sorry for little ole me.
I was supposed to be a better person than that. I was supposed to understand that this woman had no idea that her day was going to go this way.
Silly me.
I watched her range of emotions, which had simmered into a blank stare. She looked through tables and floors and foundations. She’d look anywhere for some kind of explanation.
Her soft features vanished between thick creases of disbelief and horror.
Her eyes resembled the blackest of hells as her lids tighten up until there is none of the white showing. I watch tears dry on her cheeks. With a swipe of her hand, all her smudged makeup suddenly looked like war paint.
She said something like, “I remember…”
Jack thought she said something as well because he demanded that she say it again.
Michael encouraged it as well.
She didn’t repeat it.
Jack can’t keep her in the kitchen. He doesn’t have to, it’s not our job. That doesn’t stop him from trying. She bowls over him, knocks her husband into the kitchen island. It caught him in the kidneys. He’ll piss blood later.
Right now, he doesn’t have time to pee.
“Kristen, wait!” he said.
“Please,” Jack said. “Just wait here. We have others who are going after him.”
“It,” she said. “It!”
They left me in the living room. Jack will never catch her. I am—was—the fastest, despite my seniority. Just happened to be slow at the wrong time.
“Jack!” I called, hoping my voice traveled out the front door so he’d return. Jack needed to stop trying to be the hero. Another team would be set out on the boy immediately. We could even call in another team to deal with the crazy woman. We could get back to the office and stand in the break room making small talk about how we did our part in making contact. No one would judge us otherwise, it happened all the time.
No.
Mothers didn’t usually run out. They usually sat paralyzed in a fetal position for hours and hours. They racked up doctor bills trying to figure out how to feel love again.
Why did this one run?
What did she remember?
“Jack!” I yelled again. There was feeling on the bottom of my feet again. Crap. I was on my feet. I hopped out of the room, down the hall, and stopped at the doorway—because I fell. I called for Jack and screamed.
I ruined what was otherwise a quiet street. So I stopped.
It made more sense to barrel over and just hold my stomach in the vicinity of its former address. I tried to tell myself there had been occasions where I had been worse off.
The husband crawled under my arm. He wasn’t accustomed to holding another man. It was awkward for the both of us.
“You should probably try not to move,” he said.
“No, shit.” I coughed. A nice breeze tickled my innards. I wasn’t sure if I really liked it or not. It wasn’t a feeling I was supposed to know. But I didn’t ‘not’ like it.
It started to rain. Just like the weatherman had promised.
At least the if the woman had checked the forecast she could’ve expected that. At least the weather man did his job right today.
Fuck him.
MICHAEL:
Oh crap.
He’s leaked on my shoe. Not urine. Just his insides. That’s okay, right? I can’t be okay with that. He smelled like rotten grapes. No. Apples. Like rotten apples. It was his sweat, his forehead touched mine as I dragged him back inside. It felt stained—my forehead. And my body crawled in hopes of a shower. I needed one. I needed to wash the day off me.
Then—just maybe—I would wake up.
“Is there someone I can call,” I asked.
The man grimaced and said, “Fuck him.”
I didn’t know how to take that. I was sure it wasn’t really directed at me, right? He started to sound like Danny Glover and mumbled into further incoherency.
“You just rest. I’ll call 9-1-1.”
The man grabbed my arm, yanked it before I could use my cellphone. “Don’t you dare.” All the clarity in his voice was restored.
“Just tell me what to do?”
The man
I was supposed to be a better person than that. I was supposed to understand that this woman had no idea that her day was going to go this way.
Silly me.
I watched her range of emotions, which had simmered into a blank stare. She looked through tables and floors and foundations. She’d look anywhere for some kind of explanation.
Her soft features vanished between thick creases of disbelief and horror.
Her eyes resembled the blackest of hells as her lids tighten up until there is none of the white showing. I watch tears dry on her cheeks. With a swipe of her hand, all her smudged makeup suddenly looked like war paint.
She said something like, “I remember…”
Jack thought she said something as well because he demanded that she say it again.
Michael encouraged it as well.
She didn’t repeat it.
Jack can’t keep her in the kitchen. He doesn’t have to, it’s not our job. That doesn’t stop him from trying. She bowls over him, knocks her husband into the kitchen island. It caught him in the kidneys. He’ll piss blood later.
Right now, he doesn’t have time to pee.
“Kristen, wait!” he said.
“Please,” Jack said. “Just wait here. We have others who are going after him.”
“It,” she said. “It!”
They left me in the living room. Jack will never catch her. I am—was—the fastest, despite my seniority. Just happened to be slow at the wrong time.
“Jack!” I called, hoping my voice traveled out the front door so he’d return. Jack needed to stop trying to be the hero. Another team would be set out on the boy immediately. We could even call in another team to deal with the crazy woman. We could get back to the office and stand in the break room making small talk about how we did our part in making contact. No one would judge us otherwise, it happened all the time.
No.
Mothers didn’t usually run out. They usually sat paralyzed in a fetal position for hours and hours. They racked up doctor bills trying to figure out how to feel love again.
Why did this one run?
What did she remember?
“Jack!” I yelled again. There was feeling on the bottom of my feet again. Crap. I was on my feet. I hopped out of the room, down the hall, and stopped at the doorway—because I fell. I called for Jack and screamed.
I ruined what was otherwise a quiet street. So I stopped.
It made more sense to barrel over and just hold my stomach in the vicinity of its former address. I tried to tell myself there had been occasions where I had been worse off.
The husband crawled under my arm. He wasn’t accustomed to holding another man. It was awkward for the both of us.
“You should probably try not to move,” he said.
“No, shit.” I coughed. A nice breeze tickled my innards. I wasn’t sure if I really liked it or not. It wasn’t a feeling I was supposed to know. But I didn’t ‘not’ like it.
It started to rain. Just like the weatherman had promised.
At least the if the woman had checked the forecast she could’ve expected that. At least the weather man did his job right today.
Fuck him.
MICHAEL:
Oh crap.
He’s leaked on my shoe. Not urine. Just his insides. That’s okay, right? I can’t be okay with that. He smelled like rotten grapes. No. Apples. Like rotten apples. It was his sweat, his forehead touched mine as I dragged him back inside. It felt stained—my forehead. And my body crawled in hopes of a shower. I needed one. I needed to wash the day off me.
Then—just maybe—I would wake up.
“Is there someone I can call,” I asked.
The man grimaced and said, “Fuck him.”
I didn’t know how to take that. I was sure it wasn’t really directed at me, right? He started to sound like Danny Glover and mumbled into further incoherency.
“You just rest. I’ll call 9-1-1.”
The man grabbed my arm, yanked it before I could use my cellphone. “Don’t you dare.” All the clarity in his voice was restored.
“Just tell me what to do?”
The man
Similar Books
