Last Train to Babylon (22 page)

Wednesday, October 15, 2014.

A
REN'T WE ONLY
as good as what other people tell us? Since birth we're called a smart baby, then a great reader, an excellent student because some random teacher says so and gives a report card to prove it. You're a good writer—but only because this one time in this one class this one professor told you so, and your mom agreed. And maybe it's true, but also, maybe it's not. You're a good friend, because someone tells you. And if no one tells you that, then chances are you're probably not a good friend. You're probably a really shitty friend.

Laura thinks I seek validation.

I don't think there's such a thing as validation. I think it's just what we know. The way we feel about ourselves is always based on feedback from others. We are trained to accept that. It doesn't mean I'm insecure, or unsure, or insane. It just means I'm human, and I have, above all else, self-awareness.

So when she asks me to describe myself, I start with the qualities others have given me.

“People say I'm cold.”

“Who says?”

“My mother,” I say.

“What does she know?”

“Well, she's the reason I'm here, isn't she?”

“No, Aubrey. You're the reason you're here.”

I scoff, hating how she has to make everything so serious.

Rachel would have called me many things, depending on the year and her own level of happiness.

Best friend, desperate slut, bitch, traitor, only friend.
I couldn't keep track, and God knows what she thought of me when she died. Maybe that voice mail would have the answer. I reach for my phone, just to make sure it's still there. Not that I plan on listening to it. Ever.

“How are you feeling? How's the anxiety?” Laura asks through an overly warm smile. I shrug.

“It's okay, I guess,” I say. “Thank God for Xanax.” I grin, awkwardly, and I can tell she still doesn't get my offbeat sense of humor. She writes something down. Probably about cutting down my prescription—not that she really has a say anyway. She's not even a real doctor.

“What about the panic attacks? Have you had any since our last session? Since the incident?”

“Nope,” I say. “No panic attacks.” I'm not even sure I would call what happened that night a “panic attack.” Laura says it was cathartic. I call it a meltdown.

“Great,” she says. I unscrew the cap off my water bottle and take a long sip while I wait for her to lure me into some sappy confession. The water has been sort of a buffer for me. It buys me time—allows me to choose my words carefully when she tries to catch me off guard. “Let's talk more about Rachel today,” she finally says.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well,” she says. “You harbor a lot of resentment toward her. But surely there must have been something good about her. She was your best friend for ten years.”

I knew this was coming, and I'm prepared. I practiced the answer in my head on my run over here.

“Honestly,” I say, “I don't know why I was friends with her. Maybe I was just a lot like her, you know, shallow in some ways. So she made me feel better about myself. I guess she made me feel like less of a villain.” I take another sip of water, and hold it in my mouth for three seconds before swallowing.

I tried to come up with something a little more genuine. I really did. But the harder I thought about it, the more I realized there was nothing good about Rachel, except that I really had no one else. Except for Adam.

“Everyone we grew up with was pretty much exactly the same,” I say. “We all had the same agenda.” I try not to smile, but I think I'm really nailing this therapy thing.

“What was that?” she asks, scribbling something in her notebook, I'm sure about my low self-esteem.

“Get paid and get laid.” I think she almost smiles, but she leans forward in her seat.

“What about Adam? Did he just want to ‘get paid and get laid'?” When she says it back to me, it sounds sort of ridiculous.

“In some ways,” I say. “He was a decent guy. He had his moments. But he was a good a guy. It was Rachel who ruined him for me.”

“What do you mean, ruined him?” I bite down on my lip and immediately regret my choice of words.

“That's not really what I meant,” I say, and I'm trying to backtrack, but my mind feels blank.

“Well, what did you mean?” I take a sip of water, and stare at the wall. I'm trying to look pensive, but really I'm just buying time. “Aubrey?” I pull in a sharp breath. She's not letting this go.

“Things just didn't end well with us. And I guess I've always blamed Rachel for that.”

“But you said ‘ruined him.' How was he ruined for you Aubrey?”

“Maybe I meant that she ruined me for him.”

April 2009.

I
TURNED INTO
my driveway and allowed myself five minutes of cold, hard tears before wiping the snot off my nose with the back of my sweater and pulling it together.

Pull it together. Pull it together.

I said it out loud, over and over, until that pinch in my lungs dissipated and I could breathe again.

Pull it together.

I had three fears: one, Rachel would show up at my house and cause a scene, which led to fear number two: I'd have to relive the words and face the fact that maybe I was a desperate slut.

Desperate slut. Desperate slut. Desperate slut.

And this all led to fear number three: Karen finding out. Karen finding out about Eric. Karen finding out about Adam. And even Karen finding out that that I slapped my best friend across the face. Ex-best friend. I was pretty sure this was the end for Rachel and me.

But Karen wasn't home when I slipped through the front door. Cheerleading practice, I remembered. She had cheerleading practice on Tuesdays.

I went to my room, climbed into my bed, and started up my laptop.

A picture of Adam and me glared from my desktop background. It had been from the First Friday of our senior year, right before we snuck away and saw each other naked for the first time. My stomach buzzed, and I opened Internet Explorer to cover up our grinning faces.

And then I Googled his name.
Eric Robbins.
His college lacrosse photo popped up along with a couple of stats. The glow of the screen illuminated his gap-toothed grin, and it suddenly felt like bugs were crawling all over my body.

I stared until my eyes ached. The laptop warmed the top of my thighs. I opened the Google search box again and typed
Rape.
I stared at the results but I didn't feel them. They were just words, just hollowed words, jumbled up and meaningless on my computer screen.
What is rape?
I typed. It seemed like a stupid question; of course I knew what rape was.
Was I raped?
I typed, and the results thinned, but I didn't click. Even if the Web held the answers to these burning questions, I didn't want to know. Ignorance is bliss, right? I thought about what Rachel had said, how she'd mocked me with my own words, and as my computer screen blazed up at me, the Internet never felt more intimidating—an all-knowing wizard with a crystal ball. I don't know what I thought I'd find.

Friday, October 17, 2014.

“Y
OU SEEM UNCOMFORTABLE
today,” Laura notes.

“Well,” I start, immediately regretting my defensive tone. “I told you I wasn't ready to talk about Adam.”

“That was Wednesday, Aubrey,” she says. “You just seem to be doing a lot better; I thought maybe we could delve into your relationship with him a bit today. But we can stop if it's too much for you.”

“It's fine,” I say. “Adam and I had a complicated history.”

I wait for her to ask a question, but she just nods and motions for me to continue. The sun blares through the window behind her head. She's wearing the same yellow sweater she wore that night at the hospital.

“Adam's brother, Max, was my first kiss. He would have been a senior when I was a freshman. But he killed himself.” It's the first time I've said the words out loud, at least in this context. “I mean some people think it was an accident. But most people think it was suicide.”

“Wow,” Laura says.

“I met Adam at Max's wake. It was really awkward, a complete accident. I was looking for Rachel, and I ran into him outside. I felt bad, so I said hi and that pretty much opened the lines of communication.” I take a sip of water and uncross my legs. “We just started walking to school together. That's how we started.”

“That's a lot,” she says. “To lose a brother to suicide. Was he seeing a therapist?”

“Ha,” I scoff, “Adam, ask for help? He once told me he was ‘unshrinkable.'”

Laura laughs, for once.

“I like that term,” she says. “Well, what about you? Didn't he confide in you?”

I think about this for a moment, scanning the years we have known each other. “Maybe,” I say. I notice that Laura is smiling, all creepy, like she's waiting for me to have a big epiphany. Laura looks wired today. Her eyes bug out of her head, like she just can't wait to get to the bottom of me. I approach with caution.

“So, Adam never saw anyone about his brother's death?” Laura asks. She's still stuck on this. It's like a therapist's wet dream. Two suicides, a messy four-year affair. Just wait until she finds out the rest.

“Nope,” I say. “But I don't see how Adam is important right now.”

“You know why he's important, Aubrey,” she says. “He's the one who brought you to the hospital. The night of the funeral.” She says it as if she needs to clarify, as if I frequent hospitals and have alcohol-induced breakdowns.

I take a sip from my water, even though there's hardly any left. I know Laura can tell I'm starting to get uneasy. She just smiles and nods and waits for it all to sink in.

“I know that,” I say. “You don't need to remind me.” I start to twist the plastic bottle in my hands.

“That must have put a lot of pressure on you, being so young, if he wasn't talking to anyone about his brother's death. Did you ever feel like he was leaning on you, pressuring you?” I don't like the amount of eye contact she's using today and I let my own gaze fall to the window behind her head.

“Sure,” I say. “I definitely felt pressure from time to time.”

“Emotional pressure? Sexual pressure?”

“Both, I guess,” I say. “I mean there was this one fight we had. Senior year of high school. It was sort of the beginning of the end for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was kind of a prude,” I say. “We'd been together for almost four years, and he was starting to get impatient. You know. He wanted to have sex. I wasn't really ready. I was getting annoyed that he kept asking. So I kind of shut down with him.”

“What happened?”

“We were on the floor in my bedroom. The door was open, and we were just play wrestling, you know? Just fooling around, kissing, tickling, laughing. Nothing too scandalous.”

“Right,” she says.

“And then he just snapped. Like completely went off on me how I was fucking with him. I was a cocktease. I needed to make up mind. I owed it to him. You know, typical teenage boy.” I started to unscrew my water bottle again. “But I was going to do it. I knew I wanted to before college. It was just that now he was pressuring me. And I was just being stubborn.”

“And then what?”

“I just ignored him. It was only supposed to be two days. I sort of planned it out. You know, until I calmed down. I wanted to make him sweat a little. It was the longest we'd ever gone without talking. I didn't respond to his texts. And then it turned into this sick twisted game. Like I would text, and he wouldn't. And then we both just stopped.” I took the last little gulp of my water. “But I loved him. I really did. I think I was just afraid to lose him.”

“But you did lose him,” she says, and the authority of her voice sets me back into defensive mode.

“Not yet,” I say, and I'm not sure if I'm warning her against cutting me off, or I'm simply telling her that the loss came much later.

Monday, October 20, 2014.

I
STARE DOWN
at the blank page in front of me, tapping my pen against the bed frame. I've actually been heeding Laura's advice, writing out my
feelings,
but today, nothing's really coming out. I've been using the back of the
As If
notebook and have been filling up the pages pretty quickly up until now. I'd forgotten what it was like to write—not just write—but to write for myself, without deadlines and guidelines and Jonathan's passive-aggressive periods. Somewhere between all the crime reports and five-alarm fires, I'd lost the desire.

The morning sun streams through my open window, illuminating the pages. I flip back to last night's entry, and the words glare up at me—igniting beneath my hovering hand. I'm afraid to touch them, like they'd spark and singe the pads of my fingers right off. I've been good with the booze lately, lying low while I'm dealing with all my shit, but I'd given in to a glass or three of wine last night, and I'd let the words flow through me into my tattered old marble notebook, and part of me wants to tear the page out and put it through Karen's shredder. I don't know what made me do it, aside from the wine; write a letter to Rachel using my good handwriting—the kind used for birthday cards, job applications, and suicide notes.

I stop reading. I'm dizzy, too warm, and slightly hung over. I lean back against my pillow and pull my knees up, balancing the book in front of me. It's funny, I don't remember writing most of this, and I'm not really sure what to make of it.

I stare down at the page, and remember to breathe, but I'm having trouble, and I can't be sure if I meant what I said, about never forgiving her. My phone alarm goes off; it's almost time for my appointment with Laura. I slam the notebook shut, stuff it under my mattress, and decide that it's time to talk.

I'
M CALMER THAN
I thought I'd be when I walked in. I'm wearing a gray cotton T-shirt, a cardigan, and a pair of black yoga pants. I even blew out my hair today and put on mascara. The first time I've made an effort since I've been home.

Laura notices right away. “You look great. What's different about you?”

“Nothing,” I say, but the question calms me.

“I guess you just look relaxed, then,” she says.

I take a deep breath, lean back into the leather couch, and take a slow sip from my water bottle.

“I've been thinking a lot about the writing. How it feels,” I say. “And I've been sorting through some stuff. I think I'm ready to tell you why I am the way I am right now. Why I was so angry with Rachel.”

Laura smiles, leans back in her chair, and tosses me a box of tissues. She knows I won't use them, but I appreciate her attempt at humor.

I
LEAVE FEELING
oddly winded, like I'd just run a marathon hung over. Winded but revitalized in a way. I pull the cardigan closed over my chest, as I walk out onto the street. There's a chill in the air, a quiet breeze. Laura tells me I'm suffering from PTSD. So the things I'm feeling are either (A) Normal or (B) Totally in my head. It still doesn't make sense to me, even if I've finally found some sort of validation—even if she's my shrink and she's paid to validate me.

I'm still in the denial stages, she says, even though it's been five years. It's supposed to be like grieving, but I haven't lost anyone I really cared about, so I'm not too sure what that entails. She says I'm grieving Rachel, even if I don't realize it yet.

I may be crazy but I'm not grieving Rachel. That much I do know.

Rachel is the reason for this. She's the reason for everything.

Laura also tells me that it's not Rachel's fault. And it's most certainly, without a doubt, not my fault. It's no one's fault, she pounds into my head, over and over and over again. It's no one's fault but my rapist's.

My rapist.

The word doesn't sit well with me. In a way it feels like I'm relinquishing all responsibility for what happened, and Laura says that's the whole point. But even so, how can a boy who I've known almost my entire life become
my rapist?
How does he suddenly belong to me? At what point did I claim possession of him, and at what point did he become my responsibility?
My rapist.
Laura says it with such casual grace, as if she's talking about
my brother
or
my sweatshirt.

“If he's my rapist, does that make you
the rapist?
” I said. She forced a smile and let out a long sigh, resting her hands on her knees.

When I say it—
my rapist
—it feels forced and cheap.

I know I made a big deal about telling her what happened, but part of me regrets it. Yes, Laura
,
I feel like saying, I'm anxious. I have anxiety. I get it. But I'm high functioning and I don't need to be here. I didn't realize she'd make this out to be such a life-shattering confession. Maybe if I knew, I would have kept my mouth shut.

I told her a vague version of that night, and said,
See this is why I hated Rachel. Do you understand? No big deal. Shit happens.

And then something shifted.

Laura called it rape, and says the sooner I accept that, the sooner I can start “the healing process.”

It's a process. It's a process.

If I have to hear that “it's a process” one more time, I swear I will jump. But I don't say that out loud, because I'm still home, and home is better than the hospital.

I'm having a hard time using the R-word. I've never really been too comfortable with it, and I never said it out loud. Except once. And even then, the first time I let the word slip away from me was unintentional.

It was May—the weekend Danny's two-year-old nephew came to stay with us in the city. The kid was into everything—wiping his grubby little paws all over the TV, climbing into the liquor cabinet. He refused to nap, and when he did finally sleep, we had to be silent, which meant no getting up to pee, no talking, and absolutely no sex. I had casually made a joke, comparing watching a toddler to being raped: “I can't sleep; we can't have sex; and all I keep saying is ‘Stop,' ‘Don't,' and ‘No.'”

Danny didn't laugh—he promptly changed the subject.

Laura kept calling it “The Rape,” like it was some big event—like
The Wedding
or
The Hurricane.
There were times during the session when I thought she just said it to gauge my reaction.

Sometimes there was no reason for it at all. We'd been talking about a random fight I once had with Danny, and she said, “Well, you know, control is very important to you. You know, with
The Rape
and all.” And every time she said it, I felt my body tense up, my left eye twitch, and she smiled. It was real subtle. But she smiled, and I know it. Like she knows that it gets to me, even when I won't use the word—unless it's in the context of an off-color joke.

“Do you feel like you're a victim?” she'd asked.

“No,” I said. “I don't feel like a victim.”

“Do you feel like a survivor?”

“No, I don't feel like a survivor either.”

“How about taking legal action? Have you considered this?”

“It's been five years. Statutes of limitations, and all that. I don't think it's something I'd be able to go through with anyway.”

“Why's that?”

“I'm not interested in justice. He'll get what's coming to him eventually. Life has a way of making sure of that.” She sits, silent. “And I know you say I'm in denial, but I don't think that's true.”

“Okay,” she said, and signaled for me to keep going.

“I know what triggers me. I sort of seek out triggers, if that makes sense.”

She shook her head, and I began to get frustrated.

“You know, triggers, like listening to Tori Amos, Googling Eric's name—really cliché shit like that; reading
The Bell Jar.
I like making myself anxious.”

“Okay,” she said. “I think I get it.”

“I don't know,” I said. “It's like when I get into a funk, and I start to really think about things and get really anxious, I don't try and make myself feel better. It's like I challenge it. I trigger myself into a panic attack. You know. Triggers. Isn't that like a big shrink term?”

Laura smiled and nodded, and I knew she wanted me to keep talking before I lost the thought. It was a tactic she overused—not speaking—so I'll feel awkward and fill the silence with all of my deep, dark emotions.

“I'm trigger-happy.”

I let my body relax onto the leather couch and unscrewed the cap of my water bottle.

When I told her this, I thought she'd be impressed. She'd think it was wonderful that I was facing things head-on, but instead she said, “This is the equivalent of self-mutilation, Aubrey.”

I rolled my eyes. I can't win with her.

“Do you ever think about cutting yourself?”

“No,” I said.

But that wasn't entirely true.

I was with Danny. We were at one of his frat parties in college. I was drunk, like really smashed, and Danny was talking to some awkward freshman girl. I'm not really the jealous type, but God, she wasn't even pretty.

I was sitting on the attic stairs with my roommates. “She's not even pretty,” I kept mumbling. “She's not even pretty.”

“Here, just drink more, babe,” they said, tilting the beer cup to my lips. “She's not even pretty. You are so much prettier.”

The four of us just sat there, slurring until I hoisted myself up on the broken railing and made my way to the bathroom.

“She's not even pretty,” I said again.

I was alone in the bathroom and I stared at myself in the mirror. I had sweated most of my makeup off and reeked of beer. The mirror was already cracked. I remember it was cracked, so I put my fist through the glass.

My reflection shattered, and I screamed through my teeth. Someone banged on the door, and I said, “Shut the fuck up. I'll be out in a minute.”

As I pulled bits of glass out of my knuckles, I just remember feeling. Like really fucking
feeling
.
Not good or pain or bad. Just feeling. So I grabbed a shard out of the sink, lifted my shirt, and pressed down until I drew a shallow red line across my stomach. I started at the hipbone, cutting into my
heartigram.
My
heart-on. R A.
I didn't press too hard, didn't go too deep, but just enough to bleed.

When Danny saw me, he dropped his beer. “What the hell happened?” he asked, ready to fight someone. I smiled at his young freshman friend, my hands covered in blood.

“Someone broke the bathroom mirror. I fell,” I said. He grabbed my hand.

“Does it hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?” His breath was sour and yeasty.

“No, I just want to go to bed,” I said.

At home, he wrapped my hand in gauze, gave me a Xanax, and turned off the light. We were lying side by side. He traced circles over my wrist, something he always did to help me fall asleep.

I leaned in and kissed him on his forehead, his nose, and finally parted my lips over his mouth.

“Are you sure you're all right?” he asked. It was dark, but I could feel him propped up on his elbows, assessing my situation.

“Uh-huh,” I said, taking off my shirt. He hadn't seen what I'd done to my stomach, but I needed him pressed against me.

“No,” I said again to Laura, “I've never thought about cutting myself.”