Part IV: Chapter 13 - And So I Figure
She said she had work she needed to do but that she'd come back in the evening to keep me company. Part of me wanted her to go away so I could just fuck myself up, but when she hugged me goodbye, another part of me wanted to clamp onto her and never let go. But then I would just end up drowning both of us. So instead I shrugged and pretended not to care like the soulless freak I've become. But she hugs me warmly anyway and goes, promising to be back later, and I'm relieved to know it whether I admit it or not.
So I'm alone in my apartment again but Emy has been here so now all the empty beer bottles and delivery food packages are gone and the place looks like an adult lives here again. It looks almost like how it used to look when I was still reasonably sure I wanted to live. My floors were shining, my books alphabetized. Now there's a suitcase in the middle of the room with clothes strewn around it; I'd opened it to unpack, and the first shirt I pulled out smelled like Tegan so I just left it.
As soon as I'm alone for five seconds, I think of Tegan and lately, that means thinking of her shattered face when I told her never again, when I left her on that bus with the soiled sheets, the strap-on wet on the floor by the bed. My mind keeps giving me that image when there are so many images it could give me if it were kind enough, images of Tegan that my mind should never have been able to conjure up but that give me chills and make me forget myself. I see her eyes, heavy-lidded, dark, warm, underneath me. I brush a strand of damp hair off of her forehead. . .
My chest hurts, my throat starts to constrict, and I go right for the whiskey. Emy's words before she left, stay off the alcohol, Sara, for real . . . well, it's two-thirty in the afternoon. I've stayed off of it long enough. My mind gives me this: Tegan's naked body, warm and pressed against me, her arms around me, her legs around me as I start to pull out and she says no and holds me there, inside of her, and when I kiss her I feel my own lips tremble. If you want me to be happy, then stay with me! Those were her words just a few days later, but a few days, fuck, it's a lifetime, a lifetime of lifetimes.
I pour a substantial quantity of whisky into my favourite glass and gulp it on the way to the sofa. I am such a fucking cliche that it just sickens me but I gulp it because I'm aching and I don't want to be.
I turn on the TV. I usually never watch TV so I don't know what compelled me to do it now, of all times, but it's set to MuchMusic and it takes me a few seconds to mentally catch up when I see a picture of myself with Tegan on the screen, but when I do, my drink almost slips out of my hand.
-video where the indie rock twin sisters allegedly engage in sex with each other. When asked to comment, the band's management referred to the allegations as shocking, offensive, and slanderous, claiming that the video is misleading-
It's really more of a muscle spasm than any deliberate movement on my part, but I switch the TV off and drop the remote control on the floor, my hands shaking.
"Fuck. Holy fuck. . ." I say to the empty room, panicked, and my first thought is to call Tegan but I can't fucking do that, can I? Because I've given up Tegan and that means I've given up everything. . . . allegedly engage in sex with each other. . .
I taste acid at the back of my throat, clamp my hand over my mouth for a moment and swallow hard, take a few breaths, and then another big swallow of whiskey. I already feel the heat from it spreading all through me. Another gulp and the glass is empty so I go back to the kitchen, my hands shaking. We're on TV. We're never on TV and now we are and it's only because of this, this mess and that fucking video and they practically panned us when we released our fifth record but there they are, fucking falling over each other to look at the train wreck. Well, I hope the scandal helps our record sales because our career is fucking done.
Instead of bursting into tears, I fill up my glass again and take another drink as my Blackberry starts to ring and my stomach drops because I know before I even look at the screen that it will be my mother. I sit down next the phone again, on the sofa, and watch it ring without touching it, watching her name light up on my screen and not answering. It stops ringing but my heart keeps racing, and between that and the TV report, I can feel the early stages of an asthma attack. I'm in the stairwell in the back of that club again, in Berlin, gasping for breath with my head between my knees as the only mate my soul will ever know collapses in front of me.
It's only a minute before my Blackberry beeps again and it's a text message from my mom. Sara, that's fourteen times I've called and you haven't answered. I'm calling back in three minutes and if you don't answer, I'm calling the police. I'm not kidding. Oh fuck. My breaths are getting shallow, raspy. I close my eyes and try to force myself to calm down. Take another drink. It's starting to go to my head now; I gulped down about five fingers of Scotch in ten minutes. My relaxation exercise isn't going well and my phone is ringing again.
With a stomach full of lead, I answer.
"Hello," I say before I can decide what kind of fake emotion to force into my voice.
Sara, for heaven's sake.
"Hi, mom. . ." I say and I'm afraid I already sound wasted.
Fourteen unanswered calls and all I get is 'hi, mom'? What on earth is going on? I take a breath. Where could I even start, if it were possible for me to tell her? How could I start?
"Uh, well. . ." I stall, but she's not going to let me off the hook. I don't know what to say next. "Um, we're on a break so I'm. . . uh. . ." A heavy sigh on the other end.
I just saw you on TV. Oh God, my throat is going to close. Sweetie, tell me what is going on. She's worried, upset, but I'm still her sweetie, the sick fucking monstrosity that I've become. I almost fucking weep.
"Mom, it isn't. . . not what it looks like it's. . . it isn't. . ."
There is silence for a moment. A moment long enough to afford me the opportunity to wonder, not for the first time, the fastest and most painless way of doing myself in.
Who is it in the video? she asks, her voice tense as my reply.
"Tegan and that. . . fucking. . . that girl Casey that she was dating for a while." I think I sound natural. I think the whiskey might be helping with that. Another pause.
Well, she certainly looks like you from that angle, she says. I don't know what to say. Nothing is real anymore. I feel clammy, ill. I shiver.
"Yeah well she's a pretty narcisstic. . . narcissistic. . . you know. It kind of makes sense, she'd pick a girl that looked like me, like, like her. . ."
Honey, is there. . . something. . . you want to tell me? I know from her tone that she's trying to force herself to sound even and steady but that that is not how she feels. God, I'm going to be sick.
"What do you mean?" I ask quickly, my tone more accusatory than I'd intended.
Sara, the video, it's. . . I can't believe this is happening. I need someone to come and rescue me. It wouldn't matter who, or how. If someone came into my apartment with a mask and a gun, it would be a relief. My lungs are constricting; cold sweat is a real thing that people break into, and not just in movies.
"Are you fucking seriously asking me. . . seriously like, if I'm having. . . if I'm. . . my sister! Mom!" I cry, and that's it. I'm in tears again. "Fuck!"
Sara, are you drunk?
"So what if I am! Look at. . . listen to what. . . what are you even saying to me right now? Oh my God!"
Sara, what. . . what happened in Amsterdam?
"What do you mean?" I manage to say.
There's a video of you on YouTube and I. . . well I can't imagine what on earth you were thinking when you said those things about. . . about you and your sister. God, Sara, people will believe it. People believe it! My heart is pounding in my throat.
"I just, it was. . . I got fucking sick of all the. . . stupid questions and I just kind of. . ."
Your sister left the stage in tears, Sara. Her admonishing tone is weirdly comforting. And all those young fans who look up to you! Sara!
"I know, God, stop talking about it," I say, my voice trembling.
Where's Tegan?
"I don't. . . um. . . she must be back in Vancouver by now."
Haven't you talked to her? I mean, is she okay?
"Mom, I'm with her twenty-four hours a day like eight months of the year. I don't need to like. . . fucking. . . like call her when I'm home for two fucking days of like, I just. . . want some fucking peace and quiet for five seconds. It's like, it's not like we. . . we don't share organs!"
Sweetheart, I don't think I'm comfortable with you being alone right now.
"Well, I'm not comfortable with like. . . that fucking show on TV it's like. . . I'm just. . . it's just a bad time and I have fucking jet lag and it's fucking freezing cold here. . ." God, talking like this with my mom is going to push me over the edge.
Sara, why don't you come to Vancouver and stay with me? The three of us can spend some time together. It's almost Christmas.
She says it, just like that, like my mom and my sister and I can just spend time together. Over the holidays. Like a family.
"No!" I answer too quickly, and just as quickly try to fix it. "Um, I don't know, mom, I mean. . . I think. . . uh, Tegan and I need a little break from each other. . ."
Are you two not getting along? Hot tears on my burning cheeks.
"Mom. . . we just need a little time apart. You know that. We're back on the road in a few days and we need just. . . we can't like. . ."
Okay, honey. Take it easy. . . I try to control my breathing, the quiver in my voice, because at this point if she hears me, drunk and crying and alone, she'll probably get on a fucking plane.
"I'm sorry. I. . . really, it's. . . I'm fine. Emy's coming over-"
Oh, well why didn't you say so!
"I'm saying so now," I say, bratty.
Well that's a relief.
"Yeah, Emy saves the day again," I say, disgusted with my own sarcasm. I take another long sip of whiskey while my mom answers.
Honey, why are you crying? Not an easy question to answer. I hesitate.
"I'm just. . . it's been a bad week, um. . ." I take a breath. I can't tell if she believes me or not, whether the powers of parental denial are overriding her eyes, her intuition. She sighs.
Well, you can always come home if you want to. . . She sounds sad, worried, uncertain. Neither of us know how to talk around this. But despite the cramping in my stomach, I can't let this conversation end filled with doubt that will gnaw at me day and night. I'm already close enough to losing it completely.
"Mom, the video is. . . you don't really believe. . . do you? You can't really think that I. . . we. . ." I swallow the upswell of nausea in my throat. "Mom. . .?" There's another pause.
Sweetheart I'm. . . if you say it isn't. . . then of course it isn't. God, the little tremor in her voice cuts through her words, through my heart. I'm calling back tomorrow and you'd better answer.
"Okay," I say.
I'll call Emy if you don't. I mean it.
"Okay," I repeat.
Okay. Bye sweetie.
"Bye mom."
I switch off the phone and clamp my hand over my mouth and fucking sob, hard enough to hurt my ribs. It's uncontrollable, and it makes the sick, twisting feeling in my stomach worse. I leap off the sofa and run for the bathroom, oh no, it's too late, I won't make it-
I barely make it. The last time I threw up in this apartment is when Emy and I both had food poisoning after an evening at an oyster bar. I would give anything to have my body poisoned instead of my fucking soul. I retch a few times and then collapse next to the toilet with a moan. Lying there with my head against the edge of the tub, I wonder if I'm always going to hear those words in my head, sweetie, if you say it isn't. . . her voice heavy with doubt. I weep like a fucking spastic for a while longer, but my head aches and pressing it against the porcelain isn't helping. I drag myself to my feet and stagger back to the sofa.
My head is spinning now so I lay down. I just want to take a rest but my brain, my worst enemy, starts playing a new conversation for me in my mind, a conversation where I tell my mother the real truth. Yes, mom, it's me in the video. It's Tegan and me, and I'm on top of her in a pile of hay. It wasn't a great night, actually; we'd been arguing, and doing the endless push-and-pull thing with each other, but like often happens to us, we couldn't resist. I pushed her down in the hay and felt her orgasm with my fingers and then left her with her pants down. No, it isn't always like that. Sometimes one of us cries after. No, usually me, I'm embarrassed to say. Yeah, I'm scared. Ashamed? Of course. Well, you know, that's a good question. I guess 'compelled' would be the right word? And yet it isn't quite enough to say that I'm compelled to touch her. It's more like, if I can't touch her, I'll die. Well of course it isn't just sex, mother. Don't be silly. What kind of girl do you think I am? No. Yes. Yes, are you kidding me? More than anyone might ever believe possible. Yes, the most beautiful fucking thing you could ever imagine if you had ten thousand lifetimes to imagine it. I know but it's true. Miss her? I think my soul is dying. Yep. Oh sure, Wednesday would be fine, after my dental appointment. Sure, I'll meet you in front of the Cheesecake Factory. . .
God, I'm so clever. I almost laugh but the tears choke that attempt. I close my eyes and Tegan is the last thing I see before the room goes black.