by Sandra Block
“Not really.” I sit back down on the bed. “I went to S.O.S.”
“Oh.” The word is charged with unease. “Are you feeling… I mean… You’re not…”
“No, I’m not. Sometimes I just like going anyway.” On my anniversary, I don’t say. Since we’re both dancing around the subject.
“That’s good,” she says with warmth. “You should go, when you feel that way.”
We wade through some more stilted conversation until I finally beg off, yawning, and she lets me go. I lie down on the bed again, the springs creaking. My book sits beside me on the nightstand. But I don’t have the energy to open the pages, let alone allow the words inside my head. So I just lie there, listening to the grinding vibration of the cicadas.
Maybe I should have gone to Shakers after all, sat there like a bump on a log sipping Dr Pepper while Eli got sloppily sentimental and ended up leaving with some guy.
So maybe I shouldn’t have gone to Shakers.
The phone rings again, and I see it’s Shoshana, my sister. Another phone call for my anniversary, which she won’t mention. Though I suppose I should answer, if only to ask about her baby-to-be. The only one who hasn’t called me yet is Daisy. But she will, eventually. I turn the ringer off, and the phone eventually stops buzzing. Simone jumps onto the bed and sits, gray and regal as a small statue. Lying down next to her, I stare at the calendar on the wall.
The square date stands out like a bruise.
I close my eyes. Soon enough, I will be asleep. Finally, this dreadful day will be over. Simone meows at something, then settles herself in the crook of my knees. My hand snakes under my pillow until I feel it. I hold on to it, like a lover’s hand.
The cool, textured grip of my Beretta.
And I finally allow myself to relax.
Chapter Two
James
Sitting on the comfy Starbucks chair, I think about her.
The air-conditioning hums beside me, a soothing white noise that is calming and, at the same time, incredibly productive, shooting the air through a compressor and then a condenser and then right back out again.
I didn’t expect to see her, but there she was.
I wasn’t even going to go. My therapist recommended it. I hate saying the word therapist because it sounds like I’m crazy or weak, and I’m not either. But Jamal is nice. He doesn’t judge me. He says I see things too black-and-white, and he’s probably right. Part of my disorder, though he doesn’t like to call it that. Differentness is what he calls it. When I told him that’s not really a word, he said he knew that. I guess that’s just me being black-and-white again. But I don’t need a made-up word for it. I’d rather just call it what it is.
Asperger’s syndrome.
My father doesn’t believe in it though. He called it the flavor-of-the-month diagnosis. My mom just wants me to be happy, however I am. (Which is what she wanted for Ramona, unlike my father. My father only ever cared about Rob anyway.)
Asperger’s doesn’t explain everything, but it does explain a lot.
Like why they used to call me Robot Man in high school. And why girls don’t like me. Why I don’t like sarcastic jokes that everyone else thinks are funny but are actually just mean, and why I get along with the IT guys who don’t make those jokes. Why I suck at English but am good at math and programming. It explains me, pretty much.
A fly buzzes by my ear for a second, then darts up to the ceiling light. I hate flies, though I know that’s not logical. We’ve learned a ton from the drosophila and they don’t mean to upset me, but still they’re dirty and loud. I grab a crumpled newspaper from the next table and the fly zooms away to hide. I hate flies, but that doesn’t mean they’re dumb.
Sitting back down, I take a sip of my drink. It’s pumpkin latte something, which I like because it doesn’t taste like coffee. I hate coffee. But I like Starbucks, because it’s quiet and calm, and no matter which location you go to, they all look the same. And I couldn’t stand going home right away. I was buzzing too much, after seeing her.
I usually don’t go to these things, but Jamal said it might help me to see other people dealing with this. This being suicide. He said there are lots of people like me, grieving over the death of someone we loved but who didn’t love themselves. He gave me a flyer for the group last time I was there. S.O.S.
Jamal has given me flyers before. I have a stack of them for Asperger’s support groups and autism this and that, but I’ve never gone. But for whatever reason, I went to S.O.S. I came in late and everyone looked at me. The room was poorly air-conditioned and smelled bad. Then there were the fold-up metal chairs, which I hate.
The leader was nice enough. His glasses were dirty, which kept distracting me. But everyone told their stories. And Jamal was right—it did help. Other people were feeling just as shitty as I do, which made me feel better, in a weird, probably-not-very-nice way.
When it came to me, I clammed up. I always do that. Everyone was looking at me, and I said what I had to say. I told them about Ramona, how she jumped off the bridge. In my opinion, they should just shut that damn bridge down, but I know that’s not logical. Things need transport.
I didn’t expect much from the meeting, but then, I saw her.
I don’t believe in fate, except maybe some computer god up there writing out the world with code. Code that is full of glitches but also so amazing that no one understands it. So when these things happen, people just call it fate.
Either way, she was there.
Dahlia, the girl from my work. The one I’ve always wondered about, with the purple hair and tattoos. Who’s smart and doesn’t take shit from anyone, but manages to be polite about it so she never gets in trouble or called into meetings or anything. She reminds me of Ramona, in a weird way. There is something raw but gentle about her too.
I remember the day I worked on her computer. She smelled like freesia. I thought it was weird, that a dahlia should smell like freesia. I know it was freesia, because I had a friend in college who always wore Bath & Body Works’s freesia and I’m good with smells. I always get them right in those science museum thingies, where you smell the boxes. Sometimes it’s not such a good thing though. For instance, it annoys everyone how I won’t go to a particular restaurant or the zoo because of the smell. I have a strong sense of smell, also part of Asperger’s, so it’s not my fault. But the point is she smelled really good, and I noticed her. I started watching out for her without meaning to. She would go to the break room with her friend Sylvia, who’s loud and obnoxious and not at all like Dahlia. I started noticing what Dahlia was wearing (usually black or dark purple), the sound of her voice, and how carefully she spoke, with long words but not trying to sound smart. I was nervous around her, like my cortisol levels were jacked up. I noticed her. And I saw how Connor, the lawyer guy whose wife died, noticed her too.
Dahlia never seemed to notice us back though. Me or Connor.
The fly zaps right by my ear this time, then starts scaling the wall, and I roll up the newspaper, reach out for a lightning quick swipe, and nail it. I scoop the crushed body into the tube and get up to toss the whole thing in the garbage, feeling bad about killing the poor thing and not recycling at the same time. I don’t like to kill things, of course. But as I said, I hate flies.
The air conditioner revs up again as I sit back down. Crossing my arms in the cold air, I see her face in my mind. Dahlia always looked right through me, like everyone else does. It’s not her fault, necessarily. I don’t know if it’s the half-Japanese thing or the Asperger’s thing, or maybe neither. No one seems to notice me.
But this time, she looked right at me, so hard that it hurt and I had to look away. She saw me. She said she was sorry about Ramona.
I don’t know why Dahlia tried to kill herself, and I’m sorry for whatever happened to her, but it doesn’t matter. I like her. She probably doesn’t like
me, but it seemed like maybe she did, the way she was looking at me. I’ve gotten this type of thing wrong, very wrong, before.
But I like her, that’s all.
And the way she looked at me, I think maybe she might like me too.
Chapter Three
Five Years Ago
Daisy hands me the trippy, pink plastic bong, which bubbles pleasantly in my hands. The sweet taste expands in my mouth and lungs. When I feel the softness trickle into my brain, I let my breath out.
“Good, huh?” Daisy asks.
I nod, still savoring the taste. I am sprawled out on the pink papasan in the common room. My eyes are bombarded with shades of pink. Daisy decorated the room, and she likes pink. Bubble-gum, hot, pastel, and yes, even Dahlia pink.
Daisy and I have been inseparable since we were roommates in freshman year. Dahlia and Daisy, D and D, the flower girls…we have quite a few nicknames. Hard to believe it’s September of our senior year already.
“How about this?” Daisy holds up a pair of white pants in one hand and red in another.
“Red.”
“That’s what I thought.” She takes the bong. “Another hit?”
I shake my head. I don’t know what mix she has, but it’s heavy. The red pants are swirling.
“Okay, let’s do you now,” she says.
“I’m not going,” I say, which is what I always say.
“You are too going, introvert-girl.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being an introvert. I like being an introvert.”
Daisy is beautiful, in an innocent, blond way. Boys swarm around her. I am her counterpoint. Black hair, pale-white skin, black eyes. I’m the Disney princess’s sidekick, but not the princess. Only the hearty, intrepid boys stick around for me.
“Come on,” she says, and I feel myself being dragged from the calm peace of my papasan.
“Okay, okay,” I say. The words come out echoey.
She holds up a low-cut, white cotton shirt and a frilly one. “Slutty Girl or Pretty Girl?”
“Pretty Girl,” I say. I don’t mention there’s a coffee stain on Slutty Girl anyway.
“Fine,” she says. “But you need the black mini, then.”
“Done,” I say, grabbing the skirt from her.
I go to my room, which has no pink whatsoever, to put on my clothes, my high mellowing out to a blurry, fuzzy, happy feeling. I check myself in the full-length mirror on the door and decide on a short, black heel. I smooth out the skirt, straighten the frill on the neck.
Pretty Girl, I think, admiring myself.
Chapter Four
Dahlia
The next day is better. It always is.
Everything goes smoothly. No paper jams in the printer. No asshole clients on the phone. Sylvia’s in a good mood. The coffee is perfect. One of those excellently boring days.
“Hey, where were you last night?” Sylvia asks. “I called you.”
“Yeah, I went out.”
“Where?”
“Shakers,” I lie. She’s never heard of it anyway, so it doesn’t register as a gay bar.
“I wanted to introduce you to Travis, remember? Beau thinks you guys would be great together.” Sylvia has a thick Maine accent. The first time I heard it, I thought she was putting it on as a joke. She wasn’t. “Anyway,” she says, then goes on about Travis, her fiancé’s brother.
Her fiancé is nice enough but dumb as nails, and I got a glimpse of Travis with that same thick-necked, square-jawed look. They’re both into professional wrestling, which tells me I don’t need to suffer through a first date to know we’re not a match made in heaven. Sylvia prattles on, and I start highlighting a document for Connor, my boss. I pick purple for Connor today. He doesn’t care what color highlighter I use, whereas his associate, Tabitha, favors orange. So I highlight hers in orange. I am nothing but eager to please.
“He said he’s not usually into the goth type, but he thought you were cute.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Travis,” she says, a touch annoyed.
“Oh yeah, right.” The goth type. I guess that was supposed to be a compliment. “Eli was going through a tough time. So I was hanging out with him.”
Sylvia sniffs at this. “You’re never going to find someone if you just hang out with Eli all the time.”
As if that’s my ultimate goal in life, finding someone. A princess waiting to be rescued. Though I admit, I don’t even know what my goal in life is. So I suppose that’s as good a one as any. “I’m getting some coffee, you want any?” I ask.
“No, but get me a jelly donut if they have any.” She stabs the dial pad on her phone with long, cherry-red nails. “Not that I should have one, if I’m gonna fit into my freaking dress.”
I take a deep breath, as I have already heard about her freaking dress three times so far this morning. I grab my mug that says COFFEE, which I got at last year’s white elephant office party exchange. I thought it was hilarious; no one else got it. Except Eli, who tried to steal it from my pantry.
Once in the break room, I pour myself half a mug before wandering over to the table in the center where there is indeed a lone jelly donut.
“They might be stale,” a voice says.
I turn around to see James in the doorway. He is wearing gray pants and a blue button-down, the picture of nondescript, which is probably why I never noticed him before. But he is staring at me with dark, quizzical dark eyes. And those cheekbones. I notice him now.
“It’s not for me anyway,” I say.
“You’re not into donuts?” He wanders over and surveys the table, eyeing a couple misshapen powder Dunkin’ holes but doesn’t appear tempted.
“Not jelly. Glazed. I’m a purist.” I grab a napkin. “You?”
“I don’t like any donuts.”
“Oh.” I notice he doesn’t have a coffee mug either, and there’s nothing else in the break room in the morning.
“I just saw you come in,” he says in answer to my unasked question, “and I wanted to get your number.” He whips out his phone. “So?”
I’m trying to figure out if his social ineptitude is intentional or not. I’m thinking not. I pause. If this is his game, I don’t really get it. He’s a couple years younger than me and not my usual type. But there’s something about the way he is staring at me. And as Sylvia so nicely reminded me, I’ll never find someone if I just hang out with Eli all the time. Hell, it’s not like men are pounding down my door.
Maybe he’s a little weird. But the truth is, I’m a little weird too.
“Okay,” I say and give him my number.
• • •
Sylvia brays on about her freaking dress for the entire rest of the workday. She is just starting about V-neck versus the lacy jewel neck when five o’clock hits and I am finally released. I race off to see Rae-Ann for my monthly appointment. This month, I could really use it.
Stepping off the train at Harvard Square, sweat runs down my back. I take the shortcut through Harvard Yard on the way to the office. I started seeing Rae-Ann while still in college, and though it’s totally out of my way to go to Cambridge at this point, I still make the trek. We click, as they say in the parlance. She gets me, and there’s no way I’d ever go through the trial of explaining my past to someone else.
The Yard is gorgeous in its usual, standoffish way. The majestic gray-and-red buildings, laced with non-proverbial ivy, line the grass in the center. Sugar maples tower above, their leaves turning tangerine. I walked under this canopy of trees my freshman year, the breeze whistling through them, feeling full of wonder and awe. I trudged the same path as a senior, the trees brooding and smothering now, blocking all the sunlight. The Yard is stunning, but haunting at the same time.
Because something very ugly happened here, in this beautiful place.
As
I pass the science center, the fountain shoots water into arcs that scatter onto the rocks below. I turn onto a well-worn but charming side street lined with compact cars, grand old trees, and not-so-grand old apartments, one being Rae-Ann’s duplex. The rickety wooden stairs could use a coat of paint.
Two other people sit in the small waiting room, one I recognize from other visits. We share a brief smile and I sit in the same brown chair I always sit in. The air is stale, and I am giving myself a quick sniff check as Rae-Ann comes out to get me. As we enter her office, a soft peach scent fills the room, and I notice the tea steeping on her desk. After a little chat about the hot weather, she breaks right in. “How was yesterday?”
I twist my earring. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”
Rae-Ann smiles, her chunky teal-blue beads clacking as she leans back in her chair. Rae-Ann is all earth mother. She is rather obese, with matching hemp tops and bottoms and always a long strand of beads to accessorize. She exudes calm. You would meet her at a cocktail party and immediately start pouring out your soul. “Any seizures this time?” she asks.
“No. Not this time.”
Another gift from my anniversary. Sometimes, it throws me into seizures. Well, not real seizures, I am told. Fake seizures, sort of. The neurologist explained this to me, after removing the electrodes from my head, with glue that would stick in my hair for days to remind me of this particular humiliation in my testing. They used to call them “pseudo-seizures,” but this fell away as a term of art. Too demeaning, I suppose. Now, they are called “stress-related seizures.” Eli calls them glorified panic attacks. He’s probably right. I don’t know. All is know is what happens when I have them. I fall down, and I can’t stop shaking. It may go on for minutes; it may take an hour. There’s no medication for it, because these aren’t real seizures. “Not caused by electricity in the brain,” the neurologist explained to me. “But talking with someone could help.”
So I talk with Rae-Ann. It does help. I used to get them all the time, after it happened. Now thankfully, not so much.
