Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  “You let her go,” the voice whispered in my ear. “You can’t let go.”

  Wide-awake now, I clutched the sheet to my body and tried to breathe through the knot in my throat, the weight bearing down on my chest. My heart was thumping impossibly fast, a runaway train clicking along the tracks, and my face was burning up, feverish.

  You’re having a heart attack. Your chest is going to explode.

  No, not a heart attack. This was pure panic.

  I wanted to throw back the covers and peel off my pajamas. Open a window and swallow up clouds of fresh air. But the terror knotted up inside me was paralyzing. I couldn’t lift my head from the pillow, let alone get out of bed.

  The best I could do was to push back the covers with one quivering hand.

  There. Some relief, some coolness, though the fear was still wound up around me. Part of me wished Angela were here, but maybe it was good that she was at Darnell’s place. She didn’t need to be freaked out by my whimpering and thrashing.

  I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to coax my racing heart to relax, slow down, find tranquility. There was a brick in place of my heart, a smooth, rectangular brick aglow with love and peace.

  My chest grew even tighter, heavier.

  “No.” I abandoned the brick image and tried to imagine the tension draining out of me, oozing from my fingertips and toes with each expelled breath. I closed my eyes to focus on the image, but all I could see was Lydia’s pale white body glowing in the water like a white-bellied fish.

  Breathe. Take long breaths, calming breaths.

  I tried, but the air was thick with her presence, her flesh luminescent in the moonlight, her knowing smile hovering like the Cheshire Cat’s. She was sitting on my chest, constricting my lungs, refusing to allow air in.

  I was going to suffocate! I had to get out of the room . . . out of the house.

  Kicking off the covers, I rolled onto my side and tumbled to the floor. This would be how they would find me, hugging my knees in my pathetic pajamas. Closing my eyes, I struggled to take in air and pull myself up along the side of the bed.

  This was crazy. No one ever died of a panic attack, right? My heart was thudding like a crazed rabbit, but I pushed past the paralysis and got to my feet.

  I flung off my satin pajamas and paused in front of my closet, afraid to open it, feeling her presence everywhere. Lydia’s boxes sat inside—heavy, eerie tenants. I imagined the darkness inside the closet, where her pale skin glowed in the coffin of shadow. Ridiculous, yes, but I turned away without opening the door, grabbed yoga pants and a sweatshirt from the dresser, and wriggled into them. I carried my Uggs into the shared living room of the suite, where the air seemed even more syrupy warm and rotten. Had the furnace kicked into overdrive? In an old house like this it was impossible to regulate the temperature from room to room.

  I barreled down the stairs, mindless of everyone sleeping, and turned toward the big kitchen. From her quarters at the front of the house, Mrs. J kept tabs on the main entrance, but I could slip out through the kitchen. To hell with curfew, I needed air to survive. Patting my cell phone and keys in the pocket of my jacket, I unlatched the bolt and stepped into a cool, leaf-rustling wind.

  For a minute I slouched against the porch post, drinking small gasps of cool air and willing the strobes of panic to stop battering me.

  The night offered escape. Therapy without walls or a ceiling. Sliding down to the porch steps, I fell into an exhausted slump as adrenaline ebbed. I was whipped.

  Panic attacks always drained me, but I was grateful to recapture a calm, steady flame of peace. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.

  CHAPTER 18

  Between the stabbing pain in his neck and the dull ache in his lower back and stump, Finn wondered if he’d been hit by a bicycle. When he tried to straighten and his foot hit the arm of the sofa, he realized he was at Jazz’s place. Again.

  For the second night in a row he’d gone for beers at Scully’s, but this time it had been a strategic retreat from the kitchen, where she’d been preparing another tedious dinner. Fish sticks and Tater Tots. As if he were a five-year-old. As the sticks sat glistening in oil on top of the stove, he confronted Eileen, told her he was leaving.

  With an hourglass shape and golden hair cut to fall softly around her heart-shaped face, Eileen was attractive. She would have no trouble finding someone to fill Finn’s shoes.

  But that night, once again, she had refused to accept his decision. “You can’t leave us,” Eileen said in a voice so low and sweet it was spooky. “I love you.”

  It had taken him more than two years with Eileen to realize that she probably had never been in love with anyone.

  “You love the notion of things,” he told her. “The notion of family and home, of husband and wife. But your picture of happiness doesn’t include me. Any unlucky rising star in the history or economics or biology department at Merriwether could fill my role. I’m just a stand-in to make your picture complete.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Not that I’m not a good catch,” he said. “But for you, any male with a decent salary and a modicum of malleability would do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you can’t leave us.” She pointed to the living room, where their son was tugging the cushions off the couch, one by one, and toppling to the floor with the weight of each foam boulder. “Wiley and I love you and depend on you.”

  “I’ll keep paying the rent on this house until the lease is up, and we’ll work out child support for Wiley.”

  “But he needs his daddy.”

  Despite his guilt, Finn had come to see that it wasn’t true. Wiley was still a mooshball of a thing, barely a toddler, and the baby had never bonded with Finn. “He has a good mother and caring grandparents. Plus your sister is crazy about him. That’s more than a lot of kids have in this world.”

  “You can’t do this,” she said. “You can’t break up our little family. I won’t let you.”

  “Eileen, you can’t stop me.”

  In a split second her demeanor flashed from sad to furious, and she shrieked, “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” She wheeled around, grabbed the baking sheet on the stove, and flung it toward him, sending fried fish and potatoes flying.

  “What the hell?” He batted the food away with one hand as the metal pan clattered on the floor. She’d thrown tantrums before, but this was the first time he’d been in the line of fire. “Do you think that helps anything?”

  “It helps me to know I’m in control,” she growled. “This is my house, and you are lucky that I’ve put up with your shit this long. Now sit down at that table and eat your dinner.”

  So the last resort was to bully him into submission? It was sad to watch the decline of a relationship, even a dysfunctional one like theirs. “That’s not going to happen.” He picked up the baking tray and placed it on the table, gently. “I’m not doing this to upset you, and God knows, I don’t want to hurt Wiley, but I’m ending this, now.”

  “Oh, no you’re not.”

  Finn held up one hand to indicate the doorway, where Wiley sat clutching one foot to his chest. He was an adorable kid, with piggy toes and chubby cheeks and his father’s gleaming dark hair. A great kid, but not enough to tolerate a life with Eileen.

  “Don’t be scared,” Finn said, lifting the boy into his arms. “Mom had an accident, but it’s going to be okay.”

  Wiley spiraled out of Finn’s arms, leaning toward Eileen. “Mama.” The kid was attached to his mother, and that was okay. Actually, it was a relief. Finn handed him over to Eileen and made quick work of picking up the fish sticks and tots as she watched.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, adjusting the toddler on her hip. “I’m so sorry, but I love you so much. What can I do? I’ll do anything if you’ll just stay. Please. I’ll change. I’ll . . . I’ll go back to work. That’s what you want, right?”

  “There’s nothing to be done. Don’t take this as a criti
cism of you. It’s just time for us to separate. Strike out on our own paths.” He rinsed his hands and fled to the bedroom to pack.

  “What’s her name?” Eileen called after him. “Tell me the name of the bitch you’re sleeping with.”

  God, she was clueless, but the crazy act was just another facet of her attempt to take control, which he’d allowed for too long. His own passive-aggressive consent had brought him to this point. He grabbed a travel bag with toiletries and headed toward the front door. He would have to come back tomorrow, use the car to transport his clothes to . . . where? He could probably stay the night with Jazz, but he needed to find a small place that he could afford. Maybe just a room in a house.

  Even if he had to resort to a boardinghouse, an uncomfortable living space was worth the freedom.

  “What’s her fucking name?” she shrieked.

  He had to get out, let her calm down, let her turn her attention to Wiley.

  “Lady Gaga,” he called. He closed the door behind him and stepped into a new life.

  * * *

  Now he reached to pull the cord on the lamp, then swung his shoes to the floor and rubbed his neck. The socket of his prosthetic leg felt itchy, and he longed to get it off and get into the shower. Through a haze of dehydration and pain, Finn recalled the night in the bar that had brought him to sack out on Jazz’s couch. After a burger, Jazz had toasted the start of Finn’s liberation. Although Eileen had said she wouldn’t let him go, her words couldn’t keep him.

  “You’re a free man, my friend,” Jazz had said, lifting a beer. “But just remember, rebellion is a process, and freedom is a gift you have to fight for every day of your life.”

  They had drunk to freedom, more than once.

  Yeah. Finn roughed up his hair and checked the time on his cell phone. Just after four a.m. If he went home now, he’d be able to shower, make coffee, and pack a few things before Eileen and Wiley even woke up. Perfect.

  Not that he was sneaking around. He would talk with Eileen after she cooled down. And if she held on to the psycho girlfriend role, he would extract his belongings from the house and make arrangements for Wiley without Eileen’s participation. Jazz had been right about getting his ducks in a row; he needed to talk to a lawyer about setting up child support. It was up to him to make sure Wiley was taken care of. And then, the housing details.

  Sitting here in the peace of Jazz’s living room, he could see his way clear. Actually, if he persisted, he would make this all work out.

  No doubt Eileen would muddy the waters. Of course she would. But this time, he would persist. Years ago she had sprung her trap, and he’d taken the bait. His mistake. But now it was time to get out before he died in captivity.

  * * *

  One of the worst things about a panic attack was the fear that it would happen again. In junior high I pinned a dream catcher on my wall, wanting to believe that it would catch twisted, evil scenarios before they floated into my dreams. It didn’t work for me.

  Steadying myself on the worn wood steps of the kitchen porch, I tried to weed through the questions Lydia had left behind. The fake identity she had concocted and sold us on didn’t matter as much at the end—the thing that had compelled her to jump from the bridge. I might never know her reason, but right now I couldn’t stop trying. I knew where I had to go.

  That effing bridge.

  The idea cut so close to the bone that it made my throat tight with anxiety. I figured that was a sign of its importance. I was on the right track.

  The rain had subsided but the ground was wet and a mist hung in the air, painting everything with a gray haze. On a normal night I would have been scared to walk alone at four in the morning, but nothing about this night was normal, and the bridge wasn’t far from Theta House, which seemed much more of a danger to me right now.

  The translucent rings around the moon were beautiful, though Defiance always warned that they were the signs of a coming storm. Clumps of mist lingered in the street and lined the womb of the ravine, hinting of another world, a strange middle earth where people fly from bridges and never return.

  By the time I reached the bridge, my heartbeat had slowed. My feet weren’t so heavy anymore, and though my energy was still wiped out, it felt good to be moving forward.

  The North Campus Bridge was a suspension bridge, probably the least picturesque of all the campus crossings. Sometimes when I saw it from a distance, I imagined how it would look if one of the cables broke, causing a chain reaction like in those old cartoons where one piano string pops and suddenly a hundred strings twang, whipping out of the lid. Lydia had probably chosen the bridge because it was closest to Theta House, definitely not for its beauty.

  On the other hand, the falls on the north side did rank as some of the most beautiful in the area when the creek was swollen, as it was now. The whispering rush of water from the recent rain filled the air as I climbed the stairs to the bridge. If you ventured down to the ravine and the river was swollen from rainfall, the sound of the falls could be deafening as waves of mist covered your skin.

  The novelty of walking in the gorges was shared by every Merriwether student. The administration had made a hike into the gorge part of the freshman orientation in an attempt to “demystify” the terrain. It also turned out to be an efficient way to get the litter, beer cans, and glass cleaned up at the beginning of the school year, tying into the environmental awareness unit.

  At the top of the stairs I passed through the grid-like shadow of the west tower and peered ahead. My friends said a guard had been posted, but no one was here tonight. The rubber soles of my boots barely whispered as I walked from one dim pool of light to the other, measuring my steps to the spot where yellow police tape animated the center of the bridge. The police believed this was the spot Lydia had jumped from because they’d found her cell phone here.

  Standing by the tape, I didn’t feel Lydia’s presence. It wasn’t like the fear I’d felt standing at the closet door, or the sense of her in the familiar smells of the hallways and stairwells.

  This wasn’t her place, at least, not anymore.

  Five years back, two other students had jumped from this bridge. An engineering student about to be kicked out of the program, and about a week later, his girlfriend followed. Defiance had a theory that their ghosts had coaxed Lydia over the edge, but that was too Hollywood for me.

  The barrier at the side of the bridge was a short cement wall, around three feet tall, with a steel rail projecting a foot above that. I put my chin on the rail and peered out, trying to make out the rocks and water of the gorge below. With the clouds masking the moon, the water was a molten black, and the land was shadowed, but I could make out enough to feel weak and tingly over the distance between me and the earth below.

  Leaning on the rail, I tried to feel her. “Lydia?”

  There was no answer, of course.

  “You were kind of a bitch.”

  The only sound was the rush of the water behind me. I sighed, dead on my feet, though not ready to leave just yet. I was about to camp out on the pavement when I noticed the gap between the top of the wall and the rail, around six inches. It was enough to slide my legs through and sit on the wall with the steel rail secure across my chest. My feet dangled precariously. This would be risky in flip-flop season, but my boots were on securely.

  Hanging like a kid strapped into an amusement park ride, I tried to see my way through this mess . . . sifting through the guilt, anger, and frustration to come out on the other side. The practical side of me wanted to put Lydia behind me and move on, but something was holding me back.

  Lydia.

  I had learned that when people die, they leave behind more than just clothes and possessions. The emotional stuff lands on your doorstep like a truckload of gravel. All I could do was keep shoveling.

  * * *

  Finn was halfway home, entering the empty bridge, when he saw a flash of movement ahead. The wind moving the police tape? Something shifted in
the shadows at the railing, a dark shape nearly hidden by a post. A person perched on the edge.

  Shit. Please, not another jumper.

  In the adrenaline rush that followed, Finn became acutely aware of the cool night air, the sallow pools of light from old fluorescent bulbs, the silence broken only by the rushing water of the falls.

  That was the thing about crisis: It had the power to smack you awake in an instant.

  It brought him back to the explosion that had rattled his brain and mangled his leg that sunny morning in Afghanistan.

  And the night he’d been trying to crank on his PhD thesis when the call came about George, one of his commanders in Afghanistan, a West Point grad who’d been killed by a sniper’s bullet.

  Stay in the present, here and now.

  He considered strategy. Tackle the jumper and pull him or her to the ground, or announce himself and start a dialogue?

  His soft-soled boots whispered on the pavement as he approached, biting his lower lip. Slow and steady was the way to go. Didn’t the cops spend hours trying to talk jumpers down when they had the chance? Negotiation. Validation.

  Sometimes a desperate person simply wanted to be heard.

  Negotiation was always best, but Finn didn’t like leaving anything to chance. He stepped up the pace, worried that the person might slip away before he got close.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  A protective instinct ignited inside him as he broke into a run.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Don’t do it!”

  The gruff voice emerged from the darkness, scaring the crap out of me. I turned, saw him charging at me, and freaked. The subsequent jolt that ran through my body made my cell phone slip from my fingers.

  “Don’t jump!” He was closer now, a man in a leather jacket barreling toward me in an uneven gait.

  My eyes flashed from him—dark hair, Johnny Depp–brown eyes, and a soul patch—to the bridge deck, where my cell bounced and landed hard. “Crap.”