Atomweight, p.21
Atomweight, page 21
* * *
In the days leading up to Ayesha’s art exhibition, we spent most of our free time together talking, studying, procrastinating. We would meet after morning lectures, have lunch, go back to our classes or seminars, and convene later for dinner, drinks or sometimes a movie. It wasn’t until I walked into the large studio space I’d helped her move her artwork into that I realized things might not be going as well for her as I’d thought. I was Ayesha’s only guest. None of our friends were there. At first, I tried not to read too much into it. It was possible she invited them at the last minute and they had other plans. She could be a forgetful person. And yet, I couldn’t recall a conversation about asking them, nor could I remember one with Abby or Ginika. I wondered if the two of them were sick of the drama and just wanted out of whatever was going on between Ayesha and me. But that felt weird too, because just two days ago Ginika asked me how things were going.
While Ayesha talked to one of her instructors, I stepped away and texted Abby, “Are you coming?”
“Coming where?”
“To Ayesha’s exhibition.”
“Pretty sure she didn’t invite me, dude. In fact, I haven’t heard from Ayesha since the beginning of term. I don’t think any of us have.”
Chapter 31
I stood outside Queensway station and waited for Ayesha. We were going out for a quick dinner before I met Ginika and a few of the girls from the team for a movie. Maybe it was best to cancel. I looked at my watch—just past 6:00 p.m. People came out of the station in rhythmic bursts. Where was she? I checked my watch again—6:07. I took out a book on Chikuro Hiroike, the father of Moralogy, out of my backpack and began flipping through the first few pages. I was a few sentences in when I heard a shout.
“You!” I raised my head and saw a man pointing at me. A group of girls looked back and forth between me and him. He looked familiar. I squinted, trying to make out his features. No, he wasn’t from one of my classes. Dark curly hair, full eyebrows, big nose. Trailing behind him was Ayesha, her nose red, her eyes swollen. She’d been crying. Why was she crying? Then I recognized him. It was Asad.
Ayesha clung to her brother’s arm, trying to hold him back, and stared at me, begging. She said something, to him or maybe to me. I couldn’t make out the words. Asad pulled his arms away from her. “You!” he repeated. Ayesha held her cheek with both hands.
Asad quickened his pace, crossing the street in my direction. I picked my bag off the ground and stuffed the book inside. Ayesha mouthed one word: run. Then she shook her head and turned away. I took off, dodging the crowd coming out of the tube station, and headed across Bayswater Road to Hyde Park. I knew the paths there well—the running team trained here once a week. I told myself I didn’t need to fight him, I just needed to outrun him.
Foot traffic in the park was beginning to die down. Few people liked being around when the light began to fade. I slipped and almost fell, catching my balance inches off the ground. If I could see better, I might be able to stick to the paths, but the sun was setting over the London skyline. The grass was still wet from the October rain, so I shortened my stride and tightened the straps of my backpack to prevent it from hitting my back.
I periodically looked over my shoulder to see how much of a lead I’d built. Asad was a few paces behind me, already out of breath. He looked as athletic as his sister had on that first day in the park, his form equally appalling. I was confident I could outrun him. If I made it to Knightsbridge Station, I could get on the tube home. I quickened my pace, cutting through Kensington Gardens.
But running would just make it worse for Ayesha. Ever since I met her, I’d done so much to hurt her. I’d outed her to her cousin. I’d cheated on her. And now I’d put her in danger. It was all leading to this. How could I not see it? I slowed down, then, stopped. Puffs of steam swirled around me as I tried to catch my breath. I had to let him have this.
I stopped and turned around, watching Asad run toward me. His breathing was laboured. He put his hands on his knees, like he might vomit, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve and straightened his back. He was almost two feet taller than me. I raised my head and closed my eyes, bracing for the expected blow. His knuckles met my left cheek. My head moved sideways, and my body followed. I fell on my hands and knees. There was no fight left in me. He pushed me down and kicked me on the side twice. Spoiled. Selfish. Ayesha’s words. I deserved this. I lay flat on my stomach, then curled to one side. A constricting pain, like someone was gripping my lungs tighter and tighter.
“You had the guts to show up to my parent’s flat, to eat their food.”
“How do you—”
“How do I know it?” He scoffed. “They told me what Ayesha’s ‘kind’ friends looked like.” He gestured air quotes.
“I’m sor—”
“You’re a sick homo,” he said. “Leave Ayesha alone.” Asad spit at me and walked away.
I hugged my knees to my chest. Then I crawled to a bench and pulled myself up. I coughed, red speckles landing on the grass below. Placing my backpack at one end of the bench, I rested my head on it. Overflowing tears.
I replayed the last year in my head. This is not natural. You are making everyone’s life harder. I don’t even know who you are anymore. I’d lost everything: my family, myself, now Ayesha. I had messed things up with everyone. Would Ayesha be okay? Would Asad hurt her too? Could I call Sana and ask for help? No. That would only make things worse.
I counted the seconds between my breaths, trying to slow down the rhythm of my heart. Every inhale brought a sharp pain below my ribs. I felt beaten, like nothing I could do would ever make a difference, like I could not be better for Ayesha, like I could not keep my promise to Haru. This was rock bottom. It had to be.
Chapter 32
For three days I didn’t get out of bed. Didn’t answer my phone or respond to texts. I ordered the little food I ate and had it delivered just outside my door. On the fourth day, I dragged myself out, the pain in my side fading but not the bruises. In the moment, I had thought taking the beating would absolve me of some guilt. Damn, I’d thought it might even be noble. I knew taking the beating was probably all I could do to prevent Asad doing something worse to Ayesha. In reality, it was the last part of me giving up on everything and everyone. Still, part of me couldn’t help but feel Asad shouldn’t have been the one dishing out punishment. I was confused and also fucking angry.
I didn’t realize I was back in Hyde Park, near Bayswater tube station, until I found myself sitting on the same park bench, a half-empty vodka bottle in hand. It was dark. The air was crisp. Branches swayed above me, the wind picking up as I situated myself. Besides the few homeless people that slept near the bushes or on benches away from the pond, I seemed to be the only person in the park. I gulped down half of what was left in the bottle, the vodka burning the back of my throat as I looked toward the place where Asad had pushed me to the ground, where he’d beaten me up. I thought about how things might have been different if I’d fought back, if I hadn’t let him win.
I was gathering my belonging to leave when I saw him—tall, dark hair, black overcoat. Could it be Asad? Was he back to finish what he’d started? I moved closer, trying to focus, squinting to see better. My pace quickened. He was fidgeting with something, looking down. I inched closer. That’s when he shook his head and turned to walk away, toward the north end of the park.
“Hey!” I waved for him to stop, but he ignored me. I needed to see his face. I jogged after him, shoes slipping on the wet grass. The man looked behind every few steps, panic in his stride.
He wasn’t fast or fit, though he was tall, which helped him keep some distance from me. But just as we approached the park gate near Queensway Station, he slowed, gasping for air. I kicked the back of his right leg so he wouldn’t run away again. He stumbled forward, trying to steady himself. I lifted my fists in front of my face, ready for a fight, but when he turned my heart sank. He had a large nose, like Asad’s, and a similar build, but as the streetlamp shone softly on both our faces, it wasn’t him.
He put up his hands—they were shaking—facing me.
“Don’t, don’t . . .” Fear. That’s what I saw in his eyes.
“Do you want my phone? Money? You can have anything you want.” He fumbled with his pocket, one hand still raised in supplication, his wide eyes not leaving mine.
My stomach churned. Who had I become? This wasn’t Asad, no matter how badly I wanted it to be him.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I thought you were someone else.”
He backed away while I stood still, my hands shaking. I wanted to go over and comfort him—he looked so vulnerable, so scared. He turned, ran to the road and hailed a cab.
I bent over and vomited.
I lay on the wet grass for a while, until my breath felt even again. It was almost five. The tube would start running again soon.
I walked. Past my residence to Camden Town, then back down. It took me an hour, maybe two. I don’t remember. Faces blurred past me, the voices in my head blocking out every other sound.
You are not my sister.
You are selfish, spoiled.
I used to be proud of you.
I’m clearly not ready to have you in my life.
You are not someone I know.
There’s pain outside your own.
That poor, frightened man. I was exactly like all those arrogant, entitled pricks I’d fought. I wasn’t a victim. I wasn’t a saviour. I was an aggressor.
Since coming out, I’d told myself I was the victim in every situation. With my parents. With Ayesha. With my friends. It was all about me, little, quiet me. I told myself I fought according to my rules and principles, but I didn’t. I was fighting for me, for the pain I needed to feel and to inflict, so I could be in control.
The West Vancouver bubble. The private school. The money, the holidays. The designer clothes and trappings. The top grades and sporting success. And my parents smiling on and on at their perfect daughter.
Could I go back? Could I go back to the Aki and the world where my privilege was justified?
A sob escaped me. A vortex of loathing howled inside me.
By the time I got to the glass doors of my residence, I had convinced myself the world would be better without me in it. For the past ten months I’d caused so much harm. I’d hurt so many people I loved, physically hurt people I didn’t. I couldn’t think of one person who was better off for having me in their life. I was toxic.
I didn’t go to my room. Instead, I headed straight to one of the shared bathrooms on my floor, the only ones with bathtubs. I closed the door behind me, felt for the taps and turned them on. With the room still dark, I crawled inside the bathtub. The water was tepid, and I felt it soak my clothes through, my pants and shirt first, my underwear and socks last. I shivered and I lay there, waiting for the water to engulf me.
Mom. Me. Tourists. Snorkelling. The warm ocean waters around an island in Panama. The edge of a coral reef. The current pulling us, sweeping us away. Saltwater burning my nose, my throat. The panic in the eyes of our guide, so clear behind his mask. Mom, struggling, her head beneath the waves. Me. Screaming in every language I knew for a life jacket. Dragging one onto my mother. Using all my energy to pull her to shore.
I closed my eyes, held my breath and let my face slide under the tepid water. My clothes inflated and I pushed my legs against the sides of the bathtub to prevent myself from floating up.
My heart pounded. Lungs ached in starvation. I knew I wouldn’t last long. My hands moved toward my neck. I was running out of air, my mind slowly fading. Then one involuntary breath, water travelling up my nose and down my windpipe. An agonizing burn. Nothing.
* * *
I awoke in a room painted completely white. There was a nurse, and then a doctor. I was in University College London Hospital, just a few blocks from the residence. They were asking me how I had found myself in an overflowing bathtub and explained that I had been found by one of the residence maids, who’d noticed water spilling out from under the bathroom door.
“The paramedics revived you. You’re a lucky girl,” the nurse said. All I could think of was how I managed to mess up dying. I wasn’t even good enough at that.
I tried to lie, to say that I was really tired from pulling all-nighters studying for my midterms, even though LSE didn’t have those for International Relations. I said I’d fallen asleep in the bathtub, but they didn’t believe me. The doctor kept me over night on suicide watch. The next morning, I was sent back to my residence.
Chapter 33
In the days that followed, I felt empty, as if all the contents of my mind had oozed out into the bathtub and travelled down the drain to somewhere I could never recover them. My family called incessantly on Skype, Mom sobbing with her hand over her mouth, Dad holding her tightly at his side. I couldn’t do anything more than sit in front of the camera.
“Aki, what is going on!” Mom had unbrushed morning hair and her eyes looked tired and swollen.
“Aki-chan, why did you do that?” Dad’s customary stoicism was replaced by small teardrops that formed at the corners of his eyes every time he uttered a word. He looked fragile, breakable.
I didn’t have an adequate response. Suicide had felt like the only option in that moment, so it felt unreasonable not to act on it. I wanted to say that wasn’t how I felt right now, though I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t feel that way again. I said none of that.
“Come home, Aki. Take the year off.”
“No. It will be fine.”
“Aki, I’m getting on the next plane to London. You need me and I have to be there.”
“No, Mom.”
Ginika and Abby visited daily. They wanted me to go back to the LSE counsellor, but Olivia Acton wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want to see the “I told you so” in her eyes.
“You have to see someone, Aki. You need to talk to someone.” Ginika handed over a printed list of psychologists in Central London.
“Therapy isn’t that bad, dude. Everyone does it now.”
“I really can’t see how a therapist will fix this.” I fluttered my hands around me.
“Do you have a better option?” Ginika pressed her lips together and looked intently at me.
“I guess pushing my feelings down isn’t an option.” I smiled.
“Promise you will try.” Abby touched my shoulder. “We’ve called around and highlighted the ones we think might be a good fit.”
“Thank you.” I looked at Abby, then Ginika. I wasn’t sure I would call any of these people, but for perhaps the first time since, I could really see the effort they were making. Their sincerity. “I mean it.”
“We’re here for you, Aki.”
“Yeah, dude. We’re not going anywhere.”
* * *
I replayed the last year obsessively in my head. I thought back to the young woman before the rupture, remembering how she wanted nothing more than to fit in, leave West Vancouver and disappear. I thought about the years of collecting grievances, forcing them to fit in a tight space, without ever letting my emotions breathe.
I wondered if the fight had always been in me, just waiting for the right moment to make an appearance. With every fight, I wore down the impotence, the numbness I’d been feeling. The hurt, the sadness, the anger. I felt it all. Every explosion was an opportunity to obliterate the whole. Every fight was a way to see the parts. Every recovery was a chance to reinvent the self. So, I did that until I could no longer remember who I was before I became a fighter. But attacking another person, no matter how awful they are, kills a part of your humanity, bit by bit.
Perhaps the break, the explosion, was unstoppable, inescapable. But inevitability eliminates responsibility. I thought of the ways in which I’d stayed the same. Then I thought about the fighter. She was also me, wounded and raw, fighting for the existence of the imperfect parts of myself I’d never let surface. Perhaps I’d finally learned the difference between fighting yourself and fighting for yourself.
As my future went from bleak and immutable to the possible “whatever you make of it,” I decided fresh air couldn’t harm me more than being stuck in a stuffy residence room by myself.
It was on a stroll a couple of days after Abby and Ginika had brought the list of psychologists that I bumped into Patience on Charing Cross Road. She was coming out of TK Maxx with two large bags. I began to turn away when she called my name.
“Aki!” I wanted to keep on walking away but my legs stopped. Patience said my name again, and I could tell she was much closer.
I turned to see her. “Hi . . .” Her hair was braided back in a ponytail and she wore a puffy green jacket.
“I thought that was you!” She touched my arm. “How have you been?”
“Uh, I’ve been good. How are you?” I was confused by the warmth.
“I’m happy. Enjoying my last few months of LSE.”
“That’s right.” I took a breath and looked at the floor “It’s your last year, isn’t it?”
There was an awkward pause. Patience touched my arm again. “Hey, can we talk? Like, do you have time to talk now?”
I looked around, trying to shape a satisfying excuse out of thin air.
“It’s okay if you don’t.”
“No, no.” The words slipped out. “Let’s talk.”
We crossed the road and went into Foyles, which was busy with Christmas shoppers, and searched for the café. She ordered a mocha and I had a shot of espresso. We found a table to sit near the window. Then Patience jumped right in.
“I’m sorry for the way I ended things. I could have handled it better.”
