The Girl On The Half Shell (24 page)

“Should I be worried?”

He frowns. “Worried?”

I can’t keep the color from rising on my face. How do people manage this conversation comfortably? Shit, how do I say it without saying it?

“Have you had all your shots?”

Alan lifts my face from his chest. Those black eyes drill into me. I wait. God, this is awful. It takes him a moment to comprehend.

“Oh. I am fully vaccinated. They check everything when you go into a hospitalized recovery center. I may behave stupidly most of the time, but I am always paranoid and careful. And since the hospital, I haven’t been with anyone until you.”

Paranoid and careful
. I don’t like that at all. I don’t like being reminded that us like this is nothing new to him, and I definitely don’t like being reminded that he’s a heroin addict.

I lie beneath his touch as he starts to sweep hairs from my face. He leans in to kiss me, stops, and then stares at me. “Paranoid except with you. Should I be worried?”

I roll my eyes. “Ha ha ha! Worried? Be nice. Don’t make fun of me.”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes grow more intense. “Have you taken all your pills?”

This moment has just gotten extremely awkward. Oh shit, my pills. I am very poor at keeping track of them. Say something fast, Chrissie. Something funny.

I pretend to slowly comprehend. “Oh, worried. Yes, I’ve had all my pills. Birth control is a constitutional right fought for by women.”

Alan laughs. He relaxes. “That sounds like Jack.”

I smile. “Of course, because it is. I’ve been patriotically taking the darn things for two years and lying to the Priest each week in confession to exercise my constitutional right to spit in the eye of the Pope.”

Alan rolls his eyes. “Do you talk this way with other people?”

“No! It wouldn’t work with anyone else. You’re the first weirdo I’ve ever been friends with.”

He laughs. With a finger, I begin to trace the lines of the tattoo on his stomach. The ink is growing on me. It gives me a reason to touch without being so obvious that I want to touch. God, I want to touch him always. He’s like a drug. He is at times too intense, at times too aggravating, at times too mean, and at times too glorious. Like a drug. I can’t get enough, and I am slipping so quickly into the hold of him.

What was I thinking? I’m not ready for him.
Being with Alan is like being trapped on a runaway train, and his reminding me of the pills I need to count is a monumental wake-up call. In twenty four hours, he’s delved farther into me than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s no good for me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am an addict. I want him even though I know he’s going to hurt me.

I suddenly feel frazzled and disoriented. I climb from the bed. “I need to go back to my apartment.”

I can feel him watching me. “I’ll go with you.” He starts to move.

“No.”

I continue to gather my clothes. After what seems like a monumental amount of time, he sits on the edge of the bed near me.

“What’s changed?” he asks after a long while.

“Nothing. I just need to go.”

Those black eyes grow even darker. “Why are you running, Chrissie?”

How does he know that I’ve decided to leave, to get away from him? I stare at my feet. I take in a deep breath. “I need to go home and count my pills. I don’t have them with me. I’m glad you reminded me.”

His eyes widen and his expression changes. He runs a hand through his messy waves. “Is that all? Why didn’t you just tell me? Why is it so hard for you to talk about normal things that people talk about?”

I make an exaggerated comical face. “Probably the Pope.”

He shakes his head at me and starts pulling on his jeans. “Would you like to go out after we stop by Jack’s to collect your things?” Now he’s reaching for a shirt.

Oh god
. How did we get from me leaving to us going to collect my things?

I stare. He is nearly dressed. “I expect you to decide what you want by the time we’re done at Jack’s.”

My head is swimming. He really does expect me to stay here with him and I don’t think that’s a good idea.

I find my panties at the foot of the bed, pull them up and then look about for my shoes.
Nowhere.
I sink to look under the bed and out of the corner of my eye I see Alan lift a drink from the bedside table and down it in a single gulp.

God, when did he pour that? I can tell by the golden brown color and the cocktail glass that it’s alcohol. I stretch underneath the bed to grab my shoe and am just easing into a sitting position when I find him gazing down at me, his expression hard.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Chrissie. Don’t say it. Rule one: You are not going to change me.”

How dare he order me when there seems to be no topic about me off limits for discussion, in his opinion?

I jerk my laces into order and tie a bow. “I don’t like drunks,” I murmur.

Alan runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“Then I won’t be drunk while you’re here, but you are staying the rest of your vacation,” he commands softly. “Get used to the idea.”

I frown, trying to process his words, and then resolve to make a face. “I can’t even get used to the idea of you.”

He smiles, though there was nothing about either my words or tone that should make him smile. God, he’s a frustrating guy and impossible to deal with.

I am silent as we take the elevator down to the lobby. If he’s irritated with me, it doesn’t show. He is just sort of there beside me and not really with me at all. This deliberate distance he seems to hold between us at times is a strange feeling, now that I’ve been to bed with him.

On the sidewalk we find Colin beside Alan’s car, waiting for us.

“Do you mind if we walk?” I ask, noting the warmth of the sun and the pleasantness of the day.

He shrugs and tells Colin to follow. The streets are crowded, but it comes as a welcome relief to my overtaxed emotions, having a little bit of space and time to focus on something other than Alan.

There is an odor to New York City that you don’t smell anywhere else. A stench that crawls up from the concrete, through the grates, on steam and air that is an absolutely repulsive smell. I don’t know why I always prefer to walk in the city. The stench is so hard to bear and I like ocean air and quiet streets.

I’ve gone four blocks without a word from Alan. “I hate the way New York smells. It smells like rotting death.”

He glances quickly at me. “That’s an interesting way of looking at it. I’m surprised you wanted to walk.”

I shrug. “I always want to walk here. Morning. Night. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes I spend hours just walking these stinky streets.”

He is watching me again in that way he has, as if I baffle him. Jeez, we’re just making chitchat about walking. Why is that so confusing?

Inside the elevator, I can feel him watching me, but he doesn’t say anything. I struggle to keep my face carefully averted and only look at him when he precedes me into the apartment.

Alan stays in the great room while I gather my things. The first thing I do is check those damn pills. Why do they package them in a way that they are so hard to keep track of? I study them. OK, I think I’ve taken the right number. I pop out today’s and go into the bathroom for water to take it with.

I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I stare. I look different, more aware of myself, more like a woman, less like a girl. Everything changes. It changes quickly. This is what I look like when I am with Alan. Will I still look like this when I am back in Santa Barbara, same old Chrissie? Same old life?

I go back into the bedroom, pull on a fresh change of clothes, and shove my things into my duffel. I stare at my wallpaper with the horrid stripes and the floral border. I never feel comfortable in the New York apartment. I feel really out of place right now. I head toward the great room, lugging my duffel.

My heart stops. Alan is on the phone. I heard it ring. I ignored it. I heard it stop. I thought the service had grabbed it, but Alan answered it. He is reclined comfortably in a chair. His feet are bare, he has a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand and he’s talking into the speaker.

“No, Chrissie is fine,” Alan says, making me cringe.

“What are you doing at my place?” Jack asks and I tense. The question is so bizarre on its very surface and yet somehow Jack’s voice is perfectly normal.

“Just checking on Chrissie. She doesn’t know anyone in New York. I thought I should check in on her. ”

Silence.

“I would have thought that Brian was keeping you too busy for social calls. Everything going all right, then?”

“I’m good. Working. Almost done. A few problems here and there, but most things settled.”

I walk over and curl on the arm of Alan’s chair.

“I heard an interesting rumor the other day,” Jacks says casually. “I heard you got into a fight with Vince Carroll on the sidewalk in front of CBGBs and broke his arm.”

“Since it’s made press coast to coast, I think we can safely assume it’s not rumor, Jack.”

“Does Chrissie have anything to do with it?”

“No. That was between me and Vince. I just gave her a ride home when it was over.”

A long pause. “You’re not drinking again, are you?”

“Fuck, Jack. I’ve been clean six months. I don’t need the sponsor bullshit.”

“It’s a fine line between drinking and shoving a needle in your arm.”

“I’m not fucking up all over again, so you can save the lecture I’m sure you’re itching to give.”

Jack lets out a long, aggravated breath. Silence through the phone. “Put Chrissie on the line.”

I tense, lifting the phone from the rest and take a steadying breath. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi.” Long pause—the kind he makes when he’s not pleased with me, but won’t say it. “Why didn’t you tell me that Rene took off on you?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I want you to fly home. We can spend some time together.”

“I don’t want to leave Rene. She’s really out of it over all this. I want to stay in New York in case she needs me. How did you know she left?”

“George called with his news.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

I change the subject. “You staying busy?”

“You know me, baby girl.”

“Well, try not to work too hard.”

“Talk to you soon, Chrissie.”

I feel my stomach knot and grow cold. Tears well behind my lids. “Talk to you soon, Daddy.”

Click. I hang up the phone. Alan is staring at me and there is something in his eyes that nearly makes the tears give way.

* * *

The candle flames flicker and dance all on their own. I am quiet. Alan is quiet. The mood is quiet, a comfortable quiet. He’s wrapped all around me. Neither of us seem ready to sleep. It’s after midnight. He is awake and still and being quiet for me.

We’ve had a day of strange quiet that felt oddly comforting and necessary. We walked in the park and Alan took me to dinner in a small, tacky eatery. We barely talked, and since returning to the apartment we made love only once and then just hovered in the quiet of the bedroom.

The sex was long and it was slow and it was tender. I cried all through it and I really don’t know why. Alan seemed not to need to ask why.

Alan has spent the rest of the night just holding me. It is good. Very good. This comfortable quiet. I feel better inside of Alan’s quiet, much better than I do alone inside of my own quiet.

I turn onto my side and Alan turns with me. He doesn’t release me. He is warm against my back, still holding on. Why is he with me? I feel his face in my hair as he inhales deeply. Why does he hold onto me this way?

“Go to sleep, Chrissie,” he whispers. “I want you to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Chapter Nine

Something moves behind me and there is a whispering voice in the darkness.

“You talk in your sleep. Do you know that?”

I ease away from Alan and gaze up at him, blinking. There is enough light in the room that I can see the perfect lines of his face, and I frantically search his eyes, desperately trying to read them. But they are hooded and probing.

How long has he been watching me? It’s the middle of the night, his posture in bed tells me he’s been sitting up for quite a while, and he’s been drinking.

I scoot away from him, dragging the sheets to cover me. “Why are you sitting in the dark getting loaded?”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “You’ve been crying and mumbling for hours. It was the crying that woke me up.”

I push the hair from my face. “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you have nightmares? You have them almost every time you sleep,” he says, and his eyes are suddenly scrutinizing mine.

“Alan…I…I just have nightmares. It’s no big deal. OK?”

“The things you mumble in your sleep. Is that why you burn yourself?” he breathes, his eyes widening.

How did we get to talking about this again? I struggle to collect the right words to get out of this.

“I don’t do it anymore. I told you that. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He ignores my words in that completely Alan way. “What’s up between you and your old man? There is definitely a strange vibe between the two of you.”

“There is nothing. What does it matter? It’s two a.m.”

“It’s so strange how you talk to each other.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been sitting here trying to figure that one out. It’s like you’re both afraid to speak, which is completely strange since I find it usually impossible to shut Jack up.”

“God, do you have any idea how irritating you can be? Why do you want to dig around in my shit? Don’t you have more than enough of your own shit to deal with?”

Alan shrugs. “Yours is more fun.”

I sigh. “Really. Is that why I’m here—so you can amuse yourself psychoanalyzing me?”

“You’re here because I have three weeks to kill before I go back on the road. I’m between girls. You didn’t seem to have anything better to do. And I thought you’d do what I tell you and not be too much of a pain in the ass.”

He says it succinctly, like he’s reading a grocery list. I hit him, but Alan only laughs and rakes the tumbling hair from his face. “I was wrong about the pain in the ass part,” he teases, his eyes dancing with humor.