The Death of Us

by Alice Kuipers

  “Callie, you need to sit down,” Kurt says, leaning to talk into my ear. “Want some water?”

  Ivy smiles and brushes by to say something to Kurt. I can smell her perfume. Her skin is silky. She catches my eye, indicating with a glance that this is a good time for me to talk to Xander. I nod and say, “Xander and I could, um, get drinks.”

  Xander seems to hear me and he mouths the word Drinks.

  We walk away from Kurt and Ivy. Their absence is like a cool liquid seeping through my dress. A line pops into my head: The space you never filled, a water glass spilled.

  I glance back. They’re huddled together. Ivy shrugs one shoulder. God, I’d love to be like that, so provocative yet comfortable, so sexy. Maybe I could be like that. In the heat of bodies around me, squeezing between the sweaty dancers, I realize I’m drunk. I’m dizzy, delirious drunk. I take a couple of dance steps, leaving Xander to get the bartender’s attention, and move closer to Ivy, who stops talking to Kurt and starts dancing.

  I hear myself laugh. “This is fun, Ivy!” I yell.

  She cups my ear and yells back. “We’re only just getting started!”

  FOUR

  JULY 31ST

  Kurt

  Xander checks his phone. Looks down the hospital hallway. Stares at the floor. Mrs. Foulds perches on the couch. The lamp on the small table flickers, a single blinking eye. With the old couches and the cartoons blabbing on the TV, the waiting area looks like my birth-mom’s living room. I remember when I was no bigger than that TV. Eating fries. Dipping them in ketchup. The rug had a hole in it. I stuck my finger through. Mom lay next to me, half asleep, giggly. I loved her most like that. I stroked her black hair. She pushed me off, growling, “Don’t get ketchup on me.” Then there was that knock on the door.

  My head hurts. I sit on the other couch. Look around. Touch the dollar around my neck. Rest my chin on my hands, which are pointed upright as if I’m praying. I’m not religious, don’t go to church or anything, but deep down I know someone’s there. There’s gotta be. Xander withdraws and pads off down the hallway. I’m left with Mrs. Foulds. The hum of the hospital is my soundtrack. I need a cigarette. Or a pen. Something in my hands.

  Can’t help wondering about the last few minutes in the car and how they ended up going off the bridge. Did they know what was coming? Or was it stomach-lurching-through-the-eyeballs shock, like on a roller coaster.

  This is sick.

  A doctor approaches. White-haired, odd eyes—each a different colour. He says, “Mrs. Foulds, come with me, please.”

  She nods, raising one hand to her mouth.

  He gives nothing away. The sound of their shoes echoes down the hallway as they retreat.

  This is what it means to be alone.

  TWELVE DAYS EARLIER

  Ivy

  Callie’s shiny-eyed drunk. I shake it on the dance floor with her, then dance over to Kurt, who says something I can’t hear. His cheek stubbly, his mouth close to my ear, the sound sharp in my eardrums. I dance super close, and he moves with me. My boobs squish against him, sorta accidental. Guys like that; it makes them feel like a protector. Mom always goes on about how men need to be the saviour, or something like that. Seems to me like guys just want to get laid. Christ, Kurt looks like Diego. With my eyes half closed, I could be back in Diego’s arms. Now I’m nearly crying. Lame.

  Kurt points to Callie dancing with Xander. Kurt seems to be saying he wants us to head over. I look up at him through my lashes. A major Mom trick. The tip of my tongue flickers out of the corner of my mouth. Diego couldn’t resist but Kurt has a faraway expression, as if he’s not in the room at all. It makes me really want him.

  I put my index finger on his cheek and he stops staring off into space. I beckon him to follow. There’s a lineup near the washrooms and I lead him past it, along a hallway until we find a quieter room full of couches and beds, hanging fabrics, trippy music. I pull him down next to me so we’re half sitting and half leaning on each other on a huge cushion.

  I say, “I’m not usually this, uh, forward.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Don’t tease.” I laugh and pick imaginary fluff from the cushion. “So, what’s the deal with the house?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a boat like that and then you’re taking out the trash at that place.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “‘Fess up.”

  He scratches the back of his head. I wait—people don’t like silence, they want to fill it. He says, “My birth-mom. I visit her sometimes, help out.”

  I wait for him to say more and he does, lowering his voice. “I don’t like talking about her. Everyone knows anyways. Edenville’s not exactly … She’s not, yeah … it’s kind of …” A muscle pulses in his neck.

  I say, “I didn’t mean to dig …”

  “I was adopted when I was five.”

  “Right.”

  “My adopted mom met me through her work at a shelter, fell in love. Later they had Sam, then Adrian. Naturally. Not adopted, I mean. It’s all pretty sweet. Dad runs the brewery here—big house. Boat. Most people think my life’s sugarcoated. Like Callie’s. And her perfect family. Can’t imagine any different.”

  “You and her?” I leave a pause.

  “No.” He scratches the back of his head again, checks his phone.

  I say, “Not everyone knows—people like Callie live in one world and we live in the other.”

  He puts his phone in his pocket. “Yeah, something like that. Except I don’t live there anymore.”

  “That’s the sort of thinking I admire,” I say. The huge cushion has tipped us pretty close. It’s easy for me to lift my mouth and kiss him quickly on the lips. He leans back, surprised, and considers. There we go. I kiss him again. Good kisser. Sweet.

  His hand moves to my waist. I slide it lower but then I’m first to pull away. Always leave them wanting more. Kurt looks like he’s surfacing. He has a lazy smile.

  We get up to go dance. Closer now, sweaty, hands laced.

  Callie comes back to my house. She’s one of those fun, giggly drunks. I’m the moody type and I’m coming down from the high of kissing Kurt. She chats about a sleepover we had three years ago when we mixed up face cream with hair remover and waited for ages for the hair on our legs to dissolve, but it never did. She laughs all over again at the idea of putting hair remover on our faces.

  I shove her onto the bed.

  Callie says, “Not that we have hair on our faces!”

  “True.”

  “Ivy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask another question?”

  “I’m sorta tired.”

  “What was it like, kissing Kurt?”

  I know I’m going to want to go over every detail with Callie in the morning, but right now I just want to sleep this off, so I shrug. “Pretty nice. Callie, let’s get some sleep. Want water?”

  She tucks herself around a pillow. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Man, she’s so sweet. Like mosquito bites, tears prick my eyes. Callie puffs the pillow behind her head, lies back, and passes out, snoring softly. Fast asleep. I snuggle up to her. Being here next to her makes me remember. I don’t want to think about it, but the memory comes hard.

  The last day we lived in Edenville, three years ago, Callie and I went for a walk by the river. We glimpsed a woman standing at the edge of the riverbank far below, her bare feet in the dirt. She was teetering at the edge, her arms spread. My fucking mother.

  Callie cried, “Oh my God, Ivy.”

  “Just shut up.” I became still. Small. Listening.

  “What’s she doing?”

  I said, “No, no, no.”

  Mom raises her arms, reaching toward the rushing river. We scramble down the slope. I scream, “Mom, it’s me!”

  The woman half turns to us, her mouth a round O of surprise. I lose my footing, and Callie tumbles through the shrubs, yelling. She manages to get cl
ose enough to grab Mom’s dress strap.

  Mom flinches and snarls at her, “It’s your fault. My own daughter would rather be with you than with me.”

  I yell, “No!”

  Mom hears me, looks over at me, then jumps.

  “Mom!” I yell, running to the shore.

  Callie grabs a branch and extends it. I’m helping now, my hands cold, wet.

  Mom’s splashing, screaming, “I hate my life.”

  “Please, Mommy. I love you best,” I say. “Please. Grab the branch.”

  Mom finally seizes the branch and we haul her back to shore. She flops on the muddy ground, mascara ringing her eyes.

  “It’s okay, Mommy. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She’s a mess. I heft her to her feet. I’ve done it before, but never like this.

  Mom says, “You made this happen, Ivy.” She’s so drunk I’m surprised she can speak.

  Callie’s trembling. She says, “I could run home, get my mom. She’ll know what to do. We need an adult. Someone to take charge.”

  “No. Don’t. It has to be a secret. Promise you won’t tell. Promise!”

  She pauses for, like, a hundred years. Then she says, “I promise.”

  But her promise wasn’t enough for Mom. Edenville was over. Until now.

  Now, Callie’s snoring lightly right next to me, warm and close. It’s three years later and we’re not little girls anymore. The vodka bottle we drank from to play that stupid game earlier is on the bedside table. For my mother, the best way to deal with nights like this is oblivion. I run a finger along the side of the bottle, telling myself I’m not going to drink the burning liquid, let it rush down my throat. It’s one thing to drink for fun. But no matter how dark I feel, I’m going to rise above the past. I’m going to let the darkness inside me fade. I imagine breathing in light. Focus on the now, Ivy.

  Callie’s here.

  I kissed Kurt at BEneath.

  New town.

  New life.

  New me.

  ELEVEN DAYS EARLIER

  Callie

  It’s the morning after and I wake feeling revolting. My head hurts, my mouth is furry and my back kills. I roll onto my side and bump into Ivy. I’ve turned upside-down in my sleep so the two of us are lying head to toe in Ivy’s massive bed. I’m snarled up in bedsheets and my face is way too close to her feet, the toenails painted with bright pink polish. I’m reminded of all those sleepovers we had, whispering together late into the night. I shiver and sit up, but immediately wish I’d stayed lying down. The room spins and I remember tumbling into bed like a starfish tumbles through the ocean, if they even do that. Even my thoughts are confused, as if I’m still drunk.

  I got drunk last night. I try to piece together the details. The fake ID, Kurt and Xander, dancing with Ivy, then me insisting we buy more drinks, vodka, paying for it, even, then drinking two disgusting shots in a row. After that, Kurt and Ivy. Dancing together, Kurt looking down at her. Then Ivy dancing with me again, pressed close, doing that thing I’ve seen other girls do when they get physical on the dance floor, all sexy and showy, turning on the guys. I’ve always thought it was slutty but it’s fun.

  I don’t remember much more. Ivy saying she’d take me home. This bed, this comfortable bed.

  I check my phone. Wow. It’s not even six. I should get home, but I really don’t feel like it. Even if Cosmo wakes her, Mom won’t go into my room this early. She’ll never know I’ve been gone.

  Ivy sleeps while I shower in her huge ensuite bathroom; she sleeps while I put on my jeans and black sweater, leaving that slinky green dress hanging over the back of a chair; she sleeps while I scrub my face and brush my teeth, trying to remove the taste and smell of last night. Ivy’s still asleep while I slip out of the house. I wander down toward the river, ignoring the way my head hurts and the way I’m dizzy, the dawn brightening around me.

  At around six thirty, I text my mom: Went out for a walk, up early. Lovely day. It’s weird to think she’ll never know I snuck out last night.

  My phone rings immediately. It’s her. “Are you okay, Callie? I didn’t hear you leave.”

  Since our fight, she’s alternated between being over-concerned and distant. Clearly, right now she’s over-concerned.

  “You don’t have to check up on me. I’m only going for breakfast.”

  I can tell from her exhalation of breath that she’s annoyed. After a short pause she says, “How about I come with you?”

  I’m way too hungover and tired, but I can’t tell her that. Fortunately, Cosmo starts yelling and she says, “Sorry, my love, actually there’s no way this morning. Next time, okay?”

  My head throbs. “Okay, bye.”

  I text Ivy to tell her I’ve gone for a walk. She doesn’t reply, so I assume she’s still sleeping. I feel like we’ve switched places from that first day with her jogging and me slouching under the covers. I’m in the weirdest mood, antsy, awkward, headachy. I know it would be smart to go home and crawl into bed, but the thought of Mom hassling me about sleeping all day is too much.

  Then I realize, it’s Monday. The day of my interview at the gallery.

  My phone rings again. “Where are you?”

  “Rebecca?”

  “We have plans, Cal.”

  “We do?”

  “Hello? What’s going on? I’ve been away a week but you’ve forgotten our reunion?”

  Now I remember. Rebecca and I planned a ridiculously early reunion breakfast because she starts work at eight today. “Sorry. I, um, went out last night. I could be there in ten minutes?”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “To … BEneath.”

  “What? Without me? Callie!”

  “I’m know. God, and I got drunk and—”

  “Okay, can I have my friend back now? Whoever this is, get off Callie’s phone.” She’s trying to make a joke of it but her voice is tense.

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “No. Who’d you go with?”

  “Ivy.”

  “What? Ivy’s back?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  There’s silence. We’re both thinking it. She says, “Are you seriously doing this again?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like then?”

  “You were away.”

  “Oh my God, Callie. Forget breakfast.”

  “I’m already walking toward your house.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Don’t be mad. I can explain.”

  “What? I don’t even want to hear it. Call me when you get over your girl-crush.”

  I say, “That’s not what this is about.”

  “No?”

  “Give me a break, Rebecca. I just went out to a bar with an old friend. You’re being insane.”

  “Am I?” She pauses. “Maybe I am. I just … I figured … I thought we’d go to BEneath together the first time. Is that dumb?”

  “No …” It’s my turn to backtrack. “It’s me who’s sorry. I really am. I didn’t even think.”

  She sucks in a breath. “That’s what bothers me. You didn’t even think.”

  “Can I just come over?”

  “I’m not really in the mood now. I’ve got to get to work anyway.”

  “But how was your trip? How’s your dad?”

  “I’ll call you later, okay? I’m not mad.”

  “You are.”

  “Okay. But I’ll get over it. I’ll call you later.”

  I sigh. I guess I should just go for the interview. My clothes are okay: normal, clean. I check my face in the mirror in my phone and use a little of the makeup Ivy gave me to make myself look less tired. During the call, I’d started walking to Rebecca’s, but now I change direction. I head across the bridge, passing the construction where they’re fixing a crack in the barrier. I amble by the old hotel, with its pretty flower gardens and tacky fountain that spurts water from fish-mouths. When I arrive at the art gallery, I pull off my sweater and check the t
ime. It’s way too early for the gallery to be open. Wow, my brain is fried. I go into a new breakfast place next door to the gallery and eat bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast, and as I eat and drink bad coffee I feel myself come to life, a little.

  By ten, I’m ready. I go inside to look for Ana. I’m told she’s setting up in the Kids’ Studio at the back, a small room furnished with three round tables and loads of small stools.

  A smiley woman with dark hair pops her head out of the storage cupboard. “Callie? You’re here about the job?”

  I have a moment of panic. It’s ridiculous to come for a job interview feeling like this, but I’ve been too foggy all morning to figure that out. “Hi, yes, that’s me.”

  “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I sit on a stool and Ana smiles warmly at me. She has crow’s feet round her eyes that make her look like she might be in her forties, but she has a surprisingly young voice. She says, “So, you enjoy art?”

  “And creative writing.”

  While we talk, she folds piles of paper in several colours. “And you’re good with children? I need someone to help clean up, help if anyone’s struggling, hold down the fort, that type of thing. You’d never be on your own with the kids; you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “That sounds okay to me. It sounds good.” There’s a screen on one wall and it comes on then, flashing an image of colours, weird shapes and some text that reads: “Surrealism is merely the reflection of the death process. Henry Miller.”

  Ana says, “Do you have any questions?”

  I shake my head.

  She says, “We run a varied program here. Sometimes we get a few kids, sometimes about twenty. We’ve got a session in half an hour. Do you want to do a trial run? We’ll pay minimum wage.”

  “You want me to start now? Don’t you need to check my resumé or references?” I might fall asleep at the table, but I don’t want to let this opportunity pass by.

  “I’ll check all that later. If today goes well.” She smiles again.