The Last Days of California: A Novel (22 page)

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Weed,” he said.

“You can’t smoke that in here, people will smell it.”

They said everyone was asleep but us, that no one would smell it. They said they’d been smoking in hotel rooms for years. I imagined the police kicking down the door and arresting us, taking us to jail. Our father would have to come down to the station and bail us out, and he’d be disappointed in me.

“Light it up,” Elise said.

They passed the little metal cigarette around: inhaling, coughing.

“I might want to try it,” I said.

“I thought it was a gateway drug,” Elise said.

“It’s a slippery slope,” Brad said, passing it to Jake. Jake knocked it against the table and refilled it, handed it to me. I held a lighter to the end and the weed burned as I sucked. I didn’t feel like I was getting much, but I breathed out a huge puff of smoke.

“I don’t think I feel anything,” I said, after a while.

“It’s pretty shitty weed,” Jake said.

“I didn’t feel anything my first time, either,” Elise said. “Or I was so drunk I couldn’t tell if I felt anything.”

I took another hit, sucking and sucking and breathing out a ton of smoke. I coughed—it felt like the smoke was trapped in my throat and I couldn’t get it out.

“That’s enough for you,” Elise said.

They continued passing it around while I watched TV. The reporter was interviewing people on the streets, asking them whether they believed the rapture was coming. I didn’t know why reporters were always interviewing people on the streets. I had a thought about it, something that seemed like a very good thought, but then someone said something and I lost it and couldn’t get it back. I didn’t even bother trying because I knew it was no use.

“Hey, Jess,” Elise said.
“Jess?”

“What?”

“You’re grinding your teeth.”

“I’m not grinding my teeth,” I said, unclenching my jaw. I was also digging my fingers into my legs. I stood and took my phone into the bathroom, stared at Gabe’s number. I typed things and deleted them, typed and deleted. He didn’t love me. I wasn’t special. I went back out and resumed my place on the floor.

I didn’t like the way the weed made me feel, so I took another hit, hoping it would make me feel differently.

“Come on,” Brad
said, taking my hand and leading me to the bathroom. He locked the door behind us. His face looked larger and redder in the bathroom light and I didn’t want to be alone with him but I also felt special, chosen.

“Hi,” I said, as he moved toward me.

He propped me up on the counter and put his hands on my thighs. They felt a lot like my own, hardly like anything.

“Hi,” I said again.

“That was your first time smoking?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How’d you like it?”

“Fine,” I said. “I don’t care about anything.”

He tilted my neck and kissed it, held my hair back with one hand. He was pulling too hard but I didn’t say anything. “I want to make you feel good,” he said. “Can I make you feel good?” He kissed me before I could answer, his hands moving higher and higher until they were touching my panties, rubbing the thin material between two fingers. I couldn’t remember which pair I had on. They were probably a good pair because the good ones weren’t as comfortable so I saved them for last. I wondered why Elise hadn’t knocked. The old Elise would have knocked already, would have come looking for me last night.

“Are those veneers?” I asked, pulling away.

“No,” he said.

“They’re perfect, like movie star teeth.”

“Close your eyes.”

“You must not drink any coffee,” I said.

“I drink plenty of coffee,” he said, “and I smoke, too.” He sounded angry about it. I closed my eyes and he tilted my neck and kissed it again. Then he began to suck and I wondered if I was going to wake up with a hickey; the thought of it excited me.

In the room, a Bruce Springsteen song played, one I didn’t know.

Brad unbuttoned my shorts, tugged at them.

“It bothers me that Bruce Springsteen is always talking about factories and being poor. Once you’ve got that much money you shouldn’t be able to write about being poor anymore,” I said.

“This was only his second album,” he said. “He wasn’t rich then.”

“He was a rock star, though.”

“Shhh.”

“Don’t tell me to shhh. I don’t have to be quiet.”

“No,” he said. “We can talk about Bruce if you want.”

“That’s all I wanted to say about it.” I lifted up and he pulled off my shorts. I was wearing a pair of blue panties that had lace at the top in a lighter blue, one of my prettier pair that fit well and didn’t have any bloodstains.

“These are sexy,” he said, running his finger along the lace. Then he moved them to the side and pushed his finger in, first one and then two. He said I was tight and I hoped he didn’t say anything else about it. I smiled at him. My smile felt big and fake and made me think nobody could ever love me.

He unbuttoned his shorts, unzipped them, and pulled himself out—half-hard, big.

“It’s big,” I said.

“Is it?”

“It seems really big.”

“It’s not huge or anything,” he said. He took out his wallet and found a gold condom. I watched him open the wrapper with his teeth, roll it down his dick.

“Wait,” I said, placing my hands against his chest.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I’ll go slow.” He gave me a sad look like he might love me, pulled me forward, and pushed himself in. I didn’t want to do it anymore and wanted to stop him—all I had to say was that I’d changed my mind. I could just pull my shorts up and leave the bathroom and he would let me. I could leave. I didn’t have to do this. I scooted to the edge of the counter and wrapped my legs around his waist.

“Hey,” I said, but it was so quiet. I put my hands under his shirt and held onto him, tried to concentrate on his skin, which was smooth and warm. I wanted to pull him on top of me, wanted him to smother me, make it hard to breathe.

After a few minutes, he grunted and tugged my hair. Then he was still and silent. I tried to move but he held my legs in place, closed his eyes. The bluish lids were lined with veins. There was a tiny mole below his left eye that added so much.

He peeled the condom off, hobbled a few feet over to the toilet, and flushed. Then he put his hand on the back of my head and smiled at me before zipping his pants.

When he left, I locked the door and set about cleaning myself with a washcloth. I peed, brushed my teeth, washed my face. When there was nothing left to clean, I sat on the toilet and listened to them talk and laugh, knowing I would never be a part of it. I would always be separate, thinking about what expression my face was making, what people thought of me. Observing peoples’ weaknesses and flaws—their big thighs and crooked teeth and acne, their lack of confidence, their fear. I would always think the worst about people and it would keep me from them because I couldn’t accept myself.

Elise sat alone
on the bed, wobbling back and forth. I got up and went to the bathroom, peed for the fourth time in two hours.

When I came out, she was fumbling around in the closet.

“What are you doing?” I asked, sliding open the door.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“You’re in the closet,” I said. I turned on the light and led her to the toilet, stood there until she told me to go away. I got in bed and tried to get comfortable. I imagined myself melting into the mattress, becoming a part of it.

A few minutes later, she came out unwrapping something.

“What do you have?” I asked.

“A candy,” she said, popping it into her mouth.

“You might choke.” I held out my hand and she spit the peppermint into it. I set it on the table and told her to go to sleep, but she began to cry, softly at first and then gasping, sucking breaths that hurt my chest, my heart.

“Elise?” I said. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“You know what,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

I wanted to list things, like our mother listed things when our father lost another job, or when we didn’t have enough money to go back-to-school shopping. She would remind us of all the things we had—our health and each other and a roof over our heads—things we’d always had so they never seemed like anything. I could tell her she was beautiful and smart and funny and popular, that she could walk into any room and heads would turn. But I didn’t say these things and the crying slowed and I thought it would stop but it started up again, terrible and heaving. I wondered how anyone would ever be able to love her. She was too beautiful. It was like being too rich—all you could think about was what the person could do for you.

I walked over to the tub and turned on the pitifully slow-filling faucet. I could still feel Brad inside me and wondered how long it would take to go away.
I hate myself
, I thought. I thought it again and again and it felt good, like I was finally admitting something I’d kept secret for a long time.

“Why don’t you take a bath?” I asked, watching the water creep into the tub.

She didn’t say anything. I sat there for a moment, looking at her, and then took off my clothes and got in, waited for the water to fill up around me. I ducked my head under and held my breath, my ring scraping the porcelain—God was supposed to be my husband. I was supposed to be married to God. I imagined slicing my wrists open, red against white. It would be so bright, so beautiful. I could hear my heartbeat and remembered that it only had so many. It seemed cruel, putting a little bomb inside us like this, something that we had to always find new ways to ignore.

I adjusted the water with my foot and looked over at my sister.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” she asked.

“Worst like what? The meanest?”

“Whatever.”

“I used to like Marc,” I said. “Do you remember Marc?”

“He only carpooled with us for like four years,” she said.

“I couldn’t talk to him so instead of being nice I was really mean. I put gum in his hair and told him he smelled bad and one time I told Mom he’d gotten another ride home and we left him in the rain.”

“I remember that—we had to go back and get him and he was soaked.”

“And now he’s in Ohio and I’ll never see him again,” I said. “He’ll always think I hated him.”

“I bet he knows you liked him,” she said. “Kids do shit like that when they like each other.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he didn’t know then, but I bet he knows now.”

“I hope so,” I said.

She was quiet and I wanted to ask about the worst thing she’d ever done but she’d probably done some actual bad things, which was why she was asking. She turned onto her side, facing away from me.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too,” she mumbled.

“I’m sad we’re not going to make it to California. I wanted to see the ocean.”

“I’m sure it’s not that great.”

“I bet it’s nice.”

“These aren’t the last days of California,” she said. “You’ll see it eventually.”

A few minutes later, she was asleep. No matter what, she never had any trouble sleeping.

I got out of the tub and dried off with a damp towel. I let it fall to the floor and walked over to the window, stepped onto the ledge. The blue light of the parking garage reminded me of a mosquito zapper. It could have been dusk or dawn. I pressed my hands to the glass and leaned forward, thinking about Brother Jessie’s baby. Why would God have given him a baby like that? I wondered if his wife had spent her pregnancy afraid, if it had caused the baby to be deformed. If I ever became pregnant, I’d be terrified the whole time, and my baby would be born dead or worse, completely messed up. I’d have no choice but to sacrifice my life for it, and people would say how good I was, how selfless.

I closed the curtains. Then I put on my clothes and got in bed, letting my hair soak the pillow. At home, I’d have waited for it to dry, or put a towel down. At home, I wouldn’t drop things when I was done using them. I checked my phone. As usual, no one had called or texted. Before I could think better of it, I typed a message to Gabe—
I’ve been thinking about the back of your van
—and pressed send. Then I set the phone screen-side-down on my chest and waited. A minute later, I picked it up and looked at it, adjusted the volume. He was probably asleep. It was late and he was asleep and had been asleep for hours, but I needed him to be awake. I wanted to tell him everything. I felt like he would understand, that he was the only person who would understand.

I played games with myself—counting down from ten, ignoring the phone—but nothing worked, so I gave up and recited the Lord’s Prayer. I said it over and over until the words got all mixed up and I had no idea how it went.

When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I was blind except for a small square in the upper right-hand corner of my vision. I had to keep moving my head around, positioning the square in just the right place so I could see. I saw a banana, reached out and grabbed it. I peeled it and took a bite and each bite brought back more and more vision until I could see normally. Then I dreamed we were at home and my mother was in the driveway, being dragged off by a snake as big as a car. My sister yelled for me to get our father so I went inside and found him asleep in his chair.
Gunsmoke
was on TV, which made it feel less dreamlike. Instead of screaming, I shook him until he woke up and we ran outside, but by that time, the snake had her whole body in its mouth and we just stood there and watched.

SATURDAY

When I woke
up, Elise was curled around me. I scooted away from her and checked my phone. Gabe had responded at seven forty-eight:
Hey girl. What have you been thinking about it, exactly?
I didn’t know what to write back. I wanted to be flirty, yet serious. I wanted to be serious, mostly, but I’d started it by being flirty. I was happy he’d written back, but it also seemed like too little too late. He couldn’t help me.