The Way I Used to Be (36 page)

By then Vanessa and Conner have stormed in.

“Oh my God!” Vanessa screams.

“Do something!” Conner yells at no one in particular.

The room shrinks. I shrink. And now I'm back there. I see myself over their shoulders, lying in my bed and he's on top of her again. I'm watching him shove the nightgown into her mouth and nobody does a fucking thing. She tries to hit him once, twice, but he has her arms down again and . . . and he . . .

Vanessa: “Edy, drink the water!”

Detective: “All right, everyone calm down, let's just give her a little space now. She's fine. You're fine, honey, you're fine.”

But I'm not fine. She's not fine.

He's doing it, hurting her, again and again and again and nobody even turns to look! I try to point, want to scream: Behind you, look, damn it, notice something for once . . . it's right there, what you need to know, right there, happening . . . still. . . .

“EDEN EDY EDY EDEN EDY EDY,” they scream at me all at once. I try to scream back. But nothing. Their voices fade into the background. White noise. Only one sound pierces through the veil of static:
No one will ever believe you no one will ever believe you no one will ever believe you.

Be over. Be over. I thought it was over. It was supposed to be over.

Underwater voices and blurry words surface: “Better . . . Okay . . . Edy . . . Eden . . . She's all right, look.”

My eyes open. I'm staring at the ceiling. I'm on the floor. There's Vanessa on one side, the detective on the other. I feel like Dorothy, waking up from the strangest dream, except to an even stranger reality. Caelin and Conner are behind them, leaning over me.

“What happened?” I ask, my voice scratchy.

“You fainted!” Vanessa screeches, tears threatening to overflow the shores of her eyes.

“Oh God,” I moan, trying to sit up.

“Take it easy, now. Slowly.” Detective Dodgson puts a hand on my back.

“Sorry. That's never happened before. God, I feel so stupid.” I try to laugh at myself. It sounds fake as hell, though.

“Well,” the detective says, standing up, “I do still have some more questions for you, Eden, but for now why don't you just get some rest. If you do happen to think of anything, please don't hesitate to call. I'll leave my card right here for you.” She pulls a business card out of some invisible compartment of her jacket and sets it down on the corner of my desk, tapping it twice with her index finger.

I SIT AT MY
desk and stare at the card for a long time. After Vanessa force-fed me about a gallon of orange juice and endless saltines, I was allowed back in my room unsupervised. I trace my finger over the embossed letters that spell out: Detective Dorian Dodgson. I take my phone out.

I scroll down and find the number in my outgoing calls.

“Hello? Hello?”

I hang up. I call back.

“Hello . . . are you there?”

I hang up. I redial.

“Hello?” he answers, edgy.

Hang up. Redial.

“Eden, is this you?”

My heart sinks deep.

“Eden, if this is you . . . just . . . hello?”

I hang up. Fuck. Then my phone starts vibrating in my hand. It's him. It keeps ringing. I silence it. Shit, but then it'll go to voice mail. I have to pick up. I do. I don't say anything. I listen. He breathes.

“Eden?

“Eden!

“Will you just say something?

“I hear you breathing. . . .

“Okay, listen.” His voice is sharp, just like that day in the bathroom when he dumped me.

I listen. I listen closely.

“I don't know what you want, why you're calling me like this. Talk now. Or don't expect me to pick up again.”

He pauses, soundless. Then hangs up.

My hands shake as my fingers punch in the numbers. I hold my breath. It rings. Once, twice, three times. I should hang up. I should. This is crazy.

“What?” he snaps.

I can't speak.

“Eden, come on. . . .”

No.

“Do you need some kind of help?”

Yes, yes.

“Is there something going on, is something wrong?”

God, yes.

“I can't—you're going to have to say something here!”

I wish I could.

“Eden . . . Eden, come on. Look, are you stalking me or something?”

Stalking him?

“There're laws, you know,” he adds. “This has to stop. I mean it.”

“No,” I finally whimper.

“What?”

“No. I'm not stalking you.”

“Then what are you doing? Because this—this is really fucking creepy, okay?”

“I'm sorry.”

Silence.

More silence.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks.

“No.” True.

“Wha—”

“I cared!” I blurt out.

“What?”

“I cared about you. I always cared about you.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, like a verbal shrug. Can't tell what it means.

“Okay?”

“Well, I don't know what to say, Eden. I mean, I haven't spoken to you in years. This is just—this is really weird.”

“Did you know?”

“Did I know what?” he asks.

“That I cared?”

He hesitates, probably trying to decide if he should just hang up on me. He sighs and I can tell he's also rolling his eyes; I can see him so clearly in my mind. “Sometimes, I guess.”

“I lied to you. A lot. God, I don't even know if you remember. Do you? Do you even remember me?”

“Yeah, of course I remember you, Eden. I remember everything.”

“I wish you didn't.”

“You don't sound good, Eden. Should I call someone for you?”

“Do you remember what I told you my middle name was?”

“Eden, why have you been calling me?” he demands, ignoring my question.

“Marie, right, remember?”

“Yeah, Marie, I remember.”

“That was a lie too.”

“What?”

“It's Anne.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Why, do I sound drunk?”

“Yeah, you do, actually.”

“Well, I'm not, but hey, that's probably a good idea. I'm just—I don't know, I'm just so—fucked up!” I laugh. It's funny. This. This conversation, it's ridiculous. “So completely fucked up.” I laugh again. “I'm sorry. You can really hang up if you want.”

“No, I don't want to hang up. I'm really worried, though. You don't sound right.”

“I'm
not
right. I'm really not. I'm not right. I'm wrong—everything I have ever done in my entire life has been wrong.”

“Eden, I don't understand what you want, what is this about?”

“I used to love the way you said my name, you know, before you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He sighs.

“Yes, you did. I made you hate me. It's okay, though, everyone hates me. I would hate me too. I mean, I do. I do hate me. I'm a horrible, horrible person.”

“Eden, please, just—look, what do you need from me? How can I help?”

“You can't!” I shriek. And then I cover my mouth because I can't let him hear that I'm crying. “Look, I'll let you go. I'm sorry,” I gasp. “I shouldn't have called. I just—” I sniffle, struggling for enough air to finish this. “I just miss you so much sometimes, and I wanted you to know that I cared. I really did. And there wasn't anyone else. Ever. I hope you'll believe me.”

“Wait, Eden, don't hang—” I do, though, I hang up.

I turn the phone off because I don't want to know if he calls, and even more so, I don't want to know if he doesn't call. I just want to sleep. I just want to fall asleep for a very long time, for forever, maybe.

But I do wake up, 5:45 a.m., like every other morning. And like every other morning, I shower. I brush my teeth. I do my makeup, my hair, get dressed, the usual. I pack my bag, pretend to be getting ready for school. All the while I try to convince myself that last night didn't happen. Hell, that all of yesterday didn't happen. I didn't cry and snivel on the phone to Josh. I didn't pass out while being questioned by Detective Dorian Dodgson. In fact, I don't even know a Dorian Dodgson. I don't know an Amanda, either. Kevin Armstrong? Never heard of him. And rape . . . all I know about rape is that it's a terrible thing, something that happens to other people. Not me.

I tiptoe through the living room, past Caelin asleep on the couch. “I'm leaving,” I whisper, too quiet for anyone to actually hear. And then I do. I leave. It's only six thirty. I try to think of somewhere to go—school is out of the question and the library won't open for another two hours. The streets are empty and silent. A fresh layer of snow absorbs all the sound in the world.

I turn my phone on. Fifteen missed calls, nine new voice mails.

11:10 p.m.: “Eden, it's Josh. Please just call me back, okay?”

11:27 p.m.: “Eden, I—I don't know what's going on, but please call, just to let me know you're all right.”

12:01 a.m.: “Eden . . .”

12:22 a.m.: “Damn it, I'm really worried. . . .”

12:34 a.m.: “. . . (breathing).”

12:45 a.m.: “Eden, I just want you to know that I don't hate you. I never hated you. Fuck, will you just call? Please.”

1:37 a.m.: “I'm starting to get really scared that you might be doing something stupid and I don't want—just please don't, all right. Just call me and we can talk. Please.”

1:56 a.m.: “Look, I don't know what happened, but it will be okay. It really will. Just please call me, I'm going crazy here.”

2:31 a.m.: “Eden . . . if you won't call me . . . fuck it, I'm coming there.”

End of messages.

Coming there? Here? No, no, no, no. I dial. It doesn't even ring on my end before he answers.

“Hello, Eden?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“Jesus Christ, I called you like twenty times!”

“I know, I'm sorry, I just now listened to your messages. Just please don't come. It's not worth it. I'm really not that—it's not an emergency or anything. I'm really sorry if I worried you.”

“Worried me? Yeah, you fucking worried me. I've been thinking you were
dead
for the past seven hours!”

That word—“dead”—it just cuts. Like a blade. Through everything. “I didn't—” But I can barely speak. “I didn't mean to—that's not what I wanted. I didn't want you to be worried, I was just—oh God, I don't know.”

“You what? Why were you calling me?”

I have to stop walking while I try to think of the answer. Well, maybe not
the
answer, but an answer. “I was just . . . lonely. I'm just lonely, that's all. I'm sorry. I know it was stupid to call. I don't even know why I did it. I shouldn't have involved you.”

Silence.

“I feel like such an idiot,” I tell him.

I hear him cluck his tongue, then sigh sympathetically. “No, come on, stop. Don't say that.”

“No, I do. I'm really embarrassed.”

“I see you.”

“What?”

But he hangs up. I start to call him back, but a car horn shatters the icy quiet that blankets the entire neighborhood. I turn to look. An old beat-up Ford slows down as it pulls up behind me. I stop walking. It stops moving too. I bend down and look inside through the steamy passenger window. It's really him. He reaches over and unlocks the door.

We stare at each other from across the table at the IHOP off the highway. I feel like I'm looking at a ghost. He looks the same, but different—grown up, more like himself, like the way he's supposed to look, somehow. He sips his coffee; he takes it black, very grown up indeed.

Next to the syrup corral, there's a cup of broken crayons. I can't stop staring at them.

“So . . . ?” he says, and I literally have to push the crayons out of my field of vision so I can focus on him.

“I just can't believe I'm sitting here with you,” I finally say, after staring for far too long.

“I know. I can't believe it either.” Except the way he says it is so much different from the way I said it.

“You had to have been driving all night?”

Pointedly, he says, “No, just half the night, the other half I was calling you.”

“I
am
sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound so dire. I was just upset, I guess.”

He doesn't say anything. His face is a cross between pissed, annoyed, and confused.

And because I can't stand that look, my mouth keeps saying the stupidest things. Things like: “Um, you look really good,” and, “So, I guess this is finally our date, huh?”

He doesn't respond though, he just sits there, looking like he's in pain.

Blessedly, our waitress comes to my rescue with two heaping plates of pancakes. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else,” she tells us. “Enjoy, guys.”