The Ex Chronicles

The next day Bella is holed up in her bedroom crying. When she woke up that morning she wanted to die. The gash on her knee was throbbing in sync with her head, and her mouth was as dry as the Sahara. From the looks of things she’d thrown up all through the night; her apartment smells even worse than she does.

She’s hungry and dehydrated but she wants a drink the most. Careening into the kitchen, she pulls open the cabinet and grabs a bottle of Belvedere off the shelf, knocking two glasses to the floor, where they shatter. Not caring, she slowly makes her way into her bedroom and then her bathroom. She tries to turn on the shower instead she falls into the tub.

While she lies there Bella struggles to get the top off the bottle. When she does she brings it to her mouth, but the smell of the alcohol sickens her even more and she throws up again, dropping the open bottle on the floor. The alcohol fumes jolt her memory and she remembers last night—the scene she caused, Julius kissing that girl and the look on his face when he saw her. She cringes as she remembers getting tossed out onto the street and then falling down and gashing her knee, and her behavior on the street. Last, she remembers Precious standing over her in the living room. Bella starts to cry, quietly at first, but she cries harder until her body is racked by sobs.

An hour later, Rosaria is trying to rouse Bella. The room now reeks of vomit and alcohol, and when Rosaria pulls her out of the tub, her feet sink into the booze-drenched rug. Bella’s freezing as Rosaria undresses her and fills the tub. When she has her cleaned up she dries Bella off, puts a robe on her, then takes her to the bed.

The last thing Bella remembers before falling asleep is telling Rosaria to get rid of all the alcohol in the apartment. Then she drifts off into a welcome place where she is warm and happy.

Bella hears the noise as if from a faraway place. It’s getting louder and more insistent, like a buzz saw next to her head. When she opens her eyes, her room is dark and her phone is ringing. Struggling to sit up, she reaches for it, squinting to see who is tormenting her with this incessant noise. It’s Julius. On autopilot, she goes to pick it up, then stops and stares at the phone. A few seconds later she cancels the call.

She feels like death—no, that would feel better than how she feels. Struggling into a sitting position, Bella switches on the bedside lamp and tries not to scream when the light comes on. As she fights to focus on the room, she tries to remember what day it is. On her bedside table is a carafe of water, a banana, and an apple, sliced and cored in a lidded dish. The water reminds her that her throat is parched, and after taking a drink she feels infinitesimally better.

She can’t stomach the smell of a peeled banana, but she manages to chew and swallow three pieces of the apple before getting queasy. Bella wants a cigarette but has no idea where hers are. She wishes she had some blow so she could find the energy to get out of bed, but then she remembers the horror of the night before—oddly enough, she is actually less upset about her antics than about how disappointed Precious was with her. Even though she was half passed out, she was aware of what was going on; she just couldn’t move because of the combination of Xanax and alcohol.

Precious was right—Bella is thirty-four, has never had a job in her life, is living off her parents, and is an addict in an abusive relationship with a pusher. There it is; she’s said it. She rubs her pounding temples. She needs a cigarette and maybe an IV.

“Rosaria,” Bella croaks, her voice breaking. Where is your illegal help when you need them? she wonders. Then she looks at her cell: It’s nine-thirty at night; Rosaria went home ages ago. Bella is on her own—not a place she likes to be. She picks up her phone and calls Precious. As the phone rings, Bella wonders what she’s gonna say. She doesn’t really want Precious to come over; she just wants to talk to her, maybe even to apologize for taking advantage of her all these years. She knows that’s what she’s been doing. As long as Bella’s known Precious she’s used her like a personal assistant.

Precious has felt obligated to go where and do what Bella wants because Bella has always paid for everything. She knows it wasn’t fair—she could have gone somewhere less expensive so Precious could’ve contributed, but that’s not ultimately what Bella wanted. As she sits hoping Precious will pick up, she realizes she has done exactly to Precious what her parents have been doing to her for years: using money to control her. When the call goes to voice mail Bella searches for the right thing to say.

“Hey, P. I know we’re not talking. But if we don’t talk how will I know when we’re talking? So can you give me a call and let me know when we’re talking?”

She redials Precious. She’s not surprised when the call again goes to voice mail. “Hey, P. I’m so sorry. You were right. I’ll make a change, but I can’t do it without you.”

Somehow Bella makes it to the next morning, but she’s jonesing for a drink and a hit of yay. But she’s not about to call Julius to bring her blow. He called her so often last night that she finally had to turn off her phone to get some sleep. She wants a cigarette but can’t even think about going outside.

She has an idea. Calling Rosaria, she leaves her a voice mail to pick up a pack of cigarettes on her way in. One problem solved, she thinks, then wonders what to do while she waits for Rosaria. She’s hungry but has no appetite for food. She goes into the kitchen and refills the carafe with water. Then she opens the fridge and stares inside. Not much of a cook, Bella isn’t even thinking about anything that she has to prepare. She grabs a bottle of spirulina smoothie, which Rosaria stocks in hopes that one day Bella will drink it. She unscrews the cap and sniffs it; her stomach heaves. She recaps it and puts it in the fridge, returning to her bedroom with just the carafe of water.

Bella’s phone rings; it’s Julius. It takes all she can to not pick up. She sits on the bed, and then gets up. She wanders around her room, opens her laptop, then closes it. She meanders to the window and looks at the street below. Then she closes the curtain. She goes into the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet, and looks into it.

Closing it, she turns on the shower and stares into the mirror until it steams up. She then turns off the water and leaves the bathroom. She wishes again that she had a cigarette, and wonders where Rosaria is, then she remembers it’s her day off. She wishes Precious was here, but like most normal people, she’s at work. Bella is despondent and lonely. Her drugs, drinking, and Julius have always taken up so much of her time that without them she doesn’t know what to do.

Bella turns on the TV but turns off the sound. She channel surfs, then abruptly throws the remote on the bed. She goes to the wall of closets and opens the doors. She flips through row after row of clothing. She runs her hand through her hair, and then automatically searches for her nonexistent cigarettes. Her cell rings; it’s Julius. She stares at it until it stops. She’s in the middle of a white-hot, garment-shredding, hand-wringing, pill-popping freak-out. She stares at her cell before abruptly picking it up and making a call. The line rings once, twice, three times.

Miriam’s heart lodges in her throat. She had a hundred different things on her mind before the call but now her only thought is reaching her daughter.

“Mommy will be right there, darling.” But Bella isn’t listening. She’s wailing like a banshee. Miriam hangs up, goes directly to her closet, and packs an overnight bag.

Bella lies on the bed, clutching her phone and rocking. She’s barely slept or eaten in almost two days. Her skin feels like it’s on fire and she can’t seem to sit still. When Julius calls again, she throws her cell against the wall.