Solitaire and Brahms

by Sarah Dreher

  "Is that all of it?" Fran asked when she had stopped vomiting.

  "I think so." She slumped against the toilet, too weak to get up. Her skin was clammy, her arms and legs trembled. Her stomach felt as if it had been ripped out of her.

  Fran rinsed a cloth in cool water and held it to her face. "You did fine."

  Shelby grunted.

  Fran stroked her back for a moment. "I'm sorry I had to hurt you."

  Shelby flapped her hand in a weak, dismissing motion.

  "Come on."

  Shakily, she let herself be pulled up.

  Fran brushed the shards of glass from her pajamas with a towel. "Go change your clothes. I'll take care of this and make coffee. We have a long night ahead of us."

  She stumbled to the bedroom. She wanted to lie down. Plodding exhaustion, as if she'd been climbing a mountain. For days, for weeks, forever. Her body felt like lead. She could hardly bear the weight of her head. Her arm and back and stomach muscles were screaming. She knew what came next—she’d have to drink a swimming pool of coffee, and Fran would yell at her and demand an explanation.

  And then Fran would leave, as soon as it was safe. Fran wouldn't leave during a crisis. Fran was a good soldier.

  There weren't any explanations, not even for herself. Too much to drink, too much tension, too many disappointments. Not good enough. The truth was, she was tired. That was all, tired. Tired down to the marrow in her bones.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and buttoned her pajama top. Fran was probably furious with her. She had every right to be. It was a childish thing to do. Stupid and childish. She should have made sure no one could stop her.

  "No sitting down," Fran said from the doorway.

  Shelby nodded submissively and got up, humiliated to have shown her pain in front of Fran. "I'm sorry," she muttered, and started past her to the kitchen.

  Fran blocked her way. "No," she said softly, "I am." She put her arms around her and held her tight. It felt good.

  "This isn't your fault," Shelby said.

  "Maybe not. Maybe."

  Her head was spinning. She felt dizzy, didn't want to talk. She dropped her head onto Fran's shoulder. She wanted to lean against her and sleep. There was only the tiniest string between herself and darkness. If she let it go...

  Fran shook her. "Coffee," she said. "Stay with me."

  * * *

  Just before dawn Fran declared her out of danger and no longer "funny in the eyes."

  Maybe not, but she still felt funny in the head. Everything was stuffed with cotton, thoughts either refused to come or dropped in and sped away before she could catch them. It was nice, in a way, not being able to think. She just wished she didn't have a pounding headache to go with it. Her stomach felt as if it had been struck repeatedly with a sledge hammer. Her insides were dry and shaky. The muscles in her arms and back were cramped, and her legs were on fire from walking and standing and walking and standing.

  "Think you can sleep now?" Fran asked.

  Shelby nodded.

  Fran led her to the bed and helped her lie down and tucked her in. She sat beside her and held her hand. "We're going to have to talk about this, you know," she said softly.

  "Not tonight," Shelby said.

  "It's almost tomorrow."

  Shelby groaned. 'Tm having dinner with Libby tonight."

  "I don't think so."

  "We have to pick the colors for the bridesmaids' dresses." She felt as if her eyes were rolling in her head. "Or the material. Or both."

  Fran touched her face. Her hand was cool. "I don't think you'll make that meeting. You're going to feel like road kill." She stroked her forehead, brushing back her matted hair. "Look, I know it's in your nature to make light of this..." Fran said gently. "But you really tried to kill yourself tonight, Shelby. That's no small thing."

  "It just happened."

  "No. Maybe you didn't plan it, but something in you reached out and took those pills."

  "I only wanted to sleep."

  "Forever."

  "If I can't sleep forever, can I at least sleep tonight?"

  Fran smiled. "Want me to stay by you?"

  "It'd be nice." It was safe for now, with Fran holding her hand. At least Fran was here right now. If she could hold onto this...

  "It'd be very nice," Fran said. Her voice seemed far away. "Go to sleep now.”

  "Hey."

  Something touched her. Terrified, she struck out, flailing. She felt her arm held...

  "Wake up, Shelby."

  She opened her eyes. The bedside lamp was on. Fran sat on the bed, leaning over her, resting her hands lightly on Shelby's arms. "Bad dream?"

  Shelby tried to focus. She couldn't remember it. "I guess so.” She felt confused. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong.

  "It'll be OK." Fran stroked her face with the back of her hand.

  She struggled to remember. "I tried to kill...," she said suddenly, startled into wakefulness.

  "Unlike your usually smooth and competent self, you failed."

  The awfulness of everything came to her. Her life. What she'd done. What she'd have to do now. She was blind and drowning in mud. She grabbed for Fran's hand.

  "It'll be OK," Fran said again. "There's nothing here that can't be fixed, and nothing we can fix tonight."

  Shelby clutched her hand. She felt disoriented, as if she had left her body and couldn't get back. She was floating, drifting, all of her cells separating from one another. She could see the stars through her dissolving arm. She was evaporating into the Universe.

  "Shelby. Come on, kid."

  Fran's voice reached her like a silver cord, gathering her up and pulling her back to earth. She wanted to resist. Earth was hard. Earth was pain. "Help me," she said.

  "I'm right here."

  She felt Fran touch her face again, finely, holding her attention.

  "Hang on," Fran said.

  She was in a town she'd seen before, on a vacation with friends from college. Somewhere between Connecticut and Kentucky, she remembered that much. The town center was a large circle, like a compass, with roads leading in from the four directions. A nice town. A good place to stay…

  "Shelby!"

  She didn't want Fran to pull her back this time. If she stayed there, none of what was happening now would go on. No Ray or Libby or weddings or bridesmaids or Fran. If she just stepped to the side, into another dimension, she could be someone else with a different life.

  All she had to do was let go.

  But Fran was holding on too tightly. She couldn't ignore the ache in her wrist where Fran's fingers squeezed.

  Reluctantly, she let herself slide back on that ribbon of pain.

  “I thought you were going into a coma," Fran said as she opened her eyes.

  Shelby shook her head. "It was the oddest thing. I was somewhere else."

  "You certainly were."

  "But this was strange, real..." She tried to find the words but couldn't.

  "Your hand went dead, Shelby."

  She flexed her fingers. "Feels OK now. Maybe it was asleep, the way you were gripping."

  "Maybe. But I never saw anything like that."

  "Well, how many people have you done that to?" She rubbed her wrist.

  "I'm sorry. It just scared me."

  "I don't think you broke anything."

  "Where did you go?"

  "I'm not sure," Shelby said.

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "How about a drink? And a sleeping pill?"

  "There's nothing funny about this," Fran said sharply.

  "I know. I'm sorry." She let herself feel what she really felt. "It scared me, too. What happened to me, Fran?"

  "Like you said, you went somewhere." She stroked Shelby's hair. "Your emotions are all fer-hoodled. It's probably a perfectly normal reaction to anxiety or something. Or maybe those pills took you on a little trip to the Twilight Zone. Anyway, you're here now. And you need rest. So what do you say you try t
o go back to sleep?"

  Suddenly her stomach was churning. Her breath was short. The trapped and lonely feeling was back. "I'll try," she said. She hadn't meant for her voice to come out as small as it did.

  "Want me to crawl in with you? Think that'll help?"

  “It might.”

  Fran reached over and turned out the light and slipped into the bed beside her, and put one arm around her. "How come you rate a double bed? My apartment came with twins."

  "Libby's idea." It felt good, her back against Fran's chest, her hips cradled in her lap, Fran's arm across her shoulder, her hand holding Fran's. Being with her felt the way it used to, soft and easy and safe. "All up-and-coming young career-until-they-marry girls have double beds. For sex."

  Fran was still and silent for a moment. "Shelby?" she said at last.

  “What?”

  "I don't really think I needed to know that."

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Of course you have a killer headache," Fran said. "It's probably a hangover."

  "Don't pick on me." Shelby pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her robe more tightly around her. She was cold in spite of the hot August air, and the chair was hard, and her head and stomach hurt, and she was embarrassed and generally miserable. "I feel awful."

  "I know."

  "You don't know," Shelby insisted. "I'll bet you never tried to kill yourself."

  Fran slipped two pieces of buttered toast onto a plate and placed it in front of her. "This is true. And if I had, booze and pills wouldn't be my style." She poured Shelby a glass of milk. "I'm more the leaping off tall edifices, or blowing my brains out type. Messier, but less chance for error."

  "That's not funny." She nibbled on a bit of toast and waited for it to hit her stomach. She hoped it wouldn't bounce.

  "It wasn't intended to be funny. Nothing that happened here in the last twelve hours is funny in any way." Fran brought her coffee to the table and sat. "Are you ready to talk about it?"

  Shelby felt as if all the energy had been sucked out of her. "I don't want to talk about it."

  "I'm sure you don't." Fran stirred sugar into her coffee. "But you have to. If not with me, with someone else."

  "I knew that was coming," Shelby said bitterly. She took a swallow of milk. She thought it might stay down. "Shelby Camden's finally gone off the deep end. Ship her to a shrink."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You're thinking it."

  "No, I'm not. But I'm scared for you."

  Shelby shrugged. "I'll be OK." Don't let me do this, something in her begged. She was moving on the surface of things, staying away from her life, staying away from Fran. "Things got to be too much, I pitched a fit."

  "Shelby..."

  "I'm sorry. You were good to me last night. I guess you saved my life. I'm grateful—I think. I apologize for my behavior."

  "Stop it," Fran said roughly. She got up and walked to the window, her back to Shelby's back. "Look, I know I haven't treated you well lately, and I'm not trying to mind your business. I don't have that right..."

  "That's not true."

  Fran ignored her. "I have to tell you what I think." She took a breath. "There's something really screwy and dangerous going on with you, and I don't know if you don't know what it is, or if you know and can't say. But it's eating you up."

  "So that makes two of us, doesn't it?" Shelby toyed with a crust of toast. Her head was pounding, and little knife-pricks ran through it. She wanted to forget. Pretend it hadn't happened. She didn't want to look at it, it was too big and too ugly...

  "Last night wasn't amateur night," Fran said, ignoring her remark. She came back and sat down. "You meant it."

  "I guess."

  "You'd rather die than live your life. It's that simple."

  She shrugged again.

  "So tell me what's wrong."

  "My life is uninhabitable."

  Fran shot her a sharp look.

  "I don't know."

  "You do know," Fran said. "You just don't want to know."

  Shelby felt annoyed. For weeks this woman had treated her like furniture, and now she wanted to play Freud. "My current situation," she said, "leaves something to be desired."

  "What? What do you need?"

  Everything inside felt like a large, gray mass of fog. "I can't think. I have a hangover."

  "You can change things." Fran's voice was soft and sympathetic.

  "If I knew what I wanted to change things to, or what things I wanted to change, or how to change them, don't you think ] would?" Her throat caught. She felt a burning in her eyes and nose, and stared at the table and choked back tears.

  Fran touched her hand. Shelby glanced up at her. Fran's face was spotted with red blotches, as if she were coming down with something. "You know what you want, Shelby. And you know what you don't want. It's just a matter of letting it out."

  The truth was, when she looked at what she'd done, she was embarrassed and ashamed. Fran had seen too much, had seen her raw, had seen her give up. Fran had been a witness.

  Shelby made herself hard and laughed. "You're very good at this."

  "It won't work," Fran said. "I won't let you provoke me."

  The worst of it was, she wanted to have last night back. Not to die, but to bring back those late-night hours when the pain and desperation were out in the open, and she didn't have to do anything but be taken care of. Taken care of. The words felt like a miracle.

  "Sorry," she said.

  But Fran was leaving, and she'd never have the chance again.

  "Shelby..."

  "What?"

  "Are you listening?"

  "Always."

  "Do you understand what I'm talking about?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Stop that." Fran squeezed her hand. "This is deadly serious."

  She tried to look intent and severe.

  Fran leaned back in her chair and watched her. "You're going to do it again," she said at last.

  "I haven't decided. I'm a little short on supplies, thanks to you."

  "Goddamn it!" Fran slapped the palm of her hand against the table and winced.

  "Please," Shelby said, her heart pounding, "I haven't been well."

  Fran kneaded her face with her fingertips. "Can't we drop this? Please? You're in big trouble. It scares me. I don't want anything to happen to you."

  "What do you care? You won't be around to see." She felt mean, saying that. It was good to be mean. Better than wanting to be taken care of. Better than that no-ground-beneath-her-feet feeling whenever she thought of Fran going away.

  "OK," Fran said in a low voice. Her eyes had faded to palest slate. She looked beaten. "You're right about everything." She got up and walked over to the window again and stared out at the garbage cans in the driveway. "It's none of my business what you do."

  "That's right."

  "Just do me one favor. Try to be honest with yourself."

  Now she was really angry. "Don't you dare lecture me about honesty," she said, turning in her seat to look at Fran's back. "You haven't been honest with me since the day we met."

  "What?" She glanced around.

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  Fran leaned her forehead against the window pane.

  "At least look at me."

  "This is about you," Fran said. "You're the one who's desperate. Leave me out of it.”

  "I can't leave you out of it. It is about you." She got up and went to stand behind her. "Some of it is." Her head was spinning, blood rushing past her ears. She felt reckless, and slightly deranged. "I was handling my life all right," she said in a rush. "It was do-able. Especially after... after you moved in. But then you went and spit in my face..." She realized that sounded unnecessarily harsh, and regretted it. "I'm sorry," she said, and rested one hand lightly on Fran's shoulder.

  She heard her catch her breath and felt her stiffen, and suddenly she was back at the camping trip, when she had made the same casual gesture, and F
ran had reacted the same way.

  The pieces fell together.

  Oh.

  Reflexively, she felt herself withdraw.

  But she had stepped into a place she couldn't back out of. Not unless she could manage not to know what she knew, and she knew she couldn't do that.

  It was a dangerous place, and one where everything made sense. She forced herself to stay.

  "Fran."

  Fran didn't answer.

  Shelby waited in silence for a while. Humidity formed drops of water and dripped from the rain spout. The sound was as regular as a clock.

  "Say it."

  Fran shook her head.

  Shelby rested her hand on Fran's shoulder and squeezed. Her muscles were hard as steel beneath Shelby's hand. "It's all right. You can say it."

  "Everything'll be ruined."

  "It's already on the way to ruined. Say it." She knew she was right, doing it like this. But even the air was so very fragile. What she did now could mean the difference between everything and nothing. She was invading Fran's most private self, and if she heard what she knew she'd hear, she wasn't sure how she'd feel, afterward. Or how Fran would feel. If they'd be able to have a friendship. Maybe it was already too late. But they were in it now, and there was nothing she could do but see it through to the end. Make it all right, she prayed silently. I don't do a whole lot of praying, but this is really important. "Please, Fran?"

  Fran took a deep breath, still not looking at her. Sunlight pouring through the window glistened like sparks in her hair. It caught the light tips of her eyelashes. "When I left the Army," she said quietly, "it wasn't just because I wanted to finish school."

  Shelby waited, not daring to breathe.

  "I didn't have a choice. It was leave or face a Court Martial."

  "Why?"

  "Because they found out I’m..." She couldn't go on.

  Shelby slipped her arm around Fran's shoulders. It felt all right, the way it always had. "Don't be afraid. Say the word."

  Fran's body was so stiff Shelby thought it would snap like a frozen tree limb if she moved. "I'm a lesbian," Fran said.

  "I know."

  Fran turned to her. Her eyes were dark and questioning.

  "I just figured it out," Shelby said with a shrug. "I mean, what else could you have such a hard time saying? 'I'm a serial killer?' 'I poison puppies for kicks?’”