Comfort Rd
L. Gamari
What
am I doing?
The
whole car’s humming, shaking me, or maybe I’m the one who’s shaking. Comfort
Road unrolled before me; a black river between the autumn trees all orange,
red, yellow, brown. Death for them is beautiful. It could be for me. Is that
how this will end? Doubtful. I’ll skid and slam the breaks, some deer or
dear-eyed child emerging from the crowded woods, letting out a fatal scream
before –
Yo,
are you up for this or not? he shouts, obnoxious little shit, from his rolled
down window. There’s laughter in Paul’s voice. This is a joke for him.
His car is glossy with expense– some revved up red creature only a year old,
tops. Comfort Road is mine. He can’t scare me. Six summers speeding up and down
Airport Drive, catering to snappy customers who always have someplace more
important to be. He’s got the better car, but I’m the better driver. I grip my
fingers tight around the wheel, knuckles burning white. Ready when you are,
bitch.
*
Paul
Vick never said a word to me before October. I can’t say I knew who he
was either. I can’t say I’m happy I do now. A blonde, forty-dollar haircut
mushrooms above his eyes, suburban blue. Entitlement blue. He smiles too easy.
His teeth too white; so obviously taken care of long before he had the means to
take care of them himself. But this isn’t what bothers me, no. Life isn’t fair,
I accept that. I learned long ago not to hold the past against people – it’s
what they do now that redeems or mars them. But in the case of Paul Vick, my
hatred is inevitable.
It’s
four-hundred-level English. A dozen copies of The Bell Jar lay before their owners like abandoned puppies on the
flat of their tummies, heads defeated on their paws, exhausted. Hungry. They’re
in various conditions – some highlighted and dog-eared, some with the binding
still solid with uncracked glue. Mine is stamped: PROPERTY OF ITHACA COLLEGE
LIBRARY. A page or two is missing, but I don’t mind. I’ve read it before.
Paul
speaks without being called on, but nobody cares. They didn’t want to talk
anyway. I just hate these kinds of characters, he says. They’re so depressing.
It’s actually annoying how whiney they are. She needs to relax. He’s smiling,
self-satisfied, as though this is a breakthrough in the history of literature,
nay, the history of all mankind. When she died I was like, you know what? Good
riddance! He leans back in his chair, one leg across his knee. His friends
chuckle from either side. How can they laugh? What’s wrong with these people?
And besides, Esther doesn’t die. Even the Professor doesn’t correct him. An old
me might have.
Everybody
tunes into the Prof like a radio frequency, fading in and out along an empty
stretch of highway cutting through some mountainous land far from here.
Somewhere I would rather be. Paul’s picking at his nails. The space in front of
him is empty; he didn’t even bring his book today. Leaning in so only he can
hear, I ask, Hasn’t anything bad ever happened to you?
His
tone rises and drops like a dip in the pavement. Yeeah, he says. Of course.
My
stomach lurches. Really? I doubt it, I whisper, pulling back. Why did I
whisper? I should have shouted it. I want to scream it. To the class. To the
world. Chairs swipe across the linoleum, loud and echoing off the blank walls.
Fifty-thousand-a-year to hear some jerk’s verbal vomit? Same old shit. Wasn’t
college supposed to be...doesn’t matter anymore. At least this is the last
year. Hang in there, Daphne, hang in there. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
D needur ss #
turn elec back oni
will pay u backbut
they turned off 2day
Somebody
runs into me. I’m blocking the door. Sorry, I murmur, my legs carrying me out
into the hall. Its screen smudgy and scratched, my eyes hypnotized, but my
brain keeps reading, re-reading the message. How could she do this? Is she
crazy? There’s a burning in my side. My face is warm. People are starting to
stare, eyes wide with the best of human intentions, but all I feel is them
looking through me like a mirror. I reflect everything they fear, everything
unknown to them. With any luck, I would always be unknown. I’ve got to get out
of the building. Get some fresh air.
*
I
knew there would be a fight. I should have anticipated what she’d say. I’m a
bad daughter. I don’t know what family is. Wiping the wet from my face, I turn
the key over and the engine wakes like Lazarus, happy to be useful once more. I
wait until the boundary of campus, and light the bowl. The outside air
streaming past my windows carries away with it any worry about the smell. Any worry
about anything really, fades back behind me with the scenery ticking past, like
old cinema film. All I see is what’s up ahead. I choose a road that’s empty,
one that’s got a good name.
Comfort
Rd reads white letters on green metal. It’s long and protected from cops by
woods and harmless hermits, their gardens overgrown. Cruise control set to
forty-five, I weave through Ithaca’s countryside. Deep into the back roads,
there’s a barn with horses. Sturdy, their souls rippling beneath the surface of
their soft bodies. I always stop and say hello. Animals are nice. They’re pure.
They haven’t read Plath, and have no concept of depression, but they don’t need
to. They know how to listen. They feel things. That’s their way.
I
always try to get back before dark. There are no streetlamps and I’m sleepy.
I’ve got to be careful. I’ve got to be sneaky. Nobody can know. I would lose
everything. Is this really worth it? Is the danger really worth the momentary
peace?
Headlights
in my rearview. Fuck. A cop? No. Just some dick, with his brights on though
he’s less than a car length away. Black and green spots obscure my vision,
cellophane circles between me and the world. I tap the breaks, flashing red.
Warning him I have no sense of self-preservation. I’d gladly let him hit me. If
you’re rear-ended, the guy in back’s always at fault. Am I sober enough for a
police report?
He’s
pumped up his music, the bass vibrating through the falling night. Come on, not
today. Some bored douche in the car his parents bought him, probably the day he
turned sixteen. It’s red and as loud and showy as the auto-tuned pop blasting
from its speakers. He’s way too close. Don’t fuck with me. I slam the breaks.
He
doesn’t hit me, but veers to the left, stopping on the wrong side of the road.
It doesn’t matter, nobody’s out here. That was the point. He rolls down the
window, smiling, his teeth all too white. It’s Paul.
Heeeey,
he yells across the seat. The music’s still blasting. It’s you! From class,
right?
This
is really not the place for small talk. Yeah. I raise my voice but keep it flat
as the hard, dark tar beneath our vehicles. I expect him to say some bullshit
about my driving, but he doesn’t.
So
you’ve discovered Comfort, too? His face is stretched in a knowing look. He
probably smells the weed.
Dude,
you want something? I’m on my way home.
Nah,
just saying Hi. What’s your name again? He says everything like he’s cute, and
knows it.
I’m
not and definitely know it. Daphne, I shout.
Right,
cool. My name’s Paul. Paul Vick.
No
shit, I think. I just nod my head, put on my most unimpressed smile. Make it
obvious I couldn’t care less.
Well,
um, okay. See ya in class. He pulls away, back up toward campus. Damn it, I
could have said anything - why hadn’t I lied about my name?
*
You
okay, Daffy? You seem a little, um, tense. Tubbs’ face is concerned, and deep
down, I’m glad. I don’t mean to fill those brown eyes with any worry, but it’s
nice when somebody notices. As though we share the same world.
Yeah
I’m alright. I ran into that jerk I told you about, the one in my English
class.
Oh
yeah? What happened?
He
drove up behind me while I was cruising. Scared me shitless. Thought he was a
pig.
She
laughs. I can be so paranoid.
We’re
at King’s Cemetery. Gold light in the fading afternoon kisses the carved and
crumbling grey stones, filling them with warmth and meaning. Hanging out here
was her idea. As children, we both played hide-and-seek among tombstones, not
together, but on either ends of New England. Maybe if I’d grown up with a
friend like her, things would’ve been different. I love her. She’s the kindest
person I know. She doesn’t seem to think so. This makes me love her even more.
So,
my Mom tried to blackmail me.
What?
She fumbles her coffee, and brown drips onto the picnic blanket.
I
know right. Bitch.
Don’t
let her get to you.
I
shake my head, tug at the clover along the edge of our blanket. She'll ruin my
credit.
She's
not gonna ruin your credit today. You’ve just got to stay away from her.
I
know. It’s just hard. She is – well, she was – the only sane family I’ve got –
had. Ugh.
Don’t
worry Daffy, it’s all gonna work out.
The
rehearsal in her voice stings a little. Isn’t there anybody who’s been through
this before? Let’s walk around some more before we go? I stand up, so she can’t
say no. The over-courteous thing has its advantages. Being polite, even if it
means sacrificing what you want, is built into every middle-class person I’ve
ever met. Everyone except Paul. People like Paul.
*
For
every thought you have, for every quirk you define yourself by, I believe there
are at least one thousand other people who do too. A thousand souls just like
you. Originality is a myth. It’s really a good thing though. It means you’re
never alone as long as you find those people. That’s my problem, I just haven’t
found them yet.
My
psychiatrist, Tom Thompson, is giving me his sympathy eyes. He crinkles them at
the edges and they go all glassy and sad. My side starts burning again. I’ve
been able to hear the blood pulsing in my ears for a week now. I don’t want his
damn sympathy. I know it’s depressing already. I want something else. Help.
He’s stays silent, waiting.
I
think I’m sick.
What
makes you think that? He marks the blue legal pad with his pen.
I
haven’t been able to sleep, and I’m hungry but nothing tastes good. Remember
when my back had that spasmie thing?
He
nods.
Yeah,
well we never figured out what that was, you know? And I think it could be
Listeria. There’s an outbreak at this cantaloupe farm and - His face is blank,
I know that means he’s skeptical – I’m a vegetarian so I eat a lot fruit and
stuff. My voice’s small and pained.
What
can we do about that? Have you seen the health center?
Yeah,
but – they don’t like me very much. They don’t listen.
Have
you thought about going to your family doctor? He’s so helpful. I want to puke.
I
don’t have a family doctor.
Oh,
well what about someone here in Ithaca?
I sit up in the sunken chair, weighed down by years of unhappy students. This
guy really just doesn’t get it. How is that possible? My scholarships pay for
the school’s health insurance, I say, I don’t have money for anything. I’m even
out of weed, though I won’t tell him that. Nobody can know.
Your health’s important. You could go and just not pay. I’ve never heard of
anyone going into debt because of medical bills. He smiles, so reassuring, so
knowing, so helpful.
*
Comfort Road is blasting past, my speedometer must be hitting eighty. Heart in
my throat, I haven’t been this focused, this clear, in a very long time. The
red hellion is closing in but still behind. Money isn’t everything. Parents
aren’t everything. I feel my face smile but every other nerve is numb. Just
make it to the end and it’s all yours. Make it to the end, you can do it, go,
go, go! Go ahead! Try to catch me! Catch me if you can!
*
What, you think you’re too good to talk to me?
Paul’s leering. How do I keep running into this guy? Is he following me? He’s a
corporate tower in the city of everything. I sit in his shadow, plopped on a
bench like some homeless woman too tired to keep walking. Sorry, you’re talking
to me? I ask.
Yeah, I’ve been calling your name for like a whole minute. What’re you reading?
Is he for real? I hold up the book, Self-Help
by Lorrie Moore. I wish I could be that funny on purpose. It’s just not my
nature. I look for a sense of recognition in his face, in those blue eyes, but
no, nothing resonates.
Cool, he says. Uninterested. Just trying to find a way in. I was wondering if
you wanted to study for our midterm –
It’s an essay, you know that right?
Oh yeah. He laughs, an odd, forced, bubbly laugh. I don’t have time for this.
Could you do me a favor? I ask. I’m surprised at my own question. His eyebrows
prove he is too.
Uh, like what?
Stay off Comfort Road?
He laughs again. It’s deep, more natural. More cruel. Yeah, right – you
serious?
As a heart attack.
No way, he says, his lip curling close to his nose. Disgusted.
Why not?
It’s a free country, that’s why not.
Whatevs. Sorry I asked. I pick up my bag, try to side-step him, but he’s not
done yet.
You think you’re real special or something, don’t you?
Excuse me?
Yeah, you think you’re smarter than everybody else. Like you deserve more than
everybody –
You don’t know shit about me. Get outta my way. I don’t want to touch him, but
I’ve got to escape.
Fine, you want it? He moves his body right in front of me, pinning me between
his stupid - cologne soaked - fifty dollar polo and the bench. Race me for it.
Race you? You’re nuts. I meant to yell, but my own voice betrays me. I hate
him, but he’s got my attention, and he knows it.
Yeah, we’ll race for it. Winner gets the road, loser gets a life. He puts one
hand on my shoulder, extending the other to shake. That would be you,
sweetheart.
Every
muscle of my being wants to destroy him. We’ll see about that. Without
returning his open palm, I walk away, anger vibrating up my legs, ricocheting
off my heart, swamping my brain. Yeah, we’ll see.
*
How much longer?! I can’t feel anything but the road, swinging around corners
and over ragged pot holes. This better be worth it. I’m an atheist but I pray
out of habit. Pray out of the lack of any alternative. Pray my tires don’t pop
beneath me, when was the last time they were replaced? Almost there, got to be
almost there. Paul nearly passed me twice now, but that’s one useful thing
about depression – no self-preservation. Each move he makes, I slide my car to
match, and whether he was scared of his mommy’s rage should he crash or just
his own life, I’ll never know. I see the lights first, but it doesn’t
register. In the speed of everything my brain has slowed.
Cops. The one time. The. One. Time. Fuck - I smash the pedal - Fuck - My heart
screaming in my ears – Fuck - I’m going to puke – Fuck - Paul is slowing down
- pulling over - At least I’m going to
win. I’m going to win god-damn-it-all. My bowl, two weeks empty, is still in
the car. Still proof of what I really am. I’m screwed no matter what. My
scholarships are gone. My future is gone. I am doomed to the oblivion from
which I came.
And
yet I feel light. Suddenly, unexpectedly, for no good reason at all – I feel
free. I close my eyes, breathing it in, the release. No more struggling, no
more fighting. No more being different. I will return from where I came. I am
going home.
That,
of course, explains why I don’t see the tree.
*
Hello, Daphne Lawrence? I’m Doctor Allen. How are you feeling?
Hazy, but I don’t tell him that. Stiff. Whiremaye? I try to ask.
You’re in the hospital. His voice is slow, deliberate, as though he suspects I
can’t understand him. We’d like to contact your family. They should be with you
right now. We have your home information but we need your permission. Is that
okay?
I move my head to respond, to explain, but nothing happens. I can’t move.
Just blink once for no, twice for yes, okay? Do you understand?
I blink twice, hard. I already wonder what tears should mean, because they’re
streaming down my face. I know because it’s gotten very hard to see.
Daphne, don’t cry now, relax. He puts a hand on me. I can’t feel it. You’ve
been in an accident. I’m afraid you’ve been paralyzed. Do you understand?
Daphne? Daphne, do you understand? Daphne, can you hear me? Are you
listening?
