"Revisited" by Michael Chin

It was almost three years ago when you tried to take your life. We sat on the tan tile floor of your dorm—sandwiched amidst empty rooms, vacated for the late Saturday night parties. Cradling you in my arms, waiting to hear sirens or rushing footsteps, I didn't know what to say.

“Hold on—Frannie, please hold on.”

I wanted to hear you speak my name in return—to hear you say, “Kate, I love you. I'll hold on for you.” Something to acknowledge I was there—and that you knew you weren't alone.

You didn't say anything, though. My eyes remained stuck on the streaks of red on the smears of red on the floor, and then your hair—blond with red streaks where I'd run my fingers through. Pressing the bloodstained towel against your wrists, I needed to know I wasn't too late.

“ Please hold on .”

I was scared when it hit me—the realization you needed me more than I needed you—if just for that night. It's a part of why I was scared to fall in love with you in the first place. My boyfriends had always been the emotional rocks. We were just two little girls. For all my feminist bullshit, I wasn't ready to take on the responsibility. It hit me that night.

The men came soon. Tall men in blue uniforms, asking questions, taking measurements, lifting you. They let me ride in the back with you, across the early spring suburban night, lights flashing all the way.

“You can leave.”

You awoke in your hospital bed and we hadn't talked for more than two minutes before you spoke those words and let me free—released me from my obligations.

You said I didn't have to stand by you.

I ran.

*

“All set?” Steve asks, turning his head to face Andy.

“Yeah, I'm cool,” Andy says, swinging his legs to stretch across of the back seat of Steve's little sedan.

Steve nudges the car into reverse, backs up, then slides it into drive as he crawls toward the road. He's moved like this since I showed up at his front door, banging my fists against the screen. He knows I'm on edge and he's being careful—careful not to catch me by surprise.

I wish he'd peel out—leave tire marks at every turn. I won't be calm until the drive's over.

It was almost three years ago that I last saw you, but I heard your voice on my machine today.

“How're we going down?” Andy asks.

“Gonna take 390 South—ride it down to—what is it Kate?” Steve asks me.

“It turns into 17 East—then that goes to I-81 South—” I read from the printout.

“Screw that MapQuest shit,” Andy says. “You can take 17 all the way down.”

“It says 17 becomes I-81—“

“But it doesn't,” Andy cuts me off. “It's a turn off and you end up taking a shit load of turns and going to Jersey . Trust me—if you just stay on 17—”

“We're gonna follow the directions,” Steve cuts him off. “The directions'll get us there.”

Andy mutters something, but the argument ends there. I hadn't wanted him to come. I just ran into him on my way out of the apartment, heading to Steve's. He was just on his way in and asked where I was going. I didn't have any capacity for bullshit. I told him you'd called.

I know Andy was close to you too—so I hope you don't mind that he's coming. You left a message for me on the answering machine, and I don't know if you want to see anyone else. I don't know why you want me there.

And coming with Steve isn't a statement—that's not why I'm coming with him. I don't have a car, and who other than my boyfriend would drive me to New York City on this short notice?

I've only been with Steve for a couple months. For all the weeks we'd hung out together, everyone said he liked me a lot, and I suppose he must to make this six hour drive on the spur of the moment—on what I'm sure appears to be my whim. But how could I explain to him why this is so important?

Andy puts down his window a little ways. “You mind if I smoke?” he asks, the zip lock bag of tobacco crinkling as he unfolds it.

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says, using his master control to put Andy's window back up.

“Great.” Andy proceeds to tap his fingers against the back of my seat. The tapping turns to a rhythm, keeping the beat to whatever melody plays in his head. You had needed Andy as a drummer back in freshman year. Jim—the senior from down the hall had played guitar and his buddy from off-campus played bass. The fact that you had needed Andy meant a lot to him—more than he ever told you.

Of course they were all eager to back you up—to back up your voice. From the day the other girls had caught you singing in the shower and pushed you to sing more outside it—everyone had wanted to hear you.

You were supposed to make your public debut at the bar's open mic night. That was the plan—before you got scared.

“I can't do this,” you said.

I thought it was just nervous chatter. You left, though. Went to the bathroom and never came back.

Jim pounded a beer and made the call that they'd go on without you, even though Andy wanted to leave. I stayed long enough to watch the guys take the stage and start their instrumental jam session. Then I left to find you.

I found you curled up in a red plaid blanket in your dorm room window seat, watching a movie. That was the only light in the room—the glow of the screen. You left your door open a crack—maybe knowing, even then, that I'd come. Maybe just a careless mistake.

You wouldn't talk that night, but you did let me curl around you, resting your hair against my cheek for the first time. I fell asleep holding you. I woke at 4:07 . You were awake, and I said I should go. You watched me leave.

Steve turns on the radio. He's been glancing back at Andy in the mirror every minute or so—sighing once or twice as the tapping persists. The radio's a pacifist's solution. He's only choosing that route because he knows I don't want to hear them argue.

His hand veers from the volume knob to my lap, finding my fingers. I wish I felt romantic, but I can't focus on Steve any more now than I have since I got your message—anymore than I ever have.

When you held my hand, there was no desire to cast off your grasp. Not the first time, in your room weeks after the open mic. Not during the walk we took nights later, or when we kissed just inside my door.

“So Steve, what're you doing next year?” Andy asks. He's stopped drumming, and I think he's trying to find some common ground.

“I don't know. Might be back another semester,” Steve replies. He doesn't bother to ask the same question in return.

Andy might be worse off than me. As much as I never knew where you'd gone, at least I'd been there at the end. I didn't have to hear anything second hand, or decipher any lies. I'd been there your last night at college.

But then maybe that makes Andy lucky. He couldn't get any more hurt than you let him—than we let him. The first time I cried was the last time he asked about you. That was nearly three years ago.

It's a wonder Andy's forgiven us both enough to want to be in the car right now. He had to have been hurt to see his crush and his confidante locked in a kiss. But then it was probably the feelings Andy and I both felt for you that bound us in the first place—and all the more after you were gone.

Maybe that's why Andy was the first person I kissed after you—a year and a half after I ran. Maybe that's why I stopped kissing him three months later.

We pass hundreds of signs and trees—speed postings, mile markers, guardrails. Funny how the early spring doesn't feel so damp or chilly through a window, with the heater roaring and the radio's song to drown out the sound of the rain and melted snow we kick up with spinning tires.

We used to watch the snow sometimes as it fell outside your window. We'd watch from the cover of your blankets. It might amuse you to know that your ever-absent roommate broke up with her boyfriend before Spring Break. For all those months we spent together, hidden away in your room, our secret world couldn't have stood another month, even if you hadn't left. If I hadn't run. If none of it happened.

I've often wondered how you remember those nights when we'd lie still, wrapped in one another, not falling asleep for hours. If you smile when you think on our talks about music, or about our families, or about dreams. I'd usually fall asleep first. I wonder if that frustrated you.

We talked a lot there, finding trust in rumpled sheets. I've never let myself trust someone like that again. Too afraid of what someone else can do. Afraid of responsibility.

Besides, Steve usually falls asleep after sex.

He remains awake at the wheel, though. Awake after I've fallen asleep for nearly an hour. I wake not recalling what the dream was about—only that I saw your face there.

I ask if I can change the radio station, just seeking something I can do .

“Yeah, go for it.”

Andy clicks his tongue. No doubt he made the same request at least once while I slept. Switching frequencies, I find mostly static as Steve barrels us down this dark stretch of country road.

*

We stay on 17 when Andy proves correct, and I-81 is a turn off. I'm glad he doesn't rub it in—letting that battle pass like just another mile marker we shoot past along the road.

Steve pulls over at a parking area—a tiny strip of land with a dozen parking spots, two picnic tables and a lot of trees. He makes his way into the foliage to relieve himself. Andy and I walk toward the tables.

Andy bends to sit on a bench, but sets his hand down first. The snow has melted here but the wood is still damp, and he thinks better of it, resting a foot upon it instead. Balancing a paper on his knee, he expertly lays down the tobacco and rolls it. “So why do ya think Frannie wants us down there?”

I shrug. Steve isn't even visible amidst the dark of the trees. It's getting late and I'm not sure we'll get to you in time. I don't know why the time mattered—what you have in mind. You said to get there by 9 o'clock though. I hope we're not too late.

“I wonder how she got our number,” Andy goes on, cigarette dangling from his lips. He struggles for a moment before getting his Bic to catch. “I mean I haven't talked to her since she left—and you say you haven't—”

I crinkle my nose. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“What—you said you hadn't talked to her.”

“Yeah, and I haven't.”

“Fine then.” Andy takes a drag. He knows I haven't told him everything. He knows enough to know you weren't just homesick, and you didn't just want a change of scenery—or whatever other bullshit excuses I fed him early on. And he knew about you and me before we were open about it with him. He had to stumble upon Steve and I. I've been trying to protect him all along—keep him from all the painful truths. I can't blame him if doesn't trust me.

“So how's Steve treating you?” he asks.

“He's driving me to New York on, like, fifteen minutes notice.”

“I mean besides that, though.” He takes his foot from the bench and faces me. “Shit, Kate, we live in the same apartment and I feel like I don't even know you lately.”

“I've been busy.”

Andy looks away from me, breathing in and then exhaling some smoke. “I'm taking 21 credits on the prayer that I might get to graduate on time, and I still spend more time in the apartment than you.”

“Well, maybe you wouldn't if you went to some of those classes.”

Andy cracks a smile and for a second we both laugh.

“I've been spending a lot of time at Steve's—it's true,” I say. “I like him, though. He cooks me dinner—and he really listens when I talk to him. He's good for me.”

Andy casts what's left of his cigarette to muddy grass. “Well I am happy for you. As much as I'm not crazy about the stiff—if he's all right by you, he's okay with me.”

Steve's walking back and in a moment we all head back to the car. Andy opens the door.

I pushed past Andy, through your doorway. He'd been explaining why one Beatles album was better than another when I cut him off. He saw you an instant later—sitting, legs bleeding with gashes I could only assume you'd made with the scissors lying spread open at your side. I took your hand—the first time I'd done it while someone else was present to see. “What happened?”

You didn't say anything, though. And you didn't want to go anywhere. Andy had a first aid kit and did his best to clean you up and dress the wounds. You sat still all the while.

Andy stepped out to wash his hands. It wasn't until then that I moved in closer, holding you to my chest.

“I'm sorry—I didn't mean for you to see that.”

I'd been crying for a while. I failed to notice it before that moment, though—when a tear rolled off of my cheek and onto your hair. “Frannie—what's going on?”

You didn't tell me much that night. I brought it up over dinner a couple nights later, when Andy wasn't nearby—when it was just the two of us. Things were always easier when it was just us, since everything we said and did was directed at one another anyway. Alone there was no need for façade.

“Sometimes—I just can't feel anything,” you said, looking down at the plate of rice and deep fried chicken poppers resting atop your dining hall tray. You poked at the poppers with your fork—embracing any available distraction. “It's like there's nothing—and I need to feel something. So—I make it happen.”

“So you cut yourself?” I stared at you. I couldn't understand then. It's not like I understand now. It's just something I came to accept—or at least grew accustomed to. I was always worried, but seeing the scars got easier. You told me you didn't do it as much with me in your life. Said it had been a long time since you lost control and went too far.

You sang for me one night, after I'd noticed new marks. You sang to make me forget—to change the subject. It started as humming, then turned to soft words, while you sat up in bed and I rested my head on your thigh.

I said you should let everyone hear your voice.

You said goodnight.

Steve gets us to New York a little before eight o'clock. We get lost amidst the city streets, though. Steve's says he's hungry and suggests stopping for food. Andy's willing to concede the point—noting we're still ahead of schedule. We stop for Thai food.

We get a booth and Steve sits first, sliding inward. Andy takes a seat beside him, before realizing Steve had probably meant for me to sit beside him. He starts to move out, then stops—probably not wanting to insult Steve by actually moving away from him.

Andy has a unique view on interactions like that—he analyzes all of it—observing as many political connotations in a seating arrangement as most people would in a formal debate. He never talked about that sort of thing with you—ever-conscious of what might make him look like a dork.

A waitress clad in a tacky imitation kimono takes our drink orders—water all around. Steve and Andy stare down at their menus. I wish I could concentrate like that—stop fidgeting, flipping pages without reading a word.

Andy orders Pad Thai, while Steve gets “Beef with Chinese Broccoli.” I order the same as Steve, still unprepared to make my own decision. Andy rips open the red paper wrapper of his chopsticks and breaks the frail wood connecting the pair. In a moment he's tapping a beat, incorporating the tabletop and the rim of his glass. Steve sits, head in hand, but doesn't voice any argument.

It's funny seeing the two seated side by side, after weeks of working to keep them apart. Maybe months—I didn't want for Andy to know about him a t all. He's probably my best friend, but since I told him we couldn't be more than that, I've never been able to talk with him about relationships.

I should have been honest, though. Anything would have been better than the way he did find out—stumbling into the apartment drunk, hours earlier than I'd expected him to return. He didn't know Steve was on his way, and even so, couldn't know what that meant. That doesn't justify that he tried to kiss me—or that he tried so hard. But it does make me feel worse that Steve bloodied his lip when he was wrestling him off of me, and worse yet that Steve announced our relationship by saying, “Get the fuck off my girlfriend.”

The way Steve fought for me actually felt romantic for a second. But Andy didn't deserve to find out that way. And that wasn't how the two should have met.

I'm grateful when our food arrives, as Andy stops tapping and the lack of discussion ceases to be awkward in the smacking tongues and clicking of teeth. I hadn't been particularly interest in food when we stopped, but with a mouth full of grizzly beef I find myself gnawing and swallowing hungrily, letting the needs of my body take precedence.

Steve and Andy are done before me and, observing this, I put aside my dish so we can move along as quickly as possible. Andy picks broccoli off of my plate while we wait for the check to arrive.

We take longer than expected to get to you. We get turned around on one-way streets, and Steve stops to let every pedestrian cross at each street corner, though Andy pushes him to move onward. It's nine by the time we find our way and half past when Steve pulls into a parking space.

I race up the stairs, around the corners and through the halls to find your apartment, scared that I might be too late. I arrive at your door long before the others—knocking hard against the wood, struggling to catch my breath as I wait to hear footsteps from within. I feel my heart pounding as I wait, then knock harder.

“Wait—Kate—look at this,” Andy says, pulling down the bright yellow flyer you'd taped to your door.

It's an advertisement put out by a coffeehouse—The Midnight Blend. By the street address it looks like the place is within a few blocks of where we stand.

The words “OPEN MIC NIGHT” stretch across the middle of the sheet in bold letters. Without a word I lead Steve and Andy back down the stairs. You left this flyer for me. It's the first paper you've left behind for me in almost three years.

Of course I don't know when you actually wrote the last note—you were unconscious when I found you. I discovered it on your bed, folded into a neat little square, while they loaded you onto the stretcher.

It's funny how few of your words I can remember. While I recall the gist, of course, I can't recall more than two of the exact words you wrote there. I suppose it's because I only read it three times. Once under the fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room. Then in the moonlight, when my curiosity demanded a second read as I lied in bed that night

The third time I read it was by the light of fire. I read it one last time over Spring Break, then burned your words away. The top corner was last to succumb to the flames, leaving those two words branded in my mind.

Dear Kate

In the hospital, you let me free—released me from my obligations. You said I didn't have to stand by you. But you only said it after you'd attached the weight of everything to me. You tried to take your life, but only after you'd addressed your final goodbye to me.

From the moment I first ran away, to this moment, when the soles of my sneakers pound the sidewalk running, my every thought's been addressed to you.

*

The coffeehouse is small, or maybe it just appears so for the volume of people there—some seated on chairs, others on circular wood tables, others with their legs crossed, seated Indian-style in circles on the concrete floor. Tapestries line the wall, a dark rainbow of colors, casting shadows in the already dim place.

The man at the register wears his hair long and in a ponytail. Other workers dance behind him, none in any discernible uniform—asking customers to repeat their orders, measuring espresso and syrup, lifting cups to present the final product.

The workers operate in little light as well, though, as a lone spotlight rests on the five foot square of a platform that serves as the stage. A thin bald man with glasses stands there, gesturing wildly.

“And they try to kill the killers, bomb away hate, losing the message in the fire they make!” the man rants, a blue vein pulsing beneath the paper-fair skin atop his head.

“I'm gonna get some coffee,” Andy says, working his way through the crowd. Steve and I remain at the back standing an arm's length from one another.

The bald man finishes, taking a leap off of the stage amidst the applause of the crowd. Another man takes the floor, reminding the masses to buy coffee and muffins in order to keep the place open so more open mics can occur. He goes on, prefacing the next performer by saying she's a regular and that he understands she'll be playing a new song tonight. I don't pay much attention until I hear your name.

The girl who takes the stage looks taller than you, though. She stands up straight and carries an acoustic guitar strapped over her shoulder. As the crowd cheers, the girl steps up to the microphone and says, “Hey.”

It isn't until I hear that girl's voice that I'm sure it's you. I look to Andy for a moment. His eyes are already fixed on you, though. I turn back as you run a hand across the strings to test the sound. The man who made the introduction adjusts a second microphone, positioning it down by the guitar.

In a moment you're alone, though—you stand above all the people there, standing tall in the light as your fingers race through the opening chords of an upbeat, folksy melody. Then your voice takes flight.

A thin film of sweat begins to shine on your forehead as you proceed at a furious pace. You sing out, holding a note for an impossibly long time. As the crowd applauds you only roll your eyes and smile as you work through a bridge. A moment later you're singing the final words.

I'm not sure if you've seen me. I pound my palms together hard, trying to make them somehow sound above the other clapping hands. My applause are just a part of the crowd, though—the crowd celebrating your performance.

“Kate?”

I don't recognize the girl standing before me, and at first I assume she must be talking to someone else. She doesn't move, though, standing there, eyes peering through the locks of dyed red hair that curl in her fair skinned face. “You came—you're Frannie's friend Kate, right?”

All I can do is nod and the girl cracks a smile. “I recognize you from the pictures she showed me. I knew you'd come. I told Frannie she'd waited long enough—that she should just invite you out here already—and now you're here!” She takes hold of my hand and guides me forward. I turn my head to find Steve following close after. You've begun your second song, slower, but not a sad song. Quieter, but with no less strength.

“So—you're a friend of Frannie's?” I ask dumbly, trying to comprehend everything, trying not to turn my eyes from you.

“Yeah—we've known each other for a while now—she's told me all about you.”

As we stop, a couple yards back from the stage, I take a leap of faith, asking what I need to ask and hoping this girl will have an answer. “Is she—is she okay?”

The girl looks to you for a moment then turns back with a toothy grin. “She's doing fine now. We met at just the right time—both of us at that doctor's office, looking—” She stops and blushes a little. “Anyway, she's been on a new medicine the last few months—and yeah—she's all right.”

You strum the last chords of the song and peer down—finally, conclusively, seeing me. We both smile. Your eyes shift to the side a moment later, though, and the red-haired girl shuts her right eye in a wink. For a possessive second, I resent this girl. I resent the smile the two of you share and the way she doesn't seem threatened enough to resent me.

But then I'm relieved. Three years of guilt run off my hands as I clap them together again. You've survived, and don't need me here—you only wanted to see me. Letting Steve wrap his arms around my waist, I ease back, into his body. I don't feel so scared to want him there.

“I'm only gonna sing one more,” you say, playing with the end of your guitar strap. “This one's a love song.”

I turn to see Andy leaning against the counter, still watching you. He holds a mug in one hand while the other hand taps against his jeans at the thigh, keeping the beat to your melody.

Steve begins to sway a little when you sing. Turning again, I find his eyes are shut. Closing my own, I cling to his hands.

We hold on.