The Way I Used to Be Read online

  “EDEN EDY EDY EDEN EDY EDY,” they scream at me all at once. I try to scream back. But nothing. Their voices fade into the background. White noise. Only one sound pierces through the veil of static: No one will ever believe you no one will ever believe you no one will ever believe you.

  Be over. Be over. I thought it was over. It was supposed to be over.

  Underwater voices and blurry words surface: “Better . . . Okay . . . Edy . . . Eden . . . She’s all right, look.”

  My eyes open. I’m staring at the ceiling. I’m on the floor. There’s Vanessa on one side, the detective on the other. I feel like Dorothy, waking up from the strangest dream, except to an even stranger reality. Caelin and Conner are behind them, leaning over me.

  “What happened?” I ask, my voice scratchy.

  “You fainted!” Vanessa screeches, tears threatening to overflow the shores of her eyes.

  “Oh God,” I moan, trying to sit up.

  “Take it easy, now. Slowly.” Detective Dodgson puts a hand on my back.

  “Sorry. That’s never happened before. God, I feel so stupid.” I try to laugh at myself. It sounds fake as hell, though.

  “Well,” the detective says, standing up, “I do still have some more questions for you, Eden, but for now why don’t you just get some rest. If you do happen to think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call. I’ll leave my card right here for you.” She pulls a business card out of some invisible compartment of her jacket and sets it down on the corner of my desk, tapping it twice with her index finger.

  I SIT AT MY desk and stare at the card for a long time. After Vanessa force-fed me about a gallon of orange juice and endless saltines, I was allowed back in my room unsupervised. I trace my finger over the embossed letters that spell out: Detective Dorian Dodgson. I take my phone out.

  I scroll down and find the number in my outgoing calls.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I hang up. I call back.

  “Hello . . . are you there?”

  I hang up. I redial.

  “Hello?” he answers, edgy.

  Hang up. Redial.

  “Eden, is this you?”

  My heart sinks deep.

  “Eden, if this is you . . . just . . . hello?”

  I hang up. Fuck. Then my phone starts vibrating in my hand. It’s him. It keeps ringing. I silence it. Shit, but then it’ll go to voice mail. I have to pick up. I do. I don’t say anything. I listen. He breathes.

  “Eden?

  “Eden!

  “Will you just say something?

  “I hear you breathing. . . .

  “Okay, listen.” His voice is sharp, just like that day in the bathroom when he dumped me.

  I listen. I listen closely.

  “I don’t know what you want, why you’re calling me like this. Talk now. Or don’t expect me to pick up again.”

  He pauses, soundless. Then hangs up.

  My hands shake as my fingers punch in the numbers. I hold my breath. It rings. Once, twice, three times. I should hang up. I should. This is crazy.

  “What?” he snaps.

  I can’t speak.

  “Eden, come on. . . .”

  No.

  “Do you need some kind of help?”

  Yes, yes.

  “Is there something going on, is something wrong?”

  God, yes.

  “I can’t—you’re going to have to say something here!”

  I wish I could.

  “Eden . . . Eden, come on. Look, are you stalking me or something?”

  Stalking him?

  “There’re laws, you know,” he adds. “This has to stop. I mean it.”

  “No,” I finally whimper.

  “What?”

  “No. I’m not stalking you.”

  “Then what are you doing? Because this—this is really fucking creepy, okay?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  “Are you okay?” he finally asks.

  “No.” True.

  “Wha—”

  “I cared!” I blurt out.

  “What?”

  “I cared about you. I always cared about you.”

  “Okay,” he mumbles, like a verbal shrug. Can’t tell what it means.

  “Okay?”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say, Eden. I mean, I haven’t spoken to you in years. This is just—this is really weird.”

  “Did you know?”

  “Did I know what?” he asks.

  “That I cared?”

  He hesitates, probably trying to decide if he should just hang up on me. He sighs and I can tell he’s also rolling his eyes; I can see him so clearly in my mind. “Sometimes, I guess.”

  “I lied to you. A lot. God, I don’t even know if you remember. Do you? Do you even remember me?”

  “Yeah, of course I remember you, Eden. I remember everything.”

  “I wish you didn’t.”

  “You don’t sound good, Eden. Should I call someone for you?”

  “Do you remember what I told you my middle name was?”

  “Eden, why have you been calling me?” he demands, ignoring my question.

  “Marie, right, remember?”

  “Yeah, Marie, I remember.”

  “That was a lie too.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Anne.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Why, do I sound drunk?”

  “Yeah, you do, actually.”

  “Well, I’m not, but hey, that’s probably a good idea. I’m just—I don’t know, I’m just so—fucked up!” I laugh. It’s funny. This. This conversation, it’s ridiculous. “So completely fucked up.” I laugh again. “I’m sorry. You can really hang up if you want.”

  “No, I don’t want to hang up. I’m really worried, though. You don’t sound right.”

  “I’m not right. I’m really not. I’m not right. I’m wrong—everything I have ever done in my entire life has been wrong.”

  “Eden, I don’t understand what you want, what is this about?”

  “I used to love the way you said my name, you know, before you hated me.”

  “I never hated you.” He sighs.

  “Yes, you did. I made you hate me. It’s okay, though, everyone hates me. I would hate me too. I mean, I do. I do hate me. I’m a horrible, horrible person.”

  “Eden, please, just—look, what do you need from me? How can I help?”

  “You can’t!” I shriek. And then I cover my mouth because I can’t let him hear that I’m crying. “Look, I’ll let you go. I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I shouldn’t have called. I just—” I sniffle, struggling for enough air to finish this. “I just miss you so much sometimes, and I wanted you to know that I cared. I really did. And there wasn’t anyone else. Ever. I hope you’ll believe me.”

  “Wait, Eden, don’t hang—” I do, though, I hang up.

  I turn the phone off because I don’t want to know if he calls, and even more so, I don’t want to know if he doesn’t call. I just want to sleep. I just want to fall asleep for a very long time, for forever, maybe.

  But I do wake up, 5:45 a.m., like every other morning. And like every other morning, I shower. I brush my teeth. I do my makeup, my hair, get dressed, the usual. I pack my bag, pretend to be getting ready for school. All the while I try to convince myself that last night didn’t happen. Hell, that all of yesterday didn’t happen. I didn’t cry and snivel on the phone to Josh. I didn’t pass out while being questioned by Detective Dorian Dodgson. In fact, I don’t even know a Dorian Dodgson. I don’t know an Amanda, either. Kevin Armstrong? Never heard of him. And rape . . . all I know about rape is that it’s a terrible thing, something that happens to other people. Not me.

  I tiptoe through the living room, past Caelin asleep on the couch. “I’m leaving,” I whisper, too quiet for anyone to actually hear. And then I do. I leave. It’s only six thirty. I try to think of somewhere to go—school is out of the que
stion and the library won’t open for another two hours. The streets are empty and silent. A fresh layer of snow absorbs all the sound in the world.

  I turn my phone on. Fifteen missed calls, nine new voice mails.

  11:10 p.m.: “Eden, it’s Josh. Please just call me back, okay?”

  11:27 p.m.: “Eden, I—I don’t know what’s going on, but please call, just to let me know you’re all right.”

  12:01 a.m.: “Eden . . .”

  12:22 a.m.: “Damn it, I’m really worried. . . .”

  12:34 a.m.: “. . . (breathing).”

  12:45 a.m.: “Eden, I just want you to know that I don’t hate you. I never hated you. Fuck, will you just call? Please.”

  1:37 a.m.: “I’m starting to get really scared that you might be doing something stupid and I don’t want—just please don’t, all right. Just call me and we can talk. Please.”

  1:56 a.m.: “Look, I don’t know what happened, but it will be okay. It really will. Just please call me, I’m going crazy here.”

  2:31 a.m.: “Eden . . . if you won’t call me . . . fuck it, I’m coming there.”

  End of messages.

  Coming there? Here? No, no, no, no. I dial. It doesn’t even ring on my end before he answers.

  “Hello, Eden?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Jesus Christ, I called you like twenty times!”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I just now listened to your messages. Just please don’t come. It’s not worth it. I’m really not that—it’s not an emergency or anything. I’m really sorry if I worried you.”

  “Worried me? Yeah, you fucking worried me. I’ve been thinking you were dead for the past seven hours!”

  That word—“dead”—it just cuts. Like a blade. Through everything. “I didn’t—” But I can barely speak. “I didn’t mean to—that’s not what I wanted. I didn’t want you to be worried, I was just—oh God, I don’t know.”

  “You what? Why were you calling me?”

  I have to stop walking while I try to think of the answer. Well, maybe not the answer, but an answer. “I was just . . . lonely. I’m just lonely, that’s all. I’m sorry. I know it was stupid to call. I don’t even know why I did it. I shouldn’t have involved you.”

  Silence.

  “I feel like such an idiot,” I tell him.

  I hear him cluck his tongue, then sigh sympathetically. “No, come on, stop. Don’t say that.”

  “No, I do. I’m really embarrassed.”

  “I see you.”

  “What?”

  But he hangs up. I start to call him back, but a car horn shatters the icy quiet that blankets the entire neighborhood. I turn to look. An old beat-up Ford slows down as it pulls up behind me. I stop walking. It stops moving too. I bend down and look inside through the steamy passenger window. It’s really him. He reaches over and unlocks the door.

  We stare at each other from across the table at the IHOP off the highway. I feel like I’m looking at a ghost. He looks the same, but different—grown up, more like himself, like the way he’s supposed to look, somehow. He sips his coffee; he takes it black, very grown up indeed.

  Next to the syrup corral, there’s a cup of broken crayons. I can’t stop staring at them.

  “So . . . ?” he says, and I literally have to push the crayons out of my field of vision so I can focus on him.

  “I just can’t believe I’m sitting here with you,” I finally say, after staring for far too long.

  “I know. I can’t believe it either.” Except the way he says it is so much different from the way I said it.

  “You had to have been driving all night?”

  Pointedly, he says, “No, just half the night, the other half I was calling you.”

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound so dire. I was just upset, I guess.”

  He doesn’t say anything. His face is a cross between pissed, annoyed, and confused.

  And because I can’t stand that look, my mouth keeps saying the stupidest things. Things like: “Um, you look really good,” and, “So, I guess this is finally our date, huh?”

  He doesn’t respond though, he just sits there, looking like he’s in pain.

  Blessedly, our waitress comes to my rescue with two heaping plates of pancakes. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else,” she tells us. “Enjoy, guys.”

  We both reach for the butter-pecan syrup at the same time. Our hands touch.

  “Eden, I should tell you something up front, right now, okay?”

  “Okay?” This sounds important; I balance my fork on the edge of my plate, make sure I look like I’m paying attention.

  “I’m seeing someone. I have a girlfriend, and it’s serious, so . . .”

  “Oh.” I pick my fork back up, stab at the pancake, try to wipe the devastated look from my face, and sound as blasé as possible. “Right, yeah, right, of course.” I carefully cut off a triangle of pancake and stuff it in my mouth. It’s hard to swallow.

  “So I just want you to know that I didn’t come here to—what I mean is that I’m only here as a friend.”

  “Sure, yeah, I get it.” Be cool. Eat. Be normal. And for the love of God, don’t say anything else. “Does she know you’re here right now?” I mumble into my mug. It echoes.

  He nods, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “What did you tell her, you had to go talk some crazy, lying, stalker girl down off the ledge?” I smile. My face cracks.

  “No.” He grins uncomfortably, just slightly. “Not like that anyway. I told her that you were an ex-girlfriend, and I know, I know that’s not how you thought of it, but that’s what I told her, just for the sake of simplicity. And I told her I thought you might be in trouble and I wanted to see you and make sure you were all right.”

  “Wow,” I whisper. I don’t know which is harder to believe: the fact that he actually told her the truth, or that after he told her the truth, she let him come anyway. If he were mine, really mine, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near someone like me. “And she was okay with that?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Yeah.” He shrugs and finally starts eating. Then he looks up at me for just a moment and says, “So are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “In trouble?”

  Just as I’m trying to figure out how to even begin answering that question, the waitress is back, asking “How is everything, guys? Need a topper there?”

  “This is really good, huh?” I say after she leaves, pointing at the pancakes with my fork. “Or am I just that hungry?”

  “Eden, are you gonna tell me?” he asks impatiently.

  “Tell you what?”

  “I don’t know.” He waves his hand in my direction. “You tell me. Whatever it is you called to say—you don’t call that many times unless you have something to say.”

  I nod. I do have something to say, many things to say. Too many. “I think I mostly just wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” I admit. “I know it doesn’t change what happened. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I wanted you to know anyway.”

  He takes a bite of pancake. Takes his time chewing. And swallowing. And just when it looks like he’s going to say something, he takes another bite. Finally he looks at me, like he’s choosing between saying something mean and saying something nice.

  “Eden,” he begins, taking a breath. “Look, I knew things weren’t exactly how they seemed. I guess I sort of understood that you had issues, or whatever. No, that’s a lie,” he corrects right away. “I didn’t understand, actually. Not at all. Not back then, anyway, but I do now.” He flashes me a sad smile before going back to his food. “I thought about you a lot, you know, worried about you a lot,” he says with his mouth full, not looking at me.

  “Why?” I whisper, afraid that if I speak too loudly, I’ll wake myself up from this dream.

  “Because you were always so—you just never really seemed okay.”

  “I guess I wasn’t okay.” I tie my straw wrapper in knots, ov
er and over. “But now?” I laugh. “Now I’m so far past not okay, I don’t even know how I got here. You must think I’m out of my mind. I might be.”

  “You keep saying that, why? Did something actually happen?” he asks. I watch him watching me squirm, and I know there’s no way to get out of this now, not without actually telling him. The truth. He deserves the truth, after all.

  I had been waiting for three years for somebody, anybody, to say those magic words. And I’ve already let the opportunity pass me by once—when it really mattered—I can’t do it again. My whole body goes tingly. I panic that I might pass out again.

  And I hear my voice, smaller than usual, “Yes. Something really bad happened.”

  He’s waiting, watching, and looking more and more concerned with every second that passes. “What?” he finally asks. He sets his fork down and leans in toward me.

  I look down at my plate, at the puddle of syrup, crumbs of wet pancake. My hands are shaking; I put them in my lap. I open my mouth. “I was . . .”

  “Yeah?” he prompts.

  I try again. But nothing comes.

  “Eden, what?”

  I look around. My eyes set on those crayons again. Then back on him, waiting for me to say a word I just cannot say.

  “What?” he repeats.

  I reach across the table and pull the cup of crayons toward me. I pull out a broken red. I peel the paper back and rip off a corner of my place mat. My hand wants to break as I press the waxy crayon against the paper. R, I start to write it neatly, but an ugly word need not look pretty. My A becomes a shaky triangle. P is jagged. And the E and D come fast and furious. I look at the word “RAPED” for just a moment before I fold it in half and slide it away from me, across the table, past my plate and his coffee cup. Careful not to let it touch the few stray drops of syrup that have dripped down the side of the bottle, I move it toward him, along with every last shred of trust and faith and hope I have. He pulls the tiny piece of paper out from under my fingers and all I can do is sit there, staring at my lap, my trembling hands digging into the edge of the seat.

  He has the word. It’s out there. He has it—my secret. The truth. I can’t ever take it back now. Can’t lie it away. I close my eyes, wait for him to say it, to say the word, to say something. But he doesn’t. I force my eyes open and I look at him, looking at me. I can’t read his face.