Schizo by Nic Sheff Page B

people. And, yes, again, to answer your question, I am one hundred percent sure. It was him—red hair, freckles—about this tall . . .” She shows me with her free hand, holding at about her shoulder height from the ground.
    â€œWhat was he doing?” I stammer.
    â€œHe was walking by himself. And then . . . and then a man came over and began talking to him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The boy shook his head. I told the police that afterward. He shook his head . . . twice. And then the man took him by the arm and led him into that car.”
    â€œA white Ford Explorer,” I say, the tears coming now so I can’t fight them.
    â€œThat’s right,” she tells me, looking straight at me again. “That’s right. And I knew. At the time, I knew. Something was not right. That’s why I remembered it all as clearly as I did. Because I knew that something was wrong. And I did nothing. In my heart I felt it. I felt like I should stop that man from taking that child, but I didn’t act. I failed. It is my fault.”
    She cries then, too, and we cry together.
    â€œAnd the man?” I blurt out louder than I mean to, my voice cracking. “The man?”
    Her head drops, and she clasps her hands together, releasing me.
    â€œHe was a tall man, balding on top, gray hair around the sides. He had a large nose and was wearing loose sweatpants and a sweatshirt. His face was hard, sunken in—no meat on his bones at all. But it was his eyes that stayed with me. His eyes were like . . .”
    She stares off then, waving her arm absently in front of her, as though trying to catch the words out of the air.
    â€œLike a black hole,” she finally says. “Like emptiness.”
    I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me.
    â€œDid . . . did he struggle?” I ask timidly.
    She shakes her head again. “No. No. It wasn’t like that. He just went with the man. They talked and then they got in the car together.”
    I nod.
    She takes her cup up off the table and brings it to her mouth, but then replaces it without drinking.
    â€œWhen you called me,” she says, “I started thinking about what I should tell you. And I believe I received a sort of testimony, you understand? That I should share with you the answer—the real answer, to the only question there truly can be for anyone.”
    My breath catches. “Yes, no, I mean . . . You’ve already helped me so much. I don’t know how to thank you.”
    I start trying to get myself up as if to go, but she just smiles, tapping my knee a few times, as though gently hammering me into the sofa.
    â€œYou don’t need to thank me. Something brought us together today—something bigger than you or me.”
    â€œUh-huh,” I say dumbly.
    â€œDo you know who can get you through this?” she asks, purring almost like one of her cats. “Do you know who you can rely on? Who your family can rely on? Who will save you? And who will save your brother?”
    My head bobs up and down mechanically. I know what’s coming, but there’s nothing much I can do about it now.
    â€œJesus Christ,” she says, not waiting for my answer. “Jesus Christ died on the cross to give us all everlasting life and take away our sins. Jesus is with
you,
always. He is with us all, always. We can either reject him, going it alone, or we can take him into our hearts and he will guide us to our rightful place in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
    I nod and smile, like a damn idiot, then get up from the couch. “Yes, well,” I say, “thank you, but I really do have to get back. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
    She adjusts the glasses on her porcine nose and pushes herself up to standing. “But I’m not done. There’s so much more I have to tell you.”
    She stares up at me, her eyes wet and red