Last Train to Babylon (18 page)

Thursday, October 9, 2014.

I
T
'
S THE MORNING
of Rachel's funeral, and I'm standing at my dresser when I feel someone standing in my doorway.

“So?” Karen says. I know what she's waiting for. She's dressed in black outfit number two, ready to head to the church. Something courses through my veins, something dangerous, and I'm ready, my heart steady. My hands don't shake. I am calm. “It was a beautiful service last night,” she says. “Sad.” I still don't say anything. “You know who I ran into?”

I shrug into the mirror and rub moisturizer under my eyes.

“Adam,” she says. My body stiffens for just a second, but I remember to breathe and close the cap over the lotion.

“And,” I say.

“And he asked about you. He seemed worried.”

“Worried?” I scoff.

“She was your best friend, Aubrey.”

“No,” I say, with a self-satisfying snort. “She wasn't. She wasn't my best friend.” I move around the room, straightening up. The willowy cotton fabric of my gray shirt clings to my damp back.

“Since when?” she says.

“Since when what?” I crumple some papers on my desk and discard an empty bottle of red wine into the garbage pail.

“Since when,” she says. “Do you—
did you,
” she corrects, “not consider Rachel a friend?” She stiffens her back a bit. “I'm just trying to understand, Aubrey.”

“Hmm,” I say. I drop my sweatpants—Danny's sweatpants—to my ankles, kicking them off, revealing an old pair of Adam's boxers underneath. He'd given them to me one summer night to wear while we watched a movie. I'd kept them, sort of our equivalent of a letterman jacket. I stand barefoot on the wooden floor; my legs are paler than the rest of my body, except for the tiny white scar from the first time I shaved my legs—barely noticeable beneath my knee.

I pull on a pair of stiff jeans and squat twice, bending at the knees. I don't plan on talking, but I feel so numb, so casual, like the words aren't real anyway.

“Now what were you saying?” It's mostly spite. It's mostly being pushed and doubted and judged by my own mother that I feel the need to prove something to her, to make her feel so incredibly stupid. “Oh, yes. I haven't considered Rachel a friend since—oh, right. Since around that Easter, you remember. When I chucked that dish at you.”

Karen stands silent, stoic, in the door. I can feel her breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth.

“You remember I left after that,” I said. My voice calm, my body still, numb, but for once I felt it, and something else. Raw enthusiasm. The raw, natural, hard-up rush of enthusiasm. “And the funniest thing happened,” I say. I pitch forward and laugh at myself. “I went to see Adam. We'd had this stupid fight, you see, because I wouldn't fuck him. You would have been so proud. I was just a picture of fem power. But he'd made me feel so bad about it, I was just going to suck it up and apologize. Isn't that
crazy?
I was going to apologize for not letting him get in my pants? And then guess what? I was walking on that back road behind Adam's block, just walking, and I saw his car pulled over on the side of the road. So I looked inside. And guess what? Can you guess?”

“Aubrey,” my mother says, her voice low. “Please.”

“No, wait,” I say, the thrill rising in my throat. I can't remember ever feeling this damn giddy. “This is the best part.”

Her jaw locks, I can see it in the reflection of the mirror. But I don't look at her. Not yet. This is just too good. I pretend to focus on my own movements. “This is a pretty good exercise,” I say, midsquat.

She takes a step closer, and I jolt forward—my fight-or-flight running high. She stops, takes a step back, and steadies herself in my doorway. I bet she never had to deal with anything this fucked up at her middle school, I think, and I want to say it, but I don't think she'll get the joke. We don't seem to be on the same page lately.

“So where was I?” I say. “Oh, right. Adam. Adam was in his car. And guess who else? Spoiler alert,” I shout. I spin around to face her. “It was Rachel. And can you guess what they were doing? Well, I can't say for sure, but I think.
I think
”—I hold my hands over my mouth like I'm telling a secret—“they were having sex,” I whisper.

Karen's face is gray, still locked in a stoic, wide-eyed gaze.

I suck in my stomach, lifting my shirt slightly.

“So that's when I stopped considering Rachel a friend.” I smile, a genuine, raw smile. “Oh, wait,” I say. “I forgot the best part.” I can feel something bubbling up from my throat. “It wasn't completely their fault, you know. They were actually both pretty pissed at me. And rightfully so.” I think about all the things I could say, all the ways I could say it, but nothing feels real. I could be the victim, the liar, the denier, the
desperate slut.
It's all so subjective, and it depends on who's telling the story—on what role I want to play. So I settle for the facts. “I totally let this guy fuck me on Adam's birthday! And guess what? Rachel was
obsessed
with this guy. Like
obsessed.
”

“Aubrey,” she says. “You need to calm down.”

“Ha! I'm trying to tell you a story, Mother,” I say. “Don't you want to hear a story?” She takes another breath in through her nose and pushes it out through pursed lips.

“So it was Adam's birthday. And he was mad because I wouldn't give it up to him. But then I totally let this guy do me. On
his birthday?
Isn't that hilarious, Kar? I mean, I didn't really
let
him. But he didn't really take no for an answer. And then I guess Adam found out and Rachel found out and then they decided to really stick it to me. And now Rachel is dead. And I don't care. And Adam is worried. And I also don't care. Do you see now?”

I let out an exaggerated breath and bite my lip. It's all I can do to keep from breaking down into a hysterical fit of laughter. My mother doesn't say much, she just stands back and stares at me. I would think she'd be better equipped to handle something like this. Guess not. She starts to speak. She actually looks concerned, but I cut her off.

“You should go,” I say. “You're going to be late, and I've got an appointment for a manicure.”

I hold out my hands in front of my face. The cuticles are shredded a bit, bitten short, the dark red polish flaked, but my fingers don't shake.

April 2009.

H
E WAS WATCHING
Family Feud
when I started to let myself into his room—the seventies version with Richard Dawson, and I remember thinking how a guy could get away with kissing all of those young girls right on TV, like right in front of their husbands, fathers, brothers, and no one ever seemed to care that this old guy was just kissing their women right on the lips.

I knocked, even though the door was open. He was on his stomach, the bed was made, and he didn't look up right away. He must have thought it was just his mom bringing up his laundry or something. So he just kept on watching Richard Dawson while I stood in the doorway.

I looked like hell. I knew that, and the mirror on the other side of his room confirmed it. I wore ripped jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. I didn't really say anything, just mumbled something about being sick, and crawled under his blue flannel covers.

“What's up?” That's what he said.
What's up?
I catch him fucking my best friend just the night before, and all he can say is
What's up?
To be fair, he didn't see me.

He stood up off the bed and looked down at me. He was shirtless. His flannel pajama bottoms hung off his hips, and I noticed that his arms and abs looked more defined than I'd remembered. Even though it had only been just over a week since I'd seen him. I closed my eyes and pulled the comforter up to my face, letting his blankets envelop me. I wondered if he'd been working out for Rachel.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said. It was six o'clock on Monday. I had faked another migraine that day.

“Are you drunk?”

I shook my head. “No, just tired.”

“Aubrey,” he said, his voice cold and hollow. “You should probably leave.”

I didn't move, just stayed curled up under his covers, my face pressed against a pillow. “I'm going to take off my pants now,” I said, without opening my eyes.

“Aubrey,” he said, again, “you don't have to do that.”

“Adam,” I said, “just shut up.”

I needed this. I had loved Adam at one point, enough to want to do it with him. I needed to feel the curves and the familiar weight of his body, his hands, his scent. I needed it. But it had nothing to do with him.

I shimmied out of my jeans under the covers.

“I kissed your dead brother.” I didn't even plan to say it, it just sort of slipped off my tongue. And when I said it, I didn't feel any less guilty.

He'd lain down on his back beside me.

“I know,” he said.

“For how long?” I caught a whiff of myself: coffee and cigarettes.

“Rachel told me,” he said.

“What else did she tell you?”

“Does it matter?” he said, rolling over on top of me. He pressed his dry lips to my neck, reluctantly at first.

“Are you mad?” I said.

“No,” he said, and traced his finger over my pelvic bone.

And then my whole body went stiff and I felt my hand—deadweight—peel away from my side and swat at him. I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened, like a reflex. I mumbled an apology, took his hand, and placed it back at the line of my underwear.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked. He wanted me to say it. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe he didn't even know. But it felt like he wanted me to say it. Why I didn't love him enough to have sex with him. Why did I give in to that piece-of-shit Eric? On Adam's birthday. Why had I been so weak?

He kissed my cheek, and I turned my head to the side. Hot tears stung my eyes, but I couldn't let him see me cry. I'd promised myself.

“Relax,” he said.
Relax. Relax. Relax.

“I'm sorry,” I said again, and turned my face up toward the ceiling. “I'm ready now,” I said. “I'm just nervous. First-time jitters, I guess.”

First-time jitters.

He grabbed me by the ball of my shoulder, and pressed down, balancing himself over me. I stared up at the ceiling.
One. Two.
I counted the cracks.
Three. Four.
My blood felt like hot cement, filling all the empty spaces before hardening into a cold, gray mold.
Five. Six.
And I swore, one crack and I'd shatter.

I breathed beneath the weight of his hands.

“Y
OU DIDN'T BLEED,”
he said, afterward.

“Yeah,” I said. “But it still hurt.”

H
E WAS OFF
me in seconds. No cuddles. No nuzzling. I didn't mind, though. I just stayed under his covers, feeling lonely and weak. Numb really. I thought it would help. I swore the familiar curves of his body, his smell, all that Adam stuff, would take the acrid taste of Eric Robbins out of my mouth—take away the weight of his thick chest and masculine scent of cheap drugstore cologne. I was wrong.

I pulled my jeans back on and walked over to his desk, picked up his comb, and started running it through my knotty hair.

“So what did you think?” I asked, eyeing him in the mirror. “Was it worth it?”

“Sure,” he said. He slipped back into his flannel pants and sat on the edge of the bed. “I guess.”

“You guess?” I pulled the comb through my hair. He watched
Family Feud.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

I picked up the condom wrapper from the floor and tucked it back into the box on his dresser. I never trusted garbage cans. Maybe that's because Karen always checked mine. I peered into the box; it had been opened before today. But I guess he could have taken a few for his car, wallet. I knew for a fact he'd used at least one.

I opened his top drawer and slid the box in the back under a couple of wads of socks, and then I saw it, twinkling up at me. My mockingbird ring.

“Ad, where did you get this?” It was just there, resting against a pair of old boxers.

He stood up, pulled it out of my hand, and slammed the drawer shut.

“Nowhere,” he said. “Don't go through my stuff.”

“No,” I said. “Tell me.”

“It's none of your business,” his face went red. “Okay? Just drop it.”

“It's my ring. Why do you have it?” I couldn't remember the last time I had that ring, but it was before Adam, it had definitely been before Adam.

His face was still. He squinted at me, and then his gray eyes flickered.

“You?” he said, his fists balled up at his sides like a little boy about to have a tantrum. “You're the girl?”

“What girl?” I said. “What are you talking about?” I felt my heart beat from behind my chest, could feel it beating in my head.

I looked back at the ring and back up at his face, and by the time it clicked, he was already pushing me out the door.

The room felt too warm and all of these moments from the past four years swirled and swirled around me in a mass of messy snapshots: Eric, the mattress, Max, Tonya, the ring, Rachel—and then everything went still, before falling into perfect chronological form.

Rachel. Max. Mattress. Ring. Tonya. Adam. Eric. Rachel. Adam. Rachel. Adam. Rachel Adam Rachel Adam Rachel Adam Rachel Adam Rachel Adam.

“Max gave me this ring,” he said, his voice slow and sharp. “Before he died. You're the girl he'd been with. You're the girl who was threatening to press charges.”

“No,” I started, my voice cracking, but he wasn't listening. “No, he didn't get it from me.”

“
You
accused him of rape?” He was pushing me hard. “He fucking killed himself,” he shouted in my face, spit flinging between us. “You fucking bitch. He fucking killed himself.” He was sobbing now, pushing me out the door.