Crazy, Page 4

  There are months of this wrapped up into just a fraction of the dream, identical days multiplied in some synapse to communicate time passing, familiarity, routine. There is time wrapped up in a neat bundle with a tag that reads “Before.” The After is implied. No introduction is necessary. There is the guy who calls me Mary, but now he has a gun. He is shoving it in my face and his hand is around my neck, and I guess I just break, something inside me breaks, and when the gun goes off I disappear. Just like that—poof!—gone. His hand is around something he cannot see; my clothes and apron and a tray full of lunches are suspended in midair. People are screaming but they sound like waves to me, like slow-motion ocean. So I get out of there as quick as I can, running so fast it’s like I’m floating, tearing my clothes off and my earrings and my shoes until there’s nothing left and I’m just naked and invisible and wandering the streets of some cold city I cannot name.

  I have to go somewhere, so I decide to go to him. He is Trevor but he is not Trevor. He is not in a band and living in Portland. This is a different story. He is just some guy I know nothing about. My subconscious doesn’t bother writing him a history, doesn’t hand me another package wrapped in synapses. But I still go to him, even though I don’t know who he is. I still go to him because, in this dream, I have nowhere else to go.

  I am in an empty seat on a Greyhound bus, next to an old lady who sleeps the entire ride. At one point she burps in her sleep, pats my invisible arm, and says, “Excuse me, dear,” and falls back asleep. I have nothing with me, no clothes, no food, and it is starting to snow. I walk barefoot along the road. I can’t see if my feet are turning blue, if my skin is rough with goose bumps, if my nipples are hard like pebbles. The roads are empty. There is no one to see my footprints in the snow. When a car passes, I stand still, the snowflakes falling around me and melting in the shape of a girl in midair. I hold my breath so no one can see the warm air inside me coming out.

  People don’t walk much in dreams. Is the journey a waste of the subconscious? Is it only the destination that matters? One minute you are in one place, and the next you are somewhere else. There is a seat on a bus, then a snow-covered road, then a chair in his bedroom. Connect-the-dots without the lines. There is me, invisible, waiting. There is his unmade bed and the horny boy’s bottle of lotion on the nightstand, the box of Kleenex. There’s the bookcase with untouched Nabokov, Joyce, Kafka, the AP English names he drops to impress girls like me. It smells like him, but not like him. There is something sour, something rotting.

  Then he is in front of me. It is him, but it is not him. He is older, less beautiful, somehow smaller, more frail. He takes off his jacket and walks toward me. He is looking right at me, into my eyes. I could lean over and kiss him. I could whisper, “I am here.” He hangs the jacket on the coatrack. I hold my breath. I wonder if he smells me. He looks a moment more, but only sees the corner behind me.

  The sun has set and there’s only a fuzzy blue tinge left of daylight. He turns on a lamp and it casts shadows through me. He kicks off his shoes, crawls into bed, and closes his eyes. I listen to him breathe until all the light is gone outside and everything is quiet. I watch him sleep until he’s dreaming, until his eyes are darting back and forth under his eyelids.

  I turn off the lamp and everything is dark. I pull back the blankets and crawl in with him, pull the blankets over me. He is naked even though he wasn’t before. I feel his warm flesh touching the places where mine should be, his arms around me, pulling me closer, his leg over my hips, his face under my chin, breathing my neck in, painting it with his hot, sour breath. I hear him groan, feel him hard against my stomach, his hands grabbing at any part of me they can find.

  But I know it is not me he is grabbing for. It is dark and I am invisible. He is asleep, and could be dreaming of anyone. But this has to be enough because it’s all I have. So I guide him inside me. His back arches and his hands grab blankets. I am on top of him, his hands on my hips, on my back, pulling me closer, his chest against mine. I can feel his heartbeat fighting mine, his nails digging into my back, his arms squeezing me closer like he wants to consume me, like he wants to destroy me. I would let him. I would let him eat me if he wanted to. I would let him do anything.

  I cannot tell if his eyes are open or closed. I cannot see anything, not his face, not his body, not his mouth, open and wanting. I can just feel his hot breath on my neck, his hands around my ribs. I can hear his small, deep moans, my own, our bodies moving between sheets, the headboard’s soft thump against the wall. These are the only sounds in the world. We are the only two people. There is nothing to feel except him inside me, his body against the hole where I should be. He is making me exist. His desire is tracing a shadow around me. Everything is touching and connected and glued together, the sweat making oceans across our skin. There is nothing to hear but his voice gasping my name, but it is not my name, it is any name, a blank space, and that is when we both come, when the world stops and turns black and nothing will ever be the same again.

  He collapses with a sigh and I am still on top of him. I cannot see him but I can paint his face on the darkness. My fingers move across his closed eyelids, his strong nose, his soft mouth. His breathing slows and he lets out a little whine as his hands move me off of him. He is done with me. He turns to his side and returns to sleep like nothing happened.

  I wash up in the dirty bathroom that smells like the worst parts of him. I am not surprised to not see myself in the mirror. I rub some toothpaste on my teeth, drink water from the faucet, feel it pass right through me. I hear an ambulance somewhere in the distance and the dream starts slipping away, and I know then that I’m not just invisible. I’m even less than that. I am nothing.

  Connor, can you imagine what it feels like to wake up and realize you’re dead? That you love someone who can’t even see you? I am tired, Connor. I am so tired I don’t want to wake up.

  Isabel

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Sunday, October 9—7:58 PM

  Subject: Re: nightmares

  Dear Isabel,

  You’re scaring me. If this is just one of your drama-queen performances where you make me worry for no reason, then I’m really mad at you and expect you to make it up to me with a care package of fresh-baked brownies and naked photos. If you’re serious, then I don’t really know what to say. Do you expect me to know what to say? Or is everything you ask rhetorical? What kind of conversation do you expect to have if you keep asking questions no one can answer?

  It was a dream, Isabel. That’s all. You woke up and now it’s over. Okay? You don’t need to cry anymore. That was fake and this is real and there are bigger problems than you being invisible, like war and famine and racism and homophobia and genocide and my American History paper due on Wednesday.

  I’m tired too, Isabel. Everyone is. You’re not the only person in the world, invisible or imaginary or dead or whatever else you can dream up. You’re not the only one who feels pain. Although of course yours is prettier and more eloquent than most, and your theatrics are far more compelling. I’d love to wrap myself inside your sadness and pretend it is mine. You could sell those tears of yours. What do you say we go into business? I’ll be the pimp for your sadness. We’ll make a fortune.

  Love,

  Connor

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Saturday, October 15—10:32 AM

  Subject: Re: nightmares

  Dear Isabel,

  Are you still sleeping?

  Missing you,

  Connor

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Thursday, October 20—8:42 PM

  Subject: Re: nightmares

  Isabel,

  WAKE UP!

  Please,

  Connor

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Tuesday, October 25—4:52 PM

  Subject: Re: nightmares


  Dear Isabel,

  I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I guess we can both be pretty selfish sometimes, both wanting all the attention, and it’s usually you who wins. I guess I resent you for that—for winning, for deserving it more than me.

  You’ve read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, right? Remember how the Indian guy was always talking about how big McMurphy was, not physically bigger, but big in a different way? That’s like you. You’re like my McMurphy. You’re wild and loud and you say everything I don’t have the guts to. You’re the one with the balls, and I’m just the puppy who follows you around, the stuttering kid who needs you to speak for me and make me strong. I can’t stand it when you’re weak, Isabel. It doesn’t feel right.

  I want to be big like you, Isabel. I want to be the one to get all the attention. I want someone to think of me the way I think of you.

  You weren’t serious, were you? About not wanting to wake up? Isabel, you are so much more than your pain.

  Please write back.

  Your devoted fan,

  Connor

  From: yikes!izzy

  To: condorboy

  Date: Sunday, October 30—2:12 AM

  Subject: Re: nightmares

  Dear Connor,

  I didn’t mean to scare you. You were right about everything. I make myself sick. I wanted to write, but I couldn’t. Nothing I could say was worth saying to you. It was all more of the same sad, self-indulgent crap spinning itself into knots inside my head. My laptop was sitting next to my bed and I knew you were inside, but I couldn’t bring myself to open it.

  Not worthy of your devotion,

  Isabel

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Sunday, October 30—11:06 AM

  Subject: Re: nightmares

  Isabel,

  Thank you for getting back to me. I was starting to worry. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help?

  It’s Halloween tomorrow. Do you need me to come over and protect you from ghosts?

  Boo,

  Connor

  From: yikes!izzy

  To: condorboy

  Date: Saturday, November 5—4:11 PM

  Subject: sorry

  Connor,

  You’re sweet. I’ve never met your dog, but I’m sure she’s sweet too. Just one big, sweet happy Connor family. I’m actually feeling better already. Sometimes I just get sad and melodramatic, and then I snap out of it. It must be PMS or the seasons changing or something. I mean it. Don’t worry about me.

  The ghosts didn’t get me. I spent Halloween watching reality television, which was even scarier.

  Apologies,

  Isabel

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Sunday, November 6—10:18 AM

  Subject: Re: sorry

  Dear Isabel,

  I’m glad you’re feeling better, but even if it’s just PMS, it’s really fucking bad, not-normal PMS, and maybe you should talk to someone about it. Like a doctor. But of course I can’t make you do anything. Especially over email. Maybe if I could TALK TO YOU ON THE PHONE I could talk some sense into you. Why do you have to be so stubborn?

  Exasperated,

  Connor

  From: yikes!izzy

  To: condorboy

  Date: Tuesday, November 8—10:45 PM

  Subject: change of subject

  Dear Connor,

  You’re so cute when you’re paranoid.

  How are things going with Emily?

  Isabel

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Wednesday, November 9—8:11 PM

  Subject: Re: change of subject

  Dear Isabel,

  I think that’s the first time you’ve ever asked me anything specific about my life. I’m touched. For your information, Emily’s fine. I think. That’s what she says, anyway, but I have learned not to trust anything that comes out of her mouth. I ended up being able to sever the faux romance, but not before a couple more clandestine meetings in the mist. Every time I think of her, I get a mix of shame and horniness. I imagine this is how Catholics must feel most of the time. Every time I tried to broach the subject of our not being compatible, or just wanting to be friends, or whatever excuse I came up with that sounded nicer than “I don’t find you particularly interesting and I don’t like you all that much,” she would get this little glint in her eye and whisper something in my ear that would make me completely forget the whole point of the conversation. It’s like she could sense that I was about to break up with her, and she went into stealth self-defense mode, which consisted entirely of distracting me with promises of sex. I am a horrible, weak person for being so easily persuadable.

  It finally ended when she started talking about having me over for dinner with her family. I had to draw the line somewhere, and I guess that’s where my tolerance for my own evil behavior gave out. The thought of sitting down to eat with people who love her and pretending to feel anything close to that for their one and only daughter—I am just not capable of that. So I said something like, “Emily, remember when I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship right now?” and she sort of deflated right there in front of me, and I thought for a second that I should take it all back, that I should pretend to love her if it meant she wouldn’t look so broken. But I was able to explain how it didn’t feel right for us to keep having sex, and it wasn’t fair to her, and I really like her as a friend, and I hope she doesn’t hate me, and then she said, “No, I don’t hate you. I wish I could, but you’re just too nice,” and I think I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, but somehow it feels like an insult.

  So I drove her home, and we hugged, and she didn’t look at me as she said, “See you later,” and got out of the car, and as she walked into her house this sad song started playing on the radio and it really started pouring, and it was so much like a movie I wanted to puke.

  So I am alone again. To emphasize this fact, Alice came over yesterday with a shopping bag full of stuff I left at her house. Two books, one dirty sock, a sweater, and a handful of condoms I picked up at the teen health center. “I won’t be needing these,” she said, and I said, “Me neither,” and she just rolled her eyes and stormed out the door like it was somehow my fault that she is the only single lesbian on Bainbridge Island below the age of forty.

  Lonely,

  Connor

  From: yikes!izzy

  To: condorboy

  Date: Sunday, November 13—12:14 AM

  Subject: Re: change of subject

  Dear Connor,

  Why are you wasting your precious time and superior intellect on these silly high school girls? Seriously, they’re beneath you. If you don’t watch out, your life is going to resemble a cheesy teen romantic comedy with a really bad soundtrack of two-minute songs by poseur-punk one-hit wonders. Please don’t let that happen. I don’t know if I could talk to you anymore. I know it sounds harsh, but sometimes the truth hurts, Connor.

  Concerned,

  Isabel

  From: condorboy

  To: yikes!izzy

  Date: Tuesday, November 15—9:27 PM

  Subject: turkey

  Dear Isabel,

  Thank you for your brilliant insight into possible movie options for my life story. I will take your comments into consideration. I’ll talk to my agent and get back to you.

  I just realized Thanksgiving is next week. Yay. Turkey.

  Why won’t it stop raining?

  Connor

  From: yikes!izzy

  To: condorboy

  Date: Friday, November 25—11:52 PM

  Subject: re: turkey

  Dear Connor,

  Sorry for the lapse in writing. I’m surprised you didn’t scold me. Are you losing interest in me? Figures.

  Let’s see. What can I tell you about turkey? Well, I believe my family has a unique reaction to the tryptophan. Rather than getting peaceful and s
leepy like most other humans, it makes us volatile and cranky. Case in point: Thanksgiving dinner. I have to admit, I had my hopes up. I should know better by now, but I can’t help the naive hope that someday my family will be functional. It was the first time we were all going to be together in months, my brother actually had a job, and my sister and her girlfriend were going to announce that they’re having a baby with top-of-the-line donor sperm—all good news, I assumed. But that would be someone else’s family. Mine doesn’t know how to do anything besides fight.

  I should have known something was off when Mom announced she was going to have the whole thing catered. Her official statement was this: “With the way things are going with the Rochester account, I’m just too busy to cook right now,” like anyone even expected her to cook in the first place, and like anyone even knows or cares what the Rochester account is. My dad said he’d cook, and I said I’d help him, like we’re doing all the time already, but she wouldn’t hear it. Something about “having the kitchen all tied up” bothered her. It didn’t make any sense. But I should be used to that by now. When she’s stressed out, sometimes she’ll just announce these new, weird rules that everyone has to follow all of a sudden. Like one time (I think it was the Billings account), she decided we needed to have a shoeless house, so everyone had to take their shoes off at the front door and wear slippers. That lasted about two weeks. Or another time (I believe it was the James account), three people had caught meningitis in Everett, which the local news declared an outbreak, so Mom wanted us to soak all of our dishes in bleach water after washing. We didn’t even attempt to do that one, so she pouted and wouldn’t talk to us for two days.