Last Train to Babylon (11 page)

Obviously my initial instinct was Rachel just being Rachel and finding weird shit to do on a random Saturday—or Sunday—morning, but when I pulled aside the curtain, I saw Adam standing on my lawn.

I came down and pulled my robe closed over my chest.

“I wanted to give you your Christmas present,” he said, with a Cheshire grin. His hair was falling in front of his eyes. He was holding a box with both arms and tossed his head to the side, shaking the hair out of his face.

“You got me a Christmas present?” I still hadn't decided on a gift for him.

I never had trouble with breathing back then. It always came easy for me. I didn't even have to think about it. But that was before Adam and all the shit that came after him. I stood on my porch, with my robe wrapped around me. The icy air between us. I should have invited him in. A normal person would have invited him in, but I just stood there and watched him, and his arms wrapped around that big, white box.

He wore a soft gray-and-black plaid shirt. He looked taller.

“Here.” He handed me the box. “I have to go, though, so why don't you open it inside.” He thrust the box into my arms. It was heavier than it looked, and I nearly dropped it before I caught it from the bottom.

“Thanks,” I said. He was already walking away, his lanky legs and arms swinging in sync.

“No problem,” he said, without turning around.

When I got the package up to my room, I tore it open with a pair of those awful awkward, left-handed scissors—safety scissors. They must have belonged to Eli.

I pulled the flaps back and removed a layer of Styrofoam. And there, stacked side by side in absolute glass perfection, were ten mason jars.

I
T WAS
J
ANUARY
when he met my mother, officially. New Year's Day. Karen invited him for dinner, and I think that was really the first time I ever considered us a couple—even though he'd told me he loved me. Maybe it was just Rachel's voice in my head that made me doubt the validity of our relationship. But either way, now it was real, and I was nervous for him to meet my mom. So was he, I could tell.

“These are for your mom,” he said when I opened the door. He held pink and yellow carnations, tied together with a cheap, red lacy bow. I could tell he had just picked them up from Pathmark on his way over. I stifled a smile. Karen hated carnations.

But before I could even let Adam in the house, Karen was hip-checking me out of the way and cupping his hands in hers. The flowers hung limp to one side.

“You must be Adam,” she said. “I was so sorry to hear about your brother.” Her eyes lingered on him, all sad and somber, and I felt a swell of panic in my chest.
Seriously, Karen,
I was dying to scream.
You had to bring that up
now
.
But Adam just did what he always did when people brought up Max—smiled politely and nodded a gracious thank-you. This was around the time I stopped calling Karen “Mom.” It was a smooth transition, effortless, and it just sort of happened one day when she asked me to take out the trash.
Okay, Karen,
I said. I'd been testing it out, and when she didn't make a fuss, I just went with it.

I thought about what it would be like to meet my girlfriend's mother for the first time, and all she could do was feel sorry for me. It must have really fucking sucked.

I cleared my throat, and Karen averted her lingering eyes from Adam.

“Those are for you,” I said, annoyed that she hadn't acknowledged the bundle of cheap carnations in his hand.

“Oh my goodness,” Karen said, feigning surprise. “That is so sweet. Thank you.” She took them from Adam and stuffed them into a turquoise vase already filled with water in the middle of the set dining room table. I could tell she was disappointed.

Dinner was one of those stiff, formal kind of meetings. Karen kept asking questions about his family, his classes, all that icebreaker kind of shit. I sort of wished he'd ask questions, too. I wished he'd ask those probing, nosy questions that would make Karen cringe—like why she wasn't married to my father anymore, and if she realized her son was blazed out of his mind, or whether or not any of her students ever talked about suicide, and if so, what she did to change their mind.

I twirled spaghetti around my fork.

I'd already warned him. My mother was a talker.

“She's going to try and shrink you,” I'd said on the phone the night before. I was sprawled out over my own bed, the cordless phone propped between my neck and shoulder.

“Well, she can give it her best shot,” he said. “I'm unshrinkable.” It was true, I later learned. His mother had sent him to a shrink once when he was twelve, or so he said.

“I got in a fight once, you know,” he began. I could feel him smirking over the phone.

I'd tried not to laugh. “Oh yeah? How'd that work for you, tough guy?”

“His name was James Riley, and he had flaming red hair, but that's not why I punched him out,” he said. “I was on the bus home from school, reading, like really into this book, and the funny thing is, I don't even remember what book it was.” So he did read, I'd thought, nodding my head for him to keep going, as if he could even see me.

“But I was into it, and I was just having a shitty day. James was in the seat behind me. I kept feeling his knees jut into the back of my seat, and then he was like hanging over the seat—just flicking me in the back of my head.”

“What did you do?” I asked, trying to sound more interested than I actually was, though I was curious how scrawny Adam Sullivan managed to knock a kid out.

“I ignored him,” he said. “But then he reached over and ripped my hat off.”

“What a dick,” I said.

“I'm not finished. Then, before I could even react, he swooped in and ripped the book out of my hand. The cover tore and everything. He was all like, ‘What are you reading, faggot?' Meanwhile, this kid had
flaming red hair
. So I waited until we were off the bus. He was walking with his little cronies, and I'm pretty sure he'd already forgotten about me, but I walked up behind him, real calm, and threw him down into the snow. He fell to his knees, and I just started to pummel him. Right in the face.”

“Well,” I said. “Remind me never to piss you off.” Adam had laughed, in his husky deadpan way.

“Kid wasn't in school for a week, and I was ordered to undergo mental evaluation. Turns out I was normal. At least that's what my shrink said.” I could just picture him, grinning on the other end of the line, and I wondered if he really was all that normal, or if there was something dark and brooding beneath the surface that his therapist had overlooked, even then.

And as I sat next to him at my family's dinner table that next night, I searched for a sign—anything that might give him away. I couldn't understand, after everything he'd been through with Max, how he could act so relaxed. I had a feeling it was an act, but we hadn't known each other long enough. So Adam just sat there, eating his spaghetti, casually answering Karen's questions, as if he'd prepared the night before with flash cards.

“So how do you like Seaport High?” my mother asked. “It must be a change from Catholic school?” He finished chewing his food and nodded.

“It's great. I like the freedom. You know, not having to wear a uniform. And plus, I got to meet your daughter.” Karen smiled, and she seemed almost embarrassed. But maybe it was charm. I could never tell the difference. When she reached over the table for more salad, Adam turned to me, subtle as ever, and winked. Or at least he tried to. It came off more as a facial tic.

“Is it tough, being around all your brother's friends? I imagine that can't be easy.” I felt like kicking Karen under the table, but I closed my eyes, mortified, and swallowed a mouthful of salad.

“It's okay,” he said. “It's nice to be around people who knew him.”

“What about at home? Is everything okay there? Do you live with both parents?”

“Both parents, yup,” he said, methodically chewing his food before speaking. I shot Karen a sharp look, but she kept her eyes focused on Adam, her head tilted in that guidance counselor way. I half expected her to reach across the table, touch his hands, and say,
This is a safe space, Adam.
“It's definitely hard for them. But they're getting by. Everybody has been really supportive.”

“Do they have any idea what happened? I mean I've heard some things, but I couldn't imagine any of it to be true.”

“Mom,” I finally snapped, slamming my fork down onto my plate. “Seriously?” I turned to Adam.

“No, it's okay, Aubrey,” he said, smoothing the napkin over his lap. “Everything is delicious, Mrs. Glass. Did you use paprika in the sauce?”

“You know, Adam,” Karen said, “I did. I ran out of red pepper flakes and wanted to give it a kick. That's so funny you noticed. Do you like to cook?” She beamed and finally stuffed a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth. I felt my body start to relax. Adam reached under the table and patted my knee. It was true. He was unshrinkable.

Monday, October 6, 2014.

W
HY DON
'
T
I take baths more often? My body drifts and floats, cutting the surface of the murky blue water. I'm still cursing myself for agreeing to girls' night. But at least there'll be wine.

A single flame flickers from the corner—“Fresh Linens” or “Cotton Ball Ocean”—something blue and detergent-y from Karen's closet. Definitely a Christmas gift from me.

A few limp bubbles linger before falling flat into white patchy amoebas, and I feel relaxed. It feels off, like maybe this isn't what relaxed feels like, but rather low blood sugar, or I've finally crossed the threshold into complete numbness.

The reflection of the water dances with the flickering light on the ceiling, and I think for a moment that it's mocking me, but then I remember to relax.

I raise my hips to the surface of the water. I see the tattoo and reach for the soap. I wonder if I scrub hard enough will it just disappear, wash away like squid ink into the bathtub. I trace my finger over the
heartigram. My heart-on.

I hold my breath and let myself sink—my ears fill with water, muffling the silence—except for the toilet running and the vague sounds of the television in the other room.

I can't stop thinking about Adam. But I won't see him. Why should I? I don't owe him anything. And besides, it wouldn't be fair to Danny. I may be a lot of things. I may be cold, callous, manipulating. I may be a liar. But I'm not a cheater.
I am not a cheater.

I'm all warm and pruney, and I think if I was ever going to do it, if I were ever going to kill myself, it would be like this. Floating, drifting, my body bobbing with the buoyancy of a bloated fish as my veins empty into the murky blue water. Rachel killed herself sometime after 3:00
A.M.
on Saturday. It was Chloe who found her, or at least that's what Karen said when she called. She'd taken pills, something prescribed for sleep or anxiety. I wasn't really paying attention when she told me; I was too busy picturing Rachel bloated and purple on the bathroom floor. She'd taken too many, and they were pretty sure it was suicide, but it also could have been an accident. She didn't leave a note. Only a voice mail—but nobody else knows about that.

I wrap myself in a fluffy maroon towel. The heat lamp overhead warms my body. I can smell the chicken roasting from the kitchen. I'm not hungry, but I can't think of anything else to do with myself, so food just seems like the easy answer.

K
AREN MAKES A
big to-do about having us all home for the night. She even sets the dining room table with candles, a tablecloth, her holiday dishes, and that empty turquoise vase that once held Adam's carnations. She brings out a bottle of wine and sets it down in the center of the table.

Eli's new girlfriend sits in my seat. I don't say anything, but it takes everything in me to keep my mouth shut. I'm sitting in my father's old seat, and it feels weird, and I'm getting all restless, like all I want to do is sit in my chair, but she's all smiley and nervous, so I suck it up. She wears a purple floral dress with a white cardigan. Karen makes sure to note how beautiful she looks in
such vibrant colors
before glancing at me and suggesting that Ashley take me shopping.

Ashley smiles at me. “That would be fun,” she says.

Ugh.

I wear a charcoal-gray sweater and black yoga pants. My hair is in a ponytail, and I wear my black thick-rimmed glasses—hipster glasses, as Danny calls them. I'm saving the contacts for girls' night. Right now my eyes need all the oxygen they can get. My glasses are Gucci and the sweater is cashmere, but for some reason, Karen thinks I need to take fashion advice from Forever 21's number one customer.

“Can I get you anything, hon?” Karen says, mostly to Ashley, and it reminds me of how she used to speak to Rachel—
Can I get you something, hon,
or
sweetie,
or just
Rach.
She never calls me anything but Aubrey.

“I'll have a glass of Jack,” I cut in.

“Whiskey?” she asks. “You want whiskey with dinner?” She shifts her eyes around the table.

“Yes, I'd like some whiskey, please. And a Diet Coke.” I unfold the cloth napkin and smooth it over my lap. “Please,” I say. “But I know your one-can-of-soda rule, so don't worry, I'll only have one,” I cock my head and give my best sweet smile. “Coke, that is.”

My eyes follow her to the cabinet and she reaches for the bottle of Jack Daniel's.

“Ice?” she asks.

“Yes. Please.”

She shakes her head, still looking over at Ashley, as if to say,
Please excuse my rowdy daughter. I just don't know what's gotten into her!

Karen steadies the bottle of Jack over one of my mason jars, letting it splash to a quarter full. It's weird that she kept those jars after all of these years, especially since she once called them
trashy.
And then Adam floats into my mind. It's sudden and dull, like a bad headache—his carnations, his polite answers to Karen's probing questions, and his white box full of mason jars. It's hard to swallow, and I'm starting to feel weak and full of panic, so I eye Karen at the counter as she tries to visually measure out the Jack with the diligence of a nursing-home bartender.

“More,” I say. “Please.” She sighs, and pours another splash. “More. That's not even a full shot.”

“Aubrey,” she snaps. I smile, and that's when I see it, dangling by a single magnet, front and center on the freezer door—the picture of Rachel and me from the Halloween parade in our matching hippie costumes. I want to rip the photo off the door, hold it in front of Karen's face, and scream. Not only did she go back into my room, uninvited, to dig it out of that old shoe box, but now she displays it like some trophy right in the middle of dinner.

She sets the glass jar in front of me and slams a cold can of Diet Coke next to it.

Ashley smiles, looks over at Eli, rubs his shoulder, and then shifts in her seat.

“I'm sorry,” I say, hiding my urge to laugh. “I'm so rude. Do you want?” I hold the glass out to her, but she shakes her head, looks over at my mother, and smiles again.

“We don't make it a habit to drink hard liquor with dinner,” Karen says.

Eli winks at me from across the table, and Karen shifts her eyes between us, like we're hatching some sort of a plan. “So, Ash, can I call you that? Or is that weird?” I pop the can open and splash a drop into my glass. The ice clinks and I take a hard gulp.

“Yeah, sure. That's what
awll
my friends
cawl
me anyway.”

“Perfect,” I say, taking another swig. There's this thick silence at the table, and then she speaks again, and I can't tell if she's nervous or feels right at home. In either event, it's unsettling.

“So,” she says. “Eli tells me you're a reporter? That's so cool.” I scoff, and take another gulp. The Jack burns my throat, but it quiets the throbbing thoughts swimming in my head. I catch the photo again out of the corner of my eye.

“I prefer the term ‘hyperlocal journalist,' it just sounds more professional, you know?” I say. “It's not as glamorous as it sounds, though. Technically, I'm just a content creator.” I take a sip and keep talking. “What are you going to school for? Nassau is pretty competitive, I hear.” My mother shoots me a death stare from across the table, but I'm sure Ashley doesn't catch my tone. I finish the drink, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Yeah, but I seem to be doing pretty well this semester,” she says. She takes a tiny sip of wine. I squint at her, gauging whether or not she actually drinks it. “I'm not really sure what I want to do yet, maybe psychology or teaching.”

“Oh,” I say, standing up and walking over to the kitchen island, where the bottle of Jack stands half empty. I pour myself another glass, but don't add soda this time—Karen's rule. “Well then, I'm sure you know
Miz Glass
here is a stand-up school psychologist. I'm sure she's just a plethora of information.” I swig again, and swish the Jack around in the glass. The hot whiskey burns the back of my throat, and I wince; but it's a good kind of pain, like running too fast or getting a tattoo. “I bet she'll let you pick her brain. Right, Kar?”

My mother nods, smiles at Ashley, but never takes her eyes off of me. The front door opens, and Marc's heavy footsteps bring my mother to her feet.

“Having fun?” Eli says when my mother leaves the room.

“A blast,” I say. Ashley looks uncomfortable and rubs Eli's shoulder again.

“She's going to kill you, you know,” he says.

“Looking forward to it,” I say.

K
AREN BRINGS OUT
the roasted chicken on this fancy stainless steel platter. She got the recipe from
Barefoot Contessa,
her all-time favorite show. I wouldn't be surprised if Adam watches that these days. Last I heard, he was still working in the kitchen at Jason's father's restaurant at the marina.

My temple starts to throb around eight; T minus two hours until girls' night. I'm still trying to think of a way to talk myself out of it when Marc cuts in.

“Are you really not going to go?” he asks. “To the funeral. Mom says you're being a real bitch about it.” Everyone gets silent. I shovel a forkful of chicken into my mouth. Karen stands up and heads into the kitchen. I roll my eyes. “I mean, I feel like even I have to go. Everybody is going. At least to the after-party.”

Something pinches inside my lungs. I swallow, open my mouth, and remember to breathe.

“My God,” I say, too loud. “What the hell is with everybody and this after-party? Am I the only person in this town who thinks it's outrageous?” Marc just laughs, and Karen pokes her head back into the room and lets out a heavy warning sigh.

“It's going to be sick,” he says. “Bobby is DJing.” I take another breath and try to remember that it's a funeral. A fucking funeral. Not a party. It's not just me. It's everybody else.

“Why would you go to the funeral, anyway? What, did you hook up with her or something?” I ask, only half serious.

“Not really,” he says, and I nearly spit out my drink.

“Not really?” I stare at him, waiting for him to crack a smile, say he was joking, anything. But then I think,
Why
wouldn't
she have hooked up with my brother? She hooked up with everyone else I knew.

“It was just this night at O'Reilly's like two years ago,” he says. “We were both drunk.” His voice gets low so Karen doesn't hear. “We did a line in the bathroom. We made out a little. That was it.”

“That was it,” I repeat. “And you?” I look to Eli. The thought of Rachel going after my baby brother—even if we are only two years apart—makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

“No way,” he says, patting Ashley on the back for reassurance. “But we're definitely going to the after-party.”

I let out another breath, and find myself another reason not to go.

“Aubrey,” my mother finally says. “Can you help me in the kitchen for a minute.”

I know where this is going. I grab my jar of Jack and follow her out of the room.

“What is your problem?” she says through clenched teeth.

“What?” I snap. “Am I not being a good little host?”

“Keep your voice down,” she warns.

“No,” I slur; I'm just realizing how drunk I am. “Am I embarrassing you, Mother?” She comes toward me, and I stumble back. “Fuck off,” I say. Karen gasps and grabs my arm. I laugh, a husky cackle that sends spit flying at her face.

“Sorry,” I say, still sputtering. “Relax. Jesus.” She grabs my arm again. “Seriously, let the fuck up.” She's looking at me like I've absolutely lost it, and I'm wondering what Rachel ever did that was so fucking great. I remember the night I found her sobbing over my bathroom sink, stammering some bullshit about how horrible her own mother was, about how lucky I was.

You're my family, Aubrey.

I sat down with her on the cold tile, letting her cry, until Karen came in, scooped Rachel off the floor and up in her arms, and led her to my bedroom.
You're always welcome in our home, Rach,
she said.
You're part of our family
.

“You are going to this funeral,” my mother says, her voice stern, her hand still clutching my elbow. “Show some respect.”

“Bet you wish it was my funeral, don't you?” I stare hard. I don't mean it. I don't know why I say it, but she just stares, a dumb look on her face. “Right? You and Rachel, ‘Oh, that spark plug!' The perfect mother-daughter team you could have been. The perfect, fucking cheering duo.”

“Aubrey,” she says. “Calm down. You need to stop.”

“I need to stop?” I'm screaming now. The words scratch my throat; my hand tightens around the jar. “I need to stop?” I say even louder. “I'm not the one who swallowed a bottle of fucking pills. That's spark-plug Rachel for you. Couldn't make herself happy and so she kills herself. Or tries to. Because God knows how much that girl loved attention.”

“Aubrey,” she says, her eyes going all teary on me, but this just fuels my rage.

“Are you seriously crying now?” I say. “Please. Stop trying to make me feel bad. You have no idea what she did to me.”

Karen takes a sharp breath. “So tell me,” she screams, but before I can even process the thought, I'm slamming the mason jar of whiskey onto the granite floor, and the glass shatters at Karen's feet.