Free Sunlight on My Shadow by Judy Liautaud Page A

walked out of my house on Friday evening with a freshly whipped-up bottle of The Potion.
    My life would never be the same after this free-for-all open house party. It was September 30, 1966, uncommonly chilly and damp, like winter was in the wings. The parents were out of town, and there were beater cars lining the street. It was a teenaged free-for-all with no adults to keep us in line.
    Mick and I started kissing on the couch and then he grabbed my hand and led me down a hallway. I was shy about anyone seeing us go into the bedroom, yet I was buzzed enough to ridicule myself for caring what other people might think and followed Mick to a room in the back of the house. Mick had gotten a condom from his friend John, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the “pulling out” routine. After we kissed a bit, he took out the “gift” and put it on. Perhaps it was stale and stiff, purchased years ago, safely tucked into John’s back pocket as it waited for its call to duty. Or maybe we didn’t have it on right: leaving some looseness in the tip. At any rate, the condom lacked integrity. And, maybe, so did Mick. Maybe he felt it, maybe he didn’t, but he failed to pause when the thing blew up inside me. I had no clue, but I thought it was awful wet down there if the rubber was supposed to be catching the fluids. I didn’t feel it break.
    With wide-eyed surprise, Mick popped up when he was done. He held the shredded rubber between his thumb and forefinger, waving it like a dead mouse held by the tail. “Jude, look what happened,” he said.
    After the party, I was morose and numbed by the alcohol as Mick drove the snowy roads back to my home. I stumbled into the house and knocked on Mom and Dad’s bedroom door to say, “I’m home.” I opened the window in my room to let the winter air freshen my drunken stupor, threw my clothes on the floor, and crawled under the covers. The electric blanket felt warm on my skin, but the inside of me felt like freezer meat.
    Morning drifted in with a cloud of gloom. I could hear the tree branches scraping on the roof shingles from the heavy winds. Each time my heart pumped, I could feel it in the veins on the side of my head. My mouth felt like powdery sand. An aching thirst wrapped around my tongue and throat. Water, water, where was some water? I reached over to my French desk and fumbled for the glass. It had dust speckles floating on top, but I couldn’t get up for a fresh refill or I would puke. The more I drank, the thirstier I got. I might as well have been gulping air. Then I remembered the night before.
    I drank too much. I lost my mind. I lost my protection. Was it true? Did it really happen like that? Did the rubber break? Even if my mind was foggy, my gut told me the nightmare was real.
    Icy air blew the curtains on my window. I reached over and turned my electric blanket to high. I looked at the clock. It was 10:00 am. I hardly ever slept this late. I could hear Mom and Dad in the kitchen. Dad was on the phone making plans for a fishing trip, and Mom was wheeling around in her electric chair.
    How could I face them ever again? The rubber shredded. How could that have happened? “That was one big boo-boo,” I thought. I could cry and I’m using baby language. This is no joke. It’s more than a boo-boo. More like a natural disaster. It would have been better if we used the pull-it-out routine. Sex felt a little better this time; there was no bleeding. I still felt dark. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
    The truth smothered me like a soggy blanket. I sighed. I yawned. I couldn’t get enough air or water. I took another drink. I wondered how I could have let myself go along with the rubber idea. I screwed up. I was screwed. I am screwed. If only I could erase the reality. If only fairy tales were true. If only I could go back to sleep or back to last night and do it differently.
    The horrible part was the feeling of blackness and filth that came with my lack of