There are women you screw and forget. They feel good for a moment, but they’re just a blur of tits and ass. After Naomi I’ve had some random hook-ups, but they’ve been of the one-night-stand variety, and I’ve always left feeling unsatisfied somehow. Then there are women you see once and they are burned into your brain. You connect with them almost immediately, and you can’t fight it—it’s beyond your control. It’s as if your soul and hers are somehow connected. I’m not a deep person by any means. But “connection” is the only way I can describe my reaction to meeting Katherine. Every time I blink, I see her eyes looking back at me. Her too-long hair that halos her face. Those huge, vulnerable-looking eyes. Ethereal—that’s how she looks. I wonder if June was that for Matt.
“Well, I’m tired of all the women who walk in here. I need something new. Something different,” I say.
“You’re full of shit, man. What you need is a nice long fuck. Or maybe a short hard fuck,” he retorts before walking away and leaving me leaning against the bar.
Is that all I need? Maybe I should just screw the next bar bunny who shows me her tits for a VIP pass to the club.
I’ve never been that guy, though. The womanizing asshole, that’s not me. Even my recent hook-ups involved a conversation regarding expectations and was followed by breakfast or prefaced with dinner. There may not have been a follow-up or a date, but I was never a dick to them.
I spin my phone on the bar top. I wish I had gotten Katherine’s phone number, though I’m still unsure whether to trust her or not. I refuse to date another Naomi, but Katherine didn’t look like she was lying when she said she wasn’t using drugs. On the other hand, she seemed so out of it as I was staring at her cute feet, and she passed out again while we were talking, which made me think maybe she was lying. Still, she had been up all night, so maybe she was just deliriously exhausted. I’m the worst judge of character, so I don’t know what to think.
I finish putting away the liquor and decide to head home for a shower and a quick nap before I have to come back to work later tonight.
To get home, I have to drive right past Katherine’s apartment. I contemplate dropping by but then think better of it. I go home and unpack the things I had to purchase on my trip since I didn’t take anything with me when I left. Before heading back out, I rummage through my refrigerator and find nothing there but a few cans of soda. Since I don’t cook and rarely do groceries, this is not surprising.
Tonight I put on my black suit and decide against a tie, leaving the top button on the shirt undone. My hair and beard are still wet by the time I leave my apartment. Like I do most nights, I swing by the drive-through of the closest fast-food joint and order food, more than I’ll probably eat. I’m about to unwrap a burger to eat while driving when I pass Katherine’s building again. I don’t know what comes over me, but I pull into the parking garage and get out with my bags of food.
For all I know, she has a boyfriend or a girlfriend in her apartment right now. Hell, she could be married. I know nothing about her. But she seemed so alone. She said she never had visitors and she really seemed to want me there. So I take the elevator to the fifth floor.
As soon as the doors of the elevator slide open, I see Katherine. Down the long hall and directly in front of the elevator is Katherine’s apartment and she is standing a few feet in front of her door. Her head is down and her hands are fisted to the side. She doesn’t notice me.
What the hell is she doing?
I stand by the elevator and observe her take a step forward and stop. When she looks up, her eyes are tightly shut closed. The elevator dings behind me and closes, causing her to open her eyes. Even though I am standing directly in front of her down the hall, and she’s looking directly at me, she doesn’t actually seem to see me. She’s sweating, a lot, and again she’s shaking.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter to myself. I was right about her. She’s fucking high as fuck. She can’t even get out of her apartment, and it pisses me off. I want to turn back around and just leave because I don’t need this shit in my life. I shouldn’t have come here.
I turn to call the elevator, but guilt washes over me. Junkie or not, she could be hurt wandering around alone in the hall, disoriented. With a huff, I turn toward her and take long strides until I reach her and grab her forearm. That seems to shake her out of her trance, and she finally notices me. I can tell by the look of recognition in her eyes.
“Get inside. You’re going to get yourself hurt,” I say, and pull her in. As soon as she’s inside and I close the door, she slides down to the floor, her back against the wall. I put a straw into one of the sodas and hold it to her lips and she takes a sip, then closes her eyes and thumps her head against the wall. I hear her counting to ten slowly.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice is hoarse and she has tears in her eyes.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t’ve come.” I hold the straw against her lips again. “Drink.” She does. “I’m going to go. Promise me you’ll stay inside.”
A tear slips out, and it does something weird to me, but I ignore it. This is the crux of my problem: I feel bad and I want to help, but I can’t. It’s not my problem. At least with Naomi, she was my girlfriend. But this woman is nothing to me. I just met her. “Maybe you should eat something.”
“No,” she says, her hands on her face, her elbow on her knees.
“I’m leaving. You’ll be okay?” I ask, knowing my voice is curt but unable to help it. I also can’t help that I care.
“I’ll be fine,” she says into her hands, and I can tell she’s crying by the way her shoulders shake. “It’s not what you think.”
I snort. “It’s exactly what I think,” I say as I open the door and look down at her. “Take care of yourself, Katherine.” I hand her my sister’s card; she’s a psychologist who specializes in addiction. “Get yourself some help.” Since she won’t look at me and she won’t take it, I place it on the table by the door and leave, feeling like a complete asshole but also upset. I know with 100 percent certainty that all the women I meet are cut from the same cloth, mostly because I’m meeting them at my own club. I need to start going elsewhere to meet women, I think.
Katherine
The wind is howling, the white-capped waves are slamming down on the empty beach, and the sky looks angry. The world outside looks as miserable as I feel. I don’t want to think about what happened the day before or why Nico came by. I’m embarrassed and mad at myself.
I open the bottle of Xanax and take a whole bar, downing it with a glass of wine. I don’t give a shit about moving forward right now. I don’t give a fuck about the doctor’s recommendations. I don’t care that I’ve taken a high dose of a strong medication or that the wine combined with the pills is a recipe for disaster. I just want to stop feeling. Numbness seems perfect right now. I slide down, my back to the bed, so I can continue looking out the glass door. I don’t even feel like crying. I just want to sleep. I just want to forget everything.
I just don’t want to feel.
—
With an aching neck I wake up hours later. Parts of my hair are wet from drool, and pins and needles shoot up my arm. Julius is kneading his little paws against my face and purring loudly. Painfully I push myself up. “What time is it?” I ask Julius, who just continues to rub himself all over me. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Shit, my head.” I can see through the window that the sun is out, shining brightly, and the birds are chirping. Miami weather is unpredictable. It can look like the world is ending one minute, and the next it’s breathtakingly beautiful.
Carefully and painfully I stand and stretch. My phone says it’s one in the afternoon, which means I’ve been passed out all day. My stomach recoils from the mixture of alcohol and meds, and I have to bolt to the bathroom to throw up. I don’t know how long I sit there holding the cold porcelain or how long I lay my head against the tile, but it’s a while.
Rubbing his furry little body along my arms and legs, Julius reminds
me I have to feed him. When I have the strength to get up I pour him some food and then go take a shower. As I wait for the water to heat, I see my reflection in the mirror.
I don’t know the person staring back at me.
I’m not the same person I was fifteen years ago, I’m not the same person I was before setting foot in Panic. I see the bottle of Xanax on the vanity staring back at me. So many feelings start to surface now, the most prevalent being that I want to get better.
My hair is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot, and I have an indentation on one side of my face from where it was pressed against the floor where I passed out. Maybe this is what rock bottom feels like.
I don’t want to be defined by my illness. I’m not a crazy person. I’m a person who has fears. But if I hole myself up in here and stop living, then the illness is who I am. I don’t want my anxiety to win. I didn’t realize it was winning until that moment at Panic.
But going to Panic changed something in me.
I can continue on my current trajectory. I can take a Xanax, maybe a glass of wine, and numb the fears. I could do that indefinitely and no one would know. I’d die in this apartment, and it could be months before anyone ever comes looking for me. But I wouldn’t feel. I wouldn’t be scared.
Or…
I can live. Really live—not just exist. I can connect with another person.
Life is just a series of curveballs thrown at you. Some knock you down. Some you hit over the fence, making you feel like a winner until the next one comes barreling by. It’s how you react to those that knock you down that define you. I have not gotten up and dusted myself off and prepared for the next ball. No, I’ve opted out of the game completely. That is not how my mother would have wanted me to live. That’s not how I want to live.
I want human interaction. I need it. I crave it. It’s the one thing technology can’t give me. That, and a decent haircut.
I grab the phone and call my sister. Mostly I need to hear another human being’s voice.
“Hi, sis! I’m about to take off—if I lose you, I’ll call you in about nine hours,” Rose says, all in one breath.
“Flight? Where are you off to?”
“Madrid. Frank’s been there for a week and he asked me to meet up with him.”
“That’s exciting, Rose,” I say. Her chipper, worry-free, positive vibe tends to be contagious, and I can use a huge dose of positivity right now.
“You sound off. You okay?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m fine. Just wanted to check in, see how things were going. I got your email about the wedding, and I like those flower choices you made.” My sister, the ultimate perfectionist and people-pleaser, likes to get everyone’s input on things before making a decision.
“You did?” she shrieks over the phone. “I’m so glad. I’m going to call the florist as soon as I land and give her the okay. I’m so excited. Oh, damn, I have to go. Listen, if you need anything, call or text. I know you said you’re fine, but you don’t sound fine.”
“Don’t you worry about me. Nothing new or exciting happening over here. You have fun in Spain. I love you.”
“I love you too, sis. Bye.” She disconnects, and I toss the phone aside, feeling a little tiny bit better, until my mind drifts to the impending wedding.
—
It’s been nearly two weeks since the disastrous night at Panic and a week since Nico saw me walking out of my apartment like a zombie. I told the doctor everything that had happened and I’m on my new meds. Also, I’m working on all the techniques Dr. Cole has given me in addition to her online sessions.
Every day I’ve tried to walk out of my apartment, and my goal is to take one more step than the day before. Simple enough, right? For the most part I’ve succeeded. Yesterday I made it all the way downstairs to the front door, a major accomplishment for me. But it’s not always a step forward. Sometime I take a step forward and a hundred back. There’ve been days I can’t make it outside my apartment door, much less downstairs. This may seem silly to most people, but when you haven’t set foot outside your apartment for as long as I have, these are monumental accomplishments. Still, I have new determination.
I make it a goal that not only will I go in person to the appointment with Dr. Glance soon, but I will leave my apartment and explain myself to Nico. I hardly know him, but I can’t get him out of my mind. Maybe that’s weird, since we’re not friends or anything. But for some reason, having him know the truth feels important. He was so flirty with that note, and I think he may have believed me about the anxiety, but all that went to hell when he saw me outside my apartment.
That night I have a horrible nightmare. In the dream I lift my hands to my face, trying to see something, anything. But it’s just complete darkness, and for a moment I think I’m blind. I hear voices all around me, and I’m in some sort of small space—a casket or a box. It’s hot and it’s hard to breathe. Things rub against me and I hear banging, cursing, children yelling, people praying, but I can’t see anything. As soon as the door opens and there’s light I wake up in a cold sweat. It’s not something that happens often, like I told Dr. Cole, but when I’m very stressed, I tend to dream vividly, and it’s always the same dream. Night terrors, she called them.
I turn on all the lights and the television. I don’t want any darkness around.
In the last session I had with Dr. Cole she expressed surprise I hadn’t engaged in any of the usual forms of self-medication: illegal drugs, alcohol, cutting, sex. The night I downed the Xanax and wine, I just wanted to forget, but the next morning I realized how quickly that could spiral into addiction. I have enough issues as it is; I don’t need to pick up another one. She did say it wouldn’t be unusual if I felt worse before I start to feel better. Mostly because I’m bringing out old feelings and memories I’ve been burying deep inside and I’m exerting myself by trying to go outside. She’s right. Things are definitely worse. I am, however, so damn lonely it hurts, so I’m determined. More determined than ever. I pick up Julius and put him on my lap, where he nestles close, and I rub my hand on his soft fur over and over.
By the time the light starts to come in through the window, I’m exhausted and want to sleep, but I refuse.
“Julius, today’s the day!” I have my hand on the doorknob, and Julius looks up at me and tilts his head. The damn cat doesn’t think I’ll make it. I can see it in his judgmental, beady little feline eyes. Every day I’ve made it a little farther outside my apartment. Yesterday I went as far as the parking lot of Panic.
Today I’m going in.
—
I sit in my car for an entire hour. Rarely do I use my car. I’m not afraid of driving, but since I don’t go anywhere I don’t normally need it. Last time I came to Panic I took a cab because of the Xanax I’d taken, but today I’m sober and I’d rather be alone in my car than in the backseat with a stranger.
For the most part, the parking lot of Panic is empty, but the streets of Miami Beach are bustling. Every time I open the door to get out, I close it again. I shut my eyes and thump my forehead against the steering wheel. Why does life have to be so hard? Why can’t I just walk outside like everyone else?
A pounding on my window startles me. I turn my head to see the same green eyes I’ve been thinking about for the last two weeks. Agitatedly he shakes his head and mouths for me to open the door. Instead, I open the window.
“You’ve been sitting here for the last hour.” He points up at the cameras by the building. “What are you doing?”
“I came to talk to you.”
“From inside your car?”
“No. I was going to get out.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Go home, Katherine.” He turns around and begins to walk away.
Inhaling deeply, I swing the door open and run after him. I reach for his arm but then pull my hand back. I want to touch him, but I just can’t. “Wait. Please.”
He stops and turns around. His eyebrows are
drawn together in a frown and he looks me up and down. I follow his gaze to my cut-off shorts that stop right above the knee and my loose T-shirt. I hadn’t thought about dressing up. Stupid Katie! I berate myself, but then I stand up straight, as straight as my frazzled nerves allow. This isn’t about how I look; it’s about being able to leave my house (which I did) and explaining myself. “Please. Just listen to me. It’s not drugs. I know what you saw looked bad, but it wasn’t what you thought. I have PTSD.”
“Pardon?”
“PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“I know what it stands for,” he says, exhaling loudly. “One day it’s anxiety, the next it’s PTSD—”
“Give me five minutes.”
“Five minutes. Come on.” I follow him out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk that leads to the entrance of the fancy nightclub he owns. A group of men are walking in our direction, and as they near, my heart begins to palpitate. I move to the side to allow them to pass, my hands in front of me. Nico gives me an odd look but then says, “I don’t have all day.” He doesn’t know I’m almost paralyzed by terror. I close my eyes and count to ten, feeling only slightly better. When I open my eyes, his green eyes are studying me curiously.
The street is empty again and I take a reluctant step and then another one until I’m once again moving. I look up at the big buildings and think of a hundred and one things that can happen—one can come tumbling down, or someone can throw something down and it can hit me and knock me out, or…I shake my head and force myself to get all the obsessive what-if thoughts out of my head.
He’s staring at me again, of course.
I’ve just had a revelatory moment. I was scared and I got through it, and he hasn’t noticed. Of course he hasn’t; he doesn’t know me. He certainly doesn’t know how much progress I’m making by not bolting straight home.
“Hurry up, I have shit to do.”
At the entrance to the club, which is closed during the day (thank God), Nico enters a combination into the door and holds it open. It’s pitch-dark inside, and I gasp and come to a dead stop—this is my damn nightmare coming true. Except the lights turn on a second later and the empty nightclub lights up.
Pull Me Close: The Panic Series Page 5