Becoming Sarah

chapter THIRTEEN


Outside the sun felt much too bright; the light pierced my eyeballs with the force of tiny needles.

I stood dazed on the sidewalk. That hadn’t gone the way I imagined, not at all. I’d thought I could go and listen to people saying nice things about me and maybe even, in a twisted way, sort of enjoy it. Instead, I’d found it a little too real. The mourners’ pain felt raw and terrible, especially since most of those mourners were people I loved.

I looked around for a cab, but there weren’t any, not in this neighborhood. Instead I wandered to the nearest bus stop and took the bus downtown, where I got Sarah’s car out of the parking garage.

I drove home slowly and carefully. My driver’s ed teacher would have been proud. Emotionally I was a mess, but I forced myself to focus. I found a good parking spot on the end of my block – lucky, since I’d never really mastered the art of parallel parking – and left the car there.

As soon as I opened the apartment door, I knew Sarah’s cleaning service had come. The floors gleamed. A sweater I’d left draped over the couch had disappeared. Dishes I’d left in the sink were put away, as if by magic.

I stood in the living room of my spacious, fresh-scrubbed, expensively decorated apartment and realized I hated every square inch of it.

It seemed so sterile, so empty and lifeless. No one waited here to welcome me home. No one came from the kitchen with a hug and a “How was your day?”. I would have traded the leather couch and hardwood floors for my mother’s thrift-store furniture in an instant, as long as she came along as part of the package.

I spent the next two weeks living Sarah’s life, more or less.

Once I would have thought it was heaven. No school, no job, no responsibilities. But instead I felt restless and at odds with myself. I slept as late as I could and then took myself out to lunch, most days. Sometimes I went to the gym, a nice one Sarah belonged to downtown. They had a pool, sauna, and hot tub. I didn’t care much for the exercise equipment, but I did like to swim, and always had, except that before I’d hated wearing a bathing suit. I exercised hard and stayed up late; that way, I didn’t dream so much.

When I did dream, I found myself back in the alley with Ricky’s hands around my neck. I would jerk awake and lie in my dark bedroom, panting, while my heart slammed against my ribcage. I lay awake and listened for strange sounds in the night, gasping with terror at the building’s every shudder and creak.

In the daytime, I didn’t think about Ricky much. I still, in a vague way, hoped he would get caught. I hated to think of him out there, going to my school, going home to his parents, doing all the things I should get to do. But I couldn’t think of a way to help the police; Detective Todd had made himself pretty clear. So, for now, I let it go.

On Sunday, the day after the funeral, Aurelie and Liza dropped by to take me shopping. At first I was short with them, still angry over the way they’d deserted me Friday night, but they apologized and I forgave them. Anyway, who else was I going to hang out with?

“Wait ‘til you see this shearling coat I want,” Liza bubbled, on the way to some little shop they both knew. “It’s so incredibly cute on me.”

Inside, she tried on the coat while Aurelie and I browsed. The store was small, quiet, and stylish. Not long ago, I would have found it intimidating. If I had dared venture in, the salespeople would have watched me like a hawk to make sure I didn’t steal anything.

I spotted an embroidered peasant shirt and rubbed the cloth between my fingers. Soft and airy, just the way it looked. A sleek saleswoman glided up. “It’s perfect for you, dear.”

“Do you think so?”

She looked me up and down. “With that figure, anything would look wonderful. Would you like to try it on?”

“Sure.” In the curtained dressing room, I pulled the shirt over my head and peered at myself in the three-way mirror. It did look good. The neckline dipped to show a little cleavage. The fabric caressed my skin. I reached down to see the tag, and winced. Two hundred dollars? Who spent that much on a cotton shirt? I dressed quickly and left the dressing room.

“So? What did you think?” The saleswoman took the top from me and smoothed it carefully. “Did it fit, dear, or did you want the smaller size?”

“The size was fine. I just – I don’t think –“ It was crazy, but I wanted that blouse. I could afford it. I didn’t need to scrimp for grocery money or to pay the utilities. It hit me there, in that little shop, that I could just buy almost anything I wanted, within reason.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

I felt a stab of guilt as she rang it up, but that passed as we kept on shopping. Sarah’s friends knew all the best stores. We tried on lingerie made of the sheerest lace, dresses of silk and chiffon and rhinestones, jeans that hugged every curve, blazers of butter-soft suede, and shoes with heels so high I could barely walk. We tried out designer bags and modeled jewelry for each other. In places I’d never dared set foot as Jamie, the salespeople fell over themselves to help us.

At first the price tags intimidated me, and then I didn’t care. I found out I loved buying these beautiful things, loved taking them out of their shopping bags and trying them on at home, loved hanging them up in my closet and knowing they were mine forever. I felt greedy, hungry, but as if I needed more and more new things to satisfy that hunger.

It was all new to me, and it went to my head like champagne bubbles. Over the next week or so I bought clothes and shoes, mostly, but also books and scarves, bracelets, a watch. . .I got presents for Aurelie and Liza, and things for my mother and Maria, too, though I kept those in a bureau drawer for later.

Along the way I got to know Sarah’s friends a little better. They weren’t that bad. Selfish, maybe. Thoughtless, definitely. They didn’t seem to spend much time at their jobs, though they didn’t have as much money as I did, either. But they were fun. I had to admit they were fun, and besides, without them I didn’t have anybody.

Aurelie and Liza knew all the best restaurants and bars in the city. They knew a ton of people, too – everywhere we went we ran into people they knew, attractive, witty, charming men and women who laughed a lot and never talked about anything serious.

At first I worried about pulling off my charade, but it was easy. When I met one of Sarah’s friends I let them do most of the talking, though I might make a few vague comments. When I met someone new I asked them long strings of questions about themselves; I kept them talking and they were happy to answer at length. And I drank, though more carefully now. A glass in my hand gave me something to do. It helped me relax.

Sarah’s friends couldn’t go out every night, though, and the nights alone in my apartment were the ones I dreaded. Those nights were full of lonely, empty hours. Sometimes I watched TV, but mostly I read my way through Sarah’s books.

In some ways I actually missed school. Oh, not the stupid, pointless worksheets or the teachers in the hall screaming at us to get to class. I missed those occasional class discussions where that light bulb went off above my head, like “Oh, yeah, I get it”, and when I raised my hand and spoke the teacher smiled like I’d just made her year. I missed grades, too. Weird, but true. I used to love the feeling of getting a test back with an “A” on it, that big letter like a pat on the back. School was the one thing I was good at, the one thing I found easy.

I missed the structure and routine, too, but after few days I found new ones. If I wasn’t shopping or partying or at the gym, I could always go and get my nails done, or my hair, or get my legs waxed. Sarah had a whole set of beauty appointments in her day planner, and I obediently carried them out. It felt totally bizarre to have strangers doing these intimate things, pampering me in ways I’d never experienced, but good, too. For once in my life I wasn’t taking care of anybody. They were taking care of me.

Sarah's mother called every few days; she sounded more and more worried, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. I screened my cell phone calls and let her leave messages. Sarah's psychiatrist called twice and then gave up. Men called, too; apparently Sarah liked to give out her number at bars. I let them go to voicemail, too.

So for a while life was easy, and at the same time it wasn’t.

When I finished shopping or getting my hair done or whatever, I’d drive Sarah’s car all the way down Third Street to my old neighborhood. I’d park just down the road from my old high school. I wore a scarf around my hair and a huge pair of dark glasses, and I just sat in the car and waited.

Sooner or later school would let out. I’d watch everybody stream by, toward the bus stop or their cars or the burger place around the corner. Usually I’d see a couple of people I knew. Sometimes I thought -- from a distance -- that I saw Ricky Jones. I'd duck down in my seat, fear pounding through me. It was never him. Part of me wanted to hunt him down and confront him with what he'd done to me. Maybe it would help me put the dreams and memories behind me. But I was terrified. Even thinking about him made me hyperventilate. My mouth went dry; I felt so dizzy I worried I might pass out. These attacks frightened me.

Some days, I’d see Maria. Once she walked with some girls from our homeroom. Mostly she was alone. She always had her big old black backpack on her back, loaded down with books, so heavy it made her shoulders ache. She walked with her head down, her eyes on the sidewalk. We used to always take Muni home from school together, and then sit in the kitchen at my house to do homework. Sometimes we’d make snacks and watch talk shows. We liked to make fun of all the losers on Jerry Springer, or flip through magazines to find hairstyles and catch up on celebrity gossip. .

Other days I parked by the clinic where my mom worked. I never saw her, though. Her schedule changed from week to week, so maybe my timing was bad. Maybe she was just taking some time off. Maybe she was drinking again. This last possibility froze my blood in my veins.

I knew her patterns the way I knew my own face – or had known it, before.

Mom would be okay for a few years and then it would start. First she’d have a drink with friends and come home pleasantly buzzed, whistling and jolly and full of grand plans. Then she’d start staying out later and later, with friends and then with strangers at the bars she preferred. Sometimes she brought men home and let them stay the night.

After a while, though, she wouldn’t need to go out at all. She would bring her bottles home from the liquor store and drink in front of the TV. Now she wasn’t jolly; now she’d get sad, then sink into silence. Finally I’d find her passed out on the couch every the morning, and in spite of my pleas she wouldn’t get up for work anymore.

A few weeks like this and our savings would dwindle and disappear; I’d have to find churches that gave out free groceries, or haul Mom downtown to apply for food stamps and government checks. After a couple of months she’d hit rock bottom. She would drink so much she’d give herself alcohol poisoning. I would haul her to the emergency room, scared half to death she might die on me. She would recover, cry, and promise to do better. And she would, for a while.

I could never figure out what started it. Sometimes the cause seemed obvious: she got dumped by some guy she was seeing, or laid off from a job, or had a falling out with a friend. Other times we were coasting along pretty happily and then all of a sudden, wham, like a piano falling from a blue sky.

It gnawed at me, this worry that Mom was drinking again. Who would take off her shoes and tuck her under a blanket? Who would make oatmeal for her, with brown sugar and raisins, when she had a really bad morning? I imagined her alone in our apartment and I decided I couldn’t wait any longer.

I’d wanted to give her a little time. Two weeks would have to be enough.