Everything There Was

by Hanna Bervoets

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hi,” came in response.

  “Oh,” I mumbled when I realized who had answered.

  I stepped into the showers.

  “Nice leg,” said Barry.

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean, no…”

  Barry was holding a bottle of soft soap. Triangle Soft Soap has many uses, I read on the packaging.

  “You also taking a shower?” Barry asked. It sounded strange. Pitying almost. But before I could answer we heard a door open.

  We looked at each other.

  Someone must have entered the locker room. Quickly Barry pushed a shower button; cold water ran from the head. Instead of stepping underneath, Barry let the water splash on the glistening tiles.

  “Hey,” rang out from the locker room. Leo’s voice, “Are you here too?”

  “Yes,” Barry and I said simultaneously.

  Leo stepped into the showers. Naked. He scratched his chest hair, his torso just a little less white than Barry’s.

  “You’re both here,” he said.

  “Yes,” Barry said tersely. “We’re both here.”

  “Nice,” said Leo, “Can I have the soap?

  One by one we pressed the shower button. We soaped ourselves up. Rinsed ourselves off.

  The water stayed freezing cold; we shivered when the streams hit our backs. By the time the showers shut off again we were covered in goose bumps. Yet all three of us hit our button again. Not because we wanted to stay in the showers. But because we didn’t want to leave the others behind. Together. So we kept looking at the way the water ran from our hair and the drops pearled in our bellybuttons, and Barry trembled and I crossed my arms to prevent myself from shivering too.

  “So,” said Leo when his shower shut off for the second time. “I think I must be clean by now.”

  Barry nodded, “Me too.”

  “Yes,” I said, “all clean.”

  We followed each other out of the showers. Over the edge of the sink were two strips of fabric. I looked down at my own naked body. Goosebumps, dripping pubic hair. “Here,” said Leo, “take mine.” His hand accidentally touched my stomach when he handed me his piece of towel. And there it was: The stick, the cramp.

  “Ow!” I said.

  “What?” asked Leo.

  “Nothing.”

  * * *

  But tonight I moaned again.

  “Uh.”

  Leo was on top of me. I had slipped my vest underneath my butt so he could get extra deep. Normally I like that, but now it hurt. Something tensed up in my abdomen, but I also felt it in my back, my tailbone, my entire lower body. An over-stimulated brain’s mistake, most likely.

  “Uh, ow,” I whispered when Leo grabbed my hips, I couldn’t stop it, my whimpers came up like vomit.

  “Shit,” Leo said, “Am I hurting you?”

  “No. Not you.”

  Leo slid off of me; I pulled the vest from under me, and a lightning bolt shot through my stomach. “Ah!”

  “What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

  I didn’t want to say it. What use would it be? Leo wouldn’t be able to take away my pain. He’d just see me as weaker.

  “Is it your back?”

  I shook my head, more for myself than for Leo, he couldn’t see it in the dark anyway.

  “Are you shaking no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes meaning no? Or yes: your back?”

  “Yes: no.”

  “So, no: not your back?”

  “No.”

  “But what–?

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on…”

  “Stomachache, ok?”

  “Ok.”

  One word, both of us saying something else. Leo’s ok was friendly, not crabby like mine. That Leo said his ok after my ok meant something. And then he did something he’d never done before. At least, not at night, not on the mat. The mat was for having sex, sleeping, and talking about the office we’d made up. But now Leo put his hand on my hand. Let his fingers slip between mine. Folded his knuckles around the palm of my hand. Locked us together.

  “I wish I could take on your pain.”

  Take on: Leo’s voice. But it didn’t sound like something he said. This was what different men said to different women under different circumstances. So I didn’t have to answer. And as I stared at the dark, I tried to imagine what we looked like lying here. On our backs, next to each other, hand in hand, eyes open, peering upwards: I knew this image. A familiar movie poster. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: A woman has her memory erased to fix her broken heart. On the poster the woman lies next to a man on a frozen lake. The woman has blue hair, but the man’s not looking at that. Together they stare at the stars above them.

  “You ok?” asked Leo. This line didn’t seem to be directed at me either. And my thoughts leaped from the movie poster to my childhood bedroom. The wobbly desk chair I’d once stood on to stick yellow stars onto my ceiling. Aquarius, Little Dipper, Virgo, the moon, I had recreated the example on the packaging as closely as possible. In the dark, the stickers glowed, but over the course of the night the constellations disappeared again. When I saw a dark ceiling as a child, I knew I’d lain awake too long. I found that comforting. It reassured me. When one clear night my mother pointed out the real night sky, I didn’t look. Because I knew those stars wouldn’t go out. And when you’re looking at something that will always be there, how can you even tell where you are?

  “Merel,” said Leo. It sounded like he was going to ask me something. Something he had been hesitating to ask for a long time. I saw us lying on the movie poster again. The stars, my blue hair on the frozen water somewhere in America. Maybe even North Dakota.

  “Yes?”

  Bam.

  The door fell shut. No: slammed shut.

  Leo was startled too, abruptly letting go of my hand.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  Leo sighed. “Not the wind, in any case.”

  Day 98

  You know, I’m afraid. More afraid than right after the bang, more afraid than with Yuri that time, maybe even more afraid than I’ve ever been in the new situation. Because I know I have to intervene but don’t know how. It’s Barry.

  His portion from yesterday was still there; I hadn’t expected any differently. But the fact that something doesn’t work doesn’t mean you should give up doing it. So I set down a new portion for him, “Here, dear.” I wasn’t expecting him to hear me; he had drawn up the sheet all over him again. Barry was asleep. I thought. And I was just about to turn around when I saw his glass. The glass I had poured myself. There were bubbles in the water. Gases released when the temperature rises. But that only happens after about twelve hours. What’s more, the glass was just as full as two days ago.

  This is what I know: A human can go without eating for six weeks, a little longer if they gradually reduce. But this is what I also know: A human can go without drinking for three days. After that, the kidneys shut down, the muscles cramp up, the blood pressure drops. And all the vital organs drop out one by one.

  “Barry,” I whispered. “You have to wake up for a bit.”

  Barry didn’t react.

  “You have to drink something.”

  I thought I was saying it calmly, but I could hear my voice tremble. And a second later I thought: He’s not even here. I’m talking to a bunch of fabric. Barry’s just downstairs, next to Leo by the fire, arms over each other’s shoulders, waiting for me, so we can start eating. “Finally!” Barry would say when I joined them. “Finished powdering your nose?”

  Sometimes you think things you know are not true. To briefly postpone the things you know are true.

  I put my hand on the sheet, carefully put pressure on the fabric. Something hard. The ridges of a rib cage. Quickly I drew back my hand.

  “Barry?”

  I had to do it now, it was the only way.

  Carefully, with my thumb and index finger, I lifted the sheet.
r />   Barry’s eyes were closed. His face was drawn, the skin around his eyes thin and blue. In the corners of his mouth was some saliva: dry, white. Flaky. I carefully touched it with my little finger. Yes, a human can go without water for three days, went through my mind. But not if they’ve been living on a limited diet of nine grains of rice a day. And suddenly I was sure.

  It was too late.

  We had just let it happen. Watched, not intervened. Instead eaten his portions ourselves.

  I felt sick. Tasted something sour rising from my esophagus, swallowed, gagged, wanted to look away but kept staring at the saliva in the corners of Barry’s mouth.

  When had it crusted there?

  I wanted to scream, but nothing came. Like someone was clamping a hand in front of my mouth and now slowly squeezing my nose shut. The bile from my throat had nowhere to go; I thought I would choke. I needed to lie down, or sit for a bit, in any case get away from here, away from the desk, away from Barry, away from the flakes now falling like snow in the entire classroom.

  I must have squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was holding a glass.

  The glass was empty: Barry’s hair was wet. There was coughing, the tabletop shook.

  “O Jesus,” I said, “I thought…”

  Barry’s eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking at me. He stared past me, gasping for breath, like a goldfish that accidentally jumped out of its bowl.

  “You have to drink something,” I said, and realized the glass I was holding to his mouth was empty.

  “Wait,” I shouted, “I’ll get new water”

  When I returned, Barry was underneath the sheet again. A dark wet spot where his head would be.

  “I just don’t get it,” I said to Leo. “Two weeks ago everything was fine, and now he suddenly can’t do anything anymore.”

  “Maybe not that suddenly.”

  I looked over, sought Leo’s face. But the fire had almost gone out: the flames only illuminating his hands. He clasped them around an empty mug. The mug I had taken to Barry the day before.

  “What do you mean: not that suddenly?”

  Leo didn’t answer.

  “Do you know something?”

  Now Leo rubbed one hand over his knee, absentmindedly. Most of the time we do things absentmindedly because there’s too much on our minds.

  “Leo?”

  “No. I don’t know anything. I just think…” Leo stopped rubbing. “I think you have to want to to be able to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying?

  With a bang Leo put the mug down on the floor. He didn’t turn my way, kept speaking in the direction of the fire. “I mean, Merel, that maybe he doesn’t feel like doing it anymore.”

  “Doing what?”

  Now Leo sighed. He must have been annoyed with me. And that made me annoyed with him.

  “Doing this,” he said, “all this.”

  Leo made an expansive gesture, like a realtor showing his clients a spacious attic for the first time. But here, in the dark, you could hardly see a thing. Just the fire and the few things around it: a mat, a pile of origami paper, a bucket. The rest of the gym was a black hole. Probably that was exactly what Leo meant by “all this.”

  “I don’t know,” I softly said. “I still don’t think this sounds like Barry.”

  Again Leo rubbed his leg; this time I grabbed his hand. I squeezed it; two short little squeezes.

  Leo squeezed back. Once.

  Day 84

  Today was a weird day. It ended weirdly: with a blue bruise and three red marks on my neck. And it started weirdly too: with Leo waking me much too late.

  “Good morning.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten thirty.”

  “That late?”

  “Yes, it’s casual Friday. So put on your shorts and loafers!”

  Barry was already in the hallway when I came out of my classroom. “I was already awake, couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled unprompted.

  I rubbed my eyes, looked around. Things felt weird. As if I was looking at a puzzle: Spot the five differences.

  One: Barry is already awake. Two:…

  “Was that clock just as crooked yesterday?”

  “Sure it was,” said Barry, “neurotic little freak.” He winked.

  * * *

  That afternoon we played poker. Barry won the first game. Kalim, the loser, sang Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” I won the second game; it got me half a grain of rice. The game afterwards we played for a massage. I soon realized I was going to win again; the first rounds I put down a full house and four of a kind, using the leftover cards I could probably collect a straight flush. Not to give myself away I pulled a poker face: a neutral look that I hoped also gave off a hint of worry. Now and then I puckered my lips; feigned irritation to make the others cocky.

  Barry didn’t seem to be falling for it. “You’re not going to win again, are you?” he said with a grin. I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  But Leo bit, saying, “I don’t believe you,” and raising. Determined, he pushed the plastic disc to the center of the table. Before Leo let go of his chip, he rubbed it a few times. Softly, with the tip of his index finger, like he was tickling a ladybug. All the while looking at me.

  “I also don’t believe her,” Barry suddenly said. “I think Merel has crappy cards.”

  Now Barry also pushed a chip across the table. And another the next turn. And another.

  This was unexpected. I thought Barry was on to me, that he figured out my worry was fake. But he kept betting, playing worthless card combinations every round: two pairs, one pair, no pair.

  “You really don’t have anything better, Barry?”

  “Nope, sweetheart.”

  Leo was also playing badly. I tried to read his face to see what kind of cards he had. But as soon as Leo realized I was looking at him, he started smiling at me and that still didn’t tell me anything. It seemed as if only Kalim was really trying. Well: Kalim was playing carefully. Passed a few times in a row, hardly bet any chips. He must have known he wouldn’t win, but clearly he didn’t want to lose either. Maybe he doesn’t like giving massages. Or suspected we don’t like getting a massage from him.

  The last round, in which we all put our cards on the table, Kalim folded. Barry put down two pairs, far too paltry to win: kamikaze.

  “Shit!” Leo shouted when he saw Barry’s cards. His own cards were higher, but not better than the straight flush I’d collected by now.

  “Shit?” asked Kalim. He raised his eyebrows. “He’s the one playing shitty.” Kalim nodded in Barry’s direction. Barry only laughed, “Thanks a lot.”

  It seemed like Barry didn’t mind having lost. Leo, on the other hand, looked like he was the one who’d lost.

  And again I was struck by the feeling I’d had that morning. The feeling that something was wrong, that some kind of order had been reversed, things no longer followed each other logically. You look down and suspect your slippers are on the wrong way around. You take them off; switch. And now your left slipper is on the right.

  “So when would you like?” asked Barry.

  “What?” I answered.

  “Your massage.”

  I looked at Leo. “One more game?”

  “No,” he said, “I think I’ve had enough for a while.”

  * * *

  “Knots,” Barry said tonight, “knots everywhere.”

  I was straddling a little chair, the back against my stomach so Barry could reach my shoulders better.

  “It’s all stuck.”

  “I’m a little stiff.”

  “Here?”

  “Lower.”

  “There?”

  “Yeah, there.”

  Barry pressed his thumbs into my shoulder blades. “It’s still rock hard, try to relax. Think about a beach or something.”

  That last part Barry said slightly sarcast
ically. It was a total cliché. A beach or something. Apparently people all over the world used to think about beaches when they tried to relax. Be it beaches without peeling backs, big bare nipples, or crying babies. Beaches they’d probably never been to. When it comes to relaxation, anything beats your own experience.

  I shut my eyes, concentrated on Barry’s hands. And thought of beaches. That is to say: my beaches. My beaches are highways.

  Me, alone in my car, gliding through the dark, past roadside restaurants and neon lights on poles: yellow McDonald’s arcs, red Texaco logos, and strings of a hundred thousand lights laid along the road. A foot on the gas pedal and the lights become golden stripes, strands of trembling light. Woolen dice dance, a little dog on my dashboard, Dolly Parton on the radio: with flaming locks of auburn hair, once more on the gas pedal, the golden lanes turn blue, with ivory skin and eyes of emerald green, orange flashes, then purple, I cannot compete with you, truckers waving: Hey, how are you? Volume up: He talks about you in his sleep, there’s nothing I can do to keep… traffic light, gas station… What’s really going on with you? …from crying when he calls your name, coins, cold coffee machines, Jolene, What’s really going on with you? I had to have this talk with you…

  “Merel!”

  I opened my eyes.

  “What?”

  “I was asking what was really going on with you. Recently, I mean.”

  “I’m ok, I guess,” I said.

  “Sleeping alright?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “And your body? Aside from the thousands of knots I’m feeling here?”

  I thought about the cramps in my stomach. “Fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  Now Barry started to lightly chop the sides of his hands on my neck. “Ooooooh,” I went, but because of the chopping it sounded fragmented: “O. o. o. o. o. o.” We laughed, we both did.

  “And you?” I asked. “How’ve you been sleeping?”

  “Oh, great.” He stopped chopping. “Especially since you’re no longer there, right?”

  He said it with a meaningful nudge; I didn’t know what it meant.