Not Looking For Love: Episode 5 (8 page)

I call him again right after my first class, but he still isn't picking up. Which is nothing to worry about. I'm sure he just has things to do, or maybe he's still sleeping. But he should at least let me know when he's coming over.

He does finally reply to a text I send, saying he'll let me know when he can make it. By six there's still no word from him, and I'm exhausted from all my classes. I also started sneezing at lunch, and I'm shivering even though the heat is cranked up in the house, which only ever means one thing. I caught a cold last night. And no wonder. I spent an hour and a half in my car waiting for him.

At seven I'm stirring a steaming cup of tea, glaring at my phone propped up against the sugar bowl, like that's going to make it ring.
 

Are you coming or not?
I finally text.

There's no reply, and panic is suddenly a hard fist balling up in my chest. But I can't let it get me. He wouldn't do that to me a second time, he wouldn't.

I go back upstairs and unpack my bag slowly, concentrating only on that and ignoring my shaking hands. A folder that isn't mine falls out with my jeans. I can hardly open it, my hands are shaking so hard. The piece of paper that's inside it slides out through my fingers like I'm trying to hold onto air.

It's the drawing of me by Kate's pool, finished now, with all the background details in place, complete with the sun rising over the fence. But all I see are my haunted eyes staring back at me, and I know the drawing is mirroring my own right now, which must be wide and wet, glistening like my mom's just before she died.

The phone rings and I nearly topple to the ground in fright.
 

"Where are you, Scott?" I mutter as I pick up, tears making my voice rise too high.

"I meant to tell you in person, Gail. But I can't," he says, his voice so soft it might melt away at any second. Only it can't. I won't let it. "I'm going away."

My breath freezes in my throat. "Going? For how long?"

"I don't know. A long time, probably," he sighs.
 

"No!" I should be saying more, pleading, but it's all that comes out.

"So you shouldn't wait for me. You should just get on with your life. I know you can do it," he goes on like he didn't even hear me. Like he's speaking words he memorized.
 

My heart so heavy it will rip right through my body once it falls any second now, and I'll just bleed out all over this floor.
 

"I won't. You can't do this. I can't…" I whimper, silent sobs racking through me. The room is spinning all around me, the walls closing in.

"You can, Gail," he says softly, like he's comforting and not killing me.
 

"I won't let you go. I'll come with you." It's the only thing that makes sense, the best decision I ever made.

He sighs and his voice is shakier when he says, "Gail, you know that's not possible. I'll find you, when I can come back. And then we'll see. But don't wait."

He can't ask that of me. I'll never be able to do it. I'm sobbing loudly now, my breath catching in my sore throat.

"Don't make this so hard, Gail," he whispers. "You know it's the only way. You always knew it."

"No, I didn't. I was wrong," I manage between sobs, because he has to know that. How can he not already?

He clears his throat, and his voice is raspier and firmer as he continues, "Gail, you've been looking at me like you're ready to bolt since I told you about everything. And you stayed, sure, but take the time now to think about it. You'll realize staying away is the only smart decision."

"It's the stupidest possible decision!" I yell, though in truth my voice just bubbles up past my tears.

"Alright, but it's one I'm making, for both of us," he says, his voice colder and firmer than I've ever heard it. "I gotta go now. Don't call me back, I'm not taking the phone."

"No, please!" I yell, but he's already hung up and all I'm listening to is the silence.

The room is still spinning around me, like I'm stuck inside one of those transparent bubbles, just hurdling along through a vast barren plain with no end in sight. I hear nothing and my tears are so thick, it's like I'm watching the room through a deluge.

I call back at least a thousand times, maybe a million. In the morning breaks a robotic voice tells me the number has been disconnected.
 

I peal myself off the floor, take a shower, dress for school. Walk downstairs, fix breakfast and some coffee, tasting none of it, feeling nothing.

"Your shoes don't match, Gail," Phillipa says, her eyes wide as she studies my face, her hair a mess because she just woke up.

I look down and chuckle, but it's some other Gail making the sound. The one I am is still stuck in the transparent bubble, still hurdling across nothingness.
 

"I guess they are," I mutter and go put on the correct pair.
 

I remember none of the day, except for the eerie silence inside my bubble.

"We're closing now," the librarian says, and then I'm following her squeaky shoes out, the cold wind whipping my hair into my eyes, which sting from all the tears I'm not crying.

"Can you get home on your own?" she asks, peering up into my face because she's about a head shorter.

I think I nod, but she's still staring at me like she's waiting for an answer. The night is twirling around me, hard snowflakes dancing in the wind. I'm not supposed to be here on my own. I'm supposed to be with Scott. But even that does not pierce the speeding bubble, doesn't even slow it down.
 

"Where do you live?" the librarian asks, holding my hand, leading me to a silver station wagon. Scott picked me up in a car like this once. Almost exactly like this.

I don't remember giving her directions, but somehow, we're standing on my front porch, the doorbell melody echoing through the house.
 

Phillipa opens the door a few moments later.
 

"Does she live here?" the librarian asks. "She said she did. I didn't know what else to do. She needs a doctor maybe."

They're both looking at me like the skin is peeling off my face at the very least, so I look down at the floor, at my sleek black shoes, which do match.

"I'll take care of her," Phillipa says, her strong hand pulling me into the house. "Thank you."

I nod and smile at the librarian, and I really should thank her too for bringing me home, but I can't find my voice. My smile doesn't transfer to her face and then Phillipa is closing the door, turning me around, her eyes boring into mine.

"What's wrong, Gail? Are you sick?"
 

I shake my head, trying to wriggle free of her grasp. "Talk to me, or I'm taking you to the hospital."

"I'm fine," I mutter, but the lie sticks in my throat, and the voice that speaks it isn't really my own.
 

"What happened, Gail?" she asks.
 

I shake my head. I can't say it. Saying it will make it true and it's not true, it's just a nightmare and I'll wake from it real soon. I pinch the back of my forearm hard, my nails bending from the pressure but I don't feel a thing. That's how I know this is all just a sick dream, because I've been pinching myself all day and I felt nothing each time.

Up in my room, Phillipa is undressing me, and I giggle, pushing her away. This is a strange kind of dream now, because I don't like Phillipa that way, and she knows it. She stands by the door and lets me change on my own after that. I choose Scott's sweatshirt to wear, because this is why I have it, so he can be here even when he's not.

Phillipa cradles my head in her arms, lying beside me in her jeans.

"Do you want me to call your father, Gail?" she asks and I shake my head so hard I loosen her grip. My dad has enough on his mind and I'm fine, I'm just fine. I can hear nothing, I feel nothing, and this is just a dream I'll wake up from very soon.

"We studied about this last semester," Phillipa is saying. "Disassociation is not uncommon when dealing with grief. But you will be fine, Gail, you're strong, you will get through this. You just need to rest."

Her voice is soothing, her body soft and warm beside me.

I don't wake up from the weird dream until Friday morning. I know because I'm lying in a hospital bed, and Dad's reading the paper beside me, the date plastered across the front page.

My hand stings as I lift it to scratch my head, a thick IV line dangling from it.

"Gail, you're awake!" Dad says and leaps from his chair, the newspaper flowing to the ground at his feet. "What happened to you?"

His eyes are redder than I've ever seen them, the bags under them darker than tar.
 

"I don't know," I mutter, which is the truth. I remember none of this whole week. "I think I caught a cold or something."

He shakes his head, tears forming in his eyes. "You scared me so much, Gail. And after the way we argued…"

His voice breaks, and I'm reaching for his hand, and then he's clasping mine, his other hand stroking my hair, tears running down his cheeks. His sweater is all rumpled up, his white shirt sticking out at the bottom.

"Can you get the nurse? I want to go home," I mutter and he nods, leaving me alone.

Had he been here all week, sitting by my bed, the way he used to sit with mom? The mere idea of that pain is unbearable, makes my throat clench until I can't breathe.

"We'd like to keep her here for at least a few more days," the doctor says later. "She needs a psych consultation."

"There's nothing wrong with me," I say, though probably it is. But that's nothing new. "I was just over tired and I caught a cold. I'm feeling much better now."

"Her mother passed away in September," Dad mutters, looking down at the floor.

The mention of Mom wrings fresh tears from my already overflowing chest. But I don't cry and I don't even whimper. Because then they'll just see how insane I really am and lock me up for good.

The doctor's looking at my chart, not meeting mine or Dad's eyes.
 

"There's procedures," he finally mutters.
 

"I'm fine, I really am," I say, throwing my blanket off. "I just overexerted myself."

After a few more minutes of convincing the doctor finally caves and then I'm standing on the sidewalk, the snow coming up to my knees on both sides of the path that leads to the hospital door.

"Come on, I'm taking you home for the weekend," Dad says and wraps his arm around my shoulders, leading me down the path.
 

"No, I'll stay here. I have a lot of studying to catch up on," I say. Which is true. That's all I have now that Scott's no longer in my life. All I ever had really, and the only thing I can still control.

"You can study at home," he says. But I can't, because that house is haunted by my mom's raspy breathing, her gleaming eyes as she lay dead in her bed, her hand growing cold in mine.
 

"Are you going to see that boyfriend of yours?" Dad asks once we're in the car. "Because I didn't notice him trying to see you while you were at the hospital."

"I'm not seeing him anymore," I mutter, adjusting the seat belt so it's flat and tight across my chest. Somehow the words aren't causing tears to choke me, and I don't know if that's good or bad.

"That's good," Dad says and starts the engine. "You never had a future with him, and I'm glad you came to your senses."

Only I didn't, Scott did, and I'm just following his instructions because I don't know what else to do.

Phillipa opens the door for me as soon as I stick the key into the lock, yanking it from my hand.

"I'm so glad you're fine!" she screeches then moves out of the way so Dad can carry my stuff upstairs.
 

"Get some sleep, Dad," I tell him as we're saying goodbye and kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry I made you worry."

He hugs me tight. "As long as you're OK, Gail, that's all that matters. But please don't scare me like that again."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"It was over that guy, wasn't it?" Phillipa asks as we're putting up the Christmas tree on Sunday night.

I shrug and nod. "Maybe, I don't know. He left me again, and for good this time. I don't have any way to contact him, and I really don't think he wants me to."

Which hasn't stopped me from calling his number about twenty more times over the weekend. But it's disconnected and it will stay that way until someone else gets it, or not.

"There's plenty of fish in the sea, right?" Phillipa says, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes, which are open wide, studying my face like it's a textbook.
 

Which is what I should be doing. Studying. Because that's all I have left now.

I'm pulling at the Christmas lights, twisting the wires, tangling them up even worse than they already were. "Maybe we should just get some new ones, we'll never untangle these in time for Christmas."

Tears are a torrent inside my chest, but they don't reach my throat, let alone my eyes. Because crying will not solve this, and neither will talking about it. I want Scott's arms around me so bad, I can feel his body pressed against mine, smell his fabric softener and cologne, feel his hot breath in my hair. But he hasn't called me in a week now and I don't think he will ever again.
 

The street outside out living room window is twinkling, multicolored lights blinking back at me. A year ago, I'd be running around getting presents, choosing just the perfect dress for the New Year's Eve party Kate usually throws. This year I'm staying in, and New Year's will be just another day of the week.
 

"How are you doing, Gran?" I ask when I call her on the first day of Christmas break. She's no longer calling me every morning now, no longer demanding I visit more often. All her medical tests came back clear. She's as healthy as an eighty something lady can hope to be.

"They're gearing up to throw a large New Year's do here," she says. "But it's such a hassle, especially when all one wants to do is sleep."

She says the same thing every year, and she's always one of the last to leave the party on New Year's Eve.