Last Train to Babylon (3 page)

The Right Thing.

“Well, Karen basically said I'm a heartless bitch if I don't go home; so I guess I don't have a choice.” I take a sip of my coffee and wait for him to interject, to tell me it's okay, that I could never be a heartless bitch even if I tried, that I always have a choice.

But he doesn't.

“Your mom's kind of right,” he says.

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger and close my eyes. I really can't deal with this all right now. The girl is a corpse and she still somehow manages to fuck up my Sunday.

I stare down at my half-eaten bagel.

I think she's cute.

I don't know, I guess. Cute, but kind of chubby.

I wrap up the rest of my bagel and stuff it back into the paper bag with the rest of the trash.

I can already imagine the sideshow that will be Rachel's funeral: her mother, weeping over a white veneer casket; her little sister, Chloe—who's got to be about sixteen now—chain-smoking in the parking lot; her stepfather, Jeff, leering at me from a shadowy corner.

I can feel it all. The uncomfortable silence when I walk into the church; all eyes on me, the best friend, the one she left behind; and a cosmic cloud of nauseating smells: flowers, too much perfume, and incense, the Catholic kind.

Ms. Price, our second-grade teacher, she'll be there for sure, and she'll pull me into her bony arms and tell me what a lovely young woman I've turned out to be, what a shame it was that we hadn't stayed close, how maybe then Rachel would still be alive. There would be hugs—a whole variety of them. Lingering embraces, one-arm-over-the-shoulder hugs, full-body hugs. I hate them all equally.

Ally and the rest of the old Seaport gang will be there, too, huddling in a corner, holding each other in a disgusting sob fest, stopping only to snap perfectly posed Instagram shots to show off their coordinated outfits—#
funeralchic.
There'll be Eric Robbins, clad in his marine uniform, the guests shaking his hand, thanking him for doing his part for this great country. Just the thought of it sends my stomach spinning and my throat tightens. I have to swallow just to keep from vomiting up my half-eaten bagel.

There will be sympathetic nods. And there will be Adam.

There will definitely be Adam, with his gray eyes and sloppy hair—his stupid face—always whining about something, always sulking.

I stand up and pick lint off my T-shirt. Danny pulls me into his chest. My face presses up against him at an awkward angle. My nose bends, I can't really breathe, and my instinct is to pull away, but I try and let my body relax in his arms, even if it's only for five seconds—which I think is my record.
One. Two.
He smells of cedar chips; he keeps his sweaters in an old chest at the foot of our bed.
Three. Four
. He releases me and I take a step back. My life with Danny is comfortable. It's safe. It's quiet. It allows me to go through the motions undetected, detached. And the idea of leaving it for a funeral on Long Island makes my guts ache.

I hold out my hands. “It's impossible to get a decent manicure around here. For twenty bucks, you'd think it would last more than a week.” Danny looks at me like I'm crazy. I glance at the chipped polish and remember the name:
Wicked.

W
HO PUT THE
word “fun” in funeral? If you really think about it, funeral sounds like it should be synonymous with “carnival” or “funnel cake.” But I can't think of anything fun about Rachel's funeral, except for the fact that she won't be there.

I sit on the stone stoop of a walk-up, four buildings down from our own so Danny won't see me. It's nestled between two oversized brownstones, just a few feet from York Avenue. It's humid, too hot for October, and my left temple throbs.

I suck on a Parliament and rub two fingers into my temple. I allow myself one cigarette a day—usually in the mornings before work—just to take the edge off. But this is my second. Rachel is dead, so I'm having two today.

Danny doesn't know I smoke, and I don't consider myself a smoker. I'm not a smoker, at least that's what I tell myself. I'm not a smoker, and
I'm not a cheater
. He thinks I only smoke when I'm stressed or drunk and says an actual smoker would be a deal breaker for him. But with the way he's been looking at me today, peeking over the top of his laptop, all squirrelly, I'm sure he wouldn't have anything to say about it.

It's only been four hours since I got the call, but I can already see through his probing suggestions like plate glass
: If you go home . . . When you decide if . . . If you're feeling up to it . . .

I wish he would just ask me. Just ask me.
Are you going home for the funeral, Aubrey? I would like to know so I can plan accordingly.
I think I'd have to respect that. But until he asks, I will purposely avoid giving him an answer.

I do a lap around the block, slather my hands with Purell for thirty seconds, add a drop of lotion, spritz my hair with coconut-scented body spray, and pop a piece of spearmint gum. It's a ritual, and it usually covers the lingering smell.

Back at our apartment, I smell like a piña colada as I sift through some of my things, setting them on my bed one by one while Danny watches the Jets game. Underwear, a nearly empty bottle of Xanax, a couple of sweaters, not enough socks. Every commercial, I stick my head out the bedroom door to make sure he hasn't gotten up to check on me. Deodorant, face wash. He hasn't moved in an hour. I think he may have passed out. Toothbrush, yoga pants. I drag a sack of dirty laundry out from my closet—if anything, I'll get some clean clothes out of this debacle. In one swift motion, I swipe the contents off my bed into the laundry bag.

I e-mail my boss from my phone in the bathroom. I turn the shower on, letting the water drown out the sound of my fingers clicking the keys. The water sprays feverishly against the wall.

The room fills with steam. I hope he fires me.

I'm in the wrong profession. I knew that from the start. Hyperlocal, online journalism—a type of reporting that requires a deep interest in the area you cover, an appreciation for the minutiae of everyday life, and little to no actual reporting, except for maybe a weekly phone call to the Nineteenth Precinct.

I'm not a reporter. At least I don't consider myself one. I'm an entry-level
content creator,
and I'm mediocre at best. My job is mostly programmed lists and copy and pasting press releases. I always thought I'd be a writer—a real journalist or a best-selling novelist—but after college, I realized I have nothing to write about, and I'm not passionate enough about anything, really. And isn't that the cornerstone of being a good writer? Passion? So as long as I have my father's credit card—or guilt money, as Danny calls it—I don't mind the repetitive work and low pay.

My most recent submission for the
UES Post
went something like this:

     •
Use handbags with zippers and locks, and never carry wallets in back pockets.

     •
Beware of loud arguments or commotions that may be staged to distract commuters as their pockets are picked.

     •
If you are unnecessarily bumped or crowded on public transportation, be aware that you might be positioned for pickpocketing and/or flashing.

     •
Never make eye contact with the flasher.

     •
If your pocket is picked or you are flashed, yell out immediately to warn the driver or conductor, and alert everyone else that there's a pickpocket/flasher team on board.

My parents still can't get over the fact that they'll never see my name in print. I'll only ever have a Helvetica-font byline below the social-media share button.

I slip on a pair of black leggings, flats, an oversized charcoal cardigan, and pop a Xanax, before wrapping a black scarf around my neck and throwing a pair of Ray-Bans over my dry eyes.

When I know Danny is asleep, I leave a note on the coffee table in front of him, and drag my laundry bag out the front door. It's not quite the breakup letters I have stocked away in my desk drawer, but rather a toned-down version that promises I'll be back by the end of the week and asks him not to worry about me, to kindly respect my need for space at this
very difficult time
.

My heartbeat echoes and I start to get that shaky feeling in my hands. I walk toward Second Avenue to grab a cab and swipe my fingers over my hairline to wipe away the sweat. People stare. It's too hot for a sweater and scarf, but I can already feel my neck and chest rashing up. It always happens when I go home—this red splotchy flush of rouge—and I know Karen won't ignore it:
Oh my God. What happened to your chest? Are you allergic? Do you need Benadryl?
So it's better to just cover up than get into the fact that the thought of going home makes me break out in hives.

And though it's October and a freakishly warm day, I know once I get onto Long Island, the Atlantic breeze will lower the temperatures at least ten degrees. I suck the air into my lungs, but my chest feels too tight for any air to get through, and it's too late for a cigarette. I'll never make the train, and plus, I've already had two today. So I just walk and breathe, and try to focus on the gritty sidewalk in front of me. I know I just need to ride out this feeling until the Xanax kicks in and quiets this heart-pounding, head-throbbing panic. After a few minutes I feel it sweep through me, and my blood stops buzzing and everything feels very still.

April 1997.

R
ACHEL HAD ALWAYS
been fat growing up. Her beady little eyes would squint on her pudgy little face; her mouth would contort in this twisted little tyranty way; and I always knew to shut up and listen. She had this remarkable skill of getting my undivided attention—even at seven. We met in second grade when all that mattered was the newest Spice Girls album and whether or not a new episode of
7th Heaven
aired on Monday night.

That year, we spent most of our recesses indoors, seated around a kidney-shaped table with Ally Marlo. It was the most coveted table in the whole classroom—nestled in the back, against the unused chalkboard—but Rachel had laid claim to it sometime around November, and nobody ever challenged her for it. I guess it didn't matter anyway, since most of the kids preferred to spend recess outdoors.

It was one of those mundane weekday afternoons in April, and the three of us girls were huddled around a poster board, fumbling with markers, fighting to get our ideas onto paper.

Rachel sat in the middle of the table—in the alcove, her alcove.

“Everybody just shut up,” Rachel said.

This was the year of As If, our up-and-coming girl band. Rachel said it best: if we're going to have our big break by fifth grade, we had to make sacrifices; and opting for indoor recess was essential to the cause of As If. And so, I was spending yet another spring afternoon inside a stuffy classroom, stinking of submission and broken crayons.

“Back off, you morons,” she said. “Let me show you.” With the yellow marker clutched in her sweaty palm, Rachel began to draw herself as the lead member of As If, clad in our album-cover outfits. It was a two-piece yellow nylon suit: a top, strongly resembling a training bra, and Adidas pants. The kind that swooshed and sort of make your teeth feel like they might fuzz together. I watched as she drew herself with such intricate detail. Funny, I remember thinking how good her body looked on paper.

“That looks amazing,” Ally said.

“I know,” Rachel said. Ally kept on nodding her head in awe, before suggesting matching belly-button rings.

L
ATER THAT DAY,
we sat near the back wall on Ms. Price's Magic Carpet for afternoon story time where we were joined by Mrs. Gray's third-grade class from next door.

“Hey, Rachel, are you wearing a bra?” As the word “bra” propelled from his lips, Eric Robbins reached over and tried to snap a bra that was not there. Rachel flinched forward, clasping her arms in front of her chest, protecting something that also was not there. This is my earliest memory of Eric, and at the time he was just a shrimpy third grader with freckles and two missing front teeth.

“Shut up. It's an undershirt,” Ally said, pulling up the back of Rachel's shirt. Rachel hunched forward, her eyes cold and disinterested.

I tried to ignore the taunting and harassment, and traced the crimson alphabet carpet with my fingers. Eric's mother had passed away from cancer earlier that fall. That's how I remember him back then, as the twerpy little boy with the dead mother. Ms. Price told us that he was coping in his own way and we should all be understanding, which meant he got away with a lot. Maybe somebody should have taken this opportunity to teach him to keep his hands to himself. Maybe then things would have been different.

“Hey, Rachel,” Eric said again as he repeatedly poked her on the shoulder. In some pathetic form of protest, she didn't turn around. “I heard you're not a virgin.”

“M
OM
,” I
SAID
in the car on the way home.

“Yes,” she responded, uninterested and focused on the road.

“What's a virgin?” She shot me a fleeting glance out of the corner of her eye. She didn't say anything for a moment, but gripped the wheel with both hands and sighed a reluctant breath.

“It's a person from Virginia.”

T
HE NEXT DAY,
at lunchtime, Rachel called a meeting back by the coats and lunch boxes.

“Where's the book?” she asked, the question directed at Ally, who reached into her baby-blue JanSport backpack and pulled out the sacred As If journal.

To an outsider, it was just a marble notebook. To the sanctioned, As If girl band member, it was so much more. It contained partial lyrics to our two sure-to-be hit songs, outfit ideas, concert stage sets, and our album cover, which we believed was truly innovative in the world of nineties pop culture.

“We need to finish the lyrics to ‘Don't Stop Lovin' Me, Baby,'” Rachel said. I had come up with the song title while riding the bus earlier that week. I sat, and listened, though I was more concerned with how I'd hide my American Girl doll's new haircut from my mother.

In her best attempt at a sultry, Mariah Carey–esque voice, Ally sang, “‘Don't stop lovin' me, baby. I wanna make love to you, so I can get higher and higher.'”

“Yes,” Rachel hissed, pumping her fist in the air. Ally scribbled down the new chorus in her chunky handwriting. I always tried to write like Ally, but my writing always looked sloppy and skinny, like a serial killer's.

I was deeply involved with the conception of our song, when I felt fingers press into the back of my shoulder. It was a sharp pain, surprising, and I swung around to face the culprit. And there was Eric Robbins, stoic, with his hands on his hips.

“Can we help you?” Rachel cut in.

“Your face looks like a hard-on,” he said to no one in particular, but I assumed it was meant for me, since I'd been the one he'd thrust his fingers at.

“A what?” I asked. Ally stopped writing, stared, and waited.

“A hard-on,” he said, again, slower this time. “Hard-on. Hard-on. Boner,” he screamed, and he ran back to his friends. The three of us shrugged and went back to our song.

T
HAT NIGHT, MY
five-year-old brother, Eli, still sat at the head of the table, sulking over his half-eaten steak and potatoes. My brother Marc was ten and flung pees at Eli's plate until my father finally lost his temper and sent them both to their rooms. I helped my mother clear the dinner table and softly hummed the tune to “Don't Stop Lovin' Me, Baby.”

I picked up the cup of milk that I hadn't drunk and dumped it down the drain on the sly. I found that if I let my milk sit out during dinner, it got warm and developed a funky smell, but my parents would insist that I finish it, each night, regardless of temperature and odor. I carried a handful of dirty forks and knives over to my mother at the dishwasher.

“Mom,” I said. “What's a hard-on?”

My mother stopped what she was doing, sighed reluctantly, and said, “Remember when I went to the tanning salon?” I nodded. “And I put the heart sticker on my chest to see how much color I got?” I nodded. “That's a ‘heart-on.'”

T
HE NEXT DAY,
I sat on the back corner of the Magic Carpet, my backpack and denim jacket still on. Rachel and Ally plopped down beside me. Rachel held a rumpled piece of paper.

“I finished the song last night and typed it up on Jeff's computer,” Rachel said. I eyed it, and remember being impressed with how professional it looked. “It's awesome,” she said. “I did such a good job.”

I ignored the blatant fact that she took credit for the entire song.

“I want to show it to Ms. Lotus,” she said.

“She'll love it, and I bet she knows people who can get us a contract,” Ally added. Ms. Lotus was the Harbor School band teacher. We didn't have her as a teacher because only fourth and fifth graders were permitted to take band, and the fact that Ms. Lotus was so untouchable made her seem even more valuable to As If. The other girls, and undoubtedly a small part of me, were convinced she could make us famous.

“We should go now,” Rachel said. “I'll show Ms. Price the song. She'll have to let us go see Ms. Lotus.” Before I had a chance to respond, Rachel and Ally were off to show our teacher the first original As If song. I suddenly became self-conscious, a feeling that most second graders should not know. I'm not sure if I was just embarrassed by the situation, but I wanted nothing to do with the grand unveiling of “Don't Stop Lovin' Me, Baby.”

I sank back against the wall and feigned distraction with the Koosh ball key chain dangling from my backpack.

I didn't see Rachel or Ally at morning meeting, nor did I see Ms. Price. As Mrs. Gray read
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,
I didn't listen. I thought about what they could possibly be doing now. Maybe Ms. Price let them see Ms. Lotus after all. Maybe she loved the song so much that she'd excused them for the rest of the day so they could prepare for fame. Or maybe they were in trouble. Or worse, maybe they got sent to the principal's office. I couldn't figure out what could have been so offensive about the song. There were no curses. Maybe Ms. Price thought we wrote it during a lesson. I didn't know what to think, but I was worried. I was worried about my friends, I was worried about myself, and I really wanted a cookie.

“Hey you, look.” Eric held up his hand in front of my face, waving his middle finger in the air. I guess he didn't know my name back then either. “I bet you don't know what this means.” Within seconds, all of the third-grade boys were flashing their middle fingers at me.

Just as I convinced myself that Ms. Price had personally escorted Rachel and Ally to the band room, where they were all sitting around, planning our big break, I heard the thick wooden door creak open.

Rachel's head was down, her bangs and ash-blond hair flipped in toward her face, hiding an embarrassed sneer. The girls took a seat on the opposite side of the carpet. I couldn't see them from across the room, so I craned my neck, desperate for their attention. I wanted to know what had happened. I needed to know.

Neither Rachel nor Ally would look at me, but before I got a chance to creep across the carpet and find out just what went down, I heard my name. It was Ms. Price. She motioned for me to follow her. Mrs. Gray stopped reading, and all the other kids watched me get up and leave. As I stepped over Rachel and Ally, they giggled in a symphony of malicious intent. I can't prove it, but to this day, I am convinced that Rachel put her foot out to trip me.

Ms. Price led me into an adjoining classroom, known to students as the Blue Room. She told me to take a seat at the kidney table. I sat in the alcove. Rachel's alcove. She took a seat across from me, clasping the lyrics to “Don't Stop Lovin' Me, Baby.”

“Does this look familiar?” she asked, sliding the paper across the table. I still can't watch an episode of
SVU
without flashing back to the legendary Blue Room Interrogation. I kept my hands glued to my lap, gave the paper a fleeting glance, and nodded. “I'm very disappointed in you,” she said.

In me? My tongue swelled in my mouth. I couldn't speak, so I just sat there, stunned, silent.

“Rachel told me that you wrote this.”

Me? I felt like I'd been sucker-punched right in the gut. Sure, I thought, now she gives me credit.

“The other girls told me this was all your doing. Is this true?”

I could have spoken up, told the truth, and ended Rachel Burns's reign right then and there, but I froze.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Making love is not an appropriate thing to write about, and it most certainly is not an appropriate topic for school.” I nodded.

“I'm sorry,” I said again. “Please don't call my mom.” I flashed her my best
who me? couldn't be!
face. “I promise I won't do it again,” I added for good measure.

“Okay. Let's just forget this happened. I think you've learned your lesson.”

When I went outside for recess, Rachel and Ally were huddled together by the tire swing. They saw me approach and vanished behind the metal slide. It took me a few minutes to gather my composure, but I sauntered over to them as if nothing had happened.

“What are you doing here?” Rachel sneered. She looked over at Ally and they giggled—that unnatural harmony that only resonates in creepy-little-girl-ghost movies.

“I didn't get in trouble,” I said.

“Okay. Good,” Rachel said. And that was it.

That day marked the untimely death of As If. Who knows; despite the fact that not one of us had a scrap of melodic talent, maybe we would have made it someday. If only we had gone straight to Ms. Lotus.

T
HAT NIGHT, AFTER
my bath, I walked into my parents' room in my one-piece pajamas, the ones with the feeties and purple flowers.

“Mom,” I said. She sat in bed doing her crossword puzzle.

“Yes,” she said, still staring down at the paper in front of her.

“What does this mean?” I held up my middle finger, the way that Eric had at afternoon meeting.

She glanced at me over the top of her crossword.

“It means,” she said, “fuck you.”