Quack. That’s what Dr. Holdren had called her.
What did she do to me?
“Two hairs past a freckle,” Annie answers, but then she looks at my face. “Sorry.” She scrambles for her phone. “2:30 in the afternoon.”
“What do you think all these guys are doing here?” I ask as we open our menus, sticky to the touch, and survey the horde of men surrounding us.
“GM plant,” Annie offers in return. “B-shift switching out.”
“What, seriously? Are we that close to Youngstown already?”
Annie shrugs. “I drive fast when I want to get somewhere.”
I want to ask her what took so long for her to arrive at the hospital from Cleveland, but know that I actually have no idea how much time had passed. Talking with two detectives who suspect you of murder stretches time in odd ways.
A waitress wearing a blue smock with a pink ruffled shirt underneath comes over and takes our order. Black coffee and chocolate-chip pancakes for Annie. Hot tea, the Lumberjack Special (two waffles, five strips of bacon, three eggs, and fruit) and a side of whipped cream for me. The smells of non-hospital food have made me ravenous. After the waitress leaves, Annie decides it’s time.
“So, when are we gonna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I say, because there’s so much I don’t know where to start.
“Right. Where to even begin,” she says, and whistles just a bit between her teeth.
Annie taps her nails on the table in a syncopated rhythm, which apparently annoys the bearded guy sitting at the booth adjoining our table, because he turns around in his seat and politely asks her to stop. Annie blows a huge stream of air out of her mouth, whistling again, but stops nonetheless.
“I don’t know what to do next,” I tell her, because that seems as good a place to start as any.
Annie looks me over, and I can just imagine what she sees. My bruises are lightening, although they still cover my face, neck, and arms in a mottled palette of blues and indigos, with random splashes of yellow mixed in. I haven’t washed my hair in several days, and my shoulders slouch from the pain of my healing ribs and the weight of everything that’s happened.
I watch Annie’s eyes as she sizes me up, and then says, “You are going to keep living your life. You are going to meet with a good lawyer—I called Dana once I knew you were getting out of the hospital and we’ve already scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning. And you are not going to let anyone—not Justin, not the police, not Dr. Kandy-Ass—nobody is going to stop you from doing what you are meant to do. Which, by the way, in case you’ve forgotten, is not just to survive, but thrive.”
“That’s quite a speech,” I say in return, and Annie promptly knees me under the table.
“Yeah, well, you’ve given it to me plenty of times.”
And it’s true. We’ve traded the role of cheerleader and support system—and, if I’m perfectly honest, drill sergeant—enough over the years to know the common tropes we play out for each other. That phrase—not just survive, but thrive—was one I learned from an evolutionary psychology professor at Youngstown State when I was an undergrad. At the time it felt like it fit my life post-group home, and post-foster care before that, like a well-worn T-shirt, because there I was in a college classroom learning about it rather than rutting around in a gutter somewhere. Or some deadbeat’s trailer. Or huffing whippets behind the Giant Eagle after Rock’n Bowl on a Friday night.
I was thriving. I had pretty much been thriving ever since I’d stopped being a victim and become a survivor.
Pretty much, I think, my mind tracing back to Richard and the night that led to the restraining order.
But now here I am, sitting in a diner across from my best friend, trying to figure out which of those I was again.
In the past, I’d always been able to decide that for myself. Now, with what Justin had done, I’m not so sure.
Our waitress brings our food over, with my meal taking up over two-thirds of the table. I’d been desperately hungry when I’d ordered, but with the food set in front of me, suddenly my stomach feels leaden. Annie takes a sip of her coffee and nods approvingly.
“It wouldn’t be such a sausage-fest here if the coffee sucked,” she declares, and gestures to my plates with her fork that I should start eating before digging into her pancakes, which have surprisingly come with fresh whipping cream and a dusting of cocoa.
“Eat,” she orders when she sees me just staring at my food. She lowers her voice, “I know you may not be that hungry, but you need to eat something so your brain will work and we can figure this out together. One thing at a time, okay?” I have to look away for a moment, before I nod my agreement.
I pick up my knife and fork and start cutting away at my stack of waffles, which are delicate and fluffy. Gingerly, I open my mouth, wary of the pinprick cuts healing inside, and slide a bite into my mouth. As I close my lips around my fork, the butter and syrup rush in and put my taste buds on notice. In spite of everything that’s happened in the last three days, the mix of sugar and fat in my mouth pushes down my creeping nausea and throbbing pain, replacing them with a ferocious hunger.
I eat the entire meal, while Annie looks on with approving silence.
Twenty minutes from my apartment, though, Annie needs to pull into a Sheetz. I can barely make it to a toilet before throwing up every last morsel.
22
We arrive at my apartment by 4 o’clock, and I am half-expecting to see yellow police caution tape draped around my door—which is ludicrous, I know—but instead my door looks perfectly normal. Just like it did when Justin and I left it on Friday afternoon.
I fumble with my keys as I try to get them into the lock, so Annie takes them from me and lets us both inside. The air smells of familiar rituals: tea, shampoo, and laundry detergent. I try to remember what Justin and I did in the final few minutes we were together here.
I remember zipping up my case, and Justin carrying it out from the bedroom for me. Inside were way too many lacy, sheer pieces of clothing. I blush when I think of the police rummaging through and seeing what I’d packed. A feeling of sick rises at the back of my throat again, but there’s nothing left for me to throw up and I manage to push the urge to vomit back down.
Mind over matter. That’s another mantra Annie and I both live by.
“I’m going to run you a bath, and then I’ll pop out and get us a few supplies.” Annie bustles around my apartment like it’s her own place. From the bedroom, where I’ve sat down, unsure of what to do with myself, I hear her start the tub running, shortly followed by tinkling sounds in the kitchen.
Her head appears around the doorframe of my bedroom. “Come on, in you go.”
We’ve seen each other naked plenty of times over the years, to the point where we’re like an old married couple.
I start to take off my shirt, but wince at having to raise my arms above my head.
“Here,” Annie comes up and helps me get her borrowed clothes off my shrunken frame. I’m not paying attention, working on raising my feet to get my socks off, when I hear a sound come from Annie. She’s standing there, towering above me on her whippet legs, horror hollowing out her eyes. As soon as she notices me looking at her, she turns away and works on folding up my clothes/her clothes, which are littered over the floor next to my bed.
I stand up and make my way over to the full-length mirror I have in the corner of my bedroom. I’m a creature, a Hieronymus Bosch painting in the flesh. Fully naked, I can see the pattern of impact working its way across my body. The crisscross of the seat belt from my chest to my abdomen, the cuts from shattered glass across my face and neck in various stages of healing, depending on how large the glass was and how deep it cut into my skin. And scratches on my left arm, along the inside of my biceps muscle moving down towards my forearm. I hadn’t noticed those before, but then again that was the arm I’d had covered in IV tape and tubing while I was in the hospital. Maybe the scratches were
from my trying to pry them off while I slept—Nurse Debbie had said something about that during one of her visits. She’d called me a “Naughty Nelly,” of all things.
There’s a hand on my back, and Annie gently guides me away from the mirror and towards the tub.
“Honestly, it’s not that bad,” she says.
And for a moment of inexplicable mirth, we burst out laughing. Because we both know this is absolutely not true.
Annie helps me step into the tub. The warm water feels extraordinary on my skin, and a shiver of automatic pleasure works its way up my spine.
Annie explains that she’s set out soap, a fresh washcloth, and shampoo for me to get at easily. “You look like a mongrel, so make sure to wash yourself up,” she says over her shoulder, her smirk just a little too forced. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with provisions.”
I stop her as she makes her way through the now steamy air towards the door of the bathroom. “Annie?”
She turns around, and the familiar lines of her face are more soothing than anything else she can offer me.
“Are you sure you can stay?” I ask a little too desperately. I can’t imagine Annie leaving anytime soon, but I know she has an exhibition she’s working on and that I can’t expect her to put her life on hold indefinitely just to play physical and emotional nurse to me.
She smiles at me. “Artist’s life. I’m here as long as you need me.”
“But what about your exhibition?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she strides back over and sits on the edge of the bathtub. “Seriously, I’ve got everything under control. My paints and canvases will be there when I get back. Besides,” she splashes a little water in the air towards my face, but her mouth turns downwards, “I could use a little time away from it. I’ve kind of hit a wall. Some space will do me good.”
She stands up suddenly. “Anyway, enough of that. You enjoy your soak.” Her voice is bright again, but I force my brain to pay attention and remember that she needs me too.
“Anything you need in particular from the store?” she asks, now on her second way out the door.
I think for a moment, my mind trying to conjure up the normalcy of going to the grocery store, but nothing comes to mind. Except. . .
“A newspaper,” I say.
“How terribly old-fashioned of you,” Annie calls out, her tinkle of laughter louder than normal. “Back in a jiff.”
I hear the door close and then Annie locking the knob and deadbolt with my keys. I’m left alone for almost the first time since I woke this morning. I lather up the washcloth and start to scrub at my body, beginning with the points that have bruises and working away from them. Because I’ve always found that starting where it hurts is better than leaving it to the end.
I’m out of the bath, dressed in flannel pajamas, my chenille robe, and real slippers with my hair wrapped up in a towel, beauty queen style, when Annie returns with an assemblage of overflowing carrier bags.
“I bought every good thing,” she announces. I fumble over to help her with the bags, but Annie shoos me away like a babushka, all flappy hands and guttural disapproval. She’s not exaggerating—she’s bought the whole store. And then some. Chocolate bars, wheels of cheese, fresh bread that is still warm to the touch. Microwaveable pizzas—a soft spot for both of us from our group home days. Cookie dough in a tube—again from back when we were still living under the same roof. Strawberries and blueberries. Two bottles of wine: One fizzy, one not. A twelve-pack of Coke, for her. And four newspapers.
The local Vindicator, the Plain Dealer, the Akron-Beacon Journal, and the Town Crier—Canfield.
Annie must have guessed why I asked for a paper, and so she’s brought me all of them.
“Where did you get the Town Crier?” I ask, sitting down at my kitchen table and thumbing through it first. The masthead reads, “Your Weekly Hometown Newspaper.” Each of the suburbs of Youngstown have their own Town Crier, and with Canfield being at least a thirty-minute drive away, I’m surprised any store nearby had this specific version. I flip the paper open, and the lead headline for today promises details on the new zoning ruling for a bank of new condos set to break ground in March. Under the fold is coverage of the regional 4-H club competition with a picture of a huge Holstein cow and its child-size owner.
“It’s called driving around to different news boxes until you find one,” she deadpans. “I have my ways,” she adds with a serious look on her face that I’m not sure how to interpret, until she gives me another smirk, this one as natural as they come. “Don’t worry, I didn’t hand out blow jobs to get it or anything. The gas station down the road actually had it next to USA Today. Oh, and there’s one other thing.” Annie goes to my door, unlocks it, and grabs something from outside in the hallway. I glance up in time to see her haul in a huge white marker board.
“What’s that for?”
“For us to brainstorm,” she answers. “Isn’t this what you did all the time in grad school?”
It’s true. I’d map out my experimental designs, Institutional Review Board deadlines, and critiques of my writing and how to address them. Now that marker board is in my office at Youngstown State.
The thought of work sends a wave of anxiety through me that I push down.
I thank Annie for her thoughtfulness, and for all the items she brought back. She refuses to take any money for them, and instead settles herself down in a chair opposite me and starts thumbing through the copy of the Vindicator.
“So, what am I looking for, specifically,” she asks, her eyes just reaching mine above the broadsheets.
“Anything related to the—accident,” I say. I can’t bring myself to say “Justin’s death.”
On the ride home I’d already scoured the news online from my phone and knew that nothing had been posted by any of the nearby papers, so I was banking on the obituary sections and local news that often get skimmed over in the online presence of a newspaper. I figured my best bet was to go through the print copies for any clues. When I tried searching online for “McBrides” in Canfield, Ohio, the results turned up twenty different names, none of them linked with a Justin.
“And what are you hoping to find?” Annie asks from behind the Vindicator’s Valley Life section.
“Before Justin steered us off the road. . .” God, that was a euphemism if ever I’ve heard one “. . . he got a call on his phone that said, ‘Mom.’ The police say they’ve been in touch with Justin’s parents, but they wouldn’t tell me anything beyond that.”
“So, we’re looking for any information about his parents,” Annie finishes the thought for me. “Did he ever say anything about them?”
The question makes me pause. “He always wanted to talk about me, you know.” A hot flush of embarrassment rises up my neck. “I did try and ask about his childhood, about his family, but he’d always turn it back onto me. He was really interested in what it was like for me, growing up in foster care and group homes.” I keep talking, working through what I was saying in my mind as I’m saying it aloud to Annie. “It was like he wanted to know every detail so he could hold on to it for me.”
Annie doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure that was a nice change. Most guys just want to talk about their dicks and their moms, hopefully in separate conversations.”
Something occurs to me.
“How did you know to get the Canfield paper?” I ask Annie. Justin’s family is from Canfield, but I don’t remember mentioning it to Annie.
“You told me that’s where he was from,” Annie says without hesitation. “Right when you first started dating, remember? You yelled at me for eating Pixie Stix at 11 o’clock at night—don’t ask me how you knew over the phone that that was what I was eating—and then you told me he was from Canfield, which meant he had to be a decent guy.”
Growing up in Youngstown, Canfield was always seen as a luxury suburb of the city, right after Poland. Only rich people with houses and acreage could afford to live out there.
But I can’t remember telling Annie any of this.
I have to shake myself, because there’s no reason for Annie to lie. I’m being paranoid, I tell myself. Just because you couldn’t trust Justin, or Dr. Koftura, doesn’t mean you can’t trust Annie. I change the subject.
“The police didn’t find his phone in the car,” I tell Annie.
“They are fucking morons,” Annie responds. “Where do you think the phone is?”
“I don’t know. Either the police have it, and are just using it to trick me into revealing something. Or. . .” Something shapeless in the back of my mind starts to shift. After the crash. . .
“Or. . .?” Annie prods.
“Or someone came to the accident and took it.” I glance at my left arm, at the bruising and scratches running down it from my bicep to my wrist. “Annie, what if someone was there, at the accident?” My voice trembles a little, because I honestly don’t know what this means.
“Then we’d better find out who it was. And we will,” she says, her voice steady. My cheeks flame up with shame from my earlier doubts, and I pretend to be fascinated with the electrical warning tag on my toaster.
“Now start reading again.” Annie taps the top of my paper.
We sit quietly for a while, the only sounds the rustling of the newspapers in our hands as we turn the pages and the crinkle of a chocolate wrapper as Annie trades between feeding pieces into her own mouth and passing some to me.
Almost a half hour passes while we comb through the newspapers, but ultimately find nothing referring to the crash or Justin. As I turn the last page of the Plain Dealer and confront a full-page ad for a mattress outlet, I let out a deep breath.
It Was Always You Page 12
