Rufi Thorpe - Dear Fang, with Love

Dear Fang,

At this moment, we are mental twins. We are each alone, two discrete meat skeletons separated by space, cut off from each other by time, one of us reading a note, the other one writing it, yet we are finally together. Whenever you read this, even if it is years from now, though probably it will be only a few days since I hid this in your underwear drawer, but whenever you do find it: You will be inside my mind because you are reading and I am writing the exact same words. For just a moment, you are not Fang. You are me.

Its neat-o, dont you think?

I will write you lots and lots, I promise. Until, eventually, you turn into me! Even as I am farther away than ever!

With love,

Your silly,

V

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW what kind of girl my daughter, Vera, was, there is a story her mother, Katya, tells over and over. I wasnt there myself, but it is part of the family lore: little Vera, five years old, her dark hair in braids, attending another little girls birthday. It was an overly elaborate party for a five-year-old girl, with candied violets on the cake, a gazebo, tasteful jewel-toned paper streamers, crowns made of real flowers for each little girl to wear, and a chalkboard listing a schedule of party games in cursive script.

But it was a hot day. The children were beginning to melt. No one wanted to play the games, which seemed to be going on forever. Only the girls mother, wild-eyed and possessed by the fever of party orchestration, was enthused, and she led them through endless rounds of red rover, musical statues, even an egg-and-spoon race. By the time a game ominously titled Doggy, Doggy, Wheres Your Bone? was about to start, the birthday girl was crouched under a picnic table crying.

Vera, ever the ambassador, ventured under there to powwow. The girl was hot and hungry. She could tell the other children werent having fun. The party had been going on for three hours and cake and presents were not yet in sight. Why was her mother doing this? Couldnt they at least do one of the fun party games, like the piata? Wasnt the birthday party supposed to be about her? But her mother didnt even care that she was crying there under the table. Her mother was going to make everyone play Doggy, Doggy, Wheres Your Bone? no matter what.

Vera patted the girls skinny thigh. Maybe your mom just doesnt understand how you feel, she said. And so Vera crawled out from under the picnic table, and went and found the girls mother, tugging at the womans dress as she was trying to explain the rules to the new game.

Excuse me, she said politely, Samantha would like to open presents and eat cake now. She doesnt want to play games anymore.

Well, right now we are playing games, the girls mother said, leaning down to Veras eye level, her hands on her knees. We have three more to go before it will be time for cake and presents. She pointed at the chalkboard that listed the party activities.

But maybe, Vera insisted, you could just skip some. Maybe you could skip to the piata?

Samantha is welcome to join us if she decides she wants to be a big girl. Otherwise, she can stay under the table and cry.

Vera stared at the woman for a moment, and then said, loud enough for everyone to hear, If you wanted a birthday party so badly, you should have thrown one for yourself.

Vera was always just like that. Almost brutally clear-sighted. Even as a child, she saw through people. Saw the reasons they did things. Saw the machinery behind the faade.

As she became a teenager, her nose for hypocrisy became even keener and her thirst for justice more merciless. One of her high-school English teachers actually got teary-eyed during a parent-teacher conference out of worry that Vera didnt like her. I feel like she can tell that Im not actually equipped to challenge her, the poor woman said. I mean, my degree isnt even in English, its in education, and I feel like there is a real lack of depth to my analyses sometimes that Vera senses, and honestly, I dont blame her.

If adults were unable to keep from seeking Veras good opinion, her peers didnt have a chance. They worshipped her in a way that made her disdainful. The fall she was sixteen, she went to the homecoming dance in fleece footie pajamas printed with tropical fish and convinced her boyfriend, Fang, to do the same. They looked like giant, weird, Floridian babies. She also coerced him into memorizing a choreographed break-dance routine with her. I worried the whole thing was deeply misguided, but the dance number was a hit. Everyone thought wearing footie pajamas to homecoming was hilarious and cool.

Youre a trendsetter, I said.

Ugh, she said. Gross.

Because she wasnt a trendsetter. No one could hope to be like her. She was one of a kind and, because of this, very much alone. About whether she was pleased with this state of affairs or saddened, I was never entirely sure. Maybe she would have liked to belong. Maybe her cruelty to the girls who would have done anything to be her friends was preemptive because she feared they would never accept her as she was. And maybe thats part of why she and Fang became the way they were.

But all of this is only speculation.

When I first saw Vera in the psych ward, she was wearing paper slippers and eating a banana.

I rushed to the hospital in a hallucinatory state heightened by the paperwork, the waiting room, the complicated buzzing system of locks on the huge doors of the ward. Vera had been transferred during the night from an emergency room to an adolescent unit in a psychiatric hospital in Irvine, so I got there before her mother who was coming all the way from Rancho Cucamonga. Katya, Veras mother, had called at five in the morning to bark the address of the hospital at me, as well as a jagged, hiccuping slurry of facts and Russian curses and sobbing and bizarre speculation. Maybe it was a vitamin deficiency? Why would her devochka do this to her? What could have happened? The police had arrested her at a party, but arrested her for what, Katya wanted to know. Is nakedness now a crime, Lucas?

The ward looked just like a hospital, but inside no one was in bed or hooked up to tubes. Still, the cues for sickness were everywhere, in the smell of something antiseptic, the tile floors, the bright lights. All the patients were under seventeen. They looked like normal teenagers. Normal teenagers wearing hospital scrubs.

Are you all right? I asked, sitting down with Vera in the visiting room at a laminate picnic table that reminded me of school lunchrooms so suddenly and vividly it was like time travel.

Vera shrugged, blinking her puffy eyes. Theres a boy in here who says he can only masturbate to pictures of, like, geological formations or stars. Volcanoes. He keeps a stack of National Geographics in his room.

Hes lying, I told her, grateful at least that I could be sure of that much, could, as her father, contribute sound advice about the scenarios in which young men masturbate. Hes saying that to get attention.