Not Looking for Love: Episode 4 (3 page)

My hands are shaking and my heart is thundering in my chest, as though trying to belie the realization.
 

"I'll be back soon," I mutter and rise.

Her eyes spring open, her gaze piercing me. "When?"

"Next weekend," I say. "I promise."

"Well, I'll see you then," she says and closes her eyes again.

I'm still shaking when I reach my car. The sun has set and a mass of dark grey clouds is roiling overhead. There's only one place I want to go now. I'm so close to Scott here it's like a physical force has latched onto me, won't release until I drive to his house. He has to talk to me and he will.
 

The windows of Scott's apartment over the bakery are dark. I park and turn off the engine, even pocket the keys. But I can't get out of the car, can't walk down the alleyway, can't spend another moment waiting for him in that cold stairwell. I've done that so many times already, and this is what it's brought me to. Loneliness. Rejection. Hurt and tears. Utter insanity. I should start the car and drive away, never look back, never come back, never think of him again.

Are you home?
I text.

I wait ten minutes for a reply that doesn't come.

Please, just explain to me why you are doing this. I will leave you alone forever if you do. I just want you to know how much you mean to me, and I can't imagine never seeing you again, or never speaking to you again. I'm sorry for all I've done wrong, and I'd take it all back. Please just let me make amends.

I press send. It's the same thing I've written in all the other texts I sent him, more or less. And even if he doesn't reply, I know he's reading them, and that's almost like talking. Or at least close enough.

It's full dark outside now and a light flashes across the screen of my phone. I press the button to wake it, certain Scott's finally written back. But it must have been just the headlights of a passing car, because all I see are the bubbles filled with my own pleading words.

I'm cold and alone. I don't even feel like he's read any of my texts anymore, and it's like we're not even sharing the same world.
 

Later, once the street grows silent and empty I finally start my car and drive back to Connecticut. None of the drive really registered, and another Gail, the one who doesn't give up, is still standing on the sidewalk by his house, because she can't accept it's over and probably never will.

CHAPTER FOUR

Professor Harvey asks me to stay after class on Friday. He's frowning at me, his bushy white eyebrows meeting above his nose.
 

"I had expected better work from you, Gail," he says, holding my test out to me. I scored 46 out of a hundred, which is the lowest grade I remember getting, except maybe on some physics test back in high school.

I'm staring at the scuffed linoleum floor, my hands laced in front of me.
 

"It's been a difficult few weeks," I mutter, more to the floor than to him. "But it's getting better."

It's a lie. I'm still crying myself to sleep every night, and I'm not even sure if it's over my mom, Sarah or Scott. All the studying I try to do goes right past my brain, not even touching it.
 

He clears his throat and lays my test back on the desk, smoothing it down. "Yes, well, I understand. Seeing how things are, I will let you retake this on the Friday before Thanksgiving break. It counts for 15% of your final grade, you know."

I finally look up at him, hoping my eyes aren't glistening with tears. They probably are. "Thank you, Professor."

I really just want to hug him.
 

He clears his throat again and wipes his mouth. "Yes, well, just make sure you study for it this time."

I nod, assuring him that I will, and push my way from the classroom through the throng of people already entering for his next class.
 

I spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, going over my notes. The last thing I need is to flunk out of school. It's the only thing I have left.
 

When I return home by eight, there's a note from Phillipa saying she's spending the night at Holly's, but we can do something tomorrow.

I text her, telling her I'm going home for the weekend. Which I am, because I can't face the empty house tonight. It matches my empty heart too closely, and I'm not entirely sure I'm even still alive.

"Gail, is that you?" Dad calls from the living room as I enter the house. He's slurring his words and the house smells like a dive bar, cigarette smoke mixing with booze in the air.

"Yeah," I call back.

He's standing in the hallway, his shirt unbuttoned all the way.

"You should've called, I'd've made dinner," he slurs, walking up to me on shaky legs.
 

I'm listening to the silence, hoping to hear my mom's raspy breathing, just as I used to every time I came home for the past year. Only I hear nothing, because she's dead and buried.

"I ate before I came," I lie and walk past him to the living room, opening the French windows wide.

 
He sits down on the couch with a grunt and lights another cigarette.

"Should you be smoking so much?" I ask, unable to stop myself.
 

He shrugs and takes a long pull, blowing the smoke out slowly. "I only have one or two in the evenings."

The ashtray on the coffee table is overflowing and the pack next to it is nearly empty.
 

I get a tumbler from the bar and pour myself a whiskey.
 

He leans back on the sofa, watching me. "I'm thinking of selling the house. If you agree, that is?"

My breath hitches in my throat. "Sell? Why?"

"It's too big for me," he says. "But we could just close it up and then you can do whatever you want with it, later. I'm moving to the city, to be closer to work."

I take a sip of my drink and let the silence drag. It's almost ten. Back when I was in high school and still lived here, I might be watching a movie with my mom right now, eating popcorn. Sometimes Dad would join us. Or, if I went out, the two of them would be watching TV right now.
 

It's like Mom's in the room with us now. But she's just sitting there, silent and still, not laughing or talking. Because she didn't want to leave this house any more than either of us wanted her too.

The cold seeping in through the open windows is chilling me to the bone.

"So, what do you think?" Dad asks.

"I'd like to keep the house," I say and see my mom smile. But it's a faint smile, because she knows as well as I do that this house will never be the same without her, never be my home again. "At least for now."

"As you wish," Dad says and then we just sit there, each drinking our whiskey, sharing grief in silence.

It's almost midnight by the time I finally find the courage to go upstairs to my room. The door to my mom's bedroom is shut, and for a moment on the stairs, I'm sure I hear her cough. It racks through me like an earthquake, and I run to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

I drank too much, and the room is spinning in wide circles as I lie on the bed. And even though Scott's never been here, I imagine him lying beside me, staring up at the ceiling too, sleepless just like I am. I came here to be closer to him, I know now, and the realization turns my entire chest into a pool of cool water, longing and homesickness filling it like melting snow swells a stream.
 

Sleep won't come, even after the room stops spinning and I've been lying on my bed motionless for hours. The silence is pressing at me, taking my air, making me feel like I'm the one buried six feet deep underground and not my mom. I'm listening for the sound of her raspy breaths, her grating coughs, so intently that every creak and crack of the house settling is amplified. But I can't stop, I can't close my eyes, can't drift off too sleep. I shouldn't be here, it's too soon.
 

I don't understand this. Why won't you speak to me? I text after I can no longer feel Scott's presence in the world with me.

It's past midnight now, but I know he reads it. He doesn't reply, yet I'm still finally able to close my eyes, forget my mom's empty bedroom down the hall, five doors down.

A crash in the hallway wakes me. I'm on my feet and rushing from the room in a second, gasping for breath, my heart thundering, pressure rising in my head.
 

Out in the hallway, Dad's crawling up the stairs, his eyes unfocused. I run to him and try to help him rise, but he's too heavy for me to lift.

"Go back to sleep, Gail," he slurs. "I'm fine."

I'm trembling so hard I can't even speak. He makes it to the top of the stairs and sits on the top step, leaning against the bannister.

"What's happening, Dad?" I finally manage to ask. The image of him lying at the foot of the stairs in a pool of his own blood is so vivid in my mind that tears are trickling down my face. Only I don't sob or whimper. I'm just shaking, balling my hands into fists, nails pressed into my palms.

He shrugs and looks up at me, but can't focus his eyes on mine.
 

"It has to stop, Dad. You can't drink so much," I say, my voice firm like I'm not imagining my dad buried alongside my mom. Or maybe that's what's giving me strength.

Tears are streaming down my face, flowing across my lips.
 

"You're right. Of course you're right," he mumbles and manages to stand.
 

I wrap my arm around his waist and help him to bed. Only now I'm scared to let him sleep, because he might pass out on his back and choke on his own vomit.

I spend the night in the armchair by the window. He doesn't stir once, but each time my eyes close I jerk back awake, my heart racing, because what if he does, what if he dies, what if I'll be an orphan for real at twenty-two?

"Gail," Dad says, shaking my shoulder gently. "Go to bed."

I jerk awake, lunging to my feet. The sky outside is a pale grey and there's a sharp burning pain in my neck from sleeping sitting up.

"Are you OK?" I ask.

He nods and looks at the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"You can't drink so much, Dad. You have to stop. I can't loose you too." I'm sobbing now, crying again, because tears running down my face seems to be my natural state these days.

He wraps his arms around me and the smell of whiskey wafting from him turns my stomach. He holds me tight, his shoulders shaking. "I will. I just need a little more time."

I push away from him and stare at his bloodshot eyes. "Please, Dad. Mom wouldn't have wanted this."

The words choke me, and make his cheek twitch. But it's the truth. I can hear her yelling at him from where I stand, telling him to pull it together, to go on. She asked me to be there for him too, only I haven't been. I let her down. I let him stay in this house all alone, clear out her stuff, try to sleep in a bed a few doors down from where she died. While I did what? Killed my own baby. Chased a guy who clearly never wanted me in his life. Felt sorry for myself. Didn't even study.

Dad's staring at me like I just struck him, but then his eyes soften and he looks back at the floor. "I suppose you're right."

I follow him from the room and down to the kitchen. Despite the fact that the sky outside looks like dawn has barely broken, it's already almost ten. I fix the coffee, while Dad carries the kitchen trash can the living room. Glass breaking startles me a few moments later. After he's done emptying the bar, he carries the full garbage bag to the bin outside.
 

"There, that's done," he says when he comes back in.
 

I wish today was trash day, because I can't shake the knowledge that he'll go digging through the dumpster for a bottle as soon as night falls. But there's nothing more I can say, nothing he can promise me that I'll believe.

We sip our coffees in silence. I'm trying to stare down a new day of Scott not calling me back, and failing miserably.

"We could go out for lunch," Dad suggests, but his face has a greenish tint, and I'm pretty sure he'd rather not eat anything.
 

"I'm going into the city for a bit," I finally say and rise to dump my half finished, cold coffee into the sink. "Maybe dinner."

He smiles at me, the wrinkles around his eyes cutting deep into the dark bags under them. "That does sound better."

CHAPTER FIVE

I have no idea if Janine will talk to me, or if she's even working today, but I have to try. She's the only person who might be able to convince Scott to talk to me again. Or at least give me some answers.

Once I reach the store she works at, I circle the block three times before I get up the nerve to enter. The store's packed, but I don't see her anywhere. I pick up a random bra off the shelf, to look less conspicuous as I'm craning my neck, looking around like a maniac trying to locate her. I finally see her escorting a lady out of the first floor fitting rooms and nearly send a woman toppling to the ground as I rush to reach her.

"Janine!" I call out before she can disappear back into the changing room. Her head whips around, her honey colored curls bouncing against her shoulders, and I watch her expression change from surprise to anger as she watches me approach. But at least she's not turning away.

"Can I help you with something?" Her eyes flick to the leopard print bra I'm still clutching. "That doesn't seem like your style at all."

"I have to talk to you," I say, shoving the bra onto a shelf. Only suddenly, I have no idea what to say. Her eyes are filled with cold hatred, even though her perfect lips are smiling at me.

"You want some help picking out a bra?" she asks.
 

"No, that's not why I'm here," I say. "I…I…I need to talk to Scott."

Her eyes narrow. "So call him."

She thinks I'm insane, she must.
 

"He won't answer my calls," I stammer. Why is she making me say all this? She has to know. I'm certain he's told her by now.

She shrugs and smiles at a customer walking by. "Then I guess he doesn't want to talk to you."