Last Train to Babylon

by Charlee Fam

“I just ignored him. It was only supposed to be two days. I sort of planned it out. You know, until I calmed down. I wanted to make him sweat a little. It was the longest we’d ever gone without talking. I didn’t respond to his texts. And then it turned into this sick twisted game. Like I would text, and he wouldn’t. And then we both just stopped.” I took the last little gulp of my water. “But I loved him. I really did. I think I was just afraid to lose him.”

  “But you did lose him,” she says, and the authority of her voice sets me back into defensive mode.

  “Not yet,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m warning her against cutting me off, or I’m simply telling her that the loss came much later.

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  Chapter 33

  Monday, October 20, 2014.

  I STARE DOWN at the blank page in front of me, tapping my pen against the bed frame. I’ve actually been heeding Laura’s advice, writing out my feelings, but today, nothing’s really coming out. I’ve been using the back of the As If notebook and have been filling up the pages pretty quickly up until now. I’d forgotten what it was like to write—not just write—but to write for myself, without deadlines and guidelines and Jonathan’s passive-aggressive periods. Somewhere between all the crime reports and five-alarm fires, I’d lost the desire.

  The morning sun streams through my open window, illuminating the pages. I flip back to last night’s entry, and the words glare up at me—igniting beneath my hovering hand. I’m afraid to touch them, like they’d spark and singe the pads of my fingers right off. I’ve been good with the booze lately, lying low while I’m dealing with all my shit, but I’d given in to a glass or three of wine last night, and I’d let the words flow through me into my tattered old marble notebook, and part of me wants to tear the page out and put it through Karen’s shredder. I don’t know what made me do it, aside from the wine; write a letter to Rachel using my good handwriting—the kind used for birthday cards, job applications, and suicide notes.

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  Dear Rachel, I’d started.

  It’s, me, Aubrey. Your “best friend.” Is that what you really thought? Or did you just use that label to keep a hold on me, to control me, to guilt me into playing the sidekick in your warped little production of a life? I took a psych class in college, and we learned about Stockholm syndrome. I couldn’t help but think of you and me, and how I’d been caught up in your lies and charm for so long. Did you think it would last forever? Did you think I was that stupid, that vapid and needy, that I’d let you take everything from me, and I’d be waiting with open arms when you decided you needed your “best friend” back?

  I stop reading. I’m dizzy, too warm, and slightly hung over. I lean back against my pillow and pull my knees up, balancing the book in front of me. It’s funny, I don’t remember writing most of this, and I’m not really sure what to make of it.

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  What did you think you’d accomplish with your little call? Did you think I would have talked you out of it? Tell you that I’m sorry, that I love you, that I need you, too? That I forgive you? Ha! Did you intend for me to revel in guilt for the rest of my life, harboring the secret that I could have done something? That I could have stopped you? Then what? We’d go on as best friends for the rest of our lives, grow old together, attend each other’s wedding? You’d be my Maid of Honor and give a heartwarming speech on how’d I’d always been there, how I saved your life? I don’t blame you for what happened with Eric. I’ve learned a long time ago that you can’t control the actions of others. But I do hate you for all the rest of it. For those things you said. For Adam. Five years, Rachel. You let five years go by before you even pretended to give a shit. That’s on you. You’ve always been delusional, Rach. And you’ve always been selfish. And even in your dying moment, you felt the need to put me in this position, and for that, I will never forgive you.

  I stare down at the page, and remember to breathe, but I’m having trouble, and I can’t be sure if I meant what I said, about never forgiving her. My phone alarm goes off; it’s almost time for my appointment with Laura. I slam the notebook shut, stuff it under my mattress, and decide that it’s time to talk.

  I’M CALMER THAN I thought I’d be when I walked in. I’m wearing a gray cotton T-shirt, a cardigan, and a pair of black yoga pants. I even blew out my hair today and put on mascara. The first time I’ve made an effort since I’ve been home.

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  Laura notices right away. “You look great. What’s different about you?”

  “Nothing,” I say, but the question calms me.

  “I guess you just look relaxed, then,” she says.

  I take a deep breath, lean back into the leather couch, and take a slow sip from my water bottle.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about the writing. How it feels,” I say. “And I’ve been sorting through some stuff. I think I’m ready to tell you why I am the way I am right now. Why I was so angry with Rachel.”

  Laura smiles, leans back in her chair, and tosses me a box of tissues. She knows I won’t use them, but I appreciate her attempt at humor.

  I LEAVE FEELING oddly winded, like I’d just run a marathon hung over. Winded but revitalized in a way. I pull the cardigan closed over my chest, as I walk out onto the street. There’s a chill in the air, a quiet breeze. Laura tells me I’m suffering from PTSD. So the things I’m feeling are either (A) Normal or (B) Totally in my head. It still doesn’t make sense to me, even if I’ve finally found some sort of validation—even if she’s my shrink and she’s paid to validate me.

  I’m still in the denial stages, she says, even though it’s been five years. It’s supposed to be like grieving, but I haven’t lost anyone I really cared about, so I’m not too sure what that entails. She says I’m grieving Rachel, even if I don’t realize it yet.

  I may be crazy but I’m not grieving Rachel. That much I do know.

  Rachel is the reason for this. She’s the reason for everything.

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  Laura also tells me that it’s not Rachel’s fault. And it’s most certainly, without a doubt, not my fault. It’s no one’s fault, she pounds into my head, over and over and over again. It’s no one’s fault but my rapist’s.

  My rapist.

  The word doesn’t sit well with me. In a way it feels like I’m relinquishing all responsibility for what happened, and Laura says that’s the whole point. But even so, how can a boy who I’ve known almost my entire life become my rapist? How does he suddenly belong to me? At what point did I claim possession of him, and at what point did he become my responsibility? My rapist. Laura says it with such casual grace, as if she’s talking about my brother or my sweatshirt.

  “If he’s my rapist, does that make you the rapist?” I said. She forced a smile and let out a long sigh, resting her hands on her knees.

  When I say it—my rapist—it feels forced and cheap.

  I know I made a big deal about telling her what happened, but part of me regrets it. Yes, Laura, I feel like saying, I’m anxious. I have anxiety. I get it. But I’m high functioning and I don’t need to be here. I didn’t realize she’d make this out to be such a life-shattering confession. Maybe if I knew, I would have kept my mouth shut.

  I told her a vague version of that night, and said, See this is why I hated Rachel. Do you understand? No big deal. Shit happens.

  And then something shifted.

  Laura called it rape, and says the sooner I accept that, the sooner I can start “the healing process.”

  It’s a process. It’s a process.

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  If I have to hear that “it’s a process” one more time, I swear I will jump. But I don’t say that out loud, because I’m still home, and home is better than the hospital.

  I’m having a hard time using the R-word. I’ve never really been too comfortable with it, and I never said it out loud. Except once. And even then, the first time I let the word slip away from me was unintentional.

  It was May—the weekend Danny’s two-year-ol
d nephew came to stay with us in the city. The kid was into everything—wiping his grubby little paws all over the TV, climbing into the liquor cabinet. He refused to nap, and when he did finally sleep, we had to be silent, which meant no getting up to pee, no talking, and absolutely no sex. I had casually made a joke, comparing watching a toddler to being raped: “I can’t sleep; we can’t have sex; and all I keep saying is ‘Stop,’ ‘Don’t,’ and ‘No.’”

  Danny didn’t laugh—he promptly changed the subject.

  Laura kept calling it “The Rape,” like it was some big event—like The Wedding or The Hurricane. There were times during the session when I thought she just said it to gauge my reaction.

  Sometimes there was no reason for it at all. We’d been talking about a random fight I once had with Danny, and she said, “Well, you know, control is very important to you. You know, with The Rape and all.” And every time she said it, I felt my body tense up, my left eye twitch, and she smiled. It was real subtle. But she smiled, and I know it. Like she knows that it gets to me, even when I won’t use the word—unless it’s in the context of an off-color joke.

  “Do you feel like you’re a victim?” she’d asked.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t feel like a victim.”

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  “Do you feel like a survivor?”

  “No, I don’t feel like a survivor either.”

  “How about taking legal action? Have you considered this?”

  “It’s been five years. Statutes of limitations, and all that. I don’t think it’s something I’d be able to go through with anyway.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m not interested in justice. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. Life has a way of making sure of that.” She sits, silent. “And I know you say I’m in denial, but I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Okay,” she said, and signaled for me to keep going.

  “I know what triggers me. I sort of seek out triggers, if that makes sense.”

  She shook her head, and I began to get frustrated.

  “You know, triggers, like listening to Tori Amos, Googling Eric’s name—really cliché shit like that; reading The Bell Jar. I like making myself anxious.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I think I get it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s like when I get into a funk, and I start to really think about things and get really anxious, I don’t try and make myself feel better. It’s like I challenge it. I trigger myself into a panic attack. You know. Triggers. Isn’t that like a big shrink term?”

  Laura smiled and nodded, and I knew she wanted me to keep talking before I lost the thought. It was a tactic she overused—not speaking—so I’ll feel awkward and fill the silence with all of my deep, dark emotions.

  “I’m trigger-happy.”

  I let my body relax onto the leather couch and unscrewed the cap of my water bottle.

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  When I told her this, I thought she’d be impressed. She’d think it was wonderful that I was facing things head-on, but instead she said, “This is the equivalent of self-mutilation, Aubrey.”

  I rolled my eyes. I can’t win with her.

  “Do you ever think about cutting yourself?”

  “No,” I said.

  But that wasn’t entirely true.

  I was with Danny. We were at one of his frat parties in college. I was drunk, like really smashed, and Danny was talking to some awkward freshman girl. I’m not really the jealous type, but God, she wasn’t even pretty.

  I was sitting on the attic stairs with my roommates. “She’s not even pretty,” I kept mumbling. “She’s not even pretty.”

  “Here, just drink more, babe,” they said, tilting the beer cup to my lips. “She’s not even pretty. You are so much prettier.”

  The four of us just sat there, slurring until I hoisted myself up on the broken railing and made my way to the bathroom.

  “She’s not even pretty,” I said again.

  I was alone in the bathroom and I stared at myself in the mirror. I had sweated most of my makeup off and reeked of beer. The mirror was already cracked. I remember it was cracked, so I put my fist through the glass.

  My reflection shattered, and I screamed through my teeth. Someone banged on the door, and I said, “Shut the fuck up. I’ll be out in a minute.”

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  As I pulled bits of glass out of my knuckles, I just remember feeling. Like really fucking feeling. Not good or pain or bad. Just feeling. So I grabbed a shard out of the sink, lifted my shirt, and pressed down until I drew a shallow red line across my stomach. I started at the hipbone, cutting into my heartigram. My heart-on. R A. I didn’t press too hard, didn’t go too deep, but just enough to bleed.

  When Danny saw me, he dropped his beer. “What the hell happened?” he asked, ready to fight someone. I smiled at his young freshman friend, my hands covered in blood.

  “Someone broke the bathroom mirror. I fell,” I said. He grabbed my hand.

  “Does it hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?” His breath was sour and yeasty.

  “No, I just want to go to bed,” I said.

  At home, he wrapped my hand in gauze, gave me a Xanax, and turned off the light. We were lying side by side. He traced circles over my wrist, something he always did to help me fall asleep.

  I leaned in and kissed him on his forehead, his nose, and finally parted my lips over his mouth.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. It was dark, but I could feel him propped up on his elbows, assessing my situation.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, taking off my shirt. He hadn’t seen what I’d done to my stomach, but I needed him pressed against me.

  “No,” I said again to Laura, “I’ve never thought about cutting myself.”

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  Chapter 34

  Wednesday, October 22, 2014.

  IT COMES IN waves. It flows through me, but I remember just a moment, a sound, a smell. Mostly I remember Adam. I remember Adam, even though I never actually saw him that night.

  Laura’s been having me work on memory. I try to explain that I do remember. It’s not something I’ve ever really stopped remembering, but she insists there are still things that I haven’t let myself think about yet—that I haven’t allowed myself to feel.

  Part of me thinks it’s bullshit. Part of me is just telling her what she wants to hear. But part of me wants the help.

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  Maybe she just wants to hear me talk about the details. But that’s not really something I think I’ll ever be able to do. I told her that he’d been inside me, even though I said no. I told her that he sat on top of me so I couldn’t leave, and I demonstrated what he did with my hands and rammed three fingers into the air, like a mute, broken child.

  But I didn’t tell her how he scrunched up my dress, and when I told him to stop, he said, You can keep it on. How he locked his elbows around my knees. I didn’t tell her how I’d stopped fighting and had just lain still, like a dead fish, because I thought he’d eventually get bored. I didn’t tell her how I’d been so oblivious, so numb, that I hadn’t realized what was going on.

  And maybe that would have been okay if he had stopped there. If when I reached down to push his hand away from me, I hadn’t instead grabbed a handful of heart-on.

  “I have a condom,” he’d said.

  “I’m not having sex with you,” I said.

  And maybe it would have been okay if he’d stopped there. Because maybe, just maybe, it could have been passed off as an honest mistake between two drunk kids.

  Laura was a real bitch today. I’m sick of talking about it. I’m sick of her assuming that every little insignificant action is a direct effect of Eric Robbins. That I have no control over my emotions, but it’s okay, because I’m A Victim.

  It’s just after four, and the sun is blazing over Sunrise Highway. It’s rush hour, and traffic is stopped from Wantagh Avenue all the way down to Massapequa. I jog along the train
tracks so I don’t risk anybody seeing me. I’m in my workout clothes, and I’ve got sweat under my tits, but I see O’Reilly’s: the door wide open and the bar empty.

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  I think about what Laura would say—if she knew I walked out of the session and took a brisk jog right through the open door of the bar that started it all. She’d probably look at me with her fake empathy face and ask if I felt I needed to regain control, because of The Rape. She’d say it was symbolic and moving.

  And I’d say no, I was just fucking thirsty.

  All bars smell the same in the afternoon—warm beer, Clorox, and just a hint of vomit. There are a few middle-aged, mustachioed men in fishing hats at the other side of the bar when I walk in. It’s quiet and dank, and I order a shot of Cuervo. It sits in front of me, next to a limp lime, wetting a bar napkin.

  The bartender is a short guy with a faux hawk and an Irish accent. I’m not sure where he came from or what he’s doing in Wantagh, but he offers me two for one on a Wednesday afternoon. I don’t hate it.

  A television drones low from behind the bar—the news, talking about some storm coming next week—maybe even a big hurricane.

  “Saying we might be an evacuation zone,” Irish says, spilling tequila over two shot glasses.

  “Said the same thing last year,” I mumble. I take the shot and let it burn the back of my throat, brassy and boozy—just like I remember. I feel a body come down on the stool next to me.

  “Don’t I know you?” That voice.

  My back stiffens, and I know not to turn around. Don’t turn around. But I do, and I’m right; it’s him.

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  I hold the shot below my lips, eye him up and down, and I laugh. I think it’s a laugh. Maybe a grunt. I’m not sure. But everything else seems hazy.

  “No,” I say. “You don’t know me.” He squints at me and smirks, this crooked smirk that almost, almost seems charming.

  He signals to the bartender. “I’ll have what she’s having.”