White Lines (19 page)

“I don’t care!” I yell out, my voice surprising me with how loud it sounds in the hushed room. The spot on my wrist where she scratched me pulses hotly, and I rub it with my other hand, my eyes never leaving my mother’s face as I lean down. This close we are mirror reflections of each other. The face that looks angrily back at me is my own, lips the same fleshy pillows. But the expression in her eyes is flat and dead. Snake eyes, devoid of any kind of real feeling, and as I look at my mother, I make a silent promise to myself; I swear that I will never become her, bitter and full of rage, obsessed with what other people think, that in spite of genetics, a physical resemblance is the only thing we will ever share between us. At this moment I am so angry, so full of urgency that my entire body is vibrating like the buzzing whine of a chain saw.

“If you ever touch me again,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “I will hit you back. And it will hurt.”

Her eyes widen further, and in them I see not only anger but, for the first time, fear, and I know she has heard me. She nods almost imperceptibly, dropping her gaze to the floor.

I walk out of the room, all eyes on me as I move farther away from my mother, every step sealing my fate. Even though I can’t see her, I imagine the apologetic smile that is surely plastered all over her face, how she will raise one hand to ask for the check, and I am inexplicably filled with a sadness so large, it threatens to swallow me completely. She’s cruel and dangerous, but she’s also my mother. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m only seventeen, and I still need mothering. Whatever that means. What makes me saddest of all is the crushing knowledge that she will never be able to love me the way I need her to, that maybe she cannot love at all. And it feels like a kind of death. I thought if I finally stood up to her, I’d feel better. I was wrong.

When I push open the front door and the cold wind rips through my coat, I begin to shiver violently, the adrenaline finally giving way to exhaustion as I begin to make my way through Central Park, the bare branches of the trees overhead offering protection against nothing. The world feels like a Xerox of itself, two-dimensional and unreal. I know I will meet Christoph tonight because there is no longer any reason not to. No matter how much I fight against it, I’m always inevitably drawn to the worst of everything. That kind of darkness.

I force myself not to think about Julian, love, or any other kind of fake salvation, my shoes clicking against the path as I move myself forward, pedestrians walking blithely by me in a blur of wool and laughter as tears finally begin their slow, icy crawl down my face.

* * * *

THE SCENT OF FRANKINCENSE
and myrrh drifts by my head as the priest shakes the incense burner, the brass swinging from a chain flashing like a prism in the sunlit stone room. I am sitting between my grandparents, my small hand wrapped in my grandfather’s large, meaty palm, the skin roughened by long hours spent in his minuscule garden plot. When he releases me, I know my hand will smell of the tomato vines he tended before we got in the car, of sunlight and the dark, loamy tang of turned earth.

Every Sunday I spend with my grandparents is the same—church in the morning, followed by a long lunch at the worn kitchen table, tomato sauce simmering in a blue speckled pan licked by a gas flame. Sometimes a barbecue, my grandfather carefully flipping seasoned pieces of chicken on the grill, smoke billowing up and engulfing me in its sweet meaty scent. I watch as he raises one hand to his heart and stops, momentarily, his face creased with pain. I lie on a hard wooden swing, aimlessly turning the pages of a book, entranced by the leaves of the trees overhead, their green carpet hiding the sun. The pages draw me in, and between the stark black type and white pages, I see safety in fantasy, that the removal of the self from the world is the only thing that might save me. In those pages, I am not the girl who hides under the bed waiting for her mother to go to sleep, or the girl who tugs on her father’s sleeve as he strides purposefully out the door. I am a fairy princess, a magician, a warrior.

At church, the priest reads from his leather-bound Bible and we follow along, repeating the words that hang heavily in my throat, words like
God
and
love
and
faith.
Words that ring falsely in the air, echoing in the enormous room, words that have no meaning. Just three years from this moment, my grandfather’s mahogany coffin will be carried down the aisle and I will watch as the priest performs a blessing, making the sign of the cross over the hard wooden surface, my heart empty. My grandmother will sit in his chair at night, refusing to lie down in the bed that they shared for more than forty years, her eyes blurred and unfocused. If there is a God, he is for other people. Even at seven, I know that if there is a man up there, hanging suspended in the sky, he cannot possibly love me, that there is no salvation in this life but the world you make for yourself.

TWENTY-SEVEN

SATURDAY NIGHT,
and I’m standing outside of Chaos, the first snowfall of the year drifting down in large, fat flakes that land softly on the sidewalk, blanketing it in whiteness. The snow lands in my eyelashes, caught there, and I blink it away, exhaling my breath into the cold air. At midnight, the streets of Alphabet City in front of the abandoned buildings are lined with addicts waiting for a fix. They tap their feet against the sidewalk, their voices wailing out into the night, causing me to shiver violently. This is where people come to buy not only crack, but heroin, tearing open small glassine bags that feel like waxed paper and snorting the contents in empty doorways or the safety of phone booths, patrol cars passing by lazily in the night.

On my right hand I wear Giovanni’s onyx poison ring, its depths packed with white powder that reminds me of the gently falling snow. I bent over it repeatedly during the short ride from my apartment, the driver’s eyes meeting my own in the rearview mirror once and flitting away silently as I sniffed loudly, beyond caring. The club’s pink neon sign and the trio of black limousines parked at the curb waver like some kind of gaudy mirage, and I duck inside the front door, which shuts heavily behind me with a loud thump. I’m wearing a tight black dress that ends short of my fingertips. My hair is pulled back, ropes of vintage rhinestones glittering at my ears and wrists. On my feet are heels so high, I must walk carefully just to stay upright. Black feathers spike from my head toward the stars dangling in the night sky.

“Very Holly Golightly,” Giovanni murmured an hour earlier, invoking Audrey Hepburn’s stylish New York grace, nodding his approval, arms crossed at the chest. “He’s gonna love it.” But now, standing just inside the doorway, I’m not so sure. The more I look in the mirror lately, the more unsure I am of what is reflected there.

Even though it’s only midnight, the club is packed. Most of the women are working the large, sparkly-earring Eurotrash look more often on display at intimate clubs like Nell’s, where people sit perched on couches talking quietly over glasses of Merlot: tight black clothing, slicked-back hair and violently red lips. Everyone looks like an extra from a Robert Palmer video, with pouting, glossy mouths and vacant stares, their cigarette smoke trailing softly to the ceiling. These are not club kids, but a more upscale, well-heeled crowd that doesn’t flinch at shelling out hundreds of dollars for bottles of cut-rate champagne and top-shelf liquors swirled into small glasses, and strangely enough, in the outfit Giovanni fashioned for me this evening, I fit in just fine. The first floor is painted in wide stripes of magenta and black, dominated by cushy white sofas in shapes beamed straight from outer space.

The music pounds through the room, silencing the sound of my heels against the ebony-stained hardwood as I make my way toward the bouncer standing behind a velvet rope, clipboard in hand. He’s wearing a silver jacket and expertly cut dark pants, his black hair combed into a pompadour that offsets his high cheekbones. I don’t recognize him, but he squints as I approach, sizing me up. At moments like these I feel like a steak on display in a butcher shop window or the last cold piece of pizza at the bottom of a soggy box. The fact that I perform the same ritual nightly at Tunnel doesn’t make it any easier when I’m stuck on the other side of the fence.

“Yes?” he says as I walk up, not unkindly, but his voice isn’t exactly friendly, either. I smile to myself as I observe his cool detachment. I could be looking at my own face in the mirror, my expression blank, with a slight edge of condescension. From the frosty vibes he’s sending my way, it’s doubtful that we’re going to end up having weekly slumber parties or sharing a line in the bathroom. He glances down at his clipboard, waiting for me to speak.

“I’m Caitlin,” I say quickly, swallowing hard and adding, “I mean, Cat. I’m here to meet Christoph. From Tunnel?”

I am not unaware of the fact that I sound like a stammering moron or that I’m suddenly inexplicably sweating at the mention of Christoph’s name.
What are you doing?
I think as I wait for his expression to change, for the rope to magically swing open as it always does at moments like these.
What the hell are you even doing here?

He looks up from the clipboard, his eyes widening as a flash of recognition sweeps across his face, which breaks into a slow smile the moment Christoph’s name leaves my lips.

Bingo.

“Right this way,” he sputters, all sugar and sunshine as he hands the clipboard to a hugely muscled black guy who is clearly in charge of either crowd control or breaking legs, his biceps straining beneath a dark suit. Rope Nazi takes my arm, leading me through the pulsing crowd that ebbs and flows like the sea. Laughter shatters my ears, more beautiful than music, and I am light-headed as we push through the crowd, then through a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
and up a flight of stairs.

“We’ve put you in a private room because of the weather.” He turns to me, offering up an apologetic smile.

My blood is pounding in my ears as we reach the door I know will lead to the place where Christoph waits for me, and the stairwell begins to swim dizzily before my eyes. When I close them to get my bearings, my mother’s face emerges and a small cry escapes my lips. I put one hand on the wall, steadying myself, my heart racing beneath the spandex shell of my dress, my breath coming fast and ragged. Rope Nazi looks at me, one hand on the door marked
PRIVATE
, his brow wrinkled in concern, a look in his eyes I recognize immediately as fear.

“Umm . . . are you OK?”

He leans toward me, patting my arm as if he’s afraid I might fall apart right here in the stairwell, and then how would he explain
that
?

I lean my forehead against the wall. The white plaster is cool against my skin. I breathe in and out, willing my heart to slow its rapid ascent. After a moment I straighten up, offering him a weak smile, checking that my hair is still smoothly pulled back from my face. Without even looking in the mirror, I know my skin is waxen, sweat breaking out along my temples.

“I’m fine,” I say, and even though he knows I’m lying, he shrugs once, then opens the door, and suddenly the lights of the city are strung out like jewels through a wall of windows. The effect is instant vertigo, the sky opening up in front of me, snow swirling in front of the glass, purifying everything in hushed silent whiteness. Low music drifts through the room, candles bathing everything in a soft glow. Christoph sits at a table in front of the largest window. China and silverware gleam on the table, and the scent of lilies in the air is intoxicating. The room is full of flowers in hammered silver vases, and the open petals mix with the plastic smell of the dripping wax.

I take a deep breath and walk toward Christoph as if I’m going to my own execution, my heels clicking against the floor as the door shuts tight behind me. I try to glue a cheerful expression to the lower half of my face, my jaw clenched tight as a fist. I’m so high that I notice for the first time I’ve been grinding my teeth for what seems like forever, my jaw sore and overworked. My teeth feel as soft and insubstantial as soapstone, and I run my tongue over them just to make sure they’re still in there, anchored to the fleshy pink heat of my gums.

As I reach the table, Christoph jumps to his feet, grasping me firmly by the shoulders and leaning in to kiss me on both cheeks, his lips lingering against my skin. He smells of a cologne that manages to be both musky and bracing at the same time, like an animal pelt washed clean by rainwater and left to dry in the sun. The smell of his body, the floral tang of laundry detergent emanating from his clothes—it all makes me dizzy, and I’m grateful for the leather chair I sink into the minute he releases me.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says, sitting down across from me and balling a white cloth napkin in his fist. His skin is dark in the candlelight, and I wonder if he went to the tanning salon this afternoon before our date. The thought makes me feel sad for some reason, and I clear my throat to steady my nerves, the sound echoing over the music piped into the room by invisible speakers. My throat feels raw and red, a ribbon of blood candy. Christoph looks at me expectantly, and I realize he is waiting for me to speak.

“Yes you were,” I say, my words hollow in my throat.

Christoph’s smile returns, and he leans back in his chair, confidence restored as a white-jacketed waiter enters the room and approaches the table, pouring champagne from a dewy-necked bottle. The golden liquid spills into my glass and I reach for it before the waiter is even finished pouring, bubbles frothing over my wrist as I raise it to my mouth, gulping frantically.
I need this,
I think as it slides down my throat, tickling the inside of me like silent fingers.
I need something.
My heart is still hammering away in my chest, relentless, and when I put my glass down on the table, Christoph nods almost imperceptibly at the waiter, who refills it, his face impassive. After topping off Christoph’s glass, the waiter disappears, the door closing noiselessly behind him.

“I wasn’t sure it was a good idea,” I say, even though my throat seems to be closing up. I offer him a weak smile. I can feel the sweat standing out on my forehead, and I wonder if I can somehow wipe it away without him noticing. I also begin to realize that I’ve done way too much coke, that the drugs swirling through my system like snow have become an uncontrollable blizzard, coating my insides in a dense, suffocating fog.

Christoph laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, revealing tiny lines etched into his tanned skin. “Funny. I tend to do most things precisely
for
that reason alone. Life is an adventure, no? It is to be experienced.” He leans forward in his chair, resting his arms on the table. His suit tonight is jet black, the material soft and expensive. I know if I reach out and touch his sleeve, it will feel like butter, the wool fine-spun as a spider’s web. The words coming from his lips could be my own, that pull toward the abyss.

“I mean, you only live once, right?” Christoph reaches across the table and takes my hand, running his index finger slowly across my palm, making me feel as though I’m squirming without moving an inch.

The waiter enters the room again silently, carrying a large silver tray with a huge dome. He sets it down carefully in the middle of the table, removing the dome with a flourish of his wrist. There on the shiny silver surface is a large pizza. I stare down at the pie, dumbfounded. The waiter nods at Christoph, then slinks out again. When I look up, Christoph is watching me carefully, waiting for my reaction.

“You did
say
it was your favorite food.”

There is something in his voice—the gentle teasing lilt—coupled with the gesture he makes as he points toward the pie, that exposes his own nervousness. Christoph is trying to impress me with this room, with a stupid pizza, and the thought makes me so depressed that I am having trouble opening my mouth to speak. Circles of pepperoni dot the surface of the steaming cheese, and I think of Julian, that first day outside school watching him eat a slice, the way he strode defiantly across the street to claim me, his hand grasping my own.

I close my eyes and images flash through my mind: Alexa’s smirk framed in the bathroom mirror at school, Julian’s eyes searching mine for some kind of answer. My mother at Tavern on the Green, the nonchalance of her fur thrown over the back of her chair, her hard stare that impacts my bones like a fall onto cold concrete. Her imperiousness as she calls things forth to do her bidding, the universe ordering itself around her as neatly as stacks of folded paper. Sitting here with a man who is old enough to be my father, a man who possesses that same smug sense of entitlement as my parents, I know that I have become my worst self, a girl who will do anything to avoid looking at her own frightened reflection in the mirror. A girl who runs away, straight into the dark of an eclipse, just to have someplace to go.

But I can’t remember who I am,
I think frantically, my eyes opening on the candlelit room, the pizza, and above it, Christoph’s face.
Then isn’t it time you found out?
an unfamiliar voice from what feels like the depth of my being whispers. It is a voice that might be Sara’s, or it could be my own, a voice so hoarse and raspy from disuse that the sound is foreign to my ears. I don’t want to be this person anymore, but I’ve been running for so long, I don’t know how to stop, how to stand still, how to begin again. If there was a map, could I follow it? Could I make a new start? A new life out of the haze of ghosts and ashes, so much burnt-out terrain?
Maybe it’s time you tried,
the voice whispers again without judgment or sarcasm, but with so much compassion that a ragged, tearing sound escapes my throat before I can contain it. I pull my hand away and stand up, knocking the chair over with my sudden movement, the imprint of Christoph’s fingers lingering on my skin like a chemical burn.

“I’m sorry,” I say, though I don’t think I really am. “I have to go.”

Christoph stands up sharply. “What? You just got here!”

“I know,” I mumble. “But I can’t stay.” Christoph’s face colors a deep red, his arctic-blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What?” he says again.
“Why?”

There is no reason I can give him that will make any kind of sense. I’ve woken up in the middle of a dream in the wrong house, the wrong city, the wrong country.

“Just who the hell do you think you are?” he asks through gritted teeth. “No one walks out on me, you ungrateful little brat—you’d still be getting tucked into bed by your parents every night if it weren’t for me.”