I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  I drone on: Murray. Murray. Murray.

  A girl I don’t recognize leans toward Eve, unaware her personal space is protected. “Are you gonna eat your turkey?”

  “No,” Eve says in a trance, handing over the protein.

  “Are you serious, Katy?” Lindsey snaps, swatting the turkey from her hand. “Leave. Eve. Alone. She needs to eat.” Katy reddens. She likely just lost her spot with the cool kids tomorrow. Eve doesn’t seem to notice. Someone could tie her down on train tracks and she wouldn’t scream.

  I continue the boring chant, Murray. Murray. Murray. Over and over. During tennis practice I make a game of it to break up the monotony, timing my delivery to the exact moment the ball connects with her racket.

  By the time Brady hands Eve the list of twelve names, she doesn’t hesitate. “I heard Ms. Murray is nice.”

  “Ms. Murray it is,” Brady agrees, circling the name and shoving the list back in his briefcase.

  I want to celebrate my first real success, but Eve’s mood darkens, snapping me back to attention. “Are you gonna schedule it?”

  Her open-eyed expression tells me this is a test. Eve set me up like this all the time, reeling me in with a seemingly casual question that had only one correct answer in her stubborn mind. If—no, when—I responded incorrectly, she pounced all over the perceived mistake. I try to send Brady a warning, but it unravels too fast.

  “Sure. I’ll have Paula do it tomorrow.” He continues scanning the mail, oblivious to the missile en route.

  “Does Paula wipe your ass too?”

  Brady’s brown eyes squint until his stare is a laser on Eve’s head. The Fireman has arrived. The veins above his eyebrows pulsate under his skin. He looks like a man about to throw a punch. Walk away, I instruct them both, but Brady is too incensed to be persuaded and Eve is frozen with fear.

  Brady moves so physically close that they suddenly share the same kitchen tile. “I have tolerated enough of your bullshit,” he shouts at her. Eve does not retreat. She can’t. Her firm stance enrages Brady more. “You cannot talk to me like that. What happened to your mother is NOT MY GODDAMN FAULT.” He slams an open palm on the counter, knocking over a water glass. The sound of it shattering whips Brady out of his fury, returning his eyes and face to normal. Eve backs out of the kitchen, startled by the stranger before her.

  Brady stares at his hand as if it’s a foreign object. With Eve safe, I stop watching. I don’t want to fall any more out of love with my husband than I already have.

  * * *

  I find Rory on a blind date with a man who looks like Herman Munster. He has the height, flat forehead, baritone voice, and unfortunate luck of sitting in a spot where the green backlight of the Mexican restaurant hits his face, leaving a Kermit afterglow. The only thing he’s missing is a bolt lodged in his neck.

  “Rory is such a beautiful name,” he says, leaning in as she simultaneously sits back. “I love the whole New Age, hippy look you have going.”

  Rory slaps an artificial grin on her face. “Thanks.”

  He clears his throat to buy time while he figures out what to say next. When he considers a line I know will horrify Rory, I encourage him to go for it. I wouldn’t sabotage the date if there were any chance it’d end in true love, but these two aren’t kismet, so why not make it an entertaining disaster?

  “I had a newt named Rory once,” he says, “only it was a boy.”

  “Really, a boy newt,” she repeats, not bothering to feign a smile. “What a coincidence.” Her thoughts are crazy with chatter: Did he seriously just compare me to an amphibian? What was Danielle thinking? How desperate do people think I am?

  “I mean, what are the chances of that? Rory is not a common name, you know? And yet, five years ago, I happened to name my newt Rory. And then we both happened to get a divorce. And now you happen to work with my second cousin’s wife. That’s all pretty unbelievable, even if the newt was a boy.”

  It certainly is unbelievable, Rory thinks. Who in their right mind married you?

  He waits for a response to that random statement of facts with a creepy grin on his face. “Ahhh, yeah, no, it is. So, David, Danielle mentioned you own your own business in Dedham?”

  It’s a successful shift in the conversation until he replies, “Yes, a funeral home. I’m a mortician.”

  I didn’t have to do anything to make that funny. Rory coughs to cover the laugh that escapes and considers the possibility she’s on Punk’d. She looks at the pepper shaker for a lens of some sort, then around the bar for anyone who could be in on it. She truly expects an explosion of applause and laughter at her expense. Instead, the mortician continues, “You know, the industry is misunderstood. They paint it out to be full of people taking advantage of families at a vulnerable time. But that’s not it at all. I think of myself as someone who gives families one last favorable look at their loved one. I had this guy last week who got hit by an eighteen-wheeler. I’m not exaggerating when I say he was messed up. I mean eyes popped, arm detached—”

  Rory’s last sip of wine threatens to come back up. “Jesus, please,” she says, using a hand as a stop sign.

  He wears a sympathetic expression I imagine is universally loathed by his clients. “I’m sorry.” He reaches across the table and gives her hand a pat. “Have you lost a loved one in an auto accident? I should have asked before I told that story.”

  “No, no, well … yes, actually,” Rory stammers, “but regardless, it doesn’t feel right to be so flippant about someone’s death.”

  He laughs. “Okay, you’re sensitive. I get that. Frankly, I like it. Because I gotta tell ya, some women your age are bitter.” Rory frowns. “What I mean is, it’s refreshing you’re so easily upset.” She remains visibly displeased. “Okay, I declare a subject change.” He claps his hands to make the declaration official, drawing attention to their table. Rory shrinks in her chair. “Let’s share divorce horror stories. That’s a safe zone since our exes are unfortunately still alive—ha ha ha—am I right?”

  “I’d rather not,” Rory replies with a hint of teacher authority behind her voice.

  “I’ll go first. It’s a total cliché. My wife left me for the UPS driver.” Rory and I have the same thought: there’s nothing cliché about that. Hollywood maybe, but not cliché. UPS drivers don’t carry the same sex appeal as, say, personal trainers. “He went the extra mile carrying our new Bowflex into the living room and, next thing I knew, he lived there and I didn’t.” Rory looks longingly through the window to her car in the parking lot, then back at her date. “Your turn,” he says.

  “My husband and I weren’t a match anymore.”

  “Come on,” he pushes. “Was he an alcoholic? That’s pretty common. I have three aunts and a cousin who hit the bottle hard. I’m talking drunk before church. Not Danielle, of course. Don’t be a bad girl and spread rumors now—ha ha ha.”

  “He wasn’t an alcoholic.”

  “Abuse?”

  “No.”

  “Oh God, did he cheat on you?”

  “No.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t cheat on him. Did you? Because I have to say, after my last experience, that’s the only thing that could stand in the way of me taking this date to the next level.”

  Having no intention of taking the date to any additional level, Rory retrieves her purse. “Listen, David, thanks so much for the glass of wine. It was nice to meet you.”

  She sticks her arm out for a handshake. He stands too, awkwardly rubbing the condensation from his glass onto his pressed khakis. “Oh, okay,” he says. “You’re heading out? Can I walk you to your car?”

  Rory graciously explains it’d be best if he stayed at the table so the bartender doesn’t think they’re skipping out on the tab. The mortician does not appear fazed; this is not the first time drinks didn’t turn into dinner.

  Brady hasn’t been on a date in twenty-three years, but he’d never describe a mangled body over cocktails. Rory’s disaster of a night is,
selfishly, perfect. Even with a temper, if this is the competition, Brady will do fine.

  Eve

  Thank God Lindsey’s aunt is a flight attendant who thinks her stash of in-flight cocktails is well hidden in the corner of the guesthouse closet. While the parents in attendance have the luxury of openly enjoying their wine and beer, we take turns ducking out to the privacy of the back deck. It’s clutch to keep your buzz going till you get in the limo or the dance will be cheesy, but for me it’s more than that. I have to keep my buzz going so I can pretend I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  Unfortunately, it’s not my turn to be drinking when the Andersons stumble over. They make a perfect couple because they’re both totally clueless no one in the room likes them. Mrs. Anderson has on a blue sequin tank with a way-too-short white skirt that I can see Lindsey’s mother dissing in the kitchen. Between her slutty outfit and the hangover she’s working on, you’d think it was Mrs. Anderson’s prom night. Her husband plays the part of a horny date well. His hand creeps closer and closer to Mrs. Anderson’s ass as they make their unwelcome rounds. It’s fine that parents still do it and all, but they should be considerate of the fact that it grosses everyone else out.

  “Did you pick your dress beforehand?” Mrs. Anderson asks while her husband scopes the room for someone less depressing to talk to. I can’t believe so many fools buy cars from a man who obviously goes to a tanning salon.

  I assume Mrs. Anderson is referring to before my mom voluntarily plunged to her death. A classy question. Thankfully she blabbers on without waiting for an answer. “Kara and I found hers in February in the middle-of-nowhere Springfield, and you know Kara, she somehow convinced me it wasn’t too early to buy it. I’m just relieved she still likes it. I mean, it’s not as though we could return something we bought four months ago. And Springfield is a million miles from here. That would’ve been my worst nightmare.”

  I want Mrs. Anderson to suffer a real nightmare. I’d like to see how nice her Botox looks after finding out something whacked, like her GQ husband has a hidden family in the city. That’d teach her to be more careful with her words.

  I consider informing the Andersons that their daughter is puking her brains out in the woods right now, probably getting backsplash on that gorgeous Springfield catch, but instead I walk away. I’m beginning to understand why my dad likes that move—it’s badass to peace out in the middle of a conversation.

  I should’ve stuck to my original plan and pretended to have pinkeye, but then it would’ve been Dad and me, alone. At least here I can be drunk. Before I left, he asked if he should come to take pictures. As if. I laughed in his face, but stopped when he looked like he might smack me. Maybe I shouldn’t have backed off; a black eye would go perfect with this night.

  Paige offered to come as my bodyguard, but I passed, knowing she meant it literally. Mrs. Anderson would have been escorted out by now. That’s why my mom loved Paige. Tonight she showed up just before I left with a boutonniere for John, which I flaked on getting, and two condoms. I have no plans to put out tonight, but it was the first time I’ve laughed since Good Friday. It was something my mom would do. No awkward conversation necessary, a simple gesture that said it all.

  I scan the room. Preprom is nothing more than a parade of mothers showing off how close they are with their daughters. The fussing, the makeup, the pictures, it’s all a performance, and tonight gossiping about my dysfunctional family is the main act. I hear them, the way I do at school: It’s so sad.… I heard Madeline was a big drinker.… I always thought she seemed so happy.… Look at poor Eve.… My God, how selfish do you have to be to kill yourself when you have a child? I want to scream between camera flashes that losing my mother did not make me deaf.

  Someone snaps the back of my strapless bra. I spin around to find Katy, who social-climbed all year to get invited to this stupid party, giving me air-kisses like she’s some sort of movie star. “I’m so glad you came tonight,” she gushes. “There’s no good excuse to miss prom.”

  “Hmm,” I reply, pretending to think about it. “I think my excuse would’ve been pretty fucking good.” She wipes the fake smile off her face and leaves me alone. It’s the first hint she’s taken all year.

  I can’t face another conversation like that, so I wait until no one is looking and truck upstairs to lock myself in the master bathroom. It reeks of hair spray and perfume, but I’d hole up in a Porta Potty right now if that’s what it took to be alone.

  I sit on the toilet lid and stare at the ceiling. Sounds from the party mush together and become easy to ignore. Why didn’t she leave a note? After the funeral I checked the mail every day, certain she sent a letter explaining it wasn’t my fault and offering loving advice on how to move on. Suicide really is the ultimate fuck-you.

  On the morning of the day she jumped, she told me to prepare myself because it was going to be a crazy Easter weekend. I assumed she meant no one would get much sleep since Aunt Meg, Uncle Dan, and Lucy were staying at the house. Now I see it was a big joke. She must have felt powerful knowing she’d be dead before bedtime and we’d be left to realize how much she really mattered.

  There’s a knock at the door. “Eve, open up. It’s John.”

  I turn the lock. He lets himself in and sits on the vanity, taking a swig of the mini vodka I left on the counter. For a second I remember what it’s like to be normal. Sneaking away for a quick drink with your cool boyfriend is ordinary. But I’m not here for a flirt-filled drink, I’m here to chug as much as I can without puking because my tragic life is being advertised like a Super Bowl commercial downstairs.

  “I guess you’re not into the whole prom thing this year,” he says. I nod. “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah.” I run a finger under each eye to catch the tears before my eyeliner does. If John weren’t here, I’d let them slide into my mouth. I’ve come to enjoy their salty taste.

  “It’s good to see you cry,” he says. “You’re supposed to be sad.”

  Hopefully he isn’t saying that to be nice, because his words unlock a full sob. I am so completely alone. I run through all the life moments that are ruined. The prom is nothing. What about graduation? My wedding day? When I have children of my own?

  John hops down for a hug but I push back. I find no comfort in physical touch. Everything feels fake.

  “I’m so pissed.” I want to yell it, but I don’t want anyone to hear, so it comes out as an angry whisper. “I can’t take this shit. Seeing everyone here, joking, getting dressed up like it matters.”

  “I know—”

  I stumble backwards. “No. No. No one knows. That’s the whole thing. Freaking Lindsey asked if I thought she and Noel had a chance at winning Junior Court. I looked at her, like, does she honestly think I give a rat’s ass? She can be the damn princess or whatever you even call it.”

  I’m wicked drunk. We both are. John sensed I’d be a bummer date and tucked a flask into the back suspenders of his rented tuxedo. It’s already empty. “Let’s get through this and we’ll bail on the dance,” he suggests.

  I look in the mirror at my swollen eyes, puffy cheeks, and running makeup. There’s no way I can go back out there. “I want—” I pause to think what it is I want. “—to go home.” It’s a lie, but I can’t stay here, clearly, and I can’t think of anyplace else.

  “Let’s leave together,” John says. “We can go to my house. My parents are at a wedding tonight.” He reaches for my hand. I stare at it. I once heard my dad describe this guy he worked with as airspace. When I asked what he meant he said, “He’s nothing to me. He’s not good. He’s not bad. He’s just there.” That’s how I feel about John now. Before Mom died, dating him was everything. We claimed we loved each other. Now he’s airspace. But he can get me out of this hellhole, so I take his hand. We walk out of the bathroom, across the foyer, and out the front door without anyone noticing.

  A prison break.

  Brady

  “Brady Starling?”

 
I know the voice on the other end of the line. My breath catches. “This is.”

  “I am calling from Newton-Wellesley Hospital regarding your daughter, Eve.”

  I drop to the floor as though someone took a baseball bat to my legs. This can’t be happening.

  “She’s here at the hospital,” the voice continues, unaware of my frantic state. “There was a car accident. She’ll be fine, but you need to bring her insurance information and pick her up, if you have a safe means to get here.”

  I replay the call about Maddy. Your wife is in critical condition, the same voice said. Please find someone to drive you to the hospital immediately. “You’re lying,” I shout now. “You fed me this bullshit before, but my wife was dead. Dead. She had died instantly.”

  My right hand claws at my chest, drawing blood. I feel no pain. The woman falters for a second but then insists, “Sir, calm down and listen. There are times we say that to protect people in extreme circumstances, but I promise you your daughter is fine. She needs a few stitches. That’s all.”

  I hang up, get off my hands and knees, still begging, bawling, and sprint to the car.

  When I got the call on Good Friday, I was at work. Meg was already at the house for Easter weekend, so she brought Eve to the hospital and I used the drive to set perimeters around what happened. Maddy and I had been lucky in life. Too lucky. Everyone pays dues at some point. I settled on the fact that Maddy had been permanently disabled. It was the maximum sentence I could conceive, and my giant ego actually believed I had the power to contain the situation. It was my turn to serve Maddy, and by the time I parked the car I was prepared to take on my new duties. I hadn’t realized how high the stakes were then, or how little say we mortals have on these matters, but I damn well know now. You only confuse hope with power once in life.