Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  “Me neither.”

  “I’m thinking we need to get her a tablet or iPad or something. When she sees a piece in the thrift store, she’s drawing it for me to see if I’d be interested in it. If she could just snap a picture, it’d be a lot more efficient.”

  “That’s not a problem. Put the P.O. in. I’ll make sure it happens.” I’ve seen Samirah with paper, sketching. I think I thought she was doodling or something to relax. Michele recommended I color, like in a coloring book. Apparently they’re all the rage in the therapy world these days. Maybe I should get one for Samirah.

  Driving home, I wonder why she doesn’t just take a picture with her phone. I saw her with a phone a few weeks ago, I think.

  I’ve never seen her on it. I guess she doesn’t have anyone to call. Most people her age are glued to their phones twenty-four-seven. I stop at the store to get her one of those coloring books. I’m tempted to get her a tablet, just so she can get started, but it needs to go through the proper channels. Sure, I can simply buy her one, but I don’t want to get the rumor mill started. Plus, I’m pretty sure it would upset Samirah. Now that she’s making money, she’s paying me rent. It’s virtually nothing, but it’s the idea behind it that matters. I know she’s saving for her own place and a car. I’d be fine if she didn’t pay me anything. She’s not fine with that though.

  Samirah’s not yet home. Nikki’s giving her a ride. She said something about garage saling on the way. I think that’s how Samirah does most of her shopping, but it turns out she’s scoring big for clients that way too. She’s got a little pile in the corner of my garage of finds she couldn’t walk away from. At least, that’s what she tells me.

  I’m not trying to snoop, but I’m curious about the phone. I know she has one. I’ve seen her with it. I’ve seen the bill, waiting to be mailed out, so I know she’s paying for it.

  There it is, on top of her dresser. I shouldn’t be looking in her room. She doesn’t come into mine; I shouldn’t be in hers. Maybe the phone doesn’t work. It’s an Android, not dissimilar to mine. I depress the side button and the screen lights up. There’s a simple slide to unlock and her phone is alive. Her wallpaper photo is her and Chase.

  She’s barely recognizable.

  Her hair is blond and poofy and a lot longer than it is now. She has on piles of makeup and a skimpy little dress that shows way too much cleavage. Damn her cleavage looks good. But this isn’t the Samirah I know. The Samirah I know doesn’t make a duck face. The Samirah I know doesn’t let a married man hold onto her ass.

  I wonder what other pictures she has. I should not be doing this. But I have to see—see what she was like before he broke her.

  There’s a video that I slide past. The last picture is of her in a teeny-tiny, skintight black … dress, if you could call it that. There’s the duck face again.

  There’re tons more pictures of her in similar clothes, making that similar face. Another girl frequents the pictures. She’s tall and blond and looks like she needs to eat a few cheeseburgers. That must be Meadow.

  I don’t know what happened to Samirah to make her change, and I’m sorry that she’s hurting, but I’m relieved that I didn’t meet this girl. This girl doesn’t look like she has a lot to offer someone like me. But the comments she’s made about trading on her looks and having no real skills are starting to make sense.

  I’ve seen enough. I replace her phone on her dresser and head for the door when something flashes through my brain.

  The video.

  A long time ago, she mentioned something about a video. When she was afraid Mitchell would hurt her.

  What the hell is on this video?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: SAMIRAH

  When Nikki drops me off, I’m feeling the best I’ve felt in … well, days. I found the most amazing coffee table at a garage sale. It’s made of reclaimed wood, polished to a high gloss, showing off the complex pattern of grain and knots. An undulating section of wood in the center is replaced with a piece of blue glass that looks like water flowing, curving into the wood. A wrought iron frame defines the edges. It will be the centerpiece of the room.

  And our client loves it.

  He loves it so much that he’s hired me on the side to find furnishings for his lake house. Nikki says it’s fine to accept the side job, since it doesn’t interfere with any Salinger Homes business. I’ve already got my eye on a floral upholstered headboard at the thrift store. With some new fabric and buttons, some batting, and a little paint, I can get a high-end custom design for a pittance.

  I think I could do this. Like, for a living. I’m not sure how to go about setting it up, but I’m thinking about it. I could comb garage sales, estate sales, and thrift shops looking for stuff. Then I can rehab it, refurbish it, and use it to decorate. I could host parties, like Tupperware parties, but with furniture and household goods. If someone needs something specific, they can hire me to hunt it down.

  I could do this. Totally.

  I would need a place to work. I wonder if Michael would let me store stuff in his garage for a while, even after I move out. I’m looking at getting a small apartment. I’m going to have to pay extra for an accessible one. It’s important to me that Michael can come over and visit. He’s my only real friend. A small apartment’s not going to come with a garage or storage.

  If I can get Michael to let me use his garage, I could totally do this.

  I practically skip into the house. I can’t wait to tell him.

  Michael’s sitting in the living room. His face is pale and drawn. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’d been crying.

  I rush over and kneel down in front of him. “Michael, are you okay?”

  He shakes his head. “I did something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “That’s what I should be asking you.”

  “Why? What are you talking about? Michael, what’s going on?”

  “Samirah, I’m so sorry. You have to believe I never meant to …” he breaks off.

  A chill runs down my spine and I stand up. “What? Michael, what is it?”

  He hangs his head, unable to look up at me. “I watched the video.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Video? What video?”

  His head drops to his hands. “The one on your phone.”

  My blood turns cold. “You … you watched it? All of it?”

  He nods, still not able to look at me. He’ll never look at me again. I’m damaged goods. Now he knows it.

  The silence hangs heavy between us. Finally, he speaks. “What are you going to do?”

  “Do?”

  “Yeah, about this.”

  I stand, needing to get out of here. “Same as I have been. Try to forget. Try to make it to the next day. Try to move on.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Um, do you remember taking me there? When else would I have gone?” Suddenly, I’m angry. So angry. I want to hit him. To throw something at him. To make him hurt, like he has made me hurt. Who the hell does he think he is, going on my phone? Going through my pictures?

  I have to leave. I run out the door, not even grabbing my purse on the way out. I start walking. And walking. And walking.

  I can’t go back there. How can I? Dammit, this is what happens when I rely on other people. When I start to trust. When will I learn that I can’t ever trust anyone? Not my dad, not my mom, not my so-called friends. No one. I need to rely on me and me alone.

  And what kind of a life is worth living when you can’t allow anyone in it?

  Damn, I need a drink. I need all the drinks. I need to drink until I can’t feel anymore and then keep drinking.

  Before I know it, I’m at Wal-Mart. I keep walking. The neon lights of the strip mall provide artificial illumination in the night, much like Michael’s friendship was to me. It seems to provide light but all it d
oes is mask the darkness.

  “Hey—hey, Samirah!”

  Turning toward the voice, I’m relieved that it’s not Michael. I don’t want to speak to him right now. “Hey, Logan. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing out here? Where you headin’?”

  “Long story. I don’t want to get into it.” I walk over to the silver pickup. Of course he drives a truck. “But I could use a drink.”

  “Funny you should mention that. I’m on my way to Bombers. Care to join me?”

  “You know, I’d love to but I don’t have my purse. Maybe next time.”

  He nods toward the passenger side. “Hop in. Tonight’s on me.”

  Why the hell not? What’s the worst that can happen?

  Once inside the bar, I don’t think about my ninety days sober. I shoot back the vodka. One and then another. And another. Apparently, Logan’s idea of a good date is getting the women shitfaced so she’s an easy lay. Fine with me.

  I can do that. I’m good at that. It’s probably the only thing I’m good at.

  Since I haven’t been drinking, the alcohol hits me harder than usual. The room is tilting a little. Good thing Logan is big and strong. He can hold me up. “Logan, I think I need you to hold me up.”

  His arm is the size of a tree trunk. It snakes around my waist and he pulls me close. I can feel his body against mine. It’s hard everywhere. And big. And strong.

  And it makes my skin crawl. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I try to pull away but am paralyzed. His arm is a vice grip, and I can’t break free. His mouth is getting close to my neck. The air won’t fill my lungs, and the room begins to spin.

  “Logan, stop.”

  I don’t think he hears me because he doesn’t stop. I am crushed into him. Bile rises in my throat. “Logan, please stop.”

  Logan kisses below my ear. “Sam, baby, you are so hot. Even in all your dumpy clothes, I can tell your body’s rockin’. Let’s get out of here.”

  “No, Logan. Please let me go.” My hands push, but it’s like trying to move a granite mountain.

  His hand caresses my ass. I can’t hold back anymore and begin to wretch. He sees what’s coming and grabs a pitcher off the counter. It’s surprisingly quick thinking for him. I bet he just didn’t want me puking on his shoes.

  “Ugh, that’s nasty.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  I put the pitcher under the table and push Logan out of my way. This time he moves, no problem.

  “Can you give me a ride home?”

  “Fine.”

  Logan’s silent in the truck, except to ask me where to go. When we pull up, he lets out a long, low whistle. “Damn, girl, why didn’t you tell me you live with Sally?”

  “I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew.”

  “Nah, I just thought he was sweet on you. Does he know you were out trolling tonight? Is that your deal? You’re allowed to get a man who can satisfy you every now and again?”

  If I hadn’t already been sick, Logan’s idiotic words would have made me want to puke. Frankly, I’m tempted either way.

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Oh, and for the record, when a girl says no, she means no. Next time you don’t stop, you’re going to find yourself facing rape charges.”

  I slam the door and wish I could slam it harder. It knocks me a little off balance. I stumble into the house.

  Michael’s sitting in the living room, pretty much where I left him. I squint at my watch. Was it only three hours ago? No, four. It’s been four hours.

  “I’m drunk.” I announce, like he doesn’t have eyes in his head to see for himself.

  “Yes, yes you are.”

  “I didn’t drink for ninety days. You made me throw it away.”

  Quietly he says, “I did something wrong. I did something I shouldn’t have done, and it hurt you. You threw it away. You made that choice to cope.”

  My mouth opens and shuts without saying anything. He’s right, of course. His low voice is louder than any yell.

  “Get yourself some water and a snack. Then, we talk.”

  Like an obedient child, I do as instructed. It’s easy to have someone tell me what to do. That way I don’t have to think, and I don’t have to take responsibility.

  Once fortified with food and beverage, I wobble my way back out to the living room, walking more slowly than needed so as not to spill anything.

  “Now, is there anything you want to discuss?”

  I don’t like Michael’s tone. It’s like I’m the irresponsible child who snuck out and got caught drinking. “Logan picked me up. I got drunk. He hit on me. I puked on him. Now I’m back. And I’m still mad at you.”

  “You deserve to be mad at me for snooping. I own that. I should not have gone looking through your phone.”

  That line brings me back to why I wanted to get drunk tonight in the first place.

  “Did you watch it all?”

  He nods.

  “I only saw a few seconds. And of course, I don’t remember any of it. I remember being at the bar with Chase, thinking I was really drunk, and then next thing I knew, Meadow was dragging me out of bed, hysterically screaming at me to get out of the apartment.”

  “Wait, what? I don’t—why?”

  “Scott is her ex-boyfriend. She’d been trying desperately to get him back. She’s pissed that I had sex with Scott.”

  “Samirah, you didn’t have sex with him.”

  “I didn’t? You mean it’s not as bad as I thought? Here I was thinking all this time that I had sex with all three of them that night.”

  He rolls up and takes my hands. “Samirah, you didn’t have sex.”

  Even as he says it, even though I know it, his words still startle me. “They raped you. You were unconscious the whole time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: MICHAEL

  It’s been a long week. I had to sit with Samirah and watch the whole video again. It haunts my dreams, seeing as how they brutalized her. We haven’t talked about it since that night. We talk about everything but.

  It’s eating away at me. I need some advice on what to do. Michele’s out of the office for three more days. I hope I can hold on until then. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing or the wrong thing for her.

  I don’t know what we’re going to do tonight. That damn TV show, Big Apple Babies, is on, and I know she’s going to want to watch it. I don’t think I can stomach it. Literally. Just thinking about it, my blood pressure must be going up. My head starts to throb. I know what’s coming. I rush back to my bathroom and search for the medication—nifedipine—that will lower my blood pressure. I haven’t had to use these pills in a while. I got them so I could have sex. Sometimes the stimulation can bring on a dysreflexive episode. Obviously, they’ve been collecting dust. I hope they still work.

  I want to go lie down and meditate. I need to calm down. I’ve been prone to anger issues—obviously that’s why I see Michele. This is different. This is a visceral rage like nothing I’ve ever known. If I could kill Chase with my bare hands, I would.

  “Samirah, I need to go to my room for a bit. I’m not feeling well. If you need me, please come knock.”

  She nods, not really looking up from the TV. I head to the bathroom to take care of my needs. It’s earlier than I would normally do it, but if I have to go to the hospital, I don’t want to have to worry about shitting or pissing myself.

  Thirty minutes later, the nifedipine has started to kick in and my headache is lessening. I need to monitor the dysreflexia closely. I have never felt so sick as I did the one time I had this before. Just as I’m stretching out on my bed, Samirah knocks.

  “Yeah, c’mon in!”

  She starts in and then stops, frozen.

  “It’s okay. C’mon over here.” I pat the bed next to me. “You know you can get away quickly from me if you need to. You run a lot faster than I do.” I smile weakly. It’s a bad joke.

  “I know you won’t hurt
me.”

  While she doesn’t say it, it’s certainly implied that I can’t. Because I’m not a whole man.

  No, this is not about me. This is about Samirah and what she needs right now.

  Gingerly, she sits on the bed next to me, her back ramrod straight against the headboard, her legs stretched out in front of her.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. I want to know if she watched the show, but I don’t want to know that she did. It’ll just get me upset again.

  “Should I be asking you that? You didn’t look like yourself earlier.”

  “I think I’m going to be okay.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” There’s fear in her voice.

  I stretch my arms up and fold my hands behind my head. “I was having some issues, but I think they’re resolving. If they don’t, I’m going to have to go to the hospital. No biggie.”

  “The hospital? No biggie?” Her voice is rising, trembling as it does. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was getting a little dysreflexic. My blood pressure was rising too much. I took some medicine and hopefully it’s on its way back down.”

  “What’s dysre—whatever you said?”

  “Autonomic dysreflexia. In people who are paralyzed above T-6, it’s a condition where physical stress can’t be felt, so as a result, the blood vessels constrict, because they’re still exposed to all the stress hormones. Like if I sat on a knife, and it was digging into me, I couldn’t tell, but eventually my body would react. Same if I have a bladder infection or something like that.”

  “So you can’t feel something bad, but your body reacts still. That’s good, right?”

  “Sort of, sort of not. It reacts by spiking the blood pressure really high. It puts me at a wicked high risk of stroke or heart attack or seizure. Plus, I feel like complete and utter shit when it happens. Like worse than the original injury.”

  “What do you mean by T—what?”

  “It’s the level of injury. Where on the spine the injury is. I’m a T-4 complete. I completely severed my spine at T-4 which, for lack of a better explanation, is nipple level. If I had fractured it about four inches lower, below T-6, I wouldn’t have to worry about autonomic dysreflexia.”