By a Thread (5 page)

Stella still wasn’t sleeping well, big fucking surprise. Seeing 11:59 turn to 12:00 on her clock, she sighed. It was now Jamie’s birthday. Taking a drink from her glass of straight, room-temperature vodka, she looked around her room. She found what she was looking for under her desk. Crawling over, she stretched under the desk and grabbed the phone she’d thrown on the floor a couple days earlier. Patrick had taken her laptop to keep her from embarrassing herself online. He hadn’t anticipated her using her cell phone to get online. When she’d found out he deleted her entire Facebook account she’d nearly hit the roof. Jamie had a public account, so she could still access his web page under another name. She created a new account, using the name El Murphy.

Sitting on her knees, she pulled up his page on her cell phone and typed out a message.

You should be here with me, celebrating.

According to Patrick, he’d deleted her original account because scores of people were posting really hateful things to Jamie’s page after Stella’s alcohol-fueled comments.
Oops,
she thought.

She was out of tears, completely and totally dry from all the crying she’d been doing. Pushing herself up off the ground, she went upstairs and into the kitchen. Billy, still playing video games, looked at her but knew better than to talk to her. She pulled the bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured a good four fingers into a glass with ice. Moving to the cabinet, she pulled out a box of crackers and sat at the table.

“You know, you could at least come sit in here. I promise I won’t talk to you.”

Stella got up, poured a few more fingers into her glass, and sat on the couch next to Billy. Even sitting with someone, Stella always felt alone. For the past few months she’d been working on forgetting, and just being numb. It wasn’t going well, but alcohol helped.

“Tell me something about him.” Billy’s eyes didn’t move from the screen.

“No,” she whispered. “Billy, it’s so hard. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

Billy paused his game and looked at her dry face and dead green eyes. She drained the rest of her glass and stood to get another. “El, you are making it. It might not be pretty, but you’re making it. That’s all you have to do for awhile.”

She looked at his face. He’d been witness to her downward spiral. Somehow he sincerely had no judgment in his eyes. “Billy, how do I keep going? How do I keep getting up in the morning, without him?”

Billy let out a deep breath, “Listen... I don’t fucking know. You just do it. You drink too much, you pass out and you try not to think about him. You just do...”

“I can’t even tell you how horrible that sounds. I’ve been drunk for a solid three months and it’s not helping.”

“That’s where you’re wrong El. The day I met you I thought you would leave here, go back home, and crawl into a hole somewhere, but you didn’t. I think somewhere deep down you know you will keep going. You
deferred
law school, you didn’t quit. You started eating again. You’re getting better.”

“It doesn’t feel better.”

“Just wait.” Billy turned back to the television and restarted his game.

“For what?” Stella stared at the screen, watching the combat scene of the video game.

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s fucking helpful.”

“You’re alive, it’s something.”

Stella sighed and pushed his arm over so that she could lay her head in Billy’s lap. She watched him play video games until 3:00 in the morning. When he got up to go to his room, she’d finally passed out.

After noon that day, she couldn’t stand to be alone anymore and walked to Finnegan’s. She ordered a burger, fries, and beer. She made small talk with the bartender, Hazel, and was pretty lit by the time the bartenders changed shift.

Stella blinked her big green eyes at the sight of him and twirled her engagement ring around her finger. It was one of the only things she had that was a part of Jamie. Patrick had gone through all Jamie’s shit last weekend and made her pack it up and send almost everything home to Jamie’s parents. Stella was picturing Jamie’s face when George came over to where she slumped at the bar.

“You okay, Stella?”

“Nope,” she said, looking past him. “Probably never again will I be okay.”

“Can I get you something? A cab?” George rubbed his face and shaved head.

“What? No, I’m not done drinking George.” Stella shook her head to clear it. “I’m in need of another drink,” she held up her empty glass, her words slightly slurred.

“They say that bartenders make good listeners. You can talk to me.”

“I’m not a good talker. I don’t plan on falling apart today, just drinking to pass out, and didn’t want to drink alone.” Her phone beeped to alert her of another text message; she now had twenty. Stella ignored them and looked at her ring again.

“Bad breakup?” George ventured.

“Not even fucking close.” She squeezed her eyes closed.

“You know we met before, right? At the dog park, your first “real day” here. Your dog played with Brutus?” George said, hoping it would ring a bell. Stella opened her eyes and tried to remember that day. She couldn’t. All she remembered was that night. Her face was blank. “You were so… I’m sorry about whatever’s happened to you, Stella.”

“George, call me El. Apparently all my friends call me that now. As a friend, I’m asking you to change the fucking subject.” Stella downed the rest of her beer. “Another one, please.”

“Sure.” George took one more look at Stella and went to pour her another beer.

“So... George. What’s your story?” Stella said when he brought her another beer.

“What do you mean, my story?” George was wiping down the counter behind the bar. He smiled at her even though he could tell she was wasted. He was trying to figure out what to do with her when Patrick walked through the door.

“Patrick,” Stella said, conveying neither excitement nor animosity.

“El. You okay?”

“Oh, just fucking peachy, right, George?”

“Patrick, what can I get you?” George shook his head at Patrick, attempting to show him

Stella was not okay.

“I’ve just come to collect this one.” Patrick put his arm around her waist and stood her up, her weight leaning against him. “Can I get the bill?”

“Of course.” George moved down the bar to get the final tally of Stella’s drinks.

“But... I don’t want to leave. George was just about to tell me his life story. I’m sure it’s way better than mine.”

“He can tell you another time, when you’re not loaded. You wouldn’t remember if he told you now anyway.” Patrick brushed his hand across her head, smoothing the hair out of her face.

Stella leaned into his arms, as if she would topple over if not for him holding her. “Patrick, I feel like I’m being tortured. When is this all going to end? I seriously can’t handle it. My brain feels like it’s being punished. My heart is demolished and there is no hope of it returning. What’s the point?” Stella grabbed at both of his shoulders, but missed. “What’s the fucking point?” she muttered softly and fell into him.

“Patrick, I would’ve called you earlier, but I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.” George handed him the bill.

“Not your problem, George, but I’ll write my number on this receipt in case this happens again.”

“Is she okay?”

“What do you think?” Patrick awkwardly carried Stella out the door. George watched them stumble all the way to the door, shaking his head.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yep.” She leaned back in Patrick’s car and looked at the window as they drove over the Key Bridge into Georgetown. They were going to get the tattoo she’d been wanting. He helped her design what would go on her left shoulder blade. It would look like a hole in her back, with the pieces of her broken heart crumbled on the bottom like rubble. She found it an accurate depiction. Patrick put his arm on the back of her seat and she leaned into him.

“Well, it’s a cool design, I guess. But you know, you still have a heart. You’re still alive, even if you don’t feel like it now.”

“Whatever.”

They pulled into a parking spot off a side street and walked along the cobblestone sidewalk until they got to the tattoo parlor. Patrick had used this shop for all six of his tattoos. He was such a good customer that he and the owner had become friends. He would only get tattooed by an artist named Richard. It was Richard who was doing her tattoo.

Sweat dripped down Richard’s forehead as he was concentrated on Stella’s tattoo. He had black spiky hair and a full beard. He had deep brown eyes and huge round spacers stretching a hole in each ear. Stella was sure he was covered in tattoos, but she could only see the ones covering his arms. Her favorite one was a bright red heart on the inside of his left forearm with an intricate knife sticking out, blood, the same bright red, pooling at his wrist. It was quite graphic. She wondered who had broken Richard’s heart.

It was the third and last tattoo appointment. She’d had to wait an entire month since the last visit for the coloring to heal before putting the finishing touches on it. This third trip was really just to fill in some of the detail because Stella could only handle a couple of hours of needles at a time. The finished product was amazing and disturbing at the same time. Looking at her back, she saw a hole at her left shoulder blade, detail of bones poking out all the way through to where her heart would be. Instead of seeing a heart, Richard had drawn what looked like tattered remains of a heart. It was beautifully grotesque.

Patrick sat in a leather chair next to Stella’s chair where she lay on her stomach, in a sports bra, shorts, and flip-flops. “Richard, I really think this is one of the best and most intricate tattoos I’ve ever seen. Looks good, man.”

Richard wiped blood droplets off the tattoo and blew out a breath examining his work. “Perfect.”

Stella lifted her head and released her hands from the white-knuckled grip she had on the handles of the chair. “Done?”

“Yep.” Richard walked over to the drawers next to his chair and took out a cigarette.

“Let me get a smoke and then I’ll rub you down.”

“Looking forward to it,” Stella joked.

Cory, the shop manager, piped up, “I can rub her down while you smoke.”

“Don’t think about touching Stella,” Richard rebuffed.

Cory put his hands up, “Fine, fine, I was just trying to help.”

“I bet,” Patrick muttered under his breath.

“How’s it look?” Stella asked.

“Exactly like we thought it would, it’s awesome in a gross way.” Patrick smiled and got out of his chair to examine her finished tattoo. “It certainly makes a statement.”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“Patience grasshopper, you know how Richard is...” Patrick smirked.

Stella laid her head back down on the chair. Her desire to get this tattoo was two-fold. It served as both a memory of Jamie and a warning sign to stay away from the girl-with-the-disgusting-tattoo-that-takes-up-half-her-back.

“Okay, okay...” Richard walked in and stood her up in front of a floor-length mirror and gave her a handheld one so she could see her back. “Whatcha think?”

“It really is perfect, Richard, thank you so much.” It was exactly how she had pictured it. A depiction of her lack of heart, destroyed when Jamie died. Now everyone would know.

“Lay back down for a minute and I’ll get you out of here.” Richard washed his hands and then rubbed salve all over Stella’s left shoulder blade, covering her entire tattoo in a thick coat of ointment, and then a patch of white gauze and medical tape. “Alright kid, good doing business with ya.”

Stella hugged him.

“I got a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” Stella answered.

“I want to get a picture of this one for the display. It really is one of the best I’ve done. You okay with that?”

“Not a problem, Richard. I’ll come back in when it heals.”

“No, I’m not going to my parents’ house.” Patrick and Stella were running with wool caps on. Patrick held Cooper’s leash as they ran through Old Town in the early morning a week after Thanksgiving.

“Come on, El. It’s Christmas.” Patrick’s breath billowed out in front of him.

“No, I can’t be around them. I just can’t.” Stella closed her eyes for a few steps and felt the ice sting her lungs. “I’m barely making it here Patrick. I can’t handle the scrutiny of the people from home, even if they don’t mean it. They don’t know me anymore and I can’t pretend for them. I don’t fucking care about Christmas or presents or joy.”

They kept pace together as they ran several blocks in silence. Stella had been thinking about this since Thanksgiving. Again, life went on for everyone else. In DC, at least, she could deal with it because no one knew who she was before. Before, when she loved Christmas and would make Jamie drive her to a Christmas tree farm to pick out a tree for her apartment. The day after Thanksgiving they would explore the entire farm before deciding on a perfect tree. Jamie would effortlessly throw it in the back of his truck. Before, he would unload the tree and she would decorate it. Every time she broke an ornament she had to take off a piece of clothing. Before, when she bought him the best, most thoughtful Christmas presents because she was so thankful to have him. Before, when she brought him to her parents’ house for Christmas Eve. They would wake, eat breakfast casserole, and open presents. Then they would drive to his parents’ house for Christmas Day and Christmas dinner. Before, when she couldn’t stop smiling.
Before…

She’d made the right decision,
she thought
, the decision that would hold her together.
She was held together by a thread. Not even strong fishing wire, but the kind of thread that could fray and break in the wind. A thread that could unravel at any moment, scattering and smashing all the pieces of her that she was trying desperately to keep together.

She was a horrible actress, even before. Her emotions always gave her away. Jamie used to tell her she was the worst liar. Now, her insides were exposed, bare for all to see. Her face was hollow and sallow, which mirrored how she felt in her chest.

Her self-awareness had increased exponentially in the last few months. As she cautiously began to put things together, she was made painfully aware of her weaknesses. She had to be careful, or all the tentative steps she had been making would be erased effortlessly by a thoughtless stranger, or even a caring family member. When she stuck to Billy, Patrick, and Finnegan’s she was safe. She could make it through each day.

When she got home from her run, she composed an email she hoped would convey her love for her parents, but also her inability to come home.

Mom and Dad,

I know this is a horrible thing to do, but I can’t come home for Christmas. I don’t think I’ll make it, emotionally. It has nothing to do with either of you. I’m barely able to put one foot in front of the other these days. Nothing I want you to see, but I’m trying, I really am. I can’t be happy right now. I love you both. Thanks for understanding. I’m sure Patrick’s told you he is staying with me.

Stella

Christmas morning she got up, made coffee, and got out the bottle of Bailey’s she’d purchased the day before. She cooked the casserole last night and popped it in the oven to warm while she waited for Patrick. Stella moved soundlessly to the couch to watch the Christmas Day parade, Cooper’s head in her lap.

Look at all the happy people,
she thought
. What she would give to be back to that, happy and oblivious to the shit that life could throw?
She was hard, numb. The hardness had come about recently, spreading slowly through her brain and chest. She worried that if she were hit hard enough she would just crack.

Patrick opened the door and was met with the smell of coffee and breakfast casserole. Smiling, he walked over to Stella, staring at the television, and kissed her forehead. “Morning.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said, devoid of any Christmas spirit.

“Back at you.”

“Thank you, Patrick. Thank you for being my person.” Stella nudged Cooper off her lap and checked the oven. She slipped on the oven mitt shaped like a pig, it was Billy’s.

“Your person?” Patrick poured himself coffee and added Bailey’s.

“You are my person. You got my back, and front, for that matter.” She set the casserole down on the counter. “You’re spending Christmas with me, when you should be at home. I’m selfish and I want you here. So the least I can do is thank you.”

“Your person, huh?” Patrick ruffled her hair.

“My person.” Stella confirmed looking up at him, “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“Sure you would’ve.” Patrick smelled the casserole, his mouth watered.

“No, that’s where you’re wrong.” She cut a corner piece for him and put it on a plate. After she put the plate down, she went downstairs and got his present.

He looked at her, stopping mid-chew. “We’re doing presents? Fuck.” He put down his fork.

“Patrick, you have already done so much for me. Think of it as a thank-you, not a Christmas present.” He ripped the paper open. Patrick’s eyes widened. “Stella…” He looked from the gift to her face and back to the gift.

“Thank you,” she said, putting a piece of casserole on her plate. She sat down to finish watching the parade.

“This is too much,” he said pulling out the brand new Glock 23 and inspecting it. “How did you know I wanted this?”

“You’re my person,” she answered, without even looking away from the parade.