Last Train to Babylon (21 page)

Monday, October 13, 2014.

“W
HY DON'T YOU
tell me a little about yourself,” Laura says. “I don't think I really got a feel for the real you at the hospital.”

We're sitting in her office, a small room with blue walls and a window, a mile from my house. I know it's exactly one mile because I ran here today. I'm in my running clothes, my hair is up in a ponytail. I wipe the sweat from my hairline with my T-shirt. It's the first time I've left my house in days. Two to be exact. I want to get back into my bed, bury my face, and numb myself with Xanax.

“I'm not really sure what you want me to say,” I start.

“Well, how about telling me what you do?”

“I mean, I guess I'm sort of a journalist,” I say.

“Sort of a journalist?”

“I don't really consider myself one. I'm more of a writer, I guess.”

“And you live in the city?”

“Yes, with my boyfriend.” I stop myself. It feels weird to say the word “boyfriend,” wrong, and I realize I haven't spoken to Danny since my meltdown the other day.

I know she's baiting me with her chitchat, and my instinct is to remain vague, give only the information she asks for directly, but as I reel over what to say in my head, I start to think maybe I'm more confused than I thought. “I'm not really sure what we are right now. I sort of left things kind of open,” I say, and it feels oddly settling. “And now I'm here.” Laura looks at me, like I'm supposed to keep talking, but I don't know what to say. “I had a couple of bad days.”

She scribbles something down on her clipboard. The sky starts to turn gray outside the window, and I get that sinking feeling in my chest when I realize I'm going to have to run a mile in the rain.

“Sort of a journalist? And you're not really sure where you are with your boyfriend?” She looks at me, like she's waiting for me to finish her sentence. I don't. “Sounds like you're not really sure who you are right now.”

Well, she doesn't waste any time. I don't want to be here. It's mandated. But I'm not sure why. I'm not sure who's mandating it. I haven't done anything illegal—technically. But I don't question Karen, because then she'll start asking questions. And like I said, I'd much rather talk to the shrink.

“I don't know,” I say. “I'm not really into the whole journalism thing. And it's a little late to not really know what I want to do with my life. I'm not in college anymore, you know.”

“It's never too late to find your passion.”

Is she serious?
Find my passion?
It's like she's got a copy of therapist Mad Libs attached to that clipboard of hers.

“I am incapable of passion,” I say.

“Nobody is incapable of passion, Aubrey.” She crosses her legs and leans forward into her knees. “How about when you're not working. What kinds of things do you like to do?”

This isn't much of a conversation. It seems more like an uncomfortable first date, an uncomfortable, one-sided first date. I look at the clock. Forty minutes left to go.

“I don't know,” I say. It's such a simple staple of a question.
What do you like to do? What are your interests?
But I have no idea how to answer it. “I like to drink,” I deadpan, “as you already know.” It's meant to be more of a joke, but she seems to perk up, in an overly concerned, possible-breakthrough sort of way.

“You like to drink?” Her voice drops a beat, and her face is stricken with a rehearsed delicacy. She writes a quick note.

“That was a joke,” I say. I take a slow sip of coffee. “Look,” I start. “I know you think I'm completely insane, but you have to understand. I'm basically on suicide watch,” I say. “Which is ridiculous, because I'm not suicidal. I just got drunk.”

“You drank a bottle of whiskey on the day of your best friend's funeral, Aubrey. You showed up at a memorial, got kicked out, and then removed your clothes and walked onto the train platform, practically in a catatonic state. That's more than just getting drunk.”

“My ex-best friend,” I correct.

“What were you doing on the train platform, Aubrey?”

“I wasn't going to jump,” I scoff.

“So you remember?”

“No. I just know I wouldn't do that. It's stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“I'm not suicidal. I didn't try to kill myself.”

“Then what were you doing on the train platform?”

“I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to get to Babylon.”

“Why Babylon?”

“I don't know. Last stop. End of the line.”

“Tell me about that day.” She gets all serious, and I cross my arms over my chest. I realize the whole point of this is to talk about that day,
The Incident,
but I don't feel like talking. All I feel is dread.

“I really don't remember much,” I say. “I must have blocked it out.” I smile and shrug so she knows I'm kidding. I don't believe in repressed memories. I believe in being drunk.

“Maybe you did block it out.”

“No,” I say. “I did not block it out. I remember the beginning of the day. I got my nails done. I got in a fight with my mother before the funeral. I was never going to go. But I went home at some point to change into the black dress. I don't really know what happened after that. But it's not because I blocked it out. It's because I got drunk.”

“Tell me about Adam,” she asks, and my throat gets thick.

“I just hadn't eaten all day.”

“Tell me about Adam,” she says again.

“He was my high school boyfriend,” I say. The air is too warm. I watch the rain start, fat drops hit the window behind Laura's head. I try to swallow. “We broke up five years ago.”

“When you left Seaport.”

“Yup.”

“That's about the time you stopped being friends with Rachel.”

“That is correct,” I say, leaning back against the leather couch. Karen must have briefed her, because she knows more about my life than I've let on.

“What happened five years ago, Aubrey?” I close my eyes involuntarily and catch myself just before she can read my face.

“Look,” I say. “I don't want to talk about Adam. I don't want to talk about Rachel. I know what you're doing. You're trying to force some sort of emotion out of me, but it's not going to work. I am cold and incapable of feeling.” I take a deep breath, take a sip of coffee, and try and keep my hands from shaking.

Laura looks at me with a subtle smile. She doesn't say anything for a moment, and I fidget in my seat, flipping the tab on the top of my coffee.

“I see an emotion coming through very clearly,” she says.

“And what's that?” The rain stops and the October afternoon sun creeps through the window shade behind her head.

“Anger,” she says.

Laura's observation of my anger just makes me feel angrier, so I start to let up, just a little bit. I don't want her to think she's outsmarting me here. I'm impermeable to this psycho bullshit. I am half Irish, after all.

“Look. I'm anxious. I know that. I have anxiety. That's nothing new. And I know why, it's not a mystery or some repressed memory. It has nothing to do with Rachel's death but everything to do with Rachel.”

“Oh.” She perks up again, and lifts her pen, ready to go.

“But,” I cut in, “I'm just not ready to talk about it yet.”

“Okay,” she says. “That's fine. “But can you do me a favor, Aubrey? And this is more for you than me.” I shrug, and she leans back in her chair. “You said you're a writer. So do you think it would help if you started writing about what's going on? Just jot down your thoughts and feelings in a notebook. Sort of like a diary. You don't have to show me or anything. This is just for you.”

“I can try it, I guess,” I say. She smiles, looking pleased as ever with herself.

April 2009.

I
ALWAYS HATED
the way teen turmoil was portrayed in books, TV, and those horrid Lifetime Original Movies—especially when it came to sex, specifically the unwanted kind. God, it was all so dramatic and unrealistic. The same shit over and over again: Good girl sneaks out to a party for the first time in her pathetic little life, and BAM! All of a sudden she's a walking ball of gloom and Goth, and her parents don't understand, and her friends disappear, and her teachers think she's underperforming. And then at the end, she has this inspiring epiphany and somehow finds the courage buried inside her to speak out and say those words, and declare that she was a victim. And then everything goes back to normal, and her parents are relieved, and her friends are so sorry they didn't understand, and her teachers exempt her from finals.

That doesn't happen in real life. Especially the part about the friends.

I stood outside Rachel's doorway, my fist pressed against the wooden door, but I didn't actually knock. I could hear her inside, the radio playing some forgettable song.

Jeff had let me in. He chewed on an apple and smacked his lips together and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and I felt so sick, like I could upchuck all over their beige carpeting.

“Rach's upstairs,” he said, and smacked his lips again. I stood in the doorway too long, and a part of me was convinced that he could tell just by looking at me that I'd lost it in a drunken stupor while his stepdaughter got pounded right downstairs. I crossed my arms over my chest and darted up the stairs, away from his glazed stare.

My fist pressed against the door, and I thought about knocking, but waited, frozen, empty, until the door swung open and Rachel stood there in a pair of neon-green shorts and a wifebeater.

“Oh,” she said, like she'd been waiting for me. “Coming in or just gonna stand there?” I stepped inside. Her room hadn't changed much since we were kids: baby-blue-painted walls, a day bed with a white floral comforter, her collection of American Girl dolls and stuffed bears. She went back to her dresser, leaned into the mirror, and picked up a brush and a palette of purple eye shadow.

It had only been two days since Easter—since I saw her in the car with Adam. I thought she'd be nervous, jittery even, to see me, but she just eyed herself in the mirror, calm and casual, and colored her lids with shades of violet.

I watched her and put off what I came there to do, what I came there to say. I concealed my shaking hands behind my back and bit my lip until I tasted blood. I felt the words in my throat, like I was about to be caught in a lie. Only it wasn't a lie. For once, what I was about to say wasn't a lie.

“Rachel,” I said.

“Mm?” She didn't look up as she applied charcoal liner to her eyes.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said again. Her tone felt cold, like she'd been waiting for me to say it. I steadied myself on her bed frame.

“Promise you won't freak out. Because I'm freaking out. And I sort of need you to not be pissed at me right now.” She put the eyeliner back down on her dresser and turned to me. Her face stoic and her lips set into a thin line.

“I already know what you're going to say, Aubrey,” she said. She stepped closer, lifted her hand, and brushed the hair out of my face. I felt myself twitch. She smiled. “I just want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?” I asked. A part of me thought she might say it for me, that she'd finish my sentence, take me into her arms, and tell me she was sorry, she was sorry for ditching me, sorry that I had to go through that, she was so sorry, and she'd always be there for me. That we were Rachel and Aubrey, best friends, forever branded by the
heartigram
etched into our left hipbones.

But like I said, that doesn't happen in real life.

“You know what, Aubrey?” She was still smiling, but it wasn't the
I'm sorry, I'm understanding, I'm here for you
smile that I'd been hoping for. “I know you fucked Eric,” she said. “And Adam knows you did, too.”

I looked at the floor and tried to swallow but my throat was dry and I needed to get the hell out of that room.

“Rachel,” I said. I felt my face go numb. “It wasn't like that. I swear. He made me. I didn't know what was going on,” I started.

“Yeah, sure.
You didn't know
what was going on. You were
drunk.
You were
bored.
He
made
you,” she mocked. “But really, I don't care. I think we both know what happened.”

“He held me down,” I said. My face stung now, like coming inside after being out in the snow too long. “I told him to stop.”

“For once, you didn't have the guy, so you had to take him from me. Adam deserves better than that, Aub, and so do I.”

I felt her breath on my face; she smelled like Red Hots. All I could see were the photographs lined up on Rachel's dresser. They were mostly of herself—Rachel riding a horse; Rachel at Junior Prom; Rachel at the beach; at the Jumps; on my front porch. The sharp words rolled off her tongue. “Don't pretend like you didn't know what you were doing,” she said. I finally looked up. Tears streamed down her pale face, her brown eyes bloodshot, and it almost felt staged, like she'd dowsed her eyes in Visine while I wasn't looking. “You're just a desperate slut,” she said.

I stared back, shook my head, and almost smiled, before turning around and backhanding all of the frames off of her desk with one swift motion.

Glass shattered onto her hardwood floor. Rachel stood there, her mouth hung open in a limp, gaping hole, and before she could even react, I raised my hand again and slapped her dead across her face—the sound like a rubber band snapping.

A sound escaped from the space between Rachel's teeth—shrill and animalistic, and she stepped back like she might charge at me like a deranged orangutan, tear out my hair, shred my skin to pieces with her fingernails. But I didn't wait around for that. I turned—cool, casual, calm—and sauntered out of her room, and didn't cry until I got back to my car.