seat. For a moment I wondered what this was going to cost me. What I would have to pay for coming back here.
And could I pay it?
Because I had nothing left. Not one extra thing. It was me and survival. That’s all.
And Jennifer.
I let that thought comfort me. I wrapped myself around it like a hot stone keeping me warm. I had Max and he would help me get Jennifer back and then everything would be right. Everything would be okay.
Sleep came so fast and so hard it felt like falling.
—
I woke up with a start, nearly sliding off the love seat.
Where am I?
The walls and love seat looked totally unfamiliar. Was that a…? It was. A JFK statue where the TV should sit.
Nothing here gave me a clue about where I was.
And then it all came back. The bombs. Lagan.
Max.
I kicked off the blanket Fern must have put over me while I’d been in my coma and a piece of paper fluttered down to the ground.
CALL ME.
I recognized Fern’s handwriting. Its hard lines, its deep downward slashes. She wrote like she didn’t approve of me. That’s how deep this went between us. She could not hide her feelings even in her handwriting.
I got to my feet, wobbly and dizzy with sleep, hunger, and thirst. Beside the door was one of my garbage bags of luggage and I had to hope it was the one with clean underwear in it. With it tossed over my shoulder, I stumbled down the small hallway and found Max in the bed.
What had been an empty bedroom with a bare, queen-size bed, was now a pop-up hospital room.
Max was sound asleep with an IV in his arm, the saline bag hooked over the lamp. His face had been washed, his body cleaned up. He had stitches in his head. The skin was pink and tender around the sutures. His chest was bare, revealing all his tattoos and the Technicolor bruises along his ribs. I lifted the covers off his leg revealing the snowy white bandage, the straight exact lines of the surgical tape. The pink shaved skin at the edge.
Aunt Fern had removed the bullet.
And put in a catheter.
Jesus. Aunt Fern.
Max was lying in a bed made with clean sheets. His black beard sleek and trim. His body clean. He was sleeping easy.
Peeing into a tube.
“You’re not so tough,” I whispered, because it was funny. Because he was a murderous son of a bitch.
But at the moment he was my murderous son of a bitch.
In the bathroom I peed and then drank mouthfuls of cold water straight from the tap. Then I peeled off my sweaty and smelly clothes. The shower seemed like too much work so I just splashed water from the sink in the general direction of my body and called it clean enough.
From my garbage bag I pulled out a pair of underwear and a black tank top. A pair of handcuffs. My fake DEA badge, my fake FBI badge, and my fake University of North Carolina faculty badge. And—praise God—a toothbrush.
I scrubbed my teeth and felt nearly seven thousand times better.
The air-conditioning thunked on and blew across the back of my neck, sending chills over my body.
I needed to call Fern—I owed her an explanation but I didn’t have it in me just yet.
I was nauseous with exhaustion. I picked up my garbage bag and contemplated returning to the love seat, which was really tiny. And uncomfortable.
My neck hurt from the nap I had already taken there.
Fuck the love seat.
I returned to the living room, grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around my body, and went back into the bedroom.
I needed to stretch out, so I did on the edge of the queen bed. With my garbage bag of belongings beside me, my blanket that smelled just slightly of Aunt Fern wrapped around me, I closed my eyes, willing that falling sensation that meant sleep.
But instead my brain kicked on.
What are you doing?
The thoughts crept in, pushing me up onto the hamster wheel that could keep me up all night.
What are you going to do now? What are you going to say to Fern? To Max? You don’t have any money. Do you think he has money? He owes you…sort of. What—
Don’t. Stop.
And could I pay it?
Because I had nothing left. Not one extra thing. It was me and survival. That’s all.
And Jennifer.
I let that thought comfort me. I wrapped myself around it like a hot stone keeping me warm. I had Max and he would help me get Jennifer back and then everything would be right. Everything would be okay.
Sleep came so fast and so hard it felt like falling.
—
I woke up with a start, nearly sliding off the love seat.
Where am I?
The walls and love seat looked totally unfamiliar. Was that a…? It was. A JFK statue where the TV should sit.
Nothing here gave me a clue about where I was.
And then it all came back. The bombs. Lagan.
Max.
I kicked off the blanket Fern must have put over me while I’d been in my coma and a piece of paper fluttered down to the ground.
CALL ME.
I recognized Fern’s handwriting. Its hard lines, its deep downward slashes. She wrote like she didn’t approve of me. That’s how deep this went between us. She could not hide her feelings even in her handwriting.
I got to my feet, wobbly and dizzy with sleep, hunger, and thirst. Beside the door was one of my garbage bags of luggage and I had to hope it was the one with clean underwear in it. With it tossed over my shoulder, I stumbled down the small hallway and found Max in the bed.
What had been an empty bedroom with a bare, queen-size bed, was now a pop-up hospital room.
Max was sound asleep with an IV in his arm, the saline bag hooked over the lamp. His face had been washed, his body cleaned up. He had stitches in his head. The skin was pink and tender around the sutures. His chest was bare, revealing all his tattoos and the Technicolor bruises along his ribs. I lifted the covers off his leg revealing the snowy white bandage, the straight exact lines of the surgical tape. The pink shaved skin at the edge.
Aunt Fern had removed the bullet.
And put in a catheter.
Jesus. Aunt Fern.
Max was lying in a bed made with clean sheets. His black beard sleek and trim. His body clean. He was sleeping easy.
Peeing into a tube.
“You’re not so tough,” I whispered, because it was funny. Because he was a murderous son of a bitch.
But at the moment he was my murderous son of a bitch.
In the bathroom I peed and then drank mouthfuls of cold water straight from the tap. Then I peeled off my sweaty and smelly clothes. The shower seemed like too much work so I just splashed water from the sink in the general direction of my body and called it clean enough.
From my garbage bag I pulled out a pair of underwear and a black tank top. A pair of handcuffs. My fake DEA badge, my fake FBI badge, and my fake University of North Carolina faculty badge. And—praise God—a toothbrush.
I scrubbed my teeth and felt nearly seven thousand times better.
The air-conditioning thunked on and blew across the back of my neck, sending chills over my body.
I needed to call Fern—I owed her an explanation but I didn’t have it in me just yet.
I was nauseous with exhaustion. I picked up my garbage bag and contemplated returning to the love seat, which was really tiny. And uncomfortable.
My neck hurt from the nap I had already taken there.
Fuck the love seat.
I returned to the living room, grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around my body, and went back into the bedroom.
I needed to stretch out, so I did on the edge of the queen bed. With my garbage bag of belongings beside me, my blanket that smelled just slightly of Aunt Fern wrapped around me, I closed my eyes, willing that falling sensation that meant sleep.
But instead my brain kicked on.
What are you doing?
The thoughts crept in, pushing me up onto the hamster wheel that could keep me up all night.
What are you going to do now? What are you going to say to Fern? To Max? You don’t have any money. Do you think he has money? He owes you…sort of. What—
Don’t. Stop.
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