The Lost Episodes of Beatie Scareli by Ginnetta Correli
The Lost Episodes of Beatie Scareli demands to be read in as few sittings as possible—in my case, one. A sense of responsibility is expected of the reader, as the narrator declares them to be crucial players in her “cast of lost people.” Before the introduction, though; before, even, the book opens, Beatie’s sense of desperation in readers’ involvement—in our very presence—is haunting. “Thank God you’re here,” she declares, inviting unwitting participants to fumble through the chapters of her life in search of a way to deliver her from the sequence they will form. Though readers may perceive Beatie’s companionship as they attempt not to mishandle the slice of experience she bares, Beatie, it appears, is unreachable: like a fellow reader, her personal sense of externality limits. In Episode One, “Summer 1976: The Beach Trip,” Beatie’s description of her father transitions smoothly, so smoothly from her portrayal of him as a man whose speech is colored by an excess of dis and dats, to the depiction of him sitting on the red velvet recliner, his hand on his penis, “twirling his ding-dong inside his off-white cotton underwear,” that readers will find themselves swallowing against a lump which only makes their throats more dry when Beatie declares, “I’m used to it.” In light of the events that readers anticipate, Beatie’s continued presence as they navigate becomes uncomfortable for the reader. Beatie is forced to endure her schizophrenic mother’s belief that she is Lucy Ricardo and the resulting public episodes, along with the ultimate institutionalization. Her father’s rejection and the particular kind of male attention that makes silence preferable, forces its way out of her like an angry blaze. Meanwhile, she finds solace in her stuffed bunny, Petey. As a result of her confidence, readers confront a narrator who anticipates salvation, Petey’s solution to “pray about it” a recurring suggestion in their imagined late-night conversations. From the pink stuffed toy’s mature reflections on events in young Beatie’s life, however, readers are also faced with the challenge of determining whether such exposition is actually included for our benefit—as a way for Beatie to prove that she deserves our help—or neglect. In no other way is Beatie’s intention more clear, however, than as evidenced in Gina Correli’s writing style. Her sparse, simplistic shaping of sentences forces readers to confront preconceived notions of how an emotional appeal should read. Beatie, above all, is proud: she seeks to prove, through her strength and maturity, that she isn’t just another girl born to a perverted father and mentally ill mother who is destined for little in life. As a result of her avoidance of self-reflection, pointedly speaking in as few words as possible, she demands the engagement of readers in a manner that exceeds the traditional narrator-audience relationship—when Beatie talks, she expects us to answer back. Yet there are times when the tone of her desperation drowns out readers’ voices. Rarely does “Woman,” also included in the initial character list as Beatie’s older self, appear. These fragments, italicized and inserted with sterile care, are simple in their hope—Maybe Mrs. Scudmeiser will help me; Dad why do you ignore me? Why don’t you speak to me? Please just talk to me—yet profound in their impact as they instill a deeper sense of her purpose in readers. Correli’s storytelling is so potent that readers will continue to race through episodes in an attempt to determine whether their presence may somehow have been enough to save the narrator, although it is clear that even her mature version is trapped within these fragments of a life. Likewise, it is clear from the opening scene that the father whom Beatie so desperately seeks to have love her mother, is, at all times, the man with his hand in his pants: a danger. Despite our best attempts to sort through these episodes and alter their outcome, readers recognize that the eventual attention Beatie receives from her father will be unwelcome and damaging. When Beatie Scareli tosses her trash bag onto the floorboard of a red Trans Am and sits with Petey pressed to her chest while the small yellow house shrinks behind her, we try not to feel shame for failing her; we watch her leave with the hope that things will improve, and perhaps merge from a series of episodes to a full-length life. Yet, we are also aware that this desire is based on little more than our own sense of limitation. The irony of Beatie is that she never truly wants anything from us; she knows where she is headed from the start and includes readers, not in an attempt to make us shoulder blame or her burden, but as an outcropping of her own sense of responsibility. To have been allowed to believe that we could be of assistance is Beatie’s gift.
Born in Scotland and raised in South Africa, Erin McKnight now lives in Dallas. In 2006 she joined The Rose & Thorn Literary Journal as an assistant editor in fiction and nonfiction, and is a writing instructor for the Long Story Short School of Writing. Her writing has appeared in: Siren: A Literary & Art Journal, Ginosko Literary Journal, DiddleDog, The Bergen Street Review, The Flask Review, Flashquake, PRECIPICe, Why Vandalism?, and The Houston Literary Review, among others.
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