“When did this happen?” My heart sped up like a tape stuck on fast forward. Maybe I didn’t really want to know.
Snooty Guy was leaning over a case of pendants, eyes cemented to us, chin cradled in hand, his thin lips curled up in an amused smile. What a jerk—he was enjoying this.
John looked down at something on the floor. He scratched his head. His voice cracked a little when he finally answered, “Three months before you and I broke up.”
“I’m sorry, three months?” I was chocking on my words. “You cheated on me—with my sister—for three whole months?”
“I know. I’m slime. I’m worse than slime, I’m…” A list of expletives came to my mind. His face twisted up in pain. He was angry at himself. I wasn’t surprised. John liked to follow all the rules, do everything the right way. Cheating on a girlfriend was out of character for him. “I feel bad. I’ve felt bad for months. But your sister and I…You can’t help who you love, September.”
“Right.” You can’t help who you love, huh? You poor, helpless guy. I wanted to smack him but I refrained. “Why did you kiss me then? Why did you come over after the accident and kiss me?”
“I know. It was wrong. April and I had a big fight and well, the truth is I missed you. We were together for so long.”
Nine months, I thought. Only apparently three of them didn’t count because you were slobbering all over my sister. Ughhh. “You can’t—you can’t have it both ways. You can’t come running to me whenever you and April—”
“I know, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You really hurt me, John. My sister. I can’t believe it.” Was I shrinking? Every minute I felt a little bit smaller.
“You’ll find someone soon, Tember. You’ll find yourself a nice arsty-fartsy boy and travel the world.”
Now he was patronizing me. What a pig. What a stupid, freaking pig. I hated him then. As much as I hated the man who killed Abby. I threw my hands in the air. I couldn’t take anymore. I said, “You know what? I hope you’ll be happy. You and April both. Welcome to the family, John.” I turned then, fearing he’d see the tears escaping my eyes.
“Tember, wait—”
I didn’t care that everyone was watching—I couldn’t keep my composure any longer. I fled the store like a frightened little rodent.
7
Blinded by my tears, I zigzagged my way to a convenience store bathroom and locked myself in a nasty smelling stall. I let myself go and sobbed like I never had before. A desperate, frantic, heaving cry. I didn’t care who could hear me. I cried until my stomach muscles burned, until my head throbbed. It felt like I was in there for hours. A small handful of women came in to reapply lipstick or use a toilet and two of them asked me if I was okay. I lied and said I was. What else was I supposed to say? I quieted down until I was sure they were gone.
I blew my nose a few times and dabbed the mascara trails on my cheeks. I fished a pen and my grief diary from my purse. After studying the Van Gogh painting I scribbled a few lines:
Abby,
Where the hell are you? Why did you leave me? You promised me you’d always be there for me. I don’t know who I am without you. I’m lost. So, so, so lost.
I shoved the book back into my purse and sat on the hard, cold toilet seat for awhile. I reminisced. I thought of the first time I saw Abby, in second grade. She was missing her two bottom front teeth. Two yam-colored braids dangled over her bony shoulders. She wore a Tinkerbell dress, one she begged her parents to buy her for Halloween the previous year. But she wasn’t a girlie-girl. She was feisty and she was messy and she was boyish. A tough girl in a fairy dress.
I was the new girl in school and Isaac, a boy with the biggest feet I’d ever seen on a kid, chased me at recess, stomping on my brand new Mary Jane shoes, using me as a target for spit bombs, calling me a baby when I began to cry. Abby saved me that day. She stopped Big Foot dead in his tracks. She threatened to tell the whole second grade he peed his pants the first day of Kindergarten if he ever bothered me again.
I thought of the time she broke her arm roller skating. I felt so protective of her, I even cried sympathy tears, but she just sat and gritted her teeth like the tough little girl she was.
She didn’t take crap from boys. When she found out her first boyfriend Brandon Westmoreland cheated on her, she swiped the ketchup and mustard bottles from the school cafeteria and painted his entire front side with the red and yellow condiments.
Abby was adventurous. Unlike me, she was never afraid to experiment with her hair or try weird seafood or rock climb or bungee jump or go on a thirty day raw vegan cleanse. I’d always envied that part of her. She was larger than life. Like a Hollywood star. Someone you couldn’t imagine doing something as mundane as laundry. Of course, living with her, I saw her do all sorts of mundane things, but she did even those in a cool/quirky/cute way.
It will be forever tattooed in my brain the day she announced, in front of our entire career class, she wanted to be a rock star. It was the first day of eighth grade. Junior high—the time when kids caring what others think sky rockets. Mrs. Berger asked each of us to introduce ourselves and say what we wanted to be when we grew up. I heard lots of the usual stuff: nurse, scientist, preschool teacher, vet, stay-at-home mom. But Abby, whether intentionally or not, let the truth spill like a bag of marbles. “My name’s Abby Irvine and I want to be a rock star,” she’d said with a kind of confidence I’ll always envy. The dream of being famous one day is a delicate thing. A thing to safely tuck away and maybe share with a few close, trusted friends. It could be extinguished by those who meant well but didn’t understand, a blanket over a timid flame. I didn’t have that same fearlessness. I would not, in a million years, announce matter-of-factly I hoped to be a hot-shot photographer one day. So I wasn’t a bit surprised when a rush of giggles and snickers filled the room. Mrs. Berger said, “That’s nice, dear. But maybe you should have a back-up plan. Something practical.” Mike Garcia yelled out, “Yeah, right. Like you’d ever become a rock star. You’re more likely to be hit by lightening. Loser!” Soon the entire class chanted “Lo-ser! Lo-ser! Lo-ser!” until Abby was on the verge of tears (she was tough but not bulletproof) and Mrs. Berger slammed her attendance log and yelled, “That’s enough!” My turn was next. I did what any best friend would do in the situation despite being so nervous I nearly puked—I committed social suicide and said, “My name is September Jones and I want to be a fairy princess.” I didn’t hear the end of it until Cassandra Abraham’s D-cup bra broke in co-ed PE a week later.
I gathered fistfuls of toilet paper and mopped up the tears and snot hanging from my nose. I noticed these words scribbled on the wall in purple ink: It’s not like you have anything better to read. (True.) And then with a sharpie on another wall: I feel like this is the only mark I’ll ever make in the world. (Sad.) And then in pencil: Do you idealize the past or see it as broken? (I’m definitely guilty of idealizing.) Someone wrote in reply: I’m just trying to take a dump. (Funny.)
I pulled out my own pen and scrawled: My best friend’s dead.
I thought awhile about the idealizing the past bit. I smiled, realizing things I hated about Abby were endearing to me now. Now that she was gone. The way she’d always lose her keys and blame it on me. The way she’d shake her leg when we watched movies, rocking the whole couch. Her nervous ticks: chewing gum with her mouth open, pawing through her hair to find and chomp off split ends. Her flaky side: borrowing my clothes and forgetting to wash and return them, committing to quality time then crashing parties instead, showing up reliably late for everything.
My tear ducts dried up the same time my stomach protested in hunger. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was 6:39 PM now. I toyed with the idea of buying a few groceries. At home the choices were sparse—peanut butter, mayonnaise, six saltine crackers (yes, I counted) and Abby’s ginger ale, of course. But when I saw my face in the compact mirror, I wanted to scream. It was as red and blotchy as meat-lover�
�s pizza and my eyes were nearly swollen shut. I looked like I’d gone a few rounds in a boxing ring.
I considered staying in that nasty restroom stall forever, living off the breath mints and stale animal crackers in my purse.
***
After the John incident, I didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks. Every day I sat on the sagging couch and watched the hair on my legs grow. For the first time in my life, I went a full eleven days without bathing. When my head began to itch like mad, I envisioned all sorts of scary bugs I was sure had made a home in my hair. I finally summoned the strength to take a long, scalding shower (convinced the searing water would kill the tenants in my hair). After bathing, I was weak and drowsy and my muscles ached. Just washing my hair alone caused my arms to feel like they would fall off. I finally threw my soiled clothes into the hamper. The Depeche Mode shirt and boxers were stiff as cardboard and smelled like road kill. I traded them for Abby’s vintage Princess Bride tee and my own sweat bottoms.
Rose, my shrink, called twice, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up. Janice from work called every day, leaving me a message. At first she was angry, but after a week I could hear concern in her tone. I wanted to pick up, tell her why I’d deserted her. But how do you explain it? “I’m sorry. I can’t come to work. The boy I loved is marrying my sister and my best friend is dead.” Who would believe that story? I may as well throw in that my mom broke her back and my house was robbed. I was kidnapped by aliens. Michael Jackson is back from the dead and asked me to star in his next music video.
After a week and a half she left a message, firing me and added, “You’d have to be dead to get your job back.” That last part made me laugh and laugh and laugh. You see, grief does funny things to people. When I wasn’t in a zombie-like stupor, I was crying and when I wasn’t crying, I was laughing like a deranged woman.
I craved chow mein noodles like a blues singer craves his ex and ordered them every night. I made the cute Chinese take-out boy rich with tips. (My folks sent me a check for a couple thousand bucks. They believe shopping could cure all ills.) My Twinkie stash dwindled. I forced myself to have no more than one a day. I cheated twice. I had only six beloved Twinkies left. Once they were gone, I wasn’t buying more. I had to kick the habit—I wasn’t going to let myself get fat again. (Did the nearby convenience store sell Twinkie patches?)
The TV became my new best friend. I watched all sorts of sitcoms, talk shows, fashion shows, travel logs. The nature channel became strangely soothing. I watched three documentaries on elephants and they are now my favorite animal. I saw four on sharks. Two told explicit real-life stories of perfectly nice, unsuspecting people torn to pieces by the devilish creatures. One was about a surfer girl who lost her arm. I wondered how it would feel knowing a large part of my body became a sea monster’s lunch. They say you are what you eat. The shark would then be part me. Creepy. I wasn’t sure I’d ever set a toe in the ocean again. I also watched a half a dozen home style shows. By now I had the equivalent of an associate’s degree in home design. I couldn’t wait to arrange my furniture in a harmonious Feng Shui fashion, paint my living room walls lemon yellow, add splashes of green with dozens of exotic plants.
I managed to write in my diary once during this bout of depression:
Dear Abby,
You suck for leaving me! I hate you.
(Okay, you know I don’t hate you.)
***
I dreamed of Abby every night. Three times I dreamed of her, John and me looking down the mouth of the Grand Canyon. They would take each other by the hand and jump, falling, for what felt like forever, down the endless red abyss, leaving me behind, alone. Each time I woke up screaming, followed by violent sobbing. They left me. They were gone. I missed John, but mostly I was mad at him. But I ached for Abby. Sometimes I missed her so much, it hurt to breathe.
When my Twinkie stash ran out, it gave me the much needed kick in the butt to finally rejoin civilization, because I decided I wouldn’t be able to quit cold-turkey. I’d have to buy more.
I took a long, tepid bath, using aroma therapy oils. I shaved my caterpillar legs. I gave my pores a deep cleanse with a Dead Sea black mud mask. The dead part comforted me. No sharks would be popping out of the jar. I stocked up on all sorts of fruits and veggies from every color of the rainbow. Mom would be proud. I went to see my therapist. “You’re having panic attacks,” Rose said after I told her about my breathing problems. She scribbled a prescription for generic-brand anxiety pills. I started doing squats and lunges to undo the binging damage—the bathroom scales smugly informed me of a six pound weight gain. I called NYU, where I’d planned to start my secondary education this fall and told them I wouldn’t be able to attend until January and would that be a problem? Because I needed to sort things out. I even bought a nice bamboo plant housed in a ceramic elephant to sit in the living room windowsill.
When my last minuscule paycheck arrived in the mail, I knew it was time to go job hunting. I still had the check from my car insurance stashed away somewhere, but I knew if I cashed it, it would be gone in no time. I decided to hang onto the money until I collected the courage to drive again, which would be soon (hopefully). My electric and phone bills loomed over me like giant, hungry spiders and I was dangerously close to losing my apartment. And then there was the roommate issue I managed to largely ignore up until now. The truth: rent was killing me. While I did live in East Williamsburg, an industrial neighborhood in Brooklyn, a place starving artists and musicians flocked to, attracted to the cheaper rent, I still struggled to scrape by and that was with Abby paying half the rent.
Just as I began looking for a roommate in the classifieds, there was an eerie knock on the door. It was very Edgar Allan Poe. My first thought was: It must be Hannah. She was back to claim the scrapbooks and guitar I’d stolen. I never would’ve guessed, not in a million years, who was on the other side of my grimy apartment door.
“Mary?” There she was: Abby’s other best friend, my arch enemy, armed with an old suit case, a grocery sack crammed with clothes, a sleeping bag and a pillow. Her zebra hair—alternating chunks of black and white—was tied back in a messy knot and heavy crimson lipstick colored her pretzel shaped lips.
“Hello, Abby’s friend,” she said, dropping the sack of clothes. She smelled faintly of hairspray, musky perfume and pot.
“Having you been smoking pot? What are you doing here?”
Tiger strutted into the room, wondering the same thing, his pale green eyes inquisitive. Tiger remembered Mary. Mary was around a lot. Usually when I was gone, at work or out with John.
“I don’t do pot. My roommates did. Drugs are stupid.” She squatted in her black velvet dress to greet Tiger on her level, scratch his furry neck. Tiger purred in appreciation. Mary purred back.
“Okay, okay. Good. But what do you think you’re doing here? For Abby I’ll let you stay for one night, okay? Just one—”
“I’m moving in.”
“Excuse me?”
Mary grabbed the sack and brushed past me, sneaking in like a yucky street rodent.
“Tiger, there’s an invader in our home. Attack!” I said. Tiger looked bored with the idea and curled up in a perfect circle on the recliner, ready for another nap. Maybe I needed to get a dog. A watch dog.
Mary wandered down the hall, her boots clunking against the wood floor, peeked into Abby’s old room, backtracked to my old room and dropped her stuff inside the door. “You moved things around.”
“What happened to your old place?”
“Got kicked out,” she said nonchalantly, plopping down on the couch.
Should I have bothered to ask why they kicked her out? “Um, you can’t live here.”
She shrugged, made bored clicking noises with her tongue. “Sure I can.”
“No, you can’t,” I said firmly, hands on hips.
“You need rent money, don’t you?” She began digging through her purse.
“Yeah, I guess.”
&n
bsp; “Okay, then.” More digging. She began tossing things onto the couch. Dark lipsticks. Tissues. A wallet covered in lace and metal studs. An old iPod. Scissors. Hair spray. A little Emily the Strange doll. How much crap did she keep in there? She was worse than Abby.
I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Rent money. I needed some pronto. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to let Mary stay for a few days. “Do you have money? I’ll need some up front.”
She found what she was apparently looking for. A white envelope. She ripped it open, pulled out some cash. Counted the weathered bills and handed it all over. I wasn’t going to ask how she got it. “There’s more where that came from. Just give me a few days.”
“Fine,” I said, snatching the money.
“What’re you eating?” She grabbed my box of cold chow mein noodles and finished them off, making soft growling sounds. Noises of contentment.
Reluctantly I sat beside her on the couch, keeping plenty of space between us. I flipped on the TV. The nature channel filled the screen, specifically animal’s mating rituals. Mary laughed her loud obnoxious laugh when a male white rhino mounted the female.
Ten minutes into the show Mary looked over and said, “I miss her.”
It surprised me. Mary and I weren’t in the habit of swapping feelings. Actually, over the years we’d exchanged few words. Less than a teacup full. I sighed, shoved my hands under my thighs. “I do, too. I miss her a lot.”
Pictures of You Page 5