Chapter Nineteen

The next morning, cold and white like the surface of a hard-boiled egg, came in gradually and then suddenly as I flickered back to life from my medicated sleep. I shuddered at the thought of the mousetrap I would have to empty in a few tiny minutes. Then I gagged violently at the smell.

Had the mouse been lying there dead for days without me noticing? Was that how blitzed I was getting every night? It seemed a strong possibility. But then again I knew exactly nothing about how fast mice decomposed. It could have been running free and happy on my bedroom floor just minutes before the Reaper’s scythe went snapping for its little neck and I came walking in a minute later. I got to choose which universe I inhabited. Maybe that was my biggest ally in the world I was stuck with.

I dumped the unfortunate traveler into a trash bag, tied the bag up, and walked up the splintery steps at the opposite end of the basement to the trash can in the yard.

The whole way there I thought about how the sound of the crunching bones had sounded in this particular dream. I had to work out which dream was the worst, so I knew which was closest to the truth. I was the keeper of my own history. I had to get it right. The thing itself would never leave me, but the experience of it might. So the real sound of the breaking of the bones mattered quite a lot.

Molly was at work, as a licensed therapist. I had the house to myself, as I did in all my best moments. I dug in the disorganized medicine cabinet in the kitchen for some Advil. She could cough up that much. I only ate one meal a day anyway. I lazily left the light off, relying on the mercurial natural light to push away the darkness inside the cupboard, which it did poorly.

My grasping hand pulled out a rattling plastic bottle in orange first. Antidepressants, full and heavy. Pleasing to the touch. Molly Sather, on the white label. Take one tablet once daily, with or without food. I took two. They’d been prescribed three months ago. Still the seal popped open when I turned the cap.

Next was the contender in blue. Antipsychotics. Molly Sather. Take two tablets twice daily, with or without food. Two months, still seemingly unopened. I decided to forget I’d seen them. For a number of weeks afterward, I did just that.

Finally the Advil revealed itself to me. I pulled the half-full mini vodka bottle from my hoodie and poured it into a coffee mug filled three–quarters with orange juice. The ice maker had been broken since July. I tossed the pills, all four or five or so, into my desperate, cottony mouth and swallowed them in a painful gulp. I loved taking pills. They were like little soluble bricks of hope. They blossomed inside you when they worked, sending their life force coursing into your blood and your brain, which of course made everything better. Maybe you weren’t cursed. Maybe the whole thing was just a bad dream.

I hadn’t thought about the hospital bill yet. The truth poked its mean, bony little face back through the clouds and into my kitchen, riding on the hump of a detail I hadn’t considered. I started to cry, which was okay because no one could see me. Molly wouldn’t spend the money. Apple didn’t have any to begin with. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had to know what I was capable of first.

Sour, sharp, sweet, warm. A comfort and a distraction brought to me by the same heavenly messenger. I closed my eyes, which were beginning to self-soothe, and sank my head into the fridge.

My phone promptly began crying for my attention. I wanted my old one back, but at least this one deserved to be smashed if it came to it.

Marcy. What the hell did she want? It was Thursday.

Oh, God.

“Hello?”

“Kurt? Where the hell are you? Your shift started sixteen minutes ago.” Marcy loved to be exact about time.

“I’m so sorry, Marcy. I totally forgot. Apple is in the hos—”

“What do you mean, you forgot? Do our customers forget to support us? Shouldn’t you be showing up for them the way they do for you?”

I blew air through my gritted bottom teeth.

“As I was saying, Apple is in the hospital. She got shot. We were at the hospital until two in the morning last night.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Life deals you a tough hand sometimes. I hope she’s okay. But your biggest concern right now should be getting to Wright’s Convenience in the next ten minutes so you can keep your job here.”

It was impossible, of course, no matter how hard I tore myself apart to fulfill her ridiculous request. I should do it. I should quit and let her know what I really thought.

“Oh, so I’m fired?”

“If you’re not already moving, yeah, probably. I have such a soft spot for drunks. I always wanna take them in and give them a chance. It’s probably my biggest flaw.”

“Choke on your own fluids. I quit.”

“It’s like that, huh? Why don’t you go wipe your filthy mouth out with bleach, you sniveling little shit? I took a chance on you. Won’t be doing that again.”

“Yeah, it was a great honor to punch the code for Camels into the till.”

“Goodbye, Kurt. Have a shitty life.” She hung up.

So, there. I was unemployed. I was on the fast track to homelessness and starvation. I could only hope for such a sympathetic death instead of one at the hands of some clean-cut, well-pressed Nazis out for a killing spree in the alleys at night.

I burped, long and deep. I felt a little better. It hadn’t even been a minute yet. I had time. I had a chance. Maybe I could live with Eli.

I realized I still hadn’t texted him. I shuddered from the taste of the panic on my breath.

Hey Eli. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry about how last night ended. I’m not very good at standing up to her, and honestly, I just didn’t want you to be around her. Apple is going to be okay, since I know you’re probably wondering about that. I had a lot of fun before the sky came crashing down, though, and I’d love to do it again.

I held myself back from hitting Send for an excruciating series of breaths before I bore my thumb down and squeezed my eyes shut.

Ten minutes went by, and still it said “delivered.”

Then fifteen, then seventeen. He was busy. He was doing other things, the kinds of things someone I’d want to date would be doing. I killed my drink, which had gone warm and bitter.

My head spun recklessly, intent on sending me to sleep on the kitchen floor. It wasn’t safe. Molly would probably manage to come home for some reason and kick me awake. I loved my ribs. I didn’t want them getting shattered. So I wrested myself up off the floor and fell back into the familiarity of the shuffle of shame down to my room. I was smart. I was strong. I was important. It didn’t matter what Molly thought.

My bed received me with warm, loving arms the instant I touched down. My mind was so resourceful. No, it wasn’t. I couldn’t count on anything.

Everything went black.