Where I End and You Begin

by Andra Brynn

  I bite the inside of my cheek, willing the morbid thoughts to cease.

  I’m standing in the middle of the staircase. All that happened was my foot slipped a step and my shin hurts. I must have banged it. I’m not dead. I didn’t fall. Yet.

  Oh.

  I get flashes like that sometimes. Standing on the side of a street, I imagine a car, out of control, careening around the corner and smashing me into the wall behind me, leaving only a strawberry jam stain behind. Or in the mall, walking along the balcony, I’ll wonder what it would feel like to throw myself over and fall two stories headfirst into the tile below.

  These thoughts happen. That’s just the way it is. Some days it’s so bad I can’t get out of bed. But I’m moving now, so it’s okay.

  Closing my eyes I take a deep breath and carefully stuff the vivid imagining away. Then I keep climbing, the stairs sighing with each step.

  The creaking stirs something in my memory as I climb. A ghost story about stairs.

  Ghost story. Why would I be thinking about ghost stories? I frown, digging hard, and then it comes to me and I remember.

  I heard a ghost story last night, though that story wasn’t about stairs, but about windows. The drink had almost erased it. That must be why I’m feeling morbid this morning. The realization relieves me.

  The worn handrail slides under my hand as I chew my lip, the ghost story about stairs solidifying in my head as it emerges from the mire of memory. I don’t remember reading this ghost story in a book, so it must be an internet tale I read somewhere. A man in a haunted house. His second floor had a balcony leading off the stairs and every night he heard footsteps climbing up the steps. The wood would groan and protest until the ghost reached the top. Then, after a little while, the balcony railing would begin to creak, softly, rhythmically, and a little girl would start to cry.

  Someone had hung himself in that house, and a little girl had found him. Marchand House has no such stories, but it looks like it should.

  Violent deaths, I think as I step up to the landing. The long, dark hall stretches out in front of me, age-blackened wood floors, institutional white walls, green painted doors, all shut. The bathrooms at the end, their frosted doors closed. Empty. Quiet.

  My room is immediately to my right, over the foyer. The biggest room in the whole house. I turn and open the door. We never keep it locked.

  Though maybe we should, because Tanya is in the middle of our room doing naked yoga.

  It’s a testament to how comfortable Tanya is with her body and others that she doesn’t even waver in her tree pose. “Morning!” she chirps brightly as I close the door. She doesn’t even open her eyes. When we first met, she explained that she wanted to be a California girl, and I asked her why she’d come to a podunk town in Indiana instead. To practice, she said. She practices by eating vegan and being naked a lot. I don’t think she’s ever been to California.

  I sigh as I close the door behind me. “I could have been one of the guys,” I say.

  “They’d flip out and run away,” she says. “If you’d been one of them you would have said, ‘I’m sorry!’ and then slammed the door before I could say anything.” She’s still holding her pose, her eyes closed. “So where were you all night this time?”

  “Getting drunk and laid,” I say, though I can’t remember the getting laid part very well. That’s probably a bad thing. “Like always.”

  “Sounds exciting,” she says. “Are you going to class today?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I can’t miss any more classes or my letter grades start dropping and then... well.”

  Tanya doesn’t say anything. We’re scholarship students. She knows as well as I do that if our grades drop below a three point five GPA then we get put on academic probation. If we can’t bring it up by the end of the next semester, we get kicked out.

  My GPA... well. Just the thought of my GPA after this semester makes my stomach hurt, and I’m not sure I’d be able to pull it out of the mire in the spring.

  In the pit of my belly, I feel as though last night’s liquor suddenly sours and curdles.

  “We going for breakfast today?” she asks.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “I’ll spot you. You know that.”

  I press my lips together. “I have enough for a breakfast bar.”

  “Ugh,” she says. “That shit is bad for you. You need whole foods.” She changes position to warrior pose.

  My stomach churns. “I need another drink,” I say.

  “You don’t. Go take a shower.”

  She’s right. I slip past her and go to the closet, grabbing my bathrobe. I strip my disgusting clothes off, but when I bend slightly to unbutton my jeans my stomach suddenly bubbles and I let out a loud belch. Bile burns in the back of my throat and abruptly I become very wobbly.

  Cold water, I think. Cold water.

  I need to keep it together. Keeping my lips firmly shut, I shimmy out of my jeans and underwear, throw them in my overflowing hamper, then wrap my robe around myself, grab my caddy and speed-walk out of the room, trying to hurry without over-tipping the delicate balance between nauseated and blowing chunks. Every step is another painful jarring of my delicate stomach, and when I reach the frosted doors of the bathroom, I rip them open.

  No one else is in here. My feet slap against the dingy white and black checkered tile. Three toilet stalls stand in front of me, and at the back of the room are two shower stalls where, presumably, the old bathtub used to sit, back when rich people lived here.

  I stagger over and step into the nearest stall and pull the curtain behind me. Throwing my robe over the side of the stall, I crank the cold water on and stand there, shivering.

  My stomach doesn’t settle. Taking deep breaths, I sway on my feet and brace myself against the wall, the spray cascading down over me. The grime and muck of sticky early morning encounters washes away, the stink of bodies and alcohol sluicing down the drain and out of my head, but I just shake harder. The shuddering ricochets around inside me, rattling my belly, until finally, at last, I shake the sickness loose.

  I lean over and puke straight down the drain.

  Tears stream down my face, mingling with the spray. Hot and cold. Salt and fresh, flowing down together.

  Rum comes up, and so does coke. Wads of mucus. Vodka. Some of it goes up my nose, burning, and I cough and splutter, but when it’s done I feel better. Shaky, but better.

  I turn the water to hot and let it fall over me, warming up the hollow cold in my bones.

  Before I know it I’m jerking awake. I fell asleep standing up beneath the spray. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but since I didn’t fall over it couldn’t have been long. Hastily I soap up and scrub, washing my hair as fast as I can. Then I shut off the water, rub down, and leap out of the shower and hurry back to my room.

  Tanya’s already dressed, her make up in place, and she fiddles around on Facebook while I twist my long, dark hair into a hasty braid and pull on a pair of mostly-clean jeans and a sweater, capping it off with a camo hoodie I found at Goodwill. No one will ever accuse me of being fashionable.

  “Ready?” Tanya says.

  I open my mouth to say yes, but then I pause.

  Tristan is in my first class. That’s how we know each other. I crept out of his room without saying goodbye or waking him up.

  Shit.

  I reach for an empty beer bottle sitting on my desk, shove aside the curtain covering my closet, and stick the bottle under the spout of the box of horrible wine I keep hidden in the back. Tanya and I are both nineteen, so we’d get in deep shit if it were found. But no one ever looks, thank God.

  I fill the bottle halfway up, then chug it. It burns on the way down, but immediately I feel the warmth spreading through me, and I know in a few moments I won’t care so much about Tristan, or how dirty I feel, or the classes I’m probably failing.

  I toss the empty bottle in the trash and turn to Tanya. “Okay, ready.”


  She’s looking at the trash can, her mouth twisted.

  “Hair of the dog,” I say.

  But then she looks at me, shaking her head. “You know,” she says, “sometimes I can’t tell if you’re coming or going.”

  “I’m going, obviously,” I say. I throw my backpack over my shoulders, and then we go.

  But on the way down the stairs, my sloshing brain can’t help but think of ghost stories.

  .0.

  The ghost on the stairs. I think about him a lot, but not because of him. The footsteps, the sound of his body swinging from the balcony. The ghost, of course, I understand that part. He’s dead.

  It’s the little girl I don’t understand. Was she still alive when the new owner of the house heard the ghost? Or had she died by then?

  That’s the part that scares me. Not the idea that there might be the lingering dead among the living, but the little girl. After she died, did she go back, hoping to stop the ghost before he reached the top of the stairs? Or was she caught forever in that moment, unable to alter it?

  Did her spirit fly back to that house, left to cry forever on the landing of the stairs, just her and a dangling corpse, caught in an endless loop, playing out until the end of time?

  The question burns in me because I don’t know the answer. What is a ghost, really? Living people can be haunted.

  But that little girl. Can you be alive and still haunt a place?

  Are you haunting someone right now?

  .3.

  The sky is dark with clouds as we hurry from Marchand House to the quad. The leaves in the trees are turning already, exploding in brilliant oranges and yellows, like flame against the ashen sky. I lift my face to the breeze, letting it cool my heated cheeks.

  A good day for ghosts, I think. A good day for ghost stories.

  I wonder if it will rain. It would be a good excuse to stay in tonight if it did. Exhaustion is creeping over me.

  Then the alcohol hits me, and things are better.

  Well. Not better. But less bad, from a certain point of view.

  Tanya and I cut between the buildings and head to the student center. Tanya can’t live without her coffee, and I need something in my stomach to anchor me and keep the wine down.

  The student center is loud. There’s a touring group of high schoolers who just can’t wait to throw all their money away on a useless degree, and I try not to meet their eyes. I’m not paying anything to come here, but I’m one of the lucky few. Almost everyone else will escape swimming in debt, unable to get a job, and most will move back in with their parents.

  I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. Move back home? I can’t think of a worse fate, but, like death, it seems inevitable. And like death, I try not to think about it, even though sometimes the thoughts intrude.

  Suppressing the urge to yell at the fresh-faced high school juniors—turn back, here be debt!—I head to the campus convenience store and stroll somewhat tipsily down the small aisles looking for something to settle my stomach, but it turns at the thought of almost every shitty pre-packaged foodstuff available to me.

  I finally settle on crackers. A dollar fifty for a pack of crackers. Highway robbery. For a moment I consider slipping them into the pocket of my hoodie, but my stupid conscience wins out and I pay for them as Tanya comes up next to me with her coffee. As I turn from the cashier, I spy someone I don’t want to see.

  Tristan is standing at the breakfast walk-up. I see him. He sees me.

  For a second I want to melt into the ground. Then he nods at me, and I nod back. My stomach is a lump of lead and I can’t really figure out why. I don’t remember most of what we did last night. What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?

  But that’s not true and I know it.

  I rip open my crackers and stuff all of them in my mouth as Tanya and I head back to the quad.

  The wind is picking up and we enter the Randall Arts and Sciences building—last renovated in the seventies but still serviceable—our hair mussed and our noses cold. The interior is all yellows and browns and dark stone and curious splashes of green. I don’t mind. I spent my childhood in houses that were built in the seventies or earlier, and it feels like home. We pass through the lobby, full of fake plastic trees, and part ways at the stairs. I’m going up, Tanya is going down.

  “See ya!” she says, and hops down the steps.

  “See ya,” I echo, and start to climb.

  Halfway up I know I’m in trouble. The crackers are not doing the trick I wanted them to do. The wine and crackers congeal in my stomach, and I have to keep swallowing until I get to the top.

  I’m breathing hard and grossly warm when I finally hit the landing, and I have to lean against the wall for a moment. My first class today is called “The Holocaust and the Problem of Evil.” It’s a real laugh riot and I usually try to show up a little sloshed, but right now I do not feel well at all. My cheeks are flush and my body is sticky as though attempting to expel the toxins in my system through my very pores. I have a headache too, but I’m afraid to take a pill for it. My liver is already working over time.

  Should I try to get to class on time, or should I try to stabilize?

  Stabilize. Late is better than not showing up because you’re sick.

  Pushing away from the wall I stumble to the closest restroom. It’s dingy and too-bright inside, smelling of bleach and mildew. The walls slosh around me.

  Water, I think. I need water. I get to a sink and bend over it. Pushing the knob, I scoop cold water into my hands and splash it over my face. Then I fill my hands again and take a huge drink. Bracing myself against the sink, I stare at the bits of grime collected around the drain, and take a few deep breaths.

  When at last I feel steadier, I stand up and pull out my phone, checking the time. Ten-oh-five. And a missed call from my mom.

  The muscles in my lower back tighten like a vise. I delete the notification and shove the phone back in my hoodie. I’ll call her later. Like, next week maybe.

  Or, you know. Never.

  I exit the restroom and hurry down the hall toward the classroom. No one else is outside the door or coming in, so I am well and truly late, and I cringe to think about the disappointed look Father O’Reilly will shoot my way. Catholic guilt can work even if you aren’t Catholic, apparently.

  Hand on the cold knob, I take a deep breath and open the door.

  There’s that little moment where everyone in the room turns to look at you when you come in late. I expected that. I’m used to it. Unfortunately the first person I notice is Tristan, and I do not want to see him. I rip my eyes away from the students and turn them to Father O’Reilly with a tiny, apologetic smile on my face.

  Except the man standing at the front of the class isn’t Father O’Reilly. It’s someone totally different, and Father O’Reilly is nowhere to be seen.

  The smile on my lips freezes.

  He’s young. Very young. Probably only a few years older than the rest of the people in this class. Graduate student, nothing higher, and he’s lounging against the table at the front of the classroom like a cat, his hands resting easily on the edge, his strong legs, clad in pressed khakis, bracing him against the floor. His upper body—well-built and lean—curves casually. He’s wearing a black v-neck sweater with a white button-up underneath. Wild sandy hair frames a face that is all hard planes and high cheekbones, but behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses his eyes are wide and brown and sweet. The way he looks at me is almost innocent, as though he never expected someone could come in late.

  I have the queerest feeling that I have slipped between worlds, crossing over a threshold I never even knew was there. The world tilts.

  Then it clicks. Father O’Reilly must have asked one of his grad students to fill in for him.

  The world rights itself and I am back on my feet. I duck my head before he can say something and hurry to the nearest seat. Right next to Tristan.

  My stomach turns over. Awkward doesn’t begin to des
cribe this. Drunken hook-ups are fine and all, but sometimes you just want to change your name and move to Vietnam or something afterward. I hope I didn’t do anything embarrassing last night. I yank my netbook out of my bag and put it on the table, praying it still has enough charge to turn on.

  The beautiful man at the front of the class is still looking at me.

  I mouth the word sorry, and he seems to shake himself and turn back to the class.

  “Uh,” he says, and his voice is warm and deep, “where were we?”

  I duck my head again and wish I’d left my hair down so it could hide my beet-red face.

  “Karski,” someone says.

  Karski, I think. Should I know that name? What book are we reading? I glance around to pinpoint which book I was supposed to have read over the weekend, and when I finally figure it out I want to groan. I don’t think I’ve even cracked the binding. Nevertheless, I dip inside my backpack and pull it out, looking up the name in the index, and when I flip to the relevant pages I breathe a sigh of relief. Buying used has its advantages—the previous owner of this book has thoughtfully highlighted relevant passages.

  “Ah yes,” the young man says. “Karski. When Karski escaped Nazi-occupied Europe and came to America, he related the stories of the atrocities in Poland to members of the U.S. Government, very high up. And they said they didn’t believe him. Not that they thought he was lying, but that they could not believe that what he was saying could be true.” He pushed away from the table and began to walk up and down in front of the class.

  I’m on the first row, and as he passes me by I catch a whiff of his cologne. Spicy. I try not to look at him. I don’t want to bring more attention to myself than I already have.