Chapter 13 Annie

CHAPTER 13 ANNIE

2000

Plattsburgh, NY

There I was, white-knuckling the wheel and driving out of town, in full disbelief that I was doing it. But movement was the only thing I felt capable of. Movement away from Amanda’s fallen body, which kept dropping from the sky in my mind, as if on a loop. My vision was filled with her foot catching the side of the pool, that awful angle, and I was stunned at how much adrenaline the human body could produce. Did it ever deplete? The tips of my hands had gone numb, as if my body was pulling all the heat toward my core. Was this survival mode, outside of my control? Or was I a monster?

Even as I was driving, in that first hour, I could sense that this decision would haunt me. And still I felt incapable of anything else. Life had just reared up, taken its first bite out of me. Running felt like a reflex. But then I wondered: If running was my reflex, what did that say about me?

An hour and a half passed in a blur. When I saw a sign for Plattsburgh, the name sparked. Amanda had an uncle there, visited him every other Thanksgiving. I had hated those years, loved the ones when she stayed home and we baked pies. We discovered I was a pretty good baker—precise with measurements.

I didn’t want to go any farther from Amanda. And maybe if my body became still, my brain would follow suit. Would pipe down and let me think. (Also, I had to pee.)

I exited the highway, followed the signs for downtown. The temperature had dropped, and the street was dusty with crushed salt. I drove slowly along the main road until I spotted a café. I paused in front, peered inside: empty but for the guy working in it.

I parked the car and tried to calm down and think. I had the cash from my last paycheck bagging groceries in my wallet. I had some clothes—fuck, I had some of Amanda’s too—in the trunk. And I had my car. I could sleep in my car.

It wasn’t much, but I’d never had much.

I got out and walked to the café. Halfway there I noticed the H ELP W ANTED sign on the door. I froze. Was that a sign from the universe that I should stay? But that was a crazy thought. I could hear Amanda telling me how unhinged I sounded.

I went inside. The cheapest thing on the menu was drip black coffee. I filled it with cream and sugar and found a seat in the back. The place was more hippie than anything in Bolton. A surfing sticker was on the wall to my left and I ran my fingers over it, thought of the ocean in Malibu and the beachfront homes of Hollywood’s biggest producers.

Amanda, I’m so, so sorry.

I couldn’t be near that sticker. I stood and walked to the front, asked where the restroom was. The guy was reading a book, his elbow on the counter. He didn’t look up, just pointed toward the door at the back of the shop. His apathy was comforting; nobody would notice me here.

The bathroom was down a hallway, and when I saw there was a shower stall in it, and what my brain did with that information, I realized how dedicated it was to building a new life. I pulled back the flimsy blue curtain, leaned forward, turned the handle. The water came out fast and hot.

The sink was adjacent to the shower. I washed my hands and stared in the small, square mirror, which looked like a weapon, its edges rough. Before I could block its arrival: an image of Amanda, broken, followed by a swarm of thoughts— how is she?, where is she?, is she okay?, of course she’s okay, but what if it’s not and what if she’s de—, no, no, no, her eyes were open, she’s okay, but how could I, really, how could I? I stared at myself long enough that, just like when a repeated word loses meaning, my face became just skin and bone. Then I stared through myself until I didn’t know who I was anymore. Then back into focus I came. I was wearing a D.A.R.E hoodie under a tattered jean jacket—Amanda had always called it my “ RENT look.”

I gripped the sides of the sink and imagined going back to Bolton Landing. Imagined what life would be like: I’d pick up shifts again at Tops, help Amanda with whatever terrible thing had happened, live with my mom again.

Or I could—

See what this was like?

See if I could become someone new.

And if it wasn’t working, I’d get in the car and go home. Which is probably what I would do anyway. Probably tomorrow.

But, just for now, I needed a new name. Needed some distance from being Annie.

I thought about every play I’d done. All the books I’d read. The names began filling my head. Some were too old (Blanche) or too old-fashioned (Ophelia), but then one popped in—Cassandra—and it was everything I wanted to be: sophisticated, distinct, worldly. And the fancier the first name, the simpler the last. One of my favorite movie-star names had always been Harrison Ford. Amanda and I had once staged a scene (in her bedroom) from The Fugitive.

Cassandra Ford.

Cass, for short.

I walked back into the café and asked for an application and the guy put down his book and looked at me. He wasn’t getting up unless I was serious. I held his gaze, then he shrugged and went to get me the form.

That night I awoke in my car with my knees jammed into the gear shift and a crick in my neck. I sat upright and battered my fists against the steering wheel.

Why, why, why, why, why?

Such emotional outbursts were unlike me, but I was in a unique kind of agony. Like I’d had a heart transplant and was waiting to see if it would take. I wanted a new chance at life so badly. And also, I was terrified that I would get it.

A month went by like this: me sleeping in my car, working the first shift at the café, always just about to drive home.

But day after day, I didn’t.