Not Looking for Love: Episode 4 Read online

  I take the bottle from her because she's making a mess, expertly uncork it, splashing the table as I pour.

  She runs her finger over a drop and licks it. "Shouldn't waste any though, it was expensive."

  I double over, I'm laughing so hard.

  It's three in the morning when I wake up and the living room is spinning around me, wine sloshing in my stomach, making me sick. I wobble to the bathroom, taking two steps sideways for every one step forward.

  I throw up in the sink, just as I did that first night I came back here, back when I didn't even know it was Sarah making me sick. Back before I killed her, before I called Scott and he agreed to date me, hold me, make love to me, forgive me for being a bitch and a slut, a murderer. Only he never forgave me, not really, tossed me aside like I was a piece of trash the first chance he got. I take the phone from my pocket and write all that in a text.

  After I press send, I lay down on the cold tiles of the bathroom, the room spinning all around me, my head pounding.

  When I wake up again, I'm shivering and sunlight is streaming through the window, stabbing at my head like hot knives. I peel myself off the floor and stumble up the stairs. I have to throw up again when I reach my room. By the time I'm done with that and a cold shower, it's noon and I've missed half my classes, so I won't even bother going today.

  My bed still smells like Scott's cologne, I realize, and the pillows worst of all. I toss them all across the room, as far as I can fling them. Because the memory of the weekend he spent here is playing on a loop inside my mind. I feel his lips on mine, on my nipples, and heat is rising between my legs, filling my stomach and chest with an ache that I'll never get rid of for as long as I live. Not unless he answers my call. Talks to me. Lets me make it all alright again.

  I didn't bring the phone upstairs with me when I woke, because the battery was dead and I couldn't handle the hope that I'd find a missed call from Scott.

  I stumble out of bed and run downstairs, ignoring the nausea building in my stomach and the pounding in my head. Phillipa's in the kitchen, clutching a cup of coffee, her eyes still closed, but I only mutter a good morning and then I'm running back up the stairs, clutching my phone, plugging it in, biting my cuticles as I wait for it to turn on.

  There's a missed call from Gran and nothing else.

  I call Scott's number, holding my breath, every cell in my body willing him to pick up this time. He doesn't and I shudder as his voicemail message comes on.

  Please talk to me, I text.

  A minute passes, then five. After then I'm still staring at just my text and no reply from him.

  Come on. Please. I try again. Fifteen minutes go by, and no reply. Only I know he's seen the texts, that he's staring at them just like I am. I know it with a certainty that cuts right through any illusion my messed up mind might be conjuring up.

  The phone ringing makes me jump, but it's Gran again.

  "I'll come see you tomorrow," I say without giving her a chance to speak. "I have to go, I'm in class."

  I hang up before she says anything.

  Then I lean back against the headboard and type out a long text to Scott, telling him how much I need him to answer my calls and talk to me, how sorry I am for everything, how I'll never ask him to tell me anything he doesn't want to as long as he'll just call me back, take me back.

  My finger hovers over the send button, and the rational, smart Gail is screaming at me not to send it, not to trample all my pride that way. If he doesn't want you, he doesn't, and so we don't want him either, she's saying.

  But I press send anyway, because there's nothing else I can do.

  Only he doesn't reply. Not after half an hour, not after an hour.

  Phillipa sticks her head in once the sky outside turns a dark grey. "Want some dinner?" she asks.

  I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the screen.

  "OK, I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back soon," she says. "You'll be alright?"

  "Yes, fine," I say, finally meeting her eyes. I can't believe how firm my voice sounds, how collected, as though all I am is not lying in a pile of broken shards in the pit of my stomach.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Just after noon on Wednesday, I'm in my car driving across the state line to go visit my Gran. She's called me a total of ten times since Sunday night, each time certain she has but hours to live. If I hadn't gone through the same thing with her back when she first entered the retirement home, I might be more worried. Or maybe I'm just not worried because I hardly feel anything at all.

  Scott still hasn't replied to any of my texts. Probably for the best, since I sent one of them while I was completely drunk on Monday night and I don't even remember writing it. Not that what I wrote isn't something I'd say to him sober.

  But I've leapt right over the edge of the abyss now, and my energy to fight the raging black waters is receding, waning by the hour. My whole body tenses up as I drive through Westchester County, and no amount of deep breathing, or screaming along with the songs on the radio is helping.

  All I want to do is drive to Scott's house, make him talk to me, make him explain.

  At the retirement home, Gran is lying in bed, propped up by at least ten pillows. Her cheeks are rosy, and the light gleams in her watery brown eyes.

  She extends her hand towards me as I enter, fingers hanging loosely to the floor. "Gail, how nice of you to come."

  There's an unspoken finally in there somewhere, but it doesn't touch me, nothing does.

  "How are you feeling, Gran?" I ask and take her hand. It's warm and soft.

  "Marginally better, but the diarrhea still hasn't let up. They want me to lie down now, so I won't overexert myself," she says, her voice firm and strict.

  I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror on her nightstand. My hair is hanging down the sides of my face limply, and the bags under my red-rimmed eyes are so dark, I'm sure I must have smudged my mascara. Only I wore no makeup today.

  Gran's face softens and her lips are no longer pursed as she studies me. "Have you been eating properly, Gail?"

  I nod and pull my hair back off my face, fishing a rubber band from my purse to make a bun.

  "My poor Kathryn, I do hope she's in a better place now," Gran says and sighs. The mention of my mom causes hot prickly tears to ball up in my throat, but my eyes stay dry. I've cried so much these last few days I don't know if I have any tears left.

  "There's a lot of your father in you, Gail," Gran continues, still staring at my face. "But you have your mother's eyes."

  All I'm seeing is Mom's sightless eyes, gleaming with tears she will never shed again, as she lay dead on her bed. Maybe that's what Gran means, maybe my eyes are just as dead. I certainly don't feel any life inside me.

  I sit there for an hour or so, listening to her describing her various ailments, her fainting spells, her constipation and diarrhea problems, nodding along, asking concerned questions here and there, when I can get a word in.

  "I thought the funeral mass for your mother was very well presented, don't you? I just hope my funeral is just as nice." She falls silent after she says it. I'm still trying to figure out when she changed the subject.

  "I should have come to see you earlier, I'm sorry, Gran," I manage. It's what she wants to hear and it's the truth. "I'll come more often from now on, I promise."

  "Yes, please do," she says and rests back, closing her eyes. "I am so lonely here."

  "Come now, Gran," I say, trying to sound chipper and encouraging but failing miserably. "You have friends here."

  She waves her hand through the air dismissively, her eyes still closed. "Only the old and the infirm. We're all just waiting to die here."

  The thought racks through me like someone stabbed me in the stomach. But isn't that what we're all doing, just going through the motions, waiting to die?

  My hands are shaking and my heart is thundering in my chest, as though trying to belie the realization.

  "I'll be back soon," I m
utter and rise.

  Her eyes spring open, her gaze piercing me. "When?"

  "Next weekend," I say. "I promise."

  "Well, I'll see you then," she says and closes her eyes again.

  I'm still shaking when I reach my car. The sun has set and a mass of dark grey clouds is roiling overhead. There's only one place I want to go now. I'm so close to Scott here it's like a physical force has latched onto me, won't release until I drive to his house. He has to talk to me and he will.

  The windows of Scott's apartment over the bakery are dark. I park and turn off the engine, even pocket the keys. But I can't get out of the car, can't walk down the alleyway, can't spend another moment waiting for him in that cold stairwell. I've done that so many times already, and this is what it's brought me to. Loneliness. Rejection. Hurt and tears. Utter insanity. I should start the car and drive away, never look back, never come back, never think of him again.

  Are you home? I text.

  I wait ten minutes for a reply that doesn't come.

  Please, just explain to me why you are doing this. I will leave you alone forever if you do. I just want you to know how much you mean to me, and I can't imagine never seeing you again, or never speaking to you again. I'm sorry for all I've done wrong, and I'd take it all back. Please just let me make amends.

  I press send. It's the same thing I've written in all the other texts I sent him, more or less. And even if he doesn't reply, I know he's reading them, and that's almost like talking. Or at least close enough.

  It's full dark outside now and a light flashes across the screen of my phone. I press the button to wake it, certain Scott's finally written back. But it must have been just the headlights of a passing car, because all I see are the bubbles filled with my own pleading words.

  I'm cold and alone. I don't even feel like he's read any of my texts anymore, and it's like we're not even sharing the same world.

  Later, once the street grows silent and empty I finally start my car and drive back to Connecticut. None of the drive really registered, and another Gail, the one who doesn't give up, is still standing on the sidewalk by his house, because she can't accept it's over and probably never will.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Professor Harvey asks me to stay after class on Friday. He's frowning at me, his bushy white eyebrows meeting above his nose.

  "I had expected better work from you, Gail," he says, holding my test out to me. I scored 46 out of a hundred, which is the lowest grade I remember getting, except maybe on some physics test back in high school.

  I'm staring at the scuffed linoleum floor, my hands laced in front of me.

  "It's been a difficult few weeks," I mutter, more to the floor than to him. "But it's getting better."

  It's a lie. I'm still crying myself to sleep every night, and I'm not even sure if it's over my mom, Sarah or Scott. All the studying I try to do goes right past my brain, not even touching it.

  He clears his throat and lays my test back on the desk, smoothing it down. "Yes, well, I understand. Seeing how things are, I will let you retake this on the Friday before Thanksgiving break. It counts for 15% of your final grade, you know."

  I finally look up at him, hoping my eyes aren't glistening with tears. They probably are. "Thank you, Professor."

  I really just want to hug him.

  He clears his throat again and wipes his mouth. "Yes, well, just make sure you study for it this time."

  I nod, assuring him that I will, and push my way from the classroom through the throng of people already entering for his next class.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, going over my notes. The last thing I need is to flunk out of school. It's the only thing I have left.

  When I return home by eight, there's a note from Phillipa saying she's spending the night at Holly's, but we can do something tomorrow.

  I text her, telling her I'm going home for the weekend. Which I am, because I can't face the empty house tonight. It matches my empty heart too closely, and I'm not entirely sure I'm even still alive.

  "Gail, is that you?" Dad calls from the living room as I enter the house. He's slurring his words and the house smells like a dive bar, cigarette smoke mixing with booze in the air.

  "Yeah," I call back.

  He's standing in the hallway, his shirt unbuttoned all the way.

  "You should've called, I'd've made dinner," he slurs, walking up to me on shaky legs.

  I'm listening to the silence, hoping to hear my mom's raspy breathing, just as I used to every time I came home for the past year. Only I hear nothing, because she's dead and buried.

  "I ate before I came," I lie and walk past him to the living room, opening the French windows wide.

  He sits down on the couch with a grunt and lights another cigarette.

  "Should you be smoking so much?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

  He shrugs and takes a long pull, blowing the smoke out slowly. "I only have one or two in the evenings."

  The ashtray on the coffee table is overflowing and the pack next to it is nearly empty.

  I get a tumbler from the bar and pour myself a whiskey.

  He leans back on the sofa, watching me. "I'm thinking of selling the house. If you agree, that is?"

  My breath hitches in my throat. "Sell? Why?"

  "It's too big for me," he says. "But we could just close it up and then you can do whatever you want with it, later. I'm moving to the city, to be closer to work."

  I take a sip of my drink and let the silence drag. It's almost ten. Back when I was in high school and still lived here, I might be watching a movie with my mom right now, eating popcorn. Sometimes Dad would join us. Or, if I went out, the two of them would be watching TV right now.

  It's like Mom's in the room with us now. But she's just sitting there, silent and still, not laughing or talking. Because she didn't want to leave this house any more than either of us wanted her too.

  The cold seeping in through the open windows is chilling me to the bone.

  "So, what do you think?" Dad asks.

  "I'd like to keep the house," I say and see my mom smile. But it's a faint smile, because she knows as well as I do that this house will never be the same without her, never be my home again. "At least for now."

  "As you wish," Dad says and then we just sit there, each drinking our whiskey, sharing grief in silence.

  It's almost midnight by the time I finally find the courage to go upstairs to my room. The door to my mom's bedroom is shut, and for a moment on the stairs, I'm sure I hear her cough. It racks through me like an earthquake, and I run to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

  I drank too much, and the room is spinning in wide circles as I lie on the bed. And even though Scott's never been here, I imagine him lying beside me, staring up at the ceiling too, sleepless just like I am. I came here to be closer to him, I know now, and the realization turns my entire chest into a pool of cool water, longing and homesickness filling it like melting snow swells a stream.

  Sleep won't come, even after the room stops spinning and I've been lying on my bed motionless for hours. The silence is pressing at me, taking my air, making me feel like I'm the one buried six feet deep underground and not my mom. I'm listening for the sound of her raspy breaths, her grating coughs, so intently that every creak and crack of the house settling is amplified. But I can't stop, I can't close my eyes, can't drift off too sleep. I shouldn't be here, it's too soon.

  I don't understand this. Why won't you speak to me? I text after I can no longer feel Scott's presence in the world with me.

  It's past midnight now, but I know he reads it. He doesn't reply, yet I'm still finally able to close my eyes, forget my mom's empty bedroom down the hall, five doors down.

  A crash in the hallway wakes me. I'm on my feet and rushing from the room in a second, gasping for breath, my heart thundering, pressure rising in my head.

  Out in the hallway, Dad's crawling up the stairs, his eyes unfocused. I run to him an
d try to help him rise, but he's too heavy for me to lift.

  "Go back to sleep, Gail," he slurs. "I'm fine."

  I'm trembling so hard I can't even speak. He makes it to the top of the stairs and sits on the top step, leaning against the bannister.

  "What's happening, Dad?" I finally manage to ask. The image of him lying at the foot of the stairs in a pool of his own blood is so vivid in my mind that tears are trickling down my face. Only I don't sob or whimper. I'm just shaking, balling my hands into fists, nails pressed into my palms.

  He shrugs and looks up at me, but can't focus his eyes on mine.

  "It has to stop, Dad. You can't drink so much," I say, my voice firm like I'm not imagining my dad buried alongside my mom. Or maybe that's what's giving me strength.

  Tears are streaming down my face, flowing across my lips.

  "You're right. Of course you're right," he mumbles and manages to stand.

  I wrap my arm around his waist and help him to bed. Only now I'm scared to let him sleep, because he might pass out on his back and choke on his own vomit.

  I spend the night in the armchair by the window. He doesn't stir once, but each time my eyes close I jerk back awake, my heart racing, because what if he does, what if he dies, what if I'll be an orphan for real at twenty-two?

  "Gail," Dad says, shaking my shoulder gently. "Go to bed."

  I jerk awake, lunging to my feet. The sky outside is a pale grey and there's a sharp burning pain in my neck from sleeping sitting up.

  "Are you OK?" I ask.

  He nods and looks at the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

  "You can't drink so much, Dad. You have to stop. I can't loose you too." I'm sobbing now, crying again, because tears running down my face seems to be my natural state these days.

  He wraps his arms around me and the smell of whiskey wafting from him turns my stomach. He holds me tight, his shoulders shaking. "I will. I just need a little more time."