Last Train to Babylon

by Charlee Fam

  I picture Eric and his mint-green tie and how he hardly flinched when I walked into the bar and how there’d been no recognition when I walked out, and I’m certain he doesn’t even know my name. I take another swig of whiskey and reach in my bag for another Xanax, and I can’t stop thinking of summer camp, when I was six, maybe seven, and I built this stupid house out of Popsicle sticks, and I used too much glue.

  The car rumbles. I’m running out of gas.

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  I feel him still, the rough pads of his fingers prodding me, his hand over my mouth, and I swat at my thighs, even though I know it’s only phantom pains, and I take another swig of whiskey, and swish it around in my mouth, and he devours me, piece by piece. I take another swig, and another, and another, until it flows through me like rain, and I’m numb, so wonderfully numb and buzzing and warm, and I pull my sopping dress up over my head and throw it into the backseat, because even though it’s been washed and rained on and sat like a stale thing in my closet for five years, even after all of that, I can still smell him: that old drafty bed, his hands fumbling at me.

  The sky swirls with rain, and darkness starts to slip over me, I take another swig, the bottle pressed loose over my lips. The hot whiskey dribbles down my chin and onto my bare chest. I lean back, my stomach roils, and I can feel the swill of Jack bubbling up into my throat, and I take one last sip, and I can barely hear the loudspeaker overhead.

  The last train to Babylon is operating on time.

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  Part Two

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  Chapter 26

  Friday, October 10, 2014. 4 A.M.

  YOUR MOTHER TOLD me something you said today, Aubrey. Something that concerned her.”

  I sit up in the bed, the hospital bed, and knead my face with the soft pads of my fingers. It feels like someone scraped out my sinuses and poured Clorox up my nose. Everything is damp and warm, and my temple pounds against the empty, sterile feeling inside my head. The window is open, and I can hear the rain clicking against the metal screen. I can smell it, too—rain, antiseptic, and latex.

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  “Do you want to talk about that?” Laura says. She’d said we’d had enough for the night, that I could go to sleep and she’d come back in the morning to talk more about what happened after Rachel’s funeral. But then she sat back down at the edge of my bed like she’d forgotten to finish the job, and I felt that guilty twist in my stomach, like I might even throw up this time.

  “I said a lot of things today,” I say. I catch my reflection in the window again, and this time all I can think of is Linda Blair, and my head spinning around on a swivel and spewing pea soup in Laura’s hair.

  “About sleeping with someone back in high school. About him not taking no for an answer? Did you say that today, Aubrey?” She looks at me, her face set in a perpetual pout. I’d forgotten that I said those things to Karen. It felt like a dream—a hazy, ugly dream—but it only happened this morning. I look down at my newly painted fingernails: Wicked. My hands start to shake, slow at first, and my instinct is to reach for a cigarette, and I do, for just a moment, until I realize that not only would it be wildly inappropriate to light up a cigarette in front of a shrink, in a hospital no less, but I don’t even have my bag.

  “Where is my stuff?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about your stuff, Aubrey. It’s safe. Now tell me about that conversation with your mother.”

  “Please stop saying my name,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “May I ask why?”

  “Because it’s condescending, Laura.”

  “I didn’t mean to patronize you, Aubrey.” I shoot her a look and she apologizes again. “Tell me about the boy who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this now,” I say.

  The rain clicks against the metal screen.

  “When would you prefer to talk about it?”

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  “Not tonight,” I say. She writes something down on her clipboard. She’s close enough now that I lean over to catch a glimpse, but she pulls the papers toward her chest and clicks her pen.

  “What about Adam?” she says.

  “What about him?” I say.

  “Can we talk about him?”

  “I don’t see what he has to do with any of this,” I say.

  “He’s the one who found you, Aubrey.”

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  Chapter 27

  Saturday, October 11, 2014.

  I HAVEN’T LEFT my bedroom since Karen drove me home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. They kept me overnight, and I overheard Karen and some doctor whispering out in the hallway about having me committed. Committed to where? I don’t know. Probably South Oaks or someplace meant for people much less stable than I am. I sat up in my bed, hearing every word of their seemingly covert conversation. But they forget; I’m crazy, not deaf.

  “An extended hospital stay is not necessary,” I heard Karen say. She rattled off some facts and mumbled something about being a mental health professional herself and that she can “ensure a suitable healing environment.”

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  On the car ride home, my mother went into the terms of my release. I am required to see Laura at her office, three days a week until the shrink sees fit. My license has also been temporarily revoked. I’m still not sure if that’s a legal thing, a hospital thing, or a Karen thing, but I don’t question it, because I know I don’t deserve to have a car right now.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the hardwood floor. My room is dark, and I can feel the heat blaring from the vent. I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep all day, barely checking the clock. I hear Karen rustling around the kitchen, so I know it’s almost dinnertime, but I haven’t eaten since I’ve been back, and the thought of food makes my throat feel sour, like I could open my mouth and spew out stomach acid all over the walls. I’m about to get back under my covers, when there’s a soft knock at my door.

  “What?” I say, but my voice cracks and it comes out more of a croak, and I just now realize how thirsty I am. The door creaks open, and I expect to see Karen standing there with a tray full of applesauce or something, but it’s not Karen. It’s Danny.

  “Hi,” he says, still partly concealed by the door. I can only see his face. “Can I come in?”

  “I guess,” I say, and I feel that stomach acid coming up again. I don’t have the energy for this. For him.

  “I know you said not to call, but you never said not to come.” And then I remember our conversation the night of the funeral—as much as I can remember of it—how he’d spoken to Karen about all the things I’d said.

  “Danny,” I say. “You really shouldn’t be here.” My lips still feel swollen and cracked, and I haven’t showered yet today and I’m not wearing a bra. I know it shouldn’t matter with Danny, but for the first time, it does.

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  “I want you to come home,” he says. “You don’t need to be here.” He stands in my doorway and slips his hands into his pockets.

  “You have no idea what I need.”

  “Yes, I do.” He says and turns to close the door. It’s just us now, locked away inside my room—my ex-room. “And it’s not this. This place is making you crazy. Look at you.” He takes a few steps closer to me. I stand up and take a step back behind the bed, using it as a buffer between us.

  “Please, go home,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t question me. Just go.” He steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders. My whole body stiffens and I jerk backward. “Don’t,” I say, too loudly, and he reaches out again, but I stumble back toward my dresser. I don’t need to be taken care of. And even if I did, I don’t need Danny to do it.

  “I won’t leave you,” he says.

  “You know nothing about me, Dan.” I start to speak again, but my voice cracks, and I feel my facial muscles start to contract, and I know I’m about to lose it.

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5

  “I know enough,” he says. “And look, if you’re going to throw everything away because of what some asshole did to you five years ago, then you’re right, I don’t know you.” I feel myself start to shake, and I put my hands up again, maybe to send a warning, but also because I don’t know what else to do. I’d mentioned Eric to him only once and never by name—only a vague explanation and we sort of had an understanding. But the fact that he was bringing it up now, throwing it in my face, using it to force some sort of emotion out of me, well, that wasn’t fair. But before I have a chance to form a rebuttal, he clasps my wrists in his and pulls me toward him.

  “Aubrey,” he says. “Listen to me.” I don’t know what to do, so I scream, shrill and sharp, and pound my fist into his chest.

  “Get away from me,” I say. My voice must carry through the house, because Karen comes charging through the door like gangbusters. “Go home, Danny,” I say. “Just go home. Please. I am begging you.”

  He lets go, and looks stunned, but before he can catch his footing, he trips back over my bed, catching himself just before he slides to the ground. Karen stands in the doorway.

  “Maybe you should go, Danny,” she says. “I’m so sorry for this.”

  “Did you do this?” I ask Karen. There’s a stale silence, and they both just look at me. “Was this your doing, Karen? Did you plan this?” I say again when she doesn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry, Dan,” is all she says. “Let me give you a ride to the train.”

  I’M STILL SEETHING after Karen takes Danny back to the train, sucking in air through clenched teeth. She had no right to invite him here. He had no right to see me like this. But part of me knows he’s right; this place is making me crazy.

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  Chapter 28

  Monday, October 13, 2014.

  “WHY DON’T YOU tell me a little about yourself,” Laura says. “I don’t think I really got a feel for the real you at the hospital.”

  We’re sitting in her office, a small room with blue walls and a window, a mile from my house. I know it’s exactly one mile because I ran here today. I’m in my running clothes, my hair is up in a ponytail. I wipe the sweat from my hairline with my T-shirt. It’s the first time I’ve left my house in days. Two to be exact. I want to get back into my bed, bury my face, and numb myself with Xanax.

  “I’m not really sure what you want me to say,” I start.

  “Well, how about telling me what you do?”

  “I mean, I guess I’m sort of a journalist,” I say.

  “Sort of a journalist?”

  “I don’t really consider myself one. I’m more of a writer, I guess.”

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  “And you live in the city?”

  “Yes, with my boyfriend.” I stop myself. It feels weird to say the word “boyfriend,” wrong, and I realize I haven’t spoken to Danny since my meltdown the other day.

  I know she’s baiting me with her chitchat, and my instinct is to remain vague, give only the information she asks for directly, but as I reel over what to say in my head, I start to think maybe I’m more confused than I thought. “I’m not really sure what we are right now. I sort of left things kind of open,” I say, and it feels oddly settling. “And now I’m here.” Laura looks at me, like I’m supposed to keep talking, but I don’t know what to say. “I had a couple of bad days.”

  She scribbles something down on her clipboard. The sky starts to turn gray outside the window, and I get that sinking feeling in my chest when I realize I’m going to have to run a mile in the rain.

  “Sort of a journalist? And you’re not really sure where you are with your boyfriend?” She looks at me, like she’s waiting for me to finish her sentence. I don’t. “Sounds like you’re not really sure who you are right now.”

  Well, she doesn’t waste any time. I don’t want to be here. It’s mandated. But I’m not sure why. I’m not sure who’s mandating it. I haven’t done anything illegal—technically. But I don’t question Karen, because then she’ll start asking questions. And like I said, I’d much rather talk to the shrink.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not really into the whole journalism thing. And it’s a little late to not really know what I want to do with my life. I’m not in college anymore, you know.”

  “It’s never too late to find your passion.”

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  Is she serious? Find my passion? It’s like she’s got a copy of therapist Mad Libs attached to that clipboard of hers.

  “I am incapable of passion,” I say.

  “Nobody is incapable of passion, Aubrey.” She crosses her legs and leans forward into her knees. “How about when you’re not working. What kinds of things do you like to do?”

  This isn’t much of a conversation. It seems more like an uncomfortable first date, an uncomfortable, one-sided first date. I look at the clock. Forty minutes left to go.

  “I don’t know,” I say. It’s such a simple staple of a question. What do you like to do? What are your interests? But I have no idea how to answer it. “I like to drink,” I deadpan, “as you already know.” It’s meant to be more of a joke, but she seems to perk up, in an overly concerned, possible-breakthrough sort of way.

  “You like to drink?” Her voice drops a beat, and her face is stricken with a rehearsed delicacy. She writes a quick note.

  “That was a joke,” I say. I take a slow sip of coffee. “Look,” I start. “I know you think I’m completely insane, but you have to understand. I’m basically on suicide watch,” I say. “Which is ridiculous, because I’m not suicidal. I just got drunk.”

  “You drank a bottle of whiskey on the day of your best friend’s funeral, Aubrey. You showed up at a memorial, got kicked out, and then removed your clothes and walked onto the train platform, practically in a catatonic state. That’s more than just getting drunk.”

  “My ex-best friend,” I correct.

  “What were you doing on the train platform, Aubrey?”

  “I wasn’t going to jump,” I scoff.

  “So you remember?”

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  “No. I just know I wouldn’t do that. It’s stupid.”

  “Stupid?”

  “I’m not suicidal. I didn’t try to kill myself.”

  “Then what were you doing on the train platform?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to get to Babylon.”

  “Why Babylon?”

  “I don’t know. Last stop. End of the line.”

  “Tell me about that day.” She gets all serious, and I cross my arms over my chest. I realize the whole point of this is to talk about that day, The Incident, but I don’t feel like talking. All I feel is dread.

  “I really don’t remember much,” I say. “I must have blocked it out.” I smile and shrug so she knows I’m kidding. I don’t believe in repressed memories. I believe in being drunk.

  “Maybe you did block it out.”

  “No,” I say. “I did not block it out. I remember the beginning of the day. I got my nails done. I got in a fight with my mother before the funeral. I was never going to go. But I went home at some point to change into the black dress. I don’t really know what happened after that. But it’s not because I blocked it out. It’s because I got drunk.”

  “Tell me about Adam,” she asks, and my throat gets thick.

  “I just hadn’t eaten all day.”

  “Tell me about Adam,” she says again.

  “He was my high school boyfriend,” I say. The air is too warm. I watch the rain start, fat drops hit the window behind Laura’s head. I try to swallow. “We broke up five years ago.”

  “When you left Seaport.”

  “Yup.”

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  “That’s about the time you stopped being friends with Rachel.”

  “That is correct,” I say, leaning back against the leather couch. Karen must have briefed her, because she knows more about my life than I’ve let on.

  “What happened five years ago, Aub
rey?” I close my eyes involuntarily and catch myself just before she can read my face.

  “Look,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about Adam. I don’t want to talk about Rachel. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to force some sort of emotion out of me, but it’s not going to work. I am cold and incapable of feeling.” I take a deep breath, take a sip of coffee, and try and keep my hands from shaking.

  Laura looks at me with a subtle smile. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I fidget in my seat, flipping the tab on the top of my coffee.

  “I see an emotion coming through very clearly,” she says.

  “And what’s that?” The rain stops and the October afternoon sun creeps through the window shade behind her head.

  “Anger,” she says.

  Laura’s observation of my anger just makes me feel angrier, so I start to let up, just a little bit. I don’t want her to think she’s outsmarting me here. I’m impermeable to this psycho bullshit. I am half Irish, after all.

  “Look. I’m anxious. I know that. I have anxiety. That’s nothing new. And I know why, it’s not a mystery or some repressed memory. It has nothing to do with Rachel’s death but everything to do with Rachel.”

  “Oh.” She perks up again, and lifts her pen, ready to go.

  “But,” I cut in, “I’m just not ready to talk about it yet.”

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  “Okay,” she says. “That’s fine. “But can you do me a favor, Aubrey? And this is more for you than me.” I shrug, and she leans back in her chair. “You said you’re a writer. So do you think it would help if you started writing about what’s going on? Just jot down your thoughts and feelings in a notebook. Sort of like a diary. You don’t have to show me or anything. This is just for you.”