Last Train to Babylon (23 page)

Wednesday, October 22, 2014.

I
T COMES IN
waves. It flows through me, but I remember just a moment, a sound, a smell. Mostly I remember Adam. I remember Adam, even though I never actually saw him that night.

Laura's been having me work on memory. I try to explain that I do remember. It's not something I've ever really stopped remembering, but she insists there are still things that I haven't let myself think about yet—that I haven't allowed myself to feel.

Part of me thinks it's bullshit. Part of me is just telling her what she wants to hear. But part of me wants the help.

Maybe she just wants to hear me talk about the details. But that's not really something I think I'll ever be able to do. I told her that he'd been inside me, even though I said no. I told her that he sat on top of me so I couldn't leave, and I demonstrated what he did with my hands and rammed three fingers into the air, like a mute, broken child.

But I didn't tell her how he scrunched up my dress, and when I told him to stop, he said,
You can keep it on.
How he locked his elbows around my knees. I didn't tell her how I'd stopped fighting and had just lain still, like a dead fish, because I thought he'd eventually get bored. I didn't tell her how I'd been so oblivious, so numb, that I hadn't realized what was going on.

And maybe that would have been okay if he had stopped there. If when I reached down to push his hand away from me, I hadn't instead grabbed a handful of
heart-on.

“I have a condom,” he'd said.

“I'm not having sex with you,” I said.

And maybe it would have been okay if he'd stopped there. Because maybe, just maybe, it could have been passed off as an honest mistake between two drunk kids.

Laura was a real bitch today. I'm sick of talking about it. I'm sick of her assuming that every little insignificant action is a direct effect of Eric Robbins. That I have no control over my emotions, but it's okay, because
I'm A Victim.

It's just after four, and the sun is blazing over Sunrise Highway. It's rush hour, and traffic is stopped from Wantagh Avenue all the way down to Massapequa. I jog along the train tracks so I don't risk anybody seeing me. I'm in my workout clothes, and I've got sweat under my tits, but I see O'Reilly's: the door wide open and the bar empty.

I think about what Laura would say—if she knew I walked out of the session and took a brisk jog right through the open door of the bar that started it all. She'd probably look at me with her fake empathy face and ask if I felt I needed to regain control, because of
The Rape.
She'd say it was symbolic and moving.

And I'd say no, I was just fucking thirsty.

All bars smell the same in the afternoon—warm beer, Clorox, and just a hint of vomit. There are a few middle-aged, mustachioed men in fishing hats at the other side of the bar when I walk in. It's quiet and dank, and I order a shot of Cuervo. It sits in front of me, next to a limp lime, wetting a bar napkin.

The bartender is a short guy with a faux hawk and an Irish accent. I'm not sure where he came from or what he's doing in Wantagh, but he offers me two for one on a Wednesday afternoon. I don't hate it.

A television drones low from behind the bar—the news, talking about some storm coming next week—maybe even a big hurricane.

“Saying we might be an evacuation zone,” Irish says, spilling tequila over two shot glasses.

“Said the same thing last year,” I mumble. I take the shot and let it burn the back of my throat, brassy and boozy—just like I remember. I feel a body come down on the stool next to me.

“Don't I know you?” That voice.

My back stiffens, and I know not to turn around.
Don't turn around.
But I do, and I'm right; it's him.

I hold the shot below my lips, eye him up and down, and I laugh. I think it's a laugh. Maybe a grunt. I'm not sure. But everything else seems hazy.

“No,” I say. “You don't know me.” He squints at me and smirks, this crooked smirk that almost,
almost
seems charming.

He signals to the bartender. “I'll have what she's having.”

“I'll take another, too.” Irish eyes me, pours two shots, and slides the saltshaker between our glasses.

“Shot for shot?” Eric asks. I don't say anything and lick the salt off my hand before throwing back the glass—barely flinching this time. He does the same, but his face puckers up. He tries to smile through it. “I do know you,” he says, flicking the liquor off his tongue. “You're that chick who flipped out at Rachel's party.”

“You mean Rachel's funeral?”

He grins again, shrugs, and signals for two more shots. The Cuervo starts to make my blood buzz, and for the first time I'm looking at him—really looking at him. Not at a mug shot or some college lacrosse photo. Not in my fucked-up memories, but in real, cold, hard, fucked-up life.

Did you know that memories are not like movies, despite what some people might think? They're not snapshots either. It's actually more like theater—a really shitty stage play in the basement of some dingy East Village coffee shop. No performance is the same. It all depends on the mood of the actors—the lighting, the season, whether or not the star has her period, or the guy got laid the night before. No scene is the same either. And memories, well, they aren't real. They're just a replication of the last time you remembered, not the actual event. And I wonder how much has actually changed since that night.

I can't tell if he remembers. I can't tell if it's some sick form of denial, playing dumb, or if he genuinely can't place me—the
cute but kind of chubby
girl he held down and shoved his dick into.

Eric takes another shot. He starts to get that glazed look. He's thinner than I remember, maybe not as strong as I'd thought either. And then it hits me. Where I am. Who I'm with. I reach for the glass and realize that my hands are shaking. But I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of him. I'm not his victim.

My entire body hums. I can hear my breathing in my ears, and I remember what Laura says:
Stay grounded. Stay in the moment. You're safe.

I'm safe.

He puts two fingers up, and Irish brings two more shots, but gives me a look, like he's about to cut me off. I flash him a sweet smile—maybe it will buy me one more.

A song plays dreamily from the jukebox, and I feel my body sway like a feather on the stool.

Eric raises his glass to me. We clink and throw back. The lines on his face begin to blur, like he could be any guy, but somewhere beneath the haze of my buzz, I can feel him still, his fingers jabbing into me, his hand over my mouth.

And then I'm not sure how it happens, but I have him by the hand, and I'm guiding him to the bathroom.

I push him up against the sink and stare through him into the mirror. I notice the dark circles under my eyes, but can't decide whether it's just the awful lighting or the tequila.

Eric leans in and kisses me. Softly. Gently. And everything inside me aches. I bite into his lip. He flinches and pulls away for a second before coming back in harder, his tongue darts into my mouth, and he grips my waist. I have to swallow hard to keep from gagging. I bite him again, harder than before and feel the pressure on his bottom lip, like I could split his lip in two if I really wanted to.

He spins me around and tries to perch me on top of the sink. I reach up and backhand him in the jaw. He's stunned, and I smile, and kiss him again, and he's still confused and pushes me up against the mirror, harder, and then I punch him again, and bust his lip open. Blood seeps through his bleached teeth.

He starts to say something, and I kiss him again, his blood mixing with my saliva. It tastes metallic, and I bite down again, and he pulls away.

“Easy,” he whispers, but it's almost a threat—
Easy.
So I shrug, and say something along the lines of
Sorry, baby. I like it rough.
And then I start to undo his belt.

“Wait,” he says, his eyes shifting toward the door, and he pulls his jeans back up.

“Come on,” I say. “You can keep it on.” I'm on my knees, looking up at him, his face still a perfect blur. I tug at his jeans again, until he gives in. “Get on the floor.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” He quirks his eyes at me, the blood still dribbling down his chin, and he lets his body fall onto the sticky, damp floor. I have him by the shirt collar, hard. The room spins with a dull grace. My tongue is bitter and thick with the taste of straight Cuervo and lime—and the metallic taste of blood and salt.

My brain is telling me to stop. But everything is spinning. And everything feels right.

“Easy,” he says again, and then I'm pounding the soft side of my fist into his face. He jolts up and slams his palms into my chest. I feel my head crack against the white tile wall. I hear it crack, but I don't feel anything. I pounce back on him and I'm punching him again.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He has me pinned up against the wall now, his pants around his ankles. And I start to scream, a high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream. Eric stands up and bolts for the door, his pants still dragging past his knees.

“Crazy, bitch,” he mutters before swinging the door open. Nobody comes. A girl screams in a bar bathroom, and nobody comes. I start to laugh, and the longer I sit on that bathroom floor, my back to the white tile wall, the more time passes, and I just laugh.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014.

I'
M STILL CRACKING
up when I step out of the bar and into the street, like really laughing. It's guttural, and I'm cackling like a maniac, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. That kind of laugh. A minivan rolls past me and pulls into the train-station parking lot, and I can't wipe the shit-eating grin off my face. I reach in my bag for a cigarette, balance it between my lips, and strike a match—my hands steady.

The sun is low, big and gelled, and glowing orange. Purple clouds bruise the sky, and every time I try to compose myself, every time I try to keep a straight face, I lose it again, laughing and smoking and grinning and I can't stop. Because all I can see is the beautiful blood seeping through Eric Robbins's teeth, and I feel all airy inside, like a Vicodin dream. I take a deep drag, letting the purple smoke ribbon through the fibers of my shirt, and I hold on to the hope that he feels violated, humiliated, devalued—that he will never know what it's like to relax again.

Welcome to my hell, Eric.

I walk, my fists balled up at my sides and my knuckles starting to bruise. I flex my hand. I think it may be sprained, but it was totally worth it. I walk east, cross over Sunrise Highway, it's still rush hour and bumper to bumper. A driver holds down a horn, and I don't even startle. I know what I have to do next.

The sun glows down onto the pile of shriveled and dead leaves on Adam's front lawn. For the first time I notice that it's almost Halloween. A single, sad pumpkin sits on his stoop. I walk over to the side of his house, reach down, and pick up a smooth rock. I toss it at his bedroom window. Nothing happens. So I throw another, and another, and I'm just about to turn around and go home when I see him standing on the sidewalk. He's wearing a blue-and-gray plaid shirt, and I know he's probably just come from work at Jason's dad's marina grill.

“Isn't that my move?” he asks. His hands are in his pockets. His face is scruffy. He's put on some weight, the way men do when they hit their twenties and fill out around the jaw, all beer bloat. But when I look at him, all I can see is the shy boy with his blue hoodie and backpack, ready to walk me to school.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi,” Adam says. He looks down at his sneakers.

We stand like this for a while.

“I've been meaning to stop by,” he says. “To make sure you're okay. I just figured you didn't want to see me.” I feel myself quirk an eyebrow at him. It's involuntary.

“Yeah, well, you didn't have to,” I say.

“I mean after that night at Ally's. I meant to call.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right. I forgot about that,” I lie. Well, it's only half a lie. I didn't forget, I was just never sure if it even happened. A part of me thought I'd dreamed up the whole thing, that I'd slipped into some alcohol-induced black hole, driven myself home, and placed a mason jar full of water on my night table.

“What even happened that night?” I ask. “I mean, I was pretty fucked up. It's sort of a blur.”

“Um,” he starts. He's nervous. I can tell. And it's weirdly empowering. “I was driving home from work, late shift, and you were just there, puking your guts out in the middle of the street. So I brought you home, put you to bed. You don't remember.” I shrug. That's not how I remembered it. He runs his hand through his hair and shifts his gaze toward the street.

“Well, thanks,” I say. “I guess.”

“Twice in one week.” His mouth falls into that crooked grin, and my stomach drops.

It's surreal, standing here with Adam, but his words just flow through me, and I know they're meaningless. But I don't say this. I just stand there, my tongue swelling up in my mouth, as all the things I never had gotten a chance to say come bubbling up in my throat.

“I have something to say to you,” I finally blurt out. I suck in a sharp burst of air and rub my sore knuckles with my other hand.

He stands there, and even though it's been five years since I've seen him—not counting the after-party—he's still got that signature Adam face, that sulking, brooding, stupid face, and everything I've ever felt for him comes rushing over me, and the words split my tongue.

“I hated you,” I say. “I fucking hated you.” I stand on his lawn, my arms stiff at my sides, and the afternoon sun starts to spin. Everything starts to spin, but there's nothing to grab on to. I dig my heels into the grass to steady myself, but all I can see is Adam, and all I can feel is Eric and his bloody mouth, pushing me up against the bathroom sink, and all that tequila swirls in my stomach and up into my chest.

“I hated you, too,” he says. His dark hair is shorter than I remember, but it still falls to his forehead. I take a step closer to him and stare into his cold, gray eyes. He clenches his jaw. Something inside of me shifts, and I see him in his car—hovering over Rachel's body—how easy it was for them both to move on. How I've spent the past five years at war with myself—and how he has the balls to say that
he
hated
me.

“No,” I say. “Don't do that. You don't get to do that.” I take a step closer. My eyes sting, threatening a salty rush of tears, but I don't cry. I swore I wouldn't cry. “You have no idea what it was like for me, Adam.” The skin around my eyes starts to tighten, and I bite down on my lip.

Pull it together. Pull it together.

“You have no idea,” I say.

He just looks at me, his jaw clenched, this sad look on his face, and then it happens. I lose it. I fucking lose it and the tears flow like rain, and I feel my cheeks going all red and blotchy, and I can't catch my breath. I suck in the air, and I'm gasping, and sucking and gasping, and it's like knives in my chest, and Adam comes at me, his hands out like he's approaching a rabid dog.

“No,” I say, and I fall back, and I'm gasping, and sobbing, and gasping, and I all I can see is Adam, and all I can feel is Eric, and all I want to do is collapse onto the grass and dissolve, just dissolve and disappear forever.

“Aubrey,” he says. “Please calm down.”

“No,” I say again. “You're going to fucking listen to me.” A car door slams across the street, and two kids round the corner on bicycles, but I don't waver. “Do you know what it's like to feel completely abandoned and there's no one there to fall back on?” I'm still gasping for air, and the tears are coming out hard. Laura would call it catharsis. I call it a meltdown.

“Everything changed for me after that night. Nothing seemed important anymore. Nothing mattered. But you could have,” I say. “I still wanted you to matter.” I wrap my arms around my chest and rock forward. He doesn't look at me. “I don't know what Rachel told you, and I don't know what you heard, but I didn't cheat on you, Adam. I swear. It wasn't like that. I didn't want to.” The words tangle with spit and tears and everything flings from my mouth and floats like dust.

“I know,” he says. “And I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Aubrey.” His words don't feel genuine, but they don't feel like bullshit either, and I know it's time to set things straight—to set everything straight.

“And Max didn't get that ring from me. But I know where it came from.” I let my body fall back onto the grass. It feels good to just lie, let the damp ground saturate my T-shirt.

“Where did it come from, then?”

“I'm not going to tell you.”

“Why not?” He's disappointed, but not surprised.

The tears stop. My breathing calms. “Maybe your brother didn't hurt anybody, but maybe he did,” I say. “Either way, it's not my story to tell.”

His face scrunches up and his jaw clenches again like he's about to fight me on this, about to tell me what a horrible person I am, always was, but he remains still and nods his head.

“That's fair, I guess,” he says.

“Anyway. That's all I have to say. I just needed this closure. We never did have any closure.”

“What did you expect? You showed up at my house, you threw yourself at me, and then just fell off the face of the earth. You just left for college. You didn't even say good-bye.”

“What else was I supposed to do? I had no one in my corner. My best friend fucked my boyfriend. My boyfriend fucked my best friend. Any which way you say it, just sounds fucked, doesn't it?”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't know about Eric.” He looks right at me as he says it, for the first time since I've been here, and I can feel my eye twitch when he says his name. “I just thought—you know—I just heard what I heard. I was stupid. I'm sorry.”

I hate that it's all he can say and I think I deserve more than that. I think I deserve his anger, his vindication, but all he can say is
Sorry. I didn't know.
But I guess I can't expect much from him.

“I'm not crazy, you know,” I say. “I know that everyone here thinks I am. But I'm not crazy.” My voice sounds childlike and small all of a sudden. I look down at my own bruised hand.

“So I guess I fucked things up pretty bad for you by calling an ambulance? I'm sorry. I was scared,” he says.

I scoff, and then feel sorry, so I take a breath and say, “I guess I deserved it. But I wasn't going to jump.”

“I believe you,” he says.

“But, hey, you got to play Batman twice in one week.” He smiles, that lopsided grin, and sits down on the grass next to me. I sit up and pull my knees into my chest.

“So you're really not going to tell me about that ring?”

I shake my head and think back to that first night I saw him—that mute, broken boy in a suit that didn't fit quite right. And I think back to that afternoon on the mattress with Max. My mockingbird ring twinkling from my bloated finger.
Tequila Mockingbird.

“Max was good to me,” I say. “That one time I met him. We kissed. And that was it. But you knew that already. He saw my ring. He said he liked it, but I still had it on when I left.”

“He was your first kiss.”

“Yup.”

“I knew about you and him, you know.”

“Yeah, Rachel told you. I know,” I say.

“No. I already knew before that. Max told me.” I squint at him, and feel the tequila sweating out of my pores.

“Max told you?”

“He came home that night and said he kissed a girl. That she was in my grade, and I'd probably really like her. I don't know how, but I knew it was you when I saw you at his wake.”

“So you knew the whole time?”

“Yup,” he says.

“So I was just your sloppy seconds.” I smile and fall back onto the grass. He flashes his perfect, white teeth, but he just seems so sad.

W
HEN
I
GET
home, I walk next door to Tonya Szalinski's house. I knock twice. No answer. I don't expect her to be home, and I have no clue what I would say if she answered. Maybe I would tell her about Eric—tell her about my sessions with Laura. Maybe I could listen to her story, to whatever happened with Max and Jason. Maybe it was something. Maybe it was nothing. But either way, I'd listen. Something nobody ever did for me. I feel the guilty twist in my stomach as I walk back down the path to my house.

A
DAM TOLD ME
what happened that Easter five years ago. I admitted that I had seen him and Rachel. He asked if I really wanted to know as we both sat on his lawn right out in the open, and I said I was sure, that I wanted all the gritty details. That I needed to know. For closure.

Rachel had texted him, said she had something important to tell him. He picked her up after dinner, and they'd driven down to the beach.

“Adam,” she'd said. “You know Aub's my best friend, and I wouldn't tell you this if I didn't think it was completely fucked up.”

She took a casual breath, and began to tell him how she'd gone back to Eric's with Rod that night. How she'd left me at O'Reilly's. How I'd been waiting for him to get there. How I must have gotten bored.

“I was at Eric's, you know,” Rachel had said, her voice raspy and matter-of-fact. “She knew that I liked him, too, Adam.”

Adam drove down the parkway. He just waited, his hands still gripping that wheel—or that's how he told it.

“I don't know exactly what happened,” she'd said. “But she went up to his room and then snuck out a few hours later, before it even really got light out. But I saw her leave. Her hair was all fucked up, so you know . . .” She trailed off, sucked in a breath, and said, “They obviously hooked up.”

Adam said that his truck had rattled over the drawbridge, and Rachel kept on talking, but he couldn't really hear the words anymore—just phrases like
Rod said
and
someone else in the room, too,
and
definitely had sex.

“I'm only telling you this because I'm fucking pissed,” Rachel said. “And it was on your birthday, which is like double fucked up, you know?”

Adam slammed on the brakes and made a U-turn over the grass divider. Rachel gasped and grabbed the handle over her head.

He said he'd pushed his foot down on the gas and headed back toward Seaport, but he wanted nothing more than to slip off the road and sink his truck into the bay.

He said he'd pulled onto his street and realized that he'd forgotten to take Rachel home. The car was still running when he pressed his forehead into the steering wheel and started to sob. Like really sob. He said he couldn't ever remember making sounds like that—not even when Max died. And this was all over me and our stupid fight.