She's Lost Control, Page 7

  “Entertainment?”

  I dug my laptop out of my bag and lay it on the desk.

  “Some ghost tour came into the lobby and then the bar. Don’t you remember? We did one of those, geez, ages ago. I think we were still dating.”

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  Eric had selective memory. He only remembered what he wanted to.

  “Don’t you remember? We did one with my brother and that one girlfriend of his.”

  “Sorry,” he shrugged. “Anything interesting you hear from the tour?”

  “Just classic Chicago hauntings, and thank goodness we’re not staying on the twelfth floor,” I said sarcastically, “because there’s some godawful room that’s sealed off.”

  “Do you hear that?” he said.

  “No.” I was typing away at my keyboard, and my phone continued to vibrate. “I can’t believe I forgot about this stupid project they assigned me to. Like I don’t already have a ton of projects at work. How am I supposed to get any of this done? When am I supposed to sleep? Eat? Live? It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s getting louder.” Eric stood up, and at the window he pulled back the curtains. The room faced a brick wall.

  “Still more sirens,” he said.

  “It’s Friday night in Chicago. What’d you expect?”

  I yawned and then looked at myself in the mirror. Exhaustion made it so that I no longer recognized myself.

  “How many hours of sleep did you get last night?”

  “Barely four. My fitness tracker told me that this morning.”

  “I never thanked you,” he said. “For putting up that wallpaper. I know I should have done it . . . ”

  “It’s up. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “What do you think? Are you happy with it? It’s black wallpaper.”

  There were things in that wallpaper nobody but me knew, or would ever know. “It’s wallpaper.”

  I hit send on the email and exhaled. “I think I actually have a few minutes to breathe.”

  “I got you a present,” he said.

  Eric never got me presents. Valentine’s Day. Anniversaries. Never. He said what was the point when we got things for each other all of the time. By things I think he meant that huge house we bought that I wound up rehabbing by myself.

  “I got you a few of those fizzy bath things from that place you love so much,” he dangled the bag in front of my face.

  I looked inside. “Lavender bath bombs. Wow. It’s like you’re forcing me to relax.” I wish he had done this before, things like this. It would have made things much better if he had helped. Things could have been different.

  “Yes, and I’m serious. You do too much. You really need to relax.”

  I couldn’t relax. Not now. Not ever. “Who’s going to live my life if I don’t live it?” I felt a sting behind my eyes. I blinked back tears. I wasn’t going to allow myself to cry.

  “It’s okay if you can’t do everything. Work can wait. Your parents. The house. Maybe you just need to focus on you for a little bit.”

  My phone continued vibrating. “I can’t deal with this anymore.”

  “Just turn it off.”

  For the first time in a long time I did just that. I reached for my phone and I turned it off. I put it in my bag and promised to never look at it again.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “It’s just . . . fine. I’ll be fine,” I lied. “I got promoted. I should be happy, but how long did I have to wait to get promoted? There are people ten, fifteen years younger than me that have made vice president, that are better daughters, sisters wives, freelance artists, mothers . . . ”

  “You can be all of those things,” Eric said.

  I thought of that undulating wallpaper in the moonlight and how alone I felt. How physically exhausted and in pain I felt. I was none of those things that Eric said, and I would never be. No matter how hard I worked. No matter what I did I was not as successful as I needed to be, wanted to be. I was not enough for everything I needed to do.

  “I have a studio in the basement I haven’t touched since we bought the house.”

  “But the wallpaper . . . ”

  “The wallpaper stains everything it touches. My clothes are stained. My hands. I’ll never be the same, because I can’t sleep.”

  I stood up and felt my body scream in pain. “I’m just mad. I thought I’d have more right now. I’d have more together, and I feel like nothing’s good enough. Like I’m not enough. No matter how hard I work. No matter what I do. I’ll never be good enough, and I’m just so tired, and sleep’s just getting in the way of me doing all that I need to do . . . Shit . . . ”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Did we lock the doors to the house?”

  “I don’t think that matters right now,” he said.

  My computer pinged.

  “Don’t answer it. Your boss can wait. Go, take a bath,” he opened the door to the bathroom. “This is your time to finally relax.”

  In the bathroom, I started the water running. I set the temperature as hot as would be tolerable. My body ached. My head, arms, shoulders, hips, feet, everything ached this intense heavy ache as if my body had been taken apart and put back together, but just slightly off.

  “You sure you don’t hear that? That noise. It’s driving me nuts,” Eric shouted from the other room.

  “I’m sure it’ll stop soon. Just turn the TV on or something. Ignore it.”

  When the water had reached a comfortable level, I dropped the bath bomb in the water. The packed ball of Epsom salt, essential oil of lavender and light purple coloring fizzed, making this silent, soft hiss. I took my clothes off and set them on top of the shelf. Beside the tub I set my toiletry bag. My feet touched the water and it was hot, but satisfactory. I allowed my body to sink into the tub.

  My muscles tensed.

  It was as if I was physically incapable of relaxing. Even surrounded by steaming hot water in calming oils every fiber within me refused to be at ease.

  “Tell me about that sealed-off room? What’s so horrible about it?”

  “Some mother went mad. Pushed her children out the window and then committed suicide. She was alone. Depressed. No one seemed to help her when she needed help the most.”

  “What do you think about kids?” Eric said just outside the door.

  “I think that I’ll be the one taking care of them, just like I take care of everything else and everyone else. Plus, I barely sleep now. I’ll never sleep.”

  “You act like I don’t help out.”

  “You do, sometimes. I mean . . . ” I splashed some water on my face. “I just don’t know. How can we be parents? We just bought that house…”

  “The house is huge. That room is perfect for kids.”

  “When will I ever sleep?”

  “We’ll take turns,” he said.

  I laughed. I laughed so hard I knew it hurt him. I wanted to hurt him. “Take turns? You say that, but that’s not what you did. Did you?”

  He didn’t answer my question.

  “Do you hear the sirens?” His voice sounded distant.

  I heard them now.

  “Eric, are they getting closer?”

  He remained silent.

  Maybe he had fallen asleep.

  Just like Eric, to tell me that he cared, that he would help, just like he told me he would help with the wallpaper and he didn’t. I put up the wallpaper in the nursery all by myself. When we brought the baby home, I’m the one who stayed up all night with the baby, feeding and changing. I was the one who would go to work all day on three hours of sleep, or less, and do it all over again, feeding and changing, and then there was the wallpaper.

  I was tired.

  I was angry.

  I was in pain.

  That pattern haunted me. When I tried to pull the wallpaper off and it wouldn’t break away, that’s when I laid the baby down in its crib, went downstairs and got a lighter.

&nbs
p; There was a pound on the door to the room.

  I sat up straight in the bathtub.

  “Eric, did you hear that?”

  I reached for a towel, but I knew it was too late. I remained in the tub.

  “Do you smell that?” I heard him say.

  I did. It smelled like something burning.

  In the next room a baby wailed.

  There was another series of knocks at the door. Pounding. This time more urgent.

  “Eric,” I whispered, but I knew he wasn’t there.

  There were more knocks at the door, as if two people were banging on the surface. Then a man’s voice outside the door called my name. “If you don’t open the door we’re coming in!”

  I heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie just outside. “Yeah, she’s holed up in a hotel room. We’ll get her out.”

  I reached for my toiletry bag and leaned back against the tub. I removed the straight razor blade from its casing. There was another series of pounds. A warning that they had a keycard and would be entering. I would be arrested.

  My name being called. Always my name being called. Always someone looking for me to do something for them.

  Eric and this hotel. This hotel and this city. This city and me. All part of some tragedy. Some great Chicago fire.

  I drew the blade first across my right wrist, digging deep into the flesh, feeling the tiny bones in my wrist like thin chicken wing bones snapping. Then the pop of my veins as I submerged my hand under the water. A spray of red. I repeated this to my left wrist and closed my eyes.

  I listened as the baby cried.

  I listened to the sirens that were awaiting me not only outside of the hotel room, but were now approaching my house. Now engulfed in flames.

  My husband asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, ten sleeping pills I slipped into his afternoon coffee. The wallpaper in the nursery, burning blacker and curling back on itself. The baby, just weeks old, screaming in its crib for me, everybody screaming for me, always needing me to do something for them, screaming for me . . .

  ORANGES

  H.B. Diaz

  THREE.

  That’s how many steps Dr. Crowe takes into my room before folding his hands behind his back and surveying me. One. Two. Three. Survey. At this distance, he can both examine me and flee should I become unruly, which I do often according to my chart. At this distance, I can read his nametag, little block letters set atop a logo that says: Wayview Psychiatric Institute. Blue birds’ wings wrap around the words like an embrace.

  There’s a guard posted outside the room that I’m not supposed to see, but he pokes his head around the door to catch a glimpse of me on Tuesdays, because that’s the day that the seizures come. That’s what Dr. Crowe calls them. He says that I’m sick, but I don’t feel sick except sometimes in the morning after he gives me my medicine. Today, my shoulder hurts, but I cannot remember why.

  My memory isn’t what it was before. It only seems to record the Tuesdays here, maybe because nothing worth remembering happens between them. I do not remember Wednesdays, or weekends, or dressing for church. Tuesday is visitation day, when I get to see my son. Sometimes, I tell him scary stories and we play Old Maid with the deck of cards I got him for his birthday. I even share the orange that I get at lunchtime. Oranges are his favorite, so I always ask for two.

  “How are we today, Christine?” Dr. Crowe asks.

  His voice has crystals in it today, the kind that grow on sand buckets after you get home from the beach. The salt burns my eyes.

  “Why are you crying, Mommy?” I turn to the voice. He’s sitting on the bed, like always, waiting for me. I forget about the doctor.

  “Mommy’s not crying, honey,” I whisper, but I can feel tears spilling down my cheeks. His hair, sandy-blond like his father’s, is dripping wet. I wonder if it could be raining outside. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the rain. The room smells like the sea. Maybe he’s been swimming.

  “Where’s Daddy?” He looks up at me, his eyes like little moons eclipsing the room. I forget where I am. Water rushes in all around me. I must answer the question. I feel it surging up in my chest and crashing, crashing, in a great spray of lifeblood, but I cannot. I do not know where his father is. I cannot answer.

  “Where’s Daddy?” He’s crying now. The waves slam against my legs, washing the blood away. It swirls into the sea, sinking, sinking. Food for the fish. The ocean stretches on forever into darkness and I walk forward, deeper.

  The body, heavy and lifeless, floats face down in the water. I can’t see who it is, but I do not feel afraid. I feel instead that I’m on the edge of a canyon about to fly, but I cannot. I am tethered here, to this carcass, to this earth of slate and cold. The rope in my hand falls slack, and then tightens again. Slack. Tight. Again and again as the waves move past us. My son is in my arms, clinging to me. Crying. Always crying.

  “Hush!” I yell above the crashing of the sea, but he cannot hear me. I can’t bear it! He points at the corpse with snot hanging from his nose.

  “Daddy,” he says. I nod my head, wishing to cast him away. I long to be free of his tiny, filthy hands, always grabbing and pulling and pointing. He asks for his father, and so I drop him into the water and heave the body over onto its back so he can see. There is a hole where my husband’s face used to be, where the shotgun pellets blasted away the flesh, and that little dimple that I used to like. I remember it now, the trigger, harder to pull than I thought. The pain in my shoulder ricochets into my fingers, stinging like sea nettles.

  I let go of the rope and turn away. There is nothing here for me, nothing in this vast expanse of emptiness. Freedom feels like cracking, like my skin splitting apart to let me out. I can see the shore, and the waves carry me toward it. When I wash up on the sand, I feel beautiful, like a mermaid, but I’m cold. I watch my husband’s body float out beyond the breakers. My son’s tiny head bobs up and down in the water, his sandy hair stuck to his forehead. He reminds me of a koi fish, the kind you see in the Japanese restaurants, gulping and gulping and gulping.

  “Don’t restrain her!” someone yells, but it sounds far away. I’m shivering, so I dig my toes into the dark sand and the salty water bubbles up over my feet. There are hands on me, all over me, dragging me backward. I’m not afraid. I don’t really even feel cold anymore.

  The sea has swallowed my son.

  Maybe he’ll want his orange next week. I’ll save it, just in case.

  THE VAULT

  Hannah Litvin

  CYBIL SAT IN a sun-filled coffee shop on an autumn afternoon with nowhere to be. The cafe was peppered with mismatched chairs, “vintage” coffee mugs curated by Goodwill, and a book-lined reading room inside what was once an armored vault. Fragrant bouquets of cinnamon brooms were positioned in corners in oversized tin milk jugs. Fall was intoxicating, spilling easygoing families, cute couples, and warm wool scarves wrapping rosy child cheeks everywhere. She wondered if she looked half as desperate as she felt this time of year. Her whole frame would rise anytime she noticed being noticed by someone, and then fall, as their gaze glazed over and through her.

  At a table to her left two girls appeared to be catching up after a year of absence.

  Cybil thought about Karen, her best friend from college. The long nights in the painting studio fueled by burnt coffee and Red Vines. Once graduated, neither continued making art until sunrise. Cybil moved away, while Karen stayed put and found Jesus. As Cybil bounced from state to state, the routine remained the same: move, fall in love with someone and befriend their friends, break up with them, and move again. She called herself the human pachinko ball. Other people called her a ghost.

  Cybil’s eyes were drawn to a busy bulletin board on one wall of the cafe. There was a table right up against the wall, and an elderly couple sat together enjoying tea, with three earwax-tinted prescription bottles sitting on the table between them. She tried to examine the flyers from afar, without appearing to stare. The couple seemed to notice, and th
e old man winked at Cybil. She went to examine the board up close, leaning over the small table, and offered an apology to the old couple for crowding them.

  “Pardon me, I just . . . the ads here.”

  The elderly couple ignored her and continued their tea-time conversation. She shrugged and leaned closer, inhaling traces of cottage cheese and cherry cordials, the hallmark scent of bodies quitting on the inside before the brain gets hip to the plan.

  Leaning on the table for support without looking down, Cybil clumsily knocked one of the saucers. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.” She lifted her palm off the china and braced herself for looks of disgust to match their breath. As she looked left, then right, no one was there. The saucer and prescription bottles were unaccompanied. As she examined the bottles this time, they were blank, labelless, like props.

  Confused but annoyed, she put her purse down on the table and looked back at the bulletin board, unsure why, but unable to look away. She searched aimlessly, scouring through senseless adverts for babysitters needed, guitar lessons, and Lamaze for single mothers-to-be. An odd, postcard size, purple-gray card stuck out, tacked at the top left corner of the board, an easy sixteen inches above eye level. The flyer read:

  The Vault Secondhand Friends Club: Never Feel Alone Again. Meeting now inside the vault.

  Cybil read it three times to try to make more sense out of it. Meeting now? Curious. She picked up her purse and walked to the reading room. The door was almost closed, but a sliver of light shone through the crack. Hearing voices from within the vault, she slid the door to the left with all her strength, ducked inside, and quickly pushed the door back to its almost-closed position behind her and exhaled.

  Inside, the voices stopped and she stood staring at an array of television sets. The TVs sat ratchet-strapped on carts, like in school, when teachers’ aides rode them through the hallways. On each TV screen sat a stranger in a green-screened studio, hands folded in their lap or gesturing in front of their face. The videos were all paused, seemingly mid-sentence, the screens flickering edgeways with static. A bigger TV sat in the center, paused on a title screen that read “The Vault.” The remote on the cart had a bright green sticky note on top of it that read “Hit Play.”