#ammp

September 1998 (part I)

 When I arrived at North Oregon University, the trees were cloaked in mist and the sky was covered in a thick cloud. Internally I rejoiced at how perfectly it matched everything I’d imagined for months; externally I probably looked sullen and drab.

 Classes didn’t start for another week, but the administration advised that we arrive early to get settled in and socialise. I doubted that I’d do much socialising, but I had been waiting for this since I received my acceptance letter in March, nervous energy coursing through my veins in the months since then. I jumped at the first chance I got to leave the blistering Virginia summer for the pine-soaked wind of the pacific northwest.

 The college, a small establishment, was unusual in that it roomed students by subject; I would be living in a small house with four other first-year medical students. It was covered in some kind of climbing vine, and that combined with the red brick of the exterior amused me, as it truly was stereotypical; picture-postcard Pacific Northwest. I hadn’t run into anyone on my way to my new room, and from the silence of the building I assumed that I was one of, if not the first, to arrive.

 My room was double, as all the dorms in our building were. Four off-white walls, a dusty grey carpet, and a boxy window contained two bedframes, a rickety desk, two unnecessarily large wardrobes and several bookshelves, bent from years of supporting hefty textbooks.

 Obviously, I unpacked my books first, my back straining as I loaded the tomes onto the protesting wood, coughing at the dust that arose from my every movement. I was careful to leave plenty of space for my absent roommate, even as I resigned myself to the fact that I couldn’t fit all of my books on the shelves.  On the very top shelf I pushed my dog-eared novels, knowing full well that an extensive knowledge of nineteenth and twentieth century literature wouldn’t earn me any respect from my classmates.

 The other students were at the forefront of my mind as I unpacked my clothes, noting the ridiculous amount of space left over in the wardrobe I had claimed as mine, even after I stacked more books under the space made for hanging garments. There would be more men than women, almost certainly, and more Oregon natives than not. Again, I would be an outsider, but I found that I didn’t mind the prospect as much as I had thought I might.

 A flash of white slipped past my door, and I opened it further to peer down the corridor. A girl stood outside my room, her head cocked to the side quizzically as she flicked her eyes up and down my frame.

 Thump.

 A large bag dropped to the floor, disrupting another cloud of dust, and the girl stuck a slender, scarred arm towards me. I shook it. Her skin was cold and dry, and her grip was like rigor mortis.

 “Erica LaBonne,” she said, not letting go of my hand. “Welcome to Oregon.”

With that she pulled my hand towards her, and I stumbled, caught off guard as she pressed a fleeting kiss to my forehead.

 “Let’s get acquainted, shall we?” Her cherry-red lips curved into a sly grin.

 I nodded mutely, and she snaked past me into the room, flinging two bags onto the other bed before flinging herself onto mine. I picked up her third bag from where it had been left outside the door, and shut the door gently behind me.

 “come here,” she beckoned me with her long fingers, and I gingerly moved towards the bed. “don’t be silly, come here,” she giggled, grasping my jumper and pulling me down onto the bed so that we were lying face to face, our noses almost meeting across the pillow.

 I drew in ragged breaths as we held eye contact for what felt like hours, Erica’s hand still twisted in the dark blue material of my jumper. Suddenly, she grinned, letting go of me and leaning back against the wall.

 “you don’t talk much, do you?” she enquired, teasing but not mean.

“I do!” I retorted, but the crack in my voice betrayed me, prompting another peal of laughter from across the mattress.

“fine, if you say so,” her eyes, glinting with good-natured malice, narrowed into playful slits. “but I seem to recall I don’t even know your name.” This, somehow, broke some kind of barrier I’d been holding up, and I began to grin at her.

“Charlotte,” I said, “My name is Charlotte Fairmont.”

“Nice to meet you, Charlotte Fairmont.”

“Nice to meet you, Erica LaBonne.”

 We talked for hours, the cadences of our voices wrapping us in a cocoon of solitude as darkness began to surround the building. I found out that Erica was from an old-money French Canadian family, and had grown up in Portland with her parents as they set up some kind of mysterious “business”. She’d never questioned it; it kept her fed and living in great comfort, and whatever her parents were doing, they never got caught.

I found out that she was morbidly fascinated by the human body; the layers of skin, the intricate network of capillaries, veins, and arteries that kept our brittle bodies working.

 In turn, I told her about the oppressive heat of Virginia, the radical genius of the Romantics, and she laughed when I shyly told her of my vision of a person built from death, a real-life Frankenstein’s monster. Her laugh was not malicious, simply caught off guard. She clutched my hands in hers and told me I was the brightest black hole she’d ever seen.

 When we finally ran out of things to talk about, we found that the inky darkness had taken over our room without either of us noticing, so caught up we were in the delicate intensity of our newfound friendship.

 “Are you hungry?” I posed the question, propping myself up on my elbows and craning my neck backwards to stretch the stiff muscles.

 “I could eat,” she mirrored my movements, emitting a soft groan as she worked the tension from her knotted tendons. I watched as she stretched, her mouth slightly open and her eyes fluttering shut. I couldn’t help but notice even more scars on her neck and exposed collarbones, but decided not to ask, lest it ruin whatever fledgling bond we had grown over the course of the afternoon.

 We wandered downstairs into the common area, where there was a small kitchen and a shared living room. The kitchen was cramped, and I couldn’t foresee any particularly exotic cooking happening in its bowels. The living room, by contrast, was almost opulently decorated, heavy brocade curtains framing huge windows that took up almost a whole wall, floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with innumerable medical texts, and a massive fireplace with a gilded mirror hanging above it.

 Erica raised her eyebrows, scanning the room before making some kind of affirmatory noise and throwing herself onto the largest of the three couches into the room. Erica seemed to have an affinity for throwing herself onto horizontal surfaces.

 “Ahem-“ Erica and I both started at the sudden noise, heads snapping in sync towards the cushioned window seat, where a long-legged boy – no, man - was sprawled.

His dark, long hair curved around his angular face, making him appear almost raven-like.

 “Who the hell are you?” Erica spat, an accusatory edge to her tone. I was startled, both by the sudden appearance of another person and by Erica’s sudden hostility, despite it not being aimed it me.

 “I’m Caleb,” the boy shot Erica an appraising glance, matching the steel in her eyes quite ferociously. “who the hell are you?”

“Erica LaBonne. And this is Charlotte. Charlotte Fairmont.”

 The boy – Caleb, who had previously seemed unaware of my presence, raked his eyes down my body, before flicking them up to my face, raising an eyebrow in a playful challenge when his eyes met mine.

“pleasure to meet you, Miss LaBonne, Miss Fairmont,” he said, in a tone far too near mocking for my liking.

 He stood up, surprisingly elegant for one with such ungainly limbs, and stretched his arms over his head, rumpled white shirt riding up over his stomach. I averted my eyes, feeling a blush cover my cheekbones, but I could sense Erica still gazing unabashedly, seemingly taking his measure.

 “Well, Caleb,” Erica broke the silence, placing a hand on her hip. “You don’t happen to have any food, do you?”

 Caleb had no food, but he did have a dangerously old rust-bucket of a car, which I entered with more than a little hesitance.

“Is this thing safe?”

“Safe as life”

“That’s not an answer.”

 “Well, it’s good enough for me,” Erica interjected, fingers drumming impatiently on the back of Caleb’s headrest.

 The short drive passed uneventfully, and upon reaching a small strip mall off campus Caleb proclaimed that he needed breakfast food for dinner. I was too tired to object, and Erica nodded her approval before slamming her door with far more force than I thought necessary.

 “What I hate,” Caleb proclaimed, completely unprompted, striding across the asphalt, “is medical students who are motivated by a wish to ‘help people’. I truly believe they’re vapid and uncreative.” He stopped in his tracks, furtively glancing at Erica and I. “That’s not why you’re here, is it?”

 We both shook out heads in denial, and as Caleb pushed open the door to a grimy diner he flashed us the most brilliant grin, eyes crinkled up and all. Once we were sat in a cracked vinyl booth, laminated menus clutched in our hands, the conversation (if it can be referred to as such; only Caleb had spoken thus far) resumed.

 “Why are you here, then?” He arched an eyebrow, surveying the two of us in an almost clinical fashion.

“I believe it’s rather impolite to ask such a question without first answering it yourself,” Erica retorted, her grinning eyes betraying the lack of malice in her barb.

“Right, right.”

Completely drawn in by Erica’s taunt, Caleb launched into a convoluted spiel of mixed-race parents, unrealistic dreams, and an obsession with chemistry. I hardly registered this, the feeling of Erica’s slender thigh pressed against mine combined with the expressive movements of Caleb’s elegant hands creating a heady sensation that started somewhere in my belly.

 “Charlotte?” My vision refocused on the curious faces of my companions, and I realised that I had missed their question.

 “why are you here, Charlotte?” Caleb prodded.

“if it’s all the same to you, I rather think it’s not your business just yet.”

Caleb leaned backwards triumphantly, his arms crossed languidly over his chest. His white button-down was pushed up to his forearms, and the view of honey-hued skin and faintly toned muscles did strange things to my stomach.

 “and pray tell, Miss Fairmont, why is it not my business? We are classmates and housemates, after all.” His dark eyebrow quirked, the lazy smile on his face turning almost predatory.

 “I think, Mr Marks, that my personal and academic motivations are not necessary pieces of knowledge for a roommate to possess. A friend, maybe.” I crossed my arms and grinned, mirroring him to the best of my abilities. “We’ll see if you can make it to that point.”

 Erica shot another appraising glance at me, and Caleb seemed to be less confident than he had been prior to my impromptu speech.

 “My apologies, Miss Fairmont –“

“Oh, for the love of God, just call me Charlotte. Or Fairmont, if you must, but drop the formality, Caleb.”

“Charlotte, then,” he appeared to roll my name in his mouth, savouring the vowels as he had his syrup-soaked pancakes just minutes before. “I do intend to be your friend. I didn’t, however, mean to overstep your-“ he paused here for a moment, selecting his word with care – “boundaries.”

 We held eye contact for a few moments, but just a few seconds later I was rolling mine and truly on the verge of giggling. I didn’t quite know what had taken over me, verbally sparring with my new roommate and laughing about it, but strangely I felt quite at ease.

Erica, who had been watching our back-and-forth like a tennis match, grabbed my hand, resting on the table.

 She stuck her tongue out in a fit of childish playfulness, before addressing Caleb; “Don’t worry, Charlotte here is perfectly lovely. the only one you need to watch out for is me.”

 By the time we made it back to Magdalene house, the sun had long since set and the camera on Caleb’s dashboard alleged that we had spent nearly three hours at the diner. For the life of me I couldn’t remember any other topic of conversation we’d covered in that time, but I was beginning to warm to Caleb, despite his initial arrogance.

 Erica appeared to feel the same, blowing him a kiss with exaggerated flair before flouncing up the stairs towards our room. I stayed downstairs, observing new suitcases in the entry hall, and a light on in the living room.

 “do you suppose that’s the other two?”

Caleb shrugged, “would you like to find out?”

Inside the room were, indeed, the other two students sharing Magdalene house with us.

 Sprawled in an armchair was a tall east Asian girl, with short jagged hair and wearing a boxy shirt over slacks. She was engaged in animated conversation with a red-headed, freckled boy sitting on the sofa, whose shaky hands moved like frightened birds.

 The discussion tapered off as they noticed us, and the boy sprung from his seat and walked towards us.

“Hi,” he stopped a couple of feet before us, hands tucked into his pockets as if to hide their movement. “I’m Robin, Robin Stanley.”

 He made no move to shake either of our hands, turning his head to face the seated girl as if asking for backup.

 “Aleta Bryant,” She introduced herself, remaining seated. “I’d get up, but I think this chair is consuming me.”

 Caleb introduced himself, reclaiming his position on the windowsill as he engaged in small talk with our two new roommates. I quietly excused myself, slipping upstairs as they began to engage with each other.

 Erica was standing by her bed, clearly in the middle of getting changed; she wore nothing but her underwear, and her scarred flesh was startling to me, perhaps more so than the sight of her bare breasts.

“Charlotte!”

“Sorry! Sorry, Erica, I didn’t mean to…” Intrude? Look? What, precisely, was I sorry for?

“Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re living together, after all.” She made no indication she was going to talk about her scars, so I nodded my head curtly, faced my own bed, and began to get changed.

 When I finished, wearing a plain t-shirt and shorts, I chanced a look at Erica. She was in bed, her covers pulled up almost to her chin, staring at the ceiling. I did my best to be as considerate as possible, padding around the room quietly before turning the light off and tucking myself into bed.

 Erica’s voice broke the silence, so quiet I half-wondered if I was imagining it.

 “Goodnight, Miss Fairmont”

Prologue

 I found the journals when my mother died. I was clearing out her house in Virginia and stumbled upon a box of my things from college that I’d left behind when I graduated, running from any reminder of those years. They smelled like paper, and the leather binding encasing them, but my brittle mind swore to me that I could still smell rose perfume and wine, drifting off the pages like cigarette smoke.

 I shoved the journals into the corridor and the memories to the back of my mind and dug my hands into the carpet to ground myself. My former classmates would have laughed to see me now, I suppose. A bitter, fragile shell of the girl I used to be. My mother would have shaken her head and looked over her glasses disapprovingly. And Erica... I don’t know what she would think. I never really did.

 Cleaning out the rest of the house was monotonous, dusty work, and very few other things of value (sentimental or monetary) were found. My mother had possessed an incredible collection of geological specimens and books, but these were all boxed away at my sister’s house, waiting for the division that we would almost certainly put off for several more weeks. 

 My mother had also been an unsentimental woman, but not cold - she certainly loved us, but saw no purpose in putting photographs on walls, or keeping childhood art, and as a result there was little evidence of us existing before high school. My sister always used to joke that she had created us as teenagers, due to our lack of a father or any childhood keepsakes. my sister, my mother and I were too similar in appearance to even consider adoption, though. Us three Fairmont girls, long brown hair and eyes like peat. My sister went through a phase in her sophomore year when she bleached her hair and gave herself a pixie cut, but I never minded my appearance enough to change it.

 Once the dust had settled on my mother’s home, I sat back on the couch and allowed myself to close my eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of books, oil paint, and old wood. The scents of my childhood and, unkindly, the scents of my college career. The texture of the cracked leather was familiar from my youth, seeing as I had spent more time curled up there with a book than possibly any other place in my, admittedly short, lifetime.

 A sharp rap on the door startled me from my reverie, and my sister appeared under the doorframe, concerned eyes flicking from my face to the stack of journals at my feet.

 Are you ready to go?

 Yeah, give me a second.

 A second to say goodbye, a second to do something, anything. A second to apologise? But I had no need to apologise to my mother, or her home. The women I owed an apology to weren’t here.

 Okay. I’ll be waiting in the car.

 She padded out, and I heard her car door slam. Really, I had nothing left to do, but I suppose I always had trouble letting go. Even if I let this place go years ago.

 Stifling a sneeze, I grabbed the journals, along with a worn denim jacket I had found in my old room and a couple of novels from the same place.

 Walking through the corridor, I noticed for the first time the water stains on the corner of the ceiling, the wallpaper peeling near the floor. Rose-tinted glasses or a lack of observation? I’ll never know.

 I shut the door and expected to feel a sense of finality; instead I just felt tired in my bones, as if the green slab of wood was a difficult child who I’d managed to soothe to sleep. Not that I would know about children.

 My sister honked the horn of her ugly Toyota, and I drifted towards it, slumping into the backseat with my motley collection of items. The drive to my hotel was long and silent, the oppressively beige suburbs passing in a blur of monotony outside my window.

 We’re here.

 My sister’s eyes in the rearview mirror looked as tired as I felt, and, not for the first time, I felt the emotions I’d so far kept in check welling up in me. Instead of saying anything, I love you, I’m sorry, I’ll see you soon, I grabbed my things and opened the door.

 Bye, Maggie.

 Bye, Charlotte. I-

 She was cut off as I closed the door, and I turned away, curving my body around the journals and walking towards the entrance with my eyes on the patchwork pavement. Her engine started again, and in my peripheral vision I saw her car peeling off the sidewalk and beginning to make its way to the other side of town.

 I took the elevator to my room, despite it only being on the third floor, and stared at myself in the mirrored walls.

 The girl that stared back looked gaunt, hollow. Her eyes were sunken, and her hair was thin and straggly, reaching just past her shoulders in jagged strands. Her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut, but she didn’t look dangerous. She looked fragile, like a mug with a crack that gets a little bit worse every time it gets used.

 The doors opened, and my head snapped towards them. I hurried out of the elevator and into my room. 321. If I wasn’t so vacant, I would have found it amusing.

 I dropped everything but the journals onto the ugly, peachy rug and sat on my suitcase. There was a chair, and of course my bed, but reading these felt like penance, and penance could not be served in comfort. If there’s anything I got from my four years of higher education, it’s that.

 I crossed my legs at the knees, the material of my leggings riding up around my calves, and took the first journal from the pile.

  September 1st, 1998.