The Blurry Years

by Eleanor Kriseman

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t need your fucking pity.” I didn’t even turn to see the expression on her face when I walked out.

  I was driving Andie’s car because I could hold my alcohol the best out of the three of us, even though I was the skinniest. That was another thing I pretended not to care about but really did. I wasn’t a lightweight.

  The sun warmed my left arm through the driver’s side window. I wanted to be at Andie’s already and I wanted to drive along the water with the setting sun and my two friends forever. We were getting close. There was beer in the fridge and liquor in the cabinet. We had couches and empty rooms. It was a Saturday night.

  It didn’t feel like a problem at the time, and I don’t think I ever called it what it was. I never got skinny enough to where I looked like I was starving, never stopped getting my period. Anorexia was for the rich girls anyway, the ones who sat hunched over miserably at the corner table in the cafeteria, the bony bumps down their spine visible underneath their tank tops. The ones who packed carrot sticks and celery stalks for lunch, dipping them listlessly into impossibly small containers of ranch dressing. That wasn’t the way I operated. I didn’t eat much, but I ate what I wanted when I wanted, so sometimes throwing up just seemed like the best idea. It was direct, easier, sloppy—no planning involved. I could fix a mistake just like that, instead of trying every goddamn hour of the day not to make any mistakes at all.

  If I threw up, I could have it both ways, eat a whole small pizza at work, happy and drunk, without even noticing. Then I could take a smoke break, lock myself in the family bathroom, and stick my finger down my throat, keeping it there until my gut roiled and every half-digested slice of Italiansausageextracheesewelldone came back up in chunks, sometimes so freshly consumed that it even tasted good on the way back up, in a way that only vaguely disgusted me. Afterward, my throat was a little sore, but it didn’t matter, because I was empty again, ready for more—ready for anything.

  Whenever my manager, Corey, talked about women in front of me, he’d preface his remarks with an apology. “No offense, Callie. So, Mike, listen—I fucked this chick in the bathroom at 600 North last night, and we almost broke the sink,” he’d say, shoving the paddle into the oven to remove a pizza, or switch it to another shelf. Beads of sweat from the heat formed along his hairline. His forearms were red, flushed from the heat of the oven. “I’m not offended,” I’d tell him, and I wasn’t. I thought I was better than the girls Corey talked about, which was arrogant and ultimately untrue. Corey was the kind of man who took the newspaper with him to the bathroom at the restaurant and told everyone, “Hold my calls—I’ll be a while.” I thought I was better than these men because I knew when to be ashamed of myself. Even that turned out to be untrue.

  There were so many pathetic men working at that restaurant that sleeping with some of them almost felt like doing them a favor. And if they slipped their tips in the back pocket of my jeans at the end of their shift, I didn’t complain. Mitch was a driver in his mid-forties. He wore gym shorts that he’d won in a contest at a strip club, the name of the club embroidered on the bottom corner of the left leg. I didn’t ask what he’d done to win them but after I fucked him in his car in the apartment parking lot next to the restaurant he started wearing them a lot more often. He didn’t even have to unbutton anything, just slip them down. Mitch was also a substitute teacher at my school. He never subbed any of my classes, but once I saw him in the hall. He was about to say hi, but I was with Andie and Dawn and made it clear that I would pretend I had never seen him in my life. Out of a sense of competition—not dignity—we only talked about the hot ones, the ones we had to work for, somewhat. Mitch was not one of those men.

  Andie still had parties at her mom’s house all the time. But they were smaller now, and most of the guys who came, if they’d gone to our high school, had graduated long ago. The boys we went to high school with had no potential but they still had a chance to become something, especially if they were rich—they’d take over their fathers’ companies, somehow graduate with a two-year degree and make money through pyramid schemes that only idiots fell for.

  The men we invited over had demonstrated years ago that they had no potential, and their chances were up. These men were infinitely more interesting to us. It was so much easier to manipulate a thirty-five-year-old man who still lived with his brother over a bar into giving you what you wanted than it was to get an eighteen-year-old boy, one who thought he was going places, to do anything for you.

  My mom was dating the manager of the Oasis now. She was barely ever home, and if she was, she was so wasted she barely even knew who I was. “Frank, this is, this is my daughter and I love her and—” She couldn’t even remember my name. But she left me alone. And she didn’t make me drink with her anymore. And for that, I could not thank Frank enough, no matter how many lingering glances he gave me before they disappeared into her room.

  Most of the time it didn’t bother me. Most of the time I was drunk, happy, drifting, flirting with customers over the phone or deep into a book or wiping my mouth after swallowing, concealing the half-smile that came with knowing I’d just given some loser the best blow job of his life. But sometimes when I was sober and alone at the apartment I cycled through all of the grimy bathrooms, the filthy bedrooms, the messy backseats of shitty old cars, and everything I’d done inside them.

  It was like how dust gathered in the corners of a room, and you didn’t notice it or think about it until one day you decided to move the furniture or something and then it was all there, clumped and dirty, and no matter how many times you tried to sweep it all up there was always a little bit that wouldn’t go away and you had to sweep it back under the sofa where it was before but now you knew it was there, and the floor always felt gritty under your feet from then on.

  16

  I don’t know if she would apologize for it if she knew where I was, or how to get in touch with me. I mean, a real apology, one that makes it clear that she understands what she did and what it did to me. But she won’t get that chance. I won’t give it to her.

  Last I heard from Carmen, who worked with my mom at the Oasis, my mom was in AA—again—but it was sticking this time, apparently. Frank wasn’t there anymore, but my mom still was, diligently refusing any pre-, during-, and post-work drink offers, which is hard to do at a restaurant, especially one like the Oasis. I trusted Carmen to tell me the truth. I also trusted her not to tell my mom where I was.

  I’d pulled a disappearing trick, just like my mom had done so many times before. That was one trait I hadn’t expected to inherit.

  I could say it was alcohol that made her do it, and I might be right. But the worst part of it is I think she would have had it in her to do it stone-cold sober. And I wonder if that’s the kind of person I’m going to turn out to be. Marcus says it’s not. He says if you grow up with shitty parents you become the kind of person you wish your parents had been. I hope he’s right. I mean, I think that’s bullshit about a lot of people, but I hope he’s right about me.

  I wasn’t even supposed to be home that night. Andie and Dawn and I had plans to get shitfaced with a few guys who worked at our favorite bars downtown. They were fun, but mostly we were hoping that if they got to know us a little bit, we wouldn’t have to show IDs anymore when they were working. But Andie’s mom only got as far as the airport before she turned around and came right back, crying, and without a job—her boss’s wife had found out about their affair, which was news both to her boss’s wife and to Andie. “Don’t come over,” Andie said over the phone to me and Dawn. “It’ll just make things worse. Just—call those guys, tell them we’ll hang out another time.” So I was home on a Friday night for the first time in a while.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself when I was alone, really. I hated being alone. All I could think about were bad things. If I was alone I did everything in my power to distract myself. Half the time that involved whatever alcohol my mom had laying aro
und but just as often it involved a book. The library wasn’t far from our apartment, and I’d just discovered John Cheever and Raymond Carver and it felt good to read about someone else’s fucked up life rather than think about my own. So that’s what I was doing, sober, when my mom and Frank stumbled into the living room, wild-eyed and talking loud and grasping onto each other like they were running a three-legged race. I sat up, tossed my book to the side, gave them a nod.

  “Oh, hon, I thought you were going to be out tonight!” my mom said. “We were just gonna have some drinks here, a little party for two. We won’t keep you up though. We can go in the bedroom.” My bed was still the pull-out couch in the living room. The apartment was so small I knew I’d hear them wherever they were.

  “No, it’s okay,” I said, gathering my book and my bowl of mac and cheese. “I’ll just sleep in your room tonight. You guys can have the rest of the apartment.” Just a couple more months, I reminded myself, but then I thought, a couple more months until what? I’d effectively alienated my guidance counselor, I hadn’t applied to any colleges, and I wasn’t even sure I could switch to full-time at the restaurant after I graduated. I had money saved, but nothing crazy. Graduation was in just a couple months. And then what?

  “You’re the best, Cal,” she slurred, dragging Frank down onto the couch. Frank’s balding head shone under the lamp on the side table. I wasn’t sure why she was dating him, but then again, I wasn’t sure why she’d dated any of the men she brought home. Except for Daryl, but that was years ago. I tried not to think about Frank fucking my mom but I couldn’t help it. Was she dating him so he would go easy on her at work? My mom was still attractive, despite what a life like hers will do to you. But that was really her only option, to keep being pretty. Pretty used to be a way out but she was past that. Now her kind of pretty was just a way to keep going.

  Frank sat up. “It’s okay, Cal. Why don’t you stay out here for a little while? It’s absolutely criminal how little I know about you.” He smiled wide, like his face would crack in half if he held it too long. I stood there. I couldn’t read my mom’s expression, didn’t know if she wanted me to get out or stay, like Frank had asked. But I didn’t know how I was going to sleep if they were out there anyway. “Sure,” I said.

  For a long time I didn’t know how to say what had happened. After a certain point I’d stopped saying no, but worse than that, I’d tried. There was some sick part of me that had wanted him to not be able to forget me. The worst part was my mom watching, and not saying anything. No, it was that she did say something, in the beginning, that it was well, we’re so drunk we won’t even remember, that it was why not?, that it was well, this’ll be a story. The worst part was that.

  It was like those dares she used to give me—when she’d make me finish the rest of the sangria before we drove home, when she’d speed up just to scare me. Except this wasn’t a dare or a challenge, no matter what they said. I couldn’t get out of this.

  The weirdest thing was what I was thinking about while it was happening—this one day in middle school science class, during a unit on geology. “Those pebbles you find on the beach used to be much larger pieces of rock,” Mr. Gonzalez had said. “It can take thousands of years, but eventually, wind and water and sun will smooth a rock into a stone.” Patience, I was thinking, as my mom watched what was happening and didn’t say a word, all you need is patience. The rough edges will go away if you wait long enough.

  I truly didn’t know what I would have done if Marcus hadn’t been there, if he and Daryl had moved, if a stranger had answered the door when I knocked. But it was Marcus, just as my twelve-year-old self had remembered him—tall and strong, with bulging muscles, and a smile that made you feel like you were the only person that mattered to him. “Calliope!” he said, and pressed me to his chest, and let me cry, just like that, in the doorway, until I was ready to speak.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said when I was done. “I mean, I can, but—goddamn. She just got worse, didn’t she?” I nodded. We were sitting at the table, sharing some leftover Chinese food. “Look, about that one time,” I said, “right before we left—”

  “Cal.” He stopped me. “You were twelve. You didn’t know what you were doing. Honestly, I was dealing with some issues of my own at the time.

  “I’m good now, though,” he continued. “I’m still manager, but just part-time now. I’m actually back in school—getting a degree in business, if you can believe it. I might open my own place one day, even.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned.

  “Where’s Daryl?” I asked. I felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t like I was scared to see Daryl, but I didn’t exactly want him to come home to some part of his past that had left him behind, crying at his kitchen table.

  “Daryl got his own place. I got the trailer.” He sensed my worry but got the reason wrong. “He wouldn’t be angry that you’re here, Cal. You know that, right?” I nodded. “So, you took the bus from Daytona, huh?” he said. “Bet you met a lot of crazies.”

  I had taken the bus, but I’d kept to myself, Walkman on my lap and headphones on, even after the batteries had died. I’d worn my baggiest jeans and oldest t-shirt, and sneakers I only used for work. I’d hitched a ride from the bus depot to Marcus and Daryl’s old address, surprised at how easily it sprang to my tongue.

  Marcus reached his hands across the table, like he was going to put them on mine, but just placed them down gently in front of me. “I’m so glad you came,” he said. “You can crash on my couch as long as you want. You’re safe here.” I didn’t know what to say.

  Frank poured us shots of vodka, and brought the bottle back to the coffee table. My mom turned on the stereo, and started dancing her way back to the couch, which wasn’t really big enough for the three of us. She was still wearing her serving apron. “This is fun, right?” she said, like she was trying to convince herself. “I never get to drink with you, Cal!” If she’d come home like this alone, I would have made her some toast like usual, sat with her while she drank a glass of water, put her to bed.

  “Bottoms up!” Frank said, and slapped my mom’s ass before she sat down. We tipped our shot glasses in unison and swallowed. The sweet burn as it shot down my throat relaxed me, almost instantly.

  I was hoping I was wrong about what Frank wanted to know but after a few questions about school he moved straight to the subject of men. “I know you and your mother are very close,” he said, clapping a hand on one of each of our thighs. “No secrets here, right?” I couldn’t begin to answer what he assumed was a rhetorical question. “So—how are the boys at Seabreeze? Got a beau?” He grinned. “Going steady?”

  I stared at him. “No,” I said, in the calmest voice I could muster. “No beau, Frank. I like being alone.”

  “Oh, but you certainly seem to spend enough time with men who don’t go to your high school!” my mom said, with a false cheerfulness. I felt sick.

  “What do you mean by ‘spend time,’ exactly?” I said, and poured myself another shot.

  “Whoa, there!” Frank said. “Save some for the rest of us!” He poured out two more for my mother and him.

  “You know what I’m talking about. I’m not around much, but I’m not blind. Doesn’t help that about three different strangers have asked me if I have a sister named Cal—somewhat shocking to hear that from a man at a bar you shouldn’t even be legally allowed into.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel like I needed to defend myself.

  “Ladies… let’s calm down,” Frank said. “I was just curious. Now I know. So she likes the older men, Jeanie—no harm in that! I’ve got a few years on you myself,” he said, and winked. “Like mother, like daughter.”

  “She’s seventeen, Frank,” my mom said, and started to drink from the bottle. I raised my eyebrows. It was going to be a long night.

  He held out his hand for the bottle, and after a long drink, passed it to me. I hesitated for a moment. But if I was going to keep hanging out with
them, I wanted to keep my buzz going. So I drank. My mac and cheese was congealing, uneaten, on the side table.

  After Marcus went to bed, I lay awake on the couch, using a couple of beach towels as a makeshift blanket. I felt guilty about how nice he was being to me, that same feeling I always had when people were nice to me, how it either made me want to cry, or it made me want to be mean. Except now it also made me want to make it up to him. I couldn’t stay there forever. And I wanted to get out of this fucked-up place, this whole fucked-up state. I counted my cash. Enough for now. But not for long.

  Things get blurry when your mother and her boyfriend are basically pouring vodka down your throat, into your empty stomach. I’m not sure when Frank’s pants came unzipped, not sure when the conversation tipped so that Frank’s suggestion didn’t seem disgusting or ridiculous but like something natural, something that wouldn’t even be a big deal. I’m not sure how many times I said no before I just shut up. I remember brief moments, flashes—Frank calling me a little slut, my mom running to the bathroom to vomit before he’d even pulled his underwear up again, how he tried halfheartedly to pin me down on the couch afterward, brushing the hair from my face before I shoved him off and went to check on my mom. My mom screamed out, “Fuck you, Frank!” from where she sat, curled into the corner between the bathtub and the wall. He left while we were still in the bathroom.

  When Marcus came home from work a couple nights after I’d arrived, I was wearing my shortest skirt, platform sandals, and my mom’s pink halter top, one of the few things I’d taken when I left. I’d made spaghetti but I had no intention of eating it; however, I’d left the sauce simmering on the stove because I thought the scent made the trailer seem comfortable, more like a home. I was drinking rum with a splash of Coke, and I’d even cut up a lime to put on the rim of the glass, like bartenders did when it wasn’t too busy. There was another drink waiting for Marcus on the counter.