“Swell. Listen, I just chunked in your ladies’ room, so you might wanna spritz something piney in there. Or floral. Whatever you have in stock. It should be strong though. Weighty, you know?”
He gapes at me, growing uglier by the minute. “I’m sorry, you . . . you what?”
“I ralphed.”
He tilts his head.
“Drove the porcelain bus?” I say. “Ate in reverse? Buicked my Kia?”
Now they’re both staring.
“I vomited in your bathroom, man. And now the place stinks to high heavens.”
They’re still staring, but with completely different looks on their faces.
“Also, can I get a Mountain Dew?” I ask, smacking my lips. “It’s like I just chewed a tube of wood glue or something.”
The receptionist gives Kathy a look that I interpret to mean Is she serious? Kathy’s eyes respond with Deadly. Mildly Attractive Male Receptionist scurries off, presumably after a Mountain Dew.
“Come on,” says Kathy, starting down the hallway.
“What about my drink?”
“You wanna spend any more time here than you have to?”
Next to me, Daniel Boone’s bust is wearing a who, me? smile.
I jog to catch up with Kathy, noticing, not for the first time, what a curious walk she has. It’s equal parts sass, z-snap, and street smarts. Her earrings jangle, her artificial curls bob, her too-tight jeans ride, her acrylic nails click, her bedazzled belt sparkles, her pregger boobs bounce—in this moment, I must applaud Kathy, and all the delusional fashionistas before her, clinging just as fiercely to their lost youth as they are their fake Louis Vuittons.
She hands me a slip of paper with the number 22 written in a mildly attractive handwriting. As we pass room 11, sweat beads across my forehead. I feel—and hear—my heart pounding against its adjacent innards, sending vibrations through my rib cage, my recently emptied stomach, my skin, my Zeppelin tee, my red hoodie.
Room 17 passes in a blur. God, we’re walking fast.
The narrow hallway is consistent in design with the rest of the place: nature-y oil paintings, plush carpeting, flowery wallpaper with a bunch of ridiculous eag—
“You ready?” whispers Kathy.
“What?”
She points to the door: room 22. On the other side, I hear the clear, deep baritone of a man who has lived his life.
40
The Drive Back
September 6—noon
Dear Isabel,
I write to you with the strongest of urges. I write of substance, and of despair. I write to teach and learn, purge and fill. I write to speak, and I write to listen. I write to tell the fucking truth, Iz.
To that end . . .
I was six when Aunt Isabel hung herself in our basement.
She was visiting from Boston at the time. I remember, the day before she killed herself, she sat in our living room and suggested I write a letter to her when she got back to Boston. But I was as impulsive back then as I am now. I decided I couldn’t wait that long. So the next day, I sat in my room and wrote a letter about nothing . . . just a letter. And then I went to find her. I searched high and low, every room of our house. Finally, and as a last resort, I tried the door to our basement. It was one of those ancient, heavy doors that creaked when you opened it. So you can imagine, as a young child, how this frightened me. Also, it had a big brass lock on it, but for as long as anyone could remember the lock had been broken. (I’ve often wondered how differently my life would have turned out had that lock been fixed, or had I been too scared to go down there. But it was broken, and I was brave, and ’twas always thus.) I made my way down the dark stairs, calling out for Aunt Isabel the whole way. Needless to say, she didn’t answer.
Nor would she ever again.
I found her hanging there, her feet dangling inches from the floor—inches from life. Later on, I would piece things together: Aunt Isabel was sick in the head; she came off her meds; at her doctor’s behest, she went to stay with family; she wrote letters (of serious substance and despair, I would imagine) to her doctor; and, ultimately, she decided her life wasn’t worth a damn.
There can be no question that our father blames himself, both for the suicide of his sister, as well as the ensuing shock brought upon his daughter (me, not you). There can be no question that this has fed his suspicions as to my own illness, that he thinks he could have done more to save Aunt Isabel, that maybe he could have done more to save me from finding Aunt Isabel. That maybe he can do more now to keep me from becoming Aunt Isabel. But I’m not her, and I never have been. One day, I hope he sees this truth.
So. The elephant in the room. They’re naming you after her. Yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha. Hilarious, right? Or, if not funny, counterintuitive. I mean, Isabel is a great name, don’t get me wrong. But blimey, that’s a heavy-handed welcome to a world full of weak hands.
So why’d they do it? Why name you after the most tragic figure in our family? I’ll tell you, but when you read what I’m about to write, remember what we determined about Reasons. They’re hard. Damn near impossible sometimes.
Okay, then, here it is: I was supposed to be Isabel.
(Boom, right?)
So you’re probably wondering what happened. Why am I not Isabel? Why am I Mary Iris Malone? (Why, indeed?)
It begins with a promise.
Before you and I were born, our grandmother, Mary Ray Malone, died of lung cancer. On her deathbed, or so the story goes, she asked Dad and Aunt Isabel to carry on her mother’s name (Isabel) should they one day have a daughter of their own.