Last Train to Babylon

by Charlee Fam

  “I can try it, I guess,” I say. She smiles, looking pleased as ever with herself.

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  Chapter 29

  April 2009.

  I ALWAYS HATED the way teen turmoil was portrayed in books, TV, and those horrid Lifetime Original Movies—especially when it came to sex, specifically the unwanted kind. God, it was all so dramatic and unrealistic. The same shit over and over again: Good girl sneaks out to a party for the first time in her pathetic little life, and BAM! All of a sudden she’s a walking ball of gloom and Goth, and her parents don’t understand, and her friends disappear, and her teachers think she’s underperforming. And then at the end, she has this inspiring epiphany and somehow finds the courage buried inside her to speak out and say those words, and declare that she was a victim. And then everything goes back to normal, and her parents are relieved, and her friends are so sorry they didn’t understand, and her teachers exempt her from finals.

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  That doesn’t happen in real life. Especially the part about the friends.

  I stood outside Rachel’s doorway, my fist pressed against the wooden door, but I didn’t actually knock. I could hear her inside, the radio playing some forgettable song.

  Jeff had let me in. He chewed on an apple and smacked his lips together and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and I felt so sick, like I could upchuck all over their beige carpeting.

  “Rach’s upstairs,” he said, and smacked his lips again. I stood in the doorway too long, and a part of me was convinced that he could tell just by looking at me that I’d lost it in a drunken stupor while his stepdaughter got pounded right downstairs. I crossed my arms over my chest and darted up the stairs, away from his glazed stare.

  My fist pressed against the door, and I thought about knocking, but waited, frozen, empty, until the door swung open and Rachel stood there in a pair of neon-green shorts and a wifebeater.

  “Oh,” she said, like she’d been waiting for me. “Coming in or just gonna stand there?” I stepped inside. Her room hadn’t changed much since we were kids: baby-blue-painted walls, a day bed with a white floral comforter, her collection of American Girl dolls and stuffed bears. She went back to her dresser, leaned into the mirror, and picked up a brush and a palette of purple eye shadow.

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  It had only been two days since Easter—since I saw her in the car with Adam. I thought she’d be nervous, jittery even, to see me, but she just eyed herself in the mirror, calm and casual, and colored her lids with shades of violet.

  I watched her and put off what I came there to do, what I came there to say. I concealed my shaking hands behind my back and bit my lip until I tasted blood. I felt the words in my throat, like I was about to be caught in a lie. Only it wasn’t a lie. For once, what I was about to say wasn’t a lie.

  “Rachel,” I said.

  “Mm?” She didn’t look up as she applied charcoal liner to her eyes.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said again. Her tone felt cold, like she’d been waiting for me to say it. I steadied myself on her bed frame.

  “Promise you won’t freak out. Because I’m freaking out. And I sort of need you to not be pissed at me right now.” She put the eyeliner back down on her dresser and turned to me. Her face stoic and her lips set into a thin line.

  “I already know what you’re going to say, Aubrey,” she said. She stepped closer, lifted her hand, and brushed the hair out of my face. I felt myself twitch. She smiled. “I just want to hear you say it.”

  “Say what?” I asked. A part of me thought she might say it for me, that she’d finish my sentence, take me into her arms, and tell me she was sorry, she was sorry for ditching me, sorry that I had to go through that, she was so sorry, and she’d always be there for me. That we were Rachel and Aubrey, best friends, forever branded by the heartigram etched into our left hipbones.

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  But like I said, that doesn’t happen in real life.

  “You know what, Aubrey?” She was still smiling, but it wasn’t the I’m sorry, I’m understanding, I’m here for you smile that I’d been hoping for. “I know you fucked Eric,” she said. “And Adam knows you did, too.”

  I looked at the floor and tried to swallow but my throat was dry and I needed to get the hell out of that room.

  “Rachel,” I said. I felt my face go numb. “It wasn’t like that. I swear. He made me. I didn’t know what was going on,” I started.

  “Yeah, sure. You didn’t know what was going on. You were drunk. You were bored. He made you,” she mocked. “But really, I don’t care. I think we both know what happened.”

  “He held me down,” I said. My face stung now, like coming inside after being out in the snow too long. “I told him to stop.”

  “For once, you didn’t have the guy, so you had to take him from me. Adam deserves better than that, Aub, and so do I.”

  I felt her breath on my face; she smelled like Red Hots. All I could see were the photographs lined up on Rachel’s dresser. They were mostly of herself—Rachel riding a horse; Rachel at Junior Prom; Rachel at the beach; at the Jumps; on my front porch. The sharp words rolled off her tongue. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know what you were doing,” she said. I finally looked up. Tears streamed down her pale face, her brown eyes bloodshot, and it almost felt staged, like she’d dowsed her eyes in Visine while I wasn’t looking. “You’re just a desperate slut,” she said.

  I stared back, shook my head, and almost smiled, before turning around and backhanding all of the frames off of her desk with one swift motion.

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  Glass shattered onto her hardwood floor. Rachel stood there, her mouth hung open in a limp, gaping hole, and before she could even react, I raised my hand again and slapped her dead across her face—the sound like a rubber band snapping.

  A sound escaped from the space between Rachel’s teeth—shrill and animalistic, and she stepped back like she might charge at me like a deranged orangutan, tear out my hair, shred my skin to pieces with her fingernails. But I didn’t wait around for that. I turned—cool, casual, calm—and sauntered out of her room, and didn’t cry until I got back to my car.

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  Chapter 30

  Wednesday, October 15, 2014.

  AREN’T WE ONLY as good as what other people tell us? Since birth we’re called a smart baby, then a great reader, an excellent student because some random teacher says so and gives a report card to prove it. You’re a good writer—but only because this one time in this one class this one professor told you so, and your mom agreed. And maybe it’s true, but also, maybe it’s not. You’re a good friend, because someone tells you. And if no one tells you that, then chances are you’re probably not a good friend. You’re probably a really shitty friend.

  Laura thinks I seek validation.

  I don’t think there’s such a thing as validation. I think it’s just what we know. The way we feel about ourselves is always based on feedback from others. We are trained to accept that. It doesn’t mean I’m insecure, or unsure, or insane. It just means I’m human, and I have, above all else, self-awareness.

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  So when she asks me to describe myself, I start with the qualities others have given me.

  “People say I’m cold.”

  “Who says?”

  “My mother,” I say.

  “What does she know?”

  “Well, she’s the reason I’m here, isn’t she?”

  “No, Aubrey. You’re the reason you’re here.”

  I scoff, hating how she has to make everything so serious.

  Rachel would have called me many things, depending on the year and her own level of happiness.

  Best friend, desperate slut, bitch, traitor, only friend. I couldn’t keep track, and God knows what she thought of me when she died. Maybe that voice mail would have the answer. I reach for my phone, just to make sure it’s still there. Not that I plan on listening to it. Ever.r />
  “How are you feeling? How’s the anxiety?” Laura asks through an overly warm smile. I shrug.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” I say. “Thank God for Xanax.” I grin, awkwardly, and I can tell she still doesn’t get my offbeat sense of humor. She writes something down. Probably about cutting down my prescription—not that she really has a say anyway. She’s not even a real doctor.

  “What about the panic attacks? Have you had any since our last session? Since the incident?”

  “Nope,” I say. “No panic attacks.” I’m not even sure I would call what happened that night a “panic attack.” Laura says it was cathartic. I call it a meltdown.

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  “Great,” she says. I unscrew the cap off my water bottle and take a long sip while I wait for her to lure me into some sappy confession. The water has been sort of a buffer for me. It buys me time—allows me to choose my words carefully when she tries to catch me off guard. “Let’s talk more about Rachel today,” she finally says.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well,” she says. “You harbor a lot of resentment toward her. But surely there must have been something good about her. She was your best friend for ten years.”

  I knew this was coming, and I’m prepared. I practiced the answer in my head on my run over here.

  “Honestly,” I say, “I don’t know why I was friends with her. Maybe I was just a lot like her, you know, shallow in some ways. So she made me feel better about myself. I guess she made me feel like less of a villain.” I take another sip of water, and hold it in my mouth for three seconds before swallowing.

  I tried to come up with something a little more genuine. I really did. But the harder I thought about it, the more I realized there was nothing good about Rachel, except that I really had no one else. Except for Adam.

  “Everyone we grew up with was pretty much exactly the same,” I say. “We all had the same agenda.” I try not to smile, but I think I’m really nailing this therapy thing.

  “What was that?” she asks, scribbling something in her notebook, I’m sure about my low self-esteem.

  “Get paid and get laid.” I think she almost smiles, but she leans forward in her seat.

  “What about Adam? Did he just want to ‘get paid and get laid’?” When she says it back to me, it sounds sort of ridiculous.

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  “In some ways,” I say. “He was a decent guy. He had his moments. But he was a good a guy. It was Rachel who ruined him for me.”

  “What do you mean, ruined him?” I bite down on my lip and immediately regret my choice of words.

  “That’s not really what I meant,” I say, and I’m trying to backtrack, but my mind feels blank.

  “Well, what did you mean?” I take a sip of water, and stare at the wall. I’m trying to look pensive, but really I’m just buying time. “Aubrey?” I pull in a sharp breath. She’s not letting this go.

  “Things just didn’t end well with us. And I guess I’ve always blamed Rachel for that.”

  “But you said ‘ruined him.’ How was he ruined for you Aubrey?”

  “Maybe I meant that she ruined me for him.”

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  Chapter 31

  April 2009.

  I TURNED INTO my driveway and allowed myself five minutes of cold, hard tears before wiping the snot off my nose with the back of my sweater and pulling it together.

  Pull it together. Pull it together.

  I said it out loud, over and over, until that pinch in my lungs dissipated and I could breathe again.

  Pull it together.

  I had three fears: one, Rachel would show up at my house and cause a scene, which led to fear number two: I’d have to relive the words and face the fact that maybe I was a desperate slut.

  Desperate slut. Desperate slut. Desperate slut.

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  And this all led to fear number three: Karen finding out. Karen finding out about Eric. Karen finding out about Adam. And even Karen finding out that that I slapped my best friend across the face. Ex-best friend. I was pretty sure this was the end for Rachel and me.

  But Karen wasn’t home when I slipped through the front door. Cheerleading practice, I remembered. She had cheerleading practice on Tuesdays.

  I went to my room, climbed into my bed, and started up my laptop.

  A picture of Adam and me glared from my desktop background. It had been from the First Friday of our senior year, right before we snuck away and saw each other naked for the first time. My stomach buzzed, and I opened Internet Explorer to cover up our grinning faces.

  And then I Googled his name. Eric Robbins. His college lacrosse photo popped up along with a couple of stats. The glow of the screen illuminated his gap-toothed grin, and it suddenly felt like bugs were crawling all over my body.

  I stared until my eyes ached. The laptop warmed the top of my thighs. I opened the Google search box again and typed Rape. I stared at the results but I didn’t feel them. They were just words, just hollowed words, jumbled up and meaningless on my computer screen. What is rape? I typed. It seemed like a stupid question; of course I knew what rape was. Was I raped? I typed, and the results thinned, but I didn’t click. Even if the Web held the answers to these burning questions, I didn’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss, right? I thought about what Rachel had said, how she’d mocked me with my own words, and as my computer screen blazed up at me, the Internet never felt more intimidating—an all-knowing wizard with a crystal ball. I don’t know what I thought I’d find.

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  Chapter 32

  Friday, October 17, 2014.

  “YOU SEEM UNCOMFORTABLE today,” Laura notes.

  “Well,” I start, immediately regretting my defensive tone. “I told you I wasn’t ready to talk about Adam.”

  “That was Wednesday, Aubrey,” she says. “You just seem to be doing a lot better; I thought maybe we could delve into your relationship with him a bit today. But we can stop if it’s too much for you.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Adam and I had a complicated history.”

  I wait for her to ask a question, but she just nods and motions for me to continue. The sun blares through the window behind her head. She’s wearing the same yellow sweater she wore that night at the hospital.

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  “Adam’s brother, Max, was my first kiss. He would have been a senior when I was a freshman. But he killed himself.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, at least in this context. “I mean some people think it was an accident. But most people think it was suicide.”

  “Wow,” Laura says.

  “I met Adam at Max’s wake. It was really awkward, a complete accident. I was looking for Rachel, and I ran into him outside. I felt bad, so I said hi and that pretty much opened the lines of communication.” I take a sip of water and uncross my legs. “We just started walking to school together. That’s how we started.”

  “That’s a lot,” she says. “To lose a brother to suicide. Was he seeing a therapist?”

  “Ha,” I scoff, “Adam, ask for help? He once told me he was ‘unshrinkable.’”

  Laura laughs, for once.

  “I like that term,” she says. “Well, what about you? Didn’t he confide in you?”

  I think about this for a moment, scanning the years we have known each other. “Maybe,” I say. I notice that Laura is smiling, all creepy, like she’s waiting for me to have a big epiphany. Laura looks wired today. Her eyes bug out of her head, like she just can’t wait to get to the bottom of me. I approach with caution.

  “So, Adam never saw anyone about his brother’s death?” Laura asks. She’s still stuck on this. It’s like a therapist’s wet dream. Two suicides, a messy four-year affair. Just wait until she finds out the rest.

  “Nope,” I say. “But I don’t see how Adam is important right now.”

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  “You know why he’s important, Aubrey,” she says. “He’s the one who brought you to the hospital. The night o
f the funeral.” She says it as if she needs to clarify, as if I frequent hospitals and have alcohol-induced breakdowns.

  I take a sip from my water, even though there’s hardly any left. I know Laura can tell I’m starting to get uneasy. She just smiles and nods and waits for it all to sink in.

  “I know that,” I say. “You don’t need to remind me.” I start to twist the plastic bottle in my hands.

  “That must have put a lot of pressure on you, being so young, if he wasn’t talking to anyone about his brother’s death. Did you ever feel like he was leaning on you, pressuring you?” I don’t like the amount of eye contact she’s using today and I let my own gaze fall to the window behind her head.

  “Sure,” I say. “I definitely felt pressure from time to time.”

  “Emotional pressure? Sexual pressure?”

  “Both, I guess,” I say. “I mean there was this one fight we had. Senior year of high school. It was sort of the beginning of the end for us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was kind of a prude,” I say. “We’d been together for almost four years, and he was starting to get impatient. You know. He wanted to have sex. I wasn’t really ready. I was getting annoyed that he kept asking. So I kind of shut down with him.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were on the floor in my bedroom. The door was open, and we were just play wrestling, you know? Just fooling around, kissing, tickling, laughing. Nothing too scandalous.”

  “Right,” she says.

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  “And then he just snapped. Like completely went off on me how I was fucking with him. I was a cocktease. I needed to make up mind. I owed it to him. You know, typical teenage boy.” I started to unscrew my water bottle again. “But I was going to do it. I knew I wanted to before college. It was just that now he was pressuring me. And I was just being stubborn.”

  “And then what?”