeched, my tongue hanging out of my
mouth. Mary didn’t answer; she was roaring with laughter, falling down on the
deck, still clutching the jar in a death-grip. Her face was quickly turning
blue, and through her giggles, she began to choke on the sweet. She turned, on
all fours, trying to cough it out. Without thinking, I slammed my hand on her
back. What a stupid thing to do. What good did it do?

The force of it caused Mary to fall on her stomach; the sweet fell right
out of her lips, rolled across the wood, and fell into one of the cracks. Tears
streamed down her tomato-red face, and she dissolved into giggles. A chuckle
escaped my lips, turning to full-on laughter. Within a matter of seconds, she
and I were beside ourselves with laughter, to the point where she couldn’t
breath. Eventually, she regained her breath, and then we would laugh again until
the cycle repeated itself.

“You should have finished it!” she said when we had calmed down. “It’s
really sour, at first, but if you keep with it, it’s awesome. The best candy
you’ve ever had.”

I scoffed. “Really sour?” I exclaimed. “I thought it was going to burn a
hole in my tongue! It’s the candy of death!” I flailed by arms for emphasis, but
all I did was cause Mary to double over with laughter once again, and I soon
followed in suit.

Most of the evening was spent like that- we would calm down, then someone
would do or say thing ridiculous (usually her, sashaying around the deck in
impersonation of Aunt Mona, or me, attempting to be clever and sounding like a
complete fool. It was, in the end, a wonderful night; we stayed on that deck
long after the sun set. I had never had so much fun in my entire life. When I
had first met Mary MacDonald, I felt as if we were so different, there was so
much separating us, that we would have nothing in common and no common ground to
stand on. But that night, I regressed; I walked backward, moving back in time
until the gap between her twelve years and my thirteen seemed so small and
insignificant.

And on the other end, Mary impressed me that night. Before my eyes, she
changed from a little child whom the adults left me to baby-sit to a person with
thoughts and feelings and ideas that truly made me see things in a different
way.

When it must have been midnight, my dad stumbled out onto the deck,
shit-faced and bleary eyed. “We’re staying with your Aunt Mona, Vee,” he
slurred. “We’re- taking a short holiday in Paris before you go back to
school.”

And Mary’s mother came cackling behind him. “We’re staying here for a week
or two, Mar.”

They both asked us how we were doing, and went on and on for a few minutes,
but all Mary and I heard was ‘You two just keep talking and have fun.’ Which was
okay with me. When they had returned to the party, Mary and I sat down on the
cold wood, legs dangling over the side and arms keeping us plopped up. I looked
over my shoulder, at my red-faced tipsy mother, who was (while my father laughed
with my aunt and a few others) flirting drunkenly with Mona’s French man
neighbor. In a sudden, small act of defiance, I pulled my ribbon from my hair
and cast the horrid thing into the breeze. And Mary smiled at me, as if she was
proud of me. For a moment, the tables had turned, and I was the small child,
just beginning to know discover the world and all its…worldliness, and she was
my mentor, guiding me, our hands held onto the ends of a lilac ribbon as we
braved the wide world.

I’ve learned many things at parties, but that night, I learned something
that even when all else fails, and the world is going to burn a hole in your
tongue, if you stick with it long enough, it’s the best thing you’ve ever
experienced.