brush off the worst of the grime, but it’s ruined. I leave it on the back porch and go inside again. “Maia?” I call, climbing the sweeping staircase to the second floor, but there’s no answer.
I peek in Aurora’s room, hoping against hope that she’s here, lounging in her bed, chugging Dr Pepper and eating Slim Jims and watching eighties movies. Painting her toenails and rolling her eyes at me, demanding to know where I’ve been. Her room’s empty, the bed unmade and strewn with eyeliner pencils and lipsticks. The syringe winks at me from the covers where we must have left it. I rub the crook of my elbow and shiver. There’s not even a mark there.
I open Aurora’s drawers as if she’s hiding inside them. Just a welter of crocheted bikinis and silk slips, fishnets, a rhinestone necklace. A pair of ancient ballet shoes left over from our brief stint as ballerinas when we were still in the single digits. A paper covered in Cass’s handwriting: Aurora’s horoscope, undated.
I think, for a second, that this time Maia really is dead. She’s out cold on her bed, her eyes closed, her skin ashen. A few stragglers from the party are passed out in various states of disarray. There’s a long-haired dude next to her, one arm hanging off the bed, as comatose as she is. “Shit,” I whisper, but then I see the faint rise and fall of her bony chest. “Maia,” I say, but she’s zombied. I say it again, louder. I don’t want to touch her, but I swallow hard and shake her. Her eyelids flutter.
“Aurora?” she murmurs.
“No such luck. Maia, do you need a doctor?” At last she opens her eyes and gives me an unfocused stare.
“You’re not Aurora.”
“We covered that. We’re moving past 101 now. Are you okay, Maia? Do you need to go to the hospital?” She looks bad but not dying. She looks the same way she’s looked for most of the last decade, minus a bit of zest. I sit on the bed, take her hand. “Maia? How you doing, lady? When did you eat last? How much smack did you do last night?”
“Where’s Aurora?”
“She either went to Los Angeles or she went to hell.”
“What?” But Maia’s barely conscious. She’s more pitiable than anything. Her complete failure to rise to the occasion comes as no surprise. I think of all the times she told us how she was going to get sober, how this time it would be for real. This time she was going to go to a spa in the hills of California, drink lemon juice and hot water for ten straight days, return pure and clear. This time she was going to backpack into the desert, eat peyote and let the spirits take the drugs out of her. This time she was going to stay with some friends on a sailboat, head north to the islands along the coast, learn how to fish. This time she was going to buy a cabin on the beach in Mexico, spend the winters there until the sun bleached all the junk out of her veins. This time, this time, this time. But it always turned into next time, or the time after. Always something came up, something happened. Some old friend came to visit. Some hard day. Some reminder. “This is the day I met your father,” she’d tell Aurora, and then she’d disappear into her room and we wouldn’t see her for days. This day was the day Aurora’s father died. This day was the day Aurora’s father’s bassist told Maia he never wanted to see her again, that she’d been the one who ruined everything. That if it hadn’t been for her the band would still be together and no one would be dead. Every day contained some moment that made this time the time that didn’t count. Next time, next time she’d get clean for real.
“I guess Aurora went away for a while,” I say to Maia now, my voice catching. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Do you think you should take a shower or something?”
“Did you have fun at the party?” Her head lolls back on her neck.
“Not really.” The man in her bed mutters, rolls over. Score another point for the living.
“I saw him,” she says. “I saw him here. Why was he here?”
“Who did you see, Maia?”
“The skeleton man.” My whole body goes cold.
“Do you mean Minos? How do you know Minos?”
“That asshole. He was always around.” She lifts her head with an effort. “Always around,” she repeats, her voice slurry. “Always making promises. Everyone was going to be so goddamn rich. Everything we ever wanted. I could have had him forever. He used to write me songs; did Cass ever tell you that? Before that stupid album. We were so fucking happy and we couldn’t even see it. Look at me now. Listen to this shit.” She points in the general direction of the stereo. “Don’t let Aurora—” She falters. “Don’t let him take her away. He has the best drugs. I can never say no when he’s here. He told me—last night he told me…” She trails off.
“Who else did he take away? Maia? Who else?”
“Who do you think?” She struggles to sit up and I reach forward to help her, but she bats my hands away. “Fucking Cass,” she mutters. “Cass let him in. Cass tried to take my baby, too. You tell Cass I said she can go to hell.”
“Cass wasn’t here last night,” I say.
“Not last night. A long time ago.”
“Cass let Aurora’s dad in?”
“
“Maia. I don’t understand what you’re telling me. Where did Aurora go? Do you know? Did she go to California?”
“It’s too late,” Maia says, and starts to cry. “If she went with him, it’s too late. Now I have to go looking for her, too.”
“Tell me how to find her. Tell me where they went. Tell me what Cass did.” But she’s leaning back into the pillows, coughing, her eyes closing.
“I have to sleep. I can see him sometimes when I sleep.”
“Maia.
My apartment is empty, the breakfast dishes washed and drying in the drainer. I have no idea what to do with myself, stand stupidly in the middle of my room staring out the window. I don’t have to work today. If it were any other day, a normal day, I’d be at the beach with Aurora. Post-morteming her party, talking shit about the guests. Who wore what and who paired off, locking themselves in her bathroom for way too long. Aurora nursing her hangover with a bag of Doritos and a raw egg in tomato juice, me making horrified faces while she insists it’s the healthiest cure imaginable. Later, I’d call Jack, and we’d have a picnic in the park or stay up all night in his little house, kissing with the windows open to let the night in. But none of that, now.
I can’t remember the last time I went running. I unbutton the shirt I stole from Aurora’s closet, wincing at the sharp twinge in my shoulder. I check out my back in my mirror and there it is: an ugly constellation of red punctures, the flesh around them puffy and discolored. I wonder what happens if they get infected, if there’s some kind of first aid manual for the cuts you get in hell. I put on my sports bra and a T-shirt, doing my best not to touch the wounds.
Outside, I lace up my sneakers and start to run. Head down, legs moving, harder and faster than I’ve ever run before. Running away from last night, the pain in my shoulder, the memory of that river of ghouls carrying Jack and Aurora away from me. I don’t pay attention to where I’m going, don’t look up even when I crash into a couple pushing a toddler in a stroller. Their startled squawks follow me as I keep going. I run until I think my knees will split apart, until my mouth is open and working and the air is hot on my dried-out tongue. I run until I trip over a rough patch of sidewalk and go flying, the breath coming out of me in a sharp whoosh as I hit the ground full-on. I lie there for a minute, stunned, so winded I wonder if I’m going to throw up, and then I roll over on my side. “Jesus,” someone says. “Are you okay?” A middle-aged man in a suit is standing over me, his expression anxious. “Do you need me to call someone?” Laboriously, I get to my feet.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, when I can catch my breath enough to get the words out. “Thanks.”
