Erase and Rewind

FIRST EDITION

copyright © 2021 by Meghan Bell

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Erase and rewind : stories / Meghan Bell.

Names: Bell, Meghan, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210162481 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210162678

ISBN

9781771666787 (softcover)

ISBN

9781771666794 (

EPUB

)

ISBN

9781771666800 (

PDF

)

Classification:

LCC PS

8603.

E

4493

E

73 2021 |

DDC

C

813/.6—dc23

The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Book*hug Press also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Book Fund.

Logo: Canada Council for the Arts Logo: Ontario Arts Council

Logo: Government of Canada Logo: Ontario Creates

Book*hug Press acknowledges that the land on which we operate is the traditional territory of many nations, including the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnabeg, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee, and the Wendat peoples. We recognize the enduring presence of many diverse First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples and are grateful for the opportunity to meet and work on this territory.

Contents

Erase and Rewind

Faking It

Most Likely to Break

From a High Place

I Was Made to Love You

The Mandrake

Nostalgia

Thunderstruck

Pieces

Anything to Make You Happy

Captain Canada

Lighthouse Park

Anhedonia

Acknowledgements

Notes

About the Author

Erase and Rewind

Day Twelve

Louisa discovered she could reverse time on a dim suburban street, thirty-eight minutes after leaving Nick’s house.

It happened by accident: she stepped in dog shit. The shit squished over the soles of her sandals, wrapping around her naked feet and between her toes. She stopped walking and screamed breathlessly into the night.

If it hadn’t been so dark, she could have avoided the shit. If she’d been watching, if she’d been paying attention, if she hadn’t been staring at the stoplights three blocks ahead, wondering if they seemed so bright because of the marijuana she’d smoked hours before or because of the gelatinous tears stuck on her corneas like contact lenses. If none of those things, she probably would have seen the shit and she probably would have avoided it.

Louisa thought about all of this, when she realized she was walking backwards. She felt her foot step into the imprint she’d left in the shit, toe-heel, and then lift, dry, and step back onto clean concrete. She looked down and her feet stopped moving. She was standing directly behind the shit, which was now — miraculously — intact.

A string of complicated and contradicting emotions exploded in her gut. She had stepped in dog shit, and she had reversed it. How was this possible? Yet, there it was, footprint-free, right in front of her eyes.

Or had it even happened? The memory blurred at the edges. She remembered remembering that she had stepped in dog shit, but she couldn’t recall the sensation.

No. She had reversed it. She must have. She’d been so sure a minute ago.

Louisa pulled her cellphone out of her purse and checked the time. 12:33 a.m.

She closed her eyes and thought back.

Her eyes opened. She couldn’t move. She stared at the dog shit for what felt like a long time, and then, automatically, she began to walk backwards. After a block she forced herself to break the trance again. She checked the time. 12:24 a.m. She waited until the four became a five before lifting her chin. Already, she could barely remember the block ahead.

She not only could rewind, Louisa realized. She could erase.

The sadness within her burst and spread like lava. It grew out from her gut down into the dull pain between her legs and up her torso, where it seared her heart, then wound its way through her limbs. The weight of it was unbearable. It threatened to drown all other feelings.

She closed her eyes and thought back.

Day Eleven

Louisa had only looked back once after she left Nick’s house, at exactly 11:59 p.m. on Saturday night.

When her head began to turn, she felt a sharp sense of relief. In horror movies, the mounting tension before the audience sees the monster is always more terrifying than the monster itself. Louisa watched a lot of horror movies.

It was just an ordinary student house. Faded blue paint chipped and fell on the overgrown lawn. Empty forties of liquor littered windowsills. Automatically, her head tilted away from her shoulder and her gaze returned to the ground. She continued to step back toward her destination. Small tears rolled up her face and into her eyes.

Back, back.

Louisa stepped backwards up the three porch steps. Her hand shot back, and the doorknob swung to meet her palm.

She’d rushed out of the house, and now she rushed back into it, winding her way through the foyer and up the staircase, to his bedroom door, and inside.

Nick sat upright in bed, the fly of his jeans open, his body twisted toward the open window. He was shirtless, and the slight paunch of his stomach peeked over his Simpsons boxers. He leaned outside and inhaled clouds of smoke. Each time he lifted the joint to his lips, it burned bright and lengthened like Pinocchio’s nose.

They both started speaking. Their voices were guttural, haunting. Louisa imagined conspiracy theorists listening for Satanic messages in their reverse dialect. She couldn’t understand a word, and when she tried to remember what had been said the first time they’d lived this scene, she started mentally humming the lyrics to Baby, It’s Cold Outside, which, for whatever reason, she found so perversely hysterical she started to giggle or maybe vomit, and Nick and his bedroom froze for a fraction of a second, then he began to speak.

Ha, you’re so stoned, Nick said. Seriously, just crash here.

Shit. Louisa focused, and Nick repeated the words in reverse.

She dropped her purse on the desk, shrugged off her cardigan, and kneeled to fiddle with the straps of her sandals. Her hands and vision shook — she was getting drunker and higher with each receding minute. She heard a lighter click and the roll of the spark wheel, and then the sounds of Nick returning the joint to the small Tupperware he kept in his bedside table. She stood and pulled down her underwear, and returned them to where they had been lost in the sheets. She sat on the bed and waited. Then, in a single movement, she hinged down until she lay on the bed with her arms over her head.

Nick hovered above her. One hand clamped over her wrists, the other pinning down her left shoulder. His face was triumphant. As the look faded and he pressed down into her, Louisa unopened her eyes and reminded herself that this soon would be erased.

Close to the beginning, she said something that sounded a bit like own. Own, she said. Then again, softer: own.

It took her a moment to flip the sounds. A weird sense of vindication washed through her.

She knew she’d told him she didn’t want to have sex when she’d agreed to go home with him, back when they were dancing in the bar.

With a nudge at her ribs, he’d bet her he could change her mind.

She laughed. "Oh, like you’re that good?"

He grinned. Nick had a soft face, and a pair of dimples that made him seem gentle and a little goofy. He’d delivered the warning like a joke, and Louisa had ribbed back, oblivious to the punchline.

Until now, she hadn’t been able to remember if she’d said no after that.

You fucking asshole, she thought.

Each thrust was more painful than the one before it, until he finally pulled out for good and the wound was healed.

Three Things to Know about Louisa:

A couple years ago, inspired by celebrities like Beyoncé and Emma Watson, Louisa and the group of girls she befriended in her first year of university began to identify as feminists. That Christmas, they all exchanged copies of The Feminine Mystique, The Beauty Myth, Bad Feminist, and autobiographies by famous comediennes like Tina Fey. Ever the diligent student, Louisa took to the internet to learn as much about the different movements as possible. She quickly realized that not only was she impossibly ignorant, but the more she learned, the more ignorant she felt. She found some of the more extreme — a word she would only use in her head — content difficult to relate to. Consequently, while she identified as a feminist and dedicated hours each week to reading articles, think-pieces, essays, and books by feminist writers, Louisa had never written a single internet comment, tweet, or Facebook post on the subject of feminism and preferred to hold her tongue in conversations that touched on feminist politics — or politics in general. Not because she was afraid of a right-wing backlash (although she was, a little), but because she was afraid of getting feminism wrong — like her idols, Beyoncé, Emma Watson, and Tina Fey all had in some way or the other, according to the internet.

Louisa lost her virginity at seventeen to her high school boyfriend. This was something she neither regretted, nor recalled with any sort of particular fondness. She had since slept with two other people, both boyfriends she’d been dating for at least three months. She liked to joke that her relative prudishness was a result of "recessive Catholic

DNA

." (Louisa was a math major, and hadn’t studied biology since tenth grade.) No one in Louisa’s family believed in God or went to church — other than for weddings and funerals — but seven of her eight great-grandparents had been devout. However, the secret truth was that Louisa was a bit of prude because she was a bit of a romantic, which was just one of the many traits that made her suspect she was absolutely useless at feminism.

At this time, there were 423 photographs chronicling Louisa’s experimentations with alcohol, marijuana, and — just one time, at a deadmau5 concert — ecstasy, which were available online through her and her friends’ various social media profiles. Eleven of those pictures were taken within the last four hours. Nick was in three of them, and in one, they are standing outside the bar, sharing a joint, both smiling drunk like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Day Ten

Falling out of sleep was like floating to the surface of a deep lake.

As Louisa slowly regained consciousness, a complication occurred to her: if she allowed time to start moving forward and didn’t remember Nick was a threat, how was she supposed to make sure he didn’t do it again?

She could write herself a note before her memory started to fade, but would she believe it? And even if she did, they still spent three hours per week in a classroom together, and they were technically seeing each other, even if it had only been eight days. She’d have to drop the class. She’d have to text him that they were breaking up. This struck sober Louisa as both wildly inconvenient and potentially dangerous. So she kept rewinding.

Louisa had always prided herself on being a rational, pragmatic person. Like many people, she had little to no control over her emotions when she drank, but now she folded them up and tucked them into the analytical creases of her left brain. She wondered, as she turned and tossed to the faint backwards soundtrack of her roommate watching Grey’s Anatomy, if it would have been better to not rewind, and just deal with the events of that night. She pushed the thought out of her mind. The fact was, the idea of going to the police or telling anyone what happened terrified her. It was better to relive this terrible thing if it meant she wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional and physical consequences. The decision to rewind had been made through the lens of tequila, marijuana, and a high level of distress, but Louisa suspected she would have made the exact same call dead sober.

Louisa was not the sort of person who believed that everything happens for a reason. The human brain is designed to identify patterns and order, and where little to none exists, impose it. Louisa found the concept of destiny and the people who believed in it to be terribly boring and depressing.

The rational thing to do, Louisa decided, would be to erase the whole fucking