by Theresa Weir
“Yeah, you already said that.”
I reached for the door, but now he was standing in front of it, his hands on my shoulders. His jeans were back where they were supposed to be. And maybe his belt was buckled. I couldn’t tell, because I couldn’t see. I blinked and tried to bring him into focus, but as soon my vision began to clear the room swirled again.
“I’ll call a cab,” he said.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“You wanted something from me pretty badly a minute ago.”
Ham. “Gotta get the ham,” I said. “People are waiting for the ham.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
I lifted my hands in a synchronized swimming motion, breaking his contact with my arms. Apparently he’d been holding me up because as soon as he let go I slid down the door and crashed to the floor.
“Oww.” I crossed my arms and dropped my forehead against my knees. “I wanted you to fix everything,” I mumbled. “Erase everything. Erase him. Make me forget.”
“Who?”
My thoughts shifted. “You have a beautiful penis,” I said, keeping my face buried against my knees while feeling cool air hitting my crotch. It felt kind of nice.
“I don’t believe anybody has ever told me that.” He didn’t sound as mad now. In fact, he sounded a little amused. I heard a movement, heard him walk away, then come back. I felt something wrap around me. A blanket. I grabbed the edge and pulled it closer, then I tumbled to my side and curled up.
I wanted to stay there. I wanted to sleep, but I felt his hands slip under my shoulders and under my knees, and a second later he was lifting me off the floor.
“You’re so small,” he said. “Too small to have put away so much alcohol.”
The bed felt good. The sheets felt good. The pillow under my head felt good. He rearranged the blanket, covering me from head to toe, then he hit the wall switch and the room went black.
I felt the bed dip and knew he was lying next to me but not touching me. “Do you think I’m a slut?” I asked. The word slut was slurred.
Silence. Then, “I think you’re out-of-control. You just need to sleep it off.”
“Fuck you.”
“You already said that, and you already tried that. Now pass out.”
Chapter 3
A shaft of sunlight cut through dark drapes and fell across my face, drilling into my retina. I groaned and slung an arm across my eyes, trying to make the sun stop it.
The bed dipped, and an arm around my waist tightened. That’s when I became aware of a soft breath against the back of my neck, and a solid body curved against my side, a leg across my leg.
What the hell?
I uncovered my face and unsquinted my eyes. Dark hotel room. Dark except for that sliver of light. And a body in bed next to me. I held my breath, listening, waiting to see if the person moved or made any indication that he knew I was awake. And I say he because there was no mistaking the body part that was pressed against my hip. I guess I was now somebody’s wet dream. But whose?
My thoughts raced backward as I tried to piece together last night. I remembered the funeral. And I remembered all the strangers in our house. My house, not ours. Just me now. And I remembered the lawyer saying I should meet him today. And I remembered running.
A bar.
I ended up at a bar.
I’ve never blacked out in my life, but I had no memory of anything past those first few drinks. Had somebody slipped me something? Or had I just drunk myself into oblivion?
Through this entire rewind, the stranger in bed had kept up a steady, light breathing with an occasional contraction of the arm that held me.
I turned my head and saw a clock. Early. 6:00 a.m. Slowly, carefully, holding my breath once again, I inched away from the body. His arm tightened, but then he let out a sigh and rolled to his back, releasing me completely.
I slipped from the bed, sliding out from under the white sheet that covered us both until I stood barefoot on the carpet to stare at the man I’d spent the night with. And apparently had sex with, because there were my panties on the floor. I picked them up with curled toes, then slipped them on under my dress as I watched the guy in the bed. Then I found my boots and stuffed my feet inside, not bothering to lace them.
No memory of him. None. Nothing. And really, he was the kind of guy a girl would remember.
Where do I start?
A beautiful boy man. Probably a few years older than me. Not that muscular. Not like somebody who lifted weights, but he was toned. More like a swimmer’s body, with that kind of smooth skin that felt like satin. Nipples and an almost invisible line of hair that ran from his navel to the sheet that covered the rest of his body. The hair on his head was dark and curly, tousled over his forehead and ears. He wasn’t tan. Not like somebody who was outside a lot, but he wasn’t really pale either.
Strange that it was so hard to tell much about a person with no clothes. Clothes gave you clues.
Tossed on a chair was a pair of jeans, a worn leather belt that looked like he’d owned it for years, and a vintage plaid shirt.
Was he a hipster? Part of the local music scene? A student? No, a student wouldn’t have a hotel room. Unless maybe he got the room for us. Yeah, that might be. Maybe he lived with a bunch of guys and he’d wanted some privacy.
Admiration time over, I slipped from the room and took the elevator to the first floor. It wasn’t until I stepped outside that I realized where I was. At a hotel on the West Bank just across the river from the university, a couple of miles from my father’s house.
The shock of waking up in a strange room with a strange guy had momentarily separated me from the misery of my headache, churning stomach, and the general feeling of wanting to die. But now that I was on the street, and now that exhaust fumes combined with the smell of rotten food coming from a Dumpster hit me, my stomach took a dive and my head split in two.
I had no money.
I had no credit card.
I wanted nothing more than to drop down on the curb and bury my face in my hands, but I also wanted to put some distance between me and the guy upstairs. What if he woke up? What if he was already awake? What if he came after me?
Why would he do that?
He wouldn’t come after me. He’d be glad I was gone.
This was wrong on so many levels that I didn’t know where to start kicking myself. My dad’s funeral was yesterday. Yesterday! My God, I was an awful person. And my God, I had the worst hangover in the history of mankind. My body felt poisoned, and I needed water. I took a few steps, realized my boots were still untied, and bent over to lace them. The edges of my vision darkened, and I quickly tied the laces, straightened, and leaned against a wall in the shade, waiting for the pain and blackness to recede.
I would wallow in shame later. Right now I had to get home, get some Advil and water in me, take a shower, and get to the lawyer’s office.
As I walked I could smell him on me. A breeze would drift past, and I would smell him on my arms and in my hair. Some of it was that distinctive odor that went along with a stuffy hotel room, but beneath that, or above that, was the smell of guy skin. Of guy soap. Guy shampoo.
Yeah, I had to take a shower.
The day was already heating up, like maybe seventy-five degrees, which was good for me since I was wearing the same thin dress I’d worn to the funeral. And now, as my stride lengthened, my head began to feel a little better.
I took Washington Avenue Bridge across the Mississippi River, pausing halfway as cars flew past. I leaned my elbows against the silver railing and looked down at the river. This was the spot where so many people had jumped, mostly students, mostly guys, one being the poet John Berryman. Weird to think that not as many girls jumped from bridges. A friend of mine worked at the Wiseman Art Museum on the opposite bank, and she’d looked out the window one day to see a guy falling through the air. He’d missed the river completely and landed on the bank. Dead on impact.
My father wasn’t supposed to come home that day, but he did. Said he’d had a strange feeling all morning. And so he came home and found me and called 9-1-1, and that was that. Stomach pumped, life saved.
I can’t deny that I’d felt a certain satisfaction when he broke down at the hospital and sobbed into his hands. The guy who never showed any emotion. And for a while I’d actually thought things would change between us. I thought maybe things would be okay. But that didn’t happen. Within a week they went back to normal. Or abnormal. Not only abnormal but even more abnormal, like he got even more protective and smothering and obsessive.
A lot of times I was glad he came home, but a lot of times I wish he hadn’t. Like today. Like right now. Dead would mean last night hadn’t happened.
I was such a cliché. Just another fucked up college student who couldn’t keep her pants on.
And then I had another thought: My father might be dead but he would never be out of my life. Never.
My next thought? It would be cool to be one of the few girls to jump.
I could see the headlines now: University Student Despondent Over Her Father’s Death Takes Her Own Life.
I knew it shouldn’t matter because I’d be dead anyway but I didn’t want them saying that about me. I didn’t want them to think it was because of him. Well, it was because of him, but not for the reason people would think.
No, I wouldn’t kill myself today. I’d meet with the lawyer and see what he had to tell me. The bridge would always be here. I could always kill myself later.
Chapter 4
“Where have you been?”
This from my friend Rose who practically attacked me when I stepped in the door of my dad’s house.
“I need a drink. Of water.”
“I called the cops,” Rose said, following me as I cut through the living room. “But they said you hadn’t been gone long enough to file a missing person’s report.”
I went straight to the kitchen sink where I filled a glass with water. There was the business card the lawyer handed to me yesterday. God, that seemed like a week ago. Sixteen ounces of water later I turned to find Rose giving me a visual exam.
“You look like hell,” was her conclusion.
“What are you doing here?” That sounded rude. I’d meant it was odd for her to be in this house, period. Even before I’d moved out I’d never invited people over.
“When you didn’t come home last night I figured you’d spent the night at your dad’s, but this morning when you didn’t answer your phone I stopped by. There were some women cleaning. Said they were from your dad’s church and that you’d taken off during the funeral thing. One of them saw you running down the middle of the street. What the hell, Molly.”
There was no sign of yesterday’s event. I imagined one of the women, maybe the one who’d wanted to know the details of how I’d found my dad, watching through the window, seeing me flailing away. I laughed even though it hurt my head.
Rose laughed too. We had a twisted sense of humor.
Rose and I met a couple of years ago at Mean Waitress where we both worked. We’d bonded over being adopted and when one of her roommates moved out I moved in. But Rose didn’t know everything about me.
Now she followed me to the bathroom and I’m pretty sure she would have come in if I hadn’t shut the door. Sorry about that. While I peed we kept up our conversation. As the toilet flushed, I checked the mirror. Rose was right. I looked like hell. Raccoon eyes. Bed head. Lips the color of paste.
When I emerged Rose was leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
As soon as you saw Rose you knew she didn’t take crap from anybody. It wasn’t the tattoos on her arms and across her chest. It wasn’t her flaming red hair that at the moment was pulled up on top of her head. It wasn’t the way she paired black shorts with cowboy boots. If she’d been wearing one of my more demure floral numbers she’d still put off a kick-ass vibe.
One thing they don’t tell new U of M students? Plan on being mugged if you live in Minneapolis. I’d been mugged so many times I joked about making a T-shirt with the dates and locations. Like a band tour T-shirt, but with muggings. But Rose? Nobody messed with Rose.
“I texted you a million times.” Without uncrossing her arms, she pushed away from the wall with her shoulder. Under normal circumstances I got the feeling she would have chewed me out. These weren’t normal circumstances.
“I had to get out of here.” My phone. Where was my phone? “All of those people. I couldn’t stand it.” Back to the living room, Rose following. Drop down on the couch. Lie down on the couch. Oh my, God. I felt so awful. The two glasses of water churned in my stomach. “Advil,” I whispered. If I talked with any volume I might throw up. “Could you get me some Advil?” I pointed. “In the kitchen.”
She left and came back with another glass of water and two pills. I sat up long enough to swallow the pills, hand the glass back, and collapse, throw pillow under my head, another clutched to my stomach.
“You’re hung over.” Not an accusation, just an observation. I could feel her staring at me. “What happened?”
“Don’t remember.” Faint voice, arm slung across my face. “Blacked out I guess. And I have to go see a lawyer in a few hours.”
“I could fix you something greasy like fried eggs. Sometimes that helps.”
“No food.”
I heard her sit down in my dad’s La-Z-Boy. I tried not to think about how I was lying on the very couch where he’d died. I needed to get rid of the couch. And the La-Z-Boy.
“I woke up in bed with some stranger,” I finally confessed without uncovering my face.
“Been there, done that, got an STD to prove it. But that’s not you.”
“I know.”
“Were you roofied?”
“I just think I drank too much.”
“Jesus, Molly. Not about the drinking, but about the way it happened. I should have been here.”
“Mmm.” That’s all I could manage to get out.
“What’d he say? The guy?”
I dropped my arm to my side. “I left before he woke up.”
“Was he cute?”
I stared at her.
She blushed. “Oh, God. I’m so shallow. Sorry. I’ve never dealt with death before. It’s hard. Like hard to know what to say. Oh, crap. Now I’m making this about me.”
I’d never seen Rose rattled. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t know if he was cute. Maybe. Doesn’t matter. It’s over and done. I have more important stuff to deal with. He’s obviously some loser who hits on drunk girls. Hopefully I’ll never see him again.”
“Right. Loser.”
“Creep.”
“And now I gotta go,” Rose said. “Gotta be at work in a few hours. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
I heard the relief in her voice, and I had to wonder if she knew more about me than I realized. I’d never talked to her about the bridge, but maybe she’d somehow picked up on my infatuation with it.
“Sorry about running off,” I told her.
“That’s cool. I get it. At least the running part. And the drinking part too.” She stood up and shook her long shapely legs so her shorts weren’t quite so short. “Need anything before I leave?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you staying here tonight? Or at the duplex?”
“I’ll probably stay here a few days at least.” I didn’t like the thought of sleeping upstairs in my old room, but I’d be alone and I needed to be alone for a while. The duplex was usually party central, and I couldn’t deal with that ri
ght now.
“I wondered if you’d stay here for good.”
“Maybe I’ll rent it out.”
Rose looked around. “I’d so move back if I were you.”
It was a nice house. A lot of thick, dark wood. Kind of Frank Lloyd Wright, I supposed. But shitty carpet and shitty furniture. Other than the upstairs bathroom nothing had ever been updated, my father always saying he couldn’t afford it.
I’d never move back.
Rose was ready to leave when I stopped her. She paused in the doorway.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m always here for you, babe.”
I embraced her words even though I knew they weren’t true. She’d left me in many a bar, and she’d stood me up for lunch so many times I quit making plans with her. Rose wasn’t a person you could count on, but it meant something that she was here today when most of the people I hung out with had vanished the second news got out about my dad.
Molly Young’s dad died? Guess she won’t be up for a party. Move on to the next person. Oops. There’s Molly. Walking toward me. I’ll just duck into this alley and pretend I didn’t see her.
I wondered if they taught classes on how to deal with death, from the outside and the inside. But I seriously doubted any class could help with death from the inside.
An hour after Rose left I forced myself to get off the couch. I took a shower, washed my hair, put on a clean dress—something black and left over from my Goth phase because I didn’t feel like wearing a happy dress.
In the kitchen I poured cereal and milk into a bowl, then slid onto a stool at the center island. I was glad I felt so horrible because it gave me a focus other than the death of my father. Like cutting, only with booze. It worked. Maybe I would have another drink after I met with the lawyer.
I took a cautious bite of cereal, forcing myself to chew and swallow. A couple more bites and I was shoving the bowl away.
My phone.
There was a way to track your phone if you lost it, but I couldn’t deal with figuring that out right now. I’d installed the app but never tested it. And I had to be at the lawyer’s office in less than fifteen minutes.
