I’d fall apart and embarrass us both all over again.
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Dear Sharon,
All right, but…could we talk soon? Please?
Yours, Tammy
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Dear Diary,
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lost.
My dreams last night were horrible. I was running from a crowd of people, all of them seconds away from catching me. I couldn’t turn around to see their faces. All I knew was that I had to keep running, faster, faster, faster…until I stumbled and felt long, thick fingers dig into my shoulder. I turned slowly, fear pulsing through my entire body, and when I finally saw them, they were laughing at me.
Tammy’s aunt. Sister Catherine. Gary Knopp and the boys from school. My mother. Hundreds of others, too—faces I recognized and faces I didn’t, all of them dissolving into an angry, laughing darkness, pinning me to the ground.
When I woke up, it took me twenty minutes to stop shaking.
I don’t want Tammy to move out. That’s the only thing I know for sure. My mind’s been too muddy to think about anything else.
I got lucky, though—my letter back to her was short and probably incoherent, but it worked. There was a short note from her under my door when I woke up this morning, and when I went downstairs she’d already left for work, but her stuff was still stacked up neatly next to our plaid sofa.
I went to the O’Sullivans’, tried to pretend everything was normal for Chris and Penny’s benefit, and spent the next few hours wandering around the city. When it finally got dark, I started walking up to North Beach. There was a show tonight, and shows are the one place where I never have to think.
It was a long walk, but I didn’t care. Once I was in the thick of the crowd, I knew I’d made the right choice. All I had to do was shut my eyes and let the screaming fill my head.
A band I’d never heard of was on the stage, and they were having technical problems. Feedback whines filled the room, and the crowd was getting more raucous than usual. The last thing I’d seen before I shut my eyes was the lead singer flipping off the audience, a bunch of people in the crowd flipping him off in return, and one of the other band guys trying to smash his guitar on an amp and stopping because the singer punched him in the face. The whole room was a sea of anger.
It was exactly what I needed.
Until a sudden force jostled me from the left. I stumbled to the side, my eyes flying open. Fists were already flying just a few feet from me, so I didn’t wait to see what would happen. I spun around and charged toward the bar.
I’d already had one screwdriver—the bartenders only bother checking your ID if you’re a man—but I needed another drink. Anything that would make it harder to think.
I wove through the crowd, dodging the guys surging in to watch the fight, and reached the bar quickly. I spotted a free stool and lunged for it, sliding my hand over the sticky plastic-covered countertop to wave at the bartender. I was reaching into the pocket of my worn leather jacket for a five-dollar bill when I saw them.
They were around the corner of the bar, only a yard or so away. Evelyn was standing with Midge Spelling at her side, and on her other side…was Tammy.
I pushed back from the bar so fast, the legs of my stool scraped across the floor. It was so loud in that room I was sure no one would hear, but Tammy’s head swiveled my way.
“Sharon?”
Her voice was incredulous, and as soon as the word was out of her mouth she clapped a hand over it, her eyes widening in a silent apology. It was too late.
“Hey, Sharon!” Evelyn waved while Midge silently lifted her cigarette in my direction. “Join us!”
“I, um.” I stepped backward, stumbling. Suddenly, it hurt to breathe.