Last Train to Babylon (20 page)

“I'm sorry,” I say. “That was a joke.” But Diane is still eyeing the crowd, and Chloe looks like she might cry, or laugh, or both, and everyone else just stares around the room.

“Does someone want to take this girl home?” she says, and I think almost everyone in the bar takes an awkward sip from their drinks.

Poor Rachel,
they're all thinking it.
Poor, fragile Rachel.
The room feels hazy, and I feel the swell of panic bubbling up from my guts, and I think I might vomit if I don't shut my mouth, and bite down on my tongue, and I don't understand what these people are thinking, all standing around, sad and sorry, in their black suits and Rachel T-shirts, as if somehow her death makes her more interesting—a dreamy, romantic image of a young girl, frozen in youth and beauty. But she wasn't beautiful. And the fact that these people now have this image, that she took her own life, so therefore she must have been deep, dark, and complicated—a true tragedy—like somehow her feelings matter more now, the fact that they're all thinking this makes me want to claw my face into ribbons. And I feel cheap. Cheap, like everything I'm feeling, these nerves, these anxieties, they're all just the insecurities of a little girl, a silly, sad little girl.

The room shifts sideways again. And they all continue to celebrate her, sip their well drinks, and say,
It's what she would have wanted.
Oh, Rachel, that spark plug!
The center of attention, in life and death. But nobody sees the irony. Nobody sees that she's dead because nobody cared enough to know the real Rachel, the person beneath the party girl. And I want to shout, I want to shout it that she didn't kill herself because she was bored. They didn't know her like I did. They never found the girl sobbing over their bathroom sink because she didn't feel loved by her own mother. They never picked her up from the beach at 3
A.M.
after some stocky guy with a buzz cut discarded her like a piece of trash. They never sat across from her at a diner while she pleaded for help.

I start to back out toward the door, my hands at my side, my perfectly manicured hands.

“Get off me,” I say, stumbling back. “Who made you Mayor of the After-Party?” My hands flail out, and Diane flinches. I sputter and laugh, and I see him still, calm, casual, spinning his bottle of Bud on the bar. I don't make eye contact; instead I make it a point to get the hell out of here.

I start toward the door, but turn one last time to face the bar. I scan the crowd, and I see Eli and Ashley for the first time that night. They're leaning against the back wall, and she whispers something into his ear, and he shakes his head and stares down at the floor. Marc's near the DJ booth, and he pretends not to know me either. I steady myself, shifting my weight onto my five-inch heels. I realize that I'm still soaking wet, and I can't figure out how they're all so dry. I guess they must have brought those umbrellas after all.

“What are you looking at?” I finally say, loud and sharp, but nobody responds. The room is quiet, except for a couple of muffled whispers near the back end of the bar. “Anybody?” I say. My voice echoes, and still nobody speaks. I feel Diane creeping up from behind.

“Ash?” I say. “What happened? I thought we were besties?” Ashley smiles all nervously, and Eli puts his arm around her and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

“You're not calling Karen, are you?” I blurt, but he ignores me and walks into the bathroom. Ashley trails behind.

“What about you, Melanie?” I say. She catches my eye for only a moment, and stares down at her drink. It's something dark and pink and mostly ice. She looks heavier than she did at the diner, even though she's dressed in all black and wearing too much lipstick. It makes her look desperate.

“So you're all just going to stand there, then? Like a bunch of fucking losers?”

I step back, and brush against a table near the door that's draped over with a white tablecloth. It's stained with what looks like wing sauce, and whoever's job it was to pick the tablecloth clearly thought nobody would notice. There's a framed photo of Rachel—an eight-by-ten of her high school graduation. It's campy and sad, but at the same time kind of appropriate. Next to Rachel's face there's the row of shot glasses from Ally's, lined up in perfect formation. I walk toward the display and finger the cloth, and everybody watches me. I hear Diane behind me, like she's trying to shuffle me out the door.

“What?” I whip around to face her again.

“You need to leave. You're making a scene,” she says. “I know you're upset, Aubrey.”

“Don't say my name like that,” I say. “It's condescending.” I'm raising my voice, and I don't mean to, but she puts her hand on my wrist again, and I snap back, and push her away, and then I feel myself fall, taking down the white, wing-stained cloth, and all the glasses come shattering to the floor.

There are so many sounds, but mostly it's just the buzzing in my own head, and I can vaguely hear Diane's frantic cries as she scoops up the broken pieces off the ground. Somebody calls out for a broom, and Adam comes at me. He reaches down and pulls me to my feet before I can even fight him off. He's bigger and scruffier than I imagined, but I don't really feel anything when I see him for the first time, and this surprises me. I just feel dull and empty, like I want to nudge him in the shoulder and tell him that we both really fucked things up, didn't we? But I just don't have the energy.

I hear the train rumbling overhead.

And I can't take my eyes off Eric Robbins, in his button-down and mint-green tie.

O
UTSIDE
, I
STUMBLE
across the street to the train-station parking lot. I'm still soaked, but now the rain pounds harder, drenching the black cotton dress, and it molds to my body. I don't care, though. It feels good.

I look up at the brick building and think of jumping. It wouldn't be the worst thing. Maybe some bored sap would even throw me an after-party of my own—my grinning face plastered crookedly over some random guy's chest, my name engraved onto a row of frosted shot glasses.

I see my car ahead, parked up against the station. I walk toward it, steady, heel to toe. The rain saturates my skin and burns my eyes, and I think I might be crying underneath all that water falling from the sky, but I can't be sure; I swore I wouldn't cry, so I can't be sure. I jam the key into the door, fumble until the lock pops, and hoist myself up into the driver's seat. The engine sputters to life, shaking and rumbling beneath me. My hands vibrate against the wheel, and I can't tell where my own body shakes end and the car's shaking begins.

Fuck you, Rachel,
I say.
Fuck you Rachel. Fuck you Rachel
,
and I keep saying it, I keep saying it until my face crumbles and the tears and rain melt together and I'm full-on sobbing in my Saab, and I laugh, I fucking laugh, because it's somehow hilarious to me that I would be sobbing in a Saab.
Fuck you, Rachel.

I pull my knees to my chest, and wedge myself against the oversized steering wheel. “Fast Car” plays again. I reach in my center console for a Parliament but I don't smoke it. The thought of putting that thing to my mouth makes my guts twist and my mouth feel like it's made of sand, so I balance it on the ashtray and let the smoke stream off the end.

I dissolve a Xanax on my tongue and reach for the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on the passenger seat. I think of Adam and I think of my life before and my life after Eric and how everything in between stopped mattering and everything after feels like tiny knives carving out my insides and how now I'm sitting in a parking lot with a bottle of Jack and an empty chest. I hold it to my lips and take a deep swig, the hot whiskey burning the back of my throat, burning a hole in my chest where I'm hollowed out like a dead deer.

I picture Eric and his mint-green tie and how he hardly flinched when I walked into the bar and how there'd been no recognition when I walked out, and I'm certain he doesn't even know my name. I take another swig of whiskey and reach in my bag for another Xanax, and I can't stop thinking of summer camp, when I was six, maybe seven, and I built this stupid house out of Popsicle sticks, and I used too much glue.

The car rumbles. I'm running out of gas.

I feel him still, the rough pads of his fingers prodding me, his hand over my mouth, and I swat at my thighs, even though I know it's only phantom pains, and I take another swig of whiskey, and swish it around in my mouth, and he devours me, piece by piece. I take another swig, and another, and another, until it flows through me like rain, and I'm numb, so wonderfully numb and buzzing and warm, and I pull my sopping dress up over my head and throw it into the backseat, because even though it's been washed and rained on and sat like a stale thing in my closet for five years, even after all of that, I can still smell him: that old drafty bed, his hands fumbling at me.

The sky swirls with rain, and darkness starts to slip over me, I take another swig, the bottle pressed loose over my lips. The hot whiskey dribbles down my chin and onto my bare chest. I lean back, my stomach roils, and I can feel the swill of Jack bubbling up into my throat, and I take one last sip, and I can barely hear the loudspeaker overhead.

The last train to Babylon is operating on time.

Friday, October 10, 2014. 4
A.M.

Y
OUR MOTHER TOLD
me something you said today, Aubrey. Something that concerned her.”

I sit up in the bed, the hospital bed, and knead my face with the soft pads of my fingers. It feels like someone scraped out my sinuses and poured Clorox up my nose. Everything is damp and warm, and my temple pounds against the empty, sterile feeling inside my head. The window is open, and I can hear the rain clicking against the metal screen. I can smell it, too—rain, antiseptic, and latex.

“Do you want to talk about that?” Laura says. She'd said we'd had enough for the night, that I could go to sleep and she'd come back in the morning to talk more about what happened after Rachel's funeral. But then she sat back down at the edge of my bed like she'd forgotten to finish the job, and I felt that guilty twist in my stomach, like I might even throw up this time.

“I said a lot of things today,” I say. I catch my reflection in the window again, and this time all I can think of is Linda Blair, and my head spinning around on a swivel and spewing pea soup in Laura's hair.

“About sleeping with someone back in high school. About him not taking no for an answer? Did you say that today, Aubrey?” She looks at me, her face set in a perpetual pout. I'd forgotten that I said those things to Karen. It felt like a dream—a hazy, ugly dream—but it only happened this morning. I look down at my newly painted fingernails:
Wicked.
My hands start to shake, slow at first, and my instinct is to reach for a cigarette, and I do, for just a moment, until I realize that not only would it be wildly inappropriate to light up a cigarette in front of a shrink, in a hospital no less, but I don't even have my bag.

“Where is my stuff?” I ask.

“Don't worry about your stuff, Aubrey. It's safe. Now tell me about that conversation with your mother.”

“Please stop saying my name,” I say.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “May I ask why?”

“Because it's condescending, Laura.”

“I didn't mean to patronize you, Aubrey.” I shoot her a look and she apologizes again. “Tell me about the boy who wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“I don't want to talk about this now,” I say.

The rain clicks against the metal screen.

“When would you prefer to talk about it?”

“Not tonight,” I say. She writes something down on her clipboard. She's close enough now that I lean over to catch a glimpse, but she pulls the papers toward her chest and clicks her pen.

“What about Adam?” she says.

“What about him?” I say.

“Can we talk about him?”

“I don't see what he has to do with any of this,” I say.

“He's the one who found you, Aubrey.”

Saturday, October 11, 2014.

I
HAVEN
'
T LEFT
my bedroom since Karen drove me home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. They kept me overnight, and I overheard Karen and some doctor whispering out in the hallway about having me committed. Committed to where? I don't know. Probably South Oaks or someplace meant for people much less stable than I am. I sat up in my bed, hearing every word of their seemingly covert conversation. But they forget; I'm crazy, not deaf.

“An extended hospital stay is not necessary,” I heard Karen say. She rattled off some facts and mumbled something about being a mental health professional herself and that she can “ensure a suitable healing environment.”

On the car ride home, my mother went into the terms of my release. I am required to see Laura at her office, three days a week until the shrink sees fit. My license has also been temporarily revoked. I'm still not sure if that's a legal thing, a hospital thing, or a Karen thing, but I don't question it, because I know I don't deserve to have a car right now.

I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the hardwood floor. My room is dark, and I can feel the heat blaring from the vent. I've been drifting in and out of sleep all day, barely checking the clock. I hear Karen rustling around the kitchen, so I know it's almost dinnertime, but I haven't eaten since I've been back, and the thought of food makes my throat feel sour, like I could open my mouth and spew out stomach acid all over the walls. I'm about to get back under my covers, when there's a soft knock at my door.

“What?” I say, but my voice cracks and it comes out more of a croak, and I just now realize how thirsty I am. The door creaks open, and I expect to see Karen standing there with a tray full of applesauce or something, but it's not Karen. It's Danny.

“Hi,” he says, still partly concealed by the door. I can only see his face. “Can I come in?”

“I guess,” I say, and I feel that stomach acid coming up again. I don't have the energy for this. For him.

“I know you said not to call, but you never said not to come.” And then I remember our conversation the night of the funeral—as much as I can remember of it—how he'd spoken to Karen about all the things I'd said.

“Danny,” I say. “You really shouldn't be here.” My lips still feel swollen and cracked, and I haven't showered yet today and I'm not wearing a bra. I know it shouldn't matter with Danny, but for the first time, it does.

“I want you to come home,” he says. “You don't need to be here.” He stands in my doorway and slips his hands into his pockets.

“You have no idea what I need.”

“Yes, I do.” He says and turns to close the door. It's just us now, locked away inside my room—my ex-room. “And it's not this. This place is making you crazy. Look at you.” He takes a few steps closer to me. I stand up and take a step back behind the bed, using it as a buffer between us.

“Please, go home,” I say.

“Why?”

“Don't question me. Just go.” He steps toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders. My whole body stiffens and I jerk backward. “Don't,” I say, too loudly, and he reaches out again, but I stumble back toward my dresser. I don't need to be taken care of. And even if I did, I don't need Danny to do it.

“I won't leave you,” he says.

“You know nothing about me, Dan.” I start to speak again, but my voice cracks, and I feel my facial muscles start to contract, and I know I'm about to lose it.

“I know enough,” he says. “And look, if you're going to throw everything away because of what some asshole did to you five years ago, then you're right, I don't know you.” I feel myself start to shake, and I put my hands up again, maybe to send a warning, but also because I don't know what else to do. I'd mentioned Eric to him only once and never by name—only a vague explanation and we sort of had an understanding. But the fact that he was bringing it up now, throwing it in my face, using it to force some sort of emotion out of me, well, that wasn't fair. But before I have a chance to form a rebuttal, he clasps my wrists in his and pulls me toward him.

“Aubrey,” he says. “Listen to me.” I don't know what to do, so I scream, shrill and sharp, and pound my fist into his chest.

“Get away from me,” I say. My voice must carry through the house, because Karen comes charging through the door like gangbusters. “Go home, Danny,” I say. “Just go home. Please. I am begging you.”

He lets go, and looks stunned, but before he can catch his footing, he trips back over my bed, catching himself just before he slides to the ground. Karen stands in the doorway.

“Maybe you should go, Danny,” she says. “I'm so sorry for this.”

“Did you do this?” I ask Karen. There's a stale silence, and they both just look at me. “Was this your doing, Karen? Did you plan this?” I say again when she doesn't answer.

“I'm sorry, Dan,” is all she says. “Let me give you a ride to the train.”

I'
M STILL SEETHING
after Karen takes Danny back to the train, sucking in air through clenched teeth. She had no right to invite him here. He had no right to see me like this. But part of me knows he's right; this place is making me crazy.