Where I End and You Begin (3 page)

T
he sky is dark with clouds as we hurry from Marchand House to the quad. The leaves in the trees are turning already, exploding in brilliant oranges and yellows, like flame against the ashen sky. I lift my face to the breeze, letting it cool my heated cheeks.

A good day for ghosts,
I think.
A good day for ghost stories.

I wonder if it will rain. It would be a good excuse to stay in tonight if it did. Exhaustion is creeping over me.

Then the alcohol hits me, and things are better.

Well. Not
better.
But less bad, from a certain point of view.

Tanya and I cut between the buildings and head to the student center. Tanya can’t live without her coffee, and I need something in my stomach to anchor me and keep the wine down.

The student center is loud. There’s a touring group of high schoolers who just can’t wait to throw all their money away on a useless degree, and I try not to meet their eyes. I’m not paying anything to come here, but I’m one of the lucky few. Almost everyone else will escape swimming in debt, unable to get a job, and most will move back in with their parents.

I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. Move back home? I can’t think of a worse fate, but, like death, it seems inevitable. And like death, I try not to think about it, even though sometimes the thoughts intrude.

Suppressing the urge to yell at the fresh-faced high school juniors—
turn back, here be debt!—
I head to the campus convenience store and stroll somewhat tipsily down the small aisles looking for something to settle my stomach, but it turns at the thought of almost every shitty pre-packaged foodstuff available to me.

I finally settle on crackers. A dollar fifty for a pack of crackers. Highway robbery. For a moment I consider slipping them into the pocket of my hoodie, but my stupid conscience wins out and I pay for them as Tanya comes up next to me with her coffee. As I turn from the cashier, I spy someone I don’t want to see.

Tristan is standing at the breakfast walk-up. I see him. He sees me.

For a second I want to melt into the ground. Then he nods at me, and I nod back. My stomach is a lump of lead and I can’t really figure out why. I don’t remember most of what we did last night. What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?

But that’s not true and I know it.

I rip open my crackers and stuff all of them in my mouth as Tanya and I head back to the quad.

The wind is picking up and we enter the Randall Arts and Sciences building—last renovated in the seventies but still serviceable—our hair mussed and our noses cold. The interior is all yellows and browns and dark stone and curious splashes of green. I don’t mind. I spent my childhood in houses that were built in the seventies or earlier, and it feels like home. We pass through the lobby, full of fake plastic trees, and part ways at the stairs. I’m going up, Tanya is going down.

“See ya!” she says, and hops down the steps.

“See ya,” I echo, and start to climb.

Halfway up I know I’m in trouble. The crackers are not doing the trick I wanted them to do. The wine and crackers congeal in my stomach, and I have to keep swallowing until I get to the top.

I’m breathing hard and grossly warm when I finally hit the landing, and I have to lean against the wall for a moment. My first class today is called “The Holocaust and the Problem of Evil.” It’s a real laugh riot and I usually try to show up a little sloshed, but right now I do not feel well at all. My cheeks are flush and my body is sticky as though attempting to expel the toxins in my system through my very pores. I have a headache too, but I’m afraid to take a pill for it. My liver is already working over time.

Should I try to get to class on time, or should I try to stabilize?

Stabilize. Late is better than not showing up because you’re sick.

Pushing away from the wall I stumble to the closest restroom. It’s dingy and too-bright inside, smelling of bleach and mildew. The walls slosh around me.

Water,
I think. I need water. I get to a sink and bend over it. Pushing the knob, I scoop cold water into my hands and splash it over my face. Then I fill my hands again and take a huge drink. Bracing myself against the sink, I stare at the bits of grime collected around the drain, and take a few deep breaths.

When at last I feel steadier, I stand up and pull out my phone, checking the time. Ten-oh-five. And a missed call from my mom.

The muscles in my lower back tighten like a vise. I delete the notification and shove the phone back in my hoodie. I’ll call her later. Like, next week maybe.

Or, you know. Never.

I exit the restroom and hurry down the hall toward the classroom. No one else is outside the door or coming in, so I am well and truly late, and I cringe to think about the disappointed look Father O’Reilly will shoot my way. Catholic guilt can work even if you aren’t Catholic, apparently.

Hand on the cold knob, I take a deep breath and open the door.

There’s that little moment where everyone in the room turns to look at you when you come in late. I expected that. I’m used to it. Unfortunately the first person I notice is Tristan, and I do
not
want to see him. I rip my eyes away from the students and turn them to Father O’Reilly with a tiny, apologetic smile on my face.

Except the man standing at the front of the class isn’t Father O’Reilly. It’s someone totally different, and Father O’Reilly is nowhere to be seen.

The smile on my lips freezes.

He’s young. Very young. Probably only a few years older than the rest of the people in this class. Graduate student, nothing higher, and he’s lounging against the table at the front of the classroom like a cat, his hands resting easily on the edge, his strong legs, clad in pressed khakis, bracing him against the floor. His upper body—well-built and lean—curves casually. He’s wearing a black v-neck sweater with a white button-up underneath. Wild sandy hair frames a face that is all hard planes and high cheekbones, but behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses his eyes are wide and brown and sweet. The way he looks at me is almost innocent, as though he never expected someone could come in late.

I have the queerest feeling that I have slipped between worlds, crossing over a threshold I never even knew was there. The world tilts.

Then it clicks. Father O’Reilly must have asked one of his grad students to fill in for him.

The world rights itself and I am back on my feet. I duck my head before he can say something and hurry to the nearest seat. Right next to Tristan.

My stomach turns over. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe this. Drunken hook-ups are fine and all, but sometimes you just want to change your name and move to Vietnam or something afterward. I hope I didn’t do anything embarrassing last night. I yank my netbook out of my bag and put it on the table, praying it still has enough charge to turn on.

The beautiful man at the front of the class is still looking at me.

I mouth the word
sorry,
and he seems to shake himself and turn back to the class.

“Uh,” he says, and his voice is warm and deep, “where were we?”

I duck my head again and wish I’d left my hair down so it could hide my beet-red face.

“Karski,” someone says.

Karski,
I think. Should I know that name? What book are we reading? I glance around to pinpoint which book I was supposed to have read over the weekend, and when I finally figure it out I want to groan. I don’t think I’ve even cracked the binding. Nevertheless, I dip inside my backpack and pull it out, looking up the name in the index, and when I flip to the relevant pages I breathe a sigh of relief. Buying used has its advantages—the previous owner of this book has thoughtfully highlighted relevant passages.

“Ah yes,” the young man says. “Karski. When Karski escaped Nazi-occupied Europe and came to America, he related the stories of the atrocities in Poland to members of the U.S. Government, very high up. And they said they didn’t believe him. Not that they thought he was lying, but that they could not believe that what he was saying could be true.” He pushed away from the table and began to walk up and down in front of the class.

I’m on the first row, and as he passes me by I catch a whiff of his cologne. Spicy. I try not to look at him. I don’t want to bring more attention to myself than I already have.

He continues. “What they were saying is that there are things the heart and mind cannot accept. Subconsciously, we reject what is happening. And from that rejection comes powerlessness. And when you are powerless, what is happening becomes inevitable in the head. And when something is inevitable, any acts to stop it are useless, or needlessly heroic, especially when we, the bystanders, are not in any danger, except if we attempt to halt the inevitable. You.”

I look up, terrified that he might be pointing at me, but instead he is pointing at a girl a few people down. “What’s your name?”

“Shawna.”

“Shawna, can you think of a situation where you might become a bystander?”

My stomach flips over.

“Hmm,” Shawna says as my breath comes short and fast. Not even the gentle tipsy lull of the wine in my brain can distract me.

When have you been a bystander?

“I suppose like... if I saw someone drowning, but I didn’t know how to swim very well...” she says.

“Good,” the man says. “Good, but not quite. That’s an unfortunate situation, but not one that could be redeemed if you couldn’t swim. You?”

He’s pointing at Tristan. He’s going to ask me next.
He’s going to ask me next.

Frantically I scan the highlights on the page in front of me, but like the aftermath of a fire all I get are bits and pieces, parts of the whole, and my head begins to hurt, a piercing, aching feeling that churns my stomach even harder. Cold sweat prickles across my brow.

“I dunno,” Tristan says. “Like... maybe if I saw the President raping someone?”

“A bit crude, but that’s not a bad example.”

Bile rises in my throat. I am going to throw up. I have to get out of here. Have to make it to the bathroom, but even as the thought crosses my mind I know it’s too late. The hallway at least. I can make it there. I
have
to—

“You?”

I look up too quickly. He’s staring down at me, his dark brown eyes warm and concerned. For the first time I realize that I must look a mess. No make up, braided hair, slouching thrift shop clothes. I look like a hobo that accidentally wandered on campus, and given how much I’ve had to drink in the past twelve hours, I probably smell like one, too.

A prickling sensation scratches my throat.

He frowns down at me. “Are you all right?” he asks.

And I try to shake my head but the movement is too much. The world splashes and then there is wine in my mouth and it’s all over.

I lean to the side and puke all over the floor.

T
he word alcohol comes from an Arabic word.
Al-khawl,
which isn’t really connected to anything. But dig a little deeper, and you find that the Koran calls it
al-ghawl,
which means demon. Or rather, in English,
ghoul.

A ghoul is a demon that eats the dead. It lingers in deserts and graveyards. A spirit that devours the flesh of corpses, and then it takes on the form of the dead. There’s a being like this in every culture. Vampires, zombies, and yes, even some ghosts.

Alcohol. Spirits. Demons.

Drink too much, and the demon comes in. It takes over your body, takes your form, and no one’s the wiser. It eats you from inside.

But alcohol is also used to purify, as an offering for the Gods, or the unquiet dead. In ritual, alcohol is imbibed to break down the barriers between this world and the next.

Alcohol is poison. A pleasant poison, but a poison all the same. It can kill you. Perhaps that is why it is used in spiritual quests. Kill yourself a little bit, speak to ghosts. Kill yourself a little bit more, speak to gods. Find wisdom. Know the future. Feel nothing.

Kill yourself just enough, and all becomes clear.

I
don’t even try to say anything, just turn and pitch forward into the aisle, the vomit rising in me and cascading out, splashing across the dirty tiles. I hear voices, murmuring and talking and sounds of disgust, but there is nothing I can do except heave and heave and heave.

Terrible red wine mixed with stomach acid burns its way back up my throat. Tears stream down my cheeks. My crackers come up, and they taste like shit. All of it tastes like shit.

The stink of it fills my nose. There’s no mistaking what I’ve been doing. The reek of alcohol hangs heavy in the air, and chairs are scraping as I empty my stomach of what seems like every meal I’ve ever eaten. From the corner of my eye, I see the fine polished burgundy shoes and crisp khakis of the substitute lecturer, and I wish I’d kept the alcohol inside and just died instead. It would have been less humiliating.

“Um,” he says, and again I have interrupted him, derailed his lecture, put him off the tracks, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Er. I think class is dismissed for the day,” he finally says. “Look at the syllabus, come to class having read the necessary essays. Uh, dismissed.”

More chairs scrape, bags are lifted, and people file out, giving me a wide berth while my stomach tightens like a fist, rhythmically expelling the last of the wine. With luck everyone will just be grateful I got them out of a lecture and we will never speak of this again.

Who am I kidding? I’ll never come back.

I have a stomach bug,
I say to myself. It’s a lie, but I’m already half-believing it.

It’s just a stomach bug. I already threw up once this morning. Just a bug. I just really wanted to come to class. I couldn’t miss it.

The door closes as the last of my classmates exits, and we’re alone.

I want to tell the poor substitute that I am just sick, that it’s a virus, or a bad taco, that he should back away from me lest he get sick, too. I see him, from the corner of my eye, looming over me. Then the warmth of a large male hand alights on my back and begins to rub soft, small circles over my spine. At first I am startled—aren’t there regulations about touching between staff and students? Couldn’t he get in trouble for this? But then warmth spreads out over my body, an almost forgotten response to a sweet, kind touch, something I haven’t felt in years, so fragile and precious that I think I might shatter.

I’m glad I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed.

It’s okay, Mr. Substitute,
I think at him.
I’ll never tell.

When at last the wave is over, I sit up and he withdraws his hand. I don’t look at him, and I don’t speak. I’m scoured from my stomach to my teeth.

“Are you all right?” he asks at last, and the spell breaks.

Do I fucking look all right?
I want to say, but he’s coming from a place of kindness.
Don’t be kind to me,
I want to say.
If you handle me gently, I’ll break.

“I think I’m sick,” I say. It comes out raspy, thin.

I see him tilt his head, studying the pool of vomit. “Yes,” he says. “I think you are too.”

He’s still on the other side of the long table, but he’s still too close, far too close. I want to jump up and run, and I would if I didn’t think any sudden movements would make me puke my guts out again.

“What’s your name?” he asks me at last.

I close my eyes. “Bianca. Bianca Ray.”

“It’s good to meet you, Bianca,” he says. “I’m Daniel McGuire. Do you think you can stand up and come with me? I’ll, er, call someone to clean this up.”

Humiliation washes over me. No one should have to clean up my pile of sick. It’s disgusting. I’m going to ruin someone’s day.

But I just nod, feeling so filled up with misery that it might slosh out my ears. He waits patiently while I gather my things, and then we skirt the puddle of vomit and head out into the hall.

I feel better out here. Not so stuffy. My face is still covered in a cold sheen of sweat, though, and I’m afraid one wrong step is going to send me crashing into the wall.

Daniel McGuire steps in front of me and leads the way. My stomach roils.

Does he know?
I wonder. Does he know I drink almost every night? Does he know I can’t remember half of the lays I’ve had since the beginning of the semester? Does he know I’m a slut, a failure, a burgeoning drunk?

He can’t know that. Not really.

But inside me there is that little voice, the one that reminds me of all the things I
should
be doing, the one that berates me for all the things I’ve done wrong.

Of course he knows,
it says.
They all know. Everyone knows.

I feel sicker.

He leads me to the elevator and pushes the bottom button. Together we descend to the first floor. Is he going to walk me home?

But he doesn’t turn toward the glass doors. Instead he hangs a left and heads in the direction of the major department offices. The Dean’s office.

I am well and truly busted.

Is it too late to throw up again?
I wonder. Like a squid, I could vomit whenever frightened or cornered, and make my getaway in the ensuing confusion.

But my stomach is thoroughly empty. I have no defenses.

I follow Daniel McGuire into the large office of the Dean, and he stops at the front desk and speaks in a low voice to the secretary there. I stand behind him and stare down at my shoes. My mouth tastes horrible, and I wish I’d brought some water with me to class. When he turns back to me, I can’t meet his eyes.

“Dean Arthursen wants to see you,” he says.

I flash him a look. It’s meant to be a glare, but I can tell my fear is showing through.

He gives me a little smile. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

It’s not. But he’s been kind. “Thanks, Mr. McGuire,” I say.

“Daniel,” he says.

I blink.

“Call me Daniel.”

“Daniel,” I repeat dutifully. I wait for him to leave, but he keeps standing there, his eyes studying me as though he’s trying to figure something out. When the Dean steps out of his office and calls me, I swallow—hurts, like trying to swallow steel wool—and move around Daniel toward the Dean.

To my surprise, he follows me. I turn and open my mouth to tell him
I’m fine,
and
Get lost,
but he speaks before I can.

“I’ll just stay here in case you need someone to walk you home,” he says.

I nod, but inside I’m starting to hate him. He pities me, feels
sorry
for me. If I had half the chance, I’d kick him in the head.

I turn back and follow the Dean into his office.

Dean Arthursen is a small, balding man who teaches ancient Greek and Latin. He taught my freshman orientation class, and I’ve always liked him. Right now, though, I’m so scared I think I’m going to turn to stone.

He gestures to the chairs in front of his desk—a typical academic’s desk, covered in papers and books and little notes that only the writer could decipher—and I sit down, letting my bag fall to my feet. I’m starting to shake, though if it’s with cold or fear I can’t say. I’m wrung out. I’d give anything for a glass of water.

He sits in his chair behind his desk and folds his hands on the table.

“Good morning, Miss Ray,” he says.

“Morning,” I reply. Social conditioning takes over and I smile at him, striving to keep myself safe by being pleasing. It’s not going to work, but it never hurts to try.

He turns to his computer—a tower with an ancient CRT monstrosity attached—and types in a few letters before looking back at me.

“Miss Ray, Mr. McGuire tells me that you threw up in his class. He suspects that you were drinking before attending. Do you have anything to say to that?”

“I wasn’t,” I say immediately. Drinking while underage? I’d be fucked. Kicked out.

“You aren’t in trouble,” the Dean tells me. I don’t believe him and keep my lips stubbornly shut.

Dr. Arthursen watches me for a moment, his watery blue eyes huge behind his thick glasses, then sighs. “I’m having a look at your records here,” he says. “You don’t appear to be doing well in your classes this semester.”

My hands and feet are suddenly cold.
He knows. He knows, he knows...

“Your GPA as of this point in the semester is a 3.2, which is below what you need to stay here. If you are having a problem with alcohol, there are many resources on campus to help you deal with that...” He lets his voice trail away, rising in question.

I stare at him. I don’t have a
problem.
I have a coping mechanism. It’s not my fault I need to cope so badly.

But that’s the sort of thing drunks say, so I stay quiet.

Dr. Arthursen leans back in his chair. “Miss Ray, you are a very promising student. You’re here on full scholarship, you did well the last two semesters, though your grade point was a little too close to the line for comfort. If you want to stay here, I suggest you seek help.”

“Help?” I say stupidly.

“Counseling. A substance abuse program.”

“I haven’t been drinking!” I protest.

His eyes are sad as he looks at me. “You have. I’ve been a professor for over twenty years. You think I don’t know what a student in trouble looks like. You aren’t special.”

A pang slices through my heart at those words. Of course I’m not
special.
I never thought I was.

“I could get drunk off the smell of wine on you,” he continues. “I don’t have to tell you that this is unacceptable behavior for a student.”

No. No, he doesn’t.

For a long moment we stare at each other across the desk, and though I feel the hot, crawling ants feeling of tears trying to rise up and spill down my face, I clench my fists and let my fingernails dig in to the flesh of my palms, keeping the tears at bay.

I won’t cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of
anyone.

Finally he sits up and turns to his keyboard. “Miss Ray, I’m afraid the rules are in place for a reason. I’m not going to suspend you, but I am putting you on academic probation for the rest of the semester. You still have time to bring your grades up to an acceptable level—midterms are next week, after all. Don’t miss any more classes and you might pull it off.”

The whole room narrows and suddenly the sounds are loud, echoing inside my head. His fingers on his keyboard clack and clank, a terrible din as, just like that, I go from student in good standing to a breath away from ruin.

My vision darkens and I barely hear Dr. Arthursen as he turns back to me. “I’ve seen many students come through here with substance abuse problems,” he says, though his voice is far away. “I can’t order you to seek counseling, but I would strongly urge you to do so.”

My lips move, and I find myself asking: “How strongly?”

He gives me a grim little smile, full of sympathy and fatalism. “I’ve never had a student make it if they didn’t get help. Even if drinking isn’t the problem, there is probably some underlying stress that is keeping you from reaching your full potential.”

My head bobs on my neck, and I realize I am nodding.

He nods back to me and stands up. He begins to shuffle through the papers on his desk, and I understand I’m about to be dismissed. With hands that move like lead, I grab my bag and hoist it over my shoulders, but when I stand I feel so weak I think just the wrong step will have me falling apart, my limbs detaching, my bones clattering to the floor.

“Here.”

I look at Dr. Arthursen and see him holding out a pamphlet. My numb fingers take it and I see the words
Britten University Student Health Services
emblazoned across the top.

“Go make an appointment at the Student Health Center,” he says. “And I’d like to see you again at the end of the month for a status update. Make the appointment with the receptionist.”

I nod again, because there’s nothing else I can do. “Thank you,” I tell him, even though I’m not feeling particularly grateful. But he doesn’t
have
to encourage me. He doesn’t
have
to give me one last chance to pull myself out of the pit.

I turn and leave his office.

When I open the door, I see Daniel lounging by the receptionist’s desk. Our eyes meet once and I have to look away. I walk to the receptionist and tell her Dr. Arthursen wants to see me again in two weeks. She makes the appointment and hands me a little appointment card. I take it and stuff it into my jeans. Without looking at Daniel, I turn and exit.

He follows me out. “Bi—er, Miss Ray?” he says from behind me. I turn and look at him.

For someone so tall, he has a strange way of carrying himself. He looks as though he is trying to make himself fit into a smaller space, as though he is afraid of intimidating people. He’s taken his glasses off and stuffed them into the v-neck of his black sweater, and I can see that his brown eyes are huge, thick-lashed, warm. I swallow and try to ignore it. This was the guy that fucked me over. “What?” I say. My voice is venomous.

He winces. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted to know what happened in the Dean’s office.”

I scowl at him. A white-hot thread of anger tangles around my fear. “I got put on academic probation,” I snap at him. “I’ll probably be out by the end of the year. Happy?”

To my shock, his face crumples slightly. “What?” he says. “No! That wasn’t...”

Now my anger is spinning out, gaining momentum. “Well what the
fuck
did you think was going to happen when you reported me?” I snap.

He shakes his head. “I just thought you needed help. I didn’t mean for you to get in trouble...” And he looks so crestfallen that I almost believe him.

“The Dean told me to get counseling, if that makes you feel any better,” I tell him, and to my infinite annoyance he perks up at that.

“Oh? Good. I was worried about you.”

I’m going to kick him in the nuts. “If you were worried about me you wouldn’t have reported me!” I almost yell. I know it doesn’t make any sense and I don’t care. No one else is in the foyer of the Arts and Sciences building, and my voice bounces and echoes over the walls and against the floor.