After a while, after doing it long enough, I realized that I could do it anywhere. Even in the middle of dinner in the chow hall. I’d close my eyes and just be somewhere else.
Immediately.
I do the same thing now. I close my eyes and suddenly I'm with Isabelle. I stare into her deep, dark eyes and I ask her why. Why did she do that to me? She doesn't answer. She just shakes her head and a tear runs down her cheek.
I open my eyes and watch a few more people walk into a bar. I want to have a drink. I could drive over to any grocery store and buy some beer and drink here alone, but I also want to be normal.
It's not other people's company that I seek, it's just being in their presence. If I'm going to start a new life, I'm going to have to do this, but that doesn't mean that I have to do it right now.
It's not safe right now. I'm living in a motel. I don't have a solid fake identification. The cops are still looking for me. Everything about this decision is wrong except that I'm still going to make it.
I walk over to the bar and grab a seat in the back. I pull my hat over my eyes and don’t really look up at the waitress who asks me for my order.
A few minutes later, she comes back with my beer.
Sitting with the wall behind me, I have a good view of the entire establishment. There are three full tables and a dart board. Most people are huddled around the bar, but there are a few tables with couples.
No one talks to me and that's perfectly fine. It's nice just to sit here. The television above my head shows a game, but I couldn’t be less interested.
I’m here just to be around people.
I'm here just to feel normal after all this time. There are a few attractive single women sitting at the bar who keep turning on their stools to look around. I look at them and though they are attractive, all I see is Isabelle.
She haunts me. The way that we left things, it was just such an abrupt cut. A few hours before, I’d told her that I loved her and I’d thought about the place where I would propose. Then I discovered that she had betrayed me and suddenly I was running from the cops.
How did they get to her?
Did they threaten her?
With what?
Did they threaten her mother?
Her friends?
When I get to my fifth beer, I lose all control over my ability to stop thinking about her. I came here to feel normal and now I feel more fucked up than ever.
This wasn't a good idea. I feel myself drifting, but I can't stop drinking. When the waitress comes by to ask me if I want another one, I force myself to say no.
“Can I just have a glass of water please?”
The water tastes good, but it's not enough to make me stable on my feet. When I try to rise, my head starts to swim.
I haven't had much to eat so I'm not sure that I can make it to the motel without drawing attention to myself.
The only thing to do is to wait. Wait for time to pass and for the alcohol to be processed through my system.
I have a few glasses of water and then slowly make my way to the bathroom, concentrating hard on not tripping or leaning on the wall.
About an hour later, I head back to the motel. My legs are still shaking, but I put each foot down with intention and I eventually make it back without incident.
Plopping down on the bed, relief washes over me. The sober part of me keeps hounding me about how terrible a decision that was.
What if someone recognized you?
What if you had to run, but you were too drunk to do it?
It’s not the time to let down your guard.
I tell myself that everything worked out fine and there's no need to worry about it anymore and I don't.
Instead, my thoughts drift back to Isabelle. I don't have my old phone anymore, but I know her number. I have looked at it enough that I have memorized it.
Whenever I wanted to call her before, I managed to stop myself, but my inhibitions are down now.
I dial her number.
She answers on the third ring.
“Are you there?” She asks.
I want to say something, but instead I just listen.
25
Isabelle
When I get back to Pittsburgh, I find myself in a daze. When the airplane landed and the wheels plopped down on the ground, I felt like everything that I went through with Tyler was nothing but a dream.
Did it actually happen?
The terminal smells like bleach and my shoes make a loud creaking sound as we walk with our carry-on bags to the baggage claim.
Unwilling to drive all the way back home without Tyler, I left my car in the extended parking lot by the Ontario airport in Southern California.
It's going to stay there for a few days and then I will ship it back home and sell it.
I have made all of these decisions so rapidly and in such quick succession that I have no idea if any of them are correct.
This was not at all how I thought everything was going to turn out. Just a day ago, I was planning on spending the rest of my life with Tyler.
Now? Now I find myself back in dreary and wet Pittsburgh with low hanging clouds that seem to extinguish any possibility of hope.
Of course, I don't have to stay here if I don't want to.
Where would I go? Besides, I have my mortgage, I have my job, and I have my student loans to pay off.
As we take the bus to the rental car stand, I wonder if this was always going to be the way it was going to turn out.
My life with Tyler was full of drama, suspense, and danger, a lot more than I ever bargained for. Maybe this is the way that it was always going to be.
I'm not someone who is much of a risk taker and running away with an escaped convict is not exactly in my repertoire.
Mom keeps trying to talk to me. She tries to talk to me at baggage claim, she keeps talking on the bus, and even after I get the keys to the rental car.
Finally, I turn around and tell her that I'm not listening. I thought it was obvious, but I guess not.
The drive from the airport to my house follows a long four lane highway with traffic jammed in both directions. The roads here are carved into mountains and into old settlements going back to the 1700s. Of course, they have been updated, but there isn't the luxury of six lane freeways like I have seen in the West.
I've always enjoyed older houses steeped with history but driving past them now makes me feel nothing but sorrow. Pittsburgh is my home, but I don't want it to be anymore.
Tyler was right. I just got stuck here.
It was where we grew up and it was the place that I always wanted to leave to make my mark on the world. Other people are plenty happy here. I know that now.
I didn't always know that. I'm not. When I got out West, the abundance of nature and the wildness of the land spoke to me. There are people living right next door to coyotes, mountain lions, and bears. I want that.
When we get to my cul-de-sac, my mother's eyes grow wide.
“This is where you live?” she asks. I pull up and park in my driveway.
“Oh my God, Isabelle. This house is… magnificent.”
I nod my head trying to see this place through her eyes. I grew up in a number of apartments throughout Sharpsburg and Cheswick, the poor white areas in the Fox Chapel school district.
The apartments were always drafty in the winter and hot in the summer. The air conditioning consisted of window units that could not keep up with the sticky humidity of the Appalachian Mountains. If we were lucky, the wall heater in the winter was working and if we were not, then we relied exclusively on space heaters, which only warmed one part of the room. I lived in studio apartments, one bedroom and even a two bedroom for a brief three month period while my mom dated the air conditioning repair man.
I know that my story is not unique. I know that I'm not the only one to ever come from a broken home and I'm not the only one to have a father who was only partly in my life.
My parents were ma
rried originally and then divorced and then married again.
Frankly, I can't remember exactly what the state of their relationship was. The divorce was nothing but a piece of paper that they signed and then continued through volatile fights and explosive proclamations of love.
A lot of people growing up in that kind of family decide that this is what love looks like and seek that out as adults.
Not me.
I want to get as far away from that as possible. I want my life to be about something more than drama. In fact, the only kind of drama that I wanted was the one I found in books and television shows.
My mom walks around my three-bedroom, three-bath house, which was built in the early 2000s, with her mouth on the floor.
“How much did this thing cost you? I had no idea that you were making so much money.”
I glare at her.
We haven't talked about her debt or anything for that matter and my anger is smoldering deep inside.
“No, I didn't mean it like that. I'm just… so shocked. You must be doing really well.”
“I'm doing alright,” I say with a shrug. “I save a lot, but I wanted to live in a good neighborhood. Somewhere I could go running and feel safe.”
She shakes her head. I don't have to say it out loud because she already knows what I'm talking about.
When I was in ninth grade, a girl from my algebra class went on a run and disappeared. They found her body three days later in the ditch behind the butcher shop. Her murderer is still at large.
“Listen, Miss Attitude,” Mom says. “I did the best that I could. Your father was no help, you of all people know that.”
People always say that they are doing the best they can, but it's not really true, is it?
Most of the time they're just going through the motions and doing what feels good at that moment. Yes, my mom worked, but she didn't exactly look after me.
I was the one who was cooking dinners for us at night from eight years old on. I was the one that was holding her hair back when she puked on Saturday mornings after a night at the bar.
I give her a tour of the house and she quickly moves on from the insult that I supposedly gave her. I don't comment on it either. She has nowhere to go and though she hasn't asked me, I know that she's going to stay here tonight and tomorrow night and who knows for how long.
I have two spare rooms but I don't really want her to occupy either of them for long. I don't know how to have this conversation with her. Now is not the right time.
She has been through a lot and we’re both exhausted from the flight. If we were to talk about anything right now, we would just get at each other's throats.
I sleep well into the afternoon and don't get out of bed until two. My muscles are fatigued and it's painful just to bring my arm up to brush my teeth.
I consider jumping into the shower but decide that it would require too much energy.
I find Mom sitting on the couch in the living room watching television. There's a bag of chips next to her along with some dip that she found in the pantry.
“How did you sleep?” I ask.
“Like a princess,” Mom says, leaning her head against my couch. One part of it is a recliner and she has extended herself all the way out. “Your furniture is heaven. I’ve never sat in anything so comfortable.”
I think back to the furniture that we had when I was a kid. Mom called it eclectic, but it was mainly whatever we got for less than twenty bucks from the local thrift stores.
We moved around so much and we didn't have a truck or any way to take the furniture with us so most of it had to stay. I never knew why Mom couldn't figure out her life in time to arrange for a moving truck or a friend who could help us move, but she never did.
In fact, we often stayed in our apartment until the sheriff showed up and kicked us out. One time, I even came home from school and found all of my stuff on the lawn outside of the apartment building with everyone in the street gawking at us. The locks were changed and we only could take what we could carry.
I was never angry with my mom, with the fact that we were poor. What made me angry was the fact that she had so little thought for the few possessions that we had. She always spent more money than we could afford, leaving us in an even bigger hole.
Later today, I make arrangements to ship my car back here from the extended parking lot.
I use U-ship, which is a service where you can get in touch directly with truckers and get a better deal on shipping large items.
I get a few quotes, but two of the better ones are worried about the liability of picking up the car without my presence. Finally, the last one agrees.
I sign a waiver of responsibility and just pray that the car gets here in one piece. All the way here, I considered leaving it at the extended parking lot, but I didn't want it to be declared abandoned and get impounded by the police.
There's already a record of me flying out of Ontario airport and I don't want to leave another one with the kind of car that I was driving.
This is all just a precaution.
Now that I'm away from Tyler, I'm probably pretty safe. No one, except for a few people who are not going to talk, knows that we were traveling together.
After I grab a little bit to eat, I head back to my room and go through my bags. I unpack most of the stuff and put it away in my walk-in closet. Then I pull out the SIM card.
Touching it makes my heart skip a beat.
I threw out my phone before I got on the plane, but I couldn't throw everything out. I kept the SIM card. I should have left it in California, but I didn't. I know that it might be my downfall, but it will also be my only connection to Tyler.
A lifeline.
I could not get rid of it.
I put it into another burner phone that I got and turn it on. I charge it and leave it.
Tyler knows this number and he may try to call. I don't want to say that I'm going to wait until he does, but I'm not going to stop him from trying to reach me.
Over the next couple of days, I keep checking that phone on occasion. I keep it charged and I keep it in the front drawer of my desk. No calls come in and a few more days later, I almost forget about it.
Almost.
Then, suddenly on Sunday, while taking a shower, the phone rings. At first, I don't recognize the sound.
The loudness of the rushing water surrounds me while I'm lost in my own thoughts. As soon as I turn off the faucet, it's as clear as a bell.
I run out of the shower without grabbing a towel. The tile floor becomes slick with the water running off of me and I have to catch myself right before I get to the carpet.
“Hello? Hello?” I ask, not even trying to hide my excitement.
There's somebody on the other end and he is not answering.
The number is unknown to me, but the fact that he's not replying makes me the most certain that it's Tyler.
“T-,” I start to say, but I stop myself. I can't say his name in case someone is listening.
If the cops had gotten to him and got him to call me, then they'll be able to make the connection between the two of us.
Would he do that? Would he turn me in?
I don't know the answer to that. I hope not, but I have to be careful. Besides, there's another possibility. They could have just gotten this number and called me.
I keep listening. I can hear him breathing. He's still not saying anything.
“Are you there?” I ask.
I hear a clicking sound that sounds like something you would make with your mouth.
“Please talk to me,” I plead. “Please say something.”
Another clicking sound. He's hesitating. He wants to, but he can't.
I have to tell him something. I have to tell him how much I miss him and how none of this should have happened.
“If you are there,” I say carefully, parsing my words. “Please call me back again. I need to talk to you. I need to explain–”
He hangs up.
I pull the phone away from my face and look at its blank screen.
Was that Tyler?
I lick my lips and realize that they are completely dry. My mouth is parched. I try to clear my throat, but I cough instead.
I'm still naked. The water that has dripped off of me has formed a puddle on top of the carpet, soaking all the way through. I rub my shoulders, my hands suddenly realizing exactly how cold I am.
Slowly, I make my way back to the bathroom and grab a towel off the rack. I wrap it tightly around me, praying that it will make everything okay. It warms me up a bit, but it doesn't take away my pain.
I should've said his name. I should've told him that I was sorry. I should've tried to explain. It doesn't matter if the cops would have come after me. Then at least he would know.
All of these thoughts and many others swirl around in my head. I keep trying to reconcile them with each other, but nothing makes sense.
Maybe that wasn't Tyler after all.
Maybe it was some creep calling me to breathe into the phone.
Maybe it was someone who didn't want to talk.
Maybe it was just a wrong number.
I slowly put my clothes on and try to force myself to think about something else. It doesn't really work.
I was going to go outside and actually do something productive in the yard, but now I don't feel like it anymore.
Instead, I climb under the covers and grab my phone. I keep thinking about him. I keep looking at the number, so I force myself to put on a YouTube video and watch something else. Anything else. It doesn't work at first. My thoughts keep coming back to him, but after a little while Tyler slowly drifts away.
26
Isabelle
My mom is staying with me at the house. She has never lived anywhere this nice and she emerges herself fully in the experience.
She sits out in the yard, sunbathing in the afternoons while nursing a martini. In the mornings, she uses my weights and the treadmill to work out.
I bought that gym equipment on a whim when I thought that I was going to start working out and start a new life. Now it just sits in the guest room collecting dust and making me feel bad about myself.
The Perfect Lie (The Perfect Stranger) Page 11