Body of a Girl

by Leah Stewart

  “Olivia?” Peter calls from the other room. When I don’t respond right away he calls my name again, his voice rising. I go back into the living room. He’s sitting up straight, blinking hard, as though he’s just woken up, and the look on his face is something close to panic.

  “I’m here,” I say, and he jumps to his feet and comes toward me. “What’s the matter?”

  “I didn’t know where you were,” he says. “I thought you might have left.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. I give him a quick kiss. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “We’re doing this together,” he says, sliding his fingers into mine again.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” It’s a lie. I’ve decided, but I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to lose my nerve. I squeeze his hand.

  Nate appears in the doorway and both of us turn. “You guys ready?” he says. “I’m getting antsy.” He almost jogs to the door and we follow.

  Outside, the night is soft and warm, like a gentle hand brushing your cheek. In the parking lot I stop and look around me like I have to memorize this scene. Peter stands here beside me. Across the street at Dolly’s a giant neon doughnut blinks on and off. A girl’s voice floats down the street, calling somebody’s name. The moon is almost full, and in the air there’s a faint electric hum.

  “What are you waiting for?” Nate says. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

  We take my car. I follow Nate’s directions onto the interstate and outside of town. For a long time none of us speaks. I’m listening to the whirring of the tires on the road below, watching the headlights of other cars approach and recede. This is what I love about driving on the highway late at night, that you just keep moving.

  I hear a faint rumbling and look at Nate in the rearview mirror. He’s asleep and snoring, his head back against the seat, his mouth hanging open. I let him sleep until we reach our exit, and then I whisper his name.

  He sits up with a start, blinking hard.

  “We’re here,” I say.

  He leans forward to peer out the windshield. There are not many lights off the exit ramp, no fast-food restaurants or truck stops, just an abandoned gas station with an old-fashioned pump and boards across its windows. “There it is,” he says, and at the same moment I see it: a roadside motel with a blinking red vacancy sign. The place is U-shaped, with rooms that open onto the parking lot and an office at one end where, through the glass, I can see a fat woman reading a romance novel at the desk. Nate directs me to room 13, and I park in front.

  “You got the money?” Nate says. I find my wallet and hand him a stack of bills. He tells us to wait in the car and gets out. I watch him knock on the door, dancing from foot to foot, until it opens and he disappears inside. Peter has his head turned out the window, his body rigid, with anticipation or anxiety, I’m not sure. I am not afraid now, because this isn’t happening to me anymore. I’m watching it like a movie, and this is a movie set, this place that looks like a stopover for people on their way down. On the other side of that door is a room with bad green carpeting, and a bed too many people have slept in, and maybe a cheap TV and some indeterminate stain in the bathtub. It’s number 13, just like Allison Avery’s apartment, and Allison could be in there with Nate, smiling that mischievous smile as she hands some guy the money, her tongue just visible at the corner of her mouth.

  I look at myself in the rearview mirror. There’s that girl again, the one who is capable of anything.

  Finally Nate emerges from the motel, one hand in his pocket. He flashes us a victory sign and hurries to the car. When he gets in he’s as jumpy as if he’d consumed a pot of coffee inside. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he says.

  Once we’re on the road he pulls his hand out of his pocket and shows us a small foil package. “Get us back as fast as you can. This is gonna be great.” He slides the package back in his pocket and settles in against the seat.

  “What was the guy like?” I ask. “The dealer?”

  “He’s just this kid from the suburbs in a baseball cap. But he gets great stuff. He doesn’t cheat you like some people.”

  “You never said if you know Jared Gillespie.”

  Nate shakes his head.

  “Why would he?” Peter says, his voice sharp.

  “I’m just asking,” I say. Then I say to Nate, “Are you sure? He’s from Mississippi. He might be a dealer.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “It’s possible Allison knew him.”

  “She didn’t know him,” Peter says. He sounds furious. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns away from me to stare out the window.

  “Sorry,” Nate says, yawning. “Before today, I’d never heard of him in my life.”

  When we reach his apartment building, Nate takes the stairs two at a time. Peter follows him, and I bring up the rear, slowly. When I reach his living room, Nate is hunting for a candle. When he finds one and lights it, it’s Peter who heats some of the heroin in a spoon over the flame. Sitting in the armchair, I watch him, humming under his breath as the little rock melts into a golden brown liquid. “Beautiful, isn’t it,” Peter says to me, and I nod. It is pretty, the color of amber. He draws it through a cigarette filter into a syringe.

  I watch Peter slip the needle into Nate’s arm like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before. I watch the red blood rush into the clear tube. I watch Nate’s face contort in ecstasy. I watch his head drop backwards onto the floor. Peter looks down at Nate, satisfaction on his face, and then he unwinds the belt from Nate’s arm and comes toward me on his knees. “Now you,” he says.

  These are the last moments before it happens. I think of Hannah, rocking me in her arms. David, pulling me to him through the crowded bar. Peter, telling me he loves me while his eyes fill up with tears.

  Now he kneels before me, then reaches up and brushes his lips against mine. “You ready?” he says. I hold out my left arm. He leans in, the belt in his hands.

  “Did you used to do this for Allison?” I say, looking down at his curly brown hair, his bent neck.

  He shakes his head, tightening the belt around my arm. The vein pops out.

  “Did Allison do this for you?” My voice catches over her name. I stare at the tender inside of my arm.

  “What are you talking about?” He picks up the needle, touches my plump vein with a finger. “Allison and I never shot up together.”

  “Peter,” I say, panic fluttering in my chest. “Didn’t Allison do this?”

  He glances up at me. “Allison?” he says. He looks down again, positioning the needle at my arm. “No, my sister was never a user.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say. My voice rises. “I found the stuff in her apartment.”

  “That box? That was mine,” he says. “She took it from me so I wouldn’t use it.”

  “But these were her friends.”

  “These are my friends,” he says. “She just hung around to keep an eye on me. She pretended she was just spending time with me, but I knew what she was doing.” With his free hand he reaches up and strokes the side of my face. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Everything will be fine.” Then he plunges the needle into my vein.

  I take a deep breath as he pulls the needle from my arm. He seems to be receding from me, though he is still there, kneeling at my feet and smiling.

  I am warm.

  I am calm.

  I am sinking, heavy as a stone.

  Someone is screaming my name.

  I’m dreaming, and in the dream I’m cold and wet and the ground beneath me is shaking. Someone is screaming my name.

  I open my eyes.

  All I see is water. It’s cold and it’s beating down on my face.

  I blink and try to lift my hand to wipe my eyes. I can’t move. There’s a weight on my chest, and pain. Someone is pounding on my chest so fiercely it jams my spine into the hard surface below me. I lift my head.

  My skirt is bunched around my waist. A boy is s
traddling me, beating his hands against my chest. He is close to sobbing, calling out my name. We are in the shower. I stare at him, his red frantic face, his flying fists. He’s hurting me. I think maybe this is still a dream.

  “What . . .,” I try to say. My voice is so small.

  The terrible pounding stops. The boy lifts his head and grabs my face between his hands. “Olivia?” he says. “Oh my God, Olivia?” I recognize him now, his face so close to mine I can see the pores in his skin. It’s Peter.

  “What . . .,” I say again. He clutches me to him, so hard it hurts. “I’m so sorry,” he is saying, over and over, sobbing out my name. “I almost killed you.” Then I turn my head and vomit over his arm. “Shit,” I say. I realize that I’m crying.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “It’s my fault. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” He eases back and helps me to a sitting position. He rinses his hand and arm under the water. With his other hand on my back, he holds me up. “How do you feel?”

  “Terrible,” I say. “I’m all wet.”

  “I know,” he says soothingly, as though he’s talking to a child. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He takes off my wet, stained shirt and puts it in a ball on the edge of the tub. I can’t even help him. I just sit here letting him lift and lower my arms like he’s undressing a doll. I’ve never been so tired in my life.

  Peter squirts shampoo into his hand and begins to wash the vomit from my hair. “You’re all right now,” he murmurs. “Everything’s going to be fine.” I lean forward and close my eyes. I feel as though I’m just now learning how to breathe.

  “What happened?” I say.

  “Your heart stopped,” he says. He runs his hand through my hair to rinse it and it tilts my head back so that I’m looking him in the face, only inches from him, as though we’re going to kiss.

  “What do you mean, my heart stopped?”

  “You died,” he says. “I swear to God you died.”

  I shake my head. “That’s impossible.”

  “Well, it happened,” he says. “You were dead.”

  I try to speak but my voice lodges inside my throat.

  “You were dead.” He takes a choking breath. “Just like her.”

  I shake my head again.

  He runs his hands through my hair. “Thank God you’re all right. You scared the shit out of me. One minute you were fine, and then I was about to shoot up, and you just didn’t look right. I could tell somehow, the life had gone out of you. I carried you in here.”

  “How long?” I manage to say.

  “How long what?” The cold water keeps coming down, and I’m shivering.

  “How long did it stop?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “It can’t have been long, or I wouldn’t have been able to start it again.” He leans down and presses his ear to my chest, up against my wet skin. “It’s beating now,” he says. Sitting up, he takes my hand and lays it over my heart. “Feel that beating?”

  I do feel it, my heart’s faint rhythm against my hand.

  Peter reaches over me and turns off the shower. “You’re shivering.” He rubs his hands rapidly up and down my arms to warm me. “Let’s get out.” While he climbs out of the tub I put my other hand to my neck and find that pulse with my fingers. Peter gets a towel and leans over to wrap it around me. Then he tells me to put my arms around his neck. I don’t want to let go of my heart, but I do what he tells me. He half lifts me to a standing position. Leaning on him, I step out of the tub.

  “Can you stand now?” he asks me, smoothing my hair back from my face. I nod. “Get out of those clothes and dry off then. I’ll go get you something to wear.” He leaves the room, dripping water.

  Alone, I put both hands on the sink and lean in to stare at myself in the mirror. I look terrible. My shoulders are bare, my nipples showing through the wet fabric of my bra. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my pupils are enormous. My hair is wet and tangled. I run my shaking fingers through it. I see no resemblance to Allison in my face. This is just me who did this, pale lips, lank brown hair, skin drained of color.

  I slip out of my wet clothes and wrap the towel around myself. I’m still shivering. A terrible sick feeling flashes through me, and I have to drop to my knees by the toilet and vomit again. This is all I can think about, each small movement I have to make. Put your hand on the sink. Pull yourself up. Turn on the water. Rinse out your mouth. Look in the mirror. This is just you, naked and afraid.

  Peter comes back in with a T-shirt and a pair of boxers that must belong to Nate. “This is all I could find that’s clean,” he says apologetically. “Put them on and I’ll make a bed for you on the couch.”

  “I’ve got to go home,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ve got to sleep this off, and I want to keep an eye on you.” His tone is so firm, I don’t argue. He watches me like he can’t stand to move his eyes away. I drop the towel and put on the clothes. The T-shirt clings to me like a second skin. I feel like I should hang up Nate’s towel. When I bend to pick it up another wave of nausea washes over me so I just leave it crumpled on the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” Peter says again. He catches me up in a fierce hug. I don’t have the energy to put my arms around him, so I just lean against him, like a rag doll. He helps me down the hall to the living room. He puts a pillow on the couch and hums to himself while he lays a blanket across the cushions. His fear is gone. He seems giddy with relief. All I feel is sad and tired and sick.

  The couch is so small I have to curl up in a fetal position to fit, my body still shaking, with cold or fear or nausea. Nate is still spread-eagled on the floor, his eyes closed, his face a picture of bliss. Peter finds another blanket and tucks it around me. Then he kisses me on the cheek, and I close my eyes. “You didn’t die,” he whispers. Across my lids I see the headline: REPORTER DIES OF DRUG OVERDOSE. FRIENDS SAY DALE, 25, LED A SECRET LIFE.

  I open my eyes again. Peter is sitting in the armchair, tightening the belt around his arm with his teeth. The needle is in his hand. I sit up. “What are you doing?”

  He hesitates. “I don’t want this to go to waste.”

  “I almost died,” I say, my voice rising.

  I almost died.

  “I’ve done this before,” he says. “It would take a much higher dose to kill me.”

  “You can’t,” I say, clutching at the blanket. “What if something happens?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” he says.

  “Please don’t.”

  He sounds irritated when he says, “I know what I’m doing. Just go to sleep. It’s fine.” He sinks the needle into his arm. The color rises in his face and he slumps backward in his chair, nodding himself away.

  I sit watching him breathe, terrified that the slow rise and fall of his chest will stop. It would break my heart if he died, because in this moment this boy feels like the only person in the world I really know. Not even Allison Avery would understand what I did tonight. All this time I never asked the right questions.

  Peter is still breathing. I keep watching him, afraid to go to sleep. Later Nate rouses himself and stumbles off to bed. I stay awake, listening for the sound of my heart.

  19

  I have no idea where I am. It’s dark in this room, and my legs are drawn up tight and cramping. There’s a strange smell in here, both sharp and musty, like vinegar, and when I reach for the lamp that sits beside my bed my hand touches nothing but air. I sit up, my hands clutching at a blanket that doesn’t feel like mine, and look around a large and nearly empty room with posters hanging on the walls. Then my vision clears and I know what all of these things mean. I know where I am. I remember, and the memory makes me shudder, brings back the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I swing my feet onto the floor and stand up. My muscles ache as though after a hard run. My mouth is dry. Peter is sleeping on the floor beside the couch. I step over him and go down the hall to the bathroom to scoop water fr
om the faucet into my mouth. On the floor in a pile are most of my clothes. I put on the skirt. It’s still damp. The shirt, which is wet and crumpled on the bathtub, I leave behind.

  Before I go I stand for a moment over Peter’s body, watching him sleep. The faint sound of his snoring reassures me that he’s still breathing. “Good-bye,” I say out loud. I find my bag in the living room and leave.

  Outside the sun is just coming up, and the sky is streaked with pink. The street is quiet. The sign over the doughnut shop is turned off. Everything is still and waiting. I put my hand over my heart and feel it beating. If my heart really stopped, shouldn’t there be some kind of pain?

  The drive home seems to take an hour. I listen to the radio without really hearing it. I put on my blinker and turn down streets and stop at red lights without ever thinking about where I’m going or how to get there. When I get home I let myself in as quietly as I can. It seems like a place I haven’t seen in months, and I move around the room, touching the things I know to be mine, reminding myself that I live here.

  In my bedroom I sit on the edge of the bed and think about going to work. I am sore and sick and dreadfully tired. I have no idea how long the signs will last, and I keep imagining Peggy peering into my eyes, noticing some mark on my left arm, and ordering me off for drug testing. The safest thing to do is call her voice mail and say I have the stomach flu and I’m not coming in. “Someone else will have to do the follow-up,” I say into the phone. “I don’t care who. Somebody else.”

  Then I take off my damp skirt and Nate’s tight T-shirt and crawl into bed.

  Later Hannah comes in and says I’m going to be late for work. I tell her I’m sick and she lays her hand on my forehead and says it feels like I have a fever. She brings me a glass of water and makes me sit up and take some aspirin. Then she leaves, saying she’ll call later to check on me. After she is gone I sink back down into sleep. It is like going underwater, dropping like a stone to the bottom of a pool.

  The sound of the doorbell ringing drags me from some terrible dream. I wake up drenched with sweat, naked and uncovered. I’ve kicked the bedclothes off. The doorbell rings again. I roll out of bed and find a T-shirt on the floor. Then I stumble down the hall to the front door, still half dreaming, moving on instinct. I reach the door and open it. For a moment I can see only a dark figure against the brightness outside, and in my half-dreaming state it seems like something out of a nightmare, a ghost, a visitation. Then the figure steps closer. It’s Peter.