Chapter 37
Sloane
March
My denim clad leg sinks into a pile of gray sludge as I step off the curb leading toward the hospital. I don’t have the energy to even let out a sigh as the cold wet sleet soaks through the hem of my pants. And still my head throbs, like it has every morning, every afternoon, for the past few days.
Jean and I get trashed; we avoid our issues; we soothe whatever we refuse to talk about with the slow and steady burn of whiskey for me and gin and soda for him.
We’ve gotten good at not talking about anything, letting our bodies dance, drink, laugh through the pain—all of it’s hollow, though.
Jean’s gaze was empty when I left this morning, and I know it’s probably what he sees in mine.
I wish I could say it was just alcohol that we’ve been abusing, but that’d be a lie.
Not a crucial one. No one really cares what we do, I’ve found.
My phone’s been eerily quiet, the rest of my tiny little world too busy for me.
The big world, though—it’s still there, waiting for me every night, so worried about what I wear or who I’m with even though it’s always Jean.
I feel myself slipping back into my old ways.
I’ve even been posing when I see a camera flash, trying to give them what they're looking for because why not? What reputation do I really have to uphold? Elliot reminded me of that, that this facade of an unserious, notorious, slutty party girl isn’t really a facade at all.
We are what we are. Elliot tried to mold me into something better but that was a complete and utter failure.
I mean, I got pregnant. Forget that it was his fault—everyone always does—but I had to carry the sin of it.
Would’ve been a physical reminder of a mistake he made. The mistake I made.
What is my fault, actually, was thinking I could be anything but who I’ve always been.
It seems Andy’s realized that. One away game and poof, the mirage fell.
Call after call has gone unreturned and when I’ve seen him it’s the same distance I’ve grown accustomed to, the one that’s plagued me with everyone in my life for as long as I can remember.
I start to become too much, start to feel too much, and they shrink away.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and see Clementine’s name flash on the screen. I ignore it because I know she’ll know. She’ll hear it in my voice just like Grant could, that I’m back in my fortress. ‘Not doing well.’
I wonder if she heard about Elliot being here.
I know she keeps tabs on me, that she worries. The idea of that makes me want to cry because I wish she didn’t. Wish she could see that I don’t deserve it.
I pull the heavy metallic handle leading toward the cancer treatment center, guilt already settling in my stomach from the lack of communication I’ve had with my mom over the past week and a half. For the thousandth time I wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.
My mom is dying, literally dwindling away in front of my very eyes and instead of spending as much time with her as humanly possible I’ve been so absorbed in my own shit.
Anyone else, I tell myself, would take that thought as some kind of wake up call, a moment that snaps them into being present, into paying attention to the people who actually matter.
But me? All I feel is that familiar itch under my skin, the need to escape, run away from everything and everyone if only to escape the blame I know I deserve.
Avoid the disappointment in their faces when they realize that I’m exactly who they thought I was.
“Constance Tucker,” I say to the front desk woman, her hair pulled so tightly back that my own temples begin to throb, although that could just be the hangover. I watch as she types her eyes, carefully scanning the screen, a crease forming in between her brows.
“It appears she hasn’t come in yet. Actually, do you know how late she’s going to be? We may need to bump her to the next session.” I blink, taking more than a second to process that Mom isn’t here.
“She must have the times mixed up, let me just call her really quick.” The woman nods and I hit Mom in my recent call log, shakily holding the phone up to my ear.
It isn’t that uncommon. I got the late gene from mom, after all.
She’s almost always ten to fifteen minutes late…
but thirty? Her appointments are always on Wednesday at one pm, so the idea that she got the times mixed up seems unlikely.
The phone takes a second before sending me directly to voicemail, and now I feel it.
That prickliness against my skin, the way it feels like my lungs are slowly deflating.
My body welcomes the anxiety like an old friend, picks it up like it’s always been there, waiting. I glance at the nurse whose face is too neutral. It reminds me of Grant.
You always jump the gun, Sloane.
I suck in a breath. “Phone must be dead.” I smile weakly. “Go ahead and bump us to this afternoon. I’ll go by her place and get her.”
The woman nods, clicking into her computer looking for a new time.
“Four thirty work?” she asks and I appreciate her lack of annoyance.
I nod before turning back into the gray sleet covered city, my mind flashing to all the moments my mom was exactly who Grant says she is.
Us with trash bags ripping at the seams, Grant sharing the last can of spam while Mom was passed out on the couch, the lumps in every mattress that wasn’t my own.
The stairs to her building haven’t been salted in what looks like over a week and I feel my mouth tug downward because why didn’t she call me. Why didn’t I know her stairs were so slippery? The stale alcohol I consumed last night churns in my stomach, only making my guilt grow tenfold.
I should have been here, should have been helping her with all this.
The inside of my cheek feels raw and blistered, the way it used to when I was a kid, nervously biting the inside waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I hit her buzzer and nothing. Again, I hear the static blare and am met with no response.
I see Leonard the super through the foggy glass pane of the window and wave him over with a mittened hand.
He pokes his head out, coatless and unprepared for the blistering cold. He squints, confused.
“Hey there, I don’t know if you remember me—”
“I do,” he nods gruffly but there's a tenderness to him, like he’s someone's dad or grandfather, like he knows how to talk to a girl on the edge.
“I need to pick up my mom for—”
He cuts me off again, his brow crease sending a ripple of confusion and panic up my spine.
“You just missed her. Weird…I figured she’d called you.”
I let out a breath, tension I didn’t know I was holding deflating instantly and I feel the weight on my chest lessen, allowing me to breathe again.
“Gotcha, thanks.” I begin to turn and I feel his fingers catch my sleeve.
“Wait. I, uh…she left a few papers upstairs, you may wanna grab em?”
A myriad of forms and charts flash through my mind as I try to piece together what she may need for her appointment today.
“Yeah, of course. Thanks.” There's a new levity to my voice as I step into the building shuffling down the long corridor leading to Mom’s first floor apartment.
He slots a small gold key with the number 16 written in black sharpie in the lock, turning it into the knob until there's a definitive click. “Let me know if ya need me.”
He gestures back to the door that leads to the super's office and I nod, confused.
It’s dark inside but I can immediately sense the room’s hollowness.
Maybe it was the way the door swung open or the way a home smells when it’s empty.
Like if I just inhale deep enough I’ll get that hint of strawberry buried in the smoky smell of Mom’s Marlboro reds.
Maybe if I don’t flip the switch, reality won’t set in.
The thought crosses my mind as my fingers clench the small white knob.
I feel my jaw shaking, vomit rising and I run to the sink letting the contents of night before, of every night before, come out.
A table. That’s all that’s left.
My lips quiver, as my mind begins the same barrage of excuses so permanently etched in my memory. Maybe there was an emergency, maybe she found a place closer to Grant’s, maybe she’s surprising me, maybe—
My mind begins to play out the various reactions I’ll have to said surprise, the one I know isn’t coming.
I’ll hug her, grasp her now frail body so tightly against mine, kiss her on top of her blonde head the exact same shade as mine.
Promise her I’ll be good, promise her the world, anything to make her stay.
I feel my body slide down the wood paneled cabinets of her kitchen, feel my knees retract into my sternum, wrapping my arms around them, and I feel her again.
That lost little girl, who just wanted to please, who put on a show, playing her part until she couldn’t anymore.
Why couldn’t I just be better, why couldn’t I just ask for less, be less…maybe if I was less…
My thumbs find Andy’s name in my phone. I hear the ring, this ominous endless thing, the tone so similar to how it was calling Elliot that day in the hospital.
Andy isn’t late, though. He owes me nothing, and still my thumb hits his name again.
And I hate him but I hate myself more. I hate that I let this happen, hate that it keeps happening to me.
That I need him, that I’ve ever let myself need anyone.
The tone sounds again.
“Just answer!” I scream into the emptiness. It echoes against the walls and I let my head sink into my hand. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this and it won’t be the last, because I’m the girl people leave. The only common denominator here is me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, screaming into my hand, muffling the sound.
I get up and there’s a hollow creak under the floor board my foot landed on, it’s loose.
Grant was right—he’s always right. People don’t change.
I pull it up, the same way I did as a child, pulling out a half empty bottle of Jim Beam, a sticky note with familiar scrawl attached to the front the way she always had it.
drink me if your dyin
A scream like laugh bubbles out of me because she’s always been dying, or wanting to anyway. Killing herself over time because it was easier and for once I relate to her. I use my thumb to unscrew the lid, letting the warm brown liquid hit my throat.