by Sandra Block
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she answers. Alethia practically lives at the gym, so this is how I always see her, in a tracksuit and her hair slicked back, like she just got out of the shower. She usually wears a bleached-out boy cut, but it looks more pinkish today. She’s my height with a tattoo sleeve and facial jewelry, so people mix us up sometimes, but I don’t see it. Eli calls her Wonder Woman. She’s some kind of extreme judo fighter and is pure muscle. After the rape, I took self-defense classes. I have my Beretta and like to think I’m pretty tough, but she’d kick my ever-loving ass in like three seconds.
Alethia grabs her mail and runs to the stairwell, leaving James and me standing there, his hands in his pockets again. “Do you…want to come up?” I ask.
It takes him a long moment to answer, as he looks at the door to the apartment with something like longing. “I probably shouldn’t.”
“You could,” I say, hoping I sound polite and not pathetic. “It would be fine with me.”
“No, that’s all right,” he mutters to the floor. “Maybe next time.”
“Okay, no problem,” I answer, trying to keep the disappointment, and perhaps tinge of annoyance, out of my voice. “Well,” I say, “thanks for tonight. The chess and all that.”
“Oh, sure. You’re pretty good,” he says. He’s a terrible liar.
There is a pause, and for some reason, maybe because he is tall, dark, and handsome as Natasha observed, I reach up to hug him goodbye. He hugs me back. His back muscles expand under my fingers, and he pulls me in closer, my chest pressing against his. The hug goes on too long. I can feel his breath rising and falling. He looks down at me, and I catch a peek of his chin, the little cleft, and think he’s about to kiss me, but he backs away.
He is staring at the dark marble floor, his arms draped by his sides. “Bye,” he says almost in a whisper, and the door buzzes as he leaves.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Five Years Ago
Her name is Vrushka. She’s a family physician, she tells me, not a psychiatrist. And I hate to admit it, but she’s nice.
“Can you tell me why you want an antidepressant?” she asks.
I guess my opening line may have been a bit suspicious. Not Hi, how are you? Or even You know, I’ve been feeling a bit down these days. Just Hi, my name is Dahlia, and I want some antidepressants.
“I heard they could help,” I say, figuring simplicity beats all.
She nods, a kind smile on her face. “And what do you need help with?”
I bite my lip. “Feeling better.”
“Okay.” She scoots her wheely chair closer to me, and I fight the urge to scoot mine away. Personal space has been an issue with me lately. Go figure.
“Have you been feeling sad?” she asks.
I start crying, which both pisses me off and makes me cry more. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to cry. I rehearsed before I got in the room. Keep it together. Say you felt a little down and thought this might help. I wanted to keep things as painless and professional as possible. But my heart isn’t listening to me.
“I can see that’s a yes,” she says with warmth.
I nod at the obvious. She hands me a tissue box, and I rip a few out. I’ve barely cried since it happened. It’s odd. I haven’t felt like crying or laughing or anything. It’s like someone gave me a shot of novocaine for my feelings. But it appears they might be coming back.
“Sometimes people are embarrassed by this question, but I want you to answer me honestly,” she says. “Are you feeling suicidal? Or thinking about harming yourself in any way?”
I shake my head forcefully. I am not falling for that one right now. Whatever happens, I am not screwing up this plan.
“Okay.” She sits back in the chair, appearing relieved. “Let’s backtrack a little here. Did something happen that started all this?”
I nod.
“Do you want to tell me about that?”
I pause, then give her an honest answer. “No,” I say.
She purses her lips. “You don’t have to,” she says carefully, “but I do think talking about it could help.” She scoots in again, squeaking the tile. “Maybe even more than the pills.”
“Maybe,” I say, the tears dried up now, the numbness seeping back in. “But I can’t do that right now.”
Vrushka flips through a manila folder, my chart. “I can see that you were in the hospital recently.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It looks like you were hurt, Dahlia.”
Tears threaten again, but I hold them back this time. We are not doing this right now. I need the pills. That’s all. So I can move on to step two and get the fuck out of this place. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”
She puts her hand on my knee, and I jump back. I don’t mean to; I just do.
“Sorry,” she says.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I’m just…a little jumpy.”
“Yes, I should have realized that.” She looks back down at the folder, flipping through the pages with an unconscious frown. Then she puts the stack down on the table and smiles at me again. “I’m going to give you some antidepressants.”
I can feel myself perk up. Lighten. I am smiling, for the first time in weeks. The smile feels funny on my face.
Vrushka is feeling my joy, probably misinterpreting it, and smiles even wider. “I’ve faxed it to the pharmacy. But a one-month supply. No refills.”
I nod, pretending to ponder this disappointing caveat. But all I’m feeling is relief. I don’t need any refills.
“I’m going to give you a name of a social worker. She’s wonderful.” She hands me a business card with a sunset on it and the name Rae-Ann Rhimes. A weird part of me, the old part of me, pictures telling Daisy about this. I wonder if she really rhymes? Like, does she sit in her apartment all day and say, “Bored, ford, chord?” It strikes me that the world is a happier place when you know you won’t have to be in it much longer.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” I agree and slip the card in my backpack.
“And I’d like to see you again in one month.”
“Okay,” I repeat, but with a weird realization that I am lying. I won’t actually be here. If I go through with it. And I’m going to go through with it. We set up an appointment, which she plugs into her computer and me into my phone.
Then as I stand up, the sinking feeling returns. I don’t know why. I had almost fooled myself into thinking it might be okay. Doable. If I had the promise of the pills, the escape hatch, then things could get better. But as I stand up, the grayness stealthily seeps back in, and I know that’s a lie. It won’t get better. Today is like every other day. I will have to go outside and walk all the way back to our dorm. Maybe see friends along the way and pretend I’m okay. Make conversation. Smile.
I’m so fucking tired of smiling.
“But before you go, I have to ask you one more time. Are you feeling suicidal?” Her gaze meets mine, revealing no misgivings at the question. “Do you have any plans to commit suicide, or any thoughts about it at all?”
I answer with a sturdy, convincing headshake. “No,” I say. “Not at all.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dahlia
“What time is it?” I ask.
James consults his iPhone watch. “Ten after twelve,” he says, then goes back to sweeping. Simone watches him warily as he eliminates every speck of gray hair in the place. “You should get a hand vacuum thingy. It’s much faster.”
“I had one. Gave it to Eli.”
“Why?”
“It scared Simone.”
“Oh.” He dumps a mound of dust and hair into my garbage. “That makes sense.”
I have to titter. James will forgive Simone everything. He loves that cat. James reaches the broom under a cranny near the
sink. “You should do something to distract yourself.”
“I know.” I stand up and start pacing. “It’s just really annoying. She’s never on time.” Natasha is supposedly on her way over to my apartment any minute with a boatload of cocaine. But as with soon, any minute is also wide open to interpretation.
“By the way,” he says, tapping the pan to settle the dust. “I reached out to a friend from D&D about Blake Roberts.”
“What do you mean?” I don’t love the idea of my video being spread around to his D&D friends for shits and giggles.
“Hacking into his site.” He dumps the dustpan again. Then he meets my eyes. “I mean, I didn’t say anything about…why…just to look into it for me.”
“Oh.” I stop pacing and sit on the couch again. “Did he think he could help?”
“She’s going to check it out.” He leans on the broom. “I trust her. Solid hacker.”
“Oh, good,” I say, trying to ignore the unmistakable stab of jealousy from the unexpected she pronoun. I take James’s advice to distract myself, grabbing the Hawk Club list to Google some more people on it. The crumpled stack of paper is on the coffee table, full of cross-outs and highlights.
Gregory Tambor
Terence Maxwell
Mark Monkarsh
Matthew Sanderson
Vihaan Patel
It reads like a list of Mayflower members, except for a few standouts like Vihaan Patel. James surveys the room and, apparently satisfied, puts the broom back in the closet. Then he sits down next to me on the couch as Simone struts up next to him.
“I did think of something else on the video though,” James says. “About the guy filming.”
“Oh yeah?” I put the papers down. “What?”
James pulls out his phone and cues it up right at the end. We glimpse an inch of forehead and the flash of his baseball cap before the screen goes blank. “See that?”
I hold the phone. “Yeah, I saw that. It’s a Red Sox hat. But that doesn’t really get us anywhere. Everyone has a Red Sox hat around here. Par for the course.”
“Meaning?” he asks.
I shoot him a look. “Par for the course. Common. Usual.”
“Oh, okay,” he stammers. “Anyway, but look at the brim.”
I peer in closer. “I thought it was a stain?” I ask.
“I thought so too at first, but if you look really hard.” He shows me a screen shot that he has somehow zoomed in. “It looks like it might be an autograph.” We both lean in closer to look, and I can feel his ribs move, a puff of his breath against my hair. “Maybe we could—”
But I don’t let him finish. The fine line of his lips is too close. The woodsy scent of aftershave. I put my hand on his knee, on the worn fabric of his jeans. His eyes close, and we lean in even closer.
His lips are soft with just a tickle of bristle on his upper lip. My hand tightens its grip on his knee. His long arm reaches around me, and then a buzz blares through the apartment. We both freeze. Simone is asleep on the couch, her body expanding with every breath.
Buzz.
“Damn it,” I say. “It’s Natasha.”
• • •
“Hey,” Natasha says. “If it isn’t Bonnie and Clyde.” She enters the doorway, gazing around the room. “Not bad. Kind of a shoe box, but I suppose I shouldn’t judge.”
“Do you have it?” I whisper, then wonder why I’m whispering in my own apartment.
“Do you happen to have any beer?” she asks, seemingly ignoring my question, which is not a good sign.
James and I share a worried glance.
“Sure,” I say. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” She jostles her backpack onto the floor, smearing it with dirt, then sits down as I hand her a cold, uncapped beer. She downs half the bottle with one sip, then burps.
“Do you have it?” I repeat.
She gazes around the place again. “Sit down, you two. You’re making me nervous.” So we sit as commanded. “You look like you were up to something,” she observes, and James blushes to his roots. “Were you up to something?” she teases.
“Natasha, it’s late,” I say. “Do you have the stuff or not?”
She plunks the beer down on the table with some irritation. “Fine. Yes, I have it. I was just being sociable, okay? Jeez.” She makes a tsk-tsk noise to get Simone’s attention, who wanders away after one haughty, investigative sniff. “You think I could take a shower before I go?” Natasha asks. “It’s been forever.”
“Sure. That’s fine,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Just…let’s see what you got, okay?”
Natasha leans down, the black roots showing through her green, stringy hair. She unzips a side pocket of her backpack with a jerk and pulls out three bags of white powder, each the size of a fist.
“That’s it?” I ask, fingering a bag. “All of it?”
“Yes, and that’s a lot,” she says. “I told you: too much and people would start talking. It may not be much of a life, but I like having it just the same.” As I reach over to my purse and open my wallet, Natasha licks her lips. “And I had to go to three different zip codes to get this much.”
I hand her the rest of the money. “Well, I do appreciate it.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, not hiding her skepticism. She tucks the bills in another side pocket, revealing more of my money squirreled away in there. Then she stands up, stretching and rotating her body.
“We good, then?” I ask, hopefully.
“Yeah. Just…” She looks over toward the hallway. “That shower?”
“Oh, yeah, right.” I lead her in, quickly assessing whether there’s anything worth stealing in there. Not really. Soap. Tampons. She lugs in her backpack and gazes around the tiny room like it’s a museum. “I won’t be long,” she says and shuts the door.
“So,” James says.
I laugh. “So.”
He yawns, and I pray to God she’ll hurry up in there. This is the perfect opportunity for him to stay, and he hasn’t made any excuse against it yet.
She doesn’t hurry though. She takes forever. The water runs and runs, the soft echoey voice of her singing coming through the wall.
James leans back on the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankles, looking at something on his phone, and I start perusing the list of Hawk Club names again. Time passes, and then finally, the shower stops, and we smile at each other.
More singing. Drawers rattling, which means she is taking everything I own. And finally, she emerges, warm air flooding out of the room. Her hair smells sweet and is now a clean lime green. She looks positively beatific. She has on wrinkled but different clothes, a pair of camouflage pants that strain at her belly. I wonder if she actually is pregnant.
“Thank you,” she says with near reverence. She takes a deep breath, then throws her grimy backpack on. “So,” she says, looking right at James. “You going to walk me to the station?”
His head pops up from his phone. “The station?”
“I usually wouldn’t care,” she says. “But I do have a lot of money in here.”
“Oh, right, sure.” He gives me a rueful half smile. “Of course.”
Chapter Thirty
Five Years Ago
I go back and forth all day.
I can’t pay attention to a word in my Civ Ed class. Flipping through the pages, my cursive-filled notebook has gone blank, except for little doodles here and there. My brain is as blank as my notebooks. I don’t think I’ll pass this class.
Walking out, Cary Graham winked at me. I’m sure he meant nothing by it, just being his “hey, dude” friendly self even after I turned him down, but it still filled me with dread for some reason. Men fill me with dread.
Life fills me with dread.
I got home, lay in the pink papasan, and c
ried for hours. Quinn and Daisy tried to ask what was wrong, but there are only so many times you can ask and be rebuffed, and finally, they stopped asking and just tiptoed around me.
I get a long email from my mom, telling me she is sending me cupcakes and do I want to come home for a “little break”? She doesn’t mention the word.
No one says the word. It is an ugly word.
Rape.
But the word is my whole world right now.
I go in my room, which smells. I listen to music, which helps a little.
I took one pill this morning and it made me dizzy and more nauseous. I had the stupid, unrealistic idea that it would make me feel better. The pill could be all I needed. I put a lot of hope in that dumb yellow hexagon. It didn’t work. I feel worse.
And the worst part is that other people don’t understand. Truthfully, I don’t need them to understand. I just wish they would stop giving me their advice.
Have you tried meditation? Have you tried running? Have you read “fill-in-the-blank” book? Have you tried “fill-in-the-blank” pill?
They say this with a certain frustration at my obtuseness, my perverse refusal to just go and get better. To fix myself already. That I’m too slow or lazy to try and just be happy. They take it personally, and I can’t explain without frustrating them further. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t. I’m incapable of it. I don’t know why. But I can’t stop the pain in my head, my heart, my bones, my veins. My brain is just plain worn out. And it hurts. It hurts to even live. And I can see now, what I need to do. The sad truth is this—I am something that cannot be fixed.
When night comes, with the tawny streetlight below my window and students laughing and milling about, I make the decision. There is one way I can fix it. The only way.
So I pour out a mound of twenty-nine hexagonal little pills in my hand, throw them back in my mouth, and swallow a few glasses of water. I don’t feel it immediately. But I start to feel a bit dizzy and realize with a start that I didn’t leave a note. So I open a notebook and dash off one word.
