Where I End and You Begin (16 page)

We reach the car and Daniel goes around and pops the trunk open, reloading his equipment while I take my position on the curb near the passenger-side door.

I put my fingers on the handle.

The world seems to slip sideways.

I stand outside the car, staring at it. I suddenly feel as though I’ve emerged from another world, like Lucy coming out of the wardrobe, out of a strange and enchanted place and back to a life of uncertainty and fear, a life of dread and displacement. Even the dread I felt in the school, staring at the blackness behind the stage curtain is nothing compared to the existential fear coursing through me.

I don’t want to go back to my dorm. Suddenly, all I want to do is sequester myself in some broken down old building and fade away into it. I want to run away.

“What’s wrong?”

I look up. Daniel is watching me from the driver’s side. His eyes are wide and dark. He hasn’t put his glasses back on, and he looks vulnerable. I wonder what he looks like asleep.

I look back down at the car door. My hand still rests on the handle. “I don’t want to go back,” I say.

He is quiet for a moment. “Well, what
do
you want?” he asks me.

I think about this. “You know, I read somewhere that when the Vikings went into battle they would drink something or take some kind of drug that dulled the pain and anxiety, and then they would be unstoppable. They didn’t worry about dying or about pain. They just fought.”

I don’t look at him. I hear him inhale deeply. Then: “You want to be mindless?”

I shake my head. “No. I want to be fearless.”

“There’s no such thing,” he says. “Only the dead are without fear.”

I look up at him, my gaze sharp, but his face is innocent, unconcerned. We stare at each other for a long, long moment. Then he blinks, shakes himself, and looks away. “Let’s go,” he says, and gets in the car.

I follow suit, and we drive back to campus, quiet as the world speeds by.

S
o yes. Ghost stories generally come in two flavors: violent death, and unfinished business.

I like unfinished business the best. You die without doing something you need to—delivering a message, or telling someone where you left your will—then you come back as a ghost and try to fix your mistakes.

Those ghost stories can be uplifting, even heroic. A soldier on the front lines, dipping and dodging between the trenches, a desperate message burning through his brain—
the Germans have broken through the front line!—
and then he’s hit by a mortar, and the message dies with him. The fate of the battle turns on a message lost to the vagaries of war.

But then...
sometimes...
the body is shed, but the spirit keeps on running. His ghost races ahead to tell the living, leaving his crumpled corpse in the blood-soaked mud like an abandoned coat. The ghosts of things undone, they carry on with pure will. They throw away everything they have been and become what they need to be.

Their story is not quite finished. They keep writing it even though they’ve run out of paper. They stay in the place between places and pen the final chapter themselves, heedless of fate, or gods, or death.

They keep going.

One day, I will be that brave.

S
unday the heating breaks in Marchand House, and the cold comes in as though it has been invited. The sun still hasn’t shown its face, and tomorrow I start getting my midterm grades back. I wake up nervous and chilled to the bone.

“Why’s it so cold?” I mutter, pulling my blanket around me. I wish I could close my eyes and burrow back down to sleep, but my nerves are silver and frosted inside my skin, so cold they conduct my dread through my body at twice the speed. Even though my comforter is wrapped around me, my hands are shaking.

“Dunno,” Tanya says from the bunk below me. “I’m starting to think I should eat some beans and start farting in bed just to make it warmer in here.”

“That’s gross.”

“It’s science.” She’s quiet. Then: “I dare you to get out of bed.”

“I dare
you
to get out of bed.”

“Oh come ooooonnnn,” she whines. “I get out of bed all the time.”

“That’s the bottom bunk burden.”

“You’re mean,” she tells me, then I hear a thunk as she literally rolls off the mattress. “Hopefully there’s hot water.”

I keep my eyes shut and listen to her gather her things for a shower. Her breath comes fast and her teeth start chattering. Then the floorboards squeak under her feet as she crosses the room toward the door, giving away her position. Not too close to the door, not yet far enough from the closet. The perfect time to strike.

“Oh darling,” I say, “would you be ever so kind and hand me my bathrobe?”

She heaves the most exasperated sigh I think I’ve ever heard, goes back to the closet, and then the heavy terrycloth lands on my head. “Enjoy,” she says, and I grin.

The fabric is cold and I pull it down into bed with me, attempting to warm it up before I get out of bed. I’m trying to convince myself that things will be fine today. I don’t have anything planned—there’s usually no parties on Sundays—and it’s already almost noon. I just have to find something to keep myself occupied, to keep my mind off the falling shoes that start tomorrow. A rain of dropping shoes. It’ll only take one shit grade to doom me. I have to have done well on all my tests.

I burrow down and shake harder.

I should call Daniel,
I think. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind I shove it away. Daniel has better things to do than keep me company all the time. We went exploring yesterday. I’m sure he’s at home... wherever home is... recovering. Or in church. That sounds like the sort of thing an aspiring priest would be doing on a Sunday. Ugh. I need a hobby. Maybe studying can become a hobby?

I lie in bed and try to go back to sleep, but by the time Tanya gets back I have to admit defeat—there’s just no way I’m going to get more shut eye, not until maybe four or so. The Sunday afternoon stretches out in front of me. Nothing to do.

I could drink,
I think.

Yes. I could. No reason not to, right?

I climb down out of my bunk and grab my caddy and towel before heading to the showers. I remember last year, after finals were over, I treated myself to a beer in the shower. That was probably one of the dumber things I’ve ever done. Not dumb in that it was inherently dangerous, but who drinks a beer in the shower? People with problems. I have less problems now, or so I hope.

I crank the hot water on and take a shower, thinking about yesterday. The long, black hallways, the shadows creeping around the corners, the whispers of trash and debris. The feeling that if I looked down, I would see something reaching for me.

I turn the hot water hotter, until my cold flesh has warmed and I am almost scalding. My skin is bright pink, and when I leave the bathroom I finally feel warm again.

Tanya’s already gone downstairs to get some breakfast—or lunch, it doesn’t matter—and I have the room to myself. I dress as warmly as I can and pull on a pair of wool socks that are a few sizes too big for me. Then I start toward the door.

My phone vibrates, telling me I have a text message.

Daniel,
I think, but then roll my eyes. It’s
Sunday.
He’s probably doing God things. So who’s texting me?

I frown and cross over to the desk where I’ve accidentally left my phone. There’s a message from someone on it, but I have no idea who. All I have is the number.

Hey, wanna hang out 2day? Got beer+movies.

My frown deepens to a scowl. I type back.

Who is this?

The answer comes quickly.

Tristan.

Oh.
Oh
.

I try to decide what to do. On the one hand, I’ve been stone cold sober for the past week and I haven’t felt the need to fuck anyone. On the other hand, the looming threat of my midterm grades hangs over me like the sword of Damocles. I’m pushing the thoughts down and back, but they keep bobbing to the surface again. I want to load them into a basket and weigh it down with rocks. Drown them deep inside me so they can’t come out again. But I haven’t figured out how to do that yet without chemical help or physical distraction. And besides, don’t I deserve a little time to cut loose?

I stare at Tristan’s name. I could go over there, I think. Free beer. Someone to hold me. Nothing but comforts. And this house is just fucking freezing. I text back.

When?

The phone vibrates in my hand.

Now?

I smile. Getting started early so he can be sober and sans hangover tomorrow for classes. Clever.

See you soon.

I grab my bag and shrug into my coat before pounding down the stairs and towards the front door.

Tanya is sitting in the living room. “You going out to see Daniel?” she calls.

I stop and look at her. “Why would a priest want to see me on a Sunday?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “He’s not a real priest,” she tells me. “Why wouldn’t he want to see you on a Sunday?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to bother him.”

“Then where are you going?”

I scowl at her. I hate getting the third degree, but she likes to know where I’m going at all times. I think she’s afraid I’ll end up murdered in a ditch somewhere. “I’m hanging out with a guy from my holocaust class today. His name’s Tristan and he lives in Xavier Hall.”

“Okay,” she says. She returns her attention to the textbook in front of her. “You want to go out for Thai tonight?”

Thai. Thai sounds good. I’ll have to see what I have left over in the bank, but surely refraining from my weekly liquor run has freed up some of the cash left over from my summer job. “Sure,” I say. “What time?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Okay. See ya.”

She waves, and I step outside.

The moment I do, cold wind slaps me in the face. The smell of ice rides on its back, which makes me nervous since it’s still only October. There can’t be snow yet... can there?

I put my head down and make a beeline for Xavier Hall, which sits far closer to the quad than Marchand.

It’s a big old stone structure, faux-gothic like everything else on campus except for the theater, which was built to be postmodern and ugly. I run up the steps and put my hand out to open the door.

It doesn’t budge, and suddenly I have the weirdest feeling that I am Chuck, the ghost from Tristan’s story. I’ve forgotten how doors work.

I stare down at the handle, then notice the card reader next to it.

Oh.
I’m not used to the ID readers. Marchand still has the old keypads. I zip my ID and open the door, but I can’t help but think about doors.

Doors open. Doors close. That’s what they do.

I enter the dorm. It smells kind of gross, like old sweat and gym shoes. A more typical dorm than Marchand. I head for the stairs and start up, hoping I remember where Tristan’s door is. I remember the floor, because I remember poor old Chuck falling three floors to his broken-necked smashed-skull death.

Tristan’s room is actually pretty easy to find because the door is open and there’s already people clustered around it. The alcohol isn’t in sight, but as I pass a few girls talking to a tall guy I recognize as a basketball player I smell the fumes coming off them. They’re all holding soda cans. I squeeze past them and step inside.

It looks different in the light of day. The gray sky outside filters in through the window, but there are cheery desk lamps on and the television is blaring. It’s warm here, much warmer than Marchand. I start to thaw as Tristan notices me and smiles.

“Hey!” he says. “Glad you could make it!” And he comes over and gives me a big hug. His breath already smells like rum.

For some reason, it makes my stomach turn. I try to keep the frown from my face. “Hey, yeah!” I say. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re about to screen the world’s worst movie, and I have saved you a prime seat. Here, give me your coat, we have a fine coat closet for it.” He points at one of the chairs, stacked high with coats already. I slip my coat off and give it to him. “I’ll get you something to drink, too,” he says.

He wants to get me drunk and get me to sleep with him again. Sometimes it’s nice to just have things be nice and straightforward.

The thought of Daniel flits across my mind. I push him away.

Tristan grabs a coke and rum for me and shows me to the corner of his bed, squished up against the wall and surrounded by pillows and blankets. He hops up next to me and announces to the rest of the room that the movie is going to start any moment, Goddammit, so sit down.

The room mills, people sit, and someone turns out the lights before paging through Netflix and choosing a movie called Troll 2.

“Worst movie ever made?” I say.

“So bad,” he says.

I sit and look at the coke and rum in my hand. I lift it to my lips as the movie starts.

The sting of alcohol hits my nose, and now, instead of my stomach turning, I’m inundated with memories. Nights spent bent over the toilet, days I woke up still drunk with a bruise on my forehead from where I put it on the toilet seat. Nights spent in beds I can’t even remember, with guys who didn’t care what my name was or who I was or if I was happy or sad. Days spent avoiding class, sitting in a darkened room and watching cult cartoons on my computer while I slowly worked my way through my bottle of terrible whiskey.

In my chest I feel a strange, hollow pain, as though someone has reached in and scooped out a piece of my heart with a spoon.

I don’t feel so well.

Tristan puts his arm around me and pulls me close. He smells like boy, like clothes inexpertly washed. He’s wearing a cross around his neck, and his floppy dark hair tickles my temple.

My jaw clenches.

Take a drink,
I think.
It’ll seem better after a drink. You’ll relax. You’ll be happy and free and different from yourself.

I remember what I’d told Daniel. Drinking was like a vacation from being me. Many things I do are like a vacation from being me.

Is it really so bad to be me?

And I think:
It might be bad to be me tomorrow. But what if today is the last day I live? What if today is the last day of the rest of my life? Do I really want to spend it here?

Ghost stories and dead buildings have gotten to me, crept into my subconscious, reminding me that there are worse things than being me. My guts slide against each other, greasy, sloppy. There’s a weird taste in my mouth, and when Tristan’s breath stirs my hair a shudder wracks through me.

The movie has barely started, but suddenly I can’t be here.

I squirm, working my way out of Tristan’s grip.

“What is it?” he says.

“I have to go take a dump,” I tell him, and I enjoy the look of vague horror on his face as I wiggle off the bed, grab my coat, and pick my way through the people sitting on the floor and already razzing this horrible movie. But I don’t feel like making fun of anything today. I don’t feel like getting drunk.

It’s a beautiful day outside, and I want to go home, where there are people I love and people who maybe love me back.

I let myself out of Tristan’s room and walk quickly down the hall before he can wonder why I took my coat to go take a shit. Maybe he assumes I’m on the rag and have tampons in my coat pockets or something. It doesn’t really matter.

I get to the stairs and nearly jump down them, then I’m tripping through the lobby and out the door. As I half-jog away from Xavier, I hear the door slam shut behind me, and I can’t help but smile, bitterly.

Oh yes. I know how doors work. They shut. Sometimes they shut in front of you, and sometimes they shut behind you. It doesn’t really matter which one it is. It just means that one way is gone.

I lift my face to the breeze and let it slip over my skin. The trees are stripping down, their leaves flying into the wind, and the campus is covered in leaves and trees peeled down to the bone. Their black trunks and twisted branches reach up to the sky, and for a moment I have the queerest notion that if the clouds get too low the trees will rip them open, releasing the snow hidden inside them.

“Bianca!”

I blink. That is Daniel’s voice. Frowning, I turn and see Daniel jogging toward me.

He’s dressed in a suit with a fine tan trench coat flying around him as he pulls up. His breath comes fast, and I watch it curl in the frosty air with fascination. “Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

He raises a brow at me. “Well, let’s see, there’s a Catholic church on campus, where my adviser and mentor holds Mass, and I still have this crazy notion that I might want to be a priest some day. What do you think I’m doing here?”

I shake my head. “You have no idea how to take a good opening for a joke,” I tell him.

He frowns. “Like what?”

“You could say, ‘I’m here to try out for the cheerleading squad,’ or ‘I was meeting a secret lover,’ or something like that. Anything. Anything but telling me you were at church.” I can’t keep the scowl off my face when I say it, and immediately I see his eyes soften.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. I keep forgetting how bad your experience has been. I need to remember not to mention it.” He purses his lips as though trying to figure out how to do this.

I shake my head again. “No, forget it. I just have to get over it. It’s a part of you.”