Sight Seeing

She imagined it was because of the crummy, brown stained ceiling tiles. They were big 2x4 sheets warped in the middle and sagging, like half forgotten birthday balloons. It was even worse in the bathroom. She would sit with her back to the old fiberglass tub and watch as the plaster bubbled from the steam of the shower. One time she thought she saw Emily looking back at her, with her china-doll eyes gleaming blue through the cracks in the wooden panels. She had climbed up on the toilet to get a better look but Dawson had come in and asked what she was doing. I’m looking for Emily, she had said, and he carried her into the bedroom.

She saw her again in the shower curtain, tottering through red and green trees on her stubby little legs. She called out for her to wait, but Emily shuffled behind a tree trunk and didn’t come back.

One night while Dawson was still asleep she made her way into the bathroom. She fished a carton of cigarettes out from the back of the vanity; it was shoved under a travel bag that her mother had given her two Christmases ago. Dawson hated it when she smoked, asked her time and again to stop. She popped one of the white chutes into her mouth, slid her teeth slowly against the filter, felt its spongy give and bit down. She chewed methodically before moving on, felt an agony of texture against her tongue. Later, she would tear the carton into tiny pieces and blow them out the window. Later, she would slide into bed and pull the sheets up to her throat.

Dawson told her that he was going out; he needed to get nails so he could tack the tiles back into place. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bathroom, waiting for Emily to come back. She had seen her earlier that day in a drop of water that was clinging to the faucet; her button nose pressed against the wall of liquid, eyes wild and daring. She’d tried to catch her, but the drop fell too quickly and Emily had vanished.

The day had turned to night and Dawson still wasn’t back. She went into the kitchen and tried his number, a dial tone, and then nothing. Dead air. Back in the bedroom she looked at his side of the bed. There was an indentation, the faintest imprint of his body looking back at her. Emily’s crib stood silent in the corner.

He’d decided to look for her, she realized, and smiled brightly. They’d both be back later, but at night they might get lost. And so she’d make them a beacon, a source of light that they could follow home.

She pulled all the clothes from the closet and threw them on the bed, placing herself in the middle amongst them. She looked at the dingy ceiling tiles. Her light would burn, for days.