Chapter 39 Amanda

CHAPTER 39 AMANDA

February 2007

Bolton Landing

Although I didn’t get out much, I did very occasionally meet some old high school friends for a drink—or many, many drinks. We’d meet at a bar in town that was carpeted, which tells you everything you need to know about the place. Yes, there was an old-school jukebox; no, the drinks were not good.

The last time I ever joined them was a Friday in late winter. Kerri was home for the weekend from Siena College, close to Albany, where she had a scholarship that she routinely threatened to give up in favor of coming home and taking care of me. She was serious; it was terrifying. I knew I needed to get my shit together so she could move forward with her own life, but I couldn’t seem to. Perhaps my buzzing social life would soothe her worries.

“Amanda!” my friends called in near unison when I appeared that night in the doorway of the bar. Their overexcited greeting was, to my ear at least, an attempt to balance the terrible thought they’d all no doubt just had: Thank God that isn’t me . One of them was already hustling over to hold the door open.

“Hey, everyone!” I called back, smiling like we were in the opening scene of some feel-good network sitcom.

The group was five of us, including Tommy, who could have been the inspiration behind Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” Did we know he’d been named a Section II all-star his senior year? It was a fact that came up more frequently than you’d imagine possible.

We were the only kids from our small graduating class who’d never left town. We wouldn’t have admitted it, but we all had chips on our shoulders. Riddled with insecurities. When I got to the table, I ordered the first of seven cranberry vodkas.

Two hours later and we were all drunk. I closed one eye and took a big, long sip through the tiny black straw. So narrow! So cruel! Was it designed to keep drunk people from getting alcohol into their mouths as fast as they wanted? Probably.

I noticed that Tommy was leaning back and squinting at me, his lips pursed. Then he said, “Okay, fuck it—I’m gonna ask,” and this weird energy rippled outward. The others stared at him, then exchanged glances, and I sensed that they knew precisely what he was about to ask. They seemed aghast, and thrilled , by their friend’s brazenness.

“You and Annie,” he said, then paused, lifting his drink to just below his lips. “You two ever… you know…”—he raised one eyebrow—“fuck?”

He took a slow sip of his drink in a way that he no doubt intended to be alluring but was pure douche.

No one had said her name to me. We’d never, not once in six years, spoken of her. I think they meant this as a kindness, but it was a robbery—of the me from before, who was made up of approximately 92 percent Annie memories and stories. For six years, we pretended Annie never existed; six years of misjudged decorum down the drain because Tommy got drunk and his urge to inquire about potential girl-on-girl action simply could not be resisted.

Of course, that in no way justifies what I did next, which was grab one of the empty beer bottles and slam it against the side of the table. The glass shattered, spraying everywhere. My friends flung themselves backward as if in mortal danger, which struck me as a bit exaggerated, almost performative. They’d finally found their reason to disinvite me.

When I got home, I was knocking my chair into shit, and Kerri came out rubbing her eyes.

“Amanda?” she asked, and she sounded exactly like Annie had while standing over me in the drained pool—my name like a question, though it wasn’t, both their tones icy with terror. I flashed back to that afternoon, and asked myself the question I always did: Is it possible that when I was lying on those wet leaves waiting for Annie that I both knew that she would come back at any second and also that she was gone for good?

“Amanda?” Kerri said again, this time more forcefully. I glanced over at my little sister; she looked world-weary, her shoulders rounded. I hated that I was to blame. As always, I noticed how this feeling, like all my feelings, was instantly cannibalized by the Blame Annie monster—an insatiable beast. Everything was her fault.

I needed to get to bed, shut myself down for the night. (How had Annie functioned with that nonstop brain of hers? I wondered. Mine was starting to get like that, churning and churning. It was unsustainable.) I clumsily jerked myself forward, crushing my hand between my chair and the coffee table. The pain was searing.

“Fuck this!” I screamed, tilting my head back, really holding the i in this like the lead singer in a heavy metal band. It was primal. But it felt good, too, and I suddenly realized that maybe rage-yelling could be the first step on my road to freedom. On my journey , if you will.

Kerri, though, she wasn’t privy to this silver lining I had stumbled onto. She’d reached her wits’ end, too. Perhaps screaming, like sneezing, is a social contagion, because a second later she let out a vicious roar. (Dad was out playing poker.)

At some point, I quieted and observed Kerri. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides; her eyes were pressed shut. She sounded like someone on the scariest part of a roller coaster—more depth emanating from her slight frame than I would have expected. A few seconds later she ran out of air, sucked in a big breath, and screamed—with what must be described as bitterness—“I FUCKING HATE ANNIE CALLAHAN!”

Then she doubled down: “I hate her, I hate her, I HATE HER!”

She quickly depleted herself, and we descended into an odd silence. With a firmness that surprised me, I said, “Kerri—don’t ever say that again. Never, ever again.” Then, after a moment, I added softly, “Promise me?”

Kerri looked shell-shocked. “What?” she eventually managed, her fists becoming open palms. “Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not,” I said, because I wasn’t, not technically. But something had been knocked loose inside me.

“Um, yeah,” she said, crossing her arms, “you kind of are.”

What was I feeling? The sudden presence of a ball lodged in my throat. And the clarity that if Annie walked in the door at that moment, I would have thrown myself at her, sobbing— I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . I’d been so foolish and reckless that day on the island, so insecure in who I was. I’d put her in an awful position. She’d been in love with me—for years. But instead of letting her go, sharing her with someone else, I’d done just enough to keep her: a hand on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead, a too-long hug.

What I could finally acknowledge, on that terrible drunken night, was simple:

Annie must be in pain, too.

The next morning I called the Bolton Free Library and asked when and where the next AA meeting was. They told me it was that evening at the community church.