You by Caroline Kepnes
In any case, the sun is coming up and it won’t be long now. Soon, Peach will be here, alone.
Candace would love it here. The last time I saw the sun rise on a beach, I was with her. This is no time to be thinking of Candace, but how can I not? We saw the sun rise on Brighton Beach and as it got brighter, she tried harder and harder to break up with me. I asked her to walk down to the water with me. She did. She was cruel in that way; a nicer girl would have said no, and left me to cry on my own, but she wanted to see me at my worst so she stuck around.
“I am leaving you,” she said.
Then go, bitch. Go.
It wasn’t my fault that Candace followed me down to the water’s edge and it wasn’t my fault that I picked her up and held her down in the water and watched her pass on to the great beyond. She wanted to be there, or she wouldn’t have gone down there with me. She knew she was killing me and she knew that I was not the type to go down without a fight.
I don’t blame Peach for being so miserable, the same way I don’t blame Candace for wanting to escape her family. What a shame to be so angered by what you don’t have that you treat what you do have like it’s nothing. She’s not grateful to have an extra home in a place where the biggest danger is Taylor Fucking Swift. She’s a lot like Candace, who wasn’t grateful for her voice, her talent.
I have a little time so I walk a few feet down to the shore. I like the way the water comes and erases my steps. I think of that fucking poem from middle school where the dude walking on the beach isn’t alone because Jesus is carrying him on his shoulders and I smile. For years, I thought it was the other way around, that the guy in the poem was carrying Jesus, you know, the way a Hare Krishna carries his tambourine, the way a Jewish boy carries a Torah at his bar mitzvah. I didn’t think of Jesus Christ as being this guy giving piggyback rides to fuckups and I don’t even leave one set of footprints, so take that, middle school poem. I admit, I am kind of grumpy. The last food I ate was that Danish. I cross over the walkway built by some family with something against walking on white sand and return to my foxhole and wait.
At last, I see Peach emerge on the patio, a hot red speck in the distance. She stretches and she trots down the walkway and here we go. With each passing second, I can hear her more clearly, her breathing, her feet pounding, and the Elton John blasting from her phone. She passes me, swoosh, and I leap out of my foxhole like a jack in the box and run after her. She doesn’t hear me. She is fearless on this beach. I grab her by the ponytail. Before she can even scream, I ram her into the sand and straddle her back. She struggles, kicking, but her mouth is in the sand and Elton won’t stop singing—sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair—and I pick up the rock in my pocket.
She squirms her head to the side and her eyes are more beautiful than I realized and she recognizes me and she spits, “You.”
She might be the strongest woman I have ever known and though her last words are spoken, she’s still struggling, gurgling. Her skin flares, Nantucket red, and all the exercise instilled her with a superhuman strength, a lung capacity that boggles my mind. I don’t blame her for fighting. Because she was raised by bigoted, hateful monsters, she never celebrated her life and I think this is why she musters the strength—those legs still quiver!—to maximize her last moments on earth. Her fingertips reach for my arm; it’s too late, Peach. Her eyeballs sail north, toward the top of her head, and we can all learn something from an untimely tragic death. What a danger, blaming other people for your problems. What a waste of a life. Had she disowned her cunty family and moved to one of her sunny foreign havens and been a bartender or a Pilates instructor, anything, doesn’t matter, she could have settled down with a nice, like-minded girl and paid respects for all her blessings—health, brains, muscles—by being true to herself. Nonetheless, fuck her parents. Don’t make a baby if you’re not capable of unconditional love.
She is fading and Elton is louder than the waves and I don’t hear you anymore, we’ve all gone crazy lately, my friends out there rolling ’round the basement floor and I owe her a little help. I hit her head with the rock and she is quiet, at last. I flip her over and I’m shaking. She is gone, at peace, but what about me? Elton sings you almost had your hooks in me, didn’t you dear, you nearly had me roped and tied and I feel roped and tied out here, alone with dead, heavy Peach. Elton seems louder or is that just because Peach is quieter? I try to focus on moving her but then I hear a slip noose in my darkest dreams and I pause. I panic. What if you decide to go for a run? What if Officer Nico runs on this beach? I have to move fast. I load her pockets with rocks just in case she doesn’t disappear. I have to collect more rocks because this jacket has a lot of pockets and Elton would have walked head on into the deep end of the river.
I need to calm down. I close my eyes and see Candace’s open eyes in the mucky dreck of Brighton Beach and I open my eyes and I take Peach’s phone out of the contraption band on her arm. It’s my phone now and I cut off Elton as he swears they’re coming in the morning with a truck to take me home. No they’re not and I lift her body. Peach is so clothed and Candace was nearly naked, only wearing a little black dress over a bikini. It was summer, drunk girls drown, it happens, her family accepts that she is never coming home—and I walk toward the water. It is winter. Sad girls walk into the water to die. It happens.
I do not keep off rocks anymore and I carry Peach Salinger onto the jetty. The rocks are smooth and dry and I am steady. Peach is heavy because of the rocks in her pockets, because of the weight of her misery. I count to three and then I drop her into the ocean. The waves welcome her the way the water at Brighton Beach embraced Candace. I start an e-mail from Peach to you. It’s so easy to know what to say:
Beck, I need to go away. Lately, when I run, it’s like Virginia Woolf is running with me. She said, “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.” She was right. It’s worse to be locked in waiting for someone who isn’t coming. Much worse.
Enjoy the cottage. I love you, Beckalicious.
Bye,
Peach Is
My body is slick with sweat and my muscles ache from the exertion and I crack a smile because I understand what Peach was talking about earlier. I’d love to peel off my clothes right now. They do itch.
I check on you once before leaving. It’s less than an hour since I sent you the e-mail from Peach and you appear to be handling it all with aplomb. You’re blasting your Bowie and trying on Peach’s clothes in the great room while you dance and call Lynn and Chana and your mother and pig out. You are happy, Beck. You tell Lynn what you told your mother and what you told Chana: “This isn’t my fault. Peach ran away every other month in college. Hell, who wouldn’t with that kind of money? Also, I think it’s for the best. She seemed almost happy that Benji was dead. And yes, I know how sick that sounds.”
“Forget Benji,” Lynn says. “It’s sad, but being dead doesn’t make him into a good guy. Have you talked to Joe?” Go Lynn!
“No,” you say. “But I want to.”
That is all I need. I leave.
I walk up the deserted street into town. Nico’s guys at the body shop are super friendly. There’s not a lot going on (no shit) and they love the summa weathah sahprize so my brown beast is already good to go. The repairs cost four hundred bucks, and I’m glad I came prepared. New England is not a lucky place for me, Beck, so I took an advance on my salary before I headed out. The roads are clear and Peach’s phone has a lot of good music. Maybe my luck in New England is changing.
I’M almost home when I remember the mug of my DNA in the cottage. I hit the brakes, hard. But I don’t have to worry. People with second homes get off on giving out keys to maids, carpenters, and interior designers. I’m not gonna worry about a mug of dried-up piss, not after all the good I just did.
Besides, this is about you, and your Twitter confirms that you’re already on the way back to Bank Street. I know it will take tim
34
MY phone is not broken. I have called it from the shop several times a day for the past few days. You’re not off the grid. You are here in New York, living, writing, and tweeting:
Is there anything more romantic than new snow at night? #stillness #love
There is no logical or technological or romantic reason for the fact that you have not called me or e-mailed me since returning from LC. It’s been twenty-three minutes and thirteen days since Peach left the picture. The wound on my face is stubborn but there is progress and I’m less of a monster every day. And that’s just another reminder that precious time is passing. I can’t figure you out, Beck. You’re not e-mailing with any new guys and you’re not e-mailing your friends about anything romantic but you’re writing about guys. The last story you wrote was about a girl (you, duh, they’re always you) who goes to the doctor and learns that she has a penis stuck inside of her. She calls every guy she’s ever been with to see if he’s still got his penis. The list of dudes is gross long (an exaggeration, it has to be) and they all still have dicks. Finally, she admits there’s one dude she didn’t call because he’s married with children. She doesn’t want to give him his dick; she wants him to leave his wife and come and get it. As Blythe said in her e-mail critique, “There’s no real ending, no climax, no point. I’m not presuming that this is based on something real in your life, but if so, maybe think of putting this story in a drawer and revisiting it once you’ve got some distance from your emotions.”
And naturally, I am concerned. You’ve been seeing this Dr. Nicky twice a week since you got back. And then you write this thinly veiled story about fucking a married guy. Of course I called to schedule an appointment with him. How else can I make sure that he’s not taking advantage of you? And it’s not like I’m the only one concerned.
Chana: You just went to therapy. WTF? How do you even afford this?
You: New priorities. No boozing, no shopping, just writing, journaling, growing.
Chana: Okay, Beck. But remember Dr. Nicky is . . . Dr. Nicky.
But today is a good day because the elevator has just hit the twelfth floor and I step into the hallway and find the door to the waiting room open, as Dr. Nicky said it would be. I’m a little early for my appointment, which is good, because I have time to review my new identity.
Name: Dan Fox (son of Paula Fox and Dan Brown!)
Occupation: Coffee shop manager
Disorder: OCD. I know a shit ton about OCD from reading.
I feel good already and I like this waiting room, the baby-blue walls and this baby-blue sofa. And the building happens to be in my favorite neighborhood, the Upper West Side. Elliot saw a shrink in Hannah and who knows? Maybe there’s nothing going on between you and Dr. Nicky. Maybe he’s just really good at what he does. It’s possible. In just two weeks, you’ve figured out a lot about yourself.
I know because Nicky gives you homework. You have to write a letter to yourself every day. And you do:
Dear Beck, You only know how to push or pull when it comes to guys. Admit it. Own it. Fix it. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, You reel in men and you lose interest when you have them. You don’t wear a bra so that guys will look at your nipples. Wear a bra. Nicky sees what you’re doing. This is good. Be seen. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, Intimacy terrifies you. Why are you so afraid? You can only get off when you’re role-playing. Why can’t you be yourself? Nicky knows you and accepts you. So will others. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, You think you can’t have love until you’ve outgrown your daddy issues. But maybe you won’t outgrow your daddy issues until you let yourself fall in love. Nicky is right. You grow through love. You don’t postpone love until you stop growing. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, It’s not your fault that you were born on an island. Of course you identify as an island. But, dear girl, you’re not an island. Be populated. Be welcoming of love. Love, Beck.
Dear Beck, It’s okay to resent your mom. She does envy you. Love, Beck
Dear Beck, Don’t be your own worst enemy and chase after guys who don’t want you. Be your own best friend and learn how to love guys that do want you. And remember, nobody is perfect. Love, Beck
These e-mails have really helped me get through this dry spell. Now I know that you didn’t bail on me because of the sex. You bailed on me because you have problems. So maybe in a month or so, when I’m knee-deep in therapy, and I’ve written letters to myself, maybe I’ll be in bed with you on a late Sunday morning. Maybe by then, I’ll understand myself better and we’ll share our therapy letters in bed.
The door to the office swings open and the air smells of cucumbers and Dr. Nicky is not what I expected.
“Dan Fox?” he says.
I manage to say hello and shake his hand. I follow him into the brutally beige office and sit down on the couch but holy shit, Beck. Dr. Nicky Angevine is young. I assumed he’d be in his fifties but he’s for sure in his early forties. The walls are covered with framed classic rock albums—the Rolling Stones and Bread, Led Zeppelin and Van Morrison. He futzes around with his computer and apologizes for needing another minute and I say it’s okay. He’s wearing Vans, clinging to his youth. He’s a picture of restraint with his thick, wavy hair gelled into submission and encroaching blue eyes that look chock-full of tears. I can’t tell if he’s Jewish or Italian and he finishes up with his computer and sits in the leather chair. He picks up a glass pitcher of water. There are cucumbers in the water, thus the smell.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he says and once again, this is not what I expected.
“Sure,” I say and I take the water and holy shit, Beck. This shit is heaven.
“I should let you know right off the bat,” he says. “I keep a notebook but I don’t take a lot of notes. I prefer to keep everything up here.”
He points to his head and grins and he could be a serial killer or the nicest guy in the world, but there is no middle ground for this dude. No wonder he went into psychology. He had to find some way to stop himself from acting on twisted, perverse thoughts of his own. When he smiles, his chemically whitened teeth pop out, entirely out of place on his drawn, sad face.
“Well, Dan Fox,” he says. “Let’s figure out what the fuck is wrong with you, shall we?”
I have to say, he’s really easy to talk to. I expected a doctor’s office, but this is like hanging out in a middle-aged dude’s college dorm room. And if we were in college, he’d leave and go to class and then I could hack into his computer and dig up all the files about you. But that’s not happening; we’re adults and he has a job to do. He wants to know who beat me up and I tell him about the accident on my way to a ski trip (the LC crash) and I tell him about getting mugged after closing up the coffee shop (Curtis and his homeboys). And then he starts to get a little more personal and asks, “Do you have a girlfriend, Dan?”
“Yeah.” I could easily have one so it’s fine. I tell him I’m not here because of my girlfriend; she’s terrific. I tell him I want help with my OCD.
“What’s your obsession?” he says.
I know all about mirroring, Beck. One of the best ways to get someone to trust you is to focus on what you have in common. “It’s actually kind of funny,” I say. “All the albums you got here. I don’t know how or why, but I’ve become psychotically obsessed with this random video by the Honeydrippers.”
“I love the Honeydrippers,” he says. “Tell me it’s not ‘Sea of Love.’ ”
“You know it,” I say and he’s my new best friend. And I’m good at this, I think. I tell him I can??
“Is your lady friend losing patience with you?”
“No,” I say, because if I had a lady friend, she would be too happy to be with me to lose patience. “I’m the one losing patience, Doc.”
“Doctor nothing, kid.” And he shakes his head no. “I’m not a doctor. I just have a master’s.”
I want to ask him why you call him Dr. Nicky if he’s not an actual doctor but I can’t do that and he says it’s only fair that he tell me a bit about his own life. “What you see is what you get, Danny. I’m a forty-five-year-old pothead slash failed bass player with a master’s in psych,” he tells me. “I love rock ’n’ roll and I got into this field originally because I’m a natural bullshit artist. But then I realized I actually like helping people, so here we are today.”
“That’s cool, Nicky.” And the first time I say his name it sounds funny coming out of my mouth, a new word in my vocabulary. Nicky.
I tell him it sounds good and we talk about growing up—he’s from Queens and I’m from Bed-Stuy. It turns out therapy is just talking and maybe you really are just trying to grow. Maybe someday I’ll even be a shrink. I could do this. I could frame my favorite books on a wall in a beige room and talk to people like me, like you.
Nicky says it’s time to wrap things up and make a plan. Is it lame that I’m excited for homework?
“Danny, we’re gonna do a lot of work in here. For starters, you’re gonna learn that you live in a house.”
I have never lived in a house, only apartments. But I nod.
“And there’s a mouse in your house,” he says. “The video. And the good news is that it’s just a mouse.”