by Anne Heltzel
27
Aubrey
Caring—really caring deep inside, where it wells up and threatens to topple you—takes a certain amount of letting go. Staying intact—not letting yourself be toppled—means guarding your heart at least a little. So where’s the balance? How do you find the precious middle ground? I think maybe you find it in the knowledge that even if you are in a safe space, there are certain things you can’t control. I think you find it by taking risks, but the kind that are calculated—designed not to throw you headlong into danger but embraced with the knowledge that you can’t live, not really live, if you’re locked inside a crystal ball. Crystal balls break.
I watch Lena carefully as we pick our way across the market. What I didn’t tell her when we talked about going home is that I’ve made a decision. When I return to Chicago, I’m going to tell my parents what happened the night of the hit-and-run. I’m going to accept the consequences. I’m still filled with a cold fear every time I think about what I’ll have to say—and how it will hurt them—but whatever happens, it’s got to be better than continuing to run from it. Living this lie has made me hate myself; and I don’t want that, no matter what it means I have to face.
As for Adam, I’m going to have to let him go. Who would want to be with me after what I’ve done comes to light? Yet for the first time, the sadness and fear I feel don’t outweigh the relief of not having to carry my lies any longer.
The market is lovely, just a series of little boats bobbing along a narrow canal. Each vessel bursts with brightly colored fruits, spices, and flowers. Lena looks at everything with the eagerness of a kid. Her eyes glow in the same way they always have. Her enthusiasm hasn’t been dampened by the day’s events. If anything, it’s grown stronger. She is the first person I’ve ever known with such an insatiable curiosity for the world and its beautiful minutiae. Half of me expected her to self-destruct when Dana told us what Charlie had said. This whole time, Lena’s been impulsive, borderline reckless. But now in addition to the way she embraces everything, she’s looking measured. Even the way she picks up the fruits and vegetables, turns over a starfruit in her palm to examine it for imperfections, demonstrates a difference in her demeanor.
We’re all mirrors to some extent, I remind myself. It’s something I read somewhere and forgot until now, mostly because until now, I’ve surrounded myself with people like me. Even Charlie was like me for a while, the me I thought I should strive to be, anyway: smart and stable and presentable. A walking résumé. Now I’m not so sure. Everything has been called into question. If we’re mirrors, I’m seeing reflections of myself in Lena and of her in me, and I’m liking what I see and how it makes me feel.
It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt an unaccustomed sort of passion bubbling beneath the surface. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt fearless, especially in the face of so much to fear. The new intensity overwhelms me. I have to bite back all the emotions that work their way to the surface. They lie just beneath my rib cage, threatening to spill out. Every second is charged. I can sense it, feel it. The air is thick with it. A man floats by in a boat laden with bunches of yellow flowers that look almost as delicate as lace.
“Ratchaphruek,” Lena tells me. “It’s the national flower of Thailand.”
“How do you know that?” I ask her. She just shrugs.
“I like beautiful things.”
Among the ratchaphruek, I recognize orchids in all their firm, solid extravagance. It’s growing dark quickly, and some of the boats are alight with candles, though others pull aside and shut down for the day. Lena waves to one woman whose signage trumpets coconut pancakes, and I realize it’s been hours since we’ve eaten. Lena uses what little cash we have left to buy two pancakes and a small paper basket of grilled shrimp. We sit in silence along the edge of the canal, eating our modest dinner as the market vendors close up shop. I glance at my watch.
“How long?” Lena asks softly.
“It’s just after nine,” I tell her. “I’d say we have until about two, two thirty, to amuse ourselves before we leave for the airport. What’s up next?” I want the night to be everything she wants it to be. I’m surprised to find that I don’t want it to end. The dreaded eight-eighteen—the date Charlie hinted at on his fake suicide note—lies unspoken between us, its import too dreadful to discuss.
“I’m up,” she says. “My turn to ask.” She polishes off her pancake, wrapping the last bit of shrimp inside it like a taco. “I’m waiting.”
“For . . . ?”
“You pick.” Right. I’d forgotten the rules of our little game.
“Okay.” I scan the crowd. There are hundreds of tourists around us, but what are they going to say? This market was a good recommendation, but I think I lucked out—most visitors, like us, don’t know what they’re doing here. They’ve read some article in the New York Times or looked up a list of must-dos on TripAdvisor, and they feel equipped to explore and come back with a grownup scout badge on their metaphorical vest of achievements. Nope, for our next experience, we need a local. Once I’ve decided what I’m looking for, I spot my girl right away. She’s standing nearby and seems curious about us too; she keeps glancing in our direction and smiling.
“That one,” I say. She’s perfect, about our age and stylish, leaning against a stall of decorative lights, their bulbs twinkling brightly against the night sky. She’s making eye contact. She looks approachable but also like she belongs there, maybe like she’s the owner or the owner’s daughter.
“Nice choice,” Lena says. “And if she doesn’t speak English?”
“She will,” I say. I’m not sure why I say this. I realize I’m making all kinds of assumptions based on appearance, but the girl has the same adventuresome glint in her eyes that initially drew me to Lena. Lena may not know Thai, but she knows basically all of the Romance languages . . . at least according to her. I think it’s a safe bet that this girl knows what she’s doing, has been around and seen some things and knows some stuff. Seeing us staring, she smiles again and motions me over. I roll my eyes in Lena’s direction; I’m sure she’s going to try to sell us something, but at least she’s friendly.
Lena stands up and brushes off her pants. I watch as she approaches the girl. Unlike Lena, our new friend has a long mane of thick dark hair. She’s slim with high cheekbones, and black eyeliner makes her eyes look wide. Lena’s back is to me, but I can read the other girl’s expression. At first her brows furrow, and then she breaks out in a wide grin and nods with enthusiasm. The two talk animatedly for a couple of minutes longer, the Thai girl gesturing with her hands. I’m growing curious, so I join them. Lena is nodding in response to something the girl is saying as I approach. The two almost look like twins from the way Lena is standing, slight and lanky in her jeans.
“Aubrey!” Lena exclaims. “Charanya here is going to take us to a karaoke bar!”
“Okay,” I say slowly. I’m not sure how I feel about this random girl tagging along, but maybe it’s not that big a deal. Maybe it’ll be fun. Great, even. So why is a prominent part of me bristling at the idea of someone joining us on what I’ve come to consider an important night for the two of us?
“Charanya’s from here,” Lena says. “But she studied at NYU. She just graduated.”
“Hi,” says the languid Charanya, extending one hand in my direction while the other busies itself with a cigarette. Almost as soon as I take it she snatches it away, as if it’s something breakable that I can’t be trusted with. She looks me up and down slowly, then turns and saunters away, beckoning to us over her shoulder as she calls out something in Thai to the man behind the booth. In contrast to our worn and dirty clothes, Charanya is wearing a simple white T-shirt, distressed pegged jeans, and low black heels that fasten with an ankle strap.
“I go by Cha-cha,” she tells us, as we hurry along after her in the busy, thronged streets. It’s hard to keep sight of her in the night, and I find myself exchanging a look with Lena as if to say
, “What the hell have you done this time?” At least I hope that’s what it conveys. But Lena’s pepped up, high on something like fear, if I had to guess. We have four hours. Four hours to kill until she is—we are—presumably safe on a plane. But what if our efforts to evade Charlie before that are in vain? There have been so many surprises thus far that I can’t discount the possibility that both of us are in danger, not just Lena, and that our plan isn’t foolproof.
“What?” Lena shoots me an irritated look. “She’s a local. This is fun. This is what we’re supposed to be doing.” I look closer and her smile, while wide, seems off. Something’s not right. I’m losing her. Instead of arguing I hurry after her, anxiety building in my stomach. I think back to what she told me when we first met. I say yes a lot. Sometimes to my detriment. I think about what this means. How often it’s gotten her into trouble. How it’s played a role on this trip. How Charlie probably knew to anticipate it. She’s not defying habit. She’s being the old Lena, wild and tempestuous and careless. Something’s not right. I have to remind myself three times that I selected Cha-cha. She did not find us. Everything will be okay. Still, with everything that’s happened, I’m reluctant to trust anyone.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whisper, but Lena just waves off my question with an intolerant sigh. Then she quickens her step to match Cha-cha’s, and we’re turning down one dark alley after another until I no longer remember which way we came from, or how to get back to the main road where we could find a cab. Finally we turn into a low-lying, unmarked building. I hesitate until Lena ducks inside, then pops back out to motion me forward. It’s nearly ten p.m.
“Let’s do this,” she says. Cha-cha’s already in there, putting in a request with the DJ. Eerily, Western pop is blaring through the speakers in the form of Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus, and Taylor Swift. Party in the USA is blaring loudly, and two Caucasian guys are rocking out to it, slurring the lyrics about half a beat after they’re due. “I don’t know about you,” Lena confides, “but I’m a huge fan of any song that rhymes ‘crazy’ and ‘famous.’” I laugh. It’s ridiculous; she’s right. Lena walks to the bar and orders shots and hands me one and I decide, To hell with it. I can’t control old Lena but I can control old Aubrey, and who I don’t want her to be, even if I’m not sure yet who I do want her to be.
I take the shot, only mildly bothered that this tab is going on my credit card, with its rapidly waning credit. Lena takes hers and goes back for another one, and alarm bells go off. “Take it easy, okay?” I caution.
“Live a little, Aubrey,” Lena says, tossing her head impetuously, her hair streaming down her back. “That’s what we’re supposed to be doing tonight, isn’t it? Just say yes.” She takes my face between her hands and holds it there. “You’re so beautiful, Aubrey. Just say yes to everything for a while.”
It sounds dangerous. But I do it anyway. I nod, my face still inside her palms. Lena lets go when the bartender delivers the receipt; she signs my name and pockets the paper, waggling the credit card in my direction. “For later,” she tells me, smiling broadly. Then she pockets my card, too, and I try not to worry about what she plans to use it for. I watch her climb on top of the bar and I lean my head backwards, staring at the ceiling, allowing everything to roll off me as the music plays. When I put my head down, everything’s different. I’ve let go.
Letting go is a hard thing. It makes you feel vulnerable. But this is not to be mistaken for weakness. It takes strength to be vulnerable. That is what I’ve learned from Lena.
I don’t want to drink too much. I’m not used to it, and tonight I need to maintain control. I sip on a sparkling water and watch her dance onstage with Cha-cha, this girl we met only an hour or so ago. Lena is beautiful up there, fearless, raw, her blond hair streaming about. It’s what makes her so lovely. It’s, I’m sure, why Charlie loved her. Why another guy will love her again someday, someone far more worthy, I hope, than he was. She deserves that.
“You didn’t see me, I was falling apart . . .” The National plays as Lena leans into Charanya and sways, unsteady on her feet. I sit by myself at the bar, watching them. Watching her, watching over her. My watch says 10:37 p.m.
It can’t be right. That’s so early—we’ve been here for at least an hour. I look closer. My watch has stopped, for sure. The second hand is barely limping along. I’m overcome by the sudden, irrepressible need to know how much time is left. How much time is left to expire before we can consider ourselves safe. Lena stumbles onstage and almost falls. I stopped counting after her third shot. She must have had at least one or two more. Charanya, just as drunk, supports her with one arm. A jolt of suspicion rocks my frame. Who is this girl, and why is she here? What would cause her to leave her job in the middle of the evening to come with us? Just a wanton desire to get drunk on our dime? Or something much worse?
Fear wends its way up my spine, wraps its bony fingers around the base of my neck, and squeezes hard until I’m choking. I can barely breathe. The air in the room feels heavy, the room feels smaller than before, and I need to leave. I have to. I run up onstage and grab Lena, hoisting her arms around my shoulders and prying her away from the leech who is trying to grab her back. The faces around me look sinister, and it occurs to me that I may be feeling that first shot and may be acting irrationally.
But maybes are enough to warrant action in this distorted world, where suddenly every minute and every person can attain heightened significance. Lena and I meet eyes at the end of a song, a Bruce Springsteen ode to Youngstown, “them smokestacks reaching like the arms of God / Into a beautiful sky of soot and clay,” and I’m so nostalgic for home, and so afraid of what’s about to happen, that I almost burst into tears. Seeing me, Lena has something register in her own mind, and her distant expression shifts into something more present. She yanks away from me and jumps off the stage rather than taking the stairs, a move that nearly results in her collapse. I hurry after her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says desperately, her eyes wild. “I’m sorry for dragging you out here. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me now. You’d be okay if it weren’t for me.”
“I still am okay,” I tell her. “Listen. None of this is your fault.” It’s not entirely true but it’s what she needs to hear, and I steer her toward the bathroom and past the stares of everyone around us, male and female alike. Once in the stall, she loses it. I follow her in. She cries hard, her face buried in a mound of toilet paper. She’s perched on the lid of a toilet, apparently unconcerned by the stains that mar it.
“I’m sorry it’s been so hard for you, Lena,” I say, crouching in front of her. Part of me feels like I’ve done a bad job of expressing just how much I’ll care if I lose her. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could make this different, you know that, right?”
“I know,” she says, sobbing. She leans her head on my shoulder, crying into it. “I know. I’m sorry. I wanted tonight to be great. I wanted it to be extraordinary. I wanted you to see things differently after tonight.”
“I see the entire world differently because of you,” I say, and I mean it. “Three weeks ago, I was just, what, a random girl in Illinois who’d seen nothing and done nothing and it didn’t matter, because I was just closed up inside my bubble. And now I want to see everything and experience everything. I know I can’t have it, but at least I want it. I’d rather want what I can’t have than never know any better. You’re the cause of that. I swear to God, Lena. No matter what happens, you opened my eyes.”
Lena laughs a little through her snot and tears, and I realize how ridiculously sentimental I sound. Then she looks down at her wrist, where the lamb tattoo is just poking out from under her bangles, a black scribble for all to see. She pulls off the bracelets and scratches at her skin, almost as if she wants to scrape off the tattoo itself. She scratches harder, and her skin turns red and raw. I grab her hand to stop her.
“Cut it out,” I tell her. “You’re hurting yourself.” But she jerks away, scraping furiously
at her skin.
“Lena! Stop! You’re going to make yourself bleed.” I pull her hand away and this time she doesn’t resist.
“I want it gone,” she tells me. “I don’t want any sign of him left on me.”
“So we’ll fix it,” I tell her. “But you’re making it worse this way.”
“I want it gone now.”
I clutch her hands in mine, holding them steady so she can’t hurt herself again. “We’ll go tonight. We’ll go right now, if we have time. We’ll cover it up with something new.” Lena nods and grabs for some toilet paper. She blows her nose hard and presses at her forehead with her index fingers, steadying herself.
“Okay,” she says. She looks tired, like a balloon that’s been popped. All of her manic energy from earlier has drained out of her. “And then I’m ready to go home. I’m tired of this. I just want to go home.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” I’m overcome with relief. The thought of being in the airport is soothing.
“Just give me a second,” she says. “I need to pee and clean up a little.” She points at her soggy face. “I want to splash some water on my face. Wait outside?”
“I’ll go find us a cab. You meet me out front.” Lena gives me a shaky thumbs-up and I push out of the tiny stall and make my way through the congested bar. I don’t see Cha-cha anywhere. Somehow her absence feels reassuring.
It takes me less than a minute to flag a taxi. I slide into the back seat and ask if the driver knows English. He makes a “so-so” gesture with his hands, so I hold up my finger and say, “Just a minute.” The clock on his dash reads three minutes past midnight. It’s the day when Lena is supposed to die. I find myself squirming in the back seat as I wait.
Three more minutes go by and I tell myself to calm down. Lena’s probably adjusting her mascara or something—knowing her, she’s had a spare tube in her back pocket this whole time. I smile to myself as I picture her making her way through our misadventures in Kerala and Bangkok, mascara intact. But as much as I tell myself that things are okay, I can’t stop feeling antsy. It doesn’t help that the driver is sighing and glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds. At ten past midnight, I ask him to wait while I step out.