Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love Page 7

  Or maybe I wasn’t.

  A man stepped out of the car and approached the front door, unlocking and swinging it open. And not just any man. Dave. Your friend from the Calhoun pub who was planning to leave his wife and daughter for a Louisiana stripper.

  Although suddenly on high alert for what I felt was good reason, I remained still, keeping quiet and eyeballing him.

  He returned to the car and opened the passenger door, causing a person to spill out. You. Causing you to spill out. He picked you up in a fruitless attempt to make you stand and walk, failed, and slung you over his shoulder like a caveman. Then he trudged toward the door and I thanked the proverbial gods and good fortune that I finally knew your name.

  “Charlie!” I called, feigning a right to be there and crossing the lawn. “Charlie, what happened?”

  Dave froze and looked at me, bewildered and wearing a decidedly red-handed expression. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Charlie?” I peered behind him and saw you were either passed out or dead.

  “I said,” he grunted, “who the hell are you?”

  I stood up straight, trying to seem taller even though I already had about an inch and a half on the guy. “Put her down, Dave.”

  “Do I know you, asshole?”

  “Nope. But I know all about you, and if you don’t get out of here I’m going to call your wife and tell her all about your friend in Louisiana.”

  “You’ve got some nerve. I was just taking her home.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s all you were doing. Give her to me.”

  He didn’t give you to me. He dumped you not-so-gently on the grass and got back in his car. The gray cat bounded over, squeaking and rubbing his face against yours, before looking up at me. Once again, directly in the eyes or maybe I was just drunk.

  “It’s okay,” I said, and I must’ve been drunk because I’d spent more time that evening talking to your cat than anyone human. “I’ll get her inside. Go on in.”

  He scampered into the house and I picked you up. For dead weight, you were shockingly light. Disturbingly light. It seemed like your ribs would leave an imprint on my forearm and your LCLs felt like razor wire against the crook of my elbow.

  You were breathing, but I couldn’t shake the sense I was cradling a corpse. And between being partially buzzed and the neighborhood that seemed more than a little eerie in the dark, a chill rushed up my spine.

  She’s going to die, Seth.

  I froze as the hair on my neck stood up. I don’t know what said it. It wasn’t audible. It wasn’t an internal voice. But on some level, I heard it.

  I turned my head only enough to glance behind me. The branches of an ancient oak across the street waved at me as a gust rustled the leaves and the temperature seemed to drop.

  You can’t do anything to stop it. She’ll be deader than Jade. Dead like her dad. Dead like her aunt.

  At one end of the street a long shadow lurched across someone’s lawn. I shifted my eyes, searching for a person who might have been the source of it, saw that we were alone in the dark, and then looked down at your ashen face resting against my shoulder. Motionless. So corpselike that part of me wanted to drop you and run.

  She’s going to die, Seth. And you’ll just sit there and watch. You can’t help her. You won’t help her. You’ll just relay the aftermath. That’s what you do.

  I went in your house and as God is my witness I believed I’d waltzed right into the pit of Hell because your living room was black and red. The walls to the left were black; the walls to the right were red. Painted all the way up to the ceiling where the colors met in diagonal line that traversed the ceiling. Above the entrance to the kitchen was a sign; some kind of cheap Halloween decoration nailed to the wall.

  ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE

  I carried you into the back bedroom. In comparison to the lurid living room paint job, the pale blue walls made it seem like an oasis despite the piles of clothes and empty soda cans. I set you down on the bed and you still didn’t stir and I briefly considered Dave. Was Dave the type to slip something into a young woman’s drink? I have no idea, but I wouldn’t rule it out.

  I sat next to you and shook your shoulder. “Charlie?”

  You didn’t respond, but you were still breathing.

  “Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Reid,” I tried again. “I know all about your dad. I know about your Aunt Lynette. I know the girl in the hospital is Jade and she’s related to you. She’s a schoolteacher.”

  Nothing.

  I have to be honest. I thought about kissing you. What does that say about me?

  I comfort myself with the knowledge that I didn’t, I wouldn’t, and at the time I told myself the only reason I considered it was to attempt to wake you up. You were the one so hell-bent on me deflowering you, and I guessed it would stoke that desire and rouse you. And if it roused you, I’d know you were fine and I would have assuredly continued to tell you no.

  But I still thought about it.

  I comfort myself with the knowledge that I was probably a little drunk. That’s the only reason I noticed the shortness of your skirt; the only reason my eyes lingered on the skin of your thighs between your knees and the hem. I wouldn’t do that. Not to you; not to anyone. Dave would. That’s why he brought you here like this and dropped you on the lawn when I showed up. And I knew you didn’t want him. You wanted me. And I wouldn’t do that.

  But I thought about it. What does that say about me?

  It says something about me all right. And what it says is the reason all of this is going to haunt me, regardless of the outcome. I didn’t care about you. I couldn’t allow myself to care about you. Caring about you would deteriorate that necessary emotional distance.

  And whether it was me having thoughts about coaxing you into inappropriate physical closeness while you weren’t coherent enough to consent, or whether it was me invading your history for the sake of my work when I knew you didn’t want me there, that was the moment I realized I was selfish. I am selfish. You were suffering, you were troubled—just like countless other subjects I had known and attempted to not care about—and I pursued you for my own personal end.

  It’s pointless to apologize right now, but I’m sorry. I’m so, unbelievably sorry, Charlie. My regret and remorse are my hairshirt and I’ll wear it forever. But that’s not going to help you or me or us.

  I tore my eyes from your skin and picked up your wrist. Your pulse was slow. Not terribly so, but it still seemed like a bad idea to leave you alone in such a state and I told myself I was being responsible by staying.

  The bedroom door creaked as the gray cat entered the room and curled up next to your pillow. I propped myself against the wall, intending to stay up all night, but knowing I wouldn’t last much longer than a few minutes. My body jolted with a falling sensation and just before my eyelids weighed themselves shut, I heard it again.

  She’s going to die, Seth. And you’re just going to sit there while it happens.

  Hour Nine

  I awoke to the sensation of someone massaging my groin and my eyes flew open. I was alone—other than the gray cat. He was on my lap, kneading my thighs before curling up on me. My black trousers were now as gray as he was.

  “Sorry, brother,” I said, picking him up and plopping him on the bed. “We’re going to have to establish some boundaries. You can sit next to me, but you can’t sit on me.”

  He growled and hissed.

  I glanced around the room and listened for activity in the house. “Is Charlie here?”

  Squeak.

  I climbed off the bed and entered the living room. The black and red walls weren’t nearly as eerie as the night before, but the sign above the entrance to the kitchen was.

  ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

  “Charlie?”

  I went in the kitchen and found a small coffee pot and a mug with a post-it stuck on it.

  Good morning, Seth McCollum.

  1. I’m slightly ala
rmed that I don’t know how you ended up in my house.

  2. Since you’re here, have some coffee. I hope you like it black because I don’t have cream or sugar.

  3. You can use the shower if you want, but you have to use the wrench to turn on the faucet and all of my shampoo is lavender scented. The towel on the hook is clean.

  4. Don’t let Grey out.

  5. Lock the door knob when you leave.

  6. You’re even more cute when you’re asleep.

  I put the note in my pocket and peeled another off the stack.

  Charlie,

  My number is 214-555-0106. Please call or text me. I need to talk to you. Also, your friend Dave is a real piece of work.

  Seth

  I guessed proving I knew your name would entice you either to avoid me forever or spur you to call me to possibly chew me out. And if it was the former, I had every intention of coming back and waiting it out again.

  I stayed long enough to drink a cup of coffee and snoop around. There was a high-top table in the corner of the small kitchen, stacked to the sky with unopened bills and more legal advertisements. All with the same names I’d seen in the mailbox. The names for which I now had faces or information. Stephanie McBride was still kind of a mystery to me, though. As was Jade to a degree. Sister or cousin? My gut still told me she was your sister, and that day I was going to attempt to find out if I was right.

  There was another bedroom to the right of yours. The door was closed and while I was 99.9% sure the house was empty, I knocked anyway. Hearing no answer, I went inside.

  It was pitch black from the foil on the windows and I flipped on the lights to see the walls were deep navy; so blue they almost looked black. The room was hot as Hades, as the window unit had been turned off for God knew how long. It was slightly tidier than your room, but had piles of clothes in corners and the unmade bed was merely a mattress and box spring on the floor. There were half-unpacked boxes along one wall. A computer was set up on a desk on the opposite side of the room and an over-the-door mirror sat on the floor, propped against the wall. A curling iron and containers of makeup scattered the floor in front of it, as if Jade had just been there getting ready for work.

  The amount of dust on everything was conspicuous. Particularly on the computer monitor, because you had used that dust to leave a message with which I was familiar.

  NMWY

  Next to the monitor was a framed photo of you and a girl with a short, platinum blonde bob. You didn’t necessarily look alike, but you looked related. You were both smiling. You were both beautiful. You looked like nice, normal young women. Happy. Friendly. Fun. Charismatic. In fact, had I encountered the two of you looking like that out somewhere, I’d be hard pressed not to talk to you. It was clearly a different time. You were a totally different person. You were far less thin, your hair was a lighter, more natural shade of brunette, and there was no acute sadness in your gray-blue eyes, and I felt a pang in my chest when I read the kitschy, bubbly blue letters on the base of the frame that quoted a Disney movie.

  Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.

  I had to leave.

  I’m sorry, Charlie, but I need to leave. I just need a minute. Don’t do anything until I get back, okay?

  Hour Ten

  The elementary school was located in far south Fort Worth and smack in the middle of a long-established neighborhood. I arrived in the late afternoon and the school day appeared to have just ended, as there were buses lined up and kids were milling about with backpacks and carrying lunch bags. I slipped into the glass doors of the front office and leaned against a counter in front of a middle-aged redhead sitting at a desk.

  She peered at me above the purple rims of her bifocals. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, my name is Seth McCollum. I’m a reporter for the Dallas Morning News and I was wondering if I could talk to someone about a teacher who works here.”

  Her face pulled in with skepticism. “Just a moment, please.” Her nails struck the keyboard with a series of sharp clickity-click-clickity-clickity-click-clicks. She looked up at me again. “Do you have an ID, Mr. McCollum?”

  I handed my license to her and she studied both it and something on the screen for a moment before handing it back. “Who did you need to speak to?”

  “Just anyone,” I said, slipping the ID back in my wallet. “I heard about a teacher who was involved in a serious car accident last year and I was hoping to speak to someone who knew her beyond just a professional level.”

  She frowned as she removed her glasses. “You’re talking about Miss Ashton.”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a moment, please,” she said, drawing in a deep breath and sighing quietly before standing up. She knocked on the door of an adjoining office, disappeared inside, and reemerged a minute later with a statuesque woman who carried herself as if she were wearing an invisible crown.

  “Mr. McCollum?” the elegant woman said, extending her hand and I shook it.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Principal Esther Harrison.”

  “Nice to meet you, Principal Harrison.”

  She gestured into the office. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat behind the desk and I took the chair in front of it.

  “Mrs. O’Neil tells me you have a few questions about Miss Ashton.”

  “I do. I’m mostly wondering how much you know about her personal life, family, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about her personal life. She was a teacher here for almost three years, but she was always very professional. Very focused on her students. She never offered much in the way of personal information.”

  “She sounds like a great teacher.”

  Esther gave a strained smile. “She was a wonderful teacher. We loved having her.”

  “You sound like you don’t expect her back.”

  “Her sister tells us the medical team says the prognosis is bleak.” She pulled a tissue out of the box to dab the corner of one eye and then lowered her voice. “Even if she pulls through, there’s no way she’d ever be able to live the way she was used to. It’s just tragic.”

  “Very tragic,” I said, nodding somberly before pausing ever-so-cautiously. “So you’ve been in contact with Charlie regularly about Jade’s condition.”

  “Somewhat. She calls me about once a month or so to give me an update.”

  My gut is never wrong. Typically in those victorious moments of realizing I’m right yet again, I’ll punch the air, strut around like a peacock, maybe attempt to moonwalk, or what have you. But not right then. Right then, I found myself rubbing the fabric between the second and third buttons of my shirt in an attempt to ease an abrupt ache in my chest.

  “Charlie’s pretty young to be dealing with something so dire on her own,” I said. “Do you know if they’re close to their parents at all?”

  “From what I’ve gathered, their parents passed on a while ago.”

  “I see. How does she seem when she calls you?”

  “She doesn’t talk much. She mostly gives me the basic information and then tries to get off the phone. I can tell she’s trying to be brave. To act like it doesn’t bother her.” Esther sighed and leaned back into her chair. “You know, Mr. McCollum, I’ve got a daughter about Charlie’s age. I can see right through it. I let her know we’re here for her, but she says, ‘Oh no, I’m fine. Thanks Mrs. H.’” She shook her head and dabbed her eye again. “She’s the furthest thing from fine. She dropped out of school right before her program ended.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that about her. Do you know what she was studying in school?”

  “She was planning to become an EMT. I don’t know if the subject matter hit too close to home or if she was overwhelmed or if she’s just given up, but she was supposed to get her certification only a month after the accident.” She sighed loudly. “Bless her sweet heart.”

  “Hav
e you ever met Charlie or have you only spoken on the phone?”

  “No, just over the phone.”

  I nodded and studied my palms, finding for the first time ever during an interview that I was at a loss for words.

  “What is the nature of your article, Mr. McCollum?”

  I picked my head back up. “I um… I heard about the accident and decided to follow up with the story, so I contacted Charlie.” I shrugged. “I feel like she needs support from her community and telling her story is the only way I know how to make that happen.”

  I don’t even know if I believed the words that came out of my own mouth. And I don’t know if it was because of the voice from the night before or the realization it gave me about myself, but what I did know was I felt sordid. Debased not so much as a reporter, rather as a human. The entire reason I did all of the things I did for work was to make people care about other people—and I didn’t care about them. No. I couldn’t allow myself to care about them.

  If I allowed myself to really care about people like Shonda Sterling, who was rotting away in a shitty prison while her three children rotted away in shitty foster homes just because she made a stupid mistake in trusting her shitty boyfriend, or Isabel Perez, who potentially faced a life without her parents because of archaic immigration laws, or George Traynor, who lost his wife and son within the span of a single year, or you… I’d probably drink myself to death before my thirtieth birthday.

  It was a survival mechanism and it was necessary—but I still felt like a sleazy piece of shit.

  Esther nodded and smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. McCollum.”