Cam Girl

by Leah Raeder

  The man caught me, carefully avoiding my injured arm. The large hand on my hip made my skin crawl.

  “I’m okay,” I said, not looking at his face.

  “You’re Vada, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. I stopped moving, stared at the ground. My vision swam, too bright, weirdly pixelated.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man said.

  I made myself look at him. “Your son was the other driver.”

  He nodded. No emotion in his face, just that avid intensity. “My name is Max.”

  “I’m really, really sorry—”

  Max clapped a hand on my shoulder. The good one, but it jolted my whole body and pain jittered up my spine. “It’s okay, Vada. It was an accident. Not your fault.” The hand on my shoulder tightened like a pincer. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

  “Why?”

  He let go with a rueful smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to talk without Ellis around.”

  Max said our names fluently, familiarly. As if he’d been saying them to himself, night after night, like a litany.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking without—”

  “You were driving, right?”

  My mind raced. This wasn’t a cop. Just the father of a dead kid. He seemed . . . sad. Merely sad, lonely, desperate to connect to some part of his son’s final moments.

  Jesus, some kid was dead, some kid my age.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was.”

  “The police said you were sober. It was nice of you to be the designated driver for your . . . friend.”

  A chill cascaded down my back.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, edging away. “For your loss. But I really need to go. I’m sorry.”

  Max didn’t stop me. He stood still in the winter garden, watching me backpedal and turn and run.

  * * *

  VADA: where the fuck are you?

  VADA: all your shit’s gone from my room

  ELLIS: In a cab.

  VADA: bailing on me again

  ELLIS: I just need some space. To think.

  ELLIS: I’m not leaving.

  VADA: I met Max

  ELLIS: . . .

  ELLIS: What did he say?

  VADA: he said it’s okay we killed his kid

  VADA: which maybe you should’ve fucking told me

  VADA: before I learned it from the dead kid’s dad

  ELLIS: I thought you knew. You were lucid that night.

  VADA: I’ve been blocking out a traumatic event, Elle

  VADA: did you not recognize the signs?

  ELLIS: I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it. I was trying to distract you.

  VADA: telling me I killed a human being is a bit higher up the priority chain than playing make-believe

  VADA: god

  VADA: you’re so

  VADA: fuck

  ELLIS: I’m so what?

  VADA: what did you tell him?

  VADA: he asked all sorts of questions

  ELLIS: Like what?

  VADA: like what the nature of our relationship is and shit

  ELLIS: What did you tell him?

  VADA: nothing

  VADA: I don’t tell strangers our personal business

  ELLIS: Of course. God forbid you tell anybody the truth.

  VADA: oh fucking stop

  VADA: this is so not the time

  ELLIS: I didn’t tell him anything, either. He scared me.

  VADA: he scared me, too

  ELLIS: Where is he now?

  VADA: lurking around the hospital like some fucking ghoul

  VADA: probably stalking me

  ELLIS: You’ll be out soon.

  ELLIS: You’re almost ready for outpatient.

  VADA: and then where?

  ELLIS: Home.

  VADA: where the hell is that anymore?

  ELLIS: With me.

  VADA: god

  VADA: I fucking killed somebody, Ellis

  VADA: I killed a human being

  VADA: oh my fucking god

  ELLIS: It was an accident.

  VADA: no it wasn’t

  ELLIS: What?

  VADA: don’t talk to Max

  VADA: don’t talk to anyone

  VADA: if the police question you, tell them what I told you

  VADA: you got in the passenger seat

  VADA: do you understand me, Elle?

  ELLIS: It was me, wasn’t it?

  ELLIS: You’re covering for me.

  VADA: jesus

  VADA: no

  ELLIS: You are.

  VADA: stop it

  VADA: delete these messages when we’re done

  VADA: don’t be stupid

  VADA: you did nothing wrong

  ELLIS: Why are you talking like this?

  VADA: like what?

  ELLIS: Like I’m guilty. Like you’re protecting me.

  VADA: I am protecting you, Elle

  VADA: from your own fucking naivete

  VADA: you always say things without realizing how other people hear them

  VADA: you don’t understand how the world works

  ELLIS: Fuck you, Vada.

  VADA: I’m not judging you

  VADA: I’m just saying

  ELLIS: You’re saying I’m a liability. I get it.

  ELLIS: You think I’m some dumb, naive child.

  VADA: will you stop with the martyrdom

  ELLIS: I know you’re hiding something.

  ELLIS: About the accident. Something I can’t remember.

  VADA: what does it fucking matter?

  ELLIS: Because I know it was me. I know it’s my fault.

  VADA: jesus christ

  VADA: you’re the prince of self-pity

  VADA: you’d be happier if I HAD let you get behind the wheel drunk, wouldn’t you?

  ELLIS: Didn’t you?

  VADA: I’m not fighting about this

  VADA: just keep your story straight

  VADA: make sure it matches mine

  VADA: and don’t fucking tell anybody our personal business

  ELLIS: It’s the same fight. Over and over.

  VADA: don’t even start

  ELLIS: You don’t really want me here.

  ELLIS: I embarrass you. Shame you.

  VADA: will you stop?

  VADA: this is about a fatal car accident

  VADA: not some episode of our never-ending soap opera

  ELLIS: No, it is about us. Everything comes back to that.

  ELLIS: This wouldn’t have happened if things weren’t so messed-up between us.

  ELLIS: If you’d just be honest with yourself. With me.

  VADA: I’m as honest as I know how to be

  ELLIS: You never stand up for us.

  ELLIS: You let your mom walk all over you. That was your chance to tell her.

  VADA: THAT’S when you wanted me to tell her?

  ELLIS: You let her define it. You let her call it unhealthy.

  ELLIS: You always let other people define what we are.

  VADA: I don’t even fucking know what we are

  VADA: how could I define it?

  VADA: maybe it is kind of unhealthy

  VADA: I don’t know

  ELLIS: I’m so tired of this, Vada.

  VADA: you’re tired?

  VADA: what are you fucking tired of?

  ELLIS: Being the cross you have to bear.

  ELLIS: Sometimes I’m even tired of you.

  VADA: you know what?

  VADA: fine

  VADA: fuck you

  VADA: you want to be the martyr? be my guest

  VADA: you’re better off without me

  ELLIS: What are you saying?

  VADA: what do you think I’m saying?

  VADA: go home

  VADA: stay the hell away from me

  VADA: I killed somebody

  VADA: I dragged our stupid drama into the real world and now someone’s dead because of it

&nb
sp; VADA: I’m toxic

  VADA: this has gone way too far

  VADA: just stay away from me

  VADA: go back to Chicago, or whatever

  VADA: just leave me alone

  ELLIS: You don’t mean this.

  VADA: I mean it with all my fucking heart

  VADA: I’m blocking your number

  ELLIS: Vada, please.

  ELLIS: Let’s talk this through.

  VADA: there’s nothing to talk about

  VADA: it’s the same fight over and over, just like you said

  ELLIS: That doesn’t mean I want it to end.

  VADA: that’s where we’re different, Elle

  VADA: you’re the idealist and I’m the realist

  VADA: this doesn’t work

  VADA: you and me

  VADA: we’re a fucking mess

  ELLIS: Please don’t go.

  VADA: I love you but I can’t do this anymore

  VADA: it’s better this way

  VADA: I’m sorry Ellis

  VADA: I love you

  VADA: bye

  —SPRING—

  —3—

  My drinking buddy banged on the kitchen door again.

  I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. One hour till work and I’d been up half the night, curled into a ball in the bay window, teeth clenched, riding out the pain. Three months since the accident and I still didn’t have fine motor control in my right hand.

  At twenty-two I was relearning life as a lefty.

  When he hit the door this time, the glass squealed alarmingly.

  Bastard was going to break something.

  I staggered past the bed, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. If he broke shit, Mrs. Mulhavey would add it to my weekly rent. Which I was already late on. Which he knew, and offered to cover.

  I said no, of course. Taking money from a man I’d wronged was below me.

  I padded through the freezing kitchen, cold linoleum kissing my soles, and flung open the door. He stood with one hand poised in midair.

  “Max,” I said, shivering. “What are you doing?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “You probably woke half the city. What’s up?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Me either.”

  He took a flask from his jeans and swigged, then offered it to me. I shook my head.

  I smelled the whiskey on him, strong. He’d missed the last ferry to the island. Next one came near dawn. So I’d keep him company till he could get himself across the bay and home.

  Because this was our thing now. Holding each other back from the edge.

  I stepped outside and sat on the sea-worn wooden rocker. Salt hung heavily in the wind, the rawness of the ocean like an exposed wound, dark and tender. Once upon a time you said we’d live beside the ocean, Ellis. Mermaids returning to our true realm. Well, I’m here, alone. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  “You’ll get hypothermia if you sit outside drinking all night,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t be a bad way to go.”

  He went for another swig and I grabbed the flask, tucking it into my blanket. “You’re cut off, buddy.”

  Max sank onto the rocker bench, defeated.

  He was a Jekyll-and-Hyde drunk: one side charming and gregarious, one morose and maudlin. Tonight was the latter. Red-rimmed eyes, lit with a crazed grief. Moisture beading on his skin. I pictured a tipsy Poseidon, kelp strung in his beard, armored in conch and coral, a whalebone trident dangling from one fist. My fingers twitched. I could see the sketch in my head.

  He was going to get confessional. That’s what he was here for. Catharsis. Day to day he was like me, walled up, but when we drank together we let ourselves say the things we couldn’t normally say.

  I miss her.

  I miss him.

  It’s our fault.

  The cold made my bad hand cramp. I hunched over, and Max said, “How’s it feel?”

  “Awful.”

  “I envy you.”

  “If you felt like this, you wouldn’t.”

  “You could get rid of it, if you wanted. Be free.” He gave what might have been a smile. “My wound’s on the inside. There’s only one way to stop that kind of hurt.”

  I shivered again, not from the cold.

  Max wore a flannel shirt, no coat. Without asking, I slid toward him and tossed the blanket around his shoulders. We didn’t touch, staring straight ahead into the mist, but after a while our heat merged beneath the cover.

  “What kept you up tonight?” I said.

  “Baseball.” Breath left his mouth like smoke. “Training started today. I watched the kids do warmups.”

  His son, Ryan, had been a ball player. All-star, scouted by colleges. Apple of his dad’s eye.

  It was good to remind myself of that. Of the person who’d been killed instead of me.

  “I used to coach,” Max said. “Today I sat in the stands and watched. And I started thinking, I don’t belong here. I’m not a parent anymore. Just some fucked-up middle-aged man, watching young boys play.”

  I shifted uneasily, the rocker swinging. “You’ll always be a dad. Like you’ll always be somebody’s son.”

  “I’m nobody’s anything. My parents are dead, my son is dead. I have no ties to this world.”

  You have me, I thought, but didn’t dare say it.

  “What kept you awake?” he said.

  Ryan. Ellis. You.

  “The pain.”

  “Your arm?”

  “My life.”

  He laughed hoarsely, understanding.

  We rocked in silence awhile. Eventually he slumped and dozed off. I watched him as the sun came up and bruised his skin in reverse: plum, then lilac, then salmon. Now my hand ached to draw, to capture the bronze grit on his jaw, the damp hair curling over his forehead. Neptune, Sleeping, I titled him.

  The urge to make art is a hurting. An ache, like desire. Like loneliness.

  Except I couldn’t draw anymore. The hand that once spoke for me was dead, mute. It couldn’t even make a fist without pain stropping my spine like a razor, straight to the brain stem.

  I slipped out of the blanket. As I stood, Max clasped my bad hand.

  “Careful. That hurts.”

  “I want to feel it. I want to feel the way you feel, Vada.”

  “No, you don’t. Physical pain isn’t better than emotional. It all sucks.” I tugged. “Let go.”

  I could have gotten free. No other man touched me like this without getting my fist in his face. But Max was different.

  I’d taken his son away. So it was only fair to let him take little pieces of me in return.

  I let him clutch harder, and harder, refusing to cry out, until I sat back down and he hugged me, desperate. We held each other in an awkward embrace.

  He didn’t speak, but I understood. Perfectly.

  * * *

  I waited for her every morning. Walked down to the wharf at dawn and sat shrouded in fog, watching runners pound past on the cobblestones, silhouettes against the white sun. Their breath trailed behind, the air from a hundred lungs twisting into knots, clinging, dissolving. I waited for the fireball streaking across the gray harbor.

  Ellis Morgan Carraway, my former best friend.

  Max wasn’t the only ghost haunting the living.

  When I caught the flash of red I ducked behind a car, camera raised. I was broke as shit but my one indulgence was a pricey point-and-shoot and I snapped photos as she flew past. I could never quite capture her face. Just her hands rising and hovering with each stride, as if reaching for someone else.

  I let the camera swing from the wrist strap, my hand rising in response.

  Gone.

  Ex–best friend. Ex-soulmate. Ex-everything.

  If I were still seeing my psychiatrist he’d say the same thing Mamá did:

  You’re codependent, Vada. Build a life without her.

  Anyone who calls you “codependent” has never had a best fr
iend. Best friendship is a healthy codependence.

  I followed her at a distance and she slowed, planted her hands on her knees. She wasn’t really winded. I knew her too well. She glanced around, bangs hanging in her eyes. Nobody near. Only my breath gave me away, but morning mist rolled in over the docks, cloaking everything in pale smoke.

  She took off again, determined.

  Straight for the water.

  I chased, passing the chain-link fence where friends and lovers had hung hundreds of locks to symbolize their devotion. We had a lock there. A brass lion’s head. We’d latched it tight and tossed the key into the Atlantic. “Love you forever,” she said, and I said, “Forever isn’t long enough.”

  Let me correct myself:

  Friendship is a healthy codependence if you’re still actually friends.

  Elle jogged past the piers, toward the old train yard, where rust-eaten boxcars lay on broken tracks. Rime coated everything like cellophane, crinkling beneath my shoes. I weaved behind beached boats, her shadow.

  Where was she going? There was nothing out here but an abandoned bridge that led nowhere.

  Ellis veered off the footpath onto the seawall.

  It was a shambles of piled rock, a ten-foot drop onto knife-edged limestone and deep ocean. This early, no one would hear her cry if she fell.

  My heart heaved. It was like she knew I was there. Like I had to follow, or I might lose her forever.

  Stalkers are excellent at rationalizing their behavior.

  I’d been athletic once, Elle’s running partner, but since the accident I’d let myself go. Drank myself to sleep, filled my waking breaths with weed. I struggled to keep up while her shoes skimmed slick rock without slipping. Elle ran right on the edge of oblivion, never glancing down. If she fell, the best I could do was call 911. I couldn’t even swim.

  What kind of idiot moves to coastal Maine when she can’t swim?

  Vada Bergen, who never thinks ahead. Who lives by impulse.

  Elle’s foot skidded on ice.

  I almost yelled, but some wiser instinct clamped my mouth shut. I paused in the lee of a schooner, watching.

  She tossed her arms wide for balance, caught herself on nothing but air. Stood there staring at the ocean, her breath frothing into the cold. I was maybe fifty feet away. I could have called her name. I could have stepped out and said, “Stop punishing yourself. Let’s forget it all and start over. Again.”

  Instead I watched her shake it off and lope toward the city, passing me without a glance.

  This is what they don’t tell you about losing someone: It doesn’t happen once. It happens every day, every moment they’re missing from. You lose them a hundred times between waking and sleep, and even sleep is no respite, because you lose them in your dreams, too.