Swell (9 page)

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There are things in life that make me feel like hell, like when I have the flu so bad that my b
ed spins and I spend days with my head in a bucket. Or when I have a runny cold and cough during a heat wave and I have to be out in the sun. And mind-numbing period cramps that rip apart my stomach like an alien is trying to get out. Those things were hell, but nothing compared to the Thursday before school started.

After Christian disappeared on me at Hillman’s house, I’d hitched a ride with a scary-drunk Allison. Most of the drive was downhill and she wasn’t very good at hitting the brakes when confronted with a red light. I wished that I’d had as much to drink as she did, so I wouldn’t feel worried about her crashing the car. The bathroom incident with Hillman, however, had more than sobered me from buzzing paradise.

It was after midnight when I settled in my room and called Christian. If he was sick, he wouldn’t answer. If he saw it was me calling and felt bad about leaving unannounced, he wouldn’t answer.

“Hello?” It figured he would answer. I’d hoped for his voicemail so I could record and re-record my message if necessary. Now I had to come up with something to say on the fly.

“Christian, are you okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, yeah. I’m okay now.”

“What happened? Hillman said you weren’t feeling well and went home.”

“My stomach was bugging me. I couldn’t find you and I needed to go.” No sorry. No asking how I got home.

“I don’t like that you just left me.” I popped a piece of gum in my mouth, chewing the juicy sugar right out of it and making sure it crackled in Christian’s ear.

“It’s late, Beck. Let me call you tomorrow and we can go do something.”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t want to do much of anything with me.” My throat was the first body part to fail in holding back my emotions. My blood was boiling and I felt like a reject. Here I was hanging on to the delusional hope that I was reading too much into things and that my boyfriend still wanted me. Christian’s lack of emotion and feeling told another story.

“It’s not that. I’m just having a busy time with school coming up, running track, basketball... you know, getting ready for the year.”

“But you don’t have enough time for me?” A drop of saltwater teetered on my eyelid, and I let it go. Defying gravity, it rolled down my cheek and into my nostril.

“I don’t even have enough time for myself, Beck. Don’t you get it? I have to concentrate on school! I need to go to college!”

“I don’t understand why, all of a sudden, your need to concentrate is keeping you from me.”

He was silent for a long time. What stretched into 30 seconds left me with more tears running into my nose, and finally into my mouth and down under my chin, which dripped like the inside of a melting ice cave. Christian didn’t know I was crying until I did a throaty back-snort — something I always do when I’m trying to hide my tears.

“Aw shit, Beck. Don’t cry.”

“I can’t… can’t help it. I love you and it seems like you don’t love me anymore.” More silence, which caused another back-snort to roar from my throat.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” he said impatiently, and then hung up. My hand cradled the metal and plastic until it cramped, and I let the phone slip out of my palm.

There was nobody for me. Nothing. The one person I thought loved me didn’t. Who was I going to turn to? I took my pillow and clutched it tight against my chest, holding back the sobs that broke through. My mind took inventory of what might lurk in the pockets of my jackets.

Something was calling me.

I leaped out of bed, landed on the floor, and opened the closet, tearing through my jackets, empty purses, winter boots in search of a bottle… can… anything that would numb my reeling mind.

I slid to the floor, my back seeking the sturdiness of the wall. There was no crutch to lean on. Unless…

“The stash!” I said aloud, referring to the collector’s edition bottles of booze my parents had in a hall cupboard. I’d never given them much thought. Every now and then my mom would take the bottles down for a look and a good dusting — the little boy whiskey decanter that, with the press of a button, peed you a drink; the World Series bourbon bottle with a Norman Rockwell painting on it; and a fat little Buddha full of some odd liquor that looked like it packed a punch. Yes, they were there for me all along and I didn’t even know it.

“Bless you, Lord!” I whispered, leaving my room to slink covertly down the hall. My parents were already in bed, so I was careful to be like a mouse in my venture. I felt my way around the cupboard and grabbed the first bottle I touched, tucking it under my arm and scurried on eggshells back to my room. Soon my sober lips would greet the bottle in my hand.

“Strike!” I laughed when I saw it was the World Series bottle. I’d had hard liquor a few times, but hadn’t considered it recently because beer and wine were so readily available.

I lay in bed and tasted the liquor. A swig here, a nip there. I swirled it around my teeth and felt it tickle my gums. The liquid burned with a searing thrust. So different from beer and wine. It also packed a more brutal, effective punch as my head went numb after a few slugs. It was good, until I thought about Christian and I started bawling. Relief came with each powerful sip of bourbon, erasing the black hole in my heart if only for a minute, and then another sip was needed.

Stopping wasn’t a problem. When the bed started spinning and I couldn’t tell whether I was laying down or sitting up, the bottle slipped out of my hand. There was no way to see where it was on the floor… until it was right under my face.

“Shit,” I moaned, unable to pick my head up off the rug. I just stayed there, staring across the room to the door that danced in triplicate in front of me. Was it locked? Was this my room? Was Christian really giving out bad vibes? My fingers raked the brown pile like I was searching for answers among the threads.

When I came-to, I was still on the floor, but huddled up against the closet. Poking into the small of my back was the empty bottle. What liquid remained soaked into the rug, my pants and my underwear. The room smelled like my grandmother’s sofa after a Christmas party.

The spilled bourbon was the least of my worries. My head pounded with a million hammers when I sat up. It felt like two bands crisscrossed my forehead and were held with pushpins at each brow. There was a matching set of these pulsating bands at the back of my head. My stomach was minced with an alcohol emulsion that neither stayed nor went. The contents just sat there, threatening upheaval. Truth be told, it sounded like a good idea to barf. But first I had to change my clothes and wipe-up the spill.

Bending over the wet rug was more than I could take, so I covered it with towels and laundry, and distributed several poofs of body spray around the area. Then I changed, sprayed myself with the body spray, and hid the empty booze bottle under the bed.

The vomit wouldn’t come, though, even after tickling my throat with a toothbrush. Nope, I did not throw-up until I smelled the eggs my mom was cooking for breakfast. In the hall. On the wall. And it smelled just like, if not worse, than the spill in my room.

There was no place to hide after I got sick. Mom held her breath when she smelled it, fetched me a damp towel and sent me to the bathroom for a wipe-down. I dunked my head in the sink and prayed to God that I wouldn’t get in trouble.

“Rebecca Marie Ionesco! Come out here! Now!” seethed my dad. I walked nimbly into the hall, which was now clean and dry. The smell of bourbon was still there, but faint. My dad pointed to the dining room, and then a chair. He had a way without words. My mom was washing the yuck off her hands, and then she joined us.

“I think you know what happened,” he said, pressing his fingertips together until they turned white.

“I threw up.”

“You threw up
alcohol
. You’ve been drinking, and we want to know where you got it.” Would it have been wise to say that I got it from their stash? If I told them that, the rest of the stash would disappear and there’d be nothing to fall back on.

“Someone gave it to me,” I said, hoping that the questions would go no further.

“Who?”

“This girl. She’s friends with Allison. I don’t really know her.”
It was hard to think fast when I could barely think at all. I just wanted to die.

“And you’re not going to. I want you to stay away from whoever this girl is… and Allison, and anyone else associated with that crowd.”

“But what about Christian? I’m supposed to go somewhere with him today,” I said, wondering if he would call me like he said he would.

“Christian is fine. Just don’t go near those girls. If you do, you’re grounded.”

“I don’t think she should go anywhere, hun,” my mom interrupted, adding to the fun. “She doesn’t know how dangerous drinking is.”

My mom crouched down next to me for a heart-to-heart. It was all I could do to keep from passing out over the hangover and the interrogation stress.

“Your uncle Dave died from drinking. His liver rotted away. He was also in jail God-knows how many times. Don’t go down that path,” she warned. Her older brother, David the Great, had been the apple of my grandparents’ eye, except for the drinking habit that killed him. My mom usually brought him up if there was a drunk driving story in the news, to make a point that I shouldn’t drink. Given that she and my dad had plenty of wine every night, I summed it up as a case of do as I say, not as I do.

“I’m not Uncle Dave and I’m not going to be, okay? I just wanted to try it and I don’t like it. I’m done.”

“Okay, then. Never again, Rebecca,” said my dad upon leaving the table. I remained seated because my butt felt like lead and my head like a cinder block. If I fell asleep at the table I would probably get in more trouble, so I dragged my tail back to my room and checked my phone.

It was no surprise that Christian had not called, so I went to bed.

/////

I was stretched out on the bed, my arm covering my swollen face and about five hours into my recovery nap. I almost fell again, startled by the ringtone coming out of nowhere.

“Let’s go for a drive.” Christian sounded neither excited nor bored with his idea. A drive could mean several things.

It took every bit of willpower to shower, dress and put on makeup. I poked myself in the left eye with the mascara wand, and got lipstick on my teeth. I was never good with beauty products, but because I was now with the “in crowd” I had to look the part, even if you could tell I was hung-over and puffy underneath the paint.

My parents were wary of the “drive” I was going to take, insisting that I return home by 9:00 p.m. and that I check-in well before that. I promised, promised, promised I would be home sooner, and that we weren’t going anywhere near the forbidden people. If they only knew how much a part of those people that Christian was, I’d never be let out of the house or Christian would be banished from my life as well.

The sun was setting when Christian picked me up. He stood on the front porch, swinging his keys. As usual, he opened my door first, and waited to back out of the driveway until I had my seatbelt fastened. But unlike so many of our previous dates, there was something missing. The motions were there, but his heart and soul were gone. I distracted myself by counting the number of things shaped like circles and squares on his dashboard. When that was done I counted how many streetlights lined the street.

“Where are we going?” I asked, hoping he’d thought of a destination.

“Don’t know. Let’s just see where we end up,” he said, his jaw tense and eyes straight on the road. I held my hands in my lap, like I was in church. We got on the main road and appeared headed for the beach. As a child, my parents would set-up camp along the
cool blue waters. It was a favorite spot for well-known people in the area, and with the Ritz Carlton sitting above the beach on the bluff, there was a lot of money walking on the sand.

“Are we going to the beach? Maybe we could take a walk.” It seemed like a good idea. A long stroll would clear-up any issues Christian was having. Plus, it was exercise and even though I felt like a wringed-out sponge, I was game for keeping in shape.

“Yeah,” was all he said, pulling into the lot and parking the car under a pine tree. He rolled down the windows and turned off the engine. Then we sat.

Christian had this silly look on his face that was both torn and relieved. He smiled but averted his eyes, the kind of appearance someone gets when they’ve got news for you. Like “the cat died” or “your father wants to speak with you when you get home.”

“Beck, you know how much I like you,” he began before hesitating. “But I’ve got a lot of stuff going on this year that’s important to me.”

It felt strange that he didn’t say how much he
loved
me. It could’ve been a slip, easily forgiven, so I nodded. “Like getting into the school you want.”

“Yes, and playing a good season. This year could make or break me, and I’ve got to make it. There’s no other choice.”

“Okay, so make it,” I said, unclear as to where I fit into the make-or-break scheme of things.

“I won’t have the time to date.”

Excuse me? No time to date? We weren’t dating. We were a couple. A couple who’d shared everything with each other, including our bodies, even if it was only one time. This wasn’t dating. This was serious.