by Foxx, Gloria
“Julie said you drink and drive.” His eyes go wide with surprise, almost glowing like an animal trapped by the headlights of an approaching car. I need to look away. I concentrate on my hands in my lap, one massaging the other. “Is it true?”
My words are a whisper, a breath of sound. Maybe he doesn’t hear me. I relish in the quiet before his response. I don’t want to know. Once he confirms it’s true, we’re done and I’m not ready for that yet, but I have to know.
He hangs his head. I don’t need a verbal response. His shame is right there for the world to see, for me to see. “Oh no,” I breathe as if on a dying gasp. “You didn’t.”
“It was my eighteenth birthday. I was stupid, too drunk to know I couldn’t drive.”
“Were you hurt? Was anyone hurt?” I don’t know why I asked. It wouldn’t make a difference.
“No one got hurt. I passed out at a stoplight and rolled into the curb. The police found me, although I don’t remember any details.”
“Why did you have to go and do that?”
“I have my reasons, but I make no excuses. I’ve made peace with what I did and I’ve moved on. I know better now than to ever do something so stupid again.”
“Like I haven’t heard that before.”
“Your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry Sterling. I should have told you earlier.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“I’d like to think it might have.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much now, but it would end the same.” My mind screams with the knowledge that this is it. I’d like to make this easier on him, but it turns out protecting him is a feat beyond my reach when protecting myself is my priority. Nothing’s going to make this easier.
I lean across him yanking on the door handle and shoving it wide. “I have to go.”
“Let me explain.” He pulls the door closed. His voice sounds even and confident. “I don’t drink and drive anymore. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I can’t trust that. I can’t trust you.” I want to massage my wrist, give it a good crack, but I don’t dare. He knows my tell and I don’t want him to know how much this hurts. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I have rules, standards that are nonnegotiable.
“Can’t we talk about this? I’m not that person anymore.”
I grit my teeth, shoring up my willpower. I can only take so much and if he sees that, he’ll keep trying. “No. I can’t. I’ve already thought about it. I had reservations before I found out about this. No. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Sterling?” His voice is less certain now, almost fearful.
Determined, I turn toward him. I want him to see the resolve in my eyes. I only hope courage covers despair. “I want out Boston. I can’t do this.” He squeezes my hand, but I pull away. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Sterling?”
“I’m not gonna do this.”
Boston deflated before me like a star collapsing in on itself, the energy rushing out. I watched his eyes transform from warm and cajoling to cold and flat. His voice a dull monotone shredded me more than I could begin to flay myself.
“I’d like to say I don’t understand, but I do,” he said reverence in his tone. “We have to protect ourselves after all.”
“We do, don’t we?” I didn’t stop to think why he might need to protect himself. I was too wrapped up in my own misery. We have our own reasons. They might be the worst reasons ever, but they’re part of who we are, how we face life.
“People can change Sterling, but I won’t beg.”
“Please don’t.” I hurt like an animal caught in a trap, lashing out at the hand trying to free it.
“You don’t want me, then I’m done.” He turned away as he spoke, looking through the windshield as if it framed a compelling vista.
He didn’t want me to see his eyes. I sensed vulnerability, but I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t get past my own hurt. I didn’t see the trade-off, that in protecting myself I caused him pain. I only recognized that parting now would be better than parting later. I know that love doesn’t last. I’ve experienced it and I’m not going to do it again. Actually I am doing it again, but this time I’m in control of how and when it ends.
“I don’t need a second chance. I need to think about myself, about my future. I can’t hope for something that’s destined to fail.” I ache as I say it, afraid yet somewhere deep inside still hoping he might recognize my dejected tone and renew his argument. He did not. Maybe I shouldn’t be thankful. I didn’t want the cold hollow spreading within me, but the alternative would be so much worse.
“I need to think about myself too.” His voice is frosty as he opens the car door, climbing out with lithe, deliberate movements. Standing on the sidewalk he leans down, looking one last time. I didn’t look his way, keeping my eyes forward so he couldn’t really see me. The door closed softly, but with the solid thunk of a heavy old door.
I couldn’t even wait to be sure he left, crumpling under the weight of what I’d just done, folding under the tension as if boneless. Tears fell from my eyes like rain, not the gentle peaceful kind of rain, but like a raging, driving thunderstorm. My forehead against the steering wheel kept me from collapsing to the floor as every bit of strength I ever had left my body.
I have to go home. I want nothing more than for life to go back to last week, but it won’t. It can’t. I have to go home. I swipe at the tears with my arm, snot slippery, but not even registering. I have to go home.
Chapter 14
Not quite sure how I made it to my apartment, I fumble with the key. My fingers are numb and I have trouble with my grip. Everything is numb. I’m hollow inside, a vast vacant space lonely with echoes of a future that will never be.
Key finally seated in the lock, I give it a turn and push open the door. In trying to protect myself, I’d hurt Boston. I see that now. I’d hurt myself as well, but I’m worried about him. I’ve experienced loss before. I can handle this. I’ll put my life, such as it is, back together and continue on.
Dropping my bag on the floor, I lean back against the door, pushing it closed. I’m back on track. Boston distracted me from my plan to concentrate on my education, avoid relationships and make up for lost time. A grating, derisive chuckle fills the room at the realization. I should be happy that my life is back to normal, but it doesn’t feel normal yet.
Yesterday’s events come roaring back, washing over me and flooding me with regret. A decision made tends to leave lightness behind. This one leaves me in darkness, wondering if I made the right choice.
Highlights from the past few hours, or maybe it’s low lights, replay in my mind quick and explosive like a movie trailer. Thoughts of Boston snap at my nerve endings as if I’m drowning in static electricity.
I’m exposed and raw. I stopped at a liquor store on my way home and bought a bottle of cheap vodka. I lower myself with caution to the futon, setting the bottle on the trunk in front of me with care as if abrupt movement might set me off. The ache makes me grit my teeth. “This is what I wanted,” I say to the dim room. Staring at the bottle, its label blurring as my focus shifts, I move quickly before I change my mind. I bang my shins as I stand, but it doesn’t stop me. I snatch a tumbler from the kitchen. It’s cheap and plastic and scratched. No fine crystal barware for me.
Dropping to the futon, I grab the bottle by the neck as if to throttle it. The metal safety seal scrapes my finger as I twist off the cap, but it doesn’t stop me. I splash a shot into the tumbler and gulp. It’s like cough medicine but stronger, searing the back of my mouth and throat. I try to hold it in, wheezing as the fumes invade my sinuses until I gasp needing to clear my air.
It tastes as bad as lighter fluid smells and I wonder why people bother to drink at all. Then the warmth of the vodka began to radiate, filling the cold hollow inside of me, a soothing fever, intense and dangerous and deceptive.
“That’s not so bad,” I breathe in a voice not quite my own.
Pouring another, I am reckless as I down it. The second isn’t as difficult as the first and the third proves even easier.
I know I’m not driving, but something in the back of my mind nags.
* * *
Rolling from my back to my side and huddling under the duvet doesn’t help. Pounding assails my head. My face feels puffy, my eyes itchy and sticky. Taking stock of my body’s misery, I realize I have to pee.
Maybe that will make me feel better. I’d take a shower too. I could always hope it might wash away my grief.
Throwing off the duvet, I haul myself to my feet. I don’t remember removing my shoes, but there they are on the floor, tripping me up. I missed the alcove on my right and bumped into the archway leading to the kitchen, disorientation making it hard to control my body. The miserable light coming from outside doesn’t help either.
I finally get my bearings and head to the bathroom door, only three steps from my futon.
Flipping on the light, I squint, blinking like a strobe and looking toward the floor, away from the overhead light as I drag down my jeans and sit.
My feet flash before my eyes. I wiggle my toes in stop motion, the cool tile a relief to my tired feet. My eyes have adjusted to the light as I pull some tissue from the roll. They’re wide open when I stand.
Horror contorts my face. I can feel it. My mouth is gaping, my eyes going huge and round. A fist twists in my gut trapping the air in my lungs. I can’t drag in a breath or force one out. The weight of my panic crushes my chest making it difficult to suck in air. Everything goes white except for the smiling face looking out at me from the picture frame resting on the bathroom vanity as if it belongs.
My gaze glued to it, I’m no longer bothered by the bright light. Something more urgent has come up. Loose blonde curls frame her face, blue eyes laugh up at me. Her smile is innocent and it arrests me.
I’m cold yet the stink of nervous sweat seeps from my pores, the air in my apartment now frigid, tiny bumps prickling where it caresses me.
I snatch the picture from the vanity, not yet wondering how it came to be here. Hugging it to my chest, I’m at once relieved and distressed. I no longer see Emma’s face, but she’s burned into my mind where she can haunt me forever.
A cold tear bulges over my eyelashes and trickles down my cheek. I have to breathe through my mouth as I stumble out of the bathroom facing the closed door opposite with dread churning in my stomach. Dragging in a deep breath, I pull my courage around me like a cloak.
I can do this…. I can do this…. I can do this. My sense of self-preservation tries to overcome the reptilian part of my brain that wants to run away, to hide from the reminders, forget the past.
The old brass knob is warm in my hand, a testament to how cold I’ve become. It rattles as I rotate my forearm, the framed photo still pressed tightly against my chest where I don’t have to look at it.
The door creaks open from an agonizing sliver to measly inch and beyond until there’s room for my arm to slip through. I slide the picture frame through the crack, setting it face down on the dresser inside the door. I don’t even try to stand it up. There’s no time.
Pulling my hand back as if an alligator’s snapping at me, I yank the door closed, nearly catching my fingers.
The alcove is tiny and the bathroom door frame arrests my backward stumble, scoring my back and knocking away what’s left of my breath. I should feel relief at having braved the bedroom and returned unscathed, but I don’t. My life feels like an abyss groaning and empty before me and here I am, defective, feeling like I deserve it. Hell, I’m barely able to participate.
Sagging sideways, the wall catches me and at this point I haven’t yet questioned how the photo came to be in my bathroom.
I remember unlocking the door and stumbling into my apartment. I remember debating the merits of using vodka to quiet the incessant biting as if a thousand piranhas were feasting on me. I gave in and the vodka pushed the piranhas away, slowing the voracious feasting and surrounding me in something to deaden the pain. It didn’t go away, but I didn’t feel quite as much.
I don’t remember removing my shoes or going into the bedroom and bringing out photo. I didn’t do this, did I?
Standing frozen, my breath coming back as I search through my memory, I struggle to make sense of it, but I can’t. Parts show up clearly, but between there are black holes. My earlier recollections are all that I remember and that’s very little. What I see comes in flashes, Boston’s eyes, a Vodka bottle at the liquor store, turning my key in the lock. I don’t have any recollection of doing this. Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I’m crazy like the days following Emma’s death.
No. I am not crazy … I am not crazy … I am not crazy. My mind chants, denying the possibility. My back against the bathroom door frame I slide to the floor, my knees pulled tight to my chest. My hands hold my head tight against the agony of loss. I must be crazy to have pulled out a reminder like this. Is it comfort or am I just plain mad?
* * *
We don’t have any contact. We don’t talk, but his piano sits in my line of sight. I can’t even look up without a stabbing in my chest and numbness in my fingers as my eyes land on him. His music wraps me in melancholy, weaving a spell of sadness around me. He’s sad too. I’m not much into music, especially lounge music, but I can feel it flowing from his fingers washing over the keyboard.
Doubt assails me. Questions race through my mind. Why did I ever get involved? Could it possibly work? Am I making a huge mistake? Is there anything I can do to make this easier on him?
That one gets me. I’d thought so much about myself that I never considered how he might feel. He is proud and strong. I’m sure he’ll never tell me, but listening to his music tells me so much more than he might ever put into words.
The rawness and uncertainty show in my work. I struggle to maintain my composure as my hands bump into drinks spilling their contents across the bar, I add soda to cocktails overflowing the rim and I drop several glasses. With a rubber mat under my feet to save the glassware, I didn’t think anyone would notice.
I don’t know about Boston, but Lyla sees everything. She hears everything in his music too, bringing up the topic. “Hey sweetie? What’s up with you tonight?”
“It’s nothing. I’m just having a bad night.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
I don’t know that I’d call it paradise, but compared to right now, the past several weeks felt like nirvana. “We broke up,” I said, pretending we’d made a mutual decision when the decision had been just me.
“Oh sweetie. I’m so sorry. I thought you two made a great couple. What happened?”
Her compassion sent shivers through me like an icy wind blowing through prickly pines. “It’s no big deal. We’re just not that compatible.” The lie is bitter on my tongue. We are compatible. I’m just terrified of living, of being let down yet again. You can’t trust people.
Knowing exactly what I’m doing and why doesn’t make it any easier. I want to run back. I want to apologize and explain and plead that he’ll take me back, but I can be strong. I survived Emma. I can survive this.
“Humpf. You two were good together.”
Quaking inside, ready to crumble, I stiffen my spine. I will not cry. I will not breakdown. I will not let him see how hard this is. My mind seethes, firming my resolve. “We get along great. We just want different things out of life and it’s easier to end it now than to struggle with it later.”
“Sounds like the coward’s way out to me.”
I felt her censure. It rolled from her shoulder as she turned her back on me. I hated to disappoint her, but this is my life and I need to make the best choices for me. Lyla knows about Emma. She of all people should understand how difficult building relationships can be and how painfully raw t
he knowing that they will end, if only because they always do. Nothing is forever, and while I know this, It still disappoints me.
Turning away, I splash some vodka into a glass. My resolve to never drink doesn’t feel so important anymore. Gulping the hot fire until it smoothes out into rolling, liquid heat, I watch Lyla bring Boston a drink. He always drinks water and it used to be my job to deliver, until today. “Thank you Lyla,” I whisper to myself, bringing my glass back to my lips.
I may not like the taste, but vodka brings a relief like the release of pressure when a steam valve opens.
It only lasts for a moment until Lyla returns.
“How’re ya going to get home?”
“I have my car.”
She looks at my glass with oily disdain. “I thought you knew better than that.”
“I’m only having one. I can drive.”
“Your mom used to say that. Then she quit lying to herself.”
“I’m not my mother.” Rage flooded me at the comparison.
“You have one and then maybe two. Before you know it, your judgment sucks and you drive because you think you can. Booze makes you stupid and you don’t even know it, just like your mom.”
“That’s low Lyla.”
“I’m right though.” Her stare like a loaded bayonet cut as deep as her words. “It’s better to never drink and drive Sterling. I thought you knew that.”
“I can have one.” I’m defensive, but I also hear the tiny voice inside calling me a hypocrite as my eyes lock on hers and I take another sip in defiance.
* * *
Life isn’t getting any better. I can’t concentrate and haven’t taken a single note, although I’m trying, maybe not so much trying as pretending. We’re sitting in the same row and every time I tilt my head to the right I see Boston watching me.
He’s turned almost sideways in his seat; his posture is slouched instead of rigid. He looks casual, but I can see the tension. He doesn’t move a muscle except when his eyes slide sideways to avoid my gaze.