Spill Over

by Jolene Perry

  “Antony, if you need anything, let me know,” he calls through the door.

  I sit on my bed and lean against the wall. My whole body is actually shaking, not just my insides, but my legs, my hands.

  Tears hit my lap before I realize I’m crying. How can Mom not be okay? It still feels too much to be real. I’m alone. Seriously, really, alone. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. How is the boat not shaking? How am I still sitting here?

  Dad opens my door, steps in and sits on the opposite side of the bed from me. He has a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He fills one to halfway and hands it to me without a word. Then he pours one for himself.

  I drink. Just keep swallowing the burning stuff until my glass is empty. Dad doesn’t ask—he fills it up again. And now I get why it’s cool to have a dad. Mom would want to talk, to hold me. Dad knows I need a drink. Hell, he probably needs a drink.

  The heat from the liquid fills me, warms me, and the pain still wracks me from the inside, but it’s duller. I down the second glass. It could still all be a big mistake. All of it. She could be okay. Maybe she was on a different plane. Maybe it was a different film crew. Maybe. I’m going to fill my head full of maybes. It sure beats the shit out of the alternative.

  Five

  I’ve gotten calls or texts from almost all my close friends in New York. Everyone from the Today Show has sent me an email or left a message on my phone. The president of NBC called me to give his condolences. I don’t want any of it. I just want my mom. All of it fades into the minutes and hours, and seconds, and little bits of time that don’t mean anything anymore.

  I’m living half in the real world, just enough to function, and half in a world where I’m heading to New York to find Mom and to know that this is all a big mistake.

  We’re on the plane. The air smells like we’re being canned. Dad’s asleep in the seat next to me. I drink the whiskey he left on the tray in front of him. He cut his hair and even had his beard trimmed. He still looks eccentric, but in a good way. In a way that makes him look like a writer of something other than cheap mystery novels.

  My chest is scraped, hollowed. My brain can’t focus. The pain makes it all so much more real. I don’t want real.

  How will I stay with Dad in Mom’s apartment? Where will he sleep? The couch? Even the guestroom feels like an odd place for him to be, but I guess that’s where he’ll end up. What am I going to do with myself in New York?

  I scroll through the texts on my phone, even though I’m not supposed to while flying. What are they going to do? Kick me off the plane?

  I stop at the one from Amber. The girl I barely know, but who also has this weird inside track on me because I can’t keep my mouth shut around her.

  I KNOW I DON’T KNOW YOU THAT WELL. BUT YOU CAN CALL ME OR TEXT ME ANYTIME K? I CAN’T IMAGINE NOT HAVING MY MOM.

  I blink back tears at the simplicity of her words. Yeah. That makes two of us.

  - - -

  Dad’s eyes widen as we step out of the cab in front of my building. Mom and I live in a great place, right on Madison. And now, with the first sympathetic look from a random person walking from the building, the problem is clear. Everyone knows Mom. Everyone knows who she is. Everyone knows what happened. I get a sympathetic look from Carl, who gets the door for us. I get two sideways glances from an older lady in the elevator. Pictures of Mom and I together have been all over the TV. I caught a glimpse of our last trip to Eastern Europe while I was in the airport.

  I hate twenty-four hour news networks. I wonder how many times they’ve played the story about my mom, and I wonder how many more times they’ll play it. Guess it all depends on ratings.

  When I unlock the door to the apartment, its like the place already knows its unused—it feels too still inside. Dad’s silent. I would be too. What the hell do you say to your stranger son after your ex-wife dies?

  There are pictures of Mom and I everywhere in here. I can’t look.

  “Don’t use Mom’s room. Take the one at the end of the hall. I’m going to bed.” I don’t slow. Don’t take off my shoes. Just go to my room.

  I open the door to my freshly vacuumed floor, and newly made bed. Rachel, the housekeeper, probably came, knowing I’d need to come home. I wonder if she stocked the fridge with coffee grounds and milk while she was here.

  I flop on my back, stick in my headphones and crank the music as loud as I can.

  - - -

  The next few days go by in a haze. I take all the pictures down and put them on Mom’s bed. Then I take them off her bed and put them under her bed. If she comes home in the middle of the night, she won’t want to have to move them. I don’t touch anything on her dresser, or open her closet or bathroom door. She always gives me a hard time when I mess with her stuff.

  Being home makes me feel like she’ll walk through the door at any moment.

  The phone rings. Dad answers. His voice is quiet. He tells people I’m unavailable. He takes messages and leaves them for me to see, but I don’t want to see them. Seeing messages of sympathy will mean that I need sympathy, that I’m deserving of sympathy, and really, it could still be some big mistake.

  The pain and ache of it all crawls around me as I once again sit on the floor of Mom’s room, just waiting for her to come home and catch me in here.

  “Antony?” Dad stands in the doorway.

  “Don’t come in here,” I warn. Her ex-husband in her room is just… wrong.

  “I won’t.” He shakes his head. “The silence is killing me.”

  “Me, too.” But there’s nothing else to do. Talking and listening will only make me say or hear things I don’t want to hear or know. Dad and I have walked around one another like shadows in a house that’s dying.

  He’s been on the phone. I know he’s making “arrangements” which is why I don’t want to be here. Don’t want to talk. Don’t want to listen.

  “There’s been an offer for—”

  “For what?” I snap.

  Dad sighs. “For your mom to be buried at Arlington. With all the war correspondence and…”

  Shit. Bury Mom. Mom. Tears should stream down my face, but it’s like I’m too numb for them to come. No relief. Not for me. Bury. Underground. Mom. Because she’s gone. She doesn’t need air. Bury, bury, bury…Coffins. Suffocation. Mom.

  I grab my hair with my hands and wish I could push or pull or scream loud enough to make everything different. Make everything change. Instead I push it down. Push my tears back. I start to lock it all up. I can hold it in. Hold it back. I’ll just have to push harder, work harder.

  Dad steps toward me.

  “Get out of her room!” I scream. My voice is hoarse and not working right.

  He backs up into the hallway.

  I breathe in. The faint smell of her favorite perfume is here, but for how long? How long will it be before she fades away?

  - - -

  I’m in a suit. A fucking suit, because people want to tell me how sad they are and how much they’ll miss my mom. My mom. Not theirs. Mine.

  Even Dad looks decent.

  It’s all real.

  This is Mom’s services in New York. And I know she wouldn’t think she was worthy of Arlington, but she deserves it. She won’t be buried while we’re here.

  A limo picks us up. Dad tries to tell me about money and the apartment. I know how much money Mom has. She’s always been open with me. We’re in a smaller apartment than we need to be in. She drives a small Mercedes when she drives. I have a shitload of money, and I don’t care. At all.

  The room is packed. Who the hell organized a funeral at the Plaza? Mom would have rolled her eyes. Dad and I are ushered to the front. People I would have bragged about being friends with a week ago shake my hand, give me hugs and wipe tears as I walk past, but I don’t care. Screw them all. Whatever sadness they feel is nothing like w
hat’s chewing on my insides. I don’t feel their hands when we shake. I don’t meet their eyes. We don’t share the same pain. The same loss. No way.

  Dad’s quiet next to me. He doesn’t put an arm around me. Doesn’t try to tell me everything will be okay. He knows as well as I do that none of this is okay. He’s close, though. And my dad is someone I never thought I’d gain comfort from, but he’s what I have right now.

  My eyes well up with tears at that thought. Mom’s supposed to be all I have. Couldn’t Dad die in a boating accident or something and leave me my mom? If one parent had to go, why did it have to be her? I suck in a breath and push it down and in—into the steel cage I’m building to keep this locked up. I’m not going to be the freak show in the front row that can’t stop crying.

  Someone stands at a podium. He starts to talk about Mom, Liz Preston. I want to scream at him. That’s her news name. Mom’s Olivia and goes by Liv. For TV she goes by Elizabeth, and then by default, Liz. But it’s not her, not who she is. So seriously, what the hell does he know? He didn’t know her. Not like I did. My stomach seizes up as I see the coffin behind him. Mom pre-picked it. No doubt. Simple, metal, functional. Shit. She’s in there. Mom’s in there.

  I look away. This is hell. Really, and truly. This is hell. Mom’s right there, but she isn’t there. Not anymore. Where did she go and why can’t she come back? I sit back in my chair. Dad’s eyes are on me. I know him well enough to know he’s worried. Hell, I’m worried. I don’t know what to do with all the stuff that’s mixing around inside me, tearing me apart into so many tiny shredded pieces. There’s no way I’ll ever be the same.

  Pictures now. A huge screen rolls down. They show some of Mom’s first broadcasts ever. It was for some New York City morning show.

  Dad’s wiping tears. “I remember this,” he says. “We were just married. I was so proud.”

  I don’t think of my parents as together. Not really. Is Dad sad about losing her? I mean, it’s not like he lost her. I lost her. Lost, lost. What a ridiculous thing to say. I didn’t lose her. She was killed. She was killed while doing something she was so passionate about. She knew there were risks and did it anyway.

  What about me? Wasn’t I worth the risk to not do it? To stay home where it’s safe? What the hell?

  I hear my name and my face goes back to the screen. Picture after picture of Mom and I. Behind the scenes at different places she reported from. Paris. London. Northern Africa. Egypt. Bosnia. Moscow. South Africa. Our brief trip to Antarctica. Chile.

  I can’t do it. I can’t stay here and watch this. If I thought coming into this room was hard, how the hell am I going to leave without making nice to people who have no idea what it’s like to lose their mom. No one shares this with me.

  There has to be some escape. Anything. I’d sell my soul right now for a little reprieve. Ten minutes. Two hours. Anything. I gotta get out of here. Mom’s here but not here. Everyone thinks they’re sad and broken up, but they don’t even know what it means.

  I stand up.

  Dad grabs my arm.

  “I gotta go,” I say.

  “Antony.” He shakes his head.

  I jerk my arm away and head for the nearest door. I don’t care where it goes. I just need out of this room. I push my way out of the doors into a narrow, quiet hallway. Service hall. Now what? My heart says again, something big.

  Dad’s right behind me. “Antony, I’ve let you be quiet, but you’re scaring the hell out of me. I’ll help you however I can, but you gotta talk.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” I start up the hallway.

  “Antony!” he calls out after me.

  “Don’t wait up.” Now I know what I need. I need to call Trace and David to see if we can set something up. I need some serious distraction.

  Six

  I don’t know what time it is, and I don’t care. The city lights have lit up a black sky for hours. I’m hammered, completely shit-faced drunk, and I want it. Anything. The more the better. Maybe I’ll drink myself to death and drown in a pile of my own vomit…Okay, actually, I do still have limits. They’re just getting fuzzier with each drink. David’s a good guy and keeps them coming.

  For my going-away party when I left for Seattle, I made my friends keep it small. I needed more than that to give me a reprieve from how I feel. The place is packed.

  “Hey.” Finn nudges my shoulder. His dad is some kind of rock star or something. A drummer I think. Right now I forget, and I don’t care that I’ve forgotten.

  “What’s up, man?” I put my arm around him. I’m down to my undershirt and suit pants. It’s what I have.

  “I know you’re not really into this, but with your mom and all.”

  It takes me a moment to focus on what he’s showing me. Neat lines of coke on a small glass tray. I grab his straw and suck a whole row up my nose. The rush hits me hard and fast. I’ve done this once before, swore I’d never do it again, but right now I don’t give a shit about anything. The room spins.

  “Awesome, huh?” He pats my back.

  I grin. That’s pretty much it. Every touch, every tingle shoots something like electricity through me. The only time I’ve ever felt this is with a girl. And one of those girls is walking toward me right now.

  “Hey Gem.” I smile wide. I’m like flying over the furniture, the living room. I don’t even remember whose house we’re at, and it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Her blonde is perfectly smooth as always, and I can think of a million ways she’d be a good distraction right now—all of which would make Amber blush.

  “Are you finally ready to stop playing hard to get?” Her deep brown eyes open wide, and when her finger touches my chest, tingles of electricity rocket through my body. I’m awesome.

  “Yep.” I nod. The movement spins the room again.

  “Good.”

  She tucks her fingers into the front of my pants, the way she knows I like, and pulls me with her. Each time her fingers move against my stomach I get more turned on. I don’t even care what she has planned. Anything would be good. Everything would be good.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.” Her chest pushes into mine as she backs me into the wall of an empty bedroom. “Can I do something to make you feel better?” She licks her lips.

  Damn. I grab her hand and rub it between my legs. Gem and I have been together before. We know each other. This is perfect. And normally I’d really try to make her feel good, or whatever, but tonight, I need escape.

  “You want my mouth there, or my hands?” Her lips touch my ear as she talks.

  “Do you have to ask?” I step back to the bed and lie back. The room whirls. Every touch from her lights each nerve in my body.

  Gem’s hands rub up my chest and down my abs. She teases me a few times, by undoing my zipper and then moving her hands up again. I’m nearly insane with my need to be touched by the time she opens my pants. I close my eyes while the room flies in and out of focus. Now I just hope the combination of alcohol and Gem erases what I need it to.

  - - -

  I roll over in the middle of the night. Gem’s sprawled out next to me, still in her clothes from the party. That’s good because having sex while in this state is never a good idea.

  Girls lying on their side are the sexiest things ever. She looks soft, her shoulder curving down to her waist, and the steep curve back up of her hip. I reach out to put my arm around her, and pull us together. But that’s not for me and Gem. That’s different, for someone I love. And I like Gem, but she knows what we are, and what we aren’t. And as good as it would feel, I know it would give her wrong impression. It starts to tap into my thoughts that what we did last night might also give her that same impression.

  How do we know that the physical stuff doesn’t count, and that the emotional stuff does? It’s just something that’s sort of understood. At least that’s how it is
with my guy friends, and until Amber, I haven’t really ever had a friend that’s a girl.

  My damn phone beeps again. I’m still messed up. Drunk, high, something. I answer. “Hello?” But my voice doesn’t sound like me. It’s all warped or something like from a satellite phone.

  “Crap, it’s you. Your dad’s so worried.”

  “Amber?” I ask. I mean, who else would be calling at some insane hour to say something about my dad.

  “Yeah. Are you okay?”

  “I’m really, really, really, wasted.” I close my eyes. It’s better than the ceiling coming in and out of focus.

  “You sound it.” She has this whispering laugh, and I close my eyes.

  “Guess I sorta screwed up, and now everyone’s worried about me, huh?” Only it’s really Dad who’s worried, because Mom’s not here anymore. Her name sends waves through me, and I never really got the reprieve I wanted.

  “Something like that.”

  I breathe enough of the weight off my chest to talk. “Why did you call?”

  “I’m the only other person your dad knows, who sort of knows you.”

  Right. What on earth am I supposed to say to Amber? “Wha-cha reading?” I ask.

  “That’s what you want to talk about?”

  “Yeah.” I’m still on my back wishing that the room would hold still. Wishing Mom was here. Wishing I still felt whole.

  “I’m…I’m reading a memoir from this guy who has Asperger’s and toured with KISS?”

  Her voice is slowing me down, helping me focus, helping me relax. It’s the first thing that’s dulled the pain ripping me apart. “Can you read it?”

  “Now? On the phone?”

  “Yeah.” My body slumps down, relaxes into the bed. “But I might not stay awake for long.”

  There’s a short pause, and she actually does it. She starts reading. Her smooth voice tells this man’s story, and it’s crazy interesting. His writing voice isn’t stellar, but it’s honest. It’s him. It feels better than anything that’s happened to me all night. I’m drifting back off, but I can’t tell her to stop, her voice is…