wondering what Meghan was doing here. Wondering how I was going to explain why I was dressed in a coat, hat and gloves on the floor on a sweltering June morning.
“Mickey! Come on, stop screwing around!”
My right arm was still attached to my body, but like the fingers on my left hand, it was completely numb. A useless slab of dead meat hanging from my shoulder. Fingers were one thing. A whole arm was something else.
The pain coursing through my body was unreal. It was like the flu on anabolic steroids.
“I’m one button away from 911 unless you tell me what’s going on. And this time, I’m going to make sure they pump your stomach.”
I looked at her. Swallowed.
“I’m not…I’m not on drugs. I swear. Just help me up and bring over my laptop.”
“What? Your laptop? Why?”
“It’s important. Please. ”
Against her better judgment, Meghan put the phone down and helped me to the houndstooth couch, then grabbed my laptop from the cherrywood desk and put it on my lap. I used my three good fingers to pull it into a useful typing position.
“Hey—what’s wrong with your arm?”
“It’s numb. Hang on a minute.”
It was difficult to type with three fingers. I knew plenty of people got by with two, but you have to understand—I was hardwired to type with at least eight. (The pinky fingers usually sit out my work sessions, like foremen on a construction crew.) Using three was unnatural. Using three was like trying to put in a contact lens using my elbows.
“Want me to do that for you?”
“I got it.”
I hunt-and-pecked “Patty Glenhart” and looked for the entry I’d found earlier.
It was gone.
I tried searching for it a different way, going to the main page of the true-crime website (SinnersAndSadists.com, it was called—charming, huh?) and search by “W” and “P,” but there was no entry about a girl named Patty Glenhart.
Meghan touched my shoulder.
“What are you looking for?”
“Hopefully, something that isn’t there.”
It sounded absurd, but maybe I’d actually gone back and changed things. Maybe there was a little girl who was alive right now because I traveled back to the year 1972 and pushed a pedophile out of his kitchen window. I’d lost the use of my arm in the process, but that didn’t matter, because maybe, just maybe Patty Glenhart was alive and the bad dreams were behind her.
Meghan looked at me.
“You know, for someone who’s trying to convince me that they’re not on drugs, you’re doing a really awful job.”
“Swear to God, I’m not on drugs.”
“You’re talking gibberish. I found you on the floor, wrapped in an overcoat and wearing a hat. Your right arm is numb. Tell me which of these things does not say, I’m having a lost weekend in the middle of the week. What’s going on?”
There were a million reasons not to tell Meghan what was going on. The spiral of insanity I mentioned.
But I told her anyway.
After I’d finished laying it out for her—and I must have done a fairly good job, because she didn’t interrupt once—Meghan asked me if I wanted some Vitamin Water. I told her sure. She removed a plastic bottle from a paper bag she’d placed on the cherrywood desk, unscrewed it, then handed it to me. I was clever enough not to reach for it with my right hand. But not clever enough to realize that my three-finger grip on the bottle wouldn’t be enough. It slipped straight down, bouncing slightly on a couch cushion, and gushing pale purple liquid all over my lap.
“Gah!”
I lifted the laptop out of the way. It was a Mac relic, but it was also my only link to the outside world. That is to say, anyplace that wasn’t Frankford.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Meghan said, picking up the bottle and then darting across the room in search of a clean towel. Which she wouldn’t find, since I hadn’t done laundry since I’d moved in. There were two paper towels left on a roll that my grandpop must have purchased. She brought them
“Mickey! Come on, stop screwing around!”
My right arm was still attached to my body, but like the fingers on my left hand, it was completely numb. A useless slab of dead meat hanging from my shoulder. Fingers were one thing. A whole arm was something else.
The pain coursing through my body was unreal. It was like the flu on anabolic steroids.
“I’m one button away from 911 unless you tell me what’s going on. And this time, I’m going to make sure they pump your stomach.”
I looked at her. Swallowed.
“I’m not…I’m not on drugs. I swear. Just help me up and bring over my laptop.”
“What? Your laptop? Why?”
“It’s important. Please. ”
Against her better judgment, Meghan put the phone down and helped me to the houndstooth couch, then grabbed my laptop from the cherrywood desk and put it on my lap. I used my three good fingers to pull it into a useful typing position.
“Hey—what’s wrong with your arm?”
“It’s numb. Hang on a minute.”
It was difficult to type with three fingers. I knew plenty of people got by with two, but you have to understand—I was hardwired to type with at least eight. (The pinky fingers usually sit out my work sessions, like foremen on a construction crew.) Using three was unnatural. Using three was like trying to put in a contact lens using my elbows.
“Want me to do that for you?”
“I got it.”
I hunt-and-pecked “Patty Glenhart” and looked for the entry I’d found earlier.
It was gone.
I tried searching for it a different way, going to the main page of the true-crime website (SinnersAndSadists.com, it was called—charming, huh?) and search by “W” and “P,” but there was no entry about a girl named Patty Glenhart.
Meghan touched my shoulder.
“What are you looking for?”
“Hopefully, something that isn’t there.”
It sounded absurd, but maybe I’d actually gone back and changed things. Maybe there was a little girl who was alive right now because I traveled back to the year 1972 and pushed a pedophile out of his kitchen window. I’d lost the use of my arm in the process, but that didn’t matter, because maybe, just maybe Patty Glenhart was alive and the bad dreams were behind her.
Meghan looked at me.
“You know, for someone who’s trying to convince me that they’re not on drugs, you’re doing a really awful job.”
“Swear to God, I’m not on drugs.”
“You’re talking gibberish. I found you on the floor, wrapped in an overcoat and wearing a hat. Your right arm is numb. Tell me which of these things does not say, I’m having a lost weekend in the middle of the week. What’s going on?”
There were a million reasons not to tell Meghan what was going on. The spiral of insanity I mentioned.
But I told her anyway.
After I’d finished laying it out for her—and I must have done a fairly good job, because she didn’t interrupt once—Meghan asked me if I wanted some Vitamin Water. I told her sure. She removed a plastic bottle from a paper bag she’d placed on the cherrywood desk, unscrewed it, then handed it to me. I was clever enough not to reach for it with my right hand. But not clever enough to realize that my three-finger grip on the bottle wouldn’t be enough. It slipped straight down, bouncing slightly on a couch cushion, and gushing pale purple liquid all over my lap.
“Gah!”
I lifted the laptop out of the way. It was a Mac relic, but it was also my only link to the outside world. That is to say, anyplace that wasn’t Frankford.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Meghan said, picking up the bottle and then darting across the room in search of a clean towel. Which she wouldn’t find, since I hadn’t done laundry since I’d moved in. There were two paper towels left on a roll that my grandpop must have purchased. She brought them
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