Freedom

“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 to call them. It’s non-optional.”

“Will you stay with me? Will you come visit me?”

“Yes,” Patty lied. “Just tell me their number.”

“They ask about you all the time. They think you’re a good influence on my life. Will you stay with me?”

“Yes,” Patty lied again. “What’s their number?”

When the parents arrived, after midnight, they wore the grim looks of people interrupted in their enjoyment of a long respite from dealing with exactly this sort of thing. Patty was fascinated to finally meet them, but this feeling was evidently not reciprocated. The father had a full beard and deep-set dark eyes, the mother was petite and wearing high-heeled leather boots, and together they gave off a strong sexual vibe that reminded Patty of French movies and of Eliza’s comments about their being the love of each other’s life. Patty wouldn’t have minded receiving a few words of apology for unleashing their disturbed daughter on unsuspecting third parties such as herself, or a few words of gratitude for taking their daughter off their hands these past two years, or a few words of acknowledgment of whose money had subsidized the latest crisis. But as soon as the little nuclear family was together in the living room, there unfolded a weird diagnostic drama in which there seemed to be no role at all for Patty.

“So which drugs,” the father said.

“Um, smack,” Eliza said.

“Smack, cigarettes, booze. What else? Anything else?”

“A little coke sometimes. Not so much now.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s all.”

“And what about your friend? Is she using, too?”

“No, she’s a huge basketball star,” Eliza said. “I told you. She’s totally straight and great. She’s amazing.”

“Did she know you were using?”

“No, I told her I had cancer. She didn’t know anything.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Since Christmas.”

“So she believed you. You created an elaborate lie that she believed.”

Eliza giggled.

“Yes, I believed her,” Patty said.

The father didn’t even glance her way. “And what’s this,” he said, holding up the blue binder.

“That’s my Patty Book,” Eliza said.

“Appears to be some sort of obsessional scrapbook,” the father said to the mother.

“So she said she was going to leave you,” the mother said, “and then you said you were going to kill yourself.”

“Something like that,” Eliza admitted.

“This is quite obsessional,” the father commented, flipping pages.

“Are you actually suicidal?” the mother said. “Or was that just a threat to keep your friend from leaving?”

“Mostly a threat,” Eliza said.

“Mostly?”

“OK, I’m not actually suicidal.”

“And yet you’re aware that we have to take it seriously now,” the mother said. “We have no choice.”

“You know, I think I’m going to go now,” Patty said. “I’ve got class in the morning, so.”

“What kind of cancer did you pretend to have?” the father said. “Where in the body was it situated?”

“I said it was leukemia.”

“In the blood, then. A fictitious cancer in your blood.”

Patty put the drug stuff on the cushion of an armchair. “I’ll just leave this right here,” she said. “I really do have to be going.”

The parents looked at her, looked at each other, and nodded.

Eliza stood up from the sofa. “When will I see you? Will I see you tomorrow?”

“No,” Patty said. “I don’t think so.”