Authors: Kathryn R. Biel
Killing Me Softly (12 page)
I feel so crappy after work that I drive right to the nursing home without even changing my clothes. I smell like grease and sweat. With my luck, a pack of rabid dogs will latch onto my scent and hunt me down. I think about this as I'm making a quick pit stop at the liquor store. After a night like this, I need something to take the edge off. Actually, being eaten by a pack of dogs might not be so bad. It would at least put me out of my misery. Even though it's after eleven p.m., the staff at the nursing home is usually okay with me being there. Probably because I bring them cookies fairly often. Note to self: make more cookies. I hope no one gives me a hard time. I'm wound tighter than a drum and ready to snap.
No one stops me as I trudge down the artificially lit hallway to Dad's room, squinting to protect my eyes against the bright fluorescence. My body virtually collapses as I flop in my usual chair, and I let me head sink back. My eyes close and I just try to breathe.
Without opening my eyes, I start. "Dad, I don't know what to do anymore. I'm alone, but I don't want to be. I hurt everyone who tries to get close to me. Everyone close to me hurts me. Who do I trust? How can I trust anyone anymore? Rob, Jenna, and now even Max. Even you. I mean, I know you didn't want to be like this, but I don't even have you. I just want someone to be on my side. To put me first."
My words hang in the dark of the room.
Alone. I feel so alone.
The next thing I know, my mom's standing in front of me. The glow of the lights from the hallway cast eerie shadows throughout the room. Even in the dimness, I can tell something is wrong with her.
"Sadie! Why haven't you called me?"
I vaguely remember seeing about ten texts from her. I didn't read them after the first one asking about Jenna. Mom's really shaken up. I haven't seen her like this ever. Not even when Dad had his stroke.
"Mom, what's wrong?" I look over at Dad. He looks the same, his chest rising and falling. Nothing's wrong with Dad.
"Didn't you get my texts?"
"I, um, saw one. I got called into work and had a bad night. A bad few days really."
"It's Jenna."
Oh crap. "What?"
"She's missing."
"What do you mean, missing?"
"She missed her sonogram today. The Hendersons were meeting her there this morning and she never showed up. I can't get a hold of her. Her apartment is a disaster and her car is gone. I've been talking to the police. I can't file a missing persons report until the morning, but I will as soon as I can. Have you heard from her?"
This is not good. This is so not good.
Mom keeps talking, but I can't listen to what she's saying. I can't process it. I keep flashing back to last night in my bathroom. I swore I'd never think of it again. Her face flashes before my eyes, the panic written across it almost palpable. The blood. Her blood. Crimson staining the bright white.
I have to get out of the room. Now. The bile is rising in my throat, threatening to make an appearance all over my mother's shoes.
Swallowing hard, I mumble, "Um, she stopped by yesterday. Unannounced, of course. We fought." Must. Not. Freak. Out.
"Of course," my mother interjects.
"Of course. It didn't go well, and I made her leave."
"What time was that?"
"Um, I don't know. Seven-ish."
"Did she say anything about going anywhere?"
I don't know why I can't tell my mother what happened. Well, I do know why. I'm ashamed of how I acted. Of what I did. I feel so guilty about it. I am the most terrible sister on the face of the earth. I always used to think that title was reserved for Jenna, but now I know, without a doubt, that I'm the one who's earned it.
I stand up and stretch a little. My back is sore from sleeping in the chair. I need to get away from my mother. Now. Before I totally lose it.
"Okay, Mom. I can't imagine Jenna will come to me. Not after last night. But if she does, I'll tell her you're looking for her."
As I try to move past her, she reaches out and grabs me. "Do you have a feeling about her? I'm so scared that something terrible has happened to her and the baby."
Her touch burns me, as if it's a hot poker. It's probably just my guilt. I pull my arm away and rub it involuntarily. I can't bear to have her touch me right now. I don't deserve it.
"I haven't gotten any feelings." Except shame and dread that my family is going to find out what happened between Jenna and me last night. With my head down, I hurry to my car, leaving my mom and dad alone together. Part of me wonders if she will stay and tell him what's going on.
I'm lucky I don't get pulled over while driving home. I know I was going way over the speed limit and may have missed a stop sign or two. It was sort of hard to see with all the tears flowing. Once in the safety of my home, I do the only sensible thing. I start drinking. A lot. The first tumbler of vodka on the rocks is a little rough going down. The second and third, not so much. I know, drinking myself into a stupor is not the most responsible thing. I don't care. I'm just looking for my mind to stop whirring and the blissfulness of a blackout.
As I'm sprawled on my sunny, yellow couch, I try not relive the events of last night—and fail miserably. The cotton twill is soft under my fingers and I'm momentarily distracted. The couch was an impulse purchase. I try to focus on how the room will look when it's done—dark, stained wood, the walls in a soft bluish-grayish-green. Soft white curtains fluttering to the ground. The pop of color from the couch. My eyes are heavy and it seems like too much work to hold up my glass. The vodka has done its work, and I let myself fall under.
*******
The bar is crowded and filled with smoke. The atmosphere is hazy but not the stinky cigarette kind. I'm scanning the bar, looking for someone, although I don't know who I'm looking for until I see him. Max. He's wearing his leather vest, chaps, and not much else. His privates are covered by something—although I can't tell what from so far away. Max is ... dancing? Yep, that's what he's doing. He hops up on the bar and continues with the gyrating and thrusting. But he's not alone. Tracy is with him. She's jumped up on the bar and they're grinding as hordes of females reach for him, dollar bills waving. Even though I'm totally disgusted and want to leave, I find my feet propelling me toward the bar. Max sees me and his eyes are boring into me. They are pulling me to him. As I get closer, I see him separate from Tracy. I'm within arm's reach of the bar now. Max squats down and extends his hand to me. I can see the sweat glistening on his hard arms and chest, and have to resist the urge to lick it off. He wants me to get up on the bar and dance with him. So much of me wants to. But if I do, I'm not sure where this will stop. If it will stop. Suddenly conscious of the audience, I take a step back from his outstretched hand.
"You come to me," I say, shaking my head. In all reality, there is no way Max can hear me over the din of the bar, but he seems to have no problem.
"I'll come to you in a little while," he says, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "But when I knock, you'd better answer, and you'd better be ready to dance."
BAM. BAM BAM. BAM BAM BAM.
I don't know how I got back to my couch, but someone's pounding on the door. Quite urgently, I might add. And then I remember—Max. He said he'd be here for me. Sitting up proves a little challenging, so I find myself rolling to the floor instead of getting up. My lack of furniture means nothing to lean on, so I crawl to the doorway and pull myself up. The banging is getting louder. I am very drunk. I don't remember drinking this much at the club. The whole club thing is pretty fuzzy, and I'm not really sure what's actually going on. But I know it's Max on the other side of the door, so I rush to answer it.
Only falling twice, I finally make it to the door. For some reason, Max has changed out of his leather chaps and vest and is now in a policeman uniform. Whatever. I still plan on taking him out of it ... if only I could stand up. For some reason, Max isn't as enthused about me as he seemed to be at the bar. Maybe he's playing hard to get. Usually that's my role, but being the aggressor brings out a new side of me. The untamed Sadie. Then, there are two Maxes. No, the second one isn't Max. It's Henry Fitzsimmons, my high school crush. My first love. Wow, I'm reaching deep into the archives here. I've kind of figured out that this is a dream. Of course it is, since nothing else makes sense. This is one of those weird ones, where I thought I woke up, but I must still be asleep, since this is still obviously a dream. Why else would Fitzy be here? Oh, man, he was the stuff of my earliest fantasies. Well, since this is a dream, I might as well have my way with both of them ...
*******
Death. I feel like death. I wish for death, because it has to be better than what I'm feeling right now. I would like to peel my eyes open to see where I am, since I have no idea. However, the banging in my head seems to be superseding all motor control and my eyes just won't open.
The racket in my brain won't stop. I need to do something. I just don't know what. Maybe get something to drink. Maybe take some ibuprofen. Maybe vomit. Maybe just lay here and die. All except the last option require me moving, so I'd better try to get up. With Herculean effort, I pry my eyelids open. I try to sit and my eyes focus in on something across the room. Not something—someone.
"What the hell!" I yell, jumping to my feet. The sudden movement doesn't agree with me, and I'm overcome by the urge to vomit. My hands fly to my mouth, trying to stop the impending purge as I run toward the bathroom.
Mental note: the next time I plan on drinking my face off, I should make sure there is something in my stomach first. Puking yellow bile is not fun. Well, not like puking is ever fun, but this really sucks.
The cool porcelain feels good on my clammy forehead. I never want to leave this position. I should never have gotten up from the couch. The waves of nausea pass for the moment, and suddenly I remember why I jumped up in the first place.
Henry Fitzsimmons.
What the hell is Henry Fitzsimmons doing sitting in my living room?
I haven't seen Fitzy since he and Brady were sophomores in college. The day of my high school graduation party, to be exact. I thought my heart would never get over the likes of Henry Fitzsimmons. It did. And now he's in my house. What the hell?
"Can I get you anything?"
His voice should startle me, but even in my run-down state, I take a moment to relish the deep timbre that fueled my fantasies as a teenager. Speaking of fantasies, this is one heck of a premonition. First I dream about him, and now here he is. I'm starting to freak myself out.
"Can you remind me never ever to drink again?"
"Didn't we already go through this at your high school graduation party?"
Oh no, not again.
Is it possible for a trapdoor in my bathroom floor to open up and swallow me whole? Even though I'm almost positive I didn't install that feature, I'm holding out hope.
"I see some things never change. Last time I saw you, you were in a similar position. Except Therese was holding your hair and lying to you about what an ass you made out of yourself."
"Thanks for reminding me." I groan as I shift my body onto the cool tile floor. At least I know it's clean. Hell, I wouldn't care if it were the bathroom at Grand Central at this moment. Now, Fitzy is upside down to me. I try to take in the sight from the ground up. Scuffed black shoes, flat-front gray twill pants. A button-down shirt that hovers somewhere in the dark-gray-to-purple-palate, if one exists. Gray suit coat to match the pants. His shirt is open at the neck, and a gold chain with a cross hangs at his throat. The years have been good to Henry Fitzsimmons. Too good. I didn't think it was possible. "What are you doing here?"
He's stepped into the bathroom and is looking around. "Your mom asked me to stop by. She was worried about you."
That makes no sense. My mom is only focused on Jenna right now. As right she should be. If I weren't so dehydrated, I'd probably start crying again. I sit up and scoot back so I can lean against the wall. My mouth feels terrible. My tongue tries to lick the awful fuzziness off my teeth but it does no good.
"Be right back." Fitzy darts out of the bathroom. The need to close my eyes overwhelms me. Next thing I know, he's back in the bathroom, putting the toilet seat down and taking a seat. He hands me a Coke. "You look like you need this."
I look at the bottle of soda in my hands. I have no idea where it came from and I seriously doubt I have the strength to open it. I make a feeble attempt and then look up at Fitzy. He sighs but reaches over and opens it for me anyway. It's things like that that made me love him in the first place. Even though I was the annoying younger sister, he was always kind to me. Where Brady was always a jerk, Fitzy was never mean. He seemed to be interested in what I had to say. When someone picked on me, it was Fitzy who stood up for me.
After I take the bottle of soda back, it occurs to me that the bottle is cold, so it must have come from my fridge. But it couldn't have come from mine since I only buy Diet Coke. The cold bottle feels good against my forehead, nonetheless, and the carbonation is surprisingly settling on my stomach. Curiosity wins out.
"Where'd you get the soda?"
He smiles, a slow grin spreading on those full lips that were the subject of endless teenage fantasies. "From your fridge."
"Oh. Max must have left it," I mumble, more to myself than to him.
"Who's Max?" Fitzy's eyes are alert and scanning the bathroom. Even in my maybe-still-drunk-wicked-hungover state, I still take some pride in my bathroom.
"He's my contractor. We did this bathroom together."
"What's his last name?"
"Shultz."
"Are you two involved?"
"With Max? No, not really. I don't know. Why?"
"Just wondering. You mentioned him before." Fitzy is cool, calm, and collected.
"When?"
"When I first got here."
That gets me. Sitting up a little straighter, I look hard at Fitzy. "And when exactly was that? Why are you here?"
"I told you, your mom was worried."
"Not about me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"She's worried about Jenna."
"Why is she worried about Jenna?"
"She thinks she's missing." My voice breaks. I will not cry.
"Do you think she's missing?"
I take a long swig from the soda, trying to think of how to answer that question. I evade by simply shrugging.
"When was the last time you saw your sister?"
"Sunday. She came over. I threw her out. We don't get along."
"Oh? Why don't you get along?"
She's a vindictive bitch who stole my boyfriend, killed him by jacking him off while he was driving, and is now having his baby. I can't say that out loud. I want Fitzy to like me. As that thought hits me, I start to laugh. Here I am, hungover as all hell, still in my clothes from work yesterday, and God only knows what my hair looks like. Not to mention the vomiting and the body odor. The ship of good impressions sailed a long time ago, and I never even had a ticket to board. "Long story."
"Why don't you tell me?"
"I don't have the strength to go into it right now. It's not something I like to think about, let alone talk about."
He stands up and offers me a hand. Pulling me to my feet he says, "Why don't you take a shower?"
And with that, he's out of the bathroom. My brain is still fuzzier than my teeth, although I hope a shower and tooth brushing will help both. While in the shower, I find my motor dexterity is poor, and I have to concentrate so I don't fall. The bottle of shampoo evades my grasp not once but twice. I skip shaving, afraid I will require a blood transfusion. That, of course, makes me think of Jenna again, and I have to sit down in the tub. With the water beating down on my back, the tears start to flow.
How did life get so hard? Why is this happening to me? And why the hell is Henry Fitzsimmons in my house?
With him out there, I know that—no matter how much I'd like to—I can't stay in my bathtub curled in the fetal position. Tentatively, I stand up, turn the water to cold, and let it shock my system. The new peace I've achieved is gone the moment I reach for a towel, and grab one I bought when I went away to college. I want my new fluffy towels. I know, in the grand scheme, towels are something so trivial, but for me, they are the symbol of everything Jenna had done. Every time I get something nice, she finds a way to ruin it. Now, instead of feeling sad or guilty, I'm mad at her again.
Wrapped in my towel, which is old enough to vote, a thought crosses my mind. Fitzy is out there. I'm in here, with no clothes. I quickly brush my teeth and pray to God that he's in the front of the house. For the first time in my whole home renovation process, I wish that my house had a bathroom attached to my bedroom, just so I could avoid one more humiliation.
If only I had known that me being in a towel would be the tip of the humiliation iceberg.
I make it to my room without incident or observation and throw on a pair of shorts and a tank top. It's looking to be another hot day. Or maybe I'm simply sweating out the vodka. Either way, I need ventilation. A cursory comb through my hair, and then it's piled up on my head in a messy bun. It looks like an obscene pineapple. Some deodorant finishes my prep. I don't bother with makeup. It's not going to help.
Fitzy is in my kitchen. There's a sentence I never thought I'd say. As much as I want to look at him, the first thing I see when I walk into the kitchen is the bottle of vodka, sitting innocuously on my table. I have to suppress the urge to vomit again. Swiftly, I grab the bottle and put it in the cabinet. Out of sight, out of mind.
"You know, you're lucky you didn't get alcohol poisoning. Why did you drink so much?"
Fitzy's question bothers me. I don't know why, but it does. "Why does it matter to you? How do you know how much I drank?"
"The receipt for the vodka is right there," he says, pointing to the table. "What's so wrong that you had to drown your sorrows in a bottle?"
"I don't want to talk about it. Let's talk about something else."
"Why do you have a dumpster out back?"
"Oh shoot! They're coming to pick that up today! What time is it?" My wrist gives me no answers no matter how many times I look at it, since I didn't put my watch on. My back pockets are empty. I have no idea where my phone is either. And I can't see the clock on the microwave from where I'm sitting. I'm patting my butt, hoping my phone magically appears. I head out to the living room and don't see it anywhere. A frantic search finds it under the couch with the battery almost drained. It's only nine in the morning. The dumpster guys aren't coming until eleven. I need to finish picking up some debris from the garage and in the house.
Back out in the kitchen, Fitzy is poking around the fridge. I can't help but notice how fine his rear looks as he's bent over. What the hell am I thinking? I'm still reeling from Max and what almost was but wasn't. I cannot even think about another man. Once my phone is charging, I plop down in a chair and finish the last of the Coke.
"Make yourself at home, why don't you."
"I detect a little bit of sarcasm." Fitzy's grin makes me feel like I'm sixteen again. "What did you say before you ran out like your pants were on fire?"
"The guys are coming to pick up the dumpster. I didn't know what time it was. I have a little more to add before they get here."
"Oh? What time are they coming?"
"Eleven. I need to pull myself together and get to work."
For the first time since I woke up, Fitzy looks a little ... uncomfortable. I have to admit, it's a bit unnerving how at home he seems to be, wandering around, taking everything in. Almost ... examining.
"Will you excuse me for a minute?"
Before I can answer, he's out the door. With slow, deep breaths, I try to shake off the last few days and get my head back in my renovation project. I've got to pick up the debris ahead of the dumpster retrieval. Then, back to the windows. That's a multi-day project that hopefully can be wrapped up by Sunday. Then, it's onto rehabbing and fixing the storm windows. That will be critical in making sure they're not drafty come winter.
Fitzy is out in the back, talking on his cell. He's headed back in, heading up the back steps and through the laundry room. I hear him finish up with, "Let me know as soon as you can execute it."
Huh. That's a weird thing to say. I want to ask him about it, but I don't want to pry. Ironic, since he's been poking around every nook and cranny in my house.
"So, who's your contractor again? Will he be by soon?"
I'm a little taken aback by the abrupt interrogation as soon as he's disconnected from his call. "Um, Max Schultz. He's not coming by today." Or any day, I'm guessing.
"I thought you said there was work to be done before the dumpster got picked up? Did I misunderstand?"
"Um, no." I don't know why, but suddenly I'm a little on the defensive. Probably because he brought up Max. "I'm doing most of the work from here on out. I needed help in the bathroom. I'm working on the windows and the storms next. Taking them apart, refinishing them, and redoing all the sash cords. Need to make sure they're all set before I head back to school."
"Why don't you just buy new windows?"
"Are you crazy? These windows are original to the house! A treasure! Not to mention that to refurbish them will cost me about $2,400. New windows would cost over $12,000. So, to me, it's worth the elbow grease on my part."
"Wow, that's a lot of money and a lot of work. You're doing the work?" He sounds skeptical. "Like with power tools and everything? Can you do that?"
This irks me to no end. "Listen, just because I don't have a penis doesn't mean that I can't work a reciprocating saw. You know, I spent more time with my dad working on home projects than Brady ever did. You should know that."
"Sorry, didn't mean to offend. Can I make you some eggs?"
His demeanor has shifted, and it again catches me off guard. Maybe it's because I killed off a lot of brain cells last night. Either way Fitzy, popping up from my past like this has certainly tilted my world for the time being. "Um, sure. Eggs would be great."