Spin (20 page)

I clear my throat. “This is my confession. I am a liar. I keep people at arm’s length. I use alcohol as a shield. I have betrayed my friends. I have betrayed people who aren’t my friends . . .”

I read slowly until I get to the bottom of the page, giving each sentence its due. Then I turn it over and read everything I wrote on the back too.

Henry listens. I can hear him breathing, but he doesn’t say anything.

I get to the end. “I am a liar,” I repeat, reading the last thing I’ve written. The last and the first thing about me are the same.

Do you get it, Henry? Do you get it?

I use my left hand to clear the leaves from the patch of ground between us. I snap off the iTouch and reach into my pocket for the lighter I brought with me. I hold it to the edge of the paper, waiting for it to catch.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Henry says.

“Shh.”

The fire catches hold. I drop the paper onto the patch of cleared ground, watching the flames eat away at the lines I wrote. The charred bits break away and float up toward the trees.

I watch until it’s all burned away. Until there’s nothing left.

“What now?” Henry asks.

I try to meet his eyes, but it’s too dark to see.

“Now, we forget that any of this ever happened.”

Chapter 20

Pavlovian Response to Bullshit

T
he next morning, after Amber and I have been sung to in the cafeteria, I find Saundra in her office, doing paperwork. She looks up when I rap on her door.

“I was just coming to say goodbye.”

She smiles and puts down her pen. “I’m glad you did.”

“And I wanted to say thank you, you know, for putting up with me, etc.”

“It was my pleasure. Good luck, Katie.”

“Thanks.” I hesitate. “Can I ask you one last thing?”

“Of course.”

“I know this is going to sound silly, but it’s something I’ve been wondering about for a while . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“Who’s that dog collar for?”

Saundra’s laughter follows me down the hall to the lobby, where Amber’s waiting for me with Carol.

As I sign my discharge papers I wonder whether Henry’s going to show up. But then, there he is, talking to Amber. He says something in a low voice that I can’t make out, and she shakes her head. He turns away from her looking aggravated but gives me a small smile when he catches me watching them.

“You all set?” he says, walking toward me.

“I think so.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around the park sometime . . .”

“Sure.”

He looks into my eyes, staring at me intently. We’re both waiting for the other to say something (Call me? Stay? I’ll miss you? Thank you?), but neither of us wants to be the first to speak.

“Take care of yourself, Kate, Katie, whichever,” he finally says.

“Thank you, Henry.”

“You bet.”

He gives me one last shoulder squeeze and walks away. I watch him go, but like with my sister, I don’t know what to say to bring him back to me, or even if that’s what I want.

I brush my tears away quickly, and follow Amber outside. We climb into a huge black SUV while the driver puts our bags in the back.

We don’t talk much on the long drive, both of us lost in our thoughts. When we get to the city, everything looks different from when I left a month ago; it’s like the movies, when a fast-motion camera speeds up the seasons. Then the trees were budding; now they’re in full bloom. People everywhere are wearing less clothing. Winter is a faint memory.

“Hey, Katie,” Amber calls to me through the sunroof as I climb up my front steps.

I turn. Only her head is visible above the roofline. Her long black hair swirls around her. A few pedestrians stop to look, trying to figure out who she is.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know . . . for everything.”

One of the pedestrians across the street figures it out. He pulls out his phone and begins snapping pictures.

“Forget it. And you’re on
Candid Camera,
” I nod toward the dude snapping away.

She spins around and gives him her patented smile. “You got your shot, lover?”

The pedestrian looks flustered. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just get a good price for it, OK? The Girl Next Door Returns from Rehab ought to be worth something.”

He looks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this information. “OK.”

She turns back to me, laughing. “I’ll call you later.”

Her head disappears through the roof. The SUV slips into gear and disappears into traffic.

Well, that’s that.

I haul my suitcase up the front stairs of my building and into my apartment.

“Joanne?” My voice bounces off the walls, and I can tell there’s no one home.

I wheel my suitcase into my room, then head to the kitchen to see what’s in the fridge. It’s half empty, and what’s there is labeled “Joanne’s” in black indelible marker. God forbid she should break with that habit while I was away.

I help myself to some of her leftover beef in Thai basil sauce, eating it cold from the carton. God that tastes good. Thirty days without Thai food—how did I ever survive?

I polish off the container leaning over the sink in our tiny kitchen, looking out the small window at the brick-wall view. Maybe when I get the job at
The Line
I’ll finally be able to afford a better apartment sans roommate?

I guess I should call Bob and let him know I’m back. Or maybe I’ll just send him an email. I’m sure he has bigger things to worry about than me. Yeah, I’ll send an email. That’ll be fine.

Why don’t you want to call him?

Are you still here?

Where would I go?

I thought I might’ve left you behind.

No such luck.

Shit.

So, why don’t you want to call him?

Because I’m tired, and I don’t feel like dealing with that right now.

Dealing with what?

You know.

What?

You
know.
Why I went to rehab. The article.

You don’t want to write the article?

Not at this moment, no.

Why not?

Oh, will you just leave me alone.

I toss the empty food container into the garbage, making sure to bury it halfway down so Joanne won’t notice it. I head to the living room to sit on the worn couch and watch TV. I hold the remote lovingly in my hand. Ah, TV. I’ve missed you, my friend.

I channel surf until I come to a rerun of
Lost.
It’s the first episode. Jack has just woken up on the beach, the sound of a whirring jet engine blocking out the screams of his fellow passengers. I pull a blanket off the back of the couch and lay it across my knees, snuggling down for a good escape to a desert island. It’d be nice to go there. You know, without the smoke monster, and wild boars, and those pesky Others.

As I watch Jack race around the beach saving lives, I can feel my eyelids getting heavy. Instead of fighting it, I give in, letting myself float away, though the dialogue is still reaching some part of my brain. Kate is sewing Jack up, and she’s scared. Give yourself five seconds to be afraid, he says. And then you have to stop.

Just five seconds.

I
’m having a dream that’s a mixed-up jumble of
Lost
and what I’ve just left. “You can do it, Kate,” Jack says, before dissolving into Dr. Houston. “Count to five and you can go to sleep.”

“But I
am
sleeping,” I say.

“So, wake up then.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, too bad.”

The blanket is pulled from my knees, and I feel cold. Why is Jack/Dr. Houston being so mean to me?

“Why did you eat my food?”

I open my eyes. Joanne is standing above me holding the Thai food container I buried in the trash. It’s covered with coffee grounds and a few pieces of broken eggshell.

“Is this your way of telling me you missed me?”

Joanne folds her arms across her maroon polo shirt. “Well?”

I guess not.

“Relax, Joanne.”

“But that’s what I was going to have for dinner.”

“So we’ll order some more. My treat.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You’re paying? Fine. I want chicken pad Thai, extra spicy.”

“Then that’s what you’ll have.” I stand up and stretch. I have a terrible crick in my neck. “What time is it, anyway?”

“About six thirty. When did you get home?”

“Around one.”

“Have you been sleeping this whole time?”

“Pretty much.”

“Tough day at the office?”

“Knock it off, Joanne.”

She looks contrite. “Sorry. How come you didn’t tell me you were coming home?”

“Don’t take it personally. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I wasn’t taking it
personally.
”

“If you say so. I’m going to take a shower.”

She picks up her cell phone. “Do you want me to order for you?”

“Nah, that’s OK. I’ll just eat some of yours.”

She frowns. “You didn’t change one bit in rehab, did you?”

“Oh, I’ve changed a few things.”

T
he food arrives just as I’ve finished drying my hair. I fork over forty bucks to the delivery guy and tell him to keep the change, feeling generous and, finally, a little celebratory.

We unload the pad Thai and mee grob Joanne ordered for me onto plates and munch in companionable (sort of) silence around the tiny circular table tucked into the corner of the living room. I look around our apartment, sensing that something’s different, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“Did you move some of the furniture?” I ask.

She puts a large pile of noodles in her mouth. “No.”

I push my seat away from the table and put my hands on my protruding stomach, enjoying the comfortable almost-eaten-enough-to-be-sick-but-not-quite feeling.

“You’ve lost weight,” Joanne says, looking jealous.

Fourteen pounds to be exact. I’m back to where I was when I started university, and feeling pretty good about it.

“True.”

“It suits you.”

“Thanks, Joanne.”

Our doorbell buzzes, the loud
zzzttt
making us both jump.

“Could you get that?” she asks.

“It’s probably those Mormon guys again. They’ll go away.”

Zzzttt!

Joanne gives me a furtive look. “I think you should get it.”

“Joanne, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Cut the crap, Joanne.”

“I may have called a few people.”

Zzzttt!

Shit.

“You could’ve asked me before you invited people over.”

She picks up our plates and walks them toward the kitchen. “Well, soorrryyy for trying to do something nice for you. It won’t happen again.”

I walk to the door and press the intercom button.

“Who is it?”

“IT’S US!”

I press the buzzer and open the door. Greer, Scott, and Rory clomp up the stairs, grinning at me like I’ve just given birth. Rory’s wearing a peach dress that complements her glowing olive skin. She looks like she’s put on a few more pounds since she visited me in rehab.

“Are you surprised?” Rory asks as I close the door behind them.

“Very.”

“What’s with the stealth homecoming?” Scott says. His sandy hair is a little longer than he usually wears it, and it falls across his forehead in a seductive, I’m-probably-no-good-for-you kind of way.

Greer throws her arm across my shoulder. “Yeah, lassie. We wanted to throw you a party.”

Rory looks shocked. “Greer! I’m sure Katie doesn’t want a P-A-R-T-Y.”

“I haven’t suddenly turned into a three-year-old, Ror.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s OK. Anyway, you’re right. I’m not really up for a party right now, but I would love to hang out with you guys.”

Greer plops down on the couch and plunks her worn-in cowboy boots on the coffee table. Her braids hang over her shoulders. “Excellent.”

“Hey, no feet on the table,” Joanne says as she comes out of the kitchen.

“Ah, Joanne. How lovely to see you again.”

I sit down next to Greer. Scott sits on my other side, and we both put our feet on the coffee table next to Greer’s, giggling.

“I said . . .”

I sigh. “Oh, will you relax already, Joanne? You found this table on a street corner.”

“It’s an antique.”

“It was in someone’s trash.”

“Hey, I thought this was supposed to be a party,” Scott says. “Where do you keep the mixers?”

My eyes flit to the corner of the room. I finally realize what it is about the apartment that’s changed. The liquor cabinet, and the wine stand that sat next to it, are gone.

“Joanne, did you toss all the alcohol?”

Her chin lifts. “Yes.”

I feel a flash of anger that’s replaced by something closer to . . . gratitude, I guess.

“Wow, that’s, um, really sweet of you, actually.”

Greer is incredulous. “It’s a crime, that is.”

“We don’t need alcohol to have a good time, do we?” Rory asks, looking at me with apprehension.

“Of course we don’t.”

Scott looks disappointed, but Greer simply looks philosophical.

“What do you guys want to do?” Scott asks.

“Anyone up for a game of
Risk
?”

I
wake up the next morning early, feeling confused. I reach out my hands, expecting to hit air. Instead I come across more mattress, and I realize that I’m in my own bed, in my own apartment, free.

I look at the clock. It’s 7:02. Outside of rehab, I haven’t been up this early in a good way since I can’t remember when. I’ve seen it plenty of bad ways, of course. Coming home from after-hours places, doing the walk of shame, waking up to puke.

But enough of that. That’s the past. I have my future to start. So, action plan. Get up. Go for a run. Call Bob. Write story. Land dream job.

Piece of cake.

I pull out the snazzy shorts and workout top I got when Rory bought me that gym membership. They’re loose on me despite the massive dinner I ate last night. Oh rehab diet, please let your effects be permanent.

I let myself out of the apartment quietly and walk down to the street. I decide to run ten minutes in one direction, and then head back.

I put the iTouch on shuffle, and the first song it kicks up is The Fray’s “How to Save a Life.” I never really listened to the words before, which is clearly why I never realized this song is about an intervention.

I hit the skip button. Coldplay’s “Fix You” starts to play.

This is ridiculous. Has my iTouch achieved sentience?

I hit the skip button again. OK. Matt Nathanson’s “All We Are.” Much better. A nice little love song. Or, maybe not. In fact, this is so not the song to make me forget about how much easier running was when I had Henry’s constant chatter to listen to.

Maybe I don’t need to be listening to music right this very minute.

I turn it off and concentrate on the patterns on the sidewalk and the sounds of the city waking up around me. It feels strange running here. The air is different, for starters. And then there’s the noise. At the Oasis, I was in, well, an
oasis. The only noises were the birds, the bugs, the frogs, or the very occasional car that drove past the road on the other side of the wall. But here, delivery trucks backing up, horns tooting, and the babble of very busy people on their cell phones assaults me. And the smell. Old garbage, car exhaust, millions of bodies. I don’t remember the city smelling this bad. Maybe I’m just used to the sweet smell of dew-covered grass and spring wildflowers, but I feel raw, like a new baby brought home from the hospital in a little pink cap.