Comfort Rd - Story - First Draft

Comfort Rd

Based on the Myth of Apollo and Daphne

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?