Not Looking for Love: Episode 4 (2 page)

The sun rising wakes me the next morning. Phillipa is breathing evenly beside me, still dressed. My phone rings and my heart does a summersault in my chest, then begins to beat furiously, hope erupting like lava through my chest.

But it's not Scott, it's Gran.
 

"Gail, how are you?" she asks after I pick up. But there's a steel edge in her voice and I know that's not the real reason she's calling.

"Fine, I guess. How are you?" I venture, speaking softly and inching from the room so as not to wake Phillipa.

"I had expected you to visit me by now, Gail," Gran says, her tone cutting. "I am not doing well and I don't know how long I have yet to live. Not long, I think. You should come."

Her voice sounds so strong, so firm, that I'm sure she's still far from death, but her words cause tears to fill my chest, inch up into my throat.

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "I will come soon…this weekend."

"I might not live that long."

"Why? What's wrong?" I'm whispering so I don't even know if she heard me.

"I'm old, Gail. Very old and very alone."

So am I, I want to shout, but I swallow it.

"I'll come soon. On Wednesday, I promise." It's the one day in the whole week when I only have two morning classes.
 

"I hope I will be able to wait for you," she says and hangs up without saying goodbye.
 

It's nothing new with her. She acted exactly like this all of the first year she was in the retirement home. But I was certain these early morning accusatory calls were behind us.

"Did he call you?" Phillipa asks from the doorway to my bedroom.

I shake my head and look down at the long graze in the hardwood floor from when we stupidly tried to move one of the dressers when we first moved into this house. I wonder how much the owner will charge us to fix it.
 

"Forget him!" Phillipa says and grins. "Tonight we'll go out and get wasted, and by tomorrow, you'll be over him."

"I don't know, maybe," I say and shrug.

"Nonsense, we're going. You missed my party, so it's only right that I take you out now."

I finally look up into her eyes. "I'm so sorry about that, I really am."

"No worries, Gail. You had other problems to deal with, I understand that." She walks over and places her hands on my shoulders. "I haven't been a very good friend to you either, since you came back. I should've supported you more, and spent more time with you. I plan to make up for that now. How about some breakfast?"

She wraps her arm around my shoulders and I let her lead me down the stairs.
 

She talks at me the whole time while she's making the coffee and setting the breakfast table, but all I see is Scott making a sandwich here on the night he stayed over, or eating the cold leftovers of the pizza we ordered later that night, because he said it tasted bad heated in the microwave. I've never met anyone more picky about food before.

The thought chokes me, until I can hardly swallow the coffee I just took a sip of.

I slam the coffee cup on the table, making it slosh over in the process. "I should get ready for class."

Phillipa is staring at me again, concern and pity filling her eyes in equal measure.
 

"I'm fine," I mutter and rush from the room, because really I'm not and she knows it.

"See you tonight," she calls after me, when I come back down dressed for school. "It will be so much fun."

"Yes," I yell back as I'm zipping up my boots. I'll make some excuse later.
 

All day in class, I'm checking my phone, waking it each time the screen turns black. The battery is flashing red by the time my last class ends. It's already dark outside, and all I want to do is go home and sleep.
 

"Ready to go out, then?" Phillipa asks as I enter the kitchen. She's making mushroom omelettes and the table is set for two. Normally I love her omelettes, but today I'm sure I won't even be able to force a single bite down.
 

I sit at the table and bury my face in my hands. "Not really."

"If you're sure," she says and places half the omelettes on the plate in front of me.
 

"Eat," she urges as she sits down.

I pick up my knife and fork and cut off a small piece, bringing it to my mouth. I was sure I had no appetite, but the omelette melts in my mouth, and then I'm stuffing it in, not even bothering with the knife. I haven't eaten in almost thirty-six hours now, and that's long even for me.
 

Phillipa dumps half of her omelette on my plate once I finish mine. "Here, have some more."
 

I shake my head, trying to give it back, since my mouth is full and I can't speak. That only makes her laugh louder.
 

"There's nothing a good meal won't fix," she says. "At least that's what my grandmother always says."

She gets up and comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I got this just in case you didn't feel like going out."

"Thanks for being so understanding, Phillipa," I say, scraping the last of my food off the plate.

"No need to thank me, it's a given," she says and pours for us both. "Want to take these in the living room? We'll worry about the dishes tomorrow."

I take a long swallow of my wine as I follow her out of the kitchen.

By my third glass, the world is pleasantly fuzzy and I'm pretty certain I don't need Scott for anything anymore. Ever. I hardly even knew him, and he was just a mistake I made, long ago. A mistake some other Gail made. A messed up, insane Gail. After we finish the first bottle, Phillipa brings out a second.
 

"I knew we'd need more than one," she says as she struggles to unwrap the plastic covering the cork. "So I got four."

I take the bottle from her because she's making a mess, expertly uncork it, splashing the table as I pour.
 

She runs her finger over a drop and licks it. "Shouldn't waste any though, it was expensive."

I double over, I'm laughing so hard.
 

It's three in the morning when I wake up and the living room is spinning around me, wine sloshing in my stomach, making me sick. I wobble to the bathroom, taking two steps sideways for every one step forward.
 

I throw up in the sink, just as I did that first night I came back here, back when I didn't even know it was Sarah making me sick. Back before I killed her, before I called Scott and he agreed to date me, hold me, make love to me, forgive me for being a bitch and a slut, a murderer. Only he never forgave me, not really, tossed me aside like I was a piece of trash the first chance he got. I take the phone from my pocket and write all that in a text.
 

After I press send, I lay down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, the room spinning all around me, my head pounding.
 

When I wake up again, I'm shivering and sunlight is streaming through the window, stabbing at my head like hot knives. I peel myself off the floor and stumble up the stairs. I have to throw up again when I reach my room. By the time I'm done with that and a cold shower, it's noon and I've missed half my classes, so I won't even bother going today.

My bed still smells like Scott's cologne, I realize, and the pillows worst of all. I toss them all across the room, as far as I can fling them. Because the memory of the weekend he spent here is playing on a loop inside my mind. I feel his lips on mine, on my nipples, and heat is rising between my legs, filling my stomach and chest with an ache that I'll never get rid of for as long as I live. Not unless he answers my call. Talks to me. Lets me make it all alright again.

I didn't bring the phone upstairs with me when I woke, because the battery was dead and I couldn't handle the hope that I'd find a missed call from Scott.

I stumble out of bed and run downstairs, ignoring the nausea building in my stomach and the pounding in my head. Phillipa's in the kitchen, clutching a cup of coffee, her eyes still closed, but I only mutter a good morning and then I'm running back up the stairs, clutching my phone, plugging it in, biting my cuticles as I wait for it to turn on.

There's a missed call from Gran and nothing else.

I call Scott's number, holding my breath, every cell in my body willing him to pick up this time. He doesn't and I shudder as his voicemail message comes on.

Please talk to me,
I text.

A minute passes, then five. After then I'm still staring at just my text and no reply from him.

Come on. Please. I try again. Fifteen minutes go by, and no reply. Only I know he's seen the texts, that he's staring at them just like I am. I know it with a certainty that cuts right through any illusion my messed up mind might be conjuring up.

The phone ringing makes me jump, but it's Gran again.
 

"I'll come see you tomorrow," I say without giving her a chance to speak. "I have to go, I'm in class."

I hang up before she says anything.
 

Then I lean back against the headboard and type out a long text to Scott, telling him how much I need him to answer my calls and talk to me, how sorry I am for everything, how I'll never ask him to tell me anything he doesn't want to as long as he'll just call me back, take me back.
 

My finger hovers over the send button, and the rational, smart Gail is screaming at me not to send it, not to trample all my pride that way. If he doesn't want you, he doesn't, and so we don't want him either, she's saying.
 

But I press send anyway, because there's nothing else I can do.
 

Only he doesn't reply. Not after half an hour, not after an hour.
 

Phillipa sticks her head in once the sky outside turns a dark grey. "Want some dinner?" she asks.

I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the screen.
 

"OK, I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back soon," she says. "You'll be alright?"

"Yes, fine," I say, finally meeting her eyes. I can't believe how firm my voice sounds, how collected, as though all I am is not lying in a pile of broken shards in the pit of my stomach.

CHAPTER THREE

Just after noon on Wednesday, I'm in my car driving across the state line to go visit my Gran. She's called me a total of ten times since Sunday night, each time certain she has but hours to live. If I hadn't gone through the same thing with her back when she first entered the retirement home, I might be more worried. Or maybe I'm just not worried because I hardly feel anything at all.

Scott still hasn't replied to any of my texts. Probably for the best, since I sent one of them while I was completely drunk on Monday night and I don't even remember writing it. Not that what I wrote isn't something I'd say to him sober.

But I've leapt right over the edge of the abyss now, and my energy to fight the raging black waters is receding, waning by the hour. My whole body tenses up as I drive through Westchester County, and no amount of deep breathing, or screaming along with the songs on the radio is helping.
 

All I want to do is drive to Scott's house, make him talk to me, make him explain.
 

At the retirement home, Gran is lying in bed, propped up by at least ten pillows. Her cheeks are rosy, and the light gleams in her watery brown eyes.
 

She extends her hand towards me as I enter, fingers hanging loosely to the floor. "Gail, how nice of you to come."

There's an unspoken finally in there somewhere, but it doesn't touch me, nothing does.
 

"How are you feeling, Gran?" I ask and take her hand. It's warm and soft.
 

"Marginally better, but the diarrhea still hasn't let up. They want me to lie down now, so I won't overexert myself," she says, her voice firm and strict.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror on her nightstand. My hair is hanging down the sides of my face limply, and the bags under my red-rimmed eyes are so dark, I'm sure I must have smudged my mascara. Only I wore no makeup today.

Gran's face softens and her lips are no longer pursed as she studies me. "Have you been eating properly, Gail?"

I nod and pull my hair back off my face, fishing a rubber band from my purse to make a bun.
 

"My poor Kathryn, I do hope she's in a better place now," Gran says and sighs. The mention of my mom causes hot prickly tears to ball up in my throat, but my eyes stay dry. I've cried so much these last few days I don't know if I have any tears left.

"There's a lot of your father in you, Gail," Gran continues, still staring at my face. "But you have your mother's eyes."

All I'm seeing is Mom's sightless eyes, gleaming with tears she will never shed again, as she lay dead on her bed. Maybe that's what Gran means, maybe my eyes are just as dead. I certainly don't feel any life inside me.

I sit there for an hour or so, listening to her describing her various ailments, her fainting spells, her constipation and diarrhea problems, nodding along, asking concerned questions here and there, when I can get a word in.
 

"I thought the funeral mass for your mother was very well presented, don't you? I just hope my funeral is just as nice." She falls silent after she says it. I'm still trying to figure out when she changed the subject.

"I should have come to see you earlier, I'm sorry, Gran," I manage. It's what she wants to hear and it's the truth. "I'll come more often from now on, I promise."

"Yes, please do," she says and rests back, closing her eyes. "I am so lonely here."

"Come now, Gran," I say, trying to sound chipper and encouraging but failing miserably. "You have friends here."

She waves her hand through the air dismissively, her eyes still closed. "Only the old and the infirm. We're all just waiting to die here."

The thought racks through me like someone stabbed me in the stomach. But isn't that what we're all doing, just going through the motions, waiting to die?