I opened the door. Couldn’t stand right there, so I turned the corner and then realized there was a window, and they would see me from the dining room. I walked back toward Jake’s old room, fished out a cigarette, and then hit “mom” on my phone.
She picked up right away.
“Hey,” she said weakly.
“Hi.”
“Where are you?”
“We just got here.”
“How is it?”
“I don’t know, Mom, I feel so out of place.” The cigarette tasted so good. My body started to feel right as the nicotine hit me, but then I felt a little woozy from not smoking all day. I crouched down.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re just so nice.”
“So?”
“It’s weird. I don’t know what to say.”
“Raj wants to talk to you,” and before I could protest, my brother was on the phone.
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, Raj, it’s like, they’re like a normal family,” I said as I lit a new cigarette from the one I just smoked.
“You’re lucky. I bet the food is good. Mom couldn’t cook, so we’re having leftover lasagna and watching Colombo.”
“Yeah, it seems like there’s a lot of. .” and then I heard Mom in the background. “Tell her not to eat too much, she’s already gained so much weight.” Why did she always have to be awful?
“Mom says not to eat too much.”
“I heard.” I heard my mom again, “Potatoes, tell her,” and then she got back on the phone. “Don’t eat the potatoes, you know, carbs. Just eat some turkey and the vegetables.” You would have thought someone with her kind of medical problems would realize how silly something like counting calories was, but somehow after she got sick, she’d become even worse, like she was clinging to these little things as the last fringes of her mom-hood or person-hood. The whole thing was so depressing.
“Yeah, okay”
“Where are you?” Raj again.
“I’m out smoking a cigarette.” I put it out on the cold ground and stuck the butt back into the pack.
“You should probably go back in there.”
“Yeah, okay. Bye.”
He said good-bye. It could have been worse. I could have been with them. A small leafless tree stood in front of me. Another house, blue against the gray sky. Peter hated winter. He said it was like death all around. But there was something beautiful about this naked tree in the wind.
~ ~ ~
Samuel Beckett said, “Nothing is more real than nothing.”
I walked back into the house and took off my coat. I was covered in sweat, and the house was so hot it made it hard to breathe. I opened a window. I made my way to the plate of cheese we brought, and the crackers. Whenever I saw food, I felt compelled to eat it, even if I wasn’t hungry. Jake came in. I nodded, but he went in for a hug.
“Hey,” he said, looking at me, smiling. Jake could be so handsome it was almost startling. There wasn’t even any sexual tension between us because it didn’t feel like we were the same species. It was kind of a relief to hang out with people where you didn’t have to think about if you wanted to fuck them or if they wanted to fuck you.
“So, how’s it going?” I asked, stuffing my mouth. I started shivering again. Why did I have to wear the thinnest blouse in my closet?
“You’re still cold?” he asked with genuine concern. “Someone opened the window,” he said, and then went over and closed it. “Who would do that?”
That was when I should’ve confessed, but I didn’t. I couldn’t seem to get warm. I put my coat back on, and my scarf. I was shaking. My face hurt. My sinuses were congested. One day someone would pick up my skull and say, “This human has the worst sinuses I’ve ever seen. It must have been horrible to live like that.” Sweat poured out of my pits. I could smell the dope-sick stench. A kind of rotting.
“I’m so glad you finally met Sue.”
“Yeah,” I said. We sat there and smiled. Grace walked in. I hoped she couldn’t smell me.
“You’re still cold?” I realized I was standing with my arms around me, crouched over. I stood upright.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Did you open the window?” Jake asked her.
The front door opened. I braced myself to withstand a gust of wind. A middle-aged man wearing a snowflake sweater came in beside a short-haired woman in high-waisted light blue jeans.
“Jake!” The man slipped his arm around Jake.
“Hi, I’m Marcie,” the woman said. Aunt Marcie, Peter had mentioned her. The aunt who made that ratatouille Peter raved about.
“Hi, I’m Maya, Peter’s wife.”
“Well, it’s so good to meet you.” We smiled. It had been Peter’s idea to go off to Vegas and get married. I thought eloping would be like a fun weekend, but when I met his relatives, it felt like I was this mysterious woman they were all wondering about. “Darren,” the man introduced himself, smiling, his face friendly. “Wow,” he said. “It is so nice to finally meet you.” I smiled back. “So, huh, it must be, what, two years since the two of you got married?”
“No, about four.”
“Didn’t want to deal with the fuss of a big wedding, I guess?” he said, taking his gloves off and putting them on the kitchen table. The table had a plastic tablecloth on it.
“I guess that was part of it, but it was more like we thought it would be fun, you know?”
“Right, right,” he said, smiling, nodding, as if fun were something he had a working understanding of. Marcie stood and observed us.
It felt like Darren was the talk show host; me, the guest; and Marcie, our audience.
“We got married by Elvis,” I said. It was what I said every time I mentioned the wedding.
“Huh! How fun! I would love to see pictures,” he said, still smiling. I believed him. He really would have loved to see pictures.
“Oh, I don’t have any. We didn’t think to take any.”
“Yeah. .”
“We were pretty loaded,” I said. A moment passed. “I’m kidding,” I added.
Darren burst into laughter; Marcie, a cautious smile.
“Yeah, you guys just met that night, right?” Darren said, adding to the joke.
“Actually, we met there at the chapel.”
Darren laughed harder.
Peter and his father came in. Nervous, I smeared goat cheese on another cracker and stuffed it into my mouth. I wanted to throw up, and I was sweating again.
“So, what do you say, should I open a bottle of wine?” Rick said to Darren.
“Can I see it?” Peter said. I loved how Peter acted as if knowing wine was an actual hobby of his, when it was just like what watching porn was for a sex addict. The culture of wine, learning obscure cocktails, having just a beer. He was a fucking alcoholic.
“I say, sounds like a great idea,” Darren said. Peter walked over and put his arm around me, which made me uncomfortable. I hated the way he was always touching me. My stomach cramped. I was going to have the runs.
There was only one fucking bathroom, and someone was in there, taking forever. You couldn’t say, “I seriously will shit myself if you don’t stop fucking touching me.”
On the toilet, I doubled over in pain. I wanted to fucking die. When I stood up, my vision darkened. I sat back down on the toilet lid. I closed my eyes. Did I need to puke or shit? Did I need more Suboxone, or had I taken too much? I stood up. Shit on the floor and puke in the toilet, or puke on the floor and shit in the toilet? I lay down on the cool tiles with my eyes closed. Get it together. Grow up. Get it together. Darkness. Self-loathing. Regret. I was an addict. I wasn’t an addict; I was just in a fucked-up situation. I was going to end up homeless. Everything would be fine. I needed to use a lifeline. I needed to ask the studio audience. I needed to phone a friend.