ONE
(Advanced Review Copy)
Uber Dave eyed me in the rearview mirror with a sad hangdog expression that whimpered, Why me?
“Can’t you drive any faster—any damn faster? I’ll give you five stars. That’s what you want, right, five gold stars? For the love of God, can you please just hit the gas?”
The engine growled and the car accelerated but not fast enough to send those all-important feel-good hormones coursing through my brain.
“…and a huge tip.”
The speedometer needle rolled left to right—ten miles over the posted limit. The rear tires chirped quietly as he swung the wheel to avoid a cavernous, take-out-the-front-suspension-sized pothole.
Better, I thought. Take a deep breath. Jana’s not going anywhere. They hardly ever take the poor girl outside for fresh air. I settled into the back seat, drew a deep breath, and felt my tension ease a smidge.
Uber Dave’s car was one of those entry-level imports. The backseat was rigid and unforgiving. The seams on my Coutil bodice cut into my shoulder blades and the front passenger seat was ratcheted most of the way back to accommodate a massive plastic cooler, leaving me minimal legroom. What’s he carrying in there? Is someone in an upstate New York hospital being prepped for a lung transplant?
Listen to me making a stink like I was more important than anyone else.
I was supposed to be cured of that. My dad was ex-military. He didn’t like complainers and often made it clear that whining was an unattractive trait in a man or a woman. But the way I see it, I had every right to bitch on the worst day of my life. Desperate times, desperate measures—isn’t that what they say? That’s why I’d hijacked Uber Dave for a seventy-five-mile drive up the New York State Thruway, frantic for an explanation as to why a red-hot poker had been rammed straight through my heart.
I’d only met Nas’s younger sister, Jana once. I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me—if she’d even know who I was. Introducing us was something Nas felt he had to do because she had always been everything to him. She was his kid sister and had kindred spirit before I came along. It was important to him that she sign off on our relationship, place her visa stamp on my passport—yes, Gwen Winter, your papers are in order. You can come across the border but don’t forget, I’ll be watching.
Can I really? Though I sought her approval, I was snickering on the inside. I’ll let you in on a secret, Jana, your brother already penetrated my air space—not once, but often—as often as he damn well pleased.
Where are you, Nas?
Where the hell did you go?
Are you okay?
“Give him the benefit of the doubt,” my mother said. “Maybe he—” “Maybe he what?” Was he kidnapped by aliens? Pistol-whipped, tossed into the trunk of a black limo, and buried in a shallow grave? What could possibly justify what he did?
I couldn’t stop worrying, Is he alright?
“I think the speed limit is higher on this portion of the road,” I said.
“No ma’am, it hasn’t changed.” Uber Dave tapped the gas pedal just enough to keep me quiet.
I pulled a folded hundred-dollar bill from the small sleeve of my iPhone case, crinkled it, and dropped it on the front passenger seat. “I. Don’t. Care. Go faster.”
He glanced at the Benjamin as it settled on the fabric-covered foam rubber seat cushion, then back in the rearview mirror. He looked wild, caged-beast wild, I-have-to-get the-hell-out-of-here wild. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not allowed to accept cash tips and I’m not losing my license just to get you to your destination a few minutes faster. There are patrol cars all over the thuway.”
“Seriously? I can run faster than you’re driving—in my heels.”
“What?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”
If I can’t wring Nas’s neck… Uber Dave’s was so close. All I had to do was reach over the seatback. I could almost feel his neck in my hands, the white gooseflesh under his crisply manicured beard.
Uber Dave flipped the lid and reached into the oversized transplant cooler. No human organs thank God. He handed me a bottle of icy cold Poland Spring water. Condensation instantly formed on the outside of the bottle. I didn’t know whether to be appreciative or feel insulted. I accepted the water all the same. “Can’t say I blame you. It’s a safe bet I’ll do less talking less with a bottle in my mouth.”
“No, ma’am, I’m just trying to make you as comfortable as possible. Please try to enjoy the ride. The trees are in full bloom.”
Of course, they are. It’s spring and the pollen Geiger counter is in the red, nuclear. I had to knock down a double dose of Allegra just to make it out the front door. “Nothing stronger?”
“Excuse me? What?”
Hooch, you weirdo. It’s a joke? “I’ve had a lousy day. A terrible, shitty day. On a scale of one-to-ten? About a billion.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. I kind of assumed—”
“Never mind.” He knew exactly what had happened. Nothing could’ve been more obvious. Two in combination with any number in the world equaled four.
I pressed the cold cylinder against my forehead and watched the next road sign come into view. Shoot! I thought we were closer than that. Mile markers sped by. Being the lunatic I was, I counted them as we passed, “One, two…” Each subsequent too-long-to-arrive mile marker pissed me off all the more.
“I’m going mad back here.” I’m stuck in this subcompact shit box trying to figure out what the hell happened to my life, and it feels like we’re standing still. “Wait until I get my hands on you, Nasir Zia. I’ll tear your fucking heart out.”
I saw Uber Dave’s eyes flash warning in the rearview mirror—Mayday! Mayday! Uber Dave to the lifeboats. “Ma’am, why don’t I pull over at the next rest area for a few minutes. Give you a chance to walk around and get some fresh air. Sound like a good idea?”
“Please, just drive.” Uber Dave didn’t deserve the me I was in the back of his car, the irrational lunatic, the girl who hated everyone and everything.
But I had to know what happened to Nas.
And God, despite it all, I hoped he was alright.
Condensation from the water bottle dripped onto my bag and I remembered
I had a small pill vial with Xanax inside. Seconds later, the water bottle was empty. I’d swallowed two of the peach-colored beauties, popped the little buggers like Tic-Tacs.
Focusing on the passing mile markers became impossible as my vision became hazy. Stomach empty, the sedative hit me quickly. I floated away, out of my body and out of the car. I felt as if I were slipping into a warm bath. Eyelids heavy, the waterline rose, covering my face. The notion of drowning seemed as inviting as a loving caress.
***
I remember being awestruck by my sister’s regal glow on her wedding day, by her jubilant smile. Alana’s glow radiated through the temple, touching everyone, warming hearts like rays of the sun’s aurora at daybreak. Adoration gleamed as she walked down the aisle, she was so deeply in love with her Jack and always had been.
And what girl wouldn’t be?
He was that guy, the one every girl wanted, gal pals, BFFs, and younger sisters alike, every horribly jealous one of us.
He was absolutely that guy for me, the one Alana had found first, the one she took off the market leaving me for dead.
I was three years behind my big sister through high school, again through college, and always would be throughout life—too young and too inconspicuous for Jack to take seriously, To notice. If he noticed me at all. Sure, Alana brought me out with them sometimes when she saw how desperate and lonely I was but it was akin to taking a dog along for a run on the beach. Get in the car, Gwen. Good girl. Good girl. We’ll toss a ball, scratch your belly, and take you home for a nice snuggly nap.
I was what my dad might’ve called an also-ran. He was always direct and never did the condescending walking-on-eggshells dance around me. Not like the others. There was this shuck-and-jive way of speaking, many used when around me, measuring each word with a micrometer so that I wouldn’t take a nosedive from my precarious perch.
And crash.
It was predictable—the way most reacted to broken people. To me.
Poor little Gwen. Don’t stress her out. You know what that will mean, an emergency session with Dr. Cooper and yet another change of medication, months of her barely clinging to life, and a drop of two dress sizes. Her poor parents, those nutritional supplements must cost an absolute fortune.
As if I wasn’t gangly before, after a period of deep depression my knobby knees looked like a pair of garden snakes had swallowed plump mice and were struggling to choke them down. It meant every one of my short skirts in the trash.
Was I ever going to fill out? Fully grown and still a stick. No ass. No chest. One particularly dickish high school guy used to call me Surfboard.
And all the while I knew I was being an A-hole because big sis was a saint. More than a saint, she was an angel with spun silk for hair and dewy brown eyes that drank away my pain—always there when I needed her, tempting me with treats, stroking my hair, whispering words of encouragement. And the hugs. She gave the best hugs, bar none. It was as if she was inside me, permeating me with her strength, holding me up when I didn’t have the will to stand on my own.
Is it wrong to be envious of someone you love, a sister who placed my well-being above her own? Yeah, of course, it is. It’s human nature and to be human is to suffer. Check Nietzsche on that one. It was as if old Friedrich had been writing about me, as if we shared a flat back in 19th century Germany and he observed my routine every agonizing day of my life.
If only there wasn’t Jack, handsome, perfect Jack, charming Jack, helping-old- women-across-the-street Jack. If only Alana and I were on equal footing, without hunky Jack between us.
Not that I wasn’t happy for her.
I was.
Of course, I was. Jealousy is one thing, sociopathy is something completely different.
Or so I told myself, over and over again to prove that my feelings were genuine. The happiness they shared was so overwhelming it just wasn’t right—wasn’t fair. Or maybe I was the one who wasn’t right. Another weekend to endure, yet one more in an endless procession of weekends, approaching noon and still in bed. No place to go, awake for hours, starving, trying to pry myself off the mattress, and all the while Alana’s picture-perfect wedding is stuck in my woodblock of a head. She’s on the altar with Jack beside her. He can’t take his eyes off her as their precious marriage vows are spoken, words meant to bind them, two as one. The crowd of witnesses is on its feet as the recessional plays. And now it’s Alana who’s torn between dividing her attention between the onlookers and her brand-spanking-new husband. That connection in their eyes—iron-forged, unbreakable, and meant to last a lifetime.
Can’t she look away? Not even for a moment? You’ve already got the wedding band on your finger. Would it be so terrible to acknowledge Aunt Agnes and Uncle Morris? They drove all the way from Lima, Ohio to the Big Wormy Apple just to be with you on your special day, hundreds of miles of driving in their sun-faded gold Buick just to see how in love the two of you are. Aren’t they worth a fleeting glance? Can’t you show them one damn smidgeon of appreciation?
You’re holding his hand, his formidable hand. He’s not going anywhere, not now, not ever. He’s not going to vaporize if you turn your head. Still, you can’t keep your eyes off him because he’s just too good to be true. You’ll be locked in his arms tonight—tonight and forever. Give Agnes and Morris two seconds of your time, would you? They’re over eighty. What else do they have to live for?
How close do two people need to be?
Oh, I left out the best part, the kiss, the I-pronounce-you-man-and-wife kiss. There has never been a kiss more meaningful, as consequential. It said everything the vows couldn’t possibly speak, what no words could ever conceivably articulate. It was a Buttercup and Westley kiss, the purest, most beautiful, and magical, as if conjured by Merlin’s wand.
More, as if their union had been ordained by God himself.
And here I am following them as they exit the temple. Gliding past everyone, her feet never once touched the ground. And there I am in their wake, the also-ran, the skinny little engine that couldn’t, destined to be the bridesmaid but never the bride. Freshly altered, my maid-of-honor dress hangs off my shoulders like heavy muslin drapes off a bowed curtain rod.
***
I felt tension tugging at my eyelids, prying them open against their will, the line between the here and then, murky. One fluttered open, the other was slow to rise. What else does Uber Dave have in the transplant container? Something useful? Red Bull? Iced quad-shot espresso? A fucking defibrillator? “I need a beer.”
Uber Dave practically jumped out of his seat his hand clutching his heart as if an ax had come crashing through the door. Sucking air, he was silent for moments before proclaiming, “We’re almost there, ma’am—less than five minutes away.” There was an undeniable note of exhilaration in his voice as he made the announcement, as if he’d been locked aboard a transatlantic flight with a madwoman. He couldn’t wait for the wheels to touchdown and the hatch to open. “You seemed pretty out of it for a while,” he said.
I absolutely heard him thinking, Thank God. Too bad she woke up.
My heart raced like a stallion’s coming down the home stretch, pumping so hard it purged every last drop of tranquillizer from my system as we rolled up in front of Platt-Memminger Psychiatric Hospital, a sterile edifice constructed from massive slabs of fluted gray cement. It’s rare that I feel the need to be critical of architecture but seeing it for the first time was barely tolerable, twice was more than I could bear. The building was frigid-looking and impersonal, a blight on God’s green earth, a state-funded Frank Lloyd Wrong.
Uber Dave unbuckled his seatbelt and bolted from the car, opening my door instantaneously. “We’re here,” he said. “We made great time too. I hope I did okay.” Translation, “Get the hell out of my car, you raving psycho.”
I couldn’t fault him for wanting me gone, but he hadn’t gotten pulled over by the police and he did get a C-note to spend on caramel lattes, beard balm, or whatever else it was guys like Uber Dave indulge in these days.
I was already out the car door, running as fast as my heels could carry me, through the revolving door and into the lobby, turning every head within the tomb’s bland inner belly. The interior was even more drab than the exterior, with a hung ceiling and gray, fluorescent lights that hummed like a mind-numbing Space Invaders video game. The only thing missing was the intermittent blasting of virtual laser cannons. The metal-framed furnishings were made to last a thousand years—military-grade, bulletproof, tedious enough to lure Elon Musk’s brilliant brain into a fog bank and wilt.
The female attendant behind the counter looked…sturdy, roughly a defensive tackle in girth. Thick skin covered meaty cheekbones and she wore her dark hair in a ponytail. Her scrubs were neatly pressed and crisp. She was no doubt well-experienced and able to spot a loon like me coming from a mile off. I imagine she’d handled frantic visitors before, but none like this one, none like Gwen Winter. There was little doubt she was pondering my mental state as I rushed up to the reception counter. Visitor or patient, which was it? She appeared to be caught off guard, her mouth agape, her words coming in spurts. “C-can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks. I need to see Jana Zia. It’s urgent.”
Her eyes were wide and disbelieving. I knew what she wanted to ask but couldn’t find the nerve. “D-does she expect you?”
“No.”
“Are you family?”
“No. Well, yes. Sort of.”
She looked me up and down, her eyes were billiard balls—strike that, they were ostrich eggs. “Sort of, huh?”
My eyes settled on her nametag. “Uh-huh. That’s right, Rosemarie.” She looked lost, as if she’d never been in a similar position before. In her eyes I saw the uncertainty of a driver’s education student, scared senseless with two left feet and praying for a split-second break in traffic before merging onto the interstate. “Let’s start with your name,” she said.
“Gwen Winter.”
She flipped around a clipboard. “Would you mind signing in, Ms. Winter?”
Sighing impatiently. “Is this necessary?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“Fine,” I huffed. A pen was chained to the countertop as was once customary in banks when people still visited brick-and-mortar depositories in the flesh. The tether was barely long enough to permit holding the pen in a natural position as I wrote on the clipboard. “Are you really worried about someone stealing the pen?”
“Excuse me?”
“The pen. I mean seriously. It’s worth ten cents.” I wrote my full name next to the date, time of day, and the patient I was visiting. I had to massage my hand to work out a cramp.
“It’s not the value of the pen we’re worried about.”
“Oh?” OH! Snap out of it, Gwen. Mental hospital. Self-harm.
“Thank you.” She turned her focus to the computer screen and began tapping away with stubby pork sausage fingers. Her nails were like a man’s, short and unpolished. “She’s in therapy right now. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll—”
“I don’t want to sit down,” I snapped. Was that rude? Too rude? Yeah, Gwen—that was over the top. Sure, you’re going nuts but what did poor Sausage Fingers do to deserve this? She’s probably a good church-going woman, takes in stray animals, and bakes for the local elementary school fundraiser. I should’ve taken it down a notch, but I didn’t. I couldn’t control myself. The rollercoaster was off the tracks. I continued barking like a rabid dog. “I want to see Jana Zia. Now!”
“Ma’am, if you’ll just give me a few minutes, I’d be happy to—”
“Now. I said, now! What part of now don’t you understand?”
A question (read outrage) came from a tea sandwich of a man, a bureaucratic type impressing no one in his brown closeout-rack suit and Cheap & Crappy Cuts franchise haircut. “What in God’s name is going on here?”
Look at that cowlick for God’s sake, I thought. It’s sticking up straighter than the dorsal fin on a great white shark. His voice belied his size though. It was resonant and authoritative as he chugged forward like a Lionel model train. Face-to-face I was overwhelmed by the odor of dry-cleaning fluid wafting off his suit.
“This is a hospital,” he said. “I was at the far end of the building when I heard you yelling like you own the place. Well, you don’t. New York State and the Office of Mental Health operate this facility. I’m the director and I require decorum from patients, staff, and visitors alike.” Choo-Choo Charlie pumped the brakes just long enough to take me in head-to-toe. His eyelids blinked like the louvers on a Morse code signal lamp and his face contorted in bewilderment. He’d come at me with a full head of steam but suddenly stalled. With his forehead completely creased, he struggled for words. “Are you wearing a …wedding dress?”