Belonging
the safest place in the whole wide world
"Miss?"
Annie became agitated in the narrow seat, her neck cramped. Reality seemed to be attempting to mix with her peaceful slumber. A birthday cake and a wish. The voice of—
"Miss." A hand touched her shoulder, breaking the notion she had believed in for a moment. "Miss, wake up. You need to put your seatbelt on. We're preparing to land."
Annie blinked, opened her eyes, and squinted while clicking the belt into the tiny slot. Could she fit her grief into that meaningless little two-inch slit, the seam where the seatbelt connected, its job to keep her safe from a fall?
Rubbing her eyes — how long had she been asleep? — she sat forward and blew out the candles on the cake from the dream.
This dream was real. Realer than real. If she could’ve bottled this hope, harnessed this break from anxiety, she could have carried Peter with her for the remainder of the trip — for the day, for life.
Why was her brother so vivid in her dreams? Creeping into small places, out of corners, into corners. The alleyways and tunnels. And he was always alive in the fucking dream. Someone, whomever — it didn’t matter — would explain his presence, saying the accident had been a mistake. Sometimes there was no explanation in the dream, but even without one, the mistake of his death was an unspoken acknowledgement.
Of course his death was a mistake. Nothing like his accident happened in real life. A motorcycle crash in the dead of night. It had to be someone else's reality. Annie was a dreamer. An optimist. But the last year had caused her to stop believing in things like fate or forever.
No one knew what death could do until it happened to them.
New York City, with its spiky, cerebral building tops, was a mirage outside the rectangular window. Annie decided she would stare through the shape until her heart reaccepted truth or lies. Or until she would escape. She’d jump through the window and fly. She could invent a story. Make something up through the lens of the camera.
Head beginning to prickle with heat, she fidgeted in her seat. She would create an alternate reality. Or something. Or nothing.
By the time Annie exited the plane and arrived on the city’s pavement, it was almost noon. She’d just hailed a cab. The temperature didn’t feel much different from Miami’s. Humidity you could slice and spread with a butter knife. Warm, sticky, yuck. And to top it off, it was raining — a wonderful complement to her now throbbing head.
Fuck dreams.
Fuck the city and its strange stink. It wasn't the oasis she’d hoped for when she’d bought her ticket, she thought as she slunk down into the backseat of the taxi.
Temperature the same, but the temperament was quite different.
It had only been … what? Several weeks since she’d graduated? She’d been in South Florida for about a month. How had she forgotten what the city felt like, looked like, smelled like? The interior of the cab smelled — dirty carpet advertising old drink stains, sun-heated vinyl, and pine tree air freshener. Yum. The invisible vibe of the city — the chi — had a smell too. It had a taste. And it wasn’t always putrid — sometimes, the stench was sweet.
On the ride to Tabitha’s, Annie recalled some of her favorite things…
Warm bagels in the morning from her favorite delicatessen — the dough, the rich cream cheese. Freshly pressed coffee. Walking the Brooklyn Bridge on a cool fall evening. Designer handbags and briefcases. Walking sneakers mingling with five-hundred-dollar high heels. Window shopping. Street shopping. Authentic Chinese food. Fresh rain on the grass in Central Park.
She hadn't forgotten New York's Feng Shui — the sweet and the stink — she’d forgotten to remember. She’d forgotten to think.
That would’ve been a novel idea.
If only I could forget how to think.
Sitting in the taxi, Annie pressed her throbbing head against the speckled glass, watched the steady rain, and sighed. Drizzling, damp rain with no sign of let up. Each time the cab stopped, hit a pothole, or switched lanes, her head shook like the tail of a snake, and the pain increased.
The dream she’d had died a thousand times while she relived a million memories in the backseat of the cab. Memories of the day Maggie had insisted on telling Cal about only last night. Memories of the incessant rain. It had rained all day long on the day. Raining in the city when she’d received the dreadful call from her father. Raining in Seattle, day after day, the week of the funeral.
She peered through the glass, past the translucent cheetah-skin drops cascading down the window, past her manic headache, and stared at the sidewalks and droves of pedestrians. Despite the weather, the corners, shops, and concrete were filled with people on a mission. Most of them held umbrellas, some colorful, many black, the ends all touching. A sea of vinyl swooshing across the intersections. Ants marching with leaves over their heads.
Where were they going in such a rush? Time waited for no New Yorker. But that wasn’t Annie. Not even in the four years she’d lived there had she acclimated to the fast-paced city.
Annie was and always would be a Pacific Northwester. Was there such a thing?
Right now, though, Annie was home.
The cab stopped in front of a two-story brick building in the West Village. Tabitha's apartment.
After paying the driver, Annie stepped out, tossed her backpack over her shoulder, and collected her suitcase. The exhaust fumes in the air played backgammon with the exhaust in her soul.
Why was she so drained, so tired? Hours and hours of sleep never seemed to cure it.
Without any cover or rain jacket, she got wet as she jogged toward the entryway. Grateful the awning over the stoop finally provided a dry spot — a relief — she pushed the call button and waited for the sound of the buzzer. After ascending a single flight of stairs, she came upon the cracked front door of apartment 2F.
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas McAlester’s home.
Oh, and their dog’s too.
Marlon's nose was the first thing she saw through the opening. And she laughed at the keen, sniffing black thing, and before she knew it, the door swung wide.
"Marlon," Tom said with strain, his knuckles white from holding the dog's collar. "Stop, boy."
As he gently dragged Marlon back into the apartment, Tom’s wavy brown hair fell across his forehead. It appeared slept on, mussed, and not combed — typical … and basically adorable.
"I woke you," Annie said while stepping over the threshold.
"Quick, shut the door.”
She arched an eyebrow. "A little grumpy this morning, aren't we, T?"
He let go of the sandy-brown golden retriever, stood straight, and looked at her. The coal of his eyes had a thick sheen of sleep residing in them.
"You're soaked.”
Dropping her chin to her chest, she reached up and pinched the damp cotton away from her skin. "It's not ‘wet T-shirt’ soaked."
"Yeah." He snapped a towel off the kitchen counter. "What would you know about that?" He tossed the dry cloth to Annie.
She caught it and smirked, then blotted her face with it.
"It's been raining here for like forty days and nights." He jammed a set of keys in his pocket.
"Maybe I brought it with me from Miami." After dropping the towel on the counter, she knelt in front of Marlon. "Hi, big boy." Annie ruffled his coat. "Did you miss me? Yeah."
"Where's my greeting?" Tom asked.
Annie rolled her eyes, stood, and embraced the grumpy, adorable man. He did need his sleep, though. He worked as a nurse during the graveyard shift at Mount Sinai.
"He’s the one who woke me," Tom said with a grumble. "I've got to walk him."
Annie eyed the spot Tab must’ve already made up on the sofa, probably before she’d left for the matinee. A sheet was tucked into the cushions with a pillow and blanket on top. Old times, Annie thought as she rolled her suitcase into the living room and found a nook for her things near the coffee table. She gazed out one of the two windows as the dream replayed in her mind…
"Annie," called the familiar voice in her sleep. "Come on, Annie, it's time."
The room seemed hollow. It felt hollow like the inside of a tree trunk. An underground concrete tunnel.
The voice echoed in the cylinder, becoming louder and clearer with each call. "Annie. Annie. Annie..."
But there was no figure … or she couldn't reach it. The voice with no face. Not even a hazy outline. Still, she knew who the melodious sound belonged to, just not where it came from.
A door appeared.
She opened it and stepped into a sterile, plain room. A white box. A dark, wood table stood in the center, juxtaposed to all the alabaster.
Beverly stood behind the furniture next to Annie’s father, Albert. Her parents looked dark against the snowy walls, their faces glowing from the light the sixteen candles on the cake in front of them provided.
"Help me blow them out, Peter," Annie said to her brother.
He had been the voice who had called after her in the tunnel, appearing instantly as if he’d never been gone.
He wasn't gone. Couldn’t be. Peter was always there. He was here. Right now.
Death had made a mistake. His death had been a mistake. Everyone knew it. Annie knew it was true.
"Help me blow out my candles."
Her mother and father smiled at Annie, then at each other, showing perfect teeth, each gesture happening in slow motion.
And then the stewardess had spoken and touched Annie’s shoulder, interrupting the immaculate moment of dreamlike security where everything wrong had been made right.
The space between sleep and awake.
The minutes where Superman circled the globe, took back time and made it his, resurrecting Lois Lane.
For a few endless seconds, Peter had been alive.
Things were just as they should’ve been.
The tightness in Annie’s belly had recoiled. The cloud hanging over her mind had departed.
Nothing could contaminate this dream.
Except life.
Now she had to force herself to leave behind childhood notions. She had to let them go. Watch them disappear out the window. Let summer run away with the idea that the world continued to spin on its axis without Peter’s presence.
She had to acclimate to reality.
And the reality was she felt odd standing in her best friend’s apartment. How could it feel both intimate and fresh … and different? Like a place she’d been before but couldn’t quite fully remember.
Something had changed since the dream … since the conversation she’d overheard on the staircase last night.
Annie shook off the peculiar feelings, insisting she felt safe in this home away from home. The brownstone off the beaten path on a tucked away, one-way, L-shaped street — an alley filled with trees. Still looking out the window, she framed — in her mind’s eye — the branches hovering over it like a canopy.
Like Cal's street.
Except there were fewer trees here. Still, they were striking, with their summer leaves providing a little shade from the heat … and maybe a bit of respite from the storm. Staring out the window, Annie recalled the way they looked in the winter when they didn't have any leaves — only branches, sticks … snowman parts.
Tom attached the leash to Marlon's collar, and the noise it made as he clicked the lock into place startled Annie, causing her to snap out of the nonsense which fueled her forward movement. She turned her focus to the infamous wall collage Tabitha had created.
Because pictures…
It didn't matter how many times she’d seen it — thousands probably — she studied it, lost herself in it. Snapshots of family, friends, vacations, and events covered the entire wall next to the bedroom.
The Wall of Life.
"You have a headache?" Tom interjected his concern into Annie’s thoughts.
"How’d you know?" Annie grimaced and touched her temple.
"Nurse.” He wielded his infamous smile.
Those white teeth against olive skin, deep dimples any girl would’ve swooned over... Gosh, adorable. Tabitha had found a good one, and it wasn't just his looks. Tom was genuine, sweet, and kind. They’d married young, sure, but no one doubted their puppy love. Speaking of puppies, Marlon began to bark.
“Do you need anything while I’m out?” He grabbed a large Casablanca-themed umbrella. Annie had bought it for them. Humphrey Bogart gazed upon Ingrid Bergman like she was the only star in the sky and he might die without her light.
“You have to go? Out in the rain and everything?"
“My master beckons." He opened the door. "We have Advil or some shit in the cabinet. Did you eat? Do you want me to pick up a sandwich or something? You like steak and cheese, right?"
Massaging her throat, her eyes climbed photo after photo, inching up the wall like the Itsy-Bitsy Spider. She heard him but couldn’t formulate an answer.
“Are you sure you're okay, Ann?"
The word okay grabbed her attention, undoing the mute button. The nurse would know her okay would be bullshit. Nurse, best friend’s confidant, purveyor of all things anxiety attacks, depression, and addiction.
Annie tried to send a message to him with her eyes as she made her way to the door.
Was he buying it?
Marlon already stood in the hallway, his tongue out and tail wagging. The leash was stretched, fully open, as was Tom's arm.
“Yes, Thomas, I’m fine," she replied in a dramatic baritone to the flustered expression she read on T’s face. But he didn’t seem to be buying her okay. Or maybe it was just the impatient dog mixing her signals. “I’m fine. Go."
“Help yourself to whatever food you can find in that tiny room called a kitchen."
"Hey, wait." Annie stepped into the hall. "Are you going tonight?"
Tom glanced back while the dog yanked forward. "No, I have to work. Have to cover an early shift." And with those parting words, they were off, Marlon Brando leading his subject down the stairwell.
Annie shut the door, then filled a cup with water from the fridge dispenser. The glass shook as she drank. Annie figured it was from hunger. She’d skipped breakfast, and the headache had rendered almost every other sensation into useless background music. Except the feeling of being tired. That and the different she’d felt since the plane — the different she couldn't quite put her finger on.
Was it adrenaline or cold or hunger? All three maybe.
As she opened the refrigerator, a chill ran up her spine. “These damn wet clothes.”
Squeezing her lids shut, she willed a reprieve from the throbbing. A moment. Please.
“I just need to eat,” she whispered to the chilly appliance, but it had no reply.
After taking out a block of cheddar, she opened a couple cabinets, searching for crackers. They’d moved things around since she’d last been here, Tabitha never content with the ordinary. The lazy Susan in the corner cupboard contained the medicine, not crackers. Annie’s eyes were fixated for a moment on the variety of bottles. Scanning the labels, she turned the spindle until she found what she needed. She stared at the bottle a long time before finally removing two pills, and then she cradled the white ovals in her fist.
Her palms began to sweat while the devil and the angel began to debate across the breadth of her shoulders…
No, this is not a good idea.
Yes, you can take them. You have self-control. You're a different person now. You deserve to relax. To feel good. To eat and not have a headache. To not feel alone. To escape the different, different, different. The bullshit.
No. Don’t take them.
Yes. Do it. It’ll be the last time. It's not a big deal.
It's not a good idea.
It is. You need it today. Only today.
Fuck. This. Shit, she thought as she tossed them back, swallowed a gulp of water, and then locked the white lid into place over the amber bottle.
Done. Now, crackers.
Ping.
Crackers, cheese, and ... phone.
Annie retrieved her cell from her bag, looked at it, and rolled her eyes as she swiped the screen. A picture of Barney along with what was probably a needy message from her mother came into full view.
Mom: Are you all right? I haven't heard from you. Did you land?
Poor Barney, dressed in a shirt, resting in a pet stroller, looking ridiculous. Annie rolled her eyes again, but then she took a selfie with her hair slightly matted from the rain and a smile woven across her face — minus the eye-rolling. She sent it out with a polite message, complimenting Barney, wishing them well, informing her mother, that yes, she’d indeed landed safely.
After Annie finished eating, she fingered her hair until it looked somewhat presentable and took another photo. She took several actually.
Peering into the camera.
Eyes haunting.
Her mouth pursed, not smiling.
The pictures were quite different from the one she’d sent Beverly. She texted the photo she liked best to Cal, along with her return itinerary, and then she shoved the phone into her jean pocket.
Annie made her way to the makeshift bed Tab had prepared and plopped down. The Wall of Life drew her eyes back like a moth to the flame.
Focusing on a few pictures, she went over the details, the circumstances, the timeframe, the clothes, the hairstyles, all while twirling her hair around her index finger.
God, life had changed since many of those — no, since most of those — were taken. Everything was different. Even now — change, change, change, after only a few short weeks of absence from the city.
It was a strange feeling to experience in such an intimate space.
She closed her eyes, lay her head flat on the pillow, and clutched it.
It came hard and fast.
The medication had not helped to contain the emotions — not yet.
Define it.
Please.
Annie didn’t want to define anything.
Not it.
Not anything.
She didn’t want to feel emotions. She didn't need them. She pushed them back — go away — into an abyss before they completely engulfed her, trying to suffocate her on the pretty, made-just-for-her couch.
Ignore it.
Just as the war inside her head was about to commence, her phone chimed. Mother...
She glanced at the text message on the screen, but it wasn’t from Beverly.
Cal: Thursday can't come soon enough. You are beautiful.
Release. Swoosh.
Water trapped behind a dam flowed.
The crying began first in whispers as she attempted in vain to hold back the deluge with the stubbornness of a mule, but it was no good. Everything she’d tried to quell burst forth like the shattering of the Hoover Dam in the 1978 film Superman. There were a million tiny cracks on the surface.
The water went everywhere all at once.
Mainly in her heart and throat.
Water … leaking, splintering through the concrete — a mess only one man could clean up. The man with the S on his chest. The man with superhuman strength.
Another text bleeped.
She stopped the dam.
No, he did.
He flew in and made time itself obsolete.
Cal had sent a link to a song … of course.
He wasn’t very subtle with this particular selection.
Maybe he was never understated when it came to his choice of song — or his lips or his fingers or his cock. God. She squeezed her eyes shut and leftover tears slid out. Before clicking the link, she Googled the lyrics and read them.
Medication working, mushrooms began to sprout. Nerve endings danced across the tips of the fungus as she read the not-so-mysterious words of The Rolling Stones’ tune "Miss you".
Finished reading and analyzing, the phone shook in her palm.
Definitely. Not. Obscure.
Who are you, Calvin Prescott?
Each song he’d ever shared had told her things he couldn’t say or he dared not say or he was afraid to say.
Was he afraid? Waiting? Missing her?
The same sensation that came over her whenever Cal was near struck. Something else hit too. A good kind of nausea — was there such a thing? Butterflies in her stomach magnified to infinity.
It began at her toes … maybe. It was everywhere, though, and hard to pinpoint exactly where it had started.
Similar to an orgasm, it ran through her completely, concentrating in her middle, low in her belly, stampeding through her entire torso — her veins, sinews, and bone. Everywhere. Tingling electrocution. Nerves swimming off the deep end of the ocean.
Unable to be confined to a single place.
It swirled in her stomach the longest — in its depths. Then, finally, the trails of energy rested, floating away into space, escaping through her skin.
It left, but she danced, eyes shut, with the synapses firing across the tops of the mushrooms. There were a lot of them now. Fat, round caps. Long-stemmed. Too many to count.
Fuzzy.
Warm.
Vivid daydreams.
Things.
Unusual mind pictures.
Problems small.
A thin film of sweat slicked every inch of her body, and the heat enthralled the way it might on a tropical vacation as she bounced off the mushroom tops in Mario Kart.
Bong. Hop. Pounce.
Dropping, falling with an open parachute, then jumping up again, up-up-up, then floating down-down-down.
Sadness was a blip on the radar. She was a balloon, a blimp, a fantastic thing in motion — untouchable and suspended inside her head — and for once, it harbored absolute peace and no distractions … unless you counted the two painkillers she’d swallowed. No, no distractions. Only quiet. And the next thing she knew, without having played "Miss You", without sending a reply to Cal ... she was asleep.
Neither Tom nor Marlon stirred her from her slumber, and when she awoke, she felt reenergized. Annie Baxter, daydreamer extraordinaire, thought she was ready for New York fucking City.