The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

sounded like a boar in heat.

      “Jeanne? Are you all right?” Another male species’ voice.

      I grunted again, boarlike.

      “Jeanne? Please let us check on you.”

      I shoved the hair out of my eyes, swung my legs over the edge of the bed and felt instantly irritated because floors should not shake when one stands on them and this one did. “Stupid floor,” I muttered.

      “What?” the male species’ voices said as one.

      I wrestled with my jeans, slipped my purple camisole over my head and stumbled across the swaying floor to the door. I would not stay here in this swaying-floored hotel again, I vowed. The two men I had met the night before, the owners, looked at me with great sympathy when I opened the door. The short one said something to the tall one. I thought I heard the word “blood.” The tall one nodded, then left.

      “Perry will be right back,” Short One said. “May I suggest that you sit down?”

      He may. I trudged back across the swaying floor and tumbled to the bed, holding my head with both hands. “The floor moves and shakes. It’s too noisy in here,” I told him. It came out like “Da foor moo an shake. Ith u neezy inair.”

      He didn’t say anything, but sat down on the bed beside me. Now, in any other circumstance I would have been alarmed by a man I didn’t know sitting on the side of a bed with me. But I knew that Short One and Tall One were gay so I didn’t much worry.

      “Yes,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It is very noisy. We’re trying to get the volume of the noise down right now.”

      “And it’s too hot.” Came out: “Anithtu ot.”

      I felt Short One move and knew he was looking at the open patio doors. I could hear the rain.

      “Yes, it is very, very hot in here. Steaming. We’re working on that, too.”

      “Will you turn the cool up?” I asked. Came out: “Illuturnda-coolup?”

      “Yes, we’ll turn the cool up.”

      “Good.” I laid back on the bed. I felt him lift my feet. He covered me with a blanket. I decided to go back to sleep. “I’ll pay you for another night.” Came out: “Allpath u pour nother wight.”

      I heard someone enter the room. Must have been the tall one. Short One and Tall One pulled me up against the headboard. I smelled tomato juice.

      Yummy. I love tomato juice. It’s the only thing I’ll drink when I’m flying on airplanes.

      “Have a nonalcoholic Bloody Mary,” Short One said. “Then we’ll let you go back to sleep.”

      I complied. One of them held me up; the other held the drink to my mouth. I drank the whole thing.

      “Super,” I told them. “It’s quieter now that’s it’s not so hot. Thank you.” (“Ith kwiter now ot tho ot. Thk u.”)

      “You’re welcome,” Short One said. “We’ve turned up the cool and we’ve turned down the noise.”

      “Yes,” Tall One said. “More to your liking. Now let’s lay back down and relax since the heat is cool now and the noise is gone.”

      I felt them lower me back to the bed. They straightened the blanket.

      “Why did you wake me up?” I asked (“Ididjawakeeeup?”)

      “We wanted to make sure you were still with the program,” Tall One said. “It’s important to us that none of our guests slip from this world to the next while still on the premises.”

      Good idea “Slkjweoiure,” I said.

      Even in my hungover state I could see their looks of pity.

      I hate pity, but was too hungover to get feisty. Plus, they had brought me a (virgin) Bloody Mary.

      The door clicked shut when they left.

      I decided to sleep again. This time I hoped I wouldn’t hear the sound of my own screams in my nightmares.

      I dreamed of my mother. Her face. Her smiling face. She came to me in my dream. I love you, Mom, I told her.

      “Quit drinking,” she yelled back at me. “I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, quit drinking.”

      When I woke up the second time I had to pee so bad I could feel it slipping out in hot dribbles. I envisioned my bladder swollen up to the size of a small pig. I waddled to the bathroom, legs crossed tight, barely made it to the toilet, did my business, relaxed on the white throne with my poor head nestled in my hands, then stood up with not too much balance and looked at my face.

      I looked like death.

      Skeletal, pale, and gaunt. The light outside the window told me it was time for dinner. My stomach told me I had to eat or die.

      I contemplated my choices and decided that death by starvation was not on my list of things to do today. I showered, washed my hair and body with this fabulous smelling lemon-and-vanilla scented soap and shampoo, feeling my drunkenness rinsing away under the blast of the steamy hot water. I dried my hair, being careful with my aching head, and got dressed. I realized when I looked into a mirror that my clothes were rumpled and tired-looking, so I located the room’s iron and ironed away. I must say I was presentable when I was done.

      I made the bed (I mentioned I like things tidy?) and opened the window to get rid of the stale, rotting body smell in the air. I grabbed my purse, shoved my feet into my fabulous shoes, and headed downstairs, my stomach roiling.

      Short One and Tall One were in the living room when I headed down, drinking coffee. They both stood, smiling when I entered.

      They were so cute, so eager to please, and so seemingly concerned with me, I couldn’t help but smile back.

      “Coffee?” they asked.

      I accepted, and pulled out my wallet and paid them for the second night. “Thank you,” I told them. “Sorry about my little drunken bout.”

      “No problem,” Short One said cheerily, taking the money. “We’re delighted you didn’t vomit on the floor.”

      “Or break things,” Tall One added.

      “Me, too. Vomiting is repulsive,” I told them, sipping my coffee. Darn, that was good. I added a liberal dose of cream and not more than four tablespoons of sugar. “I never break things. Broken things make a mess. I like things tidy.”

      “You also know how to drink coffee,” Short One said.

      “I do indeed. No reason to skimp on cream and sugar, none at all.”

      Tall One eyed me. He had brown eyes the size of chocolate kisses and huge shoulders. He was the kind of person you felt like hugging. “I think you need more cream in your life.”

      “You’re definitely too thin,” said Short One.

      I added more cream. I knew I was too thin. I didn’t particularly like how I looked. Fact was, I haven’t liked how I looked since Johnny and Ally died. When I was in love with Johnny I had curves. Hips, boobs, thighs. I weighed at least twenty pounds more than I do now. Johnny loved it. I felt healthy. After he died, I couldn’t eat.

      Come to think of it, I haven’t been able to eat well since. Basically I live off of white wine, mochas, bananas (good mood-stabilizer), red wine, donuts, beer, cheese (goes good with wine), and bread.

      Some days, I hardly eat. I wake up feeling ill.

      Yes, I know I’m too thin. I look like a stick. Women have hated me in the past for this, but I will tell you this: I would far rather be plump than stick thin.

      “Yep. I am too thin. I look like a bag of bones. I can almost hear myself rattling around. So, gentlemen, in honor of my latest binge, I think I’ll