Of course the phone is ringing when I get home.

I pick it up. “Hello, Ryan.”

“Hey…it’s noon and that’s when you told me to call.’

“Yeah, that’s right. So what do you want to do?”

“Well, Mark is leaving town today. He’s moving out west.”

“Whoa…did you know this before? Because I don’t remember him saying anything about it.”

“I guess he’s been planning it for a long time, kinda secretly. Like, Mary didn’t even know he was going.”

“But they live together…is she going with him?”

“I guess not. I didn’t really ask, because it seemed like a touchy subject.”

I’m shocked by this news. We just hung out with Mark and Mary a few weeks ago, right around my birthday. They have dated since college, so I assumed that they were probably going to get married soon. And no one ever mentioned anything about leaving Chicago.

Ryan and I make plans to hang out with Mark.

“I’ll come and pick you up in an hour.”

No way. “Um, actually, I’ll just meet you over at Mark’s. I vaguely remember where his place is. It’s like west of Damen, and north of Armitage, right?”

“Just let me get you.”

Oh, please. Suddenly he’ll need to come upstairs to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, and then five minutes later, he’s pulling my dress over my head and pushing me down on the bed. Not an option.

I turn him down politely and then I promise to meet him at one.

I’m sad to hear that Mark is leaving. He’s our only friend that isn’t a junkie, alcoholic, or cokehead. And he doesn’t seem crazy, either. He makes a decent living at something boring, he lives with his girlfriend, and yet he still manages to have good taste in music and books. I’ve been wishing that Ryan would spend more time with him. Mark’s calmness could only be a good influence.

And then I remember why we haven’t been hanging out with Mark so much: every time we go out with him, I end up holed up in a corner with him talking about records or existentialism or anything else I never discuss with Ryan. Meanwhile, our respective partners are sitting at a table looking pissy while making futile attempts at conversation. More than once Ryan has said, “I feel like YOU should be dating Mark.” And then I have to go through the whole “he’s not my type, even if he is tall, and anyway, I’m totally in love with you” spiel.

Ryan is waiting outside Mark’s building when I ride up. I look around for a place to lock my bike. He grabs the handlebars from me. “Don’t worry, I’ll carry it into the building for you.” And then he tries to kiss me. I turn my head, so he only gets a chaste cheek.

The apartment is filled with boxes. Mark looks like he has been up all night. He offers to make us coffee, which I don’t turn down. He makes better coffee than anyone I have ever met, using a percolator on the stove.

We’re hanging around making small talk. I’m getting frustrated, because I want to know what’s really going on. Finally, I get the nerve. “So Mark, where are you moving? And why isn’t Mary going?”

He laughs awkwardly. “Well, I’m moving to Portland, Oregon. And Mary’s not going, because, well, it’s time for us to move in separate directions.”

“I can’t believe you are leaving Chicago! I mean, this place is great!”

He nods his head. “Yeah, but if you ever visited Portland, you would understand. It’s without a doubt the best place I’ve ever been. It’s the land of indie rock magic, I swear. And there are more trees than people!”

I’m skeptical. “Well, I’m really sad that you are leaving. You have to promise to email me or something.”

He nods his head.

We hang out and talk some more. Ryan’s being weird and quiet, so Mark and I fill the silence by talking about bands. Then Mark says he has to put the last bit of stuff in his car, because he wants to leave before dark.

“What are you kids going to do next? It’s still pretty early.”

I shrug my shoulders. Meanwhile Ryan says, “Oh, I don’t know…I should probably just go home, I have a lot of stuff to do.”

Mark smirks. “Ryan, why don’t you stop being a ninny? Didn’t you tell me yesterday that all you wanted to do, the ONLY THING you wanted to do, was spend time with Amanda? Well, here she is.”

I start laughing so hard, that I choke on my last sip of coffee.

So let’s step back for a moment, and imagine that I’m standing on map of the path my life takes in the next few years. Now, this involves a certain suspension of disbelief on my part, because I really don’t believe in things like fate and destiny. After all, who wants to know that the events in one’s life have nothing to do with one’s decisions and actions?

But anyway, right now we’re looking at this map of my life. And right now I’m standing squarely in Chicago. College in New York and a childhood in rural Pennsylvania are behind me. Ahead of me, looming like a dark cloud, is Ryan’s death. And then my sudden flight to my mom’s house in Pennsylvania for refuge. But then, not too long after Dylan’s birth–a neon bright spot after months of darkness–you will see me take a flight to Portland, Oregon, invited by none other than Mark.

You see, after Ryan is gone, most of my Chicago friends are afraid to talk to me. And that is fine, because I just want to forget that whole life for a while. But one day, Mark calls me out of the blue. He has gotten my number from Mary, who has gotten it from Andy, who gets it from Larry’s new girlfriend, my last roommate in Chicago.

We end up talking for hours. And then he starts calling me every week. And then every few days, and soon, he is suggesting a visit to Portland.

The first night of my trip, emboldened by an ill-advised mixture of gin and malt liquor, I turn to him and say, “I’m here for two reasons. One: you had the balls to call me when no one else could. And two, and trust me, this one carries a lot more weight: that last day we saw you in Chicago, you told Ryan to “stop being a ninny.”

He laughs. “You know, Mary always secretly hated you. She would always say, ‘Why don’t you just fuck Amanda, because I know you want to?”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Yeah, Ryan was always like, ‘I think you should be dating MARK.’”

He puts his arm around me. “You know, you were the last person I saw when I Ieft Chicago. I could see your face disappearing in the rearview mirror as I drove away. And I thought, ‘Wow, I’m really glad it’s Amanda and no one else.”

Back on that day in Chicago, Ryan and I help him load the last few boxes into the car. He puts his dog in the passenger seat, and then he hugs us goodbye.

We stand in the middle of the street, waving until we can’t see his car anymore.

And then we turn and embrace each other. Ryan says, “I’m so glad that you are still here.”

I pull him closer.

I wake up astoundingly early in the morning–like, eight–and I decide to call Cheryl on a whim. The chance she is awake is slim, but…she actually answers the phone. And minimal effort is required to persuade her to go to breakfast.

We meet up an hour later. We don’t have to wait for a table because none of the hipsters have crawled out of bed yet.

After our food arrives, Cheryl exclaims, “Is it just me or are all of the old people of the world onto something? I mean, we didn’t have to wait for a table AND this breakfast tastes better than usual, I swear!”
I’m about to respond when I see a familiar face walk in the door.

I focus my eyes on my food and whisper to Cheryl, “Don’t look now, but fucking Larry is here. Whatever you do, do NOT let him sit down with us.” She scowls in disgust.

I try to watch him without being obvious. He grabs a coffee and then leaves. Crisis averted.

I sit up again. “I can’t stand him. He’s so creepy. And it’s like he’s on a mission to consume twice as many drugs as anyone else.”

Cheryl snorts. “Someone must have told him he was a pussy in junior high.”

I roll my eyes. “Probably. I think that’s the issue with half of the guys in our neighborhood. They’re all trying to prove their manhood or something. I saw him Friday night, and he was all King Leer…making sexy eyes at me and staring down my dress.”

“You know that he and Emily broke up, right?”

“Yeah, I know all about it. You know he was cheating on her with this girl Jen, right? Right around the time Emily found out she was pregnant. Both of them agreed that she should get an abortion, because she’s on so much serious medication. But then, the day Emily went in for the procedure, Larry spent the whole day with Jen.”

“What the fuck? How do you know this?”

I’m about to explain, when the waitress stops by and fills up our coffee cups. We spent the next few minutes rustling around sugar and soy milk.

I’m stirring my coffee and spacing out when Cheryl interrupts me. “So wait, are you going to tell me more about this Larry story or what?”

“Oh yeah, well, I know because I got semi-drunk one night last spring, and I ended up sleeping with that Jen girl. And afterwards, we were just sitting on the floor in the kitchen eating frozen raspberries when she started telling me all about it. And she was crying, you know, because she felt really shitty about it. ”

Cheryl’s jaw drops. “You’re always full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Whatever…but you want to know the fucked up thing? Emily didn’t break up with him because he was cheating. And she didn’t break up with him because she had to take the bus home from Planned Parenthood. No, HE broke up with HER because she seemed so cold and unresponsive, (i.e., not interested in fucking him), after the abortion.”

“Fuck, one more reason to hate him. I mean, I thought he was just creepy and most likely to steal your wallet to buy more blow.” She shakes her head.

“Listen, I know that everyone thinks I’m crazy now. And before that, they thought I was just happy-go-lucky, go-with-the-flow Amanda. But I’m neither. If you don’t think that most of the guys in Wicker Park view women as something to be traded and tossed aside, like currency, you’re wrong. It doesn’t matter how sensitive or tortured a guy might seem. They don’t care how smart we are or how much we know about music…because in their eyes, THEY are the smart ones. We’re just supposed to come to their shows and fuck them after WE buy them a drink. They don’t care about what we are thinking. They don’t want to hear our ideas or see our art projects. They don’t want to read your book or hear you opinion on the the Velvet Underground. They only way to protect yourself in this circle–as a woman–is to do what you want. And if that means sleeping with the girl that is also being fucked by your future boyfriend’s best drug buddy, then so be it.”

Cheryl grabs my hand. “I love you! And I’m glad you’re finally coming back to life. I was afraid that you’re brain had gotten soft from too many drugs and a stupid baby boyfriend.”

“Ha! Yeah, I’m not going to lie, most of my brain has been turned off for the past few months, but I realize now, more than ever, that I need to wake up and regain control of my life.”

Cheryl claps her hands. “So what about Ryan?”

“Oh fuck, he called me when I got back from that show last night. And I agreed to hang out with him today. But trust me, no matter how cute or remorseful he might seem, he’s not spending the night in my bed.”

“Look, Amanda…I know you have the best intentions or whatever, but do you really think you can turn him down? Because, well, you know I love you, but dude, that boy is your kryptonite or something.”

I just shake my head. .

Friday night I meet up with Zach. I haven’t seen him lately, mostly because I’ve been busy going crazy/doing drugs, while he has been occupied by some girl with a boyfriend. We have a drink at Goodfoot. It’s his favorite bar, but I feel uncomfortable there. Maybe the tight pants/plaid shirt presence is too low. Or maybe I just cannot adjust to a deviation from my standard routine. In my mind, no bar can top the Rainbo; not only does it offer a photo booth and pinball, but the drinks are stiff/cheap and the bartenders play records behind the bar (and the Wu-tang is a standard part of the rotation).

Regardless, I’m feeling antsy. I manage to convince Zach to accompany me to this weird club/bar off of Ashland and Division. Before Ryan and I became to sleepy and drug-addled, we spent a lot of late nights here, dancing and scoring free drinks from the bartender. I only have pleasant memories of this place, so I’m hoping I will have some fun there.

As soon as we walk in, I’m asking myself, “Why did I bring Zach here?” He’s not really a dance-y kind of guy (even if he IS wearing black parachute pants). He’s a good sport, so I buy him a drink out of gratitude.

I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. The bathroom attendant is an elderly woman named Lucretia. I have a small bladder so I spend a lot of the time in the bathroom; it’s only logical that we would befriend one another. She greets me with, “Oh, I haven’t seen you for so long! Your cute little boyfriend was around earlier…I asked him where you were and he said he didn’t know. Are you two fighting?”

I don’t have the hear to tell her that we broke up. I say something noncommittal and cheery, like, “Oh, well I guess we’ll find one another later” as I slip a ten into her tip jar.

I’m feeling sleepy, so I make a beeline to the bar for a Red Bull. Jenna is working. She has given me a ridiculous amount of free drinks in the last few months, solely because she really likes my haircut. She ignores all of the other impatient customers and heads directly over to me. “Wow! Your hair is blonde now! I like it…It gives you a certain glow!” She hands me a Red Bull. And then she leans over to whisper in my ear, “Look, I can tell something weird is going on with you and Ryan because you arrived separately…so I have to warn you that he is standing right behind you, looking a little weird. “

She pulls away and then says loudly, “If you think I’m going to let you give me money for that drink…” I thank her and spin around, trying to look at the ground. If I just walk directly to Zach, without glancing away from my feet, I can certainly avoid Ryan. We can gulp down our drinks and ride our bikes back to the Rainbo or something.

The first thing I see is a pair of too familiar New Balances. Do not look up. DO NOT LOOK UP! But of course I do…straight into Ryan’s eyes.

“Amanda!” He says this in a dreamy voice. His eyes are sleepy and dazed. He’s obviously completely high.

I’m not sure what to say or do, so I just stand there.

He’s staring at my hair. “You look so beautiful, like an angel.”

I mumble “thanks” and then I walk away. Before I can get to Zach, someone calls my name. I look over to see Ryan’s number drug buddy, Larry. I give him a sideways smile. There’s just something so creepy/unsettling about him, I have no desire to get into a conversation with him.

He has other ideas. “Wow, Amanda…you’re so blonde and glamorous now.”

I thank him. I’m about to resume my mission to find Zach, when he continues.

“Listen, I know that you and Ryan are over, but that doesn’t mean that you and I can’t hang out. I mean, you are a beautiful, charming woman. I definitely want you around as much as possible.”

Maybe he’s just swaying forward because he’s really wasted, but I swear he’s leering down the front of my dress.

I mask my disgusted cringe with a big smile. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

And then I practically sprint to Zach’s table.

“Listen, you have to drink that drink RIGHT NOW. We have to get out of here. Ryan!”

He tosses back his whiskey, while I stuff my can of Red Bull into my bag.

I grab his hand. “We are going to walk directly out the door. We can’t stop or talk to any one…NO MATTER WHAT.”

And we are out of there that fast.

We have an anticlimactic drink at Rainbo, and then I bike home. I can’t stop thinking about the encounter with Ryan. Aren’t we mad at each other? Why was he being nice?

The moment I walk in the apartment door, the phone starts ringing.

Jesus Christ, does he have some kind of homing device attached to my shoe? How does he always know the exact moment I get home?

I answer it, because if I don’t, he’ll just call again.

“Hi, Amanda…it’s Ryan…Oh wow, I’m just so glad I saw you tonight…You look so beautiful, like something magical happened to you.”

Um, it’s called “kicking the habit.”

I say nothing.

“Anyway…I just wanted to see what you are doing tomorrow….”

I swallow. Calm voice. Level voice. Just be stoic. “Oh, well, you know, the usual Saturday stuff….like, Chicago Comics and stuff.”

“Well, hey…do you want me to come along? I want to get some new sneakers, so maybe you can help me find a pair.”

No, no, no. “I’m sorry, but I actually have afternoon plans with London. And then, you know, I’m probably going to a show at the Empty Bottle with Cheryl.”

Saying “no” to him is vaguely pleasurable.

“Okay, well….I’ll give you a call tomorrow, you know…in case your plans change.”

Deep breath in. “Okay, sure, that sounds fine.” Deep breath out.

“All right, well…good night. Have sweet dreams. Bye, Amanda.”

I hang up.

When I crawl into bed, I start thinking about all of the things I have to do to create the illusion that I am feeling fine.

1. Brush my teeth for two minutes, three times each day.

2. Shower at least once a day.

3. Wash my hair at least twice a week.

4. Change clothes every day. Insure that said clothes are clean and mostly free of wrinkles.

5. Apply makeup. Not too much.

6. At work, stand in the kitchen for at least five minutes every morning, drinking coffee while discussing politics and/or celebrities. Laugh at jokes that are not actually funny, but don’t laugh TOO much.

7. Make the bed every morning. Only Nate will notice this, but still…

8. Grocery shop at least one time each week. Be certain to choose an appealing, balanced assortment of fruits, vegetables, and grains. Avoid the liquor aisle.

9. Carry a bag containing a wallet, keys, beauty products, and a book. Carrying too much can seem neurotic, so it’s important to minimize the contents of the bag.

The completion of these tasks is not obvious, but when any of these are omitted, even the most casual observer can sense that something about me is off-balance. But the power of this list to make me seem sane and capable will be completely negated if I start hanging out with Ryan again.

My phone is ringing again at ten am. I ignore it, but I do get out of bed.

It’s ringing again when I get out of the shower. I decide to unplug the phone in my room.

I ride my bike up to Belmont for comics and lunch with London. We say nothing about recent events; instead we stick with neutral topics like records and movies. We make plans to see Don’t Look Back at the Music Box (cool old Chicago movie theatre).

I wander down Clark Street to buy new socks and underwear. I am avoiding my apartment, where the phone will ring…and ring…and ring some more. I’m just not sure how strong I can be in the face of Ryan.

When I get home, I discover that the mailbox is overflowing with construction paper hearts. At the bottom is a mixtape. I’m hoping that Nate has recently acquired a secret girlfriend..until I see my name written in huge silver letters. I stuff the hearts and the tape into my bag, hoping that no one saw this.

But as soon as I walk in the door, Nate greets me with, “So, who’s your new creepy boyfriend? I guess he must not be a tree hugger, since he clearly likes to waste colored paper.”

I stick my tongue out in disgust.

“Were you wearing those tight jeans at the comic book store again?”

I shake my head. “Not quite.”

He looks at me. And then I can see the vein in his forehead start throbbing. “Are you telling me that that little fuckface was downstairs? He had the balls to come to our building? To put something in our mailbox?”

I nod my head silently.

“Listen, Amanda…if I find out you are hanging out with him again, I am going to be so pissed. And you know what? So will all of your other friends.”

I sit down on the spiral staircase. “I know, Nate. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?”

“Well, what made him do this? Did you call him or something?”

“I swear…I ran into him for like, five seconds, last night. And apparently he doesn’t hate me as much as he has told everyone.”

He’s going on and on about how much everyone hates Ryan. I stop listening and I walk into my room. “I have to get ready to meet Cheryl. We’re going to the Empty Bottle.”

Hours later, playing pinball between bands, I turn to Cheryl and ask, “How mad would you be if I hung out with Ryan again?”

She laughs. “Does this mean you slept with him last night or something?”

Then I laugh. “No, no…I mean, I do have some dignity, after all. No…he’s just been really insistent about hanging out….all of a sudden. “

I tell her about the previous night. The phone calls. The mailbox.

“Oh man, that boy is so pathetic. I mean, I know I should tell you to stay away from him. But you know, if I were you, I would probably be at his house right now, unzipping my pants. Obviously he’s trying, and that’s kinda impressive.”

I take a sip of water. “I know that everyone thinks he is bad for me. And I can’t argue that. But he’s not a bad person. It’s just that…when we are together our Wonder Twin powers activate, and we can’t stop doing stupid stuff.”

Cheryl nods her head. “No, I can definitely see that.”

I continue. “Right…it’s like, maybe we don’t have a ton of superficial things in common. And we certainly come from different backgrounds. But somehow we share all of the same personality/character flaws. And separately, they are just footnotes. Most people will never notice them. But when we get together, we feed off of one another, and suddenly, these minor flaws turn into HUGE problems. “

“So maybe that’s an argument for why you should stay away from him? Or are you saying it’s not?”

I lean against the wall and sigh. “I don’t know. But I just feel like no one is seeing this objectively, including me.”

Cheryl puts her arm around me. “Listen, no matter what you do, we’re your friends and have to get over it. I know we hang out with some prissy bitches, but trust me, no one’s going to get truly mad or stop being your friend.”

I walk Cheryl home after the show. By the time I walk in my own door, it’s 3 am. And of course, the fucking phone starts ringing. Nate is going to kill me.

I plug in my phone and pick up the receiver. “Hello, Ryan.”

“Oh, hey, girl…how was the show?”

“Listen, I’m too tired for small talk. If you want to hang out tomorrow, we can. Call me around noon or one. We can meet somewhere in the neighborhood.”

“Awesome! Wow! Okay…well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I hang up before he can say “good night.”

Despite my apprehension, I’m really happy to be back in Chicago.

Riding my bike up to Belmont for a hair appointment fills me with happiness. My mind feels clearer than it has in weeks.

I have all of the black dye cut and bleached out of my hair. I’m blonde again. Generally not my aesthetic preference, but I’m convinced it lends me the air of rebirth.

And going to work the next day is more fun than I remembered. Everyone is really happy to see me. I’m able to lure several of my coworkers to lunch at the hospital cafeteria.

I fall back into my usual pre-Ryan, pre-drugs routine: work, hours at Earwax drawing/writing, listening to records with Nate, and eight hours of sleep every night. It’s comfortable and healthy…but I can’t lie: every night, in the moments before I fall asleep, my heart literally aches from missing Ryan. In those moments, I realize that everything isn’t okay yet.

Cheryl invites me out for drinks at Tuman’s. It’s a divey bar on Chicago Avenue with really cheap good beer. I haven’t been there in months, because Ryan hates it. “It’s a hangout for strung out bike messengers.” I don’t know about that, but they do have a good jukebox. Moderately cute boys. And as I mentioned before, a really good beer selection. I can’t really drink right now–doctor’s orders–but I like the idea of some normal socialization.

I’’m so happy to be biking in one of the last remaining summer nights, that I forget to be nervous about seeing members of my social circle. I’m humming “Big Poppa” as I lock up my bike.

As soon as I walk through the door, everyone in the bar turns to stare at me. Absolute silence. I’m expecting some dusty tumbleweed to roll by.

I take a deep breath. Wicker Park is a small place. I’ve always known this. I smile broadly, trying to make friendly eye contact with every individual as I walk to Cheryl’s table.

There are no empty chairs. All of our male friends are just awkwardly gaping at me. I remind myself that it would be more embarrassing if I just turned around and walked out.

Cheryl pipes up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t all of you hug Amanda? And then grab her a chair. Jesus Christ, aren’t we all glad to see her here, alive and well?”

Andy jumps to his feet and gives me a tentative hug. “I was really worried.”

And then Thom. “I’m glad you’re here…but I Iiked your dark hair better.”

I laugh at this. “Ditto.”

I receive a few more nervous embraces and then Andy returns with a seat for me.

Within seconds, it becomes a standard night at the bar. Andy and Thom are arguing about which Radiohead album is the best. Cheryl is trying to pretend that she’s not into Fred by loudly talking about some guy playing pool. Adam is absently doodling on a bar napkin. No one’s asking me for gory details and apologies.

Each person at the table is drinking pretty heavily, except for me. I’m occasionally sipping a warm Guinness in an attempt at normalcy. It’s funny to soberly see my friends’ demeanors change with each round. Even their faces are transformed. Everyone’s loosening up and making progressively more ridiculous statements.

Andy turns to me, bleary-eyed. “Have you talked to Ryan?”

All I can do is shrug my shoulders.

Thom turns from his conversation with Fred–probably somehow involving Superchunk–and declares angrily, “I fucking hate him!”

Everyone is looking at me to either defend Ryan or thank Thom for his loyalty to me.

Cheryl says something like, “Oh, cool it, Thom.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “Listen, he called me on the phone and was like, ‘Well, you might as well know that Amanda is crazy. She tried to kill herself because I rejected her.’ And then he went on to tell me how he broke up with her because she is a junkie. Are you fucking kidding me? He’s been a druggie since I met him in college.”

I can feel the blood draining from my face. I want to crawl under the table.

Andy looks like he’s going to cry. “He told me that he’s pretty sure she has an eating disorder.”

What the fuck?

I’m focusing all of my attention on my beer, trying to keep calm.

Someone else says, “He said that she has a lot of problems, like childhood stuff. “

“He told my roommate that she was in a mental hospital in college.”

Oh fuck, I just want to stand up and scream.

Cheryl puts her hand on my shoulder. “Well, the important thing is that none of us believe any of that shit, right? RIGHT?”

Everyone is nodding their heads, accompanied by a chorus of “Yeah, yeah, right.”

Thom is not settling down. “Look, Amanda, if you want, I’ll drive you over to his place so you can break some of his windows or yell at him or something.”

I try to smile. “Thanks for the offer…but everyone…please believe me when I say that this had almost nothing to do with Ryan. I’ve been having a hard summer and…well, I HAVE been sort of losing my grip. Look, all of you know that he and I have been doing a ton of drugs. So, there’s a little bit of truth in what he has said.”

This is my attempt at a public relations campaign.

But really, I’m kind of amazed by the accuracy of some of Ryan’s statements. No, I don’t have an eating disorder. But there’s a lot of truth in everything else. This is impressive, when one considers that I have told Ryan almost nothing about myself. It’s my own (apparently futile) attempt at protecting myself. And he’s usually too busy talking about himself to ask me any questions. I suppose he is more intuitive than I would have imagined. Or he excels at educated guessing…or more likely, he was trying to absolve himself of guilt by putting my perceived damages on display.

I’m going to fucking kill him if I see him again.

A week passes faster than I would have liked. The combination of sleeping, eating, and staying away from drugs miraculously erases my bruises and blotches. I’m no longer yellow; even the whites of my eyes are gleaming.

For the last few nights, I’ve stretched out in the grass–until my mom yells at me to put on some insect repellant– imagining what I’m going to say to each individual in my Chicago life.

Some are easy, like Nate. “I’m so sorry for everything that has happened. You have no idea how much you mean to me. And you’ve really proven yourself to be an amazing friend. I love you.” I

It’s important to rehearse not only the actual words, but also the gestures and tone.

Donning my non-crazy, quirky girl next door mask for all of my coworkers. “Oh, yes…I was really sick. What a crazy illness! Anyway, I’m feeling a lot better.”

Facial expressions are key. A subtly down turned mouth or a slight forehead scrunch could negate everything I’m saying.

Breezily grinning at my neighbors while I check the mail, particularly the ones who saw me carried down from the third floor on a stretcher.

I’m still not sure how I’m going to face all of my other “casual” friends. I’m just imagining how the story has been blown out of proportion. Most likely Ryan and I have evolved into Wicker Park’s answer to Sid and Nancy.

And then there is Ryan. I know that I owe him an explanation and an apology. So many times, I picked up the phone and began to dial his number. But I always hung before I reached the last two numbers. I could say thousands of things to him, but most of them will be wrong. Too black and white. Highly inaccurate. Understatements and overstatements. And crying. I know I will break down if I hear myself explaining the last few months.

On Saturday morning, my mom drops me off at the train station. I’m laden down with books, produce stand purchases, and thrift store loot. I’ve spent the last seven days mentally preparing myself for my return to Chicago, but I’m still not ready to confront everything…even the simplest tasks, like folding my laundry or riding my bike to work, seem overwhelming.

I’ve decided to write a letter to Ryan. I’ve filled my back with writing paper and an envelope already addressed to 3303 West Crystal. My mom provided the stamp.

I’m not going to let myself eat or sleep until I finish this letter. I want to drop this in the mailbox at the train station in Chicago. And then I’m done. I can sleep soundly in my own bed, knowing that I finally did the right thing.

The first letter starts off promising, but then it turns into a hastily assembled version of The Bell Jar. “And then suddenly I realized that I didn’t want to wash my hair or eat dinner or even try to make you happy, because it was all pointless. I would just have to do it all again.”

I rip this up and stuff the pieces into the seat pocket.

Next.

This attempt goes awry immediately, as I begin to realize how angry I am at him. “Sorry, but you’re not smart enough to deserve the title of ‘That Dude that Drove Amanda to Suicide.’” And “I hope you didn’t run up your phone bill too much, calling everyone we know to spread idle, untrue gossip about me. You know they charge for local calls now, don’t you?”

More shredded paper.

The third try starts off seeming really sensitive and balanced, but then I find myself mentioning how sad I am about the prospect of never having sex with him again. This is probably inappropriate under current conditions.

Now the empty seat next me is occupied by a rapidly growing pile of rejected sentiments.

“You’re not allowed to hate me just because I’ve shown my weakness.”

No. Too adversarial.

“I’ve never pretended to be anything other than my actual self.”

Mostly untrue.

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

True, but cliché, right?

“Somewhere this summer I lost my grip on who/where/what I am.

I promise that this had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with unresolved issues hiding deep inside me.

I working on forgiving myself, and I hope that you can forgive me, too.

At this point, I don’t think that I can see you. But someday I will be able to look you in the eye and say once again, ‘I’m sorry.’”

Sign it. Fold it into thirds. Carefully slide it into the envelope. Lick and seal.

Now I can take a nap.

I have this brilliant plan that I will just walk home from the hospital. Matthew thinks otherwise, so he rides his bike back to Logan Square to get his car. And I’m glad for this the moment I take my first step on the pavement. The sun is blazing–it’s August, after all…slightly more than a week after my 23rd birthday–and I have just discovered that standing requires more strength than I can actually muster.

When I get home, Nate and Cheryl are waiting in the kitchen.

Nate’s trying to look stern and angry, but ultimately he just hugs me and his voice cracks as he tells me that “you’d better NEVER pull a stunt like this again” and “I don’t want you bringing any boys over here for at least six months.”

Cheryl has brought me cupcakes and a bunch of those funny mylar “Get Well” balloons from Jewel-Osco. “You look really skinny. I’m going to make you some mashed potatoes RIGHT NOW!”

Everyone seems so happy to see me, I can almost forget everything that has transpired in the last few days. “Well, hey, let me take a shower and then we can go over to Rainbo or something to celebrate my return from the dead!”

Silence.
I look from Nate to Cheryl to Matthew, waiting for someone to say something.

Finally Cheryl speaks up. “Listen, Amanda….” She sounds uncharacteristically tentative. “So, we’ve been talking about this, and well, we think you should go home to your parents in Pennsylvania for a week. No offense, but you still look really sick and fragile.”

Nate picks up. “And I think it would be good for you to get out of here until this blows over. I called your mom and she knows that you’ve had a bit of crisis. There’s a train leaving tomorrow morning that will get you into Harrisburg around 10. Your mom is going to pick you up.”

I’m shocked.

And then Matthew. “I talked to your boss Mike, and he knows you are too sick to come to work right now, but that you will be good as new in a week. I bought you your ticket over the phone today, so you can just pick it up when I drop you off at the station tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand. You guys are plotting to send me away? Is this really a round trip ticket? I mean, shouldn’t I just stay here and tough it out?”

But as soon as I say this, I know that they are right. If I stay here, I’m going to call that dealer that delivers (since I’m too sick to be seen in public) and then I’ll probably nod off until it’s time to try to call Ryan. And then we’ll probably fight and then I’ll do more drugs and then I’ll just disappear into oblivion.

“Okay, okay…you’re right. I need to get away. But can we at least do something fun tonight?”
Sure, sure. Matthew and Nate are going over to Earwax to pick up movies. No one is going to drink, since I technically should not consume any alcohol for a long time. We will cook dinner and hide out in the living room.

Cheryl hangs out in the bathroom with me while I take a shower. Ostensibly it’s to catch up with me, but I think it’s really to make sure I don’t fall over dead or accidentally chug a bottle of shampoo. When I open the medicine cabinet to get dental floss, I notice that all of the cold medicine and Advil have been spirited away. I guess Nate took a gamble by allowing the mouthwash to remain.

I turn to Cheryl. “So, I’ve been wondering…um, how did you find out what happened?”

I’m hoping she will say something like, “Oh, I called here and Nate told me.”

“Well,” she swallows. “Um, Ryan called me. He told me that you tried to kill yourself because he tried to break up with you because you have a serious drug problem.”

My jaw drops. “That’s not true at all. I mean, it’s like, 50 percent true…but he literally does twice as many drugs as me at any given moment. What the fuck!”

I sit down on the bathroom floor. A sick feeling of dread is washing over me. “So, um…did Ryan call anyone else?” Oh, fuck, if he did, I swear I’m going to get Matthew to drive me out to his apartment right now so I can rip off his balls.

“Listen, I can’t lie to you, Amanda. You’re my girl and you’ve backed me up through all sorts of stupid shit.” She stares me square in the eye. “He called everyone you both know. And probably some lame ass college friends you’ll never meet. Oh, and I bet he told his mom, too.”

Oh man, I’m too weak to break shit, but I wish I could just pull the sink out of the wall.

She continues. “Last night, all of us met up at Rainbo…you know, Andy, Fred, Thom, Mark, Anna…pretty much everyone. And we were was just like, ‘What the fuck? Amanda is like the sweetest, happiest girl? How did this happen?’ And the consensus was that it was all Ryan’s fault and everyone kind of wants to beat his ass.”

“Listen, it’s not his fault. Please tell everyone that. I mean, I did this myself. To be honest, everyone is only seeing like, 10 percent of who I am. There’s all of this other stuff under my skin that is not so happy, not so sweet.”

Cheryl hugs me. “I’ve always known that you had a secretly sad little soul. It’s okay. Everyone loves you still.”

I’m can feel tears running down my cheeks. “What the fuck am I going to do? Sure I can leave for a week, but when I come back, everyone’s going to see me and be like, ‘there’s that suicidal girl.’”

Now Cheryl is drying my hair. “It’s going to be fine. Listen, everyone is so sad about this. Thom was crying at the Rainbo. He was like, ‘Remember when she made me that birthday cake with all of those edible flowers on it?’ And then we all just sort of left our drinks behind and went home. No one thinks you are a bad person or crazy or whatever. I think everything will blow over by the time you get back.”

I want to believe this. But oh fuck, I know I have to talk to Ryan about this. For one, he needs to know without a doubt that this is not his fault. And furthermore, he has to know that it is COMPLETELY unacceptable for him to call everyone in Wicker Park like he’s in charge of the fucking Suicide Phone Tree.

When I go into my bedroom to get dressed, I notice that my cigar box is missing and someone has quite deviously unplugged my phone while making it appear to be still plugged into the wall. Oh, Nate…he probably cut the wires for the door buzzer, too.

After dinner, Cheryl helps me pack a suitcase while we listen to metal.
Then the four of us spread out every blanket in the house on the living room floor, and we make up ridiculous stories until we fall asleep.

Matthew delivers me to the train station in the morning, going as far as escorting me to the actual train and putting my luggage in the overhead compartment. He hands me a bag of comics and vegan candy. “Be good. Come back better.”

I spend the next two days in the hospital, sweating and hallucinating. Well, in between, Matthew and I sing made up songs and play endless games of Madlibs. But I’m feeling weak and I can stay awake for short periods of time. I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything–other than water and those tiny plastic cups of juice–because I’m being given some sort of serious medication for my liver. I’ve been moved out of intensive care to another ward where everyone–myself included–wears little portable heart monitors. Matthew goes to my apartment to get me a bra–the one I was wearing was cut off in the emergency room and I feel really weird just hanging out (no pun intended) without one–and my bathrobe.

No one knows I am here, at least I’m assuming this. Nate is unlikely to broadcast this information. And Matthew has barely left my side, because he knows I’m scared, sick, and sad.

And then the phone next to bed rings. Matthew and I look at one another like, “Huh?” He answers with a tentative greeting. He makes a disgusted face and says, “I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to talk to her right now.”

The person on the other end is insistent. Matthew holds his ground. There is some more back and forth.
“Well, if we’re going to be casting blame on anyone, then you—”

I cut him off by grabbing the phone.

“Hello?”

It’s Ryan. And he goes in a tirade that begins with “Well, I guess you’re not dead” and ends with “Why are you so fucked up? You are so FUCKED UP!”

I am willing to admit that he is right. I AM fucked up. I’m in bed in a completely ghetto hospital just off of Division and Western, sweating out an ill-advised overdose while also coping with moderate heroin withdrawal. I can feel my bones trying to push through my skin. A little demon is relentlessly tugging on the back of my head. This IS fucked up. I am supposed to be traveling the world while feeling glamorously carefree.

“I’m sorry, Ryan. I can’t lie: my head has been fucked up for a while, and the drugs are only making it worse. I can’t even describe how terrible and ashamed I feel right now.”

This does nothing to diffuse his anger. He continues to shout a series of obscenities and threats. Matthew takes the phone from me and returns it to the cradle.

“Great, thanks. Now he’s going to think I hung up on him.”

(How did he know where I was? He must have called the house. In fact, when I get home from hospital, Nate will angrily retell the conversation. “I picked up the phone and that fucking little asshole said, ‘Oh, hello Nate. I was just calling to check on Amanda because she seemed a little crazy on the phone last night. And she hasn’t called me since, which is weird well, because you know how she is.’ And then I told him that you were in the intensive care unit and that he had better never, ever call or visit our apartment again. In fact, he should just steer clear of the entire 1800 block of Paulina.” Upon hearing this story, I decide that I will NEVER AGAIN call any boy more than once without a return call, lest I someone can ever again say ‘”because you know how she is.” I’m still sticking to this policy.)

I drift off into a murky sleep. When I open my eyes, Ryan is standing at the end of my bed. But he looks different. All of his colors are greyed down. He turns to look at me, and I see that his eyes are empty. He’s dead.

I wake up screaming. Matthew jumps to attention and calls for the nurse. She touches my forehead, frowns, and pulls out her electronic thermometer. 103.5 degrees. “I’m sorry, honey but we can’t give you anything to help you with this. Your liver just can’t handle it.”

Another nurse comes in with ice packs, which are placed on my forehead and under my arms.

Matthew turns on a PBS program about animals. He’s saying things like, “Oh, will you look at that zebra? You love zebras, right?” And I’m just trying not thrash around, even though I can feel each of my teeth vibrating. I’m afraid they are going to jump out and run away if I open my mouth the slightest bit. I’ve got to concentrate on keeping my jaw locked.

Meanwhile, the phone is ringing and ringing. Matthew unplugs the receiver. The animal show turns into a a series about a family living in an 18th century house, as if it actually were the 18th century. Everyone is cranky, tired, and cold.

The next morning, I feel a lot better. We joke about Ryan calling the switchboard over and over again, attempting to disguise his voice and providing fake names, all so he could try to get through to me. I find myself wishing it were true.

When I open my eyes again, I have no idea where I am. After several months of nodding off in less than ideal locales (the El, a stranger’s bathtub, the gangway next to my building, a bench in Wicker Park), this confusion is nothing new. But something is different. It is so quiet and dark. Unknown machines are issuing a low hum. And I am in a bed. I try to sit up, but I can’t. Something adhesive on my chest is pulling. When I move my hand to investigate, my fingers find that I am practically encased in wires and tubes.

I am in a hospital. I open my mouth to exclaim “What the fuck?” but only a long sigh escapes from my lips.

My friend Matthew appears. “It’s okay, Amanda. Just stay calm.”

Why is he here?

“Listen, listen…as soon as the doctor knows you are awake, they are going to ask you questions. We have to work out our story. I know you’re not crazy, but they might think you are, and I don’t want you to be transferred to the psych ward.”

I am confused. “What?” I whisper. My throat hurts so bad. And I realize I’m shaking. Nothing too obvious, just a steady vibration of my body.

“Do you remember what happened Sunday night?”

I say nothing.

“Okay, well, I called you about coming over to get those records from you. And you said you were on the other line having some kind of stupid argument with Ryan. You told me to come over in like, an hour, and we would go out for a drink, because you would definitely need one. And then when I got there…maybe it was more like an hour and a half later, you were unconscious on the rug in your room. And you were wearing one shoe. “

He stops for a minute, choking back something. “Nate said he heard you talking to Ryan. You were like, ‘You’re lying, you’re lying.’ And he heard you shuffling around the kitchen, getting into the freezer and stuff. You were crying.”

Fragments of the night before are bombarding me, like someone through a collection of photographs through the air. I can catch tiny glimpses of brief moments, but nothing is in the correct order.

Ryan demanding through the phone, “Are you high? You are high, aren’t you? What the fuck, it’s SUNDAY, Amanda.”

I’m choking back a sob as I pull a bottle of duty free vodka from the freezer.

I’m telling Matthew, “Yeah, come over in like an hour. I definitely will need a drink.”

“You’re such a mess. I don’t know if this is who you have secretly been all along or if you really are just declining this fast.”

I am promising to show Nate the records I just bought after I call Ryan.

“I’m tired of taking care of you.” And then I’m protesting, “But when has that happened?”

I am snorting just enough to take the edge off. I feel like someone’s been gnawing on the back of my head all day.

Tears are running down my face as I am pulling the cigar box out from under my bed and dumping out the contents of each bottle on my rug.

I am realizing that I just want to be done with all of this.

“Every time I said ‘I love you,’ I was lying to you.”

Vodka is disgusting, but it really is a good way to wash down a lot of pills and powders at once.

“Why? WHY? I know that you are lying right now!”

I’m putting on my shoes to go outside. I want to fall asleep in the park.

My head is feeling so hot and the world is moving at a velocity that I can never survive.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I could never love someone as fucked up as you.”

And now I’m in the hospital. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I want to cry–I feel like I am–but my body just can’t do it.

“It’s okay, Amanda. Listen, you just need to tell the doctor that you were really drunk and you had a fight with your boyfriend and then you accidentally took too much of your medication.”

I’m nodding my head. But what about the large amount of heroin in my body?

Matthew must be reading my mind. “Listen, I saw the pill bottles AND the plastic bag. I know what’s really going on, and they definitely gave you something to counteract the heroin, so they do, too. You’re just a nice girl who decided to try hard drugs on the same night your boyfriend fought with you. It’s not like you’re a junkie anyway. You should say that the drugs belong to your boyfriend. Okay? “

Yes, yes.

“You are going to be okay. I know they are going to make you stay here for a few days, because there has been some issue with your heart and liver. And oh, they think that I am your brother, that’s why I’ve been allowed to hang out here.”

Matthew is super-skinny and tall. He couldn’t look less like me.

“You still look really cute, but you have dried blood all over your face from when they pumped your stomach, so maybe you will let me wipe that off now? You will make a more a convincing case.”

I can actually laugh at this.

He rubs my back while we work on my story. “Don’t wink at them! This is no time for flirting.”

The doctors come, a whole trio of them. They make Matthew leave the room while I am assaulted with questions.

When was your last period? What kind of drugs do you use? How often do you drink? What are your allergies?

And then the questions take an unfortunately familiar direction. How often do you feel sad? Have you had trouble sleeping? Do you think that the world is filled with secret messages meant only for you?

Essentially: do you have an eating disorder or a drug problem or garden variety depression or are you paranoid, delusional, and dangerous?

I am aware enough to know that I am a terrible liar. And if the doctors can see this, I will definitely seem crazier.

A history of bipolar disorder coupled with a substance abuse issue could put me in the hospital for weeks or months. I could lose my job, my friends, everything. I would never win Ryan back with a plastic bracelet and a new prescription for Depakote.

I’m shaky, sweaty, and weak. Many capillaries under my skin have burst, leaving me with reddish purple smudges all over my face, arms, and chest. I have to put this aside and put on my Amanda mask. I am the spelling bee champion, the former cheerleader, the most likely to succeed.  I have the science fair trophies, scholarships, and glowing score reports from the Educational Testing Service to back me up.   I can do this.

I take a deep breath and begin my story.
“Well, it all started when I had this awful fight with my boyfriend. I had been having drinks with some of my girlfriends, so my judgment was definitely a little impaired…”

And it all ends up with, “I guess I just made a really stupid mistake and I’m just trying to forgive myself for this.” A tear–totally unintentional–rolls from my eye as the female doctor reassuringly pats my arm.

I go home two days later. And within minutes, I wish I were back in the hospital.

I am a spelling bee champion.
I did not wake up one day and declare “Now I’m going to get really serious about spelling.” It just sort of worked out that way.
I won the classroom spelling bee because I knew that everyone expected it. I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on my teacher’s face if I was not the last one standing.

The district spelling bee was weeks later. My mom made me spend two hours every night copying the dictionary. My hands hurt from writing, but I pretended that I loved nothing more than increasing my vocabulary. “As an added bonus, I get to practice my handwriting, too!”

And of course I had to appear gleeful as I said “Fuselage. F-U-S-E-L-A-G-E, “ moments before being handed a the big gold bee-shaped trophy. I knew that my mother expected me to win and if I did not, she would question every sacrifice she had made since I was born.

At the state finals, I realized that I was tired of feigning enthusiasm. I did not like speaking in front of crowds. I hated sitting in the front row of chairs on the stage–because I was the smallest contestant I was not permitted to hide in the back–smiling while clutching my anxious stomach. My dress was itchy and babyish. My tights were falling down. Why was I doing this?

I made it through several rounds. Each time I stepped up to the microphone–of course it was way too tall for me–the audience giggled with delight as I stood on my tiptoes and flashed a sweet grin. Each time I stood silently, waiting to hear my word used in a sentence, I would think, “This is it. I’m going to intentionally mess this one up. “ But just I was about to add an extra S to “bioluminescence,” I would imagine the agonizing car ride home, my mom attempting to comfort herself by comforting me. Or I would see my english teacher’s attempt at reassurance “You’re going to do it next year! Seventh graders rarely make it to finals.” And so I would spell the word correctly, graciously bow at the applause, and return to my seat.

There were five of us left on stage. Two boys, two girls, and me. My word was dodecahedron. Of course I knew what this was (a 12-sided polygon) from hours of math team practice. If I correctly spelled this, I would have have at least four more turns.

I winked at my mother in the audience. I looked up at the ceiling, as if asking for god’s guidance. And then I started. “Dodecahedron. D-O-D-E-C-C-A-H-E-D-R-O-N.”

I mustered a convincing facade of disappointment as I exited the stage.

And now many years later, many miles away…I’m still donning a mask for the benefit of my coworkers and friends. This time I’m pretending that I’m healthy, happy-go-lucky Amanda.

I’m spending most nights at Ryan’s place, because I don’t want Nate to suspect I am using drugs. One look at my googly eyes and ghost white face would only lead to some sort of attempt at an intervention. I am his super-tough roommate, immune to all addictions and downfalls. I can’t let him down.

My job offers a lot of flex time and vacation days, perfect for the aspiring junkie. I usually work long days Monday-Wednesday. I am smiling and productive, impressing my boss and charming the receptionist. I meet up with friends for drinks, where I somehow manage to laugh while telling entertaining stories. Makeup and clean hair lend me an air of health and normalcy.

I spend the rest of the week underwater. Ryan and I stay up all night listening to records and consuming copious amounts of drugs. We rationalize that it is better than drinking a lot of alcohol. Some nights we speak in endless whispered monologues. And other times we sprawl on the rug in silence. I’m telling myself that we are a happy couple.

I stay in bed long after he has gone to work in the morning, feeling sick and sad. I spend the early part of the afternoon in his bathtub. I am trying to increase the length of time I can hold my breath underwater. Onemississippitwomississippithreemississippi. I can hear songs in the water, trying to lure me to sleep. It’s the only moment in the day that I’m not gasping for breath. The summer air is so heavy it is crushing my lungs.

I always head back to my apartment around 3pm, when I know Nate will be at work. I try to clean the house or read a book or cook food, but generally I just end up lying on the cheesy Ikea rug in my bedroom, daydreaming about events that will never happen.

Each day it becomes harder to become the Amanda that everyone wants to see. I’m trying to hold onto my mask as tightly as possible, but my grip is slipping more and more. Inspiration and ambition is sleeping through my fingers. I’m on the verge of empty hands.

Some nights I can’t remember where I have locked up my bike, so I have to walk home.
I nod off on the El and I can’t remember how I got there.
Arithmetic is confusing.
Wallets and keys disappear without explanation.
I don’t know if I’ve changed my clothes and suddenly I can’t remember the lyrics to songs I’ve heard 1000 times.

I know I can’t tell Ryan about this. Sure, he’s the only person in on my drug-addled secret, but I don’t want him to know how fucked up I really am. He will be unable to handle the sad reality of the situation. I am the happy fun girlfriend. This will always be my assigned role.

One night, I’m sprawled out on the rug, smoking a cigarette. Obviously Ryan is pretty fucked up, if he’s allowing me to smoke in his apartment. I sit up and look at him.

“I can’t breathe anymore.”

He laughs. “Maybe you should stop smoking.”

“No, I don’t think you get it. The world is suffocating me. Gravity is increasing.”

“Whoa. Um. Are you going crazy again?” He’s joking, I think.

I give him a dirty look, but I find myself shivering as I turn away.

He’s right. I’m going crazy again.