Callie and I looked at one another and spoke at the same time.
Callie said, “That actually makes sense.”
I said, “Like a subliminal message… or some type of virus spread through hearing it.”
“What are we gonna do if that’s true?” Callie said. “What about all the other women in the world?”
Sydney drank her half spilled shot and shouted, “Kick them in the dick!”
Chapter 5
I checked the landline and radio while Sydney drowned her sorrows and Callie joined her to calm her nerves. Once Sydney got sick we decided the best thing we could do was to turn in for the night and hope things would be righted in the morning. I put Callie in charge of getting Sydney to drink water to stave off a nasty hangover while I arranged the sleeping situation.
The best place seemed to be the manager’s office. It didn’t have a window and we would be able to lock the door and add another level of security in case someone would take the initiative to break the weak glass of the front door or break in through the back door of the kitchen, which led to a lightless alleyway behind the strip of storefronts. I shoved the manager’s desk against the wall to give us enough room to lie down.
I knew there wouldn’t be any pillows or blankets in the place but I did find a closet off the kitchen with random supplies, including stacks of extra tablecloths. I used the tablecloths to fashion some acceptable pillows and blankets. The floor was uncomfortable but the other two were inebriated enough to fall asleep fast, even with the small desk lamp left on. The light and the comfort of spooning Callie didn’t set my mind at ease and I had difficulties staying asleep. I kept having small panic attacks upon wakening in an unfamiliar place and was filled with the dread of reality once I realized where I was and what had happened.
Sometime during the night I was awakened by Sydney stumbling toward the door.
Trying not to wake Callie, I whispered, “Where are you going?”
Startled, she turned to me. Her face didn’t exhibit any of the grogginess of sleep. But there was a weariness I attributed to the effects of drinking and, mixed with her mussed hair, it made her appear ghoulish or haunted.
“I have to pee,” she said, a tad loud and emotionless.
Callie stirred and mumbled something I didn’t understand but didn’t open her eyes.
Having just awakened, my brain tried to process the situation. I wasn’t sure why I said, “Do you want me to go with you?” But in my head there was an echo of my mother telling me there was safety in numbers when it came to girls roaming about without parental supervision.
“I’m a big girl,” she said. “I think I can take care of myself.” She promptly slipped out of the office and left the door cracked a few inches.
Sleep flooded me once I closed my eyes and my dreams were manic and feverish. I dreamt of my father’s death and how I’d driven two hours to sit by his bedside with my brother, waiting for his last breath or an apology for how he’d treated me and driven a wedge between me and my mother when I finally told the family I was gay. I’d moved out after finding a full-time job and began to put myself through college. My mother insisted I meet a nice man and marry him and have him take care of me. So over Christmas dinner one year I’d revealed my long hidden secret to the family: the girls they’d thought were close female friends throughout high school I’d had tiffs with and didn’t hang out with ever again were actually my girlfriends and we’d broken up over some petty high school argument. My brother and mother took it well but you would’ve thought I’d sacrificed an infant on the dinner table as far as my father was concerned. As if my homosexuality was something I chose as a weapon to specifically hurt him. In the dream my brother and I sat on one side of my father’s deathbed and everything was an exact replay of the actual event. Except my mother was there in the dream, sitting on the other side of the bed, even though in life she’d died a year before my father. In real life my father had only slightly eaten crow and had my brother call me days before she passed and gave me permission to come see her one final time without any interference or name calling. My father had stood in the hospital hallway with his arms crossed, refusing to talk to me as I passed in and out of the room. My mother began to sob in the dream. Her cries were strange rage-filled hiccups that started strong but slowly faded. Once my mother was quiet my father’s heart monitor screamed a high-pitched wail of a woman filled with terror and my brother began calling for me frantically in Callie’s voice.
The door to the office burst open and Callie yelled my name. I bolted out of the dream and sat up in a panic. Callie dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around me, crying and nearly incoherent.
Trying to clear the sleep fog from my brain, I said, “What’s wrong?”
“She’s dead!” she bawled. “Oh god! It was so fucking terrible! Why would she do it?!” Her body shook violently, racked with sobs.
My sleep-addled brain was trying to process why Callie was so upset over my mother’s death even though she’d never met her. I kissed her cheek, returned her hug, and tried to soothe her. It took me a bit to get my bearings and realize she must be talking about something else and Mom was on my mind because of the dream.
I said, “Wait. Who?”
Once she caught her breath and was able to speak I asked her to tell me what was going on.
She sat back from me and wiped her face. “I got up to go pee and, and— Oh god… I think I’m gonna be sick.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth and crawled over to the small paper bin. She began retching and I followed her and held her hair. I rubbed her back as she vomited. I eyed the open door of the office dubiously and hoped the restaurant was still secure. When Callie was done being sick she spit a few times in the waste basket. I let go of her hair once she sat back. She scuttled away from the mess and sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. She looked exhausted and amped up at the same time. The room stank of vomit and sleep and I was pretty sure one of us must have passed some terrible gas while we slept. I wanted to suggest we head to the dining room or kitchen to talk because the smell was making me nauseated but I wanted to prepare myself because the sleep had cleared from my brain and I knew Callie was talking about Sydney. I wanted to brace myself for whatever had traumatized Callie. I went to her and hugged her and sat holding her hand until she was ready to tell me.
“I really had to pee,” she began.
Her words made me painfully aware of how full my own bladder was.
“She’s in the ladies’ room,” she continued. “She must’ve taken a knife from the kitchen and… she mutilated herself.”
“Mutilated?” I tried to coax more information out of her gently. “You mean she cut her wrists?”
Callie turned to me and shook her head. Her breath was a terrible mixture of sick and sleep. She said, “She did things to her…”—she pointed to her own vagina—“pussy. Very bad things.”
“With the knife? Did she… stab… herself?” I experienced a phantom pain of sympathy in my sex and the nausea sank deeper into the pit of my stomach.
Her face crumbled. “Worse. Oh god.” She let go of my hand, closed her eyes and rubbed them with her fingertips. “I’ll never get that image out of my head.”
I kissed her forehead and stood. “Stay here.”
Callie grabbed for my hand. “It’s bad. You don’t want to see. You don’t want it in your head—”
“It’s all bad,” I interrupted her. “And I have a gut feeling whatever is happening out there isn’t going to get better.”
She whimpered and stood. Her face filled with fear. “You don’t think we’ll all end up like her do you?”