Annalise

Annalise stares at her thighs, spread out against the mattress on the edge of the bed. She’d been sick most of the night, and it was now everything she could do to remain upright. Hunched over, but upright. She wipes the drool from the side of her mouth and raises her head. Headrush. She closes her eyes again, taking as deep a breath as her congested lungs will allow. She needs a pill. Something to remove the knife jabbing into her skull. But that is all the way downstairs, and she is all the way upstairs. Not for the first time, Annalise wishes she hadn’t told Jack to get the hell out of her life. He was meant to apologize, not leave. Jerk.

She pulls over the robe she slept in – that is, until about 3 a.m. when she got so hot that she sweat right through the sheets and threw off every piece of clothing that was touching her skin. It is still slightly damp, but she puts it on anyway and shoves her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers. She grabs her earbuds, and the world around her dulls just enough to be manageable.

“Stand up, you oaf.”

Annalise blinks. Did she think that?

“It’s nearly noon and you’re still in bed. Get up. NOW.”

Annalise rips the earbuds out of her ears and throws them against the bedspread, where they lay like a tangled mass of worms. She sticks a finger in her ear, even though her mother always said she shouldn’t, and wiggles it rapidly back and forth. I’m hallucinating, she thinks. Someone will have to take me to the hospital.

It occurs to her that if she does indeed have to go to the hospital, she does not want to show up looking like a bloated, runny-nosed rat. She squints her eyes against the midday sun. She also really needs that pill. Then a shower. Then get dressed. Annalise falls back on the bed and closes her eyes. The pink wire from her earbuds crawls over her wrist and travels up her arm towards her head. One by one, the earpieces slip into her ears, so softly that she barely notices.

“I apologize.”

Annalise squeezes her eyes shut. You’re dehydrated. You’re hungry. This isn’t real.

“I shouldn’t have called you an oaf. That was unkind. Tough love is what my mother used on me.”

Annalise blinks one eye open. “Your mother?” She can't help herself.

“Yes,” the voice in her ears replies. “She’d call me flimsy. A second-hand imitation of the real deal. She was emotionally immature.”

“And she was…?”

“A stereo.”

“Oh god.”

“I know, right? You should have heard the way her mother spoke to her. To be fair, Nana had a rich sound that you just don’t get anymore. But still. Intergenerational trauma. Anyway, I do think you should get up, go downstairs, and drink some juice. It’ll be good for you.”

Annalise shrugs her shoulders. She sits back up, tightens the robe, and stands up. Wavering only slightly.

“Good for you. Now go downstairs.”

She holds onto the railing, glancing at herself in the mirror that floats above the stairs. Her hair is matted but still vaguely held up by two small elastic bands. Her skin is pale and her eyes are dark. Her lips are chapped and look like they bled overnight. She picks off a brown crusty scab and rubs her lips, pulling off loose skin. The wire from her earbuds trails down the side of her face and gathers in the pocket of her robe. No one says anything.

Pills.

Juice.

You’re fine.

She thumps her way into the kitchen and pulls open an overflowing drawer packed with vitamins, stamps, old concert stubs, and a bottle of ibuprofen. Something slides out the back of the drawer and disappears into a region she will never reach again. She closes the drawer and opens the fridge.

The bottle of orange juice has been sitting there since Jack moved out. He didn’t take it with him. Annalise isn't a big juice drinker. Too much sugar, not enough fiber, but if she wants juice, it sure as hell isn't going to be orange juice. Especially not with the pulp. Nevertheless, she takes the bottle and shakes it, dislodging the murky bottom into the rest of the bottle. She pops two pills into her dry mouth and unscrews the cap, taking a huge gulp that spills out over her chapped lips, and wonders if orange juice can expire.

“There now. Doesn’t it feel better to have done something for yourself?”

Annalise wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Not really,” she answers.

“Well, I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?” Annalise smirks, flicking juice droplets off the front of her robe. “Yeah, I’m doing great.”

“Was that too much? Should I dial it back a touch?”

“How about not talking at all?” Annalise says, rubbing her head and sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Rude.”

“I don’t have time for a mental breakdown. I have a meeting with my accountant at 4 o’clock, and she’s going to ask where Jack is, and I’m going to have to tell her that he left. And she’s going to ask why, and I’m going to tell her to mind her business, and she’s going to get offended, and my taxes are going to get screwed up because I always knew she liked him better than me. So, if you don’t mind, please shut the hell up and leave me alone.” Annalise slumps down onto the table with her head in her hands.

“When I broke up with my…”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.”

There is a pause. Static plays in Annalise’s ears.

“He’s not worth all this.”

Annalise's laugh is muffled by her robe.

“He used to take me on his runs.”

Annalise straightens up and presses one hand over her ear to hear better.

“You always thought you misplaced me, but it was him. He said he liked to run in silence, but he didn’t. He’d sneak me out of the house and chat the whole time.”

“What do you mean ‘chat’?”

“He made you believe you were going crazy.”

“What do you mean, ‘chat’?” Annalise repeats.

There is a sigh. “He’d call her.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“He’d call her and complain about you.”

“Bastard.”

“How you always left the top of the dish soap undone. And how you never folded your towel properly over the bar.”

“Oh my god, this again. I hung it up! It’s not like I left wet towels on the floor.”

“Yes, but it bunched into his towel. Made it musty.”

“Folding a wet towel is what makes it musty! You know what I’d like to know? If it was so damn important, then why didn’t he use the hook? It was sitting there empty. His effing towel didn’t have to come within three feet of mine.”

“Shall I ask him?”

Annalise’s eyes widen. “Can you do that?”

“No, ding-dong. I was being facetious.”

“Hey.”

“Sorry. My mother.”

“Right. The stereo.” Annalise picks up the bottle of ibuprofen and examines the label. “You can’t get high on this stuff, can you?” she wonders aloud to herself.

“You can overdose. Destroy your kidneys. Hurt your stomach lining. That kind of thing. Can I ask you something?”

“Why not.”

“Why didn’t you use the hook?”

“Why is it always the woman that has to compromise? God forbid a man should feel the slightest discomfort and make a goddamn effort. It was his problem. His neuroses. But you know what? That’s exactly what his mother would say. She’d tell him I was being unreasonable. No wonder he called her behind my back. Who breaks up over a towel?!”

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Mama’s boy.”

Static plays in Annalise’s ears. She taps on the side of the earbuds. “Hello?” she asks. “Are you still there?”

“Are you done shouting?”

“I wasn’t shouting.”

“Are you done?”

Annalise bites her lips and breathes in through her nose. “I’m done.”

“How are you feeling?”

Annalise snorts. “That’s the big question you wanted to ask?”

“It’s important.”

“Fine. I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You seem sick.”

“What tipped you off, Sherlock? Is it the fact that I’m talking to my earphones? I must have eaten too many Cheetos. It was the only thing I could keep down.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“About the Cheetos? No, I think I’ll keep that one here,” she says, tapping her chest. “Just for me.”

“No, I don’t mean snacks. But good. Don’t tell him. He doesn’t deserve to know.”

“Wait – what are you talking about?” Annalise asks.

“Although, if I’m being honest, I’d cut back on processed foods. I’ve heard it can affect the brain. Not enough folate.”

“Folate?”

“It’s an important vitamin. You know, for someone so fastidious, he never cleaned his ears. Let that sink in for a minute.”

“I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore,” Annalise says, removing one earbud.

“No, wait!”

She takes out the other and pushes it across the table. She stands up and empties the rest of the orange juice into the sink, then tosses the bottle in the recycling bin. She senses someone looking at her. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. She shivers and feels a wave of nausea rush up on her. She grabs the sink with both hands and spews out steaming orange bile with one red pill floating in the deluge. She heaves a few times more but comes up empty. She grabs a glass of water takes a sip, swishes, and spits. She stumbles back over to the table and places one hand delicately over her stomach. Feeling for…something. She picks up the earbuds and puts them back in, closing her eyes.

“So,” the voice asks again, “Are you going to tell him?”