Freedom [44]
Afterward, in the locker room, she endured Coach’s sermon with closed ears and then sat on a bench and sobbed for half an hour. Her friends were considerate enough to let her just do this.
In her down parka and her Gophers stocking cap, she went to Northrop Auditorium, hoping the Blackmun lecture might somehow still be going on there, but the building was dark and locked. She thought of returning to her hall and calling Walter, but she realized that what she really wanted now was to break training and get trashed on wine. She walked through snowy streets to Eliza’s apartment, and here she realized that what she really wanted was to scream abusive things at her friend.
Eliza, on the intercom, objected that it was late and she was tired.
“No, you have to let me up,” Patty said. “This is non-optional.”
Eliza let her in and then lay down on her sofa. She was wearing pajamas and listening to some kind of throbbing jazz. The air was thick with lethargy and old smoke. Patty stood by the sofa, bundled in her parka, snow melting off her sneakers, and watched how slowly Eliza was breathing and how long it took for the impulse to speak to be effectuated—various random facial muscle movements gradually becoming a little less random and finally gathering into a murmured question: “How was your game.”
Patty didn’t answer. After a while, it became apparent that Eliza had forgotten about her.
There didn’t seem to be much point in screaming abusive things at her right now, so Patty ransacked the apartment instead. The drug stuff came to light immediately, right on the floor at the head of the sofa—Eliza had simply dropped a throw pillow over it. At the bottom of a nest of poetry journals and music magazines on Eliza’s desk was the blue three-ring binder. As far as Patty could tell, nothing had been added to it since the summer. She sifted through Eliza’s papers and bills, looking for something medical, but didn’t find anything. The jazz record was playing on repeat. Patty turned it off and sat down on the coffee table with the scrapbook and the drug stuff on the floor in front of her. “Wake up,” she said.
Eliza squeezed her eyes shut tighter.
Patty shoved her leg. “Wake up.”
“I need a cigarette. The chemo really knocked me out.”
Patty pulled her upright by the shoulder.
“Hey,” Eliza said, with a murky smile. “Nice to see you.”
“I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” Patty said. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head. “I need you to help me,” she said. “I’ve been taking drugs because of the pain. Because of the cancer. I wanted to tell you. But I was too embarrassed.” She tilted sideways and lay back down.
“You don’t have cancer,” Patty said. “That’s just a lie you made up because you have some crazy idea about me.”
“No, I have leukemia. I definitely have leukemia.”
“I came over to tell you in person, as a courtesy. But now I’m going to leave.”
“No. You have to stay. I have a drug problem you have to help me with.”
“I can’t help you. You’ll have to go to your parents.”
There was a long silence. “Get me a cigarette,” Eliza said.
“I hate your cigarettes.”
“I thought you understood about parents,” Eliza said. “About not being the person they wanted.”
“I don’t understand anything about you.”
There was another silence. Then Eliza said, “You know what’s going to happen if you leave, don’t you? I’m going to kill myself.”
“Oh, that’s a great reason to stay and be friends,” Patty said. “That sounds like a lot of fun for both of us.”
“I’m just saying that’s probably what I’ll do. You’re the only thing I have that’s beautiful and real.”
“I’m not a thing,” Patty said righteously.
“Have you ever seen somebody shoot up? I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
Patty took the syringe and the drugs and put them in the pocket of her parka. “What’s your parents’ telephone number?”
“Don’t call them.”
“I’m going