Bad Thoughts: Stories

Nada Alic

Bad Thoughts

Nada Alic is a writer in Los Angeles. Her story The Intruder was shortlisted for the 2019 CBC Short Story Prize, and My New Life was published in the journal No Tokens. In 2020 she was a recipient of a Canada Council for the Arts literary grant for her debut story collection, Bad Thoughts. She is currently working on a forthcoming novel.

A VINTAGE BOOKS ORIGINAL 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Nada Alic

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Several pieces first appeared in the following publications: My New Life in No Tokens (January 2021) • The Intruder on CBCBooks.ca (April 2019) • This Is Heaven in Astra Magazine 1: Ecstasy (April 2022) • Daddy’s Girl, in different form, in This Is Badland, no. 5 (April 2022)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Name: Alic, Nada, author.

Title: Bad thoughts : stories / Nada Alic.

Description: First edition. | New York : Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, 2022.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022005045 (print) | LCCN 2022005046 (ebook)

Subjects: GSAFD: Black humor. | Short stories.

Classification: LCC PR9199.4.A4455 B33 2022 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.A4455 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022005045

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022005046

Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN 9780593466636

Ebook ISBN 9780593466643

Cover design by Madeline Partner

vintagebooks.com

ep_prh_6.0_148359411_c0_r0

To Ryan Hahn

To Andrea Nakhla

Contents

My New Life

The Intruder

Tug, Spin, Release

Earth to Lydia

A Free Woman

Watch Me

The Contestants

Ghost Baby

Giving Up

The Party

Edging

My God, Your Face

This Is Heaven

Daddy’s Girl

Acknowledgments

Instead of pathologizing every human quirk, we should say, By the grace of this behavior, this individual has found it possible to continue.

—Sarah Manguso, 300 Arguments

My New Life

Sometimes I wonder, Is this it? and I’ll look around at all the modern luxuries that keep me alive and think, Probably. I have no reason to complain; I have everything I need. Last night Mona and I watched a documentary about the impossibility of our planet—the strange alchemy that created life, my life, my one and only. Billions of years of molecular replication, mutant algae clawing up from the depths of the ocean, consciousness forming out of soft tissue and nerves. Instead of thinking, What an exquisite machine, all I could think was What a burden. What an act to follow. And also Is the heater on? I can barely feel it. When the fifty-two-hertz whale swam across the screen singing its lonely song, I cried. Mona cried, too, not because of the whale but because her mother is judgmental.

I can barely remember life before Mona. Sometimes I’ll get flashbacks from childhood of someone piercing my ears with a safety pin or a wayward neighborhood girl teaching me how to throw up, but I’m not sure if I just made that up or if I saw it on TV. I met Mona two summers ago at a backyard baby shower, my third of the month. Imagine a congregation of thirty or so women in neutral linen sets presenting their offerings of homemade banana bread and hemp diapers, shrieking at one another. Personally I could never get past the image of being ripped apart, half-submerged in bathwater, while being gently instructed to breathe through it. I sometimes worry that motherhood is contagious, like a parasite or the way cohabitating women synchronize their cycles. I stood off to the side and kept my coat on. Luckily no one seemed to notice me, except for Jessa, who stared dead-eyed in my direction while she breastfed her newborn. It was so unnerving that at one point I mouthed What? and she finally turned her gaze back down toward her puffy nipple.

I was in the buffet line poking at the untouched vegan potato salad when Mona came in from behind for a hug, pressing her full weight into me. She’d mistaken me for someone else, a friend. Instinctively, my shoulders softened and my knees buckled and my body went limp in a trust-fall motion before I realized what was happening. When I turned around, I saw a beautiful woman wearing a tailored blue pantsuit practically levitating above a sea of homogenous white smocks. I couldn’t stop staring at her face. She had a strong jaw, fat lips, and a sturdy Slavic nose. Her sculptural features were so striking that they eclipsed any of her other minor imperfections: unkempt eyebrows overgrown from neglect, a constellation of chin acne, or the splotch of melasma on her forehead. I felt as though I had been chosen, as if she had come to usher me into my new life moments before my old one imploded. She smiled and introduced herself, then pointed out the woman she’d mistaken me for, who was refilling an ice bucket off in the distance. We looked nothing alike, but I felt a strange combination of hatred and gratitude for this woman and tried to assume her posture for the rest of the party, which was difficult since I had so little to go on.

We piled our plates with hard cheeses, baby carrots, and globs of hummus and found a seat in the mildly damp grass. I knew I liked her when she told me about her heavy period before I knew anything else about her: what she did for a living or how she did that thing with her eyeliner, the way she made it smudge on purpose. She spoke in a soothing, unaffected monotone—a welcome reprieve from the shrill mating calls of new mothers manically trying to convince one another they were having the time of their lives. She lowered her voice to a whisper when talking about the other women, many of whom had worked with her at a now-defunct wellness brand for dogs. She described the cultlike conditions of the company, how employees were forced to attend wilderness retreats, where, sedated by CBD-infused teas, they sat cross-legged on colorful Mexican blankets and took turns sharing traumatic childhood experiences. Most told benign stories of divorce and life-threatening allergies, so Mona decided to wow them with a made-up story about being molested by a stepbrother. She wanted to prove how easy it’d be to expose the perversity of their trauma Olympics, but mostly she was bored. She had no cell reception all weekend and had watched too many true crime procedurals to wander off on her own at night. When she finished, all her teary-eyed coworkers snapped their fingers in gratitude. The following Monday, there was a bouquet of tulips on her desk with a note from the team that read: To a Warrior Goddess!!

I swallowed a laugh and nearly choked on a seed cracker. I was so relieved to be talking about anything other than intermittent fasting or my Enneagram number that I quickly offered up my most embarrassing qualities, beginning with my chronic night sweats and fear of birds. She agreed: most birds were untrustworthy. With each confession I felt lighter, somehow absolved. She listened attentively as I told her about my incurable sadness, how it had taken on new gradients this year, with sharper edges that sometimes left me breathless. I wondered aloud if it was just one of those things, like getting older, and how fault lines suddenly appear across your neck and your lower back hurts for no reason. I used vivid imagery when describing my pain, to show her I wasn’t boring, regular sad; I was an emotionally complex person. I was maybe even an artist. She reassured me that it was likely hormonal and no big deal, then complained about the disproportionate size of her left breast compared to her right, and her popcorn addiction, as if any of those problems were categorically similar to mine. Sometimes I wonder if her problems are even real at all. My worst fear is that she’s making them up, just to relate. Actually my worst fear is being eaten alive. I don’t know where it came from, but I think about it often.

—

As the lonely whale song played through the credits, I was reminded of a recurring nightmare I’ve been having. Normally I wouldn’t mention it, but, unlike most people, Mona loves hearing about dreams and translating their symbolic and archetypal meanings. In this one, my husband, Liam, and I are on the beach. The midday sun burns brightly, but I’m fine because my body is covered in a thick frosting of sunscreen. I let it sit until it’s caked on and hardened, like a full-body cast or a papier-mâché shell. He asks for the sunscreen, but I’ve used it all up, so I tell him he doesn’t need it. I tell him he’s overreacting and that he could use a little color. He shrugs and returns to his book as the sun proceeds to set the earth ablaze. Birds drop from the sky, leaving trails of smoke. Beachgoers boil alive in an ocean of flames. I look over and notice big chunks of Liam’s skin cracking and melting, exposing muscle, fat, and internal organs. He asks again, You sure I don’t need any? His legs have burned down to the bone. A rotting smell sits heavy in the air. I’m positive, honey, I say from under an umbrella, you’re building a base. He rubs his face, wiping the remains of cartilage from his nose, and smoke starts to rise from the top of his head as his brain cooks. He sighs, unable to read the words on the page. I don’t feel right, he says. I tell him he’s dehydrated and give him a bottle of water. He’s so thankful, so moved by the gesture. Leave some for me! I say to what’s left of him, now a pile of charred bones and a pair of flip-flops. I watch as skeletal vultures pick at his remains, and laugh. (I made that last part up just to impress Mona with my creativity.)

As with any recurring dream, there are subtle variations—sometimes it’s a tsunami in the distance, or a swarm of killer bees—but the essence of it remains: willful endangerment. I know I’m doing it, but I can’t stop. I’ll wake up, having soaked through the sheets with a guilt that doesn’t belong to me, and the only way to rid myself of it is to repent by being extra nice to him in waking life. I’ll do anything; I’ll open my eyes when we have sex, and I won’t even do that thing where I look away and imagine his brother. When he shaves his chest in the bathroom and gets little hairs all over my toothbrush, I’ll just blow them off; I won’t make a big deal about it. And when he tells me we’re going out with his boring work friends, I won’t protest; I’ll just say, Party time! in a singsongy voice. I’ll be so accommodating, a perfect angel.

Dreams about beaches usually mean good things are coming your way, Mona said, lazily stretching out on my sofa like a cat. Want to hear something worse? Before I could answer, she said, I cheated on Greg, sort of.

She and Greg had only been married for a year. He had classic movie star features but a little more gaunt and mournful. He had sallow eyes, like someone with secrets—a troubled person. In this way, I understand him. He clings to Mona’s self-assuredness in the way I do. He is so handsome that I can never look him in the eye for too long and instead rest my gaze on the hairless space between his brows. The few times I’ve looked, I’ve fought the inappropriate urge to cry.

What’s ‘sort of’? I asked.

I made an online dating profile as a joke, just to see.

See what?

I don’t know, to see how it works.

Mona does these sorts of things on occasion: slips out of her own life just to see. She’s always in on the joke and treats it like some kind of performance art: always one step removed to inoculate her from consequence. She draws philosophical guidance from all manner of suicidal poets, cult leaders, and controversial feminist critics to justify her worldview. Woman is nature and nature is unknowable. Therefore, woman is unknowable to herself and a threat to men, she’s explained. She believes that nature is inherently violent and morality is an oppressive form of spiritual castration. Acting on her impulses is her way of reclaiming her humanity. All her compelling theories about womanhood make perfect sense in the moment but leave me confused once I leave her orbit. She makes me feel impassioned and manic, but I can’t explain why.

Her escapist impulses led to a short-lived career as a mukbang camgirl, where she ate endless bowls of cereal at the request of her subscribers. After that she spent a year as a devout Catholic, claiming it was research for a role in a movie she would one day write and star in, but after she met Greg, her experimentation became more internal, using chemically altered states to achieve ego annihilation and get closer to God. Like that one time she called me from the bathroom stall at work after taking what she thought was a microdose of acid but was, in fact, a full tab. She called to let me know that her boss, Leonard, was her son in a past life, and wasn’t it so funny? Leonard! It explained so much. Then she laugh-cried for ten minutes straight while I stayed on the line, loading the dishwasher. I can see it all, and it’s perfect. It’s all perfect, she’d said.

So you met someone? I asked.

Dylan. Yes. I told him I was just looking for friends, and he said that was great because he was, too, so we agreed to meet as friends in the parking lot behind Rosewood Plaza. She paused, adding, People do that, you know. They meet friends online.

I believe you, I said.

He didn’t look like his photos. She laughed.

They never do! I agreed, not that I have any idea. I met Liam at the gym during a period of my life when I thought getting abs was an attainable goal. He would idle on the elliptical behind me, and whenever I turned around, he’d pretend to be on his phone. It went on like this for a year before he ever talked to me. I hated being constantly watched, constantly monitored. I felt so exposed, but I was in the best shape of my life. One night, he followed me home. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was his way of flirting with me.

Mona went on to describe the encounter: how young Dylan actually was, how his gangly limbs swam in a stretched cotton T-shirt and basketball shorts, how his car smelled like body spray and fruity nicotine. When she got in the car, he looked straight ahead as if he’d just been caught. Nothing happened, she swore, she just sat in the passenger seat and put her hand over his to calm him, as if she’d done this before, but she hadn’t, Not with a teenager, god! She repeated the word friend in her mind like a mantra. He closed his eyes and guided her hand to his mouth, and she let him suck on her finger. Whichever one, it didn’t matter; looking at them, she felt they no longer belonged to her. That’s all he wanted to do, and who knows why. Maybe nerves. Or maybe it was a dare, like one of those college hazing initiations, a seduce-a-MILF challenge—I read an article about it once. When it was over, she emerged from the car with her face beaming as she tried to recall certain details about her life, some anchor points to remind her of who she was. Greg, the last four digits of her social security number, if she believed in a god and, if so, was he watching? Her mind was blank. All she could feel was the sound of her heartbeat synced up to the deep house-music bassline blaring from his car as he drove away.

When she finished her story, I took a sip of my wine and looked at her fingernails. They were oblong-shaped and freshly manicured. I kept my face soft and expressionless. Being the keeper of her secrets was a role I took seriously, because it meant no one in the world could know her like I did. I wanted to know more, like did she like it, and if she did, would she do it again? Was she going to leave Greg now? Upend her whole life?

Ha! She waved her hand as if swatting a fly, then quickly changed the subject to last night’s episode of a reality dating show where contestants were blindfolded and taken to an undisclosed location somewhere remote and inhospitable to human life. Lisa didn’t deserve to go; she was their best chance for survival, she said, stuffing a fluff of store-bought sponge cake in her mouth. A crusty flake remained at the corner of her lips and she just let it be. Nothing ever fazed her. Maybe that’s it, the answer to everything. Let it be.

—

A few days later I accompanied Liam to an upscale wine bar for his friend Quin’s birthday. When we arrived, Quin waved us over to join the group in the reserved balcony area. He looked to be in his late forties, with grayish hair and neatly trimmed stubble, which is to say: totally forgettable. Apparently we’ve met before, but I couldn’t place him. Now that I’m married, I have a hard time remembering men’s faces. There is nothing that makes them stand out, I guess, unless if they’re hideous, I’ll probably remember them as a courtesy. Liam ordered our drinks, and I listened politely as a circle of men discussed exotic trips they were about to take or had just returned from. Anytime someone spoke, I would smile and push air out of my nostrils in a polite low-impact laugh.

After a while, I couldn’t remember what I was doing there. Everything had lost its meaning and all I could think was Don’t touch anyone’s penis—don’t do it. Imagine what would happen if you did, like, right now. Think about anything else. Look up at the ceiling tiles. What is that…distressed tin? Elegant choice. Very modern. But once I thought it, I couldn’t stop. I fixed my gaze on the assortment of black and gray dress pants before me. They all looked so vulnerable, so up for grabs. Concealed only by thin layers of fabric. I imagined them as wind chimes waiting to be struck. The impulse wasn’t sexual; it was destructive. I just stood there, not touching anyone’s penis, quietly frightened by who I am and what I’m capable of.

On the drive home, I didn’t mention penises, but I did ask what the point of it all is, not just the socializing or the drinking per se but this whole business of being alive. Liam ignored me and instead asked if I could hear it, that churning sound the car was making. He told me it had been doing that for weeks now and he couldn’t figure it out. I wanted to tell him that I no longer love him but not to take it personally because I don’t love anything besides sleep and the feeling of having my hair professionally washed. I knew well before he began driving erratically up the winding narrow roads toward our home that he had very little to offer me in the emotions department. He’s going through his own thing: rapid hair loss. All I can say is It’s very masculine or I can finally see your face.

We pulled up to our building, a converted motel lined with drooping banana plants designed to confuse us into thinking we live at a luxury resort. I had bought into it for the last couple years, but now I can see that most of the plants are dying. Someone should water these, I whined. Complaining about lawn maintenance was the closest I’ve ever felt to being rich. Liam makes just enough money for the both of us as a web developer for an accounting-software startup, but he spends his money on stupid things. For my birthday last year, he bought me a star. He printed out a certificate from a website as proof. I’d asked for a new computer.

Inside, Liam turned on the TV and began working on a pile of pistachio nuts left out on the coffee table. He doesn’t just crack them open; he sucks on the shells and spits them out like a cowboy, looking so pleased with himself, so proud. I pulled out my phone to read a text from Mona; it was a link to poorly photoshopped photos of celebrities that exaggerated their hips and butts and made their torsos look deformed. We replenish our thread constantly with inspirational quotes and questions about things we can easily find out for ourselves, like: Can you eat salmon skin? How many years until the sun explodes? Through it, we explore the edges of our stranger impulses and our secret thoughts; I tell her about the vegetables I find most erotic, and she makes a list of conditions she thinks people are just making up: ADHD, for example, and Lyme disease.

I was standing next to Liam when I felt him grab my free hand and plop it on the back of his neck, signaling a request for a massage. I wondered if he was jealous of Mona, but I don’t know if he could ever fully comprehend what she and I have. It isn’t romantic because it’s more than that. Romance is a fiction, a lonely movie that plays just for you. It passes like a mood. Mona is my witness, proof that I’m not someone else’s fantasy projection; I’m a real living thing on planet Earth. I continued standing, half-heartedly clawing at Liam’s back while he made little whimpering sounds like a baby animal; I fell for it every time.

Your hands are magic, he said.

I pressed my thumb hard into his shoulder meat. I worried he might be right. What if my hands are magic? I’ve never used them to their full potential; I’ve never thought to before. Liam took my hand and guided it down to his crotch, where a hard