Standing Sideways

by J. Lynn Bailey

  No more drinking.

  It all started with the pills Dr. Elizabeth gave me.

  No more.

  I find the bottle under my bed. Good, at least I had some sense to hide it and not drink the entire thing. See? I’m not an alcoholic. If I were, I’d have drunk the whole thing, right?

  I take the bottle and go to our bathroom. Correction—my bathroom. Taking off the lid, anticipation and empowerment unite, and I feel a sense of life return back to me, ownership.

  But I pause before I dump the alcohol down the toilet.

  What if I need it?

  What if I have a panic attack?

  You’ve never had one before, my voice of reason returns.

  Keep the alcohol.

  I remember the Livia’s I Can Only Be an Alcoholic If test. Drinking in the morning. That would be a qualifying factor of an alcoholic. I can’t drink in the morning. My hands don’t shake. It’s not like I need it anyway.

  And the idea of a drink was just a mere side effect of the peace and comfort surrounding me last night.

  This isn’t real, Liv.

  That life isn’t real, I try to explain to my other self, the one who can’t seem to dump the alcohol down the toilet.

  Okay, I’ll save it, but I won’t bring it to school. I need to get Cao and Daniel today.

  With a pounding head and the metallic taste of metal in my mouth, I walk back into my bedroom and hide the bottle under my bed. Yes, this will make it better. I’ll hide it, so I can’t see it, and this will all blow over.

  I pick up my phone to look at the time—6:42 a.m.—and see I have three missed texts from Simon.

  Simon: Did you get my text?

  R u OK?

  Where R u???

  Distract. Distract. Distract, I tell myself.

  No text from Daniel.

  I send him one.

  Me: How are you this morning?

  The seeping thoughts of euphoria from last night come into my brain.

  Why won’t Simon get the clue? We have to be done. It’s done. We’re done.

  Me: Simon, stop texting me. I’m fine.

  Simon: Meet me at Hawthorne Hill this morning before school.

  Me: No.

  I don’t need to explain myself to him. So, I ignore his text.

  Simon: Look, Liv…we were friends first. B4 we did what we did. Plz. Meet me. I have something I need to show u.

  Ugh. I’ll shower now, run up to Hawthorne Hill, and be back to get Cao by eight ten a.m. and Daniel, if he’s home, if he’s even going to school today, which he’s probably not. The queasiness grows in my stomach from nerves.

  In the shower, my tension grows and grows, and the feeling of inadequacy enters my bones.

  Fear takes over my head.

  I have a fear of school and my meagerness in my performance lately—or lack thereof.

  Fear of being stuck at the local community college because I can’t seem to get my work done.

  Fear of failing high school. Will I graduate?

  Fear for Daniel.

  Fear of another day without Jasper.

  And the fear that I don’t think I can live without the alcohol and pills creates a noose around my neck, tightening slowly. I gasp for breath and lean into the wall, allowing the hot water to beat down on my head and neck. Shoulders. Thighs. And the hole in my chest grows bigger without my consent.

  Slowly, the sobs begin, and I sink down to a puddle, gathering myself on the shower floor.

  For several minutes, I lie here until the water against my body grows cold. The hole in my chest pulls at my ribs.

  This, I cannot control.

  Wrapping a towel around me, I walk into my bedroom and see my phone lighting up.

  It’s Cao.

  Cao: Shit. Call me. I thought you ended things with Simon??

  I did. Wait. What does Cao know that I don’t?

  Simon: WHERE R U??

  Daniel: Hey. Not sure how I’m feeling. Numb, I guess. How about you? Not going to make it to school today, so come over after school?

  I text Daniel back and tell him I’ll be there after school and ask him if I can bring him anything.

  Me to Simon: I’ll be there in five.

  Still unsure of what Cao means, I text her that I’ll be to her house soon.

  Numb, the leftovers of the booze still lingering in my head and my body, I put on a sweatshirt, my hair still wet, and try to throw on some mascara and lip balm, my head pounding.

  Heading out of my bedroom, I think, Maybe I can take one swig, just to get me through the day. One tiny swig, so I can deal with life.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  I walk out of my room, shutting my door behind me, and walk downstairs. I feel the fear making its way up my stomach to my chest and shoulders; it’s waiting to push me over the edge. The fear stops at my throat, and my heart begins to palpitate. My breaths become short, shallow, and my chest tightens once again.

  I push myself to take one more step toward the light, but the darkness beckons me, tells me I cannot survive alone, and in one step backward, back up the stairs, my world becomes smaller. Less bright, dull. Dim. The satisfaction I felt earlier over the toilet, the empowerment, has left.

  Opening my bedroom door, my hands shaky now, chaos in my head, I reach for the bottle underneath my bed.

  A loud crash makes me smack my head against my bed frame, and I release the bottle from my hands.

  A picture frame is lying in shards of glass on the floor.

  Loud silence separates me from the bottle. This action makes me rethink the bottle. I reluctantly leave it under my bed.

  Pacing, one hand in his thick, dark hair and the other holding his phone, Simon stares at the screen. He stops when he hears my footsteps. “Jesus Christ, Liv. Where have you been?”

  “It’s only been a half hour.”

  But the look on his face is concerning. Trepidation. Humiliation maybe?

  Quickly, he walks to me and shoves his phone in my face.

  I almost lose my footing as I stare at the photo in front of me. The page name is still trying to reach the making-sense part of my brain.

  LivJam.

  I’ve seen the term before.

  Then, the longer title: LivJam: Livia and Simon’s Secret Garden.

  Skin.

  Breasts.

  Chest.

  Simon.

  Me.

  Oh my God.

  Someone was taking pictures.

  “I’ve gotta go,” is all I say.

  “That’s it?” Simon’s hands are on his head. He’s freaking out. “You’ve gotta go? Livia, someone took pictures of us having sex and created an Instagram account with it,” he spits as he talks.

  “What can we do about it?” My voice is higher, the stress becoming prevalent.

  I’m going back to get the bottle.

  “Take down the page for starters!” he yells.

  “Who do we talk to about that?” I yell back.

  Now, we’re both yelling, and it isn’t helping.

  “You know what, Liv? Ever since this whole thing started, I’ve felt like the bad guy. Like I’m the one who coerced you into doing this. Like you’re pissed off at me for our mistakes. You had sex with me. You agreed. We both did this. Fuck!” Simon picks up a rock and launches it down the hill.

  There’s a long silence between us, and all I want to do is run.

  Head throbs.

  Body aches.

  I can’t deal.

  Simon places his hands on his hips. Taking a deep breath, he licks his lips. “Liv, trust me. I didn’t want any of this to happen. I’m sorry it did. I’m sorry for all of it. The only thing I want back is Jasper. And he’s not coming back. And I’m so fucking pissed. Motherfucker!” he screams so loudly, I jump, covering my elbows with my hands, staring down at the ground, trying to figure out where things got so messed up.

  He rolls his eyes, watching his phone ring. “Yeah, great. I
t’s Whitney.” He hits Ignore. His phone chimes again, but it’s a text. “The page has been taken down,” he says, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

  Slowly, he walks to me. My body is rigid. My hair still wet, my ears cold.

  Simon is angry still, but his words are softer. “Every time I look at you, I see Jasper. It wasn’t about the sex. It never was for me. It was about being as close as I could be with the person who loved him more than I did.”

  He pauses and reaches for my arm. I don’t pull away, and I don’t care if someone is taking pictures or not. I let him pull me to him.

  His chin rests on my head. “I don’t know, Liv, when this will get easier. I don’t know if it will. I guess we will find out when we live a new normal—whatever that looks like. But, for now, we can miss him. We can miss his Vans. His stupid, disgusting toast he used to make. His laugh. And the stories he used to tell with his hands.”

  And I laugh. For the first time in a long time, I laugh. “Where did everything go wrong?”

  “When Jasper died,” he whispers.

  “Did you know?”

  There’s an extremely long pause. A silent pause where I think the world has just fallen asleep. People. Animals. Aliens. The universe. A silent pause that is more telling than words.

  Another moment passes.

  “Know what?” Simon asks, his voice quivering.

  “That he was gay.”

  And Simon’s tears start to fall.

  We make our way down the hill.

  “So, who’s the Daniel guy?” Simon looks at me as we reach the opening at the bottom.

  But standing there, waiting for a rightful explanation, one that she might deserve is Whitney.

  “I knew it,” she says. “How could I not have known this? The lack of response to my texts. The disappearing in the middle of movies. All to meet poor Livia Stone, the heartbroken girl who can’t seem to get her shit back together.” Even when she tries to be mean, she can’t. It’s just not in her DNA.

  But it’s only been forty-seven days for the record. There should be some sort of time period that professionals give, a ballpark for the grieving process, so us planners know how long to plan for.

  Loss of parent: 1,825 grieving days allowed

  Loss of sibling: 1,095 grieving days allowed

  Loss of friend: 730 grieving days allowed

  Loss of cousin: 1,095 grieving days allowed

  Loss of child: 3,650 grieving days allowed

  But what happens if the day count is met, and I’m not done being messed up? I’m not done making wrong decisions. Tears still fall. My heart still aches. Maybe they’ll put me in a home where they dope me up and do some sort of rapid eye treatment before sending me on my way with a nice little bow that says, Cured.

  If it were only that easy, I’d have opted for that treatment right after Jasper died.

  “Let’s go, Simon. We have an image to uphold.”

  Simon’s head cocks to the right, confused. “What?”

  “I said, let’s go.” Her finger beckons him.

  “But I—”

  “People make stupidly heinous decisions when they’re grieving, says my mother, Dr. Elizabeth Levine.”

  I look to Simon and wonder if he’ll tell her. If he’ll figure it out.

  But Simon says instead, “How will it look to everyone if you’re the one taking me back?”

  Whitney laughs. “Who says I’m taking you back? I called you next to me to do this.”

  She slaps Simon across the face so hard, the clap against his cheek echoes in the trees just above us. It almost sounds like a tree branch snapping.

  “I am taking you back, but you also deserved that.”

  And, with that, she grabs both sides of his face, hard, and kisses him to the point where it gets borderline awkward, and I feel like a voyeur. She stops. Simon’s eyes are still open.

  “Get in the car.”

  Simon does. He gets back in the car. It’s easier than acknowledging who he is. What he stands for. As if ignoring a big, gaping hole of who he is. But, sometimes, maybe that is the easier way.

  Whitney pulls down her sweater, her cheeks still flush. “As for you, Livia. You were the last person on earth I’d have ever thought would do this. You’ve lost yourself. You aren’t the same girl you were two months ago, and you shouldn’t be. But, if you don’t find yourself soon, I don’t know that you ever will. After all this, I can’t help but like you. And it pisses me off that I like you.” She stares long and hard. Whitney flicks her blonde hair as she spins on the ball of her foot and walks back toward her car.

  Whitney just caught me cheating with her boyfriend.

  She took her boyfriend back.

  Offered advice.

  And I’d accused her of being messed up when, clearly, the trouble exists on my end.

  The Summer Before Our Senior Year

  “Hey,” I say.

  Jasper jumps.

  Simon leans.

  The great divide exists between them. A whole world.

  It’s awkward when I sit down.

  Faces red.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  I leave them in the living room.

  It’s been a week since the Instagram page was put up and taken down.

  Every day Cao and I showed up for school was like I was showing up for my daily punishment. Nobody said anything. But the uneasy snickers, lips moving behind hands, sarcastic smiles said it all.

  I’ve been trying my best to limit my drinking. But it’s only gotten worse. I managed to dupe my parents by telling them I had the flu when I missed school once last week because I was too hungover. I think my dad is catching on.

  I keep my drinking to the evenings after work. And, when I don’t work, I drink after homework or before. Or during. Something inside me tells me there’s a problem. But the rational side of me tells me I’m too young. That I haven’t lost anything of real consequence yet, so I can’t be an alcoholic, right?

  I’m reminded of my dad.

  I think we go into denial. Trying to see something we so desperately want to see—the award-winning lawyer/father and the smart almost-valedictorian daughter. But the real truth is, the alcoholic father who’s barely hanging on and the troublesome drinker of a daughter who’s watching her life fall apart around her. As if I’m standing sideways, my view distorted, unreal, and no one can right me and I’m the only person who can save me.

  Whitney hasn’t said a word to me since. Nor has she played into others’ games. She has kept her lips sealed. That makes it all the more difficult. I wish she’d lash out at me, so I’d have reason to hate her. But I can’t.

  It’s Friday.

  “Let’s just go to the party and make an appearance. Then, we’ll leave,” Cao says, eating the rest of her egg roll at lunch, trying to drag me out of my state of mind.

  I’ve been able to hide it from her, my best friend, the one who didn’t leave my side while I was at home, sulking in my own mess. Who stayed with me, even when I wanted her to leave.

  She purses her lips together when I don’t answer, staring down at my phone. “He still hasn’t called you?”

  He meaning, Daniel.

  I shake my head. I assume he received word because Blog Heiress put Simon and me on blast without a shred of evidence left behind. We haven’t talked or texted in a week. Though I haven’t let that stop me from texting or calling him nine hundred times.

  “Maybe Daniel will be at the party,” Cao says.

  “Doubt it.”

  I remember Dr. Pearson telling Eve to send Rose’s remains back to Hull. What if he went back with his mom?

  I wonder how he’s feeling.

  How he’s doing.

  I want to throw up because the sober me can’t deal with these feelings. And all I want to do is push them down. I’ve hurt Daniel. I’m sure he’s seen all of this. The mess I’ve made of things.

  I explained to Cao yesterday that I couldn’t give her a ride beca
use of new medication they had me on.

  Side effects of the medication?

  “Seizures,” I told her.

  Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost my moral compass but not enough to kill my best friend when I get into an accident for driving while intoxicated.

  “Do you think he went back to England?” I’m desperate for an answer.

  Cao tells me what I want to hear and maybe it’s what she believes, “I don’t think he could leave without saying good-bye.”

  I roll my eyes. “Did you see the photos on the Instagram page?”

  Cao tries not to grimace. “Look, Daniel didn’t know the before you. The one who was an impeccable student. Responsible. Caring.” She shrugs. “The one whose heart wasn’t broken.”

  “You aren’t making me feel better, Cao.”

  “All I’m saying is that you need to win him back.”

  “How? He won’t take any of my calls. I’ve called him. Texted him. Snapped him. And nothing.”

  “Have you gone to his house?”

  Tempted? Yes. Sat at the end of his driveway?

  “No.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “No.” I slowly shake my head. “Cao, I don’t blame him one bit,” I sigh. “I don’t even want to be around me right now. How could I expect someone else to?”

  “I want to.” She looks hurt. “Does that matter for something?”

  I wince. “I didn’t mean that.” I want to say, Yes, but I don’t.

  “I’m here for you.” She’s hurt.

  It takes a lot more than a few words to bring her down. But I’ve managed to do it.

  “You might not be able to see yourself right now, Liv, metaphorically speaking, but I do. I see the same seven-year-old girl who wouldn’t give in to Liam Anderson because he wanted Lela.”

  Lela was Cao’s stuffed animal sheep that she brought every day to kindergarten. Liam took Lela from Cao because he wanted it. Cao started to cry, so I ripped it from his hands and handed it back to her.

  Then, Liam started to cry, pulling at Lela, so I pushed him back and said, “No.”

  I had to move my owl that day for pushing and stay in at recess.

  “You’re still the same girl who ran for student body president in eighth grade because you believed unisex bathrooms were important for our students to feel inclusive. The same girl who stood up for Marco Martinez, who barely spoke English, when he was called a wetback by our peers.