Chapter 9: LOOK INTO THE AIR
(Brittany, Tokyo, July 2012)
Three nights in Japan and 10000 miles from her.
My room was still bare. It didn't feel like any kind of home. Wood instead of brick walls. Tatami vs. carpet. Fusuma I couldn't slam shut in anger. Above my head hung two circular light bulbs, plugged into a plastic chandelier. They looked like UFOs.
I lay in bed gazing up until my vision began to blur. There were spots all over my irises. Green, red, yellow. I blinked and my lids fell closed.
Traffic lights...
That night we'd gone back to my place by taxi. She sat at the very edge of the seat, pressing herself hard against the door jamb.
There were still tear marks on her cheeks, a cut on her lip, purple and brown splotches of fingerprints circling her wrist. Her dark hair hung in waves near her shoulders, the tips wet from where she'd perched sobbing over that sink.
"Get out, get out, get out..."
Spoken over and over and over.
But I could only stand there then, nervously jiggling the lock of the bathroom stall door and staring at my sneakers.
There wasn't anything to say. It wasn't a moment for words, some space where anything with sound would have helped.
And now, trapped in the equally dead silence of this taxi, I saw each row of suspended street lights swirl behind us and I knew there was no going back. This road, that road, and the next. Each one vanished so quickly and all of that old life fell further and further behind.
She didn't look at me, didn't touch me, walking in a jagged line to the door of my house like she'd almost forgotten how.
I turned the key and ambled down the narrow hallway. My parents had left the light on and it was too bright. Way too bright. Like a supermarket late at night where only the drunks and the college kids went. It didn't feel like home at all.
Behind me I heard Santana's footsteps echoing, the gentle collision of rubber against wood. She sat down on the loveseat, pulling her hands into her lap. She studied them, poring over each fingernail as if they were the pages of a book. Her legs were bent together unnaturally, pressed together so tight, her boots sunk into the floor.
What he did to her. That asshole. What he did to her...
I jammed my hands into the pockets of my parachute pants, digging into my hips and holding on for dear life. "I'll be back, Santana," I said. "I'm gonna get you a blanket, okay?"
I saw the back of her head form a faint nod, a slow blur of black. And then I rushed out of the room before she could hear me crying.
The bathroom door closed behind me, I dropped the lid of the toilet. It came crashing down against its white bowl. My breath was a jumpy line, my feet pacing the base of that porcelain until I fell upon its seat.
I couldn't do anything then but let my hands swallow my face, let the tears soak my skin until it grew soft.
She wasn't gonna tell. She didn't wanna tell. Santana Lopez didn't have shit like this happen to her. Santana Lopez could take care of herself.
That's what she told me.
And now Karofsky would just go free. He'd never have to deal with anything. He'd never have to see her again. Never have to face what he'd done. Never have to hurt at all.
In the mirror my eyeliner was spider webs, weaved across my cheeks. I stuck my index finger into the tiny tub of Vaseline I kept on the sink, rubbing it over my eyelids and wiping them clean. The cotton pad in my palm was so dark.
"Santana, I'm coming! Okay?" I called out.
I opened the bathroom door, creeping into the corridor where a small closet held my linens. I pulled out a blanket for her. It was nothing special, gray and warm from some crappy store at the Lima Mall.
Her shoes were off now and she was curled up on the tiny two-seater with her chin against her chest. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe she wasn't. But her eyes were closed, pushing me out.
I stood there for a second, gazing down at her and thinking of all of the things I wished I could say. Of all of the things I wished I could do. That I could somehow turn into Superman and spin the world around.
But what I wanted most was just to hug her. To smooth out her hair. To hold her hand.
I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't.
No, I couldn't touch her at all.
So I lay the blanket over her, the fabric hitting air then landing, and I turned away from all of the gathering wrinkles.
