My Last Innocent Year(26)

“I should get going,” I said.

“Bye, Isabel. Nice talking to you. Enjoy the Wharton.” He cranked the timer that operated the light and turned back to the stacks. I realized as I walked away that I hadn’t asked him what he was looking for. I hadn’t asked him lots of things. I wondered when I might get another chance.

I moved quickly through the stacks, clutching the book to my chest. I ran past Andy’s carrel, not checking to see if the light was on. I didn’t know where I was going, but I needed to be alone. I slipped into the single bathroom under the stairs and locked the door. I was breathing hard, my chest heaving. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink. My face was flushed, a spiderweb of red that ran down my neck. I placed a hand on my breastbone, felt a tingle in my palm, a tangle of energy that traveled down my body, collecting at the root of me.

I closed my eyes and pictured Connelly watching me in the dark, the slice of his cheekbone, the thumbprint-shaped space above his lip, remembered the warmth of his body as I squeezed past him. The feeling came over me so fast, I didn’t recognize it at first. I slipped my hand under my sweater as images from my story flashed through my mind: sweaty frat basements, bodies pressed against bodies, hands probing soft, secret places. The smell of sweat, beer, puke, desire. The book fell to the floor as I reached my hand into my pants, pictured the fuck truck pulling up outside, its windows steamy with sex, heard Connelly’s voice, soft and low, lapping against me like water. Then I dove beneath that wave and swam toward the light.





9





I’D been keeping an eye on Debra ever since finding her in bed in the middle of the day. She went to these dark places sometimes—depression, I’d call it now, but back then it was just part of what made Debra Debra. Scintillating highs and harrowing lows. I saw it for the first time freshman year, a few weeks after a Crushgirls stunt. We weren’t roommates yet, barely even friends, but we had a class together. After she didn’t show up for a few days, I stopped by to check on her.

Debra lived with Kelsey that year, in a double on the first floor of Sagebrook Hall. They fought constantly, mostly about cleaning. I knocked a few times before letting myself in. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I understood why Kelsey was always complaining. The room was a disaster, clothes and papers all over the floor, an empty Doritos bag, a half-full bottle of Sprite. The garbage can in the corner was full, and I could see unfolded maxi pads smeared with blood. The room smelled bad, like body odor and what I can only call decay.

I walked over to the window and opened the blinds. Debra poked her head out of a pile of dirty blankets. She looked as bad as the room. She was thin, which probably pleased her, and her hair was ratty, her skin drawn and blotchy. Scariest of all were her eyes: usually so glittering and quick, they looked flat and opaque. Dead.

Before I could ask her what was wrong, the phone rang. Neither of us moved to answer it. It rang four times before the machine picked up.

“Debra?” It was Debra’s mother, Marilyn Moscowitz. “Honey, pick up if you’re there.” She waited a minute, cleared her throat. “I hope you’re not answering because you’ve gotten yourself up and out. That’s a good sign. Listen, Patel called in a prescription for you. You can pick it up at the Health Center tomorrow. And I talked to Dean Hansen. He said since there are only a few weeks left in the semester—”

Debra crawled out from under the covers and pushed stop on the answering machine. She moved slowly, like the bones in her feet were broken.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked. “Are you sick?”

“Not really,” she said as she climbed back into bed. “I get into these moods. Something with my wiring.” The answering machine beeped and whirred. “She’s just worried I won’t finish the semester. I have that internship in New York this summer. Wouldn’t want to miss that.” She rubbed her eyes and looked at me. “Why are you here?”

“I didn’t know where you were. I missed you.” Before saying it, I hadn’t known it was true.

I stayed with her for the rest of the day. While she slept, I took out the trash, ran a load of laundry, put away her clothes. The sun set. Debra woke up, and I helped her get out of bed; while she showered, I changed her sheets. We walked over to the dining hall and, over bowls of frozen yogurt, she told me everything that had happened over the years—the moods, doctors, medications. I told her about my mom, how she sometimes didn’t get out of bed for days, didn’t wash her hair or change her clothes. I’d always said, even to myself, it was because she was consumed with her work, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Debra nodded. “I think I’m going to get some more,” she said, lifting her bowl. She had four helpings of yogurt that day.

Debra slowly came back to herself after that. She caught up on her schoolwork, finished the semester, took the internship at a law firm in New York. Something changed between us that day. I’d seen Debra at her worst, and I’ve found that is often what binds women together. Men admire each other when they are at their best, but women enjoy meeting each other in pits of despair. Debra had never had another breakdown, not that I knew of, but any time I suspected she was slipping, I became vigilant, as if by sheer force of will I could keep her up on shore with us.

Now I was worried again. Debra had been moodier than usual, her behavior more erratic. She was letting the clothes pile up on her bed and hadn’t washed her sheets in weeks. There were unanswered messages from Marilyn on our answering machine. Kelsey had been reluctant to live with her again after freshman year, but had relented because of me and because Debra promised she was better. I was never sure how much Kelsey knew, if Debra had ever confided in her the way she’d confided in me. Even if she had, I wasn’t sure Kelsey would have understood. I knew she thought of Debra’s messes as a character flaw, a sign of her general lack of discipline, something she could control if she just tried hard enough. “You don’t have to protect her,” Kelsey said whenever I worried about Debra. “It’s not your responsibility.” But whose was it, I wondered? Who was there to catch us if not our friends?