Part 37 (1/2)

Sometimes the Lady makes you sick. But it's good sick.

There's room on the couch, and a vacant chair, but she sits on the floor, as if afraid of falling.

Now she rocks herself. Forward.

Back. Forward. Back. Thank you for .... wait. How did you know?

”I dunno. Guess he just looked like bad news. Then he started yelling crazy s.h.i.+t. I usually mind my own business....”

Yeah, right. ”But my 'little voice' was screaming. Good thing you never shut your door.

Even better, he was too busy trying to choke you to notice.”

Her hands rise protectively toward her neck. I thought I was on my way to h.e.l.l for sure. She strokes the raised scarlet finger marks gently.

Hurts like a mother. Is it ugly?

I have to say, ”Pretty ugly.

You might have to take a few days off. Most guys won't want ....”

Too familiar. Then again, I just watched her shoot up.

I repeat, ”Take a few days off.”

I Expect Surprise That I know how she makes her money. Or anger at me, because I've been such a snoop, or at herself, because she's made it so obvious. I get neither.

Nothing but silent acceptance.

Is it the heroin? Or is it just her? Probably both. I want to ask where she came from. What kind of parents she has, if she has any at all. How she hooked up with her so-called boyfriend.

That's, no doubt, what he calls himself. Want to ask, though I know the answer, if he's the one who started her on the junk.

Her head sways forward as the drug carries her toward Dreamville. She'll be totally out of it soon. I'll ask something easy. ”What's your name?”

At the sound of my voice, her head jerks up. Oh. It's you.

You tell me your name first.

Wow. She's pretty out of it already. ”I told you before.

It's Ginger, remember?”

She giggles like a little kid.

A stoned little kid. Oh, yeah.

Hey, Ginger. I'm Whitney.

Somewhere in her sudden animation, I catch a glimpse of Whitney, the way I imagine she used to be before .... him.

She nods again and I hurry, ”Are you still in love with him?”

Yo-yoing in and out of now, she is coherent enough to know who I mean. Bryn is everything.

It's the Last Thing She Says Before dropping all the way into whatever dark narcotic place the junk pushes her toward.

I swear I'll never venture there.

Lately I don't even feel like drinking much. All it does is make me stupid and sick.

It doesn't make me forget.

In fact, sometimes, the drunker I get, the more I remember.

I remember the kids, how annoying and entertaining they could be. Do they miss me?

Have they even asked, Where is Ginger? Why did she go?

I remember Barstow, the armpit town where I first made a friend, first got decent grades. Ms. Felton even told me once, You're an excellent writer. You should think about it as a career.

Writer? Me? And what am I doing instead? I remember Sandy, a ball in the street, and Mary Ann's face, scrunched with pain. I'm sorry. I should have .... Only the blame belonged to me. Which always brings me back to my very favorite memories, all centered around Gram, deceptively pet.i.te, while so driven. Tireless. Completely devoted to a pack of kids she owed absolutely zero devotion. All because of her giant capacity to love. Does she hate me now for taking the easy way out?

Would she ask me to come home if she could? Did she mean it when she said, You know where I live.

No matter what, I want you to remember this is always your home.

Tempting as It Might Be To get back on the bus, see if she would welcome me, uglier memories intrude on that sweet little daydream.

Since the revelation about Iris sicking her snarling dogs on me, other faces-other mutts-materialize when I least want to recognize them, often just as I sink into an alcohol-fueled stupor, praying it will let me sleep, dreamless.

I was so young the first time, I didn't know what it meant, only that nothing had ever hurt so bad. Walt tore me up and I bled and bled and when I screamed, n.o.body came. And he laughed.

That's it, little baby. Scream for your daddy. Only he wasn't my daddy at all. My daddy was a brave soldier, fighting far away.

Iris told me so. I still believed the stuff she told me then. When I told her about the man, not my daddy, she said, He was only making you into a real girl.

I didn't understand. But I made myself believe her. I was a real girl now. But what was I before?

Walt Was the First There were others. Nameless.

Faceless. I figured out how to close off my brain when they did it to me, to withdraw into a dark little room inside my head, where I couldn't see them. Couldn't smell their sweat, their stagnant breath.

Couldn't taste the tobacco coating their tongues, or the beer tainting the spit they left in my mouth.

Couldn't feel what was down between my legs. But now they revisit me. Is it because of what I'm doing? Because of these nameless, faceless men watching me? Even without them touching me, I feel dirty about what I do.