Holiday

Holiday

By M. Rickert

« You hungry? » I pick up the half-full bag of Doritos on the coffee table in front of the couch and extend it toward her. She shakes her head. “Wanna watch a movie?” I asked. She just stands there, staing at me, squinting slightly, looking like she just might start crying, as though I have awoken her from some dream about Barbie dolls and Christmas and a perfect life, into this reality of being murdered and stuck, for eternity, at age six, tap dancing forever. I look through my DVD collection, Kill Bill (1 and 2), Seven Samurai, The Shining, Howard Stern’s Private Parts (severely underrated and underappreciated, by the way), City of Women, My Architect Wild Weather Caught on Tape (a gift from an old girlfriend) and the Wet Women of California, which, swear to God, I had forgotten all about. None of it exactly seems like the sort of thing to watch with a six-year-old murdered kid, so instead I turn on the TV and settle on the cooking channel, but I guess it wasn’t the right choice because next thing I know, I’m sitting along watching this chick with a giant smile, pouring liquid over hamburger meat. “Hey,” I say to the air, “Come back, we don’t have to watch this.” But of course no one answers and no one appears. I pick up one of the DVDs, and put it in, just to get rid of the headache I feel coming on. In two seconds, I’m watching naked big-breasted women dive into the ocean, roll on the sand, and frolic with the waves and each other. I drink my warm beer and start to play with myself until I get the creepy feeling that maybe she’s still in the room. I take my hand out of my pants, flick off the DVD, and turn over, my face pressed against the couch.

Holiday. Photo by Elena

The next day I go to the library. There’s a whole shelf devoted just to her. I page through the books and look at all the pictures. Yep, it’s her all right. I don’t check out the books, just in case she comes back. I don’t want her to see them and get scared or anything. I don’t know why she’s coming to see me, but I want her to come back. When I read about how her father found her, wrapped in a blanket, as though someone was worried she would be cold, but with that rope around her neck, and all the rest, I feel like something inside me wakes up, and it’s not a completely disturbing feeling. I spend the whole day at the library and when I leave I’m tired, and hungry, but before I do anything else, I go to Wal-Mart and buy the boxed collection of Shirley Temple DVDs. They were her favorite. Next time she comes, I’m going to be prepared. Sarah Vehler, who was in my brother’s class in high school, is the checkout prepared. She’s gained about five hundred pounds since then and I barely recognize her, but she recognizes me just fine. “I didn’t know you have kids,” she says. What am I supposed to do, tell her I’ve got a ghost? Instead, I just shrug. Maybe that was a mistake. I don’t know. This was all new territory for me. I tried to do what was right.