Living in the Past

IN and out…In and out. She commands her little lungs to breathe as she lay in a heaping pile in a dark, abandoned alley in the depths of Detroit, Michigan. The air is dense with the stench of old urine and whiskey. Crushed beer cans and yellowed newspapers cover the streets, carried through the air by the harsh December winds. She lay with her back against the concrete. Her jeans are gathered around her ankles and the backs of her thin, naked legs scour the cold, abrasive pavement. Her hair is matted with sweat and tears and is clinging to her face like a spider’s web. Although she can’t lift her arms to feel it, she knows there is blood dripping from the cut of her busted bottom lip. The broken bones in her ribs don’t allow her to even roll over when she begins to heave. Now, covered in vomit, she starts choking between sobs and screams. 

“Help! Please help me!” she shrieks as loudly as her raw throat allows. “I need help!” 

Suddenly, her green eyes grow wide with horror as she makes out the tall shadow, slowly growing on the abandoned dumpster that is overflowing with weeks of forgotten trash. 

He’s back.

She flails her little arms and legs, trying to peel her body off the ground, but her efforts are futile. Within seconds, he is back on top of her. Two-hundred and fifty pounds of fat and muscle crushing her skinny body. Anyone walking down Livernois Avenue on December 17, 1984 at 2:26 in the morning would have clearly heard the bone-chilling screams of a twelve-year old girl piercing through the night. It is the last sound she hears before everything goes dark.

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

IT’S one of the worst kind of days. A day that is unbearably ordinary. Sitting on a cold metal chair on a boulevard in the middle of Manhattan, I brush a strand of dark hair out of my eyes. The fingers that peek out from my cable-knit sweater are wrapped around a scalding hot, paper Starbucks cup. I close my eyes and breathe in the cinnamon-scented steam. September’s summery nights were starting to give way to the familiar October chill and I pull my sweater tighter around myself. I watch as hundreds of New Yorkers pass by. It’s funny how it can feel so lonely in a place that is always swarming with people. Each of them living a completely different life, with its own unique joys and troubles. In one Manhattan scene, so many paths running parallel, some overlapping at few points, but how many will ever collide? 

A woman, brunette, tall and slim, who looks like she might refresh her artificial tan every few weeks is walking her little terrier, but is wearing an expression that says she has better things to do. A middle age man passes. The creases around his eyes tell a story. His dark hair, peppered with some gray is beginning to recede above his temples. He has one arm slung over a beautiful woman, who appears to be in her early forties. She’s carrying a large, silver, gift-wrapped box. Across the street, a young girl, maybe only fifteen, has her shoulder resting against a lamp post and her head inside a book. Her auburn hair is streaked with blonde and falls to the middle of her back. Her hard rock T-shirt, leather jacket, nail polish, leggings, and laced combat boots are all a passionate black. My attention roams to the New York City traffic. People are getting in and out of taxis. Cars are swerving between lanes. A bride and groom are riding away in a limousine. I’m immersed in an orchestra of cell phones ringing, cars honking, tires screeching, vendors shouting, and I take it all in, wondering about each of their lives. 

Are there demons lurking in their pasts. Is there a story hiding behind their placid expressions? What are the lies they tell and the fears, guilt, insecurities that they harbor? Do they understand disappointment or what it means to struggle?

When I see a pale, yellow moon become visible in the gradually darkening sky, I decide that it’s time to start heading home. I throw my half-full coffee cup into the nearest pail, grab my worn leather bag, and start to make my way down the city streets. I try not to think about the fact that tomorrow will be Monday as I walk up the stairs to my condo. I decide against taking the elevator. Gym memberships are expensive these days. Why spend the money when I live in an apartment on the seventh floor? Lately, I hardly even notice the smell of weed and burnt ashes that seems to permanently linger in the stairwell.

Turning the key in the lock, I am greeted by a dark, two-bedroom apartment. I throw my keys and bag onto the grey sofa and turn on the nearest lamp. I look around and groan when I see the job waiting for me. The table in the dinette is strewn with empty Chinese take-out cartons, a half-drunk bottle of Corona, and yesterday’s Times. By the living room window that overlooks Sutton Square, there sits a can with muddy paint water, a few brushes that have seen better days and an easel set up with a large canvas that is completely blank. The coffee table is littered with mail; bills and statements. Scattered on the hardwood floors and the black, two-piece sectional are a pair of sweats, a few tank tops and a Columbia sweatshirt. I roughly massage the back of my neck, throw my hair into a messy bun and begin gathering the articles of clothing and throwing them into a large laundry bag, when I hear the familiar sound of a key jamming in a lock. 

“What the hell is wrong with this stupid door?”

I hear the muffled voice of my best friend from outside our apartment and I can’t help but laugh to myself. When the groans turn into a fist slamming against the wood panel, I drop the laundry and run to get her. I’m greeted by a frenzied red-head carrying what looks to be fifteen grocery bags. Slim and tall with sapphire-blue eyes, Sheela can easily be a model.

              “Jamie, if we don’t get that door fixed, I swear to you I am moving out.” She dramatically drags all the groceries into the apartment, out of breath and still yelling. “I don’t even care if you come with me at this point. This is getting out of hand.”

 Sheela somehow manages to bring out an exuberance in me that I was only introduced to when I first met her in college. It might have been an act of God that we ended up being roommates. Now, looking at her wind-blown hair standing on all ends and the murderous look in her eyes, I mentally thank Him for this tornado of passion that hurdled into my life.

“Sheela,” I laugh. “For some odd reason, you’re the only one having issues with this door. I happen to love this door. You know what? I actually think I’m going to make this door my new best friend,” I tease.

She starts lifting the groceries onto the dinette table and begins unpacking them. “Well then, you and this door can both move out. I hope you two are very happy together.”

She’s obviously more worked up about her key jamming than I thought. Not wanting to put her in a bad mood, I drop the subject and start clearing the table to make room for the groceries.

As if noticing the shopping bags for the first time I ask, “Have you started sneaking out in the middle of the night to bench weights or something? How in the world did you manage to carry all this up here on your own?”

She shrugs nonchalantly while walking to the fridge to put the milk away. “Please,” she says, as if to express her disbelief at the absurdity of my question. I should’ve known better than to doubt her. In more ways than one, Sheela is as solid as stone. She’ll accomplish anything that she sets her mind to. That’s just one thing that makes her such an incredible person and reliable friend.

“I’ll cook dinner tonight,” she offers. “You look like you had a rough day.”

Although she was by far the better cook, Sheela and I usually took turns with dinner. 

              “Aren’t you gonna grill me about it?” I ask with a hint of a smile.

“Oh, I’m going to grill you,” she shoots back, not missing a beat. “I’m just going to make sure there’s a good amount of wine and honey-glazed grilled chicken with a side of creamy, buttery garlic mashed potatoes in you first.”

I’m really laughing now in spite of myself. “It must be from hanging out with me that you got to be so wise,” I respond, trying to match her wit. “I’m going to run into the shower and finish cleaning up a bit. Let me know if you want any help.”

I leave the kitchen to grab the laundry bag to leave it by the front door so that one of us will remember to take it to the laundromat. On my way to my room I hear Sheela shouting something about being wise and cleaning toilets, but I’m already undressed and not listening.

I treat myself to an exceptionally long shower and change into a pair of gray sweats and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. I step out of the bathroom and the apartment is filled with a mouth-watering aroma of sautéed onions and honey. I find myself being pulled toward the kitchen. I guess Sheela finished all the prep work because she’s not here and there’s a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove and a chicken roasting in the oven. I open the fridge to grab a can of Bud Light and make my way back to my room. Pulling a brush through my wet hair, I walk over to my answering machine. The phone is blinking red. One new message. I press play and listen as I sip on the cold beer. 

“Good morning Miss Palmer. This is Amy from Dr. Campbell’s office. I’m calling regarding your request to refill your prescription. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come in for another evaluation before more medication can be prescri – “

I quickly delete the message before Sheela comes running out of her room. Our bedrooms share a single thin wall, so we really don’t get much privacy from each other. I make sure to turn the volume down while I listen to the next one.

“Hey Jamie. It’s Sean from the office calling. Um…Listen. We uh…I…I need to talk to you. Please give me a call back when you get a chance. Okay. Good night.”

I sigh. “That doesn’t sound too good.”

“What doesn’t sound too good?”

I quickly turn around, almost dropping my drink, and Sheela is leaning casually against my door frame. I guess sharing an apartment for as long as we have makes her feel entitled to certain privileges, like not knocking.

“Hey,” I start. “I have a feeling I’m going to need to start job-hunting next week.”

“Thank God,” she responds. “You’re finally quitting that ridiculous job? I must have finally knocked some sense into you.”

“I actually think my boss may be beating me to it. And you didn’t think it was so ridiculous when it was paying our bills.”

I shuffle past her to the kitchen and start taking down some plates and glasses for dinner. Sheela follows me down the hall, checking on her chicken.

“Jamie,” she sighs. When Sheela’s not yelling, I start to get nervous because I know she’s getting ready to give her all-to-frequent grandmotherly advice.

“I just don’t get why you have to be so stubborn. You know you hated that job, so why do you insist on selling yourself short? You’re so much better than doing secretarial work for some hot-shot who thinks he’s God’s gift to modern art.”

“Listen, Sheela.” I rub my eyes with the insides of my wrist. “I can’t argue with you right now. Can we please just have dinner and leave the drama for tonight?”

I guess she took me seriously because we ate dinner in what was close to silence. Though I didn’t fail to catch Sheela’s painfully-blue eyes watching me from over her wine glass throughout the entire twenty minutes that we ate. 

“Thanks for dinner,” I said, getting up from the table with my plate. I went to the sink to wash my dishes as she did the same.

“I think I’m going to have an early night,” I said, avoiding making eye-contact. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I start to make my way to my bedroom when I hear Sheela call after me.

“You’re making dinner the next two nights!”

I smile as I turn the knob to my room and welcome the dark quiet.

HE’S coming towards her. She tries to run, but her legs won’t move. She opens her mouth to scream, but barely a squeak escapes her lips. He’s running now. He’s so close that she can smell his boozy breath and see the bald patches in the stubble on his jaw. He knocks her to the ground and rips off her shirt. His over-sized hands are around her throat. She’s grabbing his wrists, trying to pull him off her. His face is inches from hers and he is wearing a sickening smile. He lets out a throaty laugh, spraying her face with putrid spittle. Suddenly, his image slowly evaporates. She is no longer laying on the ground in a dark, abandoned alleyway. She’s surrounded by blinding white light. She is laying on a bed, wearing a pale mint gown, clutching her swollen belly. The pain is agonizing, it won’t stop. She looks up at the ceiling, trying to say the alphabet backwards while trying to stop the steady flow of tears that is rushing down her cheeks. But her view is blocked by a crowd of masked faces hovering over her. The room is dimming, and soon, all she can see is black. 

Someone is screaming. I wake up in a sweaty panic and realize that it’s me. My mouth is sandy and my heart is hammering against my chest like my ribs are its prison. I sit up and grab the clock on my nightstand. It’s 2:30 in the morning. With shaking hands, I open the drawer to my night stand and reach for the orange medicine container of Zoloft. My clammy fingers struggle with the child safety cap, but I manage to get it off, and I swallow one small, white caplet dry. I try not to worry about the mere five pills left in the bottle. I pick up an empty glass that’s been sitting on the stand from the night before and get up to fill it in the bathroom sink. I throw back the warm water to try to wash out the chalky taste from my mouth and catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity. A pale face, belonging to a girl with hollowed cheek bones, stares back at me. Hair like a starless sky falls past her shoulders. The stony jade of her tired eyes, still doesn’t fail to dim; they seem to pierce straight through the mirrored glass. 

I lift up my shirt a few inches, trailing my fingers along the four-inch white line of raised skin right in the middle of my two hip bones. I watch the movement of my hand over my flat stomach in the mirror, analyzing the brand of imperfection, a constant reminder that you don’t have to be an adult to know what it’s like to lose everything.