Emma Rathbone - Losing It

“I don’t know,” said Scott, putting his hands up, defensive. “Ever since you went off to that big fancy college…”

“I know, I know,” said Jack, affecting a deeper Southern accent. “All right,” he said quickly, starting to back away. “Munger Road, right?”

“Yup, yup,” said Scott, pointing to Jack as we walked away. “Munger Road.”

We went out of the store together, Jack now walking with a swagger he hadn’t used before. I got into the passenger side and he pumped gas and got back in and started the car all without looking at me. He shifted gears and we peeled out of the lot, going back the way we had come.

“Wait — where are we going?” I said.

“Change of plan,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I haven’t seen that guy in forever!” He slapped the steering wheel. He glanced over at me. “But, there’s this party, and I kinda have to go.” He was walled up, far away.

“Really?” I said. “What about the lake?”

A ripple of discomfort went through him. “I have to go to this party,” he repeated. “I’d invite you but it’s just a bunch of old friends.”

“So, we’re just not going to go? To the lake?”

“It’s not that great anyway,” he said.

Grand, majestic disappointment. An ocean liner sinking lusciously into the sea. I looked down at my lap. I felt scatterbrained and jittery. Jack sat forward, sat back. He turned on the radio, turned it up loud. He fished around behind him and withdrew a baseball cap and put it on. Readjusted it on his head.

“I…” I started.

“What?” he said, and then looked back at the road, ignoring me.

Back in the parking lot of the restaurant, I pointed to my car and he pulled up next to it. We sat there for a few moments. “Well,” I said.

“I just haven’t seen those guys in a really long time,” he said, still gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. He finally looked at me, and for a second it seemed like he was back to his normal self. But then his face clouded over. “Take care,” he said, and then took out his phone. I climbed out and had barely shut the door before he zoomed off.

In my car, outside the restaurant, I stared at the patchy grass on the concrete divider in front of me. It was dark now, and across the highway you could see a construction site, plastic sheeting billowing in the breeze. For the first time in my life I wished I had a cigarette, something to do with my hands. A jeep pulled up next to me, and three laughing women got out, all wearing heels. They stumbled toward the restaurant. I dug my fingernails into the worn padding on the steering wheel.

The night whittled down in my mind, and I had a moment of clarity — I was never going to see Jack again. He wasn’t going to solve my problems, and I knew what I had to do. I fished my phone out of my bag and turned it back on. It vibrated with messages, but instead of checking them I brought up my e-mail. I typed the words that were streaming through my mind and pressed Send:

Dear Elliot,

Could we make an appointment for you to fuck my brains out?

Very best,

Julia

I turned on the ignition and started driving. The night swirled around in my head as I pulled onto the highway. I passed a megaplex movie theater, some car dealerships and empty parking lots. I felt like I was filled with a jumble of blocks and I didn’t know how to get them to fit together. It was eight thirty. By the time I got to the McCormick Center it would be nine. That left half an hour until the reception was supposed to be over. We wouldn’t get to hang the plates, but at least Viv could show them to the guy from Southern Imports. I would make up an excuse, car trouble, something like that.

My eyes settled on a red sign in the distance with a kicking boot — the Boot Warehouse — and then a thought occurred to me that nearly stopped my heart.

I needed my phone.

It was in the backseat where I’d flung it after sending the e-mail. I twisted around to look but didn’t see it. A few seconds later I wrenched around again and flung away a parka, and there it was, next to an empty water bottle. After reaching back a few more times, almost swerving into oncoming traffic, I was finally able to grab it. My hand shook as I brought up my e-mail, and a dizziness that was hot and cold at the same time came over me as it was confirmed: I’d sent the e-mail to the whole office.

I stared at it, my face burning.

And then it all happened so fast — the peal of a car horn, then another. I looked up to see white flashes, cracked light, the side of a turquoise van. There was a terrible jolt from behind, screeching brakes, and the sickening sound of breaking glass in the back.

For a moment, all was still. I was in the middle of an intersection, and the cars around me were positioned crookedly, as if everything had been shaken up and then settled in the wrong way. Slowly, it all started moving again, the cars straightened themselves out, someone honked at me; it blared and blared well after they’d passed. I continued through the intersection and pulled off to the shoulder. The plates, I kept thinking. The plates, the plates.

—

It must have been two or three minutes before someone knocked on my window. My hands were shaking as I rolled it down. I saw a gray woolen cardigan, the kind that cinches at the waist with a belt. A woman’s small, pointy face lowered. She had short, spiky hair and was holding a phone.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said. I brushed some hair out of my face. “I think so.”

She looked quickly around the inside of my car, noticed the phone in my lap.

“You were texting.”

I didn’t say anything. Her fingernails were painted purple.

She sighed, straightened up, cinched her cardigan. “Well, look, do you want me to call the police?”

I saw her car parked behind me, the hazard lights blinking.

“Are you okay?” I said.

She looked really angry now. “You realize you ran a red light? You could have killed someone? How old are you?”

“I’m—”

“Look, what do you want to do? My car is fine, a few scratches. Do you have insurance?”

I pawed at the glove compartment. Some candy wrappers and a mini-umbrella fell out. Lights kept tracing by, cars on the highway. When I looked back at the woman, she was texting, shaking her head in disbelief. She cinched her belt again and looked at me. “Well?”

Standing at the edge, the lake looked like a wide, raggedy black hole. Along the shore were swaying reeds, and the night roared with crickets and frogs. It was so loud when you really listened to it, I thought. Something plunked in the water. I was in a small beach area, just like Jack had said. I’d climbed over the chain-link fence he’d mentioned. And to my right, I could make out the outline of the dilapidated ice-cream shack. I looked around. A car drove by behind me, in the distance. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when I thought I heard the crunch of gravel, like it was coming my way. But I must have imagined it.

After exchanging information with the lady in the gray sweater, I’d gotten out of the car to look at the damage. There was a large dent on the right back door, and when I opened the trunk it revealed what I already knew would be there — because of the hasty way I’d packed the crates, because I hadn’t taken the time to arrange things so they could lie flat, they’d tipped over. Most of the plates had fallen out and broken. I stared at the shattered pile. I picked up a shard and looked at the meticulous gold trim, now dusty with white powder.

I’d pulled back onto the road and kept driving. But instead of going back into town to the show, or heading back to Viv’s, I turned around and went the way Jack and I had gone, toward Cismont, toward where Karen lived, toward where the lake was supposed to be. I passed the faded billboard for the zoo, and the gas station. Even though it was dark now, it wasn’t hard to find the turnoff Jack had mentioned. There was really only one small, scraggly road it could have been. I drove down this road, through low foliage, the path getting narrower, until I came to what looked like a parking area.