Becoming Sarah

chapter ELEVEN


I took a tiny sip, then another. The vodka burned my throat a little going down, but the drink itself tasted cool and sweet. Better yet, it melted the lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach.

Nick, married? It had never even crossed my mind that he might be. In high school, nobody was married. They might see someone on the side, or cheat with some girl they’d met in online, but this seemed far more serious. Sleeping with a married man? How could Sarah live with herself?

She couldn’t.

That thought brought me up cold. I could hardly lay this all on Sarah when I had only myself to blame. I’d let my hormones lead me around by the nose, only to end up with an aching heart and smashed dreams. Next time, I wouldn’t be so naïve.

“Hey, look at those three guys over there,” Liza yelled over the music. “The one in the blue shirt’s pretty hot, and I think he’s checking me out.”

I looked. They were hot, all right, and they were eyeing all three of us. Liza grabbed my arm. “They’re coming over here!”

One of the guys – tall, with dark hair – leaned on the bar beside me and bared perfect white teeth. He said something I couldn’t make out.

“What?”

He leaned in. His breath tickled my ear. “What are you drinking? I’ll buy you another.”

His friends were already flirting with Aurélie and Liza. He smelled good, some expensively woodsy after shave. I opened my mouth to point out that I still had most of my first drink left, but when I glanced down I saw that the glass was nearly empty. “No thanks,” I said instead.

“Want to dance, then?”

I did not. While I’d gone to a few school dances, I’d stayed on the sidelines. Maybe as Sarah I was less clumsy and awkward, but I didn’t feel like testing that theory. I shook my head. “Not right now, thanks!”

“Then I hope you don’t mind if I just stand here and admire you.” He grinned. “I told my friends they had to let me talk to you first, since you’re the most beautiful girl in the room tonight.”

How could I not feel flattered? Here was a great-looking guy, presumably single, interested in me. I smiled back. It was all the encouragement he needed. He introduced himself as Chad. He worked for an advertising agency. He owned a Porsche. He liked German philosophers, wine tasting, and adventure travel. At some point, I let him buy me that second drink. Liza and Aurélie left to dance with the other two guys. Chad was telling me about his last kayaking trip in Malaysia. My eyes kept glazing over. The music was too loud; it hurt my ears.

Aurélie and Liza appeared next to me. “Come on,” Aurélie said. She grabbed my hand and dragged me away from Chad. “This place is boring. Let’s get out of here.”

Chad and his friends trailed after us. They thrust business cards into our hands. “Bo-oring,” Liza complained, when they were out of earshot. “I hear there’s a new club in SOMA that’s got a much better crowd.”

We stumbled outside, where Aurélie hailed a cab. A few gulps of fresh air helped clear my head. We piled into the taxi, then out again a few minutes later. Aurélie and Liza waited while I paid the driver. This club had a long line, but Aurélie knew the bouncer and he let us right in.

This club was darker, with even louder music. Everyone wore black, plus heaps of black eyeliner – men and women both. I bought us all another round of drinks.

Halfway through a glass of white wine, I started to relax and have fun. Guys came up to us here, too, except these guys had goatees, tattoos, and tongue rings. The one who ended up next to me shouted in my ear about some performance art piece he was working on, where he cut himself with a razor onstage and then bled on a piece of white canvas. He got very excited explaining what it all meant. “It’s about our fears and desires,” he yelled. “It’s about death and rebirth!”

“Sounds great,” I said, and noticed with interest that my tongue tripped over the words. My stomach didn’t feel quite right, either. I eyed my drink. Was it my third, or my fourth? Maybe I should slow down.

I looked around for Aurélie and Liza, but couldn’t find them. The room kept spinning. “Excuse me,” I said to Razor Boy. I staggered off in search of a restroom, where I promptly threw up in a toilet.

I felt a little better after that, but I badly wanted to go home. I located Liza in one of the darker corners, where she was making out with a man who’d shaved his head and had a dragon tattooed on his scalp. “I need to leave,” I told her.

She looked annoyed. “It’s not even late.”

“I’m sick. I threw up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like I needed to know that. Can’t you hang out here another hour or so?”

“I want to go.” I felt green around the gills again. I clutched my stomach. “Where’s Aurélie?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you get a cab home?”

“You won’t come with me?”

She had the grace to look faintly guilty. “Come on, Sarah. Don’t spoil the night for me, too.”

I had no choice but to wobble out to the street. I got into a yellow cab, gave the driver Sarah’s address, and leaned back in the seat. If I kept my eyes closed, it wasn’t so bad. If I took deep, careful breaths, maybe I wouldn’t vomit again.

I felt sick as a dog, and angry to boot. Some friends Sarah had. They expected her to pay for everything and didn’t even care when she – I – got sick. I could die in a gutter, for all they cared. Maria would never treat me this way.

A wave of loneliness swept over me. Maria. I would give anything to have her with me right now. She’d stroke my hair and tell me I'd be fine. She’d help me up the stairs and put me to bed.

Instead I negotiated the stairs alone, pausing at each landing. The last flight I took at a run. I fumbled open the door and made it to the bathroom just in time. When my stomach was completely empty I brushed my teeth, kicked off my sandals, and practically crawled to the bed.

As I fell asleep, I vowed that alcohol would never, ever touch my lips again.

I woke up feeling, if possible, even worse.

I lay in bed, my head splitting, my stomach clenching. Suddenly I understood my mother’s plaintive moans on the mornings after she’d had too much to drink. I used to drag her out of bed by force, shove her in the shower, and bully her into going to work. “Take an aspirin,” I’d say. “Don’t be such a big baby.”

Now I understood how cruel I’d been, though perhaps justified.

The house phone rang. The noise sent violent spikes of pain through my skull. I groaned, rolled over, and pressed my face into my pillow. After four rings, the answering machine picked up.

"Ms. Winslow? This is James Todd, from the San Francisco Police Department. I'm calling in regards to --"

I sat up and grabbed for the handset by my bed. My head and stomach protested, but I ignored them. "Yes? Hello? I'm here."

"Good. We need to talk."

"Oh!" I needed some good news. "Did Ricky confess?"

"Hardly." His voice was grim. "Ms. Winslow, I did some checking. Ricky Jones has no criminal record, nothing at all. His grades are decent. His teachers have never had any issues with him."

"But you talked to him, right? You asked him where he was Wednesday night around --"

"I'm not finished," Detective Todd broke in. "I did some additional checking. After I was done with Ricky, I looked into your record, Ms. Winslow."

"My -- ?"

"That's right. You neglected to tell me a few things when you came by yesterday. The arrest for shoplifting? And I found out you've spent a little time in the mental health system, Ms. Winslow. A private, very upscale facility, but an institution all the same."

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say; I hadn't known. "But that doesn't change --"

"I also spoke to Jamie's friend Maria. Maria describes a young woman very much like you, Ms. Winslow, who came to her door on Thursday and claimed to be -- what did she say? Claimed to be Jamie reincarnated, or something like that. Does any of this ring a bell?"

"No, I --" This conversation was going very badly.

"Jamie's mother also saw you, or your identical twin perhaps. She says you were standing outside her window and spying on her. I have to tell you, Ms. Winslow, this doesn't look good. If there wasn't a rape involved, I might even consider you as a suspect. I have no idea why you latched on to this particular case, but I suggest you drop it pretty damn fast."

"Won't you please just talk to Ricky?" I begged. "Okay, maybe this does seem strange, but there's an explanation."

"Really? I'd like to hear it, then."

"I -- I can't tell you."

Detective Todd heaved a sigh. "All I can say, Ms. Winslow, is that I advise you to stay far away from Jamie's family and anyone related to this case."

He hung up. I sat listening in horror to the dial tone. So Ricky was going to get away with murder, it seemed. But I wasn’t about to let Detective Todd keep me away from my mother and Maria.

Speaking of whom – I grabbed for the clock next to the bed. It was already 10:30. The funeral was in half an hour, on the other side of town.

“Can’t be late for my own funeral,” I said aloud, then giggled. That was so creepy it was funny.

I jumped out of bed, and immediately regretted it. It felt like Thor had taken his hammer to my head. As I dressed – in a black wool designer suit, its skirt a little too short and tight for the occasion – I fought off nausea. My mother always said a little food made her feel better, but even the thought made me wince.

I scrubbed last night’s lipstick off my face and ran my fingers through my hair. One thing I could say for Sarah – she looked great no matter what. Her skin might be a little pale this morning, and there were faint dark circles under her eyes, but I still thought she was beautiful.

I made it to the front door of the building before I nearly collided with Nick, who came bounding up the stairs to ring the buzzer. “Just who I was looking for,” he said, and swept me up in a hug before I could protest. He held up a paper bag. “Look, I brought bagels! I can’t stay long –“

I pulled away from him. “I suppose you have to get back to your wife.”

He shrugged. “So? Let’s not get into this, Sarah.”

“No, let’s not. I don’t have time anyway.” I stiffened my spine and looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to see you again, Nick. Not this morning, not ever. So how about if you just take your bagels and go home where you belong?”

He stared at me, speechless. His mouth hung open, which to my great satisfaction marred his picture-perfect face.

“Goodbye, Nick.” I marched past him down the stairs.

He ran after me and caught my arm. “Wait, Sarah. What’s this? Yesterday you were all over me.”

“That was then. This is now. It's over.” I shook his hand loose and kept on walking.

He ran alongside me. “You’ve always run hot and cold, Sarah, but this is ridiculous. What kind of game are you playing?”

“No game.” I spotted a cab and raised my arm to hail it. The driver pulled up to the curb. As I opened the door, Nick’s mouth twisted in fury. Yup, he was definitely less handsome this way.

“You stupid bitch,” he yelled, as I slammed the door in his face.

I felt marginally better after that, at least until the taxi pulled up to St. Michael’s. My mother wasn't a regular churchgoer, but she'd dragged me to an occasional Easter Sunday here. I associated the church with flowered hats, kids with scrubbed faces and slicked-back hair, women in bright suits, and smiles all around. Now I saw instead little clusters of people in dark clothes on the sidewalk talking softly, solemnly -- strangers and neighbors, my teachers, my friends. Some dabbed at tears. Some smiled, then covered their mouths with nervous fingers.

I didn't want to get out of the cab; I didn't want to go into the church. Yesterday I'd been kind of excited about the idea of the funeral. I'd get to see who cared enough to come. I'd get to hear what people really thought of me. Now it didn't seem like such a great idea.