Walking away from the crush of people surrounding the velvet rope, I feel a wave of relief to be done with them for a few minutes, their intense scrutiny and high-pitched laughter. The cavernous bathroom is on the second floor. Hair products are lined up in a row on the counter along with perfume bottles and tonics. Marla, a fat Polish woman with bleached-blond hair, presides over it all, a metal basket on the counter in front of her filled with bills. There’s a rumor that the bathrooms at Tunnel are the partially converted locker rooms of the train workers of the early 1900s. In fact, the club is actually built on the site of an abandoned train tunnel, the tracks running from the back of the Chandelier Room into obscurity. Sometimes there are private parties thrown right there on the tracks, strobe lights flickering, turning faces to fragments, stilettos sinking into the dirt and gravel.
“What’s up, kitty cat?” Marla has a big, booming voice, and it bounces off the tiles and reverberates through my head. I walk over with a smile as she reaches to enfold me in her fleshy arms, practically cutting off my circulation with her cleavage. “Taking a break?”
“You got it,” I say as she releases me. I walk over to the stalls and lock myself inside and sit on the closed toilet lid. Taking a break. Is that what I’m doing? Because I don’t know anymore. As I reach into the plastic bag with my pinky, scooping a bit of white powder under my fingernail and holding it to one nostril, inhaling deeply, my eyes close and I try to ignore the sinking sensation in my stomach that lets me know I’ve gone too far. There was a time, I think, when drugs added to the night more than they took away. When you were happy just to be here, in this crazy, fractured world, dancing all night beneath the lights, sweat breaking on your skin like holy water.
I remember that feeling of bliss, and there’s a twinge in my gut now where it used to reside, especially since I know I’ve been faking it in the past few months. Tears well up in my eyes, and my mouth fills with bitterness as the drug works its way into my system. I repeat the process on the other side, breathing in hard, then rub the excess over my gums. The taste in my mouth is slightly unfamiliar, like dirt, but weirdly soapy at the same time, and as I begin to wonder why, the room begins to quickly slide away from me. There’s something . . . missing in me, I hear myself murmur, the words slow and thickened.
Missing . . .
A lush, elongated feeling lengthens my muscles as I fall to the floor, my body useless and limp, my bones hijacked. I reach out for the door, my hands scrabbling at the lock, my body moving forward into empty space, fingers scratching at the metal as the room swirls away in a cyclone of red and black.
TEN
CAITLIN! WAKE UP!
I swim in and out of the light. My eyes glued shut, head stuffed with wet cotton. I feel a sting on my cheek. Who let bees in here? I try to raise my arm, but my skin sticks stubbornly to the cold tile. My eyes flutter open, false lashes scraping my cheeks. Giovanni’s face looms above me, huge and frantic, drops of sweat beading his forehead.
“Cat, are you OK? Should we call someone?” His eyes move back and forth over my face, and using what feels like all of my strength, I reach one hand up and touch his cheek, his skin like yards of satin beneath my fingertips. I lie there, marveling at the feeling of fingers on flesh. If I’ve ever felt this good before, I’ve blocked it out.
“No, no,” I say, and my voice, when it leaves my mouth, is a croak, hoarse and raspy. “I’m OK. I think I’m OK.” Giovanni moves behind me and helps me to sit up as a warm wave moves through me, flooding the core of my being. I look around and realize that I’m sitting in the middle of the bathroom floor, the lights overhead screaming like a group of meth-addled cheerleaders, Marla and Giovanni huddled around me, their faces tense.
“When you didn’t come down after a few minutes, I came up to get you, and when I walked in, Marla was pulling you out from the toilet.”
“Well, I heard you go down,” Marla jumps in, “but the door was locked, so I had to reach under and drag you out of there.” She smooths back my hair, checking for permanent damage. I reach one hand up to my head, the skin sore beneath my fingers. For the first time I realize that my head is throbbing with a slow pulse, a record played at the wrong speed. Ka-THUMP, Ka-THUMP . . . But even as my body registers the pain, the feeling immediately recedes, moving into the distance like a car pulling away from the curb and out of sight. A wave of pleasure floods my body, and I let out a low moan.
“You must’ve hit your head on the door when you fell,” Giovanni muses as I try to move away from his probing fingers. “What HAPPENED? You were only up here for ten minutes. Did Sammy give you something?” He peers into my eyes, holding me by the jaw. “Your pupils are like goddamn baseballs.”
“Yeah,” I croak, the room floating before me. Somehow, Marla’s never looked so beautiful, her hair so flaxen, almost transparent in the light, and Giovanni could be an angel, the ruffled white shirt against his skin glowing like a searchlight . . .
“Cat?” Giovanni is annoyed now, his eyes looking for answers.
“He gave me a bag,” I say slowly, “and next thing I know . . . this . . .”
I seem to be incapable of speaking in complete sentences, and every word that falls from my lips feels like a massive effort. I close my eyes briefly, and I feel arms on either side of my body, shaking me roughly awake.
“OK, you need to stand up and walk.” Giovanni and Marla pull me up, propping me against the wall for a moment. “Let me see the bag,” Giovanni commands, holding out a hand.
“I’ve got it,” Marla says reluctantly. “She dropped it when she went down.” Marla reaches into the top of her shirt, rummages around in her bra for a moment and pulls out the bag, slightly crumpled now. Giovanni grabs the bag and dips a finger in, bringing it to his lips, testing, tasting.
“This isn’t coke—it’s D.”
“Are you suuuuure?” I slur, my tongue thick and bloated between my teeth. D is what we all call heroin, as most bags are sold out of abandoned buildings on Avenue D, four blocks away from my apartment on the Lower East Side. D for downtown, D for drowsy, D for deadly. I’ve heard that the batch making its way through the clubs right now is particularly lethal, and if how I feel right now is any indication, I’d say the rumors, for once, are true. It’s as if my whole body has been completely submerged in a vat of hot honey. I’ve always been too scared to try heroin even though it’s been offered to me more than once. Now I know why—if I ever did so much as a line of this stuff ever again, I’d never want to stop.
“Cat, why would he give you this anyway? He knows you don’t do this shit!” Giovanni’s dark eyes are narrowed with anger, and he stuffs the bag in his pocket with one hand, still holding me up with the other. “C’mon,” he says, pulling me along. “Let’s go find him.”
We stumble through the crowd, my eyes spinning in their sockets like twin pinwheels, the lids fluttering closed, then snapping open again as I am jostled and moved through the club and down the stairs, Giovanni’s arm around my waist, steadying me. My feet feel like they’re floating across the floor, the blisters on my toes forgotten, and as we make our way down the basement stairs, I stumble and fall, my heel catching on the carpeting. Giovanni pulls me to my feet, and the world swings by me in a dizzying swirl as I lean against him, upright once again. Just as I’m catching my breath, Sammy passes by us on the stairs, his face split into a wide grin until he sees my expression, my unfocused stare. Giovanni grabs Sammy by the arm, pulling him over to us.
“What the fuck did you give her?” he hisses through closed teeth as Sammy’s eyes widen in their sockets. “You know she doesn’t do any fucking D!”
“I didn’t,” Sammy stammers, looking confused. “I wouldn’t . . .”
“You DID,” Giovanni says menacingly, his grip on Sammy’s arm tightening. Giovanni drops my arm to better deal with Sammy, and I lean against the wall, my head lolling on my neck. It’s so hard to keep my eyes open, even though a small crowd has gathered to watch the drama, the ai
r filled with the sound of whispers mixed with the synth crash from the DJ booth below us. Somehow nothing seems to matter—not my fucked-up family—or lack of one—not my plummeting grades, or the fact that I haven’t even begun to think about college, SATs and what I want to do with the rest of my life. All I want is to be at home, safe in my bed, quilt pulled up to my chest, the scents of fabric softener and the Nag Champa incense I sometimes burn drifting sweetly through the air . . .
“Caitlin, wake up!” Giovanni is shaking me, his hands on my shoulders. My eyes crack open, and I struggle to keep them that way, blinking slowly, trying to clear my vision.
“Look, man,” Sammy says quietly, his voice measured and pleading. “It was a mistake. I must’ve gotten the bags mixed up.” He gestures emphatically with his hands, palms open. “It’ll never happen again.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Giovanni snaps. “Before I beat the living shit out of you.”
Giovanni may be gay, but he’ll kick anyone’s ass all the way around the block if he’s angry enough.He’s always pulling back the sleeves of his shirt to show off his stupid biceps. It’s totally annoying.
Sammy smirks at Giovanni as if to say “Yeah, right,” cocking one eyebrow in disbelief. I don’t blame him since tonight, Giovanni is wearing a fishnet long-sleeved shirt and a black silk sarong he whipped up this afternoon. With his eyes outlined in black liner and a pair of long sparkling earrings hanging from his ears, he doesn’t look like he could beat me up if I challenged him to a fight, much less Sammy. Sammy shoots me an apologetic look while mouthing the word Sorry, and then makes his way up the steps, hungry eyes following his every move as his blond head grows smaller, then disappears entirely.
“C’mon, sweetie,” Giovanni sighs, grabbing me firmly around the waist, my body leaning heavily into his side. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“I can’t leave the door,” I mumble, my head resting on my chest like a broken flower.
“Fuck the door!” Giovanni snaps, pulling me along, my boots scraping on the carpet.
We stumble up the stairs and out the front door of the club, then down the steps as rain shines wetly on the streets, making them glisten like black ribbons, and tumble into a yellow cab waiting on the corner, engine idling, white plumes of smoke drifting in the night air. Once in the backseat, shivering from the cold dampness on my skin, I lean against Giovanni, my head resting on his chest as the streets blur past. My eyes flicker once, twice, candles sputtering out, then slide firmly shut as the world slips away, my dreams punctuated by the sound of windshield wipers swishing across wet glass, the whine of the engine and the beat of Giovanni’s heart.
* * * *
I AM TWO OR THREE YEARS OLD, small and slightly round, a mop of blondish-brown hair standing up all over my head in defiant cowlicks, mystified by socks, unable to get the tight cotton over the unwieldy annoyance of feet. I count my toes, forcing them clumsily into white anklets, one . . . two . . . three . . .
A sudden noise behind me, a flapping of wings, warm air moving over my skin.
Give me that!
Hands reaching out, grabbing the soft cotton from my grasp, her fingers nipping my skin like the mouth of an angry swan, socks thrown to the floor as she raises my body up and I fall into the refrigerator, my head banging against the metal door, body sagging like a discarded doll. It’s not the first time it happens, her angry hands on my skin, but it is the one I remember first.
Why can’t you DRESS yourself?
Her face close to mine, a mirrored reflection, my features superimposed on her face, looming large and monstrous. Daddy will be home soon, I tell myself. Soon Daddy will be home and maybe she won’t be mad anymore.
What is WRONG with you, Caitlin?
Hands on my shoulders, red talons, the nails digging in, and the shaking, my brain rolling around in my skull like loose pieces of a board game, unmoored in a box, my bones splintering beneath the smooth covering of my flesh.
ELEVEN
I WAKE IN A COLD SWEAT, my hair sticking to my cheek, the sheets damp and bunched up beneath me. I push the quilt off of my lower half and swing my legs around, resting my bare feet on the floor, wincing at the cold air on my toes, the room spinning wildly. My leotard and tights from last night feel plastered to my body, and the thought of a hot shower, the steaming water washing away the grime with the jasmine soap I buy in Chinatown, almost makes me groan aloud with longing. I stand up and sway in place for a minute before walking to my bedroom door and opening it with a loud creak, making my way slowly, carefully into the living room.
Giovanni is asleep on the couch, one hand thrown over his face to block out the light that peeps in through the black tarps. There is a half-eaten tuna sandwich and an untoasted strawberry Pop-Tart on the floor beside him, our shoes kicked off in a pile at the front door. I vaguely remember Giovanni making the sandwich when we first got back from the club, standing at the kitchen counter chopping celery, the room filling with the browned scent of toasting bread as I lay on the bed hugging my pillow to my chest, my eyes heavy as stone.
As water sluices over my body, images from last night flash through my brain, disjointed and out of sequence. The high is long gone, replaced by weakness and a slight nausea. I sit down in the tub, my knees drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped around them tightly until the queasiness recedes like a bad dream. By the time I emerge a few minutes later, I feel steady enough to stand underneath the heat lamp embedded in the ceiling above my head, towel-drying my hair. When I wipe the mirror over the sink down with one hand, pushing away the condensation, my face stares blankly back at me. There are black circles around my eyes, hollow and dirty with smeared eyeliner, the sockets sunken into my face like a naked skull, and I avert my gaze as I brush my teeth, scrubbing the inside of my mouth like I’m eradicating some kind of contagion. Things have got to be different today, somehow. If I can just start the morning off on the right foot, maybe it’s not too late to turn things around. I remember the cold tile against my back in the Tunnel bathroom chilling me to the bone, my skin a bluish-white. I shiver, drawing the towel more tightly against my body, and I have to sit down for a moment to make the image recede, my hands shaking.
I pad back into my bedroom, the huge black-and-white Joy Division poster over my bed looming over me. The marble angel beckons with tightly closed eyes, and I have to look away. My feet leave wet prints on the floor, and I rummage around my closet looking for anything that’s even remotely clean. I’ve missed the first three periods of the day, but with any luck, if I hurry I can make it to history. After last night, it feels important to go to school, to sit in class and dream out the window, hand cupped under one cheek, the dry, woodsy scent of paper and pencil shavings tickling my nose. All of a sudden I want someone to make me scrambled eggs for breakfast, the napkin folded just so, toast cut in precise triangles. I want someone to tuck me in at night with a warm blanket, a cup of cold milk waiting placidly on the nightstand. I long for a mother’s hand on my forehead, the soothing knowledge that everything will be OK, even if it won’t.
I step into a pair of ripped jeans and top them with a black sweater, pull on my boots, the leather broken in, comfortable as a pair of slippers. I wrap a knitted scarf around my neck, pulling my wet hair back in a ponytail. I do all this without really looking in the mirror, not wanting to confront what I know I will find there, the vacant eyes of a dead girl.
I scrawl a note for Giovanni on the back of an old invite for one of Sebastian’s parties, and after placing it on top of the half-eaten sandwich next to the couch, I grab my leather jacket and my knapsack and close the door quietly behind me. What is left behind on top of the sandwich looks like this: “See you later. Thanks for last night. I love you. C.” I’m really capable of saying those three little words only in writing—never out loud. Even writing them makes me feel like I’m squirming uncomfortably inside my own skin, trying to get out of my body before it’s too late. But when I think of the way Giovanni held me ov
er the toilet, pulling my hair back so the vomit wouldn’t get all over me when the waves of sickness began, how he sat with me on the bathroom floor for hours, propped up against the wall of white tile, his hand looped tightly in mine, I know those words belong to him. I don’t think I’ve even said them to Sara. It’s become kind of a joke between us. Whenever she leaves for a vacation with her parents, or for some summer program for gifted rich kids, she’ll hug me while I usually stand there like a piece of furniture, awkwardly bringing my arms around her torso to hug her back, patting her between the shoulder blades like I’m burping a scrawny bird. When she says, “Bye, Cat. I love you,” I quickly blurt out, “Me too” before scampering away so I don’t have to watch her figure recede as she walks away from me. For a while, Sara even started calling me Me Too, just to annoy me, as in “Hey, Me Too, want to go get Tasti D-Lite after fifth period?” Or, “Hey, Me Too, can you come over Saturday night?” Still, it’s all a pose—Sara knows I love her without my having to say a word. At least I hope she does.
I used to see this therapist on Eighty-Third and Park who told me that I probably associated touching of any kind with being hurt in some way. The therapist had flaming red hair and wore matching red rectangular glasses that reminded me of Sally Jessy Raphael, and every time I went to a session, I secretly suspected that she was doing the New York Times crossword instead of taking notes. Her expression, when she lifted her eyes from the paper in front of her, was cloudy and unfocused, as if she didn’t know who I was. But she was right about the touching. As far back as I can remember, I’ve had this tendency to flinch when people move toward me too quickly—even if it’s only for a hug. I’m like some freak that was raised by a pack of wire monkeys, scared of human contact.
By the time I get out of a cab in front of school, I’m beginning to think that coming all the way to the Upper East Side today maybe isn’t the greatest idea I’ve ever had. My nose is running, and I have that spacey feeling I always get the morning after I’ve partied way too hard. As much as I shake my head to try to clear my vision, my eyes feel disconnected from my skull. It’s as if some vital piece of connective tissue has been severed and my eyeballs are just rolling around in their sockets like so much loose gravel.
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