Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  But the lot was small, so it didn’t take long before I was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine. I just had to make it home. Then I’d be able to forget everything. As my car wheezed slowly down the street, I dreamed of the beach. I dreamed of grass and sunshine and an eternity of summer. I thought of waves pounding on the shore, the wet sand between my toes, the far off call of the gulls. I kept this vision in my head until I pulled up before the house. I ran inside, out of the cold, towards the only possible thing that would give me any measure of comfort.

  “Mackenzie!” Alex stopped me. His face was ashen with worry. “How is he?”

  I shook my head and ran down the hall to my bedroom. They want us to believe he’s dead, Alex. But we’ll show them. Don’t worry. We’ll show them.

  I grabbed the needle that I had pried from Grey’s fingers only hours ago. My hands were shaking as I cooked up the batch, a little stronger than usual. I knew I would need it. I always hated it when Grey was gone.

  The needle hit my vein with the telltale sign of spurting blood, and then I slammed the drugs into myself. They nearly knocked me down, they were so potent. But it was nice. I could breathe again. The horror that had gripped my heart all night finally eased. I lay back against the bed and shut my eyes.

  Don’t worry Grey. I just needed one more shot. We’re still going to get clean. We’re still going to start our new life. Don’t worry. I just needed one more shot ….

  CHAPTER 59

  When I woke up, or rather “came too,” my first thought was of happy endings. I had to conjure the thought quickly before anything else could get in, before the pressing, nagging feeling rimmed in dread could break through my denial and reveal itself. I focused intently as I quickly mixed the heroin in my spoon. I thought of Cinderella and Snow White and Sleeping Beauty and all those other bitches who were rescued by their prince and got their happy endings. I was determined to get mine.

  I shot up quickly, my eyes rolling back into my head with a pure spasm of pleasure. I let out a shaky breath and slowly pulled the needle from my arm. That was the thing about heroin, the thing I loved. Instant gratification. One second you’re losing it, and the next you’re better than you’ve ever been in your whole life. Like each syringe contained it’s very own special, happy ending. A weak smile lifted my lips. And she lived happily ever after ….

  When the intensity faded, when I was able to think more coherently, I realized that I was missing one vital portion to my happy ending. The Prince. He had yet to come back. But he was going to come back for me, of that I was certain. And when he did, I was going to be pretty for him. I was going to look like a Princess. Shakily, I got to my feet, buoyed by the idea. It would give me something to do while I waited; it would help me pass the time until Grey came back. And I wanted to look good for him. I wanted him to see that I was healthy again—pretty—so he wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore.

  It was quiet as I stepped a hesitant foot out of my bedroom. It didn’t sound like anyone was home. Relieved, I tiptoed down the hallway and into the bathroom. I hadn’t really done my make-up in so long, I wondered if I’d still be able to do it. But it was like riding a bike, right? Bike … mmm. It’d been so long since Grey and I had ridden on his bike. As soon as it was warm enough, I’d make him take me. Maybe he could teach me how to drive it ….

  Was I being crazy? I stared into the mirror a moment—at my wide, bloodshot eyes, the purple shadows beneath them, the messy, stringy hair about my face. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about the funny old lady from Ace Ventura, the one who’s like, “when Ray gets back and starts kicking again …,” totally delusional. And then when the husband’s talking about her, he says, “See, the engine’s running, but nobody’s behind the wheel.”

  That was such a funny movie. Grey and I would have to watch it when he got back. “Nobody’s behind the wheel.” I shook my head in amusement and grabbed my make-up kit from the counter. What a funny thing to say.

  I pulled my hair up, piling it on top of my head. It felt like straw in my fingers, the dark strands were dry and lifeless. Then I started on my eyes, drawing dark, thick black lines around them. I layered copious amounts of grey eye shadow overtop the liner and then coated my eyelashes with mascara. After this came blush, and I swept the dark peach powder over my cheekbones with a flourish. Remembering how pretty Courtney looked with her deep red lips, I pulled out a lipstick in a similar color and filled in my mouth, lining the rim of my lips and painting the rest until they shone like blood.

  I stood back and looked at my reflection. I looked like a clown. I stared at myself a moment, taking in the garish, disturbing image reflected back in the mirror. The sight made me laugh; I didn’t know what else to do. I pointed at myself and cackled, and in a brief, fleeting second of clarity, realized I was acting like a lunatic.

  “Mackenzie? What are you doing?”

  Alex’s sudden appearance made me jump. I held a hand to my chest and willed my heart to slow down.

  “Oh, Alex. You scared me.” I laughed.

  He cleared his throat, his light eyes wide, and damp. He looked sad.

  “You okay Mac?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded casually. “You?”

  “No. No, I’m not okay.” Alex’s voice was hoarse. “What are you doing?”

  “Making myself pretty.” I shrugged, fluffing my hair in the mirror. “For when Grey comes back. I want to look good for him.”

  Alex’s chin quivered, only slightly. He took a breath before he spoke, and when he did, his words were a whisper. “But Mackenzie, Grey’s not coming back.”

  I shook my head, adamantly refusing the possibility. “He is coming back, Alex.” I insisted. I didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation to him, how my parents were trying to keep us apart. He’d probably think I was crazy. But I’d show him, we both would. Nothing could keep us apart. Nothing.

  Alex swallowed heavily, his eyes falling to the floor, like he couldn’t bear to look at me anymore.

  It hit me sometime in the night. I rolled over in bed and reached out for Grey—a familiar motion, something I’d done a million times before. But this time, he wasn’t there.

  He’s not there. I bolted upright in bed. Finally, the thoughts emerged; the horrendous, gut wrenching truth I’d been so fervently denying came screaming into the light. He’s not there! He’s not there because he’s dead! He’s gone! Grey’s gone!

  No. No. It couldn’t be true. Desperately, I clung to my delusion like a branch hanging over a waterfall, the one lifeline that could keep me from the horrible, drowning pain that threatened to engulf me. Grey was coming for me. He was. He had to be ….

  But the truth would not be quieted, not now that it was out. It hit me like a kick in the guts, doubling me over, making me clutch my chest in pain as a long, shuddering, soundless sob tore through my body. Grey was gone. He was gone. Forever. He’d never be back. He was never coming for me. He had left me all alone. Forever. He was never coming back ….

  I had never known the echoing emptiness of total loss before. It tore through me now in a heart-sickening wave. I fell from the bed and hit the floor, crawling, trying to catch my breath. Grey was all around me, but he was gone. Our room seemed too still without him there, like it was holding its breath—expectant—waiting for Grey to come sauntering through the door with his gorgeous face smirking, his blue eyes gleaming. His amps were lined up against the wall, the pages of his lyrics piled on the desk, his scent clinging to his pillow, his guitar in its stand beside the bed. His clothes hung neatly on their hangers, clinging to the closet rod as if in fear of my chaotic, haphazard piles of laundry.

  I took all this in, my eyes wild, my mind reeling. How could everybody say that death was natural? How was it natural for someone to be here one moment and then be gone the next? Forever? In the deepest pit of my heart I missed him. It had only been a matter of hours—maybe a day since I had last seen him, touched him, kissed him. Knowing I’d never be
able to do so again, that he’d never smirk at me again, that he’d never whisper in my ear or sing to me with his beautiful voice, ever again … it was too much to bear.

  Sobs ravaged through me, quiet sobs that shook my entire body, coming from somewhere deep inside, rattling my core with agony and torment. I grabbed the closest thing I could find, some remnant of Grey, anything he had once touched with his warm, strong hands. I cuddled myself around his amplifier. This was all that I had left, his things. Never him. Ever again.

  I couldn’t take it. My mind was too fragile, too weak to cope with the depth of such sorrow. I felt it tearing my soul apart, threatening to break me. It was unbearable, it was excruciating. There was only one thing that would help me escape, one thing that would enable me to survive such anguish. With tears flooding my eyes, gasping, I reached for my supplies.

  Things were much better after. I found I could breathe again when I wasn’t being crushed with the weight of total despair. I curled up in a ball on the bed, wrapping my arms around my legs, and buried my face into Grey’s pillow. It smelt like him, like the delicious, masculine scent of his cologne.

  I lay emotionless, slack with relief, blinking slowly, staring at nothing.

  CHAPTER 60

  At some point, Charlie came. I honestly had no idea how much time had lapsed since Grey’s death. It could have been hours, it could have been days. But it felt like eternity. I hadn’t moved much, maintaining a near zombie-like existence on our bed, clutching Grey’s pillow to my breast. As soon as I came down enough for the thoughts to permeate the velvet veil of self-medicated fog, I’d shoot up again. This was how Charlie found me, in a state somewhere between living and dying. Numb.

  It was dim in the room, which I was thankful for. I couldn’t imagine what I looked like, especially now with the bright, clown like make-up smeared all over my face; the black trails of mascara that surely stained my cheeks. But Charlie didn’t say anything about it. She just climbed into the bed behind and wrapped her arms around me.

  “I’m so sorry sweetie. I’m so sorry …,” she crooned, like I was a little child, smoothing my hair back from my brow. I couldn’t respond; I didn’t have anything to say. I just blinked and continued existing.

  When I next woke up Charlie was still there. She was sitting at the end of the bed now, my feet tucked in her lap. Zack was with her, sitting in the chair beside, his head bowed in his hands. They were talking in low, hushed voices. I didn’t want to disturb them, but I needed to shoot up again. I propped myself up on an elbow and went about my business. The talking stopped, and I could feel them both staring at me.

  “Mac?” Charlie had tears in her throat, I could hear them. “You okay?”

  I gave her a sidelong glance and shook my head once, curtly. No.

  “Do you want to talk?” she encouraged.

  I shook my head again. No.

  “I’m sorry Mackenzie.” Now it was Zack’s turn. “I’m so sorry …. If I’d known … I could’ve …. If I only would have checked on him, once ….”

  I shrugged. Tears pricked my eyes, but I choked them back. I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to dwell. I shook my head, fighting for control, just long enough to feel the needle slice into my skin. I pushed down the plunger and collapsed back onto the bed, relieved.

  More time passed in much the same way. Sometimes I slept, sometimes I dreamt, sometimes I just lay there, staring at nothing. The light streaming through the open window would fade and I’d know another day had passed. This was my life now, the only way I could possibly live without Grey. It was bleak, it was grim. But it was better than the alternative.

  There was talk of a Wake, but I refused to go. I didn’t want to see Grey that way—pudgy from the embalming fluid, swollen in death. I didn’t want to remember him as anything but totally alive. He was beautiful in life. He was so beautiful to me ….

  Why! Through the haze, I suddenly pounded the pillow with my fist, overcome with emotion. Why! Why did he have to die? He was always so careful. How could he have overdosed?

  Tears pushed through. I let them come, now, when I was all alone, when no one else could see. Grey; please … please don’t be dead. Please, come back to me ….

  I love you ….

  More time passed. More time of lying like a dead thing across the bed, oblivious to anyone and everything except the needle, curled up in a ball and clutching Grey’s pillow. People would come and check on me, try to talk to me; try to shake some life back into me … but to no avail. I waited as they spoke their words of comfort, blinking at them until they were done their spiel, ignoring the concern in their eyes, the hopeful tenor ringing in their voices—the encouragement. I wanted them to give up, just like I had. Because there was no point anymore. Not without him.

  But Charlie forced me out of bed one morning, waiting until after I’d shot up so I was in no state to fight her. She dragged me to the bathroom and into an awaiting bath, the water hot and deep, sudsy with bubbles. I let her wash my hair. Neither of us spoke, not once the entire time. Even afterwards—first when she was doing my make-up, then later when she straightened my long, dark curls with her hot iron—we did so in silence. I sat willingly enough under her capable hands. I was too out of it, too numb to really pay much attention, too anaesthetized to care about what she was doing.

  Until it was time to get dressed. Charlie pulled out an old familiar dress from the closet and laid it on the bed for me to wear. I stared at it a moment, lifting my weary eyes to her beautiful face, barely curious enough to ask.

  “Where are we going Charlie?” My voice was dull, lifeless.

  She answered softly. “To the funeral.”

  “The funeral?” I whispered.

  “Yeah.” She nodded. She tried to help me out of my housecoat so I could get changed, but I shook my head and pushed her weakly away.

  “You want to do this on your own?” Charlie wondered.

  I nodded. The drugs were waning; the thoughts were starting to emerge. I needed to shoot up again and I just wanted a moment alone, away from all the watchfulness, away from all the concern.

  “Okay.” Charlie gave me a squeeze and then left me to change, shutting the door on her way out. I sighed, lifting a hand to finger the soft black fabric of my graduation dress, the dress I had wore on one of the happiest days of my life. It was impossible not to remember my graduation then, impossible to fight the sudden memories that flooded my mind. They were bright—Technicolor, compared to all my dull, drear thoughts of late. I swallowed heavily, shut my eyes, and let them come.

  I heard it first. The sound of Grey’s rumbling motorcycle as it tore up the street. I remembered the surprise, and then the overwhelming joy I felt when I ripped open the front door and saw him there along the curb, straddling his bike, waiting for me. I saw him smirk, saw my own reflection in his shiny aviator glasses, saw my smile. I heard the sound of our distant laughter, coming from somewhere removed, somewhere far off. It felt so good to climb onto the seat behind him, the sun warm on my shoulders, my heart nearly bursting with happiness. How free and promising and full of possibility the world had seemed to me then ….

  And then I was hunched over, reeling, gasping with the force of the pent-up sorrow breaking its way out of me. Grey. I missed him so much. I couldn’t bear it without him; I couldn’t live without him. It hurt. It hurt so badly.

  Blindly I staggered my way over to the nightstand, seeking the refuge of the needle, the comfort of the heroin, the numbness of the drugs. They were the only thing that could make it all go away. The only answer to all my soundless pleading.

  Within moments of the delicious steel piercing its way through my flesh, the memories had faded from my mind, the pain had receded, my breathing had calmed. I was back where I belonged, in a world without feeling, in a place of total indifference; of essential, embracing apathy. In a place where I didn’t care, where I didn’t have to pretend that I was okay. Because I wasn’t. And I never would be again. />
  After a few moments, I put my dress on. Not a thought crossed my mind as I shrugged into the silky black gown and pulled it down around my body. Where before the dress had fit me perfectly, now it was loose and baggy, hanging unflatteringly upon my frail frame like a potato sack on a stick. I stared at myself in the mirror. Despite Charlie’s beauty expertise my face was gaunt and tired looking. My eyes had lost their sparkle. I let them roam down—down my body—over the ribs protruding through my chest, along the long lean arms hanging from my sleeves, over the bony wrists and my long, skeletal hands.

  I smirked mirthlessly at myself. I felt dead. I looked dead.

  Why fight it?

  Slowly I sunk back down onto the bed, traced a finger down the ragged bloody scabs that were slashed across my wrist … and realized that I wanted to die. There was nothing left for me here. Death would end it all; end all the pain, all the hopelessness. The thought actually gave me hope in a crazy, desperate sort of way. Knowing that I had an out, that I wouldn’t be forced to suffer through this agony forever, it … relieved me. It almost made the day … bearable. I would go to the funeral. I would endure. And if it got too bad ….

  I had a plan.

  Before Charlie or any of my other guardians could see, I shoved everything I’d need—all my supplies, the balloon full of drugs, the needle, the spoon—roughly into my purse. I held it there on my lap a moment, and for just a brief second, I felt less helpless. I smiled a bit. This was something I could do, some way to take control again.

  His funeral. Grey’s funeral. I was so determined not to remember anything and so strung out that it mostly became a blur. A sickening blur interrupted by sudden moments of utter clarity. Like I wasn’t permitted to just sit and observe the whole thing—like a cold, detached bystander—like I’d hoped. I was being forced to feel, to live through these horrible, devastating moments of lucidity before the blur would come again, would swallow me up and help protect me from the torment.