Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

in this universe, as much as 90 percent of matter was invisible— black holes .
    â€œTink? Don’t be mean, Tink—talk to me. . . . Help me, tell me what to d-do. . . .”
    At Merissa’s feet, the little stained knife appeared to be kicked—by an invisible foot—sent skittering beneath her bed.
    Merissa laughed, this was so—astonishing.
    Even the girls of Tink, Inc., would not believe this.
    Merissa’s heart was pounding so rapidly, she could barely catch her breath. Since taking up the knife a few minutes before, she was becoming increasingly light-headed, and now her eyelids fluttered, her eyelids were drooping and heavy, she was lying on her side on the rumpled bed, not entirely awake, yet not unconscious or sleeping; she was sure she was not sleeping; and there stood Tink at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips and elbows pointed outward; and Tink shook her long, wavy red hair, which fell about her small face in ringlets, and she was wearing the grungy black leggings that had become too tight for even her small body, and the loose-fitting GUERRILLA GIRL jersey with the stretched, just discernibly soiled neck; and she squinched up her face, saying, M’ris! Don’t emulate me! Killing myself was, like, the dumbest mistake of my life .
    Tink laughed as if she’d said something witty. Merissa stared at her through tightly shut eyes, wishing badly that Tink would not vanish from her even as she knew that Tink would vanish as soon as she opened her eyes.
    Time for bed, M’rissa! Fuck ’em.
    Tink laughed and climbed into Merissa’s bed, curling up like a big, awkwardly graceful cat. Merissa remembered how Tink had made them laugh, describing her mother’s efforts to turn her into a baby ballerina—lessons that began when Tink was three years old—what a bore it was having to be graceful .
    Like there’s nobody in actual life who would be such an asshole to walk around “en pointe” —so your toes break, and bleed, and get all crippled.
    Merissa was laughing, and she was shivering so badly that her teeth chattered. She knew not to open her eyes, that Tink would vanish when she opened her eyes, and so she fumbled to pull the comforter over Tink, or part of Tink, and over herself, for she was so very tired, so sleepy now, and feeling relaxed now that Tink had come to be with her at this terrible time.
    Merissa groped to switch off the light on her bedside table.
    Tink sighed, shivered, and curled against Merissa’s foot.
    I’m here. I love you, dude. I’m not going anywhere.

17.
    â€œJUST THERE”
    When Merissa woke in the morning, dazed and groggy and her bloodstained arm aching, there was no one in bed with her, no one in the room—of course.
    But Tink’s scent remained. And beneath Merissa’s bed, kicked at least a foot under the bed, was the bloodstained little paring knife, which Merissa quickly retrieved, washed thoroughly in her bathroom, and returned to the kitchen drawer downstairs, where its absence had never been noted.
    Â 
    Each night following, Merissa had only to shut her eyes and Tink appeared.
    Merissa had only to switch off her bedside lamp, climb into bed, and pull the comforter over her, and Tink appeared; and the healing sensation of sleep rippled over Merissa like warm water.
    Remember, dude: Tink is here.
    Tink is not going to go away.
    Â 
    It was too private; Merissa couldn’t tell her friends.
    Except mentioning to them, casually, “Guess what? Tink was in a dream last night—she hasn’t changed much at all.”
    (But was this true? Tink had seemed just a little different—the hair in ringlets was a change, and what she’d said about k*****g herself—this was a remark unlike any Merissa had ever heard from her friend when she’d been alive.)
    Chloe said, with a strange look, “Oh God! Last night? I think—I think Tink was in my