Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “You never asked me to marry you,” she says quietly.

  “That’s a copout Lainie. Excuse the fact that I got run over and practically cut in half on my way to propose to you.”

  “You still never asked.”

  “Yet you kept the ring all this time.”

  “Well,” she says indignantly, “I’m giving it back now. It bothers Phil that I have it.”

  “It bothers Phil … You truly are a piece of work. I can’t believe I thought so much more of you.”

  “Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m not a good person. I can’t deal with what happened to you. Neither can Phil. We …” she falters.

  I know nothing she can say will help. So I say the only thing that needs to be said.

  “Goodbye Lainie.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN: SAMIRAH

  It’s sort of amazing that in this entire apartment filled with stuff, I can carry what I’m taking with me on my back. Granted it’s a large hiking backpack, and I have two large totes filled, but this is it. My entire life.

  I’m not taking anything he bought me. None of the dresses, shoes. None of my club clothing. Nothing tight, nothing revealing. None of the stilettos. The makeup. The jewelry. I’m leaving it behind. I don’t care if Meadow throws it all out. I don’t care. I just need to leave.

  When I arrived in this city, I carried my life contained in this nylon gray backpack. I will now carry it out the same way. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to get out of bed. I have no choice. Meadow made that perfectly clear. She’s given me until six p.m. to vacate.

  One last glance around the place I called home for the past two years. There’s a pile of mail on the table for me. I grab it as I pass through the door for the last time. I barely have the strength to carry all this, but I don’t really have a choice.

  Halting by the door, I ponder whether or not to leave Meadow a note. I don’t think she’ll care. She’s so angry with me. And I with her. Not that I expected her to be the type of friend to give me an organ or anything, but I expected more. I head to the ATM and withdraw a wad of money. I keep a lot of cash on me in the apartment, and all that’s tucked away in my bag too. Pictures of my mom are in the bottom, wrapped in plastic, in case I get wet. I have no idea where I’m going. I have nowhere to go. I’m just leaving.

  In the last twelve hours, my life has changed. Ended. A complete reversal of fortune.

  The weight of the bags on my back and arms is minimal compared to the weight pressing down on me from within. I can barely lift my feet to step, but I must.

  I don’t know what to do—where to go.

  Part of me is screaming to go to the hospital. And tell them what? I don’t have anything to say in my own defense. No one will listen. No one will take me seriously. They’ll say I was asking for it.

  This is—I can’t even put into words what this is.

  I can’t go to the police. I have even less to say there. I don’t even know what really happened. Oh, I can guess. Meadow won’t hear any of it, of course. She’ll never see my side. She’ll never take my side. No one will.

  I have no home. No family. No friends. No one.

  Trudging, each step more effortful than the last, I find myself wandering the city. The envelopes still clutched in my hand are causing it to cramp and spasm. For the first time, I look at them. A bill. A solicitation for a charity donation. A pretty envelope with my name scrawled in flowery handwriting. The return address contains a vaguely familiar name and indicates the sender lives in a sleepy, Upstate town. I shove the envelope in my bag and mog on.

  It’s growing dark. I look at my phone to check the time. I see there are multiple missed calls from Chase. He even left a voice mail, which is something he doesn’t normally do. I turn the phone off and drop it into my bag. Part of me wants to throw the whole thing away, but I may need it. I called into work before I left. I need to call Benny and tell him I won’t be back. Too bad. Well, not really. I didn’t like that job, and it didn’t make me a good person.

  Those words rattle around in my brain, buzzing through the numbness.

  I’m not a good person.

  This happened because I’m not a good person.

  I deserve this.

  Those phrases repeat over and over in my head. I know they’re the truth. I deserve this.

  I deserve to be homeless and alone. They say that when you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned. Well, consider me charred and black.

  This is my fault.

  I find myself at Penn Station. Perhaps I can sleep in here tonight. I stop at the convenience stand and get myself a bottle of water. I don’t know the last time I ate or drank. If I could feel anything, it might be hunger or thirst. But I can’t feel anything. Nothing but the singed remnants of my soul.

  There wasn’t much there to begin with, and they took what was left.

  Even though the temperature is mild, I’m cold. I sit down on a hard wooden bench and pull my arms inside my sweatshirt, hugging myself to keep warm.

  Looking around dully, I scan the listing of bus destinations. One looks vaguely familiar. I can’t process why it’s ringing a bell. Thinking is too hard. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to be. But that name—why does it sound so familiar? It’s like I just read it.

  That’s it. I did just read it. On that envelope in my bag.

  I try not to notice that my hands are shaking as I fumble with the paper, dropping the envelope twice. I’ve finally got it open. It’s a save-the-date notice. Through the swirly print, I’m able to discern that it’s my mom’s cousin’s daughter who is getting married. The wedding is in four months. I can’t believe they sent this to me.

  Actually, I’m surprised they found me at all.

  I haven’t had any contact with anyone in my mom’s family since the funeral. She had a small family, just a few cousins and aunts. Her own parents had died when I was just five. Both of them within six months. I’d say that was a rough year, but they were all rough after that.

  The following year was supposed to be happier. I was going to be a big sister. My mom took it as a sign that her parents were okay and wanted her to be happy. Until my brother was stillborn. My mom didn’t come out of her room for what seemed like months. I’d say my dad picked up the slack but only marginally.

  I tried to be good. I tried to do as much as I could. To never bother them. To never ask anything of them. I wanted to be enough for them.

  Then one day, I broke the dishwasher. It wasn’t my fault—well, it was—but an easy enough mistake for a seven-year-old to make. I used regular dish soap instead of dishwasher detergent. Did you know when you do that, suds will pour out of the dishwasher?

  So there I was, furiously trying to clean up these suds when my mom came out of her room. She stood there, hair a mess, clothing soiled and smelly.

  I can still hear her beautiful voice, that lovely accent saying, “Samirah, what happened?”

  I told her, so afraid she would be so mad at me that she would go away forever. Tears were streaming down my face.

  But she just laughed. She picked up a handful of bubbles and plopped them on my head, like she used to do when I was in the bath. She took the towels and bucket from me and began cleaning. When it was all said and done, she looked into the kitchen and thanked me because she couldn’t remember the kitchen floor ever being so clean. She left me standing there, amazed and dumbfounded, and took a shower. She seemed fine after that.

  And she was, until she got sick. She told me it was no big deal. Not to bother coming home from school. I did, though. I took a long weekend and caught a bus home. She was in the hospital. No big deal, she’d said. Just a minor setback. They just had to get her intestines figured out, and she’d be good to go. As soon as that happened, she’d start on chemo and radiation, and would be fine.

  She didn’t look fine. She looked terrible. She told me she would get better. I believed her.

  She lied.

  My dad was long
gone at this point. He took off after my mom recovered from her depression. She begged him to come back when she was diagnosed. He did.

  His visit coincided with mine but didn’t last as long. The next time I saw him was for the wake and funeral. He swooped in, made all the decisions, never once consulting me.

  After the funeral, he told me I needed to leave. The house was in his name, and he was selling it.

  I suppose I could have stayed until it actually sold, but who wants to stay where you’re not wanted?

  *******

  Revisiting this, thinking about this, makes my heart ache, and I double over with pain. I want to go home. I have no home to go home to.

  I hear an announcement for the bus that will be departing in ten minutes. The one to my cousin’s hometown. Before I can stop and think, I hop up, moving faster than I realize I’m capable of. I’m over at the ticket counter and boarding the bus before I even process what I’m doing.

  I don’t know what going there will do. It’s not like I’m going to show up on Barbara’s doorstep and tell her I’m in town for a wedding that’s not for months. I’m not even sure I’ll go.

  I can’t stand to be rejected by more family. Not that they’ve rejected me before—in fact, I’m surprised that they included me in the invite list—but I can’t put myself out there. Not again.

  I will never let myself be vulnerable again.

  I will never get attached.

  I will never let someone hurt me.

  As a child I used to ask what I did to deserve things. I don’t ask anymore. I know what I’ve done. I deserve what happens to me.

  I’m not a nice person, and I’m reaping what I sow.

  The rhythmic movement of the bus, the droning of the tires on the highway, lull me to sleep. Waking up, my eyes feel like they’re made of sandpaper, and my throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. There’s a pounding in my head that makes it hard to hear anything else. My neck is sore, as is, well … everything. This isn’t merely the feeling I’ve been beaten. I know I was.

  I don’t remember it. That’s the problem.

  The last thing I remember from last night is being in the private room with Chase. The next thing I can recall is when Meadow woke me up by physically dragging me out of bed. Her screaming and shrieking at me to pack my stuff would have been enough of a wake-up call. I didn’t need to be manhandled, too. I’m not naive enough to think this is why I’m sore.

  I saw the video.

  Well, a small snippet of it.

  I couldn’t bear to watch any more than that.

  Even that little bit made me vomit.

  What I don’t understand is how Meadow watched it and didn’t see it for what it was. Of course, I don’t really know what it was. I can’t remember. I know I had a lot to drink, but I’m sort of wondering if Chase slipped me something as well. Before yesterday, I would have said never in a million years.

  But that was yesterday and today is today.

  I need to stop thinking about it. It’s over and done. There’s nothing I can do about it. I got what I deserved. But the thoughts keep invading my head. I try to reconcile my memories from last night with the ten seconds of video I saw. I can’t. I simply cannot. Part of me thinks that when I get off the bus, I need to find the nearest hospital. On the other hand, I don’t have insurance. I have a little money, but it’s not going to last long. My future is uncertain, and I can’t undertake frivolous expenses like the hospital. It’s not like I’m dying. I’ll live.

  The pounding in my head continues to grow, making it hard to think. I kick myself for not getting an extra bottle of water before I got on the bus. My decision was so impulsive that I didn’t have time to prepare. The light’s gone now, and I wonder what time it is. I doubt my cell has any more battery, not that I have any sort of desire to turn it back on.

  I sit in the darkness, watching the signs reflected in headlights whiz by. I wish I could stay on this bus in limbo, not having to move, not having to act, forever. I have nothing to walk toward, only what I’m running from.

  For some reason, that old Cinderella song, “Don’t Know What You Got, Till It’s Gone” starts running through my head. My mom loved 80s hair bands. In the city, I didn’t have much. I had no aspirations. Not the right kind anyway. But I had a social network, a boyfriend, a job, a roommate I called a friend. Now it’s all gone and all I have is the bag on my back.

  I descend the bus stairs and the night air nips at me. Three hours north certainly makes a difference. A light mist has started to fall. At this rate, I’ll be soaked through in a little while. I’m glad I’m wearing sweats and a baggy sweater and can always put on another layer of clothes. I’m still cold. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel warm again.

  The bus station’s digital clock glows brightly in the dark night sky. It’s after ten. Without thinking, without direction, I start walking. The bag is even heavier on my back, and my thirst is nearly crippling. I need to find a convenience store open at this hour. Considering that the traffic lights are blinking yellow, I don’t have much hope.

  Seems to be a running theme.

  Maybe if the rain picks up, I can just open my mouth and drink some of that. At this point, an Amazon rain would not be enough to quench my thirst.

  One foot in front of the other, I trudge forward. Maybe I can find Barbara’s house. Surely she wouldn’t turn me away. On the other hand, my own father threw me out, so why would a cousin who’s practically a stranger accept me?

  The rain has picked up, sharp needles biting my face.

  I’m not sure why I’m continuing. I should just lie down here right now and die.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: MICHAEL

  I’ve been driving for hours. It’s time to head home. I’m running low on gas. That’s what’s fueling this decision, no pun intended.

  Lainie is marrying Phil. My ex-fucking-girlfriend is marrying my ex-fucking-best friend. Speaking of fucking, I wonder how long it took them to do it after my accident. Weeks? Days maybe? Maybe that’s why Lainie was so understanding about my condition. She didn’t need to try and work things out with me. She didn’t need to try all the avenues to see what would get my cock to stay up. Her needs were being met.

  By Phil.

  If I could, I’d rip him limb from limb with my bare hands. But let’s face it, he’d just run away from me. Probably laughing the whole time.

  I wonder if he and Lainie talk about me. If they’ve been laughing behind my back this whole time.

  I don’t know how she did this to me. Part of me totally gets why she didn’t want to stay with me. Given my choice, I wouldn’t take a cripple either. But this? This is lower than low.

  I’m driving faster than I should, and the roads are getting slick. The drizzle has turned into a full-on rain. Good. It suits my mood.

  However, I miss pounding the accelerator and slamming on the brakes. Pushing the hand control for gas and pulling for brakes is somehow less satisfying than using my whole legs. But it’s all I have, so I push and pull with more force than necessary.

  Screeching to a stop for the light at Grand and Turner, the battered velvet ring box slides forward on the console and bumps into my right hand. Its touch burns me. Mocks me. Torments me about the life I can no longer lead.

  I want to punch something. To climb on top of someone and beat them to a pulp. This is not the first time I’ve had anger like this. Rage would be a better word.

  My psychologist, Michele, says it’s normal. I want to punch her too. Not really. When I’m okay, what she’s told me makes sense. The five stages of grieving, blah, blah, blah. I get it. I do. But right now, I just wish I could leap out of my chair and pound someone to the ground.

  I swerve to the side of the road so I can park. My left hand reaches across my lap to pull the emergency brake, allowing me to let go of the controls my right hand is grasping tightly. Opening and closing my hand, I relax some tension I didn’t realize I was holding. The red velvet box is beaten and ba
ttered. It should be. It survived being run over by a drunk driver. Diamonds are truly the hardest element. This ring has not a scratch, whereas my spine crumbled under the impact. If only Lainie had been so strong.

  Maybe I’m wrong for blaming her for the end of the relationship. Staying would be a lot to ask of anyone, right?

  But that was two years ago. And she’s been with Phil for how long? Was it still while she was with me? Those days when she couldn’t meet my eyes, averting her gaze from my atrophying legs, trying not to see me struggle. Was it because she was cheating on me?

  It would certainly explain why Phil couldn’t stand to be around me. Although, truth be told, I did nothing wrong here. I can’t ever imagine doing to Phil, or Marco, or Trevor what Phil has done to me.

  I wonder if Marco and Trevor know. I mean, if Phil’s getting married, they must. I can’t imagine that Mitchell knows. He would have told me. He’s going to go ballistic when he finds out. Maybe I can have him beat Phil up and let me watch. Probably the next best thing to doing it myself.

  This fucked up situation is going to have me back on the therapist’s couch. Not that I mind that much. Michele is hot. Good eye candy. But I thought I was finally in a good place. Now I’m right back to where I was when Lainie left. I don’t think I would have ended up in therapy from a regular break up, but trying to deal with it on top of learning to cope with my spinal cord injury was too much for me to handle. Frankly, anyone who says they can cope with something as massive as becoming paralyzed without therapy is lying—either to themselves or to everyone else.

  Tossing and catching the box in my hand like a ball, I know I have to get rid of this ring. I should sell it. The money doesn’t matter to me. It’s not like I need it. Though the thought of throwing away a ten-thousand-dollar ring does make me a little sick.

  Yep, I spent ten thousand dollars on that bitch, and she threw it back in my face. Without thinking, I roll down the window and hurl the box out into the black night. It feels good.