by Charlee Fam
“Okay,” she says. “When were you planning on leaving?” She acts busy, opening and closing drawers, emptying the contents of the dishwasher.
“I was thinking a six o’clock train,” I say. “Is that okay?” I don’t know why I’m asking for permission.
“Oh,” she says. “I guess that’s okay. I just didn’t realize you meant so soon.” There’s a moment of cold silence, and I don’t know what to say. I want to get up and walk away, but something keeps me still in my seat, sipping my coffee, waiting for my mother to collect her thoughts. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she says, and takes a breath. She pours herself a cup of coffee and leans on the island in front of me. “And, Aubrey, I’m sorry.”
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“Sorry for what?” My insides start to turn, and I stare down at the counter. Despite these past two weeks of therapy, and everything that’s happened, I am still not up for a mother-daughter bonding session.
“For putting Rachel on a pedestal, when it should have been you.” I wasn’t expecting that response, but I’ll take it. “And everything else,” she says.
“Don’t sweat it,” I deadpan and take a sip of coffee. I try to keep a straight face.
“I’ll miss having you around,” she says. “Really, though. You’re a handful. But I’ll miss you.” I roll my eyes, and stretch my arms out over the island. “Can I make you something to eat?” she asks, walking toward the refrigerator. The photo is gone—the one of Rachel and me at the Halloween parade in our matching hippie costumes. “I bought you one of those dairy-free pizzas,” Karen says. I’m about to ask what she did with the photo, if this was her idea of a peace offering, but instead, I remember the Montauk photo that I let fall behind my desk that first day.
“Sure,” I say. “Pizza sounds good.”
I GO BACK for it behind my desk. It’s right where I left it.
Rachel’s eyes burn into me from the glossy print—the Montauk sun glares. We’re still sprawled out over that purple sheet, half of my face cut off by Rachel’s horrible photo-taking abilities. I hold the picture up toward the light. It’s dusty, and slightly faded, but still glossy in that CVS print sort of way. Photos are like shards of glass—a snapshot, a sound, a smell—broken pieces, but nothing I can really hold on to.
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Chapter 41
MY TRAIN IS at six, but there’s one more thing I have to do before I go back and leave this twisted town once again.
It’s early afternoon—the temperature hovering just around fifty-five. I pull a cardigan closed over my chest and walk. When I get to his house, he’s under the hood of his truck. I scoff under my breath. Adam was never the car-fixing type.
“Hey again,” I say.
“Hi there,” he says.
“Any chance you could do me a favor? For old times?”
“It depends,” he says. “I got you put in a hospital.” I smile, and for the first time in weeks, it’s natural; the skin stretches a normal amount around my eyes.
“I need you to take me to the beach. There’s something I need to do.” He sighs, like he might say no, but shrugs and opens the car door for me.
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I roll the window down as we ride in silence down Wantagh Parkway. The air tangles my hair. I turn up the radio, and Coldplay plays through the speakers. Everything blurs past us—the trees, the dunes, the bay. Everything is moving as we’re bounding toward the edge of the Island. We’re just two kids with a dead friend. Just a boy and a girl who tried to have boundaries in a place that doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. I stare out into the bay as we speed down the parkway and then I look at Adam. He’s tense, but he’d always been tense, and he still smells the way I remember—like coffee and cinnamon—with just a hint of french fries and sea salt.
“You’re still working at the marina?” I ask. Small talk.
“Yup. Still working with Jason. I’m a manager now.”
“I can smell it on you,” I say. He laughs and pulls his thermal up over his nose.
“Man,” he says. “Didn’t think anyone else would notice.”
“That’s your smell.” I smile and he smiles and for a second, just a second, I forget about our own twisted history—how even from the start, he was never meant to be my first, and after everything else, he was never meant to be my last. Call it fate. Call it circumstance. I just call it shit luck.
Adam pulls into the Field 4 parking lot.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the photograph. It’s bent now, but it doesn’t matter.
I step out into the empty parking lot. Adam waits in the car.
When I get to the water’s edge, I plop down and kick off my flip-flops.
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I pull two Parliaments out of my bag—my last, I promise. I light them both, balancing one between my lips while I hold the other one out toward the ocean. I let it drop and sizzle out in the salty rush of the Atlantic. I place the photograph down in the undertow and watch it float away with the limp, wet cigarette.
I remember. Or at least I think I do. The rain, my car, the whiskey spilling over my bare chest, the music fading as I slipped into that gray hole. I remember thinking about Eric, and what he did, and what I didn’t do, and I wondered which held more weight. And then there was Rachel and Adam, and what they did and didn’t do—and what it really comes down to—all it ever really comes down to—is the people you love or think you love and what they do to you or don’t do and what you do to them and don’t do—and if you really stop to think about—like really stop and really think—it’s maddening. Absolutely fucking maddening.
I still don’t remember getting onto that train platform, and I still don’t think I wanted to die. Like I’ve said, it would have just been tacky and melodramatic. Maybe I just really wanted to get to Babylon.
I lean back, letting the frigid tide rush over my feet. I look down at my toes and notice that the dark red polish has started to chip.
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Chapter 42
I JUST MAKE the six o’clock train and slip into a double seat away from the bathroom. It’s one of the new trains with the blue and green seats and too much air-conditioning.
I take off my headphones and stare down at my BlackBerry. The tiny envelope still blinks up at me. I can hear the guy punching tickets behind me. Click. Click. Click. The sound gets closer, and I pull out my own ticket and stick it in the metal clip on the seat in front of me.
I haven’t heard back from Jonathan yet, but plan to give him an ultimatum if he gives me a hard time about a promotion. I need the job, but I’ve been into writing for myself lately—branching out from my literary collection of suicide notes and breakup letters. And I think that’s where my real talent is—real writing. I don’t see much of a future in weekly crime reports.
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I ran out of space in the As If notebook, so I’ve moved on to typing everything up. So far, it’s just bits and pieces of my childhood with Rachel, memories, stuff about Adam. I guess I’m sort of rewriting our history, but on my terms. I’ve started embellishing even, going into the what-ifs of everything. Laura says writing about Rachel and Adam gives me a newfound sense of control. I think for once she might be right. And who knows, maybe it will make a good book someday.
The sun is low in the sky, big and gelled, and it shines against the window next to my head. I press my face against the cool glass and hold my phone up to the light. Through the glare, I can still see the envelope. Blinking. Waiting to be heard. I think about Rachel’s voice—wrapped up like a neat little thing—her last words, her last cry for help, maybe even a reason.
Click. Click. Click. The ticket punching gets closer. I stare down at the unopened voice mail one more time. I brush my thumb over the enter key, and let it hover before pressing down. Click. Click. Click. I hold the phone up to my ear and listen.
And then a voice comes over the speaker.
This is the train to Penn Station. The Next Stop is Rockville Centre.
&n
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Acknowledgments
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FIRST, I’D LIKE to thank KG and Megan. Thank you for showing me what true friendship is. SN for life.
I obviously have to give a big shout-out to my agent, Jenn Mishler, for taking a chance on a bathroom pitch and making this book possible. I’m still amazed by how quickly you made this all happen.
Thank you to my editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz, for your unwavering enthusiasm and feedback. You took this book to a whole new level.
Of course I need to thank my family—all of you—especially for your collective dark senses of humor and for always encouraging me to write: Mom, Dad, Sean, Maria, Rocky, Thomas, Taylor, Grandmas—and the list goes on.
Where would I be without my Hawley family and our late-night wine readings? You were always the first to read and critique my stories. Without you guys, this book would have been about “gravy boats.”
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I can’t forget to acknowledge Marv. You make every day an adventure.
And finally, Matt. Thank you for all of your love and support over the past seven years. You read the very first draft and you immediately encouraged me to go out and find an agent. Without that nudge, I may have never written the rest of this book. I’m one lucky lady.
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P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the author
* * *
Meet Charlee Fam
About the book
* * *
Why I Wrote Last Train to Babylon
Read on
* * *
What’s on Charlee Fam’s Bookshelf?
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About the author
* * *
Meet Charlee Fam
CHARLEE FAM is a twentysomething novelist living in New York City. A native of Long Island, she graduated from Binghamton University in 2010 with a degree in creative writing and several awards to her name. Last Train to Babylon is her first novel.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
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About the book
* * *
Why I Wrote Last Train to Babylon
On Location:
I grew up on the south shore of Long Island in a town so much like Seaport that I actually only changed half the name in a futile attempt to mask its identity. I’m not really sure why I felt compelled to change the name. I may feel a sense of responsibility to protect the image of my hometown. While it was a wonderful place to grow up, I painted a very dismal scene of “Seaport” in Last Train. But regardless of how it’s portrayed, I always felt a strong connection to my community—to Long Island. It’s home and it will always be home—even when I’m living a train ride away.
On Friendship:
I’d be lying if I said Rachel wasn’t a composite of people I have known in my life, though she’s not based on any one person. She and Aubrey embody the toxic relationships that so many girls experience. And while sometimes these friendships are based on genuine affection for one another, other times they’re mostly selfish—saturated with emotional manipulation, insecurity, and codependency. They’re the kind of relationships you’re meant to outgrow.
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I always knew I wanted to write a novel set in Long Island about the complicated relationships between girls and how they grow up and apart. When I started shaping the relationship between Rachel and Aubrey, I wanted to explore what happens when you don’t allow yourself to grow: when you hold onto a friendship until it implodes and how you hold yourself responsible for everything that follows. I’m fascinated by those dynamics—which is probably why Now and Then has always been one of my favorite movies.
But at its core, this story isn’t about a friendship. It’s about a young woman’s relationship with herself in the midst of a premature quarter-life crisis. Regardless of class, race, or sense of entitlement, I think this sort of experience speaks to millennial American culture—certainly not to the extreme of Aubrey’s meltdown, but to the experience of at least a fleeting moment of uncertainty most of my peers have had during their twenties.
On Rape Culture:
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Of course, I’ll have to address the rape culture aspect. I’m not speaking from personal experience, and I’m certainly not an expert, but I will say that Aubrey’s story is far too common. To Aubrey, there really is a gray area about what happened to her. She never actually calls it rape. And depending on which character you ask, each offers a different take on the events of that night. Unfortunately, it’s all about perspective, and this is typical in reality. People base their beliefs on their own values and personal experiences. There seems to be a missing empathy chip when it comes to sexual violence: those who can’t relate, often refuse to relate. In turn, society constantly devalues the experience by creating excuses: she was drunk, she dressed like a slut, she was into it. This mentality is beyond frustrating.
It’s not about making bad choices. It’s about basic human respect and the right to drink as much as you want, dress however you want, act however you want, and not get raped. It’s that simple. In a way, it’s a positive thing that the news is saturated with stories like the Steubenville and Maryville rape cases, and even that ridiculous term “legitimate rape.” Not positive that it happened, but positive that people are willing to talk about it, get angry about it, and keep an open dialogue about it. It’s a step in the right direction.
When I first wrote the story in college about Aubrey and Eric Robbins, mainstream media wasn’t talking about rape culture. I had never even heard the term. There was no political motivation behind my writing, and there still isn’t. I never wanted this to be an issue book. It has always simply been a story about a girl who was dealing with her past in an unhealthy but realistic way.
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Read On
* * *
What’s on Charlee Fam’s Bookshelf?
The Girl in the Flammable Skirt—Aimee Bender
Holidays on Ice—David Sedaris
The Bell Jar—Sylvia Plath
The Perks of Being a Wallflower—Stephen Chbosky
The Rules of Attraction—Bret Easton Ellis
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and Drown—Junot Diaz
The Virgin Suicides—Jeffrey Eugenides
Franny and Zooey—J. D. Salinger
In Cold Blood—Truman Capote
The Things They Carried—Tim O’Brien
The Lovely Bones—Alice Sebold
Gone Girl—Gillian Flynn
Summer Sisters—Judy Blume
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph © by Ilona Wellmann/Arcangel Images
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
LAST TRAIN TO BABYLON. Copyright © 2014 by Charlee Fam. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
EPUB Edition November 2014 ISBN 9780062328083
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-232807-6
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