Shards

         The walls in the bar were already wilted with beer sweat and cigar smoke by the time Nove came in. The people were, too. The only ones who ever came in were ghosts, shadows really—people whose lives outside determined only face and dress, but little more. She looked around at the hunched shoulders whose heavy asses had left impressions of misfortune in the barstools and a sour grogginess in the air. She was unsurprised at the crowd—all “gentlemen” whose wives pretended to guess where they disappeared to (even though everyone involved knew where they were). When the door sucked shut, the last stream of late-afternoon light was forced from the room. The invariable bubble of chatter never ceased its flow because no one wanted to notice a change, so they simply didn’t. Everyone preferred the dim of the bar.

         Nove was a bartender and she’d never had a drink in her life. She resented the stuff. She had never known a world without it, and even though she hadn’t seen her dad in months, she stayed to look at the broken-down men day after day. This way she never forgot why she had come in the first place.  

***

         She was born November Amstel Peters on the eleventh of November. Her mom had named her. When puzzled looks followed an introduction, her mom would defend the name by saying, “it’s really fitting, okay?” “Original,” her dad would burp, foam on his chin, before erupting with a deep and destructive laugh over his own joke. When she was old enough to decide for herself, she opted for Nove. She thought her full name made her sound like a Playboy bunny, and Ember was just a cheaper-sounding hooker. She may have turned out normal, but her childhood (as you might’ve guessed) was certainly less so. She had dusty brown hair, and a mark under her left eye that had seemingly always been there. As a little girl, Nove’s dad would play with her. When the tickling turned rough, she cried, and he would grab her and shake her, slurring his words, begging her to stop.

         She always cried hard and hot.

***

         Nove got to work refilling empties, clearing away extra glasses, refilling the small metal buckets with more peanuts. The actual bar made a great barrier for her; she stayed on her side, they on theirs. She knew all of these men pretty well, though. It had been almost eight months since Nove had started working in the bar, and she was really starting to get comfortable seeing the same unshaven chins day after day, the only visible skin from the reflection of spilt beer dribbling down their lips. They looked at her with blood-hound eyes that begged for an answer: when will this be over. Nove just shrugged her shoulders and refilled their glasses with a dry laugh and a smile. To them, the smile was “I’m your friend.” For Nove, the smile was “I’m glad it ain’t me.” She too wondered the same question, but worked each day saving up for a college education. It was the only way she’d really make it out, and she knew that.

         On this particular night, though, Nove noticed someone young sitting on the stool third from the left–she’d never seen him before. He was watching himself in the mirror of the back bar. She didn’t recognize him from town, figured he was just passing through. The bottles framed his face, (he sat just so) but blocked those of the other inmates strung in a line off to his left, a jail cell of half-empty bottlenecks. She could see every line in this new face. Nove always used that mirror to watch the guys when they thought her back was turned.

         “It’s not a town that most people stumble upon,” she said to herself, “but I did,” she was reminded.

***

         Too often when she was little, her dad took his too-warm, too-heavy hand and pressed it against her face when she was upset with him for turning into the “licking monster”. The liquor monster her mom used to say. Liquor turned to licker, and made less of a scene when it was licking, Nove learned.

         “Shh, shh, Nolvember,” he would say, mispronouncing her name again and again. “Come on, my sweet angel, don’t cry.” Nove would get trapped under the comforter of her canopy bed; the weight of her dad’s seated body locked the heat in, roasting her in a hell-fire of Wal-Mart striped cotton. Stroking her face, he’d talk about himself, his job, his boss that he hated, how expensive life was with a daughter as a lone father. When he lifted his hand off the scar on her face, the space from where his hand had been was invigorated by fresh air washing over the bits of residual sweat, only for his hand to stick on her face a short while later. The heat was unbearable. He didn’t know it bothered her. Her dad had only two things on his mind: more money, more liquor. And Nove had no part in that.

         When she was twelve she realized she would never earn her drunken dad’s love. At seventeen, she stopped letting herself cry over it. She got to be real tough and hoped that college would be her escape. But her dad had never let her go to college. It would ruin her, he swore. She was to work for his construction firm, pocketing a couple of dollars a month. The rest went towards paying the bills in the house, and filling her dad’s cabinet. At twenty-three, she had finally saved enough money to buy a bus ticket and a few month’s worth of groceries, and that’s when she ran.

         She left a note that said:

I got you some more whiskey. Bye dad.   

-N

         From there she ran to the bus station, bought a one-way ticket out, and fell asleep in her seat. She woke up hours later, about thirty miles outside of a small desert town in California.

***

         She made her way over to that stool third from the left, leaning on the bar casually, and looked the new guy square in the face, her gaze silently asking “What’d’ya want.” The young guy raised his head and met her eyes, freezing her for just a moment. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat,” he said cooly, matching Nove’s reserve. “Just like my dad,” she said to herself, instantly disappointed by the new guy. She watched as his head sunk to meet his glass, distancing herself. She was intrigued, and sure that she would not speak to him all night. She thought she knew this type—young, trying to be more sophisticated than he was. Nove couldn’t deny how lonely she felt, and while he may have been new (and the youngest guy she’d seen in weeks), she had a strict rule for herself: No bar goers.

         Nove dutifully filled and refilled the glasses of the regulars, letting them have this Thursday night to succumb to the liquor. She threw a sidelong glance down towards her new friend (if they stayed for more than an hour, they were a friend. That too, was a rule.) and noticed his third whiskey was gone. She shifted down the bar and reached for his glass, and when she gripped it, he put his hand on top of hers to stop her, shocking her with his cold fingers. Nove’s gaze shot up to attack him, only to meet the butterscotch eyes of a guy who she could not figure out. This bothered her more than anything. She prided herself on knowing how other people worked. It’s the only way she got by.

         “I don’t want a refill,” he said. “Give me two shots of tequila.” Why did that feel like a challenge?

         Nove put one glass in front of him and grabbed the bottle of Patrón before he corrected her, asking for two glasses. Nove cocked her head slightly, and he said, “Won’t you join me?” She started to size him up in her head, wondering what his agenda was, and how dangerous he would be after three drinks. She wanted to learn more about this guy. As she pulled the two glasses out, she knew she should say no. Curiosity made her move.

         Nove sort of slammed the two glasses onto the bar, and told this guy that she didn’t drink with strangers (or at all, she thought). He stuck his hand out across the bar, and laughed, breaking his statue-esque face revealing the warmth in it, and said, “Well let’s fix that. Hi, I’m Adam.”

         Disbelief probably plain on her face, Nove reluctantly met his hand with hers, and curtly said, “Well hi Adam.” He laughed again, and at this point, the rest of the fellas at the bar were watching, pretty intrigued themselves, and more defensive than Nove was. They didn’t trust this guy yet. She wanted to figure him out, but wasn’t sure what that meant for her own trust.

         “Oh, come on, at least let me know your name.”

         “It’s Nove,” she said flatly. Being honest with herself, she thought that in another life, she might’ve liked this guy. She didn’t mind a challenge.

         “Well alright, then. Now we aren’t strangers. I just want to share a shot of tequila with a beautiful girl after what’s been a pretty rough day for me. Come on, I’ll buy the whole place a round.” Nove narrowed her eyes, unimpressed by that exhausted pick-up line, but couldn’t ignore what came next.

         The rest of the guys at their stools started whooping and cheering at the prospect of a free drink in that stingey-ass desert town. Nove had no choice now. Begrudgingly, she pulled nine more glasses out to join the two that sat on the bar, and began filling up the glasses. She marveled at the place— it was starting to take on a life she’d never seen before. For the first time, it seemed a little brighter. Someone had gone and turned the music up, and the guys down the bar started swaying with one another to some old Hank Williams in anticipation. Nove glanced back at Adam, who simply winked and smiled back at her, as if he knew that only he could’ve been the one to have made this all happen.

         The guys all had their glasses, and Adam rose his glass and said, “This one’s for Nove, for joining us in this moment, as she may never again” (The toast made her even more suspicious—how could he know she didn’t drink? She brushed the thought aside remembering that most bar tenders don’t drink with their customers. She didn’t like how self-conscious she felt). There was an eruption of cheers and the small glass that was squeezed between Nove’s thumb and forefinger went up, scared but insisting this was the last time it would. She knocked back the shot, as if she’d done it a thousand times. The taste was shocking and tinny, and the heat of it spread softly and efficiently. It wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Adam watched her. Nove felt his eyes, so she stifled a shudder before raising the bottle, offering him another.

         “Only if you join me,” he said.

         “Ah, alright,” with a slight eye roll.

***

         Nove remembered that the day her mom left, it was unbearably hot outside. She was seven. Her mom had rushed two bags of ice home from the gas station down the street to put into the small freezer so that Nove could have some cool lemonade later on. Nove loved her mom—she always remembered things like ice for cool lemonade.      

         But when her mom came through the door, her dad, in a sweat-stained white tank rolled off of the couch onto the floor before picking himself back up. He had been taking drags off of a cigarette waiting for more liquor to get in the house. He intercepted Nove’s mom on her way into the kitchen and grabbed her by the shoulders with the two bags of ice still in her hands. He shouted, spitting as he said, “Where is it!”

         She knew that she was meant to have picked up more whiskey for him. She had purposely forgotten it.

         “I didn’t get any, they were out,” she said calmly, leaning away from Nove’s dad. It was an obvious lie.

         The grip on her mom’s shoulders visibly tightened. Nove remembered that. He began to quiver with anger and tremble with need. Beads of sweat began to burst out of his forehead like whack-a-moles. And then, after what felt like an hour-long stare down, Nove’s dad gave up on waiting for her mom to produce a bottle of Jack, and slapped her across the face.

         When Nove saw this, she ran up screaming “NO! MOMMY!” And in that moment, her mom looked down and Nove, clutching her face, with her lips parted in horror. She said, “I’m sorry my baby,” and walked out the door. Nove cried, the sound of the car screeching away ringing in her ears while her dad ran outside, too late to catch her.

         With the cigarette still in his hand, he re-entered the house and walked back to Nove growling, “So you like your mom better, huh?” And took the cigarette and shoved it into Nove’s tear-wet face, just beside her left eye.

         It sizzled. She screamed.

         ***

         Nove was beginning to like the way she felt around Adam. Another hour had passed, and the two had been chatting, mostly about him (which meant less about her). She didn’t know why she now trusted him, though. Maybe it was because the rest of the guys at the bar had seemed to. These men had become somewhat of her family here: Old Joe Quill, Pete Sumkins, Liam Turner, Creed Williams, Ed Jameson… the rest too. Adam said he came from a town in southern Nevada and was making his way to the coast. There was nothing she could hold against him.

         After another shot, Nove was laughing easily at every other thing Adam said. The rest of the gang had started to filter out. More remained than not, so the night did not stop. Nove continued to tend to the other guys’ glasses, but she was distracted and getting sloppy. Nove was tipsy, she’d admit it. She wasn’t all that big. But she couldn’t stop smiling. And Adam reflected it with a lop-sided grin of his own, his once-hard brow still framing his face in the reflection of the back bar, softer now.

         The rest of the guys at the bar noticed that things were progressing by that old third stool, and quietly made their way out. Nove looked back at Adam and let loose another laugh as she clumsily began to clear away the glasses from the bar. The air did her good. She was still thinking relatively clearly, and decided it wouldn’t hurt to sneak a pull from the bottle behind the bar for some courage.

         When she came back out from the storeroom, Adam was still sitting there, patiently waiting, and smiled a dopey smile when their eyes met yet again.

         Adam boldly reached out his hand, less-cold than before, and pulled Nove toward him, and wordlessly asked her for a kiss. Nove was all too willing.

         As the kissing continued under the radio’s song, Nove tasted salt and tequila on Adam’s lips. She didn’t mind. She kept right on going—she hadn’t felt this happy in what seemed to be ever. Adam had his fingers full of her hair and tucked underneath the backside of her hat. Nove climbed onto the bar, and leaned to meet Adam’s face with her own. Behind her closed eyes her mind was firing, thoughts unclear, but all were overwhelmingly bright. And that felt good. She felt his jawline within her hand, tickled by a forgetful stubble. When their lips finally parted and Adam gasped for some air, he joined her up on the bar. They were both breathless, both clearly starved, and nowhere near satisfied.

         As the two tangled and untangled themselves under the dim lights overhead, Nove and Adam were sliding down the bar, when she slammed her hand down onto a glass that she hadn’t yet cleared away. It was on the edge of the bar. Her hand slipped on the polished wooden surface into the air, taking her down with it. She heard the familiar piercing crash of the glass before hearing her own thud on the ground.

         Embarrassed, she got up quickly and brushed herself off before feeling a searing pain in her right hand. She held her hand up and saw three shards and bright, bright blood streaming down toward her elbow. She looked up at Adam just moments before her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out, nauseous at the sight of her own crimson outpour.

***

         Nove’s dad instantly regretted branding her with his cigarette. For days afterward, he begged for her forgiveness, bringing her back dolls that he could not afford, and that she did not want. She accepted them to let him believe that she accepted forgiveness, but there was only one thing Nove wanted. She wanted her mom back.

         The dark red circle under her eye became an identifier for her. She walked around feeling ashamed of this obvious mark, and when people asked her what it was, she lied, dutifully.

         “Oh, it’s just a birthmark. I was born with it.”

         The words tasted like bile.

         Still, she said them. In her own way, she hoped that by telling the whole world that it was a natural thing, that somehow people would stop looking at her like she needed their help. She didn’t need anything from them. She needed to get out.

***

         When Nove awoke, the light behind the white, sterile-looking shudders made her think it was dawn. She closed her eyes as if to go back to sleep before jolting awake and realizing that both of her arms were secured with blood pressure cuffs, that there was a pulse oximeter on her left index finger, and that there was a massive white cloud of gauze capping off her right arm. The nurse that had started to leave turned back and assured her that she was going to be just fine. The nurse didn’t mention Adam.

         Nove nodded gravely, directing her gaze out the window wordlessly. When she turned back toward the edge of the curtain, she realized how utterly alone she was. She did not know if she would ever see Adam again, or if she could even keep her job at this point. Unwilling to face her own present reality, Nove slipped back into unconsciousness.

         The next time Nove woke up, she saw two pairs of shoes underneath the curtain that hung around her hospital bed: one pair clearly belonged to the nurse (no one else wore white Michelin-man sneakers), but the other pair belonged to a man. Nove’s heart leaped for a moment—Adam.

         The manicured hand wrapped around the edge of the curtain, and when she pulled it aside, there was Nove’s dad, standing with some tightly wound roses and a stuffed bear, remorseful and relieved all at the same time, but mostly just beaming at the sight of his daughter. Nove watched his lips part. He mouthed words incoherently, moving through all of the things he probably wanted to say. He chose instead to place the flowers and bear at her feet. He finally looked her in the eye, and Nove saw, past the dark-gray lashes, the pain of a man who had really lost everything. For the first time in months, Nove felt tears rush back into her eyes, hot as a kettle, before breathlessly saying,

         “Uh, hi Dad.”

         They spoke together for a while. Not once did Nove let her shoulders relax all the way. She only told him that she had gotten a job nearby. She didn’t say where. Nove couldn’t believe that he was standing in the hospital room. He sat down next to her on the bed, as he had years ago, and stroked her face once before letting his hand fall to his side. The tension between them was undeniable. She asked him if he was still drinking. He laughed nervously and said “Oh, my angel, don’t bring stuff like that up right now! You’re not well. You might not even remember this with all of the drugs they’ve got you on! Just lie back, sweetheart. You just stay here, and I’ll bring you back something from the cafeteria. Would you like some lemonade? Your mom always told me how goddamn much you loved lemonade.”

         Her dad had never remembered anything about her. He’d also never mentioned her mom (except for the occasional curse when he tripped over something that she would have cleared away for him, had she been around), not since the day she left. She said, “Yeah, dad, I’d love a lemonade.” And after a pause, she added, “Thanks.”

         She watched him leave the room, and began to imagine how she might, might be able to visit him sometimes. Maybe get him into rehab. He was her father after all, and the months away had been rough. Better than living with an alcoholic, but what if he wasn’t just that? Nove smiled lightly to herself at the thought of fixing her dad, after all of those years. The guys at the bar knew good people nearby to help with her dad and his potential recovery. She felt hopeful.

         Thirty minutes went by, and her dad hadn’t come back yet. “Man. Long line,” Nove thought to herself. She grabbed the remote next to her bed and turned the small TV on. She waited, staring at the screen—not watching, unhearing.

         An hour went by.

         Another hour went by.

         And then another.