hands rest. “You don’t have to fool me. I’m not asking for the truth, Freedom. But what I am asking is that you consider talking to someone.”
“I’m already talking to someone.” My anger makes its way to my voice.
“OK.” He clears his throat. “That was suggestion number one.” Iroll my eyes. “Just a suggestion, is all.” He smiles.
God, I love his smile
. “Have you considered getting help in other areas of your life? Like with the drinking?”
Only inches separate our faces from touching, and right now it takes all of what little decency I have left to stop me from throwing myself on him. He cares. He’s the only one who cares and I hate it more than anything. I don’t deserve it. But I want to tell him my feelings for him are strong, that I wished all the time that something terrible and freakish would happen to him so that I could go to his rescue and comfort him in the night. But I say nothing about it. “That’s my business.” I break away from him. “Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
It’s better this way, to nip it in the bud before anything might have a chance to flourish. He has a kid, a nice home. Can’t let myself get anything near normal. Me and normal are like gunpowder and fire. The two things should never mix.
—
Back in the office
before the regulars can ride in, I go back to the Internet. Still nothing on Rebekah’s Facebook page. Nothing new from Louisa Horn. On Mason’s page, a few random congratulations on his wall about some legal victory this morning and one from last night, a post he was tagged in from Violet about a trip to Turks and Caicos.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I do a quick Google search of their names. The legal case that Mason won this morning pops up first. Already knew about that. Then I type in Rebekah’s name.
The room spins. The music outside fades further and further from my ears. I grab the nearest garbage can and dry-heave. I think I’m having a heart attack. I stand to go for the phone, to call for help. But my knees buckle. I panic. I fall. The lights fade to nothing, not anything that the name of a color can describe. Like I’m in slow motion, the floor comes closer and closer to my face. And that’s the last thing I can remember.
TWO DAYS AGO
Peter feels the gusts of people rushing by. Loudspeakers announce inaudible messages about departure times and platform numbers. He zips his electric wheelchair through Penn Station in Manhattan; his coat hanging on the back to hide the lewd stickers his brothers have stuck on there over the years. Below him in the chair’s compartment are the essentials: underwear, soap, a toothbrush, two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, deodorant, the rest of Matthew’s welcome-home cake in Tupperware, his laptop with its accessories, and a cell phone he lifted from his mother while she slept, her head practically inside a bucket of chicken bones. She was in a foul mood after this month’s disability check from social welfare was late. Of course the government does this to her on purpose, and only her, those spiteful bastards. One big giant fucking conspiracy from the White House against Lynn Delaney. But Peter didn’t mind, as long as he was able to lift what money she had from the drawer next to her underwear and sex toys. He’ll do his best to forget he ever saw them. And as long as she forgot to put the lock on the refrigerator.
“I n-n-need uh Amtrak ticket to Loo-Loo-Louisville, Kent-t-tucky.” Peter can barely see over the window; his cheekbones twitch and eyes squint with every consonant that doesn’t want to come out.
“I’m gonna need a driver’s license for ID.”
“Does it luh-look like I can fucking jer-jer-drive?” He reaches in his pocket and slides his New York state-issued ID through the window.
An hour later, when the train just finishes boarding, Peter reaches for his mother’s cell.
She must have been high as a kite if she forgot to lock the refrigerator and
“I’m already talking to someone.” My anger makes its way to my voice.
“OK.” He clears his throat. “That was suggestion number one.” Iroll my eyes. “Just a suggestion, is all.” He smiles.
God, I love his smile
. “Have you considered getting help in other areas of your life? Like with the drinking?”
Only inches separate our faces from touching, and right now it takes all of what little decency I have left to stop me from throwing myself on him. He cares. He’s the only one who cares and I hate it more than anything. I don’t deserve it. But I want to tell him my feelings for him are strong, that I wished all the time that something terrible and freakish would happen to him so that I could go to his rescue and comfort him in the night. But I say nothing about it. “That’s my business.” I break away from him. “Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
It’s better this way, to nip it in the bud before anything might have a chance to flourish. He has a kid, a nice home. Can’t let myself get anything near normal. Me and normal are like gunpowder and fire. The two things should never mix.
—
Back in the office
before the regulars can ride in, I go back to the Internet. Still nothing on Rebekah’s Facebook page. Nothing new from Louisa Horn. On Mason’s page, a few random congratulations on his wall about some legal victory this morning and one from last night, a post he was tagged in from Violet about a trip to Turks and Caicos.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I do a quick Google search of their names. The legal case that Mason won this morning pops up first. Already knew about that. Then I type in Rebekah’s name.
The room spins. The music outside fades further and further from my ears. I grab the nearest garbage can and dry-heave. I think I’m having a heart attack. I stand to go for the phone, to call for help. But my knees buckle. I panic. I fall. The lights fade to nothing, not anything that the name of a color can describe. Like I’m in slow motion, the floor comes closer and closer to my face. And that’s the last thing I can remember.
TWO DAYS AGO
Peter feels the gusts of people rushing by. Loudspeakers announce inaudible messages about departure times and platform numbers. He zips his electric wheelchair through Penn Station in Manhattan; his coat hanging on the back to hide the lewd stickers his brothers have stuck on there over the years. Below him in the chair’s compartment are the essentials: underwear, soap, a toothbrush, two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, deodorant, the rest of Matthew’s welcome-home cake in Tupperware, his laptop with its accessories, and a cell phone he lifted from his mother while she slept, her head practically inside a bucket of chicken bones. She was in a foul mood after this month’s disability check from social welfare was late. Of course the government does this to her on purpose, and only her, those spiteful bastards. One big giant fucking conspiracy from the White House against Lynn Delaney. But Peter didn’t mind, as long as he was able to lift what money she had from the drawer next to her underwear and sex toys. He’ll do his best to forget he ever saw them. And as long as she forgot to put the lock on the refrigerator.
“I n-n-need uh Amtrak ticket to Loo-Loo-Louisville, Kent-t-tucky.” Peter can barely see over the window; his cheekbones twitch and eyes squint with every consonant that doesn’t want to come out.
“I’m gonna need a driver’s license for ID.”
“Does it luh-look like I can fucking jer-jer-drive?” He reaches in his pocket and slides his New York state-issued ID through the window.
An hour later, when the train just finishes boarding, Peter reaches for his mother’s cell.
She must have been high as a kite if she forgot to lock the refrigerator and
Similar Books
