Brake Lights

We took the train into Boston. It was a crowded car, so we stood, huddled together. When we got to Downtown Crossing we were a little early so we went into a nearby food court for some dinner, and to keep warm. She was another mystery. The closer I tried to get the more vague and elusive she became. There was some story between her and her mother, and I knew she had anxiety — but I never really got to know her. She was always upbeat in group, but generally quiet. We walked slowly to the theater. It was a cold night in March and we were wrapped in coats and her face was very pale, but her cheeks flushed red when she laughed.

In the dark Downtown theater, I pointed out the mice. The theater was full of mice looking for fallen popcorn, and occasionally during movies you could catch one or two scurrying around. She laughed and said, “They’re cute.”

The movie was a comedy but it wasn’t very funny. She seemed to enjoy it more than I did. At some point she leaned in close to me to rest her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her and kissed her hair. The popcorn was in my lap; we shared. It wasn’t an awkward first date; we had spent a few months together at Arbor Hospital’s Day Program. I couldn’t see where this was going, but I knew that it likely wouldn’t end well. I remember going to an AA meeting and a girl talking about how great her life was since her lover was normal, saying, “Two Sickies don’t make a Welly.” I felt at ease around Carrie because she understood my situation. But, generally speaking, it probably isn’t a good idea to date people you meet in group therapy. Of course, we are excluded as love interests for most “sane” people, as well. It’s a hard knock life.

Well, Fuck it, I thought. She’s cute.

Cute but she told me that one of her boyfriends used to choke her.

“Really? Did you like it?”

“I guess so.”

“It has never occurred to me to choke a girl I’m fucking.”

“You never tied a chick up?”

“I think I prefer that she is taking an active role in bed. If I had to tie her up just to fuck her, I’d probably be insulted.”

She stepped into my coat and put her arms underneath and around to my back. “It’s cold,” she said. We kissed. We continued to walk the city until it was unbearable.

“Cold as a goddamn witch’s tit,” I said.

We got on the train and held hands in our seats. I was thinking about fucking her. She seemed lost in thought. “So, what now?” I asked.

“I’ll probably head home. My mom will be pissed if I’m out all night. I’m 22, I know, it’s sad. But that’s what it’s like living at home, I guess.”

“Are you glad you are done with Arbor?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Time to try to get back to life. Back to work. But I do miss the safety of the program.”

“Do you feel unsafe?”

“I don’t know,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “It’s late. I’m not making sense anymore.”

I was getting sick of Arbor. Most of the people I had become acquainted with had moved on, and I hadn’t really become accustomed to the new people. I didn’t get to know the new crew. All the pretty girls were gone, and I became less and less interested in therapy. I felt it was useless. Nearing the end, I would go home and reflect as to whether it was helpful, all that wasted time. One day, my psychopharm, Lorrie, asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“Why? You are still sober, right?”

“Well, it does give me structure I guess, so I’m less tempted to seek out situations where I can drink, because, I’m busy, you know? But when it is all over I’ll be as broken as I was when I started. Talk therapy doesn’t do much for me. I drew some pictures, expressed sadness. People empathized. So what? In the end, all the connections are manufactured, and I’ll never see those people again.”

“Well, did you make any connections?”

“I’m dating a girl I met at Arbor.”

“How is that going?”

“I doubt it’ll amount to anything.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“Seeing all those fucked up people just left me feeling more hopeless than before. So, I’m flawed with company. Anyway, Lorrie, I’m right about everything all the time, right?”

She laughed. “Do you need any more refills?”

“No, I’m good.”

That was all. I saw Lorrie every other month.

Carrie and I drove through Winchester, where she lived with her mom. We drove around Winchester, and she showed me the three houses she had lived in. Generally speaking, Winchester was Medford’s richer counterpart; it was the better off neighbor next door. I had never really been around Winchester, but I used to do drugs, drink and hang out with a few girls from Winchester, when I was younger. They seemed like rich kids “experimenting.” They were younger than my crew and would show up in places where we met up, and we’d all get high together, mushrooms, ecstasy, acid, pot, beer, whatever. I always thought of them as being from the land of silver spoons, though I hadn’t grown up poor, either. But they seemed haughty to me.

But I learned that Winchester isn’t this way or that. Carrie and her mom had moved around a lot because of financial crises, and even as we drove by her current home, she made me aware that the situation was precarious. I think Carrie blamed her mom for her father leaving them. But I really can’t say. I wondered about abuse. All I knew was that Carrie wasn’t a privileged rich girl; she struggled and suffered.

We stopped at my parents’ house, and my parents and sisters were home, sitting around the dinner table. Carrie stood in the doorway as I picked up a 20 my mom was lending me and my older sister said something about “Finally getting some grandchildren in the family.” Carrie was visibly shocked and I was mortified. I whisked her out the door and we drove off. “That was awkward,” she said.

“She was kidding. Listen, we aren’t going to have any babies. I promise I will not put babies inside you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s really nice of you.”

We drove to a coffee shop and sat inside. We had sandwiches and lattes and she asked me about writing. I told her it was an on again off again thing.

“I should write my story,” she said. “I think it would be interesting for people to hear, like, how David Sedaris writes his life, you know, personal stuff.”

“You would have to be less secretive about your life.”

“You think I’m secretive?”

“Absolutely. You always hold back. You never say what is really going on in your life, really. We just talk about books.”

“Don’t you like books?”

“I do,” I said.

She asked me more about my writing. I told her I write my life, and distort it. “I look at my life as the raw materials to build around.”

“So, do you seek out interesting situations?”

“No, I just experience whatever comes up, then forget most of it. So I have this nugget of truth or outline and I trace it and fill in the blanks until I feel I have something.”

“Isn’t that a little vain, to distort the truth, or to suppose people are interested in you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not very creative. They say write what you know and I don’t really know anything.”

“I just mean, well,” she began. “You just seem so quiet, so normal. But I know you feel stigmatized and have had some pretty painful experiences — I guess I just wonder if writing is your way of — not feeling or becoming obsolete.”

“I wonder that sometimes too. But I’m driven,” I said. “It’s all I can think of. But maybe you are right.”

“I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything? I mean, deep down. I was just thinking out loud.”

We finished our coffee and made out in her car. She had small breasts and I felt them up. I asked her to come by the next day, knowing my parents weren’t going to be home. “Sure,” she said.

The next day we rolled around: first in the living room, and then in my bedroom. We kissed and I felt her up, her breasts and between her legs. I took her hand and led her into my bedroom. She stopped to look at my door, where, in high school, I had written fragments of my poems and quotes from books and friends. My parents had been really upset about that door. I wanted to cover my walls, as well.

“Why did you cover up your poetry with stickers?”

“I was embarrassed. Lousy poetry. Basically I just keep going — I’ll probably be embarrassed about the stuff I write now in a year or so.”

We rolled around on the bed. I became bolder. She rolled on top of my and ran her hands down my chest. I grabbed her and pulled her to the bed and started to unbutton her jeans. Her mouth met mine but she really didn’t reciprocate my advances. She kept her hands mostly on my back. When I went to unbutton her jeans, our mouths pressed together, her face became really hot. She turned her face away and I saw she was sweating a little. It felt like her blood was boiling under her skin.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, staring toward the window.

“Too fast?”

“Let’s go slow,” she said.

I backed off. Eventually we ended up parked in front of the TV. I felt awkward.

When she left it was just after nightfall. I walked her out to her small, blue car and she kissed me and got in. As she drove off I watched her brake lights go on as she stopped to turn down Linden. I lit up a cigarette and sat on the front steps.

We made plans to go out again on a Friday. I sent a text on Wednesday to say hello and she wrote back that she was looking forward to Friday. On Thursday I got a text that read, “Oh, punched in the nose!” I wrote back asking what was going on but got no response. Worried, I waited. Texted again. And Thursday night I called and left a message, trying to confirm plans and find out what happened.

Friday rolled around and I waited. I didn’t know what to do. I had no way of getting to Winchester and I doubt I could’ve found her house even if I had a car. I sent one more text on Friday and got no response.

I was downtrodden in group, but didn’t bring up Carrie. I was worried they would be upset that patients were dating each other. I kept it to myself and considered reading obituaries, though I figured she would be in the Winchester paper, which I had no access to. I couldn’t imagine she died anyway. It just didn’t seem possible. She had just lost interest. I felt so certain about it. At Arbor I grew to be more silent, more detached. In early April my time would be up.

On my last day the counselors had everyone say a personal goodbye to me, as per tradition. No one had really gotten to know me, so the farewells were lukewarm. “You seem like a nice guy, wish you luck.” Shit like that. That was in the morning, so I expected the whole day after to be awkward. Everyone had already said goodbye. I was a ghost.

In the afternoon I returned from a smoke walk and Carrie was sitting opposite me. Her eyes met mine then turned to focus on the table in front of her. I had never seen her look so sad. Neither of us said anything in group.

After Arbor, she led me out to the parking lot. I remember it was a windy day and trash blew around and the wind swept up her hair. She couldn’t look me in the eye. She said, “I tried to kill myself by taking a bunch of pills.”

I gave her a hug, like I was pulling her from the road a speeding car was barreling down. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s get together, tomorrow,” she said. “I want to take you out.”

I went to a Tibetan shop in Porter Square and looked for a present. I found a “Medicine Buddha” wrist mala and bought it. I walked home, a long ways, from Porter and when I arrived I sat at the computer and made a mixed cd of the only upbeat songs I could find in my library, so, not many. I guess I knew it had nothing to do with me, which was almost as bad. Was I a thought at all, a reason not to do it? Someone she knew that cared? I guess I knew the answer was no to both these questions.

We met up the following night and saw a movie downtown. It had a happy ending. Everything worked out, and all the threads were tied up neatly. We saw the mice but neither of us reacted. She put her head on my shoulder and I put my arm around her. We shared popcorn.

Afterwards we walked a little downtown.

“The warmer weather is coming,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She kissed me once and there was something final about it. We took the train to Davis Square, where she was parked. She drove me to my parents’ house. We stood under the streetlight and exchanged gifts. “Take care,” she said.

“Hey, keep your head up.”

She smiled and got in her car. I stood in the driveway and watched her car wind its way down the street. She turned and was gone.