by Jiffy Kate
On my walk to the rehab facility, I stop and buy my mom a Kit Kat bar. She can’t have drugs or alcohol, but she can have chocolate, and Kit Kats are her favorite.
When I walk into the large, stark white room, I see her before she sees me. She’s sitting in a chair with her knees pulled to her chest, staring blankly out the window. Someone yelling pulls her attention my way, and when she sees me, the expression on her face grows even more somber, but at least she doesn’t look angry, not yet.
I take the last few steps toward her and scoot a chair beside hers.
“Hey,” I say, testing the waters.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I brought you this,” I tell her, slipping the Kit Kat out of my pocket and setting it on the arm of her chair, hoping it’ll act as a peace offering. I see the small smile she’s fighting to hide, and it makes me smile as well.
She eventually, slowly takes the chocolate and slips it into the pocket of the pale blue scrubs she’s wearing. “Thanks,” she whispers.
“Did you have a good week?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“Yeah, it was like a stay at the Four Seasons,” she deadpans.
“How did your therapy sessions go?”
“I’m fucked up, Harper, but we already knew that, didn’t we?” She turns her gaze to look at me, and her eyes lock on mine. I don’t know how she wants me to respond to that.
“You’re here, Mom. And you’re getting help. That’s what’s important.” I try to redirect her, because we’ve been down this road before and it always leads to her exploding and me leaving wondering why I even try.
“They can’t help me,” she whispers, resting her chin on her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around her legs like she’s physically trying to hold herself together.
Something about seeing her in pain makes me hurt. I wonder how she got to be this way. There had to be a point in her life where she saw potential in herself. There was a time before the drugs when she was her true self. Who was she? I wish she’d let me in and let me see that Sadie. I just want to know her, know who she was before the addiction took over.
No one starts out life thinking they want to be a junkie when they grow up. That has to be a last resort option. Something before death. Like, I’m either going to do drugs the rest of my life or I’m going to die.
But maybe that’s the lie I tell myself. Surely, she’s not selfish enough to choose drugs over me.
I know it’s a lie.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” I ask, partially thinking out loud and partially trying to change the subject.
She slowly turns her head to look at me. Her lips turn up into a sad smile. “I wanted to be a dancer.” It’s the first time she’s ever readily told me anything about her past. She didn’t have to think about it, so I know it’s genuine.
She wanted to be a dancer.
“Were you a dancer?” I ask.
She nods her head. “Once upon a time.”
“Like ballet?” I ask, scooting my chair a little closer, immediately wanting to know more—craving it.
“Yeah.”
I blink my eyes and swallow, feeling like I’ve been crawling through the desert and just got my first sip of water. “Did you ever dance professionally?”
Why had no one ever told me this? However, now that I know, I can see it—her long, lean body and delicate features. I bet she was a beautiful dancer.
“No.” She turns her head back to look out the window, shutting me out. I notice the way her face loses all expression and her eyes shut down, like shades being drawn.
“Why not?” I prod, knowing it’s the wrong thing to ask before the words leave my mouth, but it comes out anyway because I’m desperate for more.
“Because I got pregnant with you.” The confession accompanied with the way she cuts her eyes at me makes me feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
There’s hate there, accompanied by regret. It’s almost more than I can take.
I’m the reason.
Me.
It damages an already battered soul, but pieces to a long-forgotten puzzle slowly begin to fall into place. What if she hadn’t had me? Would she have gone on to become a beautiful, successful dancer? Would she have never turned to drugs? Would she be sitting in rehab?
The words I’m sorry are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I swallow them down along with the emotions I feel building deep inside—sadness, guilt, loneliness.
After a few seconds of being silent, she turns back to look at me. “Is that what you wanted to hear?” Her sharp tone slices through me. She wants me to strike back. She’s looking for an argument, but I’m not going to give her one. I don’t want to do this with her.
“I was going to move here to the city and join a dance troupe,” she continues. “I already had my acceptance letter.” She pauses and I think that’s all I’m going to get, but then she finally continues and I wish for once that she wouldn’t have.
“I wanted to have an abortion,” she whispers. “Your dad didn’t want me to.”
An abortion.
Is she saying this to make me hurt as much as she hurts? Does she just want me to leave?
Regardless of her motives—mission accomplished.
“I—I’ve gotta go,” I say quietly, scooting my chair back to where I found it, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor causing people to stare. I also feel her looking at me, but I don’t turn back around. I don’t want her to see the tears streaming down my face—how much her confession hurt me.
I hate her.
I hate her for making me feel this way, like I’m somehow responsible for her being here.
I hate the guilt that has settled in the pit of my stomach.
I didn’t ask to be born, especially to her.
The rest of my Saturday is spent replaying her cruel words over and over, trying to get them out of my head, but also trying to make sense of them...trying to make sense of her. She’s never made sense to me. I’ve never understood how you can turn your back on your flesh and blood, but hearing her admit that she never wanted me helps me understand. My dad is the reason she kept me. She loved my dad. She didn’t love me. I was the reason she didn’t get to live out her dream. I kept her from being happy.
The heaviness of blame and responsibility weighing on my shoulders feel like cinder blocks.
Later, I lie in the dark. I think about getting up and going to the window, seeking him out—seeking a distraction—but I don’t have it in me. The tears I’ve shed all afternoon and evening have taken the life right out of me. So I lie there, imagining what he’s doing and to whom. Is she blonde? Brunette? Is she tall? Does she want him as much as I do?
The thought of him is enough to spur my fantasies and they’re a good enough distraction to eventually help me drift off to sleep. Unfortunately, he doesn’t follow me into my dreams. Those are reserved for my mother. In them, she’s lying on the floor of a long hallway. Blood begins to seep out from under her, covering the white floor. I run toward her, but the hallway grows, stretching before me. The harder I try to get to her, the farther away she gets. It’s as if I’m on a treadmill, running in place. I call out to her, but she doesn’t move. I run and run and run, but I never reach her.
The next morning, my eyes feel scratchy from the tears and the restless sleep. I need coffee, but I don’t have a coffee pot. So, although I’m not ready to people, I force myself out of bed. When my feet hit the floor, I immediately walk to the window.
Picking up the binoculars, I look across the way. It’s a dreary day and drops of rain trickle down the pane of glass. Most people are probably still asleep. He might still be asleep. It’s the weekend and it’s early, but I just need a glimpse of him. I didn’t watch at all yesterday, and I missed it—him.
As the lenses focus in, I see him standing in the window, just like I hoped he would be. His sweatpants are black today, but they still sit dangerously low on
his hips, giving me a view to lift my spirits. The light trail of hair that starts at his chiseled chest, disappears below his waist band, but I know what’s hidden. I’ve seen him in all his glory and I know how magnificent it is.
After pausing for a moment and appreciating the view, I scan up to his face. His jaw is set tight, and his brows are furrowed, like he’s angry, but the real story is in his eyes. They’re sad. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a lone tear rolling down his cheek.
It’s confirmed when he swipes at his face and my heart breaks for this person I’ve never met. There’s a connection I can’t explain.
I continue to watch him longer than I intended, just taking him in, wishing I knew what was making him look the way he does. Eventually, he leans his head against the glass, and his shoulders begin to shake. The lone tear has morphed into many as I watch him cry.
After a few minutes, he seems to get his emotions under control and wipes his face again before running his hand through his hair, giving the outside world one last glance. Then he’s gone. He leaves the window, disappearing out of sight, and I sigh, hating that I can’t see him, wishing I could do something to help him feel better. Maybe just tell him that I’m here and that he’s not alone.
That’s all I want sometimes.
Eventually, I leave my post and continue with my day—taking a bath and getting dressed. I don’t really have any plans, but I still want coffee, so I decide to start there. Maybe I’ll take a walk or do my laundry. Letting out a sigh, I try not to let my lack of options get me down.
I take a deep breath and pick the binoculars back up to see if by chance he’s returned. And, like he knew I needed to see him, he’s there—dressed for the day and wearing a bright blue rain jacket.
He’s going out.
I’m going out.
It’s spontaneous and crazy, but I quickly set the binoculars down and grab my backpack, locking the door behind me as I fly down the steps.
“Harper?” Mr. Chan yells as I’m running out the glass door.
“Sorry, Mr. Chan! I’m in a hurry,” I yell back. Running down the sidewalk, I barely pause at the intersection. A guy on a bike almost takes me out, but I just apologize and keep running. I run until I’m standing in front of his building, breathing heavy as I survey my surroundings.
Then, I see him.
Down the sidewalk, I spot the bright blue rain jacket I saw through the window. He’s there...right in front of me. Speed-walking, I squeeze around a group of people until I’m right behind him, and I stay in step, occasionally having to practically jog to keep up with him.
My mind immediately starts taking inventory. He’s taller than I thought. His long strides are two of mine. I don’t know how far I’m going to follow him or what I’m going to do once he gets where he’s going, but I’ll figure that out when we get there.
When we have to stop at a crosswalk, I take a chance and step a little closer, inhaling deeply and nearly falling over when I catch his scent. It’s woodsy, spicy, clean—all man—and exactly what I had imagined, but better. I’m standing there with my eyes closed when someone bumps into me, jarring me out of my thoughts and I realize the light has changed and he’s already across the street.
Shit.
If I’m going to be a stalker, I’ve gotta do better than this.
I am such a stalker.
Oh, God. I’m a stalker!
I think about turning around and going back to my apartment, feeling utterly ridiculous for following him. But then he darts out across the street and my feet move of their own accord. When he finally slows, I realize we’re standing in front of a large cathedral.
Church?
He’s going to church?
He walks with purpose up the steps, like he’s been here before, and opens the large wooden door, slipping inside. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, battling with indecision.
I want to see more of him.
I want to see his face up close, or at least be near him for a few more minutes.
After a few tentative seconds, I walk up the steps, glancing around before opening the doors and peeking inside. He’s not there, so I walk the rest of the way in and let the heavy door close behind me.
The foyer is dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. It smells old, musty, and oddly familiar, like my Grandma’s church back in Middletown. Before she died, she’d take me every Sunday, but that was years ago. I haven’t been inside a church since.
I walk quietly over to another set of heavy wooden doors and peek through the small glass window.
Inside, there are rows of pews lit by muted colors spilling from the tall stained glass. Up at the front, is an area where candles burn faintly. A few people scattered among the pews; all are quiet, most of them with heads bowed.
Scanning the rows, I search until I find him. He’s sitting in the middle, staring straight ahead. I can’t see his face, so I don’t know if he’s still sad or if coming here makes him feel better.
Why is he here?
Suddenly, he gets up, and my heart surges. I press myself against the wall beside me and hope he doesn’t see me when he walks out, but he never comes. After a few minutes, I peek back through the small window in the door and see him coming out of a room off to the side.
He must’ve gone to confession. I would love to be a fly on the wall in there. My mind races with the things he might confess.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I screwed the brains out of three different women last week.
Do people really say that kind of stuff in confession? I’m sure he probably said something more eloquent and reverent, like Forgive me, Father, for I have given into sins of the flesh.
He sits back down in the pew, and I take it as my cue to leave. I can’t be here, so I walk back through the door and back down the steps. I hadn’t noticed the rain on my way here. My focus had been fully on him. But now that he’s not distracting me, I notice it’s coming down hard, and I didn’t even grab a jacket.
Ducking my head and crossing my arms over my chest, I walk quickly back toward my apartment to warm up and dry off.
Maybe I should’ve stayed at the church and made my own confessions.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I was born. My mom hates me. I watch a guy have sex with lots of different women. I think you know about them. I also stalk him, but it’s just because I want to know him.
§
He’s there.
He’s alone.
And he’s naked.
Standing in the window, he holds his thick cock in his hand, and it’s hard—really hard. He presses one hand against the glass, supporting himself, while his other slowly begins to stroke from base to tip. He looks up and out the window, as if he’s searching for something or wishing someone were there. There’s little emotion in his eyes—unlike most nights when his face is filled with want and lust. Tonight, he’s only going through the motions. He strokes for a few more minutes, picking up speed until his whole body jerks and he comes, spilling into his hand.
Section 613 - Health; Hygiene
Section 613.9 - Hygiene of Offspring; Heredity
Section 613.96…
Ah, here’s the section I want.
The Joy of Sex
Not today.
The Guide to Getting It On!
Cute book, but no.
Hot Sex: How to Do It
I might need to come back to this one.
For Yourself: The Fulfillment of Female Sexuality
Bingo.
I look to my right, then left, making sure I’m alone in this section of the library before sliding the book out. Thumbing through the pages, I see chapters on female anatomy, how to communicate to your partner, and sexual shaming before landing on one about experiences and fantasies. I’m hoping to gain some insight into my sudden stumble into voyeurism. I’ve never been a peeper before, but here lately, it’s all I can think about.
I’m not really sure I’m a true voyeu
r, to be honest. It’s not just sex I like to watch. It’s him. I like—no, love—watching him do anything. He just seems to have a lot of sex, and it looks so damn good, I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop.
My own sexual experiences don’t come close to comparing to what he does to the women he brings to his apartment. Just thinking about what I’ve missed out on makes me feel sad and a little angry. No, not a little angry. I’m actually pissed. Why haven’t I been fucked like that? Do I blame the losers I grew up with who probably don’t know the difference between a pussy and a hole in the ground? Or do I blame myself? With my plain brown hair and simple clothes, I know I’m not attractive to most men. Not in the way that’ll get me fucked like that, at least.
Sighing, I place the book on the bottom of my cart, hiding it so I can check it out to myself when nobody's looking.
“Look who I found sneaking in the naughty section!” Mia teases me in a sing-song voice, and my cheeks flame in embarrassment.
“I’m not sneaking, Mia. I’m just shelving books.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” she murmurs while studying the titles on the shelf in front of me. “Oh! You should read this one.” Her index finger pulls out Sex for One: The Joy of Self Loving, and she hands it to me. “It has some great masturbation tips, and when you finally start dating again, you should read this one.” She points to Down and Dirty Sex Secrets: The New and Naughty Guide to Being Great in Bed.
I let out a frustrated breath and roll my eyes. “I’m not here for me. I was just doing my job, so butt out of my sex life.”
“Harper, it’s no big deal. It’s smart to do your research. I just hope one day soon, you can put all your knowledge into practice. That reminds me. Layla and I know a guy who would be perfect for you. Want to meet him?”
Shit. Not another blind date. The idea of meeting a stranger and being forced to make conversation while eating is, quite possibly, my version of hell on Earth.
“I don’t think so, Mia.”
“Oh, come on! You are a young, beautiful woman, and you need to start living. Have some fun for a change. I’m not asking you to marry the guy!”
She’s right. I know she’s right, but it’s so hard to break out of my shell, my routine. I’d never admit it, but the main reason I don’t want to go on this date is because I don’t want to risk missing him in his apartment.
