Left Drowning

I never give up on my brother. That at least should go on the “success” list. Without thinking about or pla

“Jesus Christ, Blythe. What do you want?” James grumbles.

“Sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you woke me up. It’s three in the morning.”

“Is it that late? Well, you’re in college, too. Thought you’d just be getting home.” I wait, but he says nothing. “How’s school? How’s the leg? I bet you’re getting stronger every day still.”

“School is fine, and knock it off with the leg questions, all right? You bring it up every time I talk to you. Enough. It’s as good as it’s going to get, which is shitty. Stop asking.” My brother yawns. “Seriously, just go to bed.” The clear irritation, the disgust, in his voice sears through me.

“James, please. I’m sorry.” Damn it. I can’t disguise the drunken edge to my voice. “We never talk. I wanted to hear your voice. See if you’re okay.”

He sighs. “Yes. I’m as fine as I can be. You sound like a disaster, though.”

“Gee, that’s nice.”

“Well, you do.” James pauses. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like this crap. You know that. Can you just… Can we do this another time?”

“I’m so sorry for everything. I need you to know that. To really know that. Things can be better for you. I want—”

“Don’t. Not now. Not again. We’re not having this fucking conversation again.”

“Okay.” I stare out the window into the dark. It’s late September in the wee hours, and I know what is coming. Nothing good. The same as it is every year. “Sure thing, James.” The ridiculous attempt at conveying a cheerful, nonchalant tone makes my voice crack. “We’ll talk soon. Take care, James.”

So that went well. Not that I should have expected better. Inebriated middle-of-the-night calls are sort of destined to fail. I know because I’ve made them before. What’s tragic is that after each dumb call to my brother, I resolve that the next one will go more smoothly. What sucks is that sober calls during the day aren’t any better; they always result in exchanges that are stilted and uncomfortable.

I sigh heavily, then turn on the flashlight app on my phone. I love that not only does it make normal white light, but it lets me select whatever damn color I want. I set the phone down on my bed, and it illuminates part of the room with haunting blue electronic light.

As I stand and shuffle to the small sink, my body feels drained of all its alcohol-fueled energy. It takes a few tries, but I eventually shove my long, messy hair into a knot on the top of my head. A few curls fall from the tie and hang by my face. I can’t look at myself because I ca

The water that comes from the tap is ice cold. Minute after minute goes by as I collect handfuls of water and toss them over my face. I don’t stop until there are no more hot tears to wash away.

CHAPTER TWO Important Gestures

Six o’clock on a Saturday morning is not exactly my preferred time to wake up. I glare at the clock. Well, there is nothing to be done. I am awake. My choice is either get up and deal with the day or stay in bed and spend the next several hours being sucked into the unpleasant and familiar vortex of racing thoughts, panic, depression, and listlessness that has dominated my life for the last four years. Better to get out of bed. As I blink into the dark, I am again hit with how tired I am and how little fight I have in me.

My lack of fight was clear enough yesterday when I met with my fifth, and presumably final, academic adviser, some woman named Tracey. A woman who seemed to think that reviving my career at this liberal arts college might be easy. She clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. Or maybe she forgot to factor in that I only have eight months to drag through until graduation.

I take a deep breath and wiggle my toes. At least I am not hungover, since I’ve stayed true to my vow and gotten through a whole twenty-four hours without drinking. It’s a nice change of pace. After that disastrous phone call with my brother two nights ago, I’m filled with regret over what I’m capable of while drunk. Not to mention how horrifying it was to meet with my advisor while dealing with the hangover of a lifetime. I’m quite sure that I left a pool of alcohol-laced sweat on the seat of her office chair.

I turn on the light by my bed and push the sheets down with my feet, again grateful that I do not have a roommate to growl at me for my odd hours. The yellow light shines over my body, and I involuntarily wince as I sit up and see my legs, which are covered in bruises from falling down while wasted two nights before. As a general rule, I give little thought to my appearance, but even I can see that it’s not just the bruises that make me look like a mess. My legs and bikini line are in dire need of a good shave. Upon further examination, I accept that I could probably stand to work out once in a while. Surviving on little food and too much beer and tequila is, unsurprisingly, not serving my body well. I tap my feet together and watch my thighs. They’re both bony and jiggly; it’s a super-attractive combination.

The shade that covers the one large window in my room retracts with hurricane force when I tug on it, and I flinch at the loud noise it makes. It’s still dark outside, but the act of opening the shade seems like something that people—normal people—should do when they get up. It’s an important gesture, and for some reason I think that today should possibly be a day of important gestures, if not actual co

After pulling on jeans and a hoodie, knotting my hair into a twist, and brushing my teeth, I stuff a few things into a backpack and head for the student union. If I hope to make any other important gestures today, I will need coffee.

Although it’s normally swarming with students, the union is empty at this hour, save for the unfortunate work-study victim who is behind the register at the café. “Coffee?” he asks.

I nod. “Two, please. Extra large. Black.”

He peers behind me.

“Yes, they’re both for me.”

I tap my fingers rhythmically on the counter as I watch him pour.

“Here you go.” He snaps a lid onto the top of each cup and swipes my student ID card.

I thank him and look around the room. Normally I sit by the wall near the emergency exit door, but since the place is so empty today, I decide to sit down in a chair in the center of the room and kick my legs up on the seat of another. The first big sip of coffee is so strong and bitter that it makes me cringe, but I know that by the fourth sip it will go down easier. Just like shots! I think.

I check my phone. It’s been two days, and still no message from James. Not that I expect one, really, but it is hard not to hope. Aha, I think. There it is again. Hope. Maybe one night he will call me after a college party, drunk and full of rambling, incoherent questions that symbolize everything that’s wrong with our hideously damaged relationship. All of a sudden, I feel like an idiot. Could there be a stupider thing to hope for? What I should want is for the two of us to have a sober, heartfelt conversation in which we work out all of our unspoken issues and wind up the best of friends. The way that we used to be. I grimace to myself. Like that’s go