Circle Nine (15 page)

Sam,
I say,
I apologized. I said I am sorry. Why are you ignoring me like this?

I’m not ignoring you. I’m waiting for a sincere apology.

I already apologized three times! I
was
sincere!

Oh, yeah? I’m sorry, but
 . . . he mimics me in a cold voice.

Sam, please, please just let it go. Why do you want to make this worse?
I am crying now.

Oh, I’m not trying to make things worse, Abby. I want a sincere apology, then this can be over.

Sam, I am sorry,
I say in a voice of stone.

That’s supposed to be sincere?

I’m
SORRY,
I repeat more loudly. The words are muffled by the thick pain in my throat.

Sam shakes his head in disgust.

Why are you doing this?
I say again.
Like you never do anything wrong? I did something wrong, and I apologized! That should be enough!

I can feel frustration and anger flooding my body. Now it’s more than just what I did. Now it’s about what he’s doing to me, too. Suddenly, it becomes blindingly clear: Sam is trying to control me. Sam
is
controlling me, has been controlling me all along. But it’s so far gone that I can’t figure out how to get myself out from under him. The only thing to do would be to leave him. These thoughts move in and out of my brain at a rapid pace. I feel sick, and also devastated.

I do things wrong now? When’s the last time I did something wrong? Please, enlighten me. Tell me all about it.

I struggle to think, but my brain produces nothing.

I don’t remember exactly,
I say lamely.
But I know it’s happened.
He laughs loud and cruel.

Now you’re making things up. You’re twisting things around just so you can make yourself feel better. Pathetic, Abby.

I’m not making anything up!

Oh, yeah? Well, then, what are you talking about?

I don’t know,
I cry, clutching my head now.
I can’t remember it, but I know you’ve hurt me. I know you make me feel small and broken all the time!

You’re speaking in generalizations. You’re making things up,
he snarls.
You’re not even speaking logically anymore.

I am not making anything up!
I shout.
Stop trying to manipulate me! Stop trying to make me believe my mind doesn’t work!
He stares at me with a mixture of superiority and disgust. I am hurting so much inside. I don’t care anymore about standing up for myself. I only want all of this to go away.

Sam,
I beg,
please end this.

If you had apologized sincerely from the beginning, none of this would have happened,
he says.

What more do you want from me?
I beg. An animal anger is taking hold of me. I feel crazed, uncontrollable.
What more do you want?
I shout the words over and over again. He is sitting up in the bed, now, so calm, so cold.

I only want an apology.

I’m
SORRY!
I shout again.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
I get down on my knees next to the bed. I clutch my hands together in a gesture of penitence.
I am sorry,
I say in this position.
Sam, I am sorry for everything I have done.
I feel the tears streaming down my face, and I feel his cold disinterest. Nothing is enough.

Something inside me snaps. I feel like a snake, then a panther. I hiss and growl accordingly. I am empty, hungry, possessed. I climb up on the bed and gnash my teeth. I get right up in his face, so my nose almost touches his, and I spit my apology.

Get away from me right now,
he says through gritted teeth. Then, when I don’t move right away,
You’re crazy. There’s something wrong with you.

I know that the only thing wrong with me is this feeling of helplessness inside. This thing that tells me I can’t do anything to change what is going on. That there is no point in keeping calm; for all my efforts, I have nothing to show. I can’t blame him for producing this awful rage in me, but what would anyone do? What does a caged animal do before it resigns itself entirely to its fate?

I cry and cry and cry at the foot of his bed, until I am defeated enough to say,
I’m sorry, Sam. Nothing you have done can excuse my behavior. It was wrong and deceitful. And no matter what I felt or why I did it, it doesn’t make it right.

He stares at me for a long minute, gauging my sincerity. All he can possibly see in my eyes is devastation, because there is nothing left in me but that.
Fine.
He nods. Then he rolls back over as if to go to sleep.

Fine?

Yes, you apologized. Now it’s over. Fine.

Fine? Just like that? That’s all you have to say?

What else would I say?

It isn’t even about this anymore,
I say.
What about everything that just happened in between my first apology and now?

Well, you weren’t giving me a real apology,
he says.
I was waiting for one, then you blew up.

What about the way you manipulated me? What about how you tried to control me?

And how did I do that, Abby?

I try to explain, but I find myself fumbling for words. I can’t remember what he said, verbatim, to achieve those things.

You’re making things up again. You’re lying.

You were cruel.

I was not cruel. You were hysterical. I did nothing wrong. You exaggerate. You make things up to make yourself feel better.

I am not crazy,
I say.
Sam, can you look inside your heart and say you had nothing to do with this? That you did nothing wrong?

Yes,
he says, settling back on his pillow. I stare at him. My shock courses through my veins. I had thought, that at this point, he would do his part. He would acknowledge his mistakes. I had thought that if I gave him what he wanted, he would be fair.

Sam,
I whisper, nearly choking on the words,
I can’t be with you.
I feel sick even as I say it. But it’s what I have to do. What other choice do I have?

Well, then, I guess there’s nothing more to say,
he says.

I stare at him for a long while. It’s as if he never cared about me at all. I can’t take back what I said. But I’d expected more of a fight from him. When it doesn’t come, I’m not sure I care. I feel hollow.

Then he speaks.

I’m sorry for calling you crazy,
he says.
I shouldn’t have said that. But you are crazy, when you get up in my face like that. It’s not you anymore. You are crazy.

I stare at him. This is almost unbelievable. Time immeasurable before he speaks again.
You’re crazy sometimes, but I need you. I need you, Abby. I don’t know what I’d do if I were alone.
It isn’t much, but I decide to take it.

Thank you,
I say. Then I roll next to him so our bodies are side by side and put my hand in his. I can see the outline of tears on his cheeks, the only evidence that he isn’t as cold as he pretends to be. I wish I could feel compassion for him, but the argument has drained me. I feel as if I am betraying myself by staying. But the thought of being alone . . . it’s too frightening to conceive of.

We used to cuddle,
he says in his little-boy voice, so starkly opposite to the inhuman voice he used mere minutes ago. I roll over on my side and nestle my cheek in the crook of his chest and shoulder, wrapping my other arm over his ribs. He is so much less strong than I remember. Skinnier than I thought. When everything is falling apart, this is what it feels like: skin and bones and nothingness and defeat.

Thank you,
he whispers. I kiss his chin in response.

Sam,
I say just as my own eyes begin to droop,
what would make you happy again?
He takes a while before answering. I am wondering if somewhere, deep down, he wants me to leave as much as I think I should.

To know that we’re all right,
he says.
That’s all I want.
His words betray the truth I’ve been suspecting and discarding, the thing I’m most afraid to believe — that in fact, Sam is as weak as I am. We fall asleep cradling each other. We are just two humans in all of this, at the mercy of the world around us. I wonder what it will take for us to be all right. I am surprised to find I’m not sure if I even want that. This fight has broken me, but it’s also woken me up. I’m not strong enough to say good-bye. My mind is still confused, cluttered with warring images and perspectives that shift and change as if I have no jurisdiction over my own mind. But I’ve gained some small piece of power by saying I would. I fall asleep knowing that right now, I am fine, but in the morning, my mind will likely deceive me yet again. My memory is so fleeting. When Sam called me crazy, I believed him. As long as my brain is unfaithful, I have no hope for a life without him.

It’s a bad day for me. When I woke, my mouth was dry, my body was stiff, and my head was pounding like it had a mallet inside. My stomach growled long and searching. Something had happened, something terrible, but I couldn’t right away quite recall what. Sam and I were curled up on Amanda’s cot. Something intangible lay between us, and even as he kissed my cheek, I felt his reluctance. Then it all came back, soaking me with a sickened feeling.

Are you still upset?
I asked him.

No, babe,
he replied.
We’re fine now.
But the effort it took for him to show affection betrayed him.

These are the things I know:

— The thing that happened between us last night was hideous.

— It has left a nasty aftertaste in my mouth, my head, and all over my body.

— Sam won’t talk about it, even if I ask him. For him, it is over; for me, it lingers all over like a thick layer of filth.

— Sam makes me wary. I can’t fully trust him.

And the things I want:

— I want my mind to be steady and strong.

— I want those days back from when Sam and I were happy.

— I want to know who I am, though it frightens me.

— I want something solid.

I wander again to my old reservoir of hope and escape. I pick up my pencil and sketch the face that comes to me mechanically by now; it’s the one thing my hand knows how to draw anymore. I trace the curves of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the roundness of her eyes. And as I’m tracing, my chin rests on my other hand. The point of my chin becomes the point of her chin. I shade in her narrow nose as I slide my finger gently over the slope of my own.

And then I realize it, and it comes to me so easily I could laugh.

The reason, one of the reasons, at least, that this girl looks familiar — she looks just like me. There are the familiar feelings of fear when I see it, but I keep looking, keep realizing, keep admitting. Push through all of it for the truth.

It’s been so long since I’ve looked in a mirror. But by now I know the nuances of my face and what it feels like, what my features would look like if translated to paper. The one striking difference, I think, would be the hair. Her hair in the pictures I draw, and in the newspaper photo that I believe is her, too, is a long and unruly black. It sweeps over her shoulders untamed, as if she hasn’t even tried to train it into something seemly. My own hair is a short blond shag. It’s stick straight and messy. It’s grown out a little over the weeks, chin-length now instead of boy-short like it was when I first met Sam. But it’s different, nevertheless. I watch as a strand of it falls onto the paper below me. Yellow on black.

I’m thrust into the memory so quickly that I don’t have time to brace myself or doubt its validity. I’m thrust past the pain that always warns me fierce in my head.

Oh, sweetie,
she says.
Trust me on this one.
The older girl is standing over the sink, running water over her cascades of blond, wavy hair. The hair I’ve always been so jealous of. It’s thick and lovely, a sharp contrast to my thin, blond mop that I keep short for lack of anything else to do.

Now, hand me that box,
she says. At first I resist.

Don’t do it!
I say.
You’re already beautiful. You’ll spoil it.

Oh, stop being so melodramatic. We all need a change once in a while.
She winks at me. I am in awe of her bravery. She’s always been the brave one, the outlandish one, the one who can make people cower. She’s dazzling. And I am meek, weaker. Just as beautiful, everyone says, but lacking in the charm she’s full of. I reluctantly hand her the small, thick box. The box has all kinds of warnings on its side:
keep away from eyes; rinse thoroughly.
It promises a
true color.
But it doesn’t promise what I know Katie wants: the thrill of a new identity. For some reason the thought of it — this little change — makes me panicky. I’ve never liked change; it shakes you up in all kinds of ways you can’t foresee.