NOTE:

So we had a minor tragedy where I was halfway through this chapter and then the document disappeared completely from my computer. No idea what happened there; there was nobody who could manage to recover it, and I had no backup so we had to start from scratch. Not to mention that, in addition to the chapter itself, I'd also had a few paragraphs of important planning for upcoming chapters at the end of the document, where some of that overflow sometimes goes before it ends up on my main planning document (which I will definitely be backing up now). I got most of it back from my memory, I think, but I still have a terrible, creeping sensation that there's something important I forgot.

Kind of devastating, but bearable, I suppose. So that's the reason for my delay of a few days!

Anyway, basically everything that happens in this chapter was unplanned and spontaneous, which I enjoyed. I felt like Holly needed something to serve as a bridge between the "Tragedy of 2017" and what comes to following the next few chapters.

There is a reference to the novel Anna Karenina in this chapter. If you haven't read it (or seen the movie, for that matter, which is really good-the 2012 version, mind you), just know that when you get to that part, Holly is comparing Tom to the judgmental, cold husband of the title character who condescends to his wife after she returns from a ball, where she danced with another man.

Chapter 20: Lazarus

Holly

I watch through the cab window as we drive over the famed crosswalk on the cover of The Beatles' album Abbey Road and am not at all surprised; the fact that Harry Styles owns property on one of the most well-known streets ever is perfectly in keeping with my understanding of him. The house is beautiful, made of old brick and shaded from the hot evening light by a number of overhanging trees; and through the windows, as I thank the cabbie, I can already see bizarre blue and purple lights-not quite throbbing, not quite blinking, but the sure sign of a party. For the umpteenth time, I check to make sure that I had, indeed, replaced the obvious gauze wrap around my wrist with a less conspicuous bandaid. Of course, I did, but I continue to clutch my wrist tightly as I stand there, feeling exposed.

Earlier today, before the imminent problem of what to wear had arisen, I'd been plagued by a terrible ache deep inside my chest. It had been steady, almost like hunger, but far displaced from my stomach, which has remained more than half-empty in these past few days. I hadn't done anything to try to soothe it, and though it hadn't gone away, I'd been able to grow accustomed to it. Now, in front of the house, wearing my simple black camisole and linen shorts, I don't notice it at all.

I sense the cab driving away behind me with a gasoline-scented gust of wake, and mount the giant stairs that lead up to the front door.

At first, I knock. But then I realize that, as I can hear the loud voices and the music on the other side, they probably can't hear me; and I venture to ring the doorbell.

I'd been to quite a few parties in high school, attending for the sole purpose of shutting myself up in the bathroom and hiding in the tub behind the curtain with a book. The bathroom plan had gotten old fast once I'd realized how frequently people came through the door to throw up or fuck against teh bahtroom counter. But I'd always managed to find some room or corner in which to be alone and to shut out the world while I read, the stupidity of the crazy people that surrounded me lending me more internal focus. I never did any drugs or drank or even danced, only going to get away from my dad for a few more precious hours before I would inevitably have to go home at the end of the night.

I hadn't dared bring a book today, telling myself that my purpose was different, this time, and that my current read-Anna Karenina, which has turned out to be the only novel I'm capable of focusing on at all, since I can approach it with a certain dark irony-would be entirely inappropriate and turn me into a laughing stock, anyway. Still, it feels weird to be walking into the unpredictable social environment of a party without the reassurance of a book in my hand, and I find myself scratching the exposed skin of my mid-thigh as I wait.

At the sound of my ring, someone calls out on the other side of the door, and I imagine that call inciting a chain of similar calls that eventually lead to the ear of Harry-who, a few seconds later, opens the door for me, smiling widely, his eyes bright and lazy and legitimately glad to see me.

"I hope you like the music," is the first thing he says, practically dragging me over the threshold, obviously already under the influence of something, and shutting the door on the second try.

David Bowie's final album Blackstar is playing over high-quality speakers, which I appreciate, but I don't have much capacity to think about it or respond to him, looking wide-eyed around the room in the handful of seconds for which we stand in front of the door before starting to move through the crowd.

There are people upon people upon more people, models and musicians and actors and such, and I stare at them all nervously as we walk. I get some looks but none of them are very long, and no-one appears to judge me and no-one approaches me. And, of course, nobody so much as notices the bandaid on my arm, let alone thinks to ask about it. As I follow Harry through the crowded room, I feel as good as anonymous.

Perfect.

It turns out that with spending time with Harry comes smoking a lot of weed.

Saoirse and Florence, as promised, are sitting on a couch in another, less-crowded room, sharing a joint, and are too high to express their usual enthusiasm at seeing me. But I don't mind, glad that they're too occupied by their task to have very much sadness or pity in their eyes-also perfect. Before I've even been offered a hit, I have decided to go all the way, and before I have the chance to chastise myself for my uncharacteristic lack of inhibitions, I've already done so. Soon, there is no possibility of arguing with anything, but there's no need to, either, because everything makes me happy.

I'd gotten a little high before with a weirdo from school whose dad lived in a stinky trailer just off the highway, but nothing like this.

"Good stuff, huh?" Harry says, grinning when I take my first deep-breath hit from the ornate bong in the corner. But after that, I have barely any capacity to tell what anyone is saying.

I'm only vaguely aware of myself for the rest of the evening. But it's a pleasant unawareness, as though I'm buried somewhere deep and comforting inside of myself, a place I had never known before, whereas at other times, when I disassociated, I'm somewhere far away and confusing, on a cold cloud which threatens to lose its firmness and leave me to fall to earth at any moment. This is nothing like that, though, and everything I see and feel throughout the evening is warm, as though viewed through a Sinatra-rose-pink lens.

I realize that I'm getting into a car, and then that I'm in a club dancing, my skin shining under the strobe lights, deafening music ringing inside my ears, and my own body surrounded by many, many other bodies whose closeness I have no reason to flinch away from, for the first time in my hazy, unimportant memory.

I wake up on Harry's couch the next morning, hungover, fog-brained and dry-mouthed and nauseously hungry. I'm alone for what seems like an hour-though it must be less than a minute-before Harry appears in the nearby doorway, smiling brightly. A flash of disdain rushes through my brain-nights like the last one must be habit for him, for him to have recovered so quickly-and I squint painfully from the hot white light streaming through the windows, unable to look directly at him for the reflectiveness of his white shirt.

"You hungry?" he says, almost rhetorically. "There's food in the kitchen, I'll be done in a jiff if you want something."

"Uh… sure," I manage, too overwhelmed to care about how surreal this all is. I try to sit up, but only groan and brace the heel of my hand against my forehead.

"You'll feel better once you've eaten," he says, with a not-unkind laugh. "And, erm… we didn't get up to anything if you were worried." He grins and I glance at him, wincing and managing an exhausted smile of my own. "There are spare toothbrushes just in there," he says, pointing towards a bathroom, and then stepping away from the doorway.

I can smell the breakfast-in-progress, and it urges me to stand up with the help of the couch arm and step carefully across the empty, trash-strewn room, still holding my head.

I expect one or two toothbrushes, but upon opening the cabinet in the bathroom I find a whole plethora of packages and smirk, wondering whether this whole person-waking-up-on-the-couch-or-perhaps-elsewhere is a common occurrence in Harry Styles' house, and pretty sure I know the answer.

A filling breakfast and multiple glasses of water have a relieving effect after the panic that had filled my mind as a result of my very empty stomach. Harry's banter is kind and amusing, and my ability to respond in kind makes me feel more like a real human being that I have in what feels like weeks upon weeks. Feeling rather obligated to him after the entire gesture of the party, I offer to help him clean up the mess that some of his guests had made before I leave. But he tells me it's "no problem" and, further, tells me he'll drive me home on his way to a photo shoot so that I don't have to get a cab.

In his spacious, cool car, we listen to The Beatles, and he sings along quietly and humbly while I look out the window. It's still relatively early in the morning and the streets, with their few occupants, are beautiful and dewy in the light, green and filtering through the cathedral elms. Even honking cars seem merry.

Upon arriving at the curb in front of the house, anxiety spikes in the pit of my stomach, and I cast my eyes all around through the windows, frightened of being seen by somebody. "It's okay," Harry says after a moment, clearly much better at this than I am. "Coast is clear."

I have to seize the door handle before I get the chance to doubt his instincts, and thank him before rushing from the car, climbing the steps at a run and unlocking the front door of the house, only feeling safe once I've practically slammed it closed. For the first time, I really understand why people slide down walls and doors in the movies: my knees are entirely weak, and I'm so lightheaded that I don't even realize I've done it before I'm sitting on the floor, almost in tears and not understanding why.

But I can't allow myself to throw a pity party right now. I pick myself up, feeling the pressure of that strange entity of threat that always hangs over me, and telling myself that strength is necessary for survival, even though in the back of my mind I know I should let myself cry if I need to… and I probably do. I go very slowly up the stairs, grasping the banister sometimes with both hands, and lean against the door-jamb while I unlock the door to Ben's apartment, allowing a weak, tearful sigh to pass my lips when I push the heavy door open.

'Stop being so pitiful,' I tell myself. 'Nothing even went wrong. You had a great time. What's the matter with you?'

Getting control of myself, I manage to stand without help from the door, and walk through the door, locking it again from inside and stepping, with heavy feet, forward into the apartment.

Tom is sitting, waiting, on the couch. The room is dark, no lights turned on and the curtains still drawn tightly over the windows, and so I start when I first notice him, pressing a hand to my chest and almost bursting into tears, before I realize who it is. Tom looks like death; bags under his eyes, he seems to have been up all night long. He looks at me with bloodshot eyes and his posture tenses, evidently at the sight of my own tarnished state. Suddenly a surge of guilt rips through my chest, but I manage to draw my body up from its position of shock, and I block out my intense care for Tom in order to keep from breaking down, myself.

"Why didn't you send me a message?" he says, his voice gravely with exhaustion but his words calm and exacting, his eyes burning out at me from the dimness of the room, his intimidating body a mere shadow, sunken into the couch. "I was worried."

"Was I supposed to text you, Tom?" I say, expecting a traitorous voice-crack. But my voice is deep with sarcasm, and not my own. I detest it, but at the same time, it feels necessary; like a very heavy but life-saving shield. I stand as still as stone, though I'm tempted to fidget.

For a moment I think he's going to yield and let me escape to another room. But then he straightens up, his body no longer sagging with breath, and I step back, suddenly frightened of the cord of empathy that he manages to tug. He doesn't stand up, though, only leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes reasonable but… could it be… angry.

"Yes," he says, darkly. "You were."

"Well, I'm sorry for-"

"Holly," he interrupts, his eyes forceful and unlike him.

What's he trying to pull? Whatever it is, it's working. Anything I took, smoked or drank last night must not be fully out of my system yet.

He flexes one hand and I flinch involuntarily, grateful for the dimness and hoping he didn't see. I wish he wasn't here. When he says my name, for just a moment, I hear my father's voice. But then the illusion fades and the voice turns once again into Tom's.

"Holly, I think we need to discuss something."

I look at him blankly for a split second, something strange jogged inside of my mind by his words, and by his posture. For another moment I can't place it, but then the blankness in my mind forfeits the stage to a state of being so completely stunned that I can't help it when I start laughing aloud-a sharp, painful laugh-as I realize what he'd made me think of.

It had been a line from Anna Karenina-the one Alexei Alexandrovich confronts her with when she arrives home from the ball, at which she'd danced with Vronsky. And without thinking, I at once find myself mimicking it, "Anna, I must warn you…" in a mocking accent, the laughter coming close to cackling as I gasp, bending over and holding my middle, having no control over myself yet delighting in this newfound cruelty, which makes me feel so far away from everything-most of all, myself.

I'm promptly put out, though, when I look up at Tom again and realize that the reference had been lost on him. My laughter stops, as easily as if I'd been faking it.

The strange shift in my mood has silenced him thoroughly. He doesn't frighten me anymore, but he does make me feel afraid of myself for the sheer meanness of what I've just done, which is much, much worse.

"I was indisposed," I say, very quietly, after a moment.

He raises his eyebrows.

"I was high, Tom."

He lowers them to their normal place among his other features, and from there they sink further. "Okay," he says, and for a moment I think he might let me go-a goal which has become more urgent with the fact that I've just embarrassed myself terribly. But then he looks up at me sharply again. "But that's what I wanted to talk about. I don't think you should get into the habit of it. Drugs shouldn't be something you use regularly to take you away from reality, Holly. It's dangerous. And in your conditions… I mean to say… you might…"

I don't know what he means, but my mind can think up more than enough possible endings to his fragmenting thoughts, and I'm offended by all of them. He pauses for a moment, sensing my rising anger, and he lets me go without further argument when I scowl at him and leave the room. I start crying silently the moment I'm around the corner, and finally permit myself to sob into the side of the bed once I've closed around the bedroom door-leaving it slightly ajar but not closed, never closed, one of our new rules.

Shame and confusion overtake me and I kneel there for long enough to be very achy and full of tremors when I stand up again, and lay down on the bed to distract myself with my phone, lacking any kind of discipline to read, especially now that I've unforgivably compared Tom to one of the characters in the only book I can muster the will to sit down with.

It turns out that Tom could have found out about my activities last night on his own. Social media has blown up over a number of photographs that had been taken of Harry Styles' group of party guests-myself included-in a club, and there is no shortage of comments that insinuate I look far too happy for my circumstances.

Alex (I should have expected nothing less) soon commences to blow up my phone, raving about how exciting the whole thing is, unable to see how painful the hateful comments are to me. And why should she? As much as I feel like a terrible friend, especially right now, it seems that we've grown quite far away from each other over these past months. I don't understand myself anymore, let alone her. I ignore the phone for long enough, not having it in me to respond to even one of the messages, and eventually it goes silent.

I decide to keep trudging through Anna Karenina (which I creep across the hall to retrieve, not wanting to run into Tom). But I only get through a few pages before it comes to the spot where the character Levin-whom I've always related to and loved-returns to his country estate. With the usual vividness, Tolstoy describes his character's sensations of freshness of mind as he makes his way over the beautiful landscape of his early-spring forests and farmland. But for some reason I loathe the description and it doesn't bring the same happiness to my heart as it has always done on previous readings. I shut the book loudly, dropping it on the floor and then looking at it mournfully, how it had landed awkwardly with its cover open and a few pages bent against the floor. Overcoming a sudden upsurge of childish egoism, I reach out to pick it up, and place it on the bedside table.

Just then, after a gap of more than an hour in any sound from my phone, it begins to vibrate with an incoming call, where I left it facedown on the comforter. I know before the first ring has even finished that it can be nobody but Benedict.

I don't answer immediately, and I almost let it go completely before finally reaching out to pick it up, unable to bear the thought of him on the other end, waiting through each interminable ring. Once my hand has made contact with the phone, I proceed to pick up the call in such a hurry that a bystander might think I'd been being physically held back from reaching out for the phone for the duration of the first ten buzzes.

A few seconds of silence.

Then, like a miracle; like a death sentence: "Holly? Are you there?"

"Benedict," I say, feeling inside of my heart that it should be a sigh, but hearing with my ears that the tone is no less than grimacing.

I can tell from his unsteady inhale on the other end of the line that he's going to get down to brass tacks. Good. It would be too embarrassing, otherwise. "I saw the photographs," he says, clearly trying to keep it light. I imagine him bravely loosening his shoulders in the face of the truth and I try to do the same, but I only find them climbing up towards my ears. "And the criticism."

Afraid that he's already passed some terrible and irrefutable judgment upon me, I rush to speak. "Ben, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have… and without…"

As I talk, I realize that I hadn't told him a thing about the plan of going to the party, beforehand. In fact, I haven't told him anything about anything in days. And I realize at once why it had seemed so strange to hear the phone buzzing with his call, why my body had responded to the promise of hearing his voice on such a primal level. We haven't spoken since the day before… my slip-up in the bathtub.

"Please don't worry, love," he says, bringing me back to the issue of the party. "I only care whether you enjoyed yourself."

For a moment, his voice lights up my nerves.

"I guess I did," I say warily, without planning my words. What am I even doing right now? How is this my life? How did I come to be with this man? How is he even real? I must be dreaming.

"But… you shouldn't make a habit of it."

Fine. I'm not dreaming. I fucked up, and he's right. But this knowledge, and my desire to achieve harmony with him after everything we've gone through in the past two weeks, gets lost in translation somewhere. And the words that come out of my mouth, though not malicious in and of themselves, are spoken in a spiteful tone that I can't control. "That's what Tom just said."

Benedict hesitates for a moment, clearly made as uncertain by my tone of voice as I am, myself. I bite down hard on my lips in guilt, not understanding my own mind. I think I'm going crazy, and yet I have no capacity to think rationally.

"He's just trying to help, right now, Holly," he says in a measured tone. I can hear the weariness in it.

But still, again, when I speak, it comes out with a bitter tone. "Whatever," I snap.

But then I shiver, and suddenly the control is in my hands again, like coming out from under a noxious spell. "Ben, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me."

I don't like this tone either. It's too sad and hysterical and full of denial. But at least it's honest.

"Did you sleep?" Ben says, sounding relieved at the honesty in my voice, yet still just as tired and distraught. I just want to hug him, right now. But I know that if he was standing here, I would hardly be able to bring myself to touch him, or to let him touch me.

"Not well," I say.

He can't really respond to that. He knows I'm not a child and that I understand my mistake. But then something else comes creeping into the momentary silence, stretching it out and filling it with tension. I have a feeling about what he's about to say just moments before he says it. For days, I'd held onto a naive hope that Tom might not have told him anything about what happened in the bathtub. But of course, that had been a foolish and nonsensical hope. I try to tell myself that I would have been the one to tell him, eventually, even though I'm not sure that's true.

"Tom… told me what happened."

I hold my breath and wait for him to continue. I'm so ashamed that I want to start crying, but I'm too full of emotion for anything to manifest itself in an exterior way.

"Look," he sighs. "I'm not going to judge you for it. And this does not make me see you any differently. But I am still concerned for you. And I feel… I feel guilty for leaving you the way I did. There was no time… that's not true. There was time, but I didn't use it. I didn't give you any closure after what-"

"Stop it, Ben," I say weakly and tearfully. I can't let him do this to himself. "There couldn't have been closure. I don't think there ever will be. But I don't want to talk about it-I don't want to talk about either of…" I shake my head to myself at the memory of what had happened outside of the premiere, letting the memory become cloudy and then drift back into its little box… until later. "It's under control," I lie. "It was stupid, and I don't feel that way anymore." But I fully doubt my own words as I say them, and I know that he's smart enough to detect the falseness in my tone.

But he doesn't make any objection to my words, and for a moment I wonder if he'd actually been fooled by my tone. And that thought-of having successfully isolated myself from the truth, and lied to the one person who might be able to help me, in the process-is terrifying.

I don't take it back, though.

We wait in awkward silence for another minute before he admits to me that he'd passed his entire filming break debating whether or not to call me, so now he has to hang up. I let him go with relief.

But there's an awkward moment at the end, after we've exchanged goodbyes, when we wait and don't say anything. I wonder whether I should add "I love you," but in the end I decide against it and am the one to hang up the phone, barely keeping myself from throwing it as I had done the book. I sink into the bed, roll over and groan deeply and tearfully into the comforter-which isn't doing the job implied by its name, in the slightest. My body feels isolated from everything else in the world. The thought 'I want to be high again' skirts around the edges of my mind, but I don't let it fully enter into it. That would be far too dangerous.

To distract myself from the thought I start listening, very quietly, to Nirvana. "All Apologies" comes on and I hum to it, twisting my hands into the blankets.

A few minutes later, Tom sticks his head in the doorway and I stop the music quickly, embarrassed. 'No Nirvana' is another rule. It's clear that he'd noticed but he doesn't say anything out of courtesy.

"May I step in?" he says.

I nod. He steps in the door, leaving it open with an intention that I can't help but perceive as almost mocking, and looks at me intently, with warm and cool eyes. "I saw… online," he says, his tone deep yet meek. "I feel I should apologize about it all. I shouldn't have let you go."

But I'm not paying attention to his words. Without initially realizing it, I've started to cry at the sight of him, feeling so guilty about everything that I can no longer contain my emotions. My shoulders hunch deeply around my chest and my eyes blur so completely with tears that I can't see anything, and I startle with a whimper when his hand reaches out and clasps mine.

"I got the reference," he says quietly, kneeling down so that he can see into my eyes, still almost at my eye-level even though I'm sitting on the bed.

His words elicit a spike in my tears, and I wish I could hide my face from him, but it's impossible, and everything is too overwhelming to linger on that desire for long. The thought of Tom pacing around the apartment trying to figure out what all of my ridiculous, cruel laughter had been about tortures me.

"I'm so… sorry, Tom…" I gasp between sobs, doubting that he can understand me at all, but needing to say it anyway. "You're… nothing… like…"

But he only presses a finger to his parted lips, and then pulls me down towards him, limp as a rag doll. I let myself slide off the edge of the bed and find myself kneeling on the floor, allowing him to hug me against him. For a moment, my shoulder bent awkwardly against his chest, my head turned to the side in the hollow of his neck, I'm so startled by the gesture that I stop crying. But I soon start again. This is better than any other way he's reacted to me since the premiere, and though I would rather not be touched, there is something simple and human and grounding in it-something that keeps me alive.

After holding me for a minute, Tom, hiding his face for some reason, excuses himself to make lunch.

While he's gone, I get a message from Harry.

'Hey. Sorry about the media. Did you have a good time? Just wanted to follow up.'

'Thank you! I did. And it's totally fine.'

I send the message and look at it for a minute, wondering at how dreadfully easy it is to lie in writing. But that's what I do every day, after all.

'I'm very glad! You're invited any time you want to hang out. All the regular people loved you.'

'Aw, thanks.'

I send that and wait for a moment, reading over what he'd said and thinking. Then I type, 'I'd be happy to join you guys again. I really enjoyed it, so hook me up next time you're having a thing!' and send it before I can rethink my decision. I know that by sending it I've chosen deliberately to ignore the side of me that knows both Tom and Ben are right about not making parties a habit. But for some reason, I'm free of guilt.

Tom has made burgers, which we eat with our hands. It's a purposeful decision, since he still doesn't allow me to have utensils. 'No utensils' is another rule. It's not as though we have a written list of them, but I suppose I've grown to accept, like a punishment, that whatever Tom does to try to keep me safe is something I should not try to resist. He could beat me in any fight, and I don't want to step on his toes. But as I think more about this new state of living, I become more and more upset, and after a few tense, silent minutes have passed, I feel like I can't eat any more and I realize that I hate him without remorse. All of the tenderness I'd felt for him earlier dissipates in a snap.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text message, the sound amplified by the wood of the table, and I pick up my phone without a second thought. Only as I'm unlocking it, sensing Tom's eyes looking up at me, do I scold myself inwardly for not feeling guilty about picking it up in the middle of a meal. But it's not like we'd been talking, anyway. And it's relieving to have something to interrupt the…

But my internal monologue is cut short by the sight of who had messaged me.

"And you're absolutely certain it's her?"

Tom is leaning over me where I'd somehow landed on the sofa in the main sitting room, after standing up and escaping the table, pacing all over the apartment in shock. The message had come from my mother. Fifteen years of radio silence, and now a message from her, and one with the audacity to attempt to comfort me and apologize to me in one paragraph. Who the fuck does she think she is. I keep running through these new facts that I know about her inside my head, a running list whose definite items branch off into hundreds of other imaginary ones. She's now a professor in Utica, New York. She has a husband and two kids; two boys. She wants to say she's sorry. She wants to explain herself. She wants, she wants, she wants.

"Yes," I say to Tom, forcing myself to breathe as I continue to scroll through the pictures on her account. I see her job. I see the scenery of Upstate New York. I see the husband. I see the kids. I see selfies. I see her smiling. I see her with her morning coffee.

What the fuck.

"Yes, I know her picture. My father kept one of her. He used to…"

But I shake my head frenetically, stopping myself there. Tom doesn't want or need to know that my father regularly forced me to watch him masturbate while he looked at his single framed photograph of my mother, or that he more frequently forced me to give him a blowjob while I knew he was looking at that damned photograph, where it sat on the dresser behind me, the whole room reeking of cigarette smoke and old alcohol like piss and the rank smell of him…

"I know it's her," I say again.

I suddenly want very badly to swallow but I'm unable to, crowded in upon by the sudden memory of my father. ('Swallow it, bitch. Swallow it all. Don't choke or I'll choke you out. Ha-ha.')

Tom clearly notices that something about the conditions of the photograph is sensitive, and doesn't press further. After another minute of processing alone, and slowly forcing the bad memories to clear out of my head, at least for now (I know that after this, many of those memories will become resurgent, but I don't have the capacity to think about this imminent future, right now), I turn my phone over to Tom and allow him to read the message she'd sent me.

"What am I supposed to say to that?" I say, once it's clear from the furrowing of his eyebrows and the concern in his darkened eyes that he's re-reading it, now.

"Maybe… nothing at all," he suggests, giving my phone back, his voice hoarse and exhausted. "Do you want to block her?"

The impossibility of my situation settles over me like something that inhibits breathing. Slowly enough that I don't realize until it's too late that there won't be another chance to take a breath. This has changed things permanently, and there's no going back.

In the end, I send something short and bitterly unfeeling, making my intentions clear. I tell myself that she's a liar, and that there's no way this woman could be my mother, and that she must be a crazy fan of Benedict's, making every excuse under the sun to transfer my discomfort and horror into some other realm besides the one that is reality, the one that is unquestionable, the one that is unbearable. But I entertain the notion of her being my mother so far as my choice of words goes: 'I don't forgive you. Don't contact me again.'

Yet something compels me not to block her, and I continue to look through her photographs, even clicking on them and reading some of the captions, while Tom washes the dishes. And I still continue to do so even once he's gone to take a nap (after making sure I'm "okay," a query to which I answer yes: a lie, of course, but a white one, at least: the nap is much needed after his all-nighter, which was, at the end of the day, my fault). He leaves me sitting in the wide windowsill that looks down onto the hot, noon-time street, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling.

I don't know who I am. I am disgusted by my body in a way I've never experienced before. Before, I was disgusted by the things that had been done to it by my father. But now, I find my very conception, my very time in utero, my very birth, to be a disgusting and degrading process. When I think of my first five years of life, when my mother had not left yet my father, running away on a train, I no longer see them as bathed in some golden light of a strong, happy woman's protection, but as something embarrassing and shameful, a period of time in which I must have done something wrong, and must have been wronged even more than I was afterward, when I was left to my own devices under the ruthless reign of my father.

I pass an hour dreading having to call Benedict. But I know I have to do it, and I finally allow myself to make the call, with trembling fingers, forcing myself to hold the phone to my ear, resisting the urge to turn on speaker phone and continue scrolling through… her… pictures. This will be the first time I will have admitted to needing him since he left for filming after the miscarriage. And as the call rings and rings, I realize that I do need him. Desperately, pitifully, completely. Humanly.

He doesn't answer, though, and I know that his phone must be turned off while he's on set.

Quickly, I turn on the album that Harry had been playing at the segment of the party that had been at his house, before we'd somehow gotten to the club-Blackstar by David Bowie-and then throw my phone across the room onto the sofa, so that I can still hear it, but can't pick it up and start scrolling again. I find myself reaching out and touching the glass of the window, feeling the warm sunlight on my arm and watching the shadows flickering on my hand.

Bowie is singing "Lazarus."

Look up here, I'm in heaven…
I've got scars that can't be seen…
I've got drama, can't be stolen…
Everybody knows me now…

I press my fingertips to the glass as hard as I can and watch the thin, distorted reflection of my fingers, from some place far away, as they slide silently all the way down to the sill, and then fall again into the cold shadow of the room, like taking a dive into cold green water. I blink and for a moment can see nothing; only white.

Lazarus may have returned from death, but I imagine it would be impossible for him to ever fully re-cross the border into the land of the living.

NOTE:

Well, that happened. Next time we'll be back in the present again… Holly of 2020 has some things to say about what's just been unveiled.

Anna Karenina is a brilliant novel and Blackstar is a brilliant album… Just saying.

Thanks for not plagiarizing!

13 June 2021

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