About Last Night - Chapter 8
"You know what’s funny?’ I say, torn between letting go and making a joke. ‘If I’m going to kill myself, I bloody well want to remember it.’"
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 and Chapter 7.
February, 2018
It takes me a few days to gather the courage to look him up and find out where Christopher Hermann works. Imagine what it costs me to actually go there.
I hold on to the bus rail with one sweaty palm and the parcel with another, trying to convince myself that it’s not the stupidest idea in the world and failing. I list all the reasons why he is the worst person to reach out to – fantasies of his naked body amongst them – but I don’t know what else to do and I have to do something. I need help and I have no idea who else to ask it from.
The receptionist directs me to his office. I walk down the hall and take a deep breath before I knock on the door, telling myself it’s not too late to back down.
‘Come in,’ he says. The parcel is sliding down my hips and I put it back into place before I press down the door handle. I open the door with some difficulty. Christopher is chewing on a pen, with a pile of papers in front of him. His hair is loose and tucked behind his ears, glasses perched on his nose.
‘Helena,’ he says with a big smile, getting up from his chair. ‘That’s a surprise. What are you doing here?’
I take another deep breath and hide a hand in my pocket. ‘I came to return the trainers,’ I say, directing my gaze towards the box under my arm. ‘Thought you might need them.’
He motions towards a chair. ‘Take a seat. Do you want something to drink?’
‘A glass of water,’ I say and I sit down in the indicated chair, noticing the cracked leather of the seat. His office is sparse and the furniture cheap. A stark contrast to his apartment.
‘I was just reading through some essays I asked the kids to write,’ he says, returning with the water.
I try to avoid looking at him and focus on the peeling linoleum instead. This place is in need of some serious renovating. ‘Nice office,’ I say, idiotically.
‘It’s not,’ he smiles, ‘and we both know it. It’s a charity; we prefer to spend the money on the kids.’
‘How’s Amy?’ I mutter, taking a sip of my water.
‘She’s good,’ he says.
‘Good, that’s good. You do love her, don’t you?’
‘Whoa, that came out of nowhere,’ he smiles. We are silent for a moment. ‘Helena, are you okay?’
I fumble with an old train ticket in my pocket, lowering my gaze again. I want to tell him everything, but where do I start? And what exactly is everything?
He pulls the papers in front of him into a neat pile and leans in towards me. ‘Helena,’ he says. ‘Why are you really here?’
I wish I could punch myself until my nose bleeds so I don’t have to answer this next question. My hands begins to fidget inside my pocket. I notice a hole in the lining.
‘What’s really going on between you and Amy?’ he asks, leaning in. ‘She hasn’t mentioned you once since the New Year’s Eve party. Before, all she spoke about was you. How funny you are. How brave.’
I wish he would stop talking; his words are drilling a hole in my heart.
‘I didn’t come here to talk about Amy,’ I say. The ticket is crumbled beyond belief.
Christopher falls silent and I feel awkward. What was I thinking? ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking a sip of my water, allowing for the absurd of the situation to settle. ‘I stopped drinking,’ I add after a short pause, still looking into my water, ‘and I’m a little snappy.’ This is it. I am finally saying what I am there to say.
‘Okay,’ he says, taking off his glasses, folding them carefully, placing them on top of the papers. He assumes the same look of complete absolution he showed me on New Year’s Eve. ‘And how does it make you feel, apart from snappy?’
‘Like drinking,’ I say, feeling steadier, as I begin to tell the truth.
‘Why? Why did you stop drinking?’’
There are about a hundred different ways I could answer this question, but only one is true. There are about a hundred reasons why I should want to stop drinking, but only one made me do it.
‘Why do you work with dangerous teenagers?’ I deflect.
‘Somebody has to.’
‘Bullshit,’ I say, cocking my head and looking at him, as if trying to decipher the bigger meaning behind an understated painting. ‘You must have been born into so much money. Been to private schools. All that jazz. Why care so much about juvenile delinquents?’
‘Okay, you got me. When I was fourteen, Elijah, the gardener’s boy, got stabbed outside their building. I didn’t know him well, but I knew he was a smart kid who wanted to be a lawyer.’ The shadow of a smile flickers on his face, before a cloud sets in. ‘And then, one day, just like that, all that future that lay ahead of him, gone. Stolen.’
Christopher’s eyes are fixed on a point on the table. I want to reach out and touch his hand, but even I know better.
‘I asked to go to the funeral, but my father forbade it,’ he continues. ‘I made a scene. I broke some glasses, stained a very expensive carpet. Got slapped across the face by my father.’
He takes a sip of water. ’My father sent me to a therapist and told me to sort myself out,’ he continues. ‘Years of therapy later, I’ve finally worked out a way to deal with what happened. I tell myself that if I can help one kid at the time to make their way out of gangs, maybe more kids like Elijah get to follow their dreams.’ He takes his index fingers to his eyes, removing a tear. ‘But the truth is I do what I do because I’m selfish. Because it’s the only way I know how live with myself.’
I take my hands out of my pockets and place them on the desk. ’I stopped drinking because I tried to kill myself,’ I say. ‘And I don’t remember doing it.’
Christopher gets up and comes over to where I am sat. He kneels on the floor, takes my hands into his and looks at me. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Not what I expected.’
‘You know what’s funny?’ I say, torn between letting go and making a joke. ‘If I’m going to kill myself, I bloody well want to remember it.’
Christopher’s hand smooths out a strand of my hair and brushes against my ear. My skin tingles. It’s not exactly sexual, but it could be. If we were different people, having a different conversation.
‘Not sure it will matter if you remember it or not since you’ll be dead, but I get it,’ he says.
I release a nervous laugh. His hand lingers hovering on the side of my face and I am tempted to rest my head in his big palm. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing up. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this.’
‘I told you I am here if you need my help.’ He gets up from the floor, goes back to his seat on the other side of the desk and scribbles something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the number of my therapist, Linda,’ he says and hands me the paper.
‘Thank you,’ I say and clutch the paper to my heart for a second before I turn around to leave, but my hand stays glued on the door handle. There is something still tangled inside of me, something I can’t unpick. I haven’t done anything wrong, but asking Christopher for help instead of talking to my friend feels that way anyway. I turn towards him again. ‘Can you please not tell Amy about this?’
He looks at me with pressed lips, taking a bit too long to answer. ‘Okay, I won’t,’ he says, putting the pen down on his desk. ‘But you should. When you’re ready.’
Stay tuned for next week’s chapter. And don’ forget to join the conversation.
