Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  I was mesmerized, watching the rotating house. He could form a vision in his mind and then use some special computer program to make that vision come to life. “Amazing,” I said.

  “This is just in my own time. Most of what I do at the office is commercial stuff. This is more for fun.” His phone chirped again, and he closed the laptop. “Don’t get me wrong, I like my job and the people I work with—I’m really lucky in that way. But I’m not sure they’d understand about Irina.” He divvied up the food and brought our plates to the table. “Cheesy enchiladas rojas with cilantro cream and a side of black beans. That’s why you seem like a good person to be helping me out. You’re more positive, open-minded. Most people aren’t like that, in my experience at least.”

  “People can be quick to make assumptions.”

  “And they love to gossip. It starts to eat at you after a while. You can’t help it.”

  “You can’t judge a situation from the outside.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I always say.” He sawed his enchilada and watched the steam waft out. “When I’m designing, there’s a level of certainty there. I just have to focus on being precise, thorough. Those are the kinds of problems I like to deal with.”

  Now that we were sitting across from each other at the new kitchen table, I noticed how his teeth were a polished white, straight, and perfectly aligned, though not in a phony way. I ignored the sag of flesh under his chin and instead looked forward to the next glimpse of his teeth, the flash when he took a bite or pronounced a certain word. They seemed resistant to food particles. Perhaps this was what it was like to see Gary through Irina’s eyes, her true love, her one and only. I wondered what else she saw.

  “So dealing with something like this, when it’s all out of your control . . .” He flicked his hand to say forget it, impossible. “I mean, somehow I found Irina. I can’t believe how lucky I got. But then you’re forced to put the fate of your relationship into someone else’s hands—and it’s the government’s, at that. They get to decide when she comes, if she comes. And then when she finally gets here, they only give us ninety days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like an expiration date,” he said. “We have to get married within ninety days, or else she has to go back. To Ukraine.”

  “But you’ll get married, right?”

  “God, I hope so. That’s the plan. But we never lived together before. I only ever spent a few days with her in person, which probably sounds crazy.” His eyes flickered up at me, then quickly away. “But we’d been talking a lot before, video chatting for hours. There was something different with her, right from the beginning, like it just flowed. Then as soon as I saw her in person, I knew that was it, I had to propose. But you can just imagine the kind of pressure I’m under. Ninety days to figure everything out, convince her to spend the rest of her life here, away from her family and friends, everything she knows. But I have to have faith. That’s what she tells me. And I do, I have faith.” He chewed with his eyes fixed on the photo of Irina on top of the microwave. “I hope you don’t think I’m too crazy now.”

  “I think you’re the perfect amount of crazy.”

  He smiled and ate another few bites. “So,” he said. “What made you decide you wanted to become an EMT? I’m always the one dominating the conversation. I never even ask you about yourself.”

  “It’s okay, I like listening. I want to be someone who listens, and cares and helps. That’s what it means to be an EMT. You get to do good deeds every day. You don’t have a choice, even if you’re feeling selfish or tired, or whatever. I think of it more like a calling than a job.”

  “It’s good to have a calling.”

  “Florence Nightingale—she’s a hero of mine—she heard her calling at a young age, but at the time she didn’t know exactly what it meant. She didn’t start training as a nurse until nine years later. That’s sort of like with me. It took some time for me to figure out the details. But now I’m finally at the finish line.”

  His fork clattered to his plate. “These are soggy, aren’t they? But I followed everything exactly. And I took it out at fifteen minutes on the dot.”

  “They aren’t too soggy. They taste just like in a restaurant. The only thing I’d say is the black beans might have a tad too much salt.”

  “You know what, these recipes, they give you exact measurements for everything except salt and pepper. For that it just says ‘to taste.’ Well, what happens if you go and taste it, and it’s already ruined? The whole point is for them to tell you the measurements. Or what am I paying them for?”

  “It’s not ruined, just the teeniest bit salty. And that’s just me, everyone’s different. Irina, she might think it’s not salty enough.”

  “You can’t tell me these aren’t soggy.” He rocked himself to his feet. “See, right here. It says three-fifty for fifteen minutes.” He slammed his palm down on the counter. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to respond or disappear, but I understood where his outburst was coming from: we needed Irina to be comfortable, to be happy, to stay. And we would only have ninety days.

  “Twenty-three dollars per meal,” he said. “I don’t like to feel I’m being taken advantage of.”

  “You’re doing a good job, really. And it will only get easier.”

  He returned to the table, and we kept eating. I leaned my head over my plate to avoid dripping on the new tablecloth. When it seemed sufficient time had passed, I said, “Irina loves you. That’s the most important thing. She won’t care if everything isn’t perfect. But . . .” I paused. He looked dejected but not unreachable. “But if she sees you get so upset over some tortillas, she might get worried, or blame herself. She probably prefers it when you’re calm, cool, and collected.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” He took my plate and stacked it on top of his. “And no matter what, this will be a whole lot nicer than where she grew up. She took me to her parents’ house . . .” His tone implied something harrowing, something that he couldn’t even begin to describe, though he seemed to cheer up thinking of it. “I should stock up on wine, to go with dinner. She’d like that.”

  “Wine might help you both relax.”

  After we said good night and I’d started for the front door, I heard a rustle behind me. I turned just in time to see him dumping the fake roses into the trash can under the sink.

  At my refrigerator, I read my congratulations letter aloud. Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations. The letter had promptly made its way back to my apartment, delivered by the unsuspecting mail carrier, and was now fixed to the refrigerator door, where I read it aloud every morning and evening, whether or not I was in the mood. Ritual and repetition were key. I’d received emails back from my father and brother. They were proud of me and not at all surprised by my success and glad to know I was keeping busy, though I had to keep my word this time about not going so long without checking in, especially since they couldn’t wait to hear about my new job and all the exciting things I was up to.

  * * *

  Over the next couple weeks I became a regular at Gary’s, someone who knew her way around and could make herself comfortable—how ironic, I thought, that the word regular should describe something so extraordinary. This new routine with Gary gave me a bolt of energy that I channeled into being both a chambermaid and an EMT, which were even more complementary than I anticipated. The other morning, for instance, I entered room 3 as though responding to a 911 call and practiced procedure for a scene size-up, estimating the general extent of the incident (or mess) and scanning for potential hazards, which could be conspicuous, like a spill of gasoline (or mouthwash), or inconspicuous, like the fumes from an industrial tank (or a can of hair spray). In room 4, I honed my visual memory and clue-probing skills with an exercise. Stepping inside, I looked around and took note of the guest’s belongings, storing every detail up in my head. Then I closed the door, listed everything I could remember, and reentered to judge my accuracy. I ha
d easily retained the entire dresser top: one monogrammed handkerchief—folded; three hard candies—yellowish color (caramel? choking hazard); sunglasses—one pair, no case; one hook of single-use dental floss; one tin of shoe polish (cap screwed on? potential toxicity?); one flag-shaped pin (sharp point hidden); one vial of artificial tears. I couldn’t help but rejoice when my list turned out to be impressively accurate and thorough.

  They’d left the toilet in a gruesome state, but that offered another opportunity for practice. I approached it as an obstructed airway, offering a simple introduction to reassure the patient and judge her responsiveness: “My name is Amy Hanley, and I’m a certified EMT. I’m here to help you.” I held up the certification card that I’d printed on cardstock and laminated at an office supply store and then mailed to my apartment to initiate Phase II of my obecalp. I’d assigned myself a registry number, E4068211, and spent hours replicating the font, the layout, the shades of blue. I found all the information I needed on Google Images, even what text to overlay in small print across the logo on the back, such as “This card is the property of the NREMT and must be surrendered upon request.” This new phase involved not only starting and ending each day reading my congratulations letter but also carrying the card with me at all times and occasionally presenting it to myself or a “patient.”

  Once I sank the plunger into the swamp, I had to forget about all that EMT stuff and focus only on breathing through my mouth. I pumped and pumped while the swamp gurgled and sloshed. When at last the clog broke free, I held my nose under my shirt and sprinkled bleach, scouring the bowl with a hard-bristled brush as though I were responsible for a crime and not a valuable service. Extraordinary people didn’t seek recognition. Florence Nightingale sometimes used a pseudonym: Miss Smith. Still history remembers her.

  Halfway through cleaning, I turned on the television—it was now my policy to wait until at least halfway through, a well-deserved treat. A woman on a reality show was hosting a glamorous fundraiser for a children’s hospital, and after surveying the event she turned to a friend and said, “This is my city.” She cackled. That phrase and that cackle rattled around my head as I Windexed the mirror, so that I couldn’t help catching my own face in the glass and feeling that this face owned not only the mirror but also the bed and the curtains, the whole building, and every last boat out in the harbor.

  I felt so invincible that, after making sure Doug was busy in his office, I snuck out onto the harbor-floor deck. A few of the servers, Vinny and Bridget and the pigeon-toed one, were making rounds to the tables out there. I had successfully avoided all of them for weeks and still wished to, though it felt less urgent now. I wedged behind two women standing in the far corner drinking martinis, their bright manicured fingernails spiraled around their glasses, their hair flapping a bit in the breeze. Every so often they reached up to smooth a piece of it down. I wasn’t particularly interested in these women, I only wanted to take in some of the salty air and see who was on the dock and watch the water cradle the boats, but there they were, discussing diet trends in intrusive, actressy voices. “They just hook you up to an IV so, you know, you get all the essential nutrients. That way you don’t actually have to eat anything. Avery did it before her wedding, Mel’s friend? You have to be kind of insane, but it does work.”

  My lips parted. It was an appalling misuse of medical equipment and personnel, but I didn’t intend to speak up because I wasn’t particularly interested in these women, plus I wasn’t supposed to be on the deck in the first place. However, they seemed to think I was interested because one of them said, “She probably thinks we’re out of our minds,” and the “she” was me.

  “No.” I tried to sound good-humored, but they’d included me in the worst kind of way, and I had the sudden urge to cry.

  “Don’t mind her,” the other one said, uncurling a finger from her glass to point at her friend. “She’s high off divorce.”

  “Heather!” the first one said, slapping her friend’s arm.

  “Watch it! You’re going to make me spill.”

  My lips trembled and I darted away, blocking my face from Vinny as he delivered fresh martinis. I understood why the deck was meant for members only. But it wasn’t just that. I found myself unsteady on the stairs, leaning on the banister and thinking of Nnenna, feeling her absence like a cave beside me, like I might fall into it. Whenever we were laughing, really laughing, she’d go limp on my arm and say, “Save me, save me.” She was a toucher and a hugger, and it had surprised me how much I enjoyed that, the sensation that my body was just an extension of hers. In an alternate universe, it could’ve been us standing there drinking martinis, or doing something else, whatever we wanted.

  To console myself, I made some minor adjustments to the next room. I gave the lampshade a playful little tilt, as though it were tipping its hat, then opened and closed a curling iron until it became a mouth chatting with me. A cardigan with pearl buttons had been tossed on the dresser and I folded one of its sleeves across so it could hold its own heart. In the bathroom I retracted the fangs of an electric shaver and swished the belt on a robe, the tail of a pet eager to greet me. As I worked the toiletries into a group pose, I spotted chitin among the ingredients on a label, and that one word gave me the fuel I needed to finish the day. Chitin comes from the exoskeletons of horseshoe crabs and has moisturizing properties, but it is hardly the true contribution of the horseshoe crab. The true contribution is its blood, which has the rare ability to detect and trap bacteria and so is used to test the safety of our doctors’ injections. We pluck these medieval-looking creatures from the ocean floor to harvest their blood, and while most survive and are returned to their habitat, some inevitably lose their lives. I like to believe they are willing participants, despite their hard-armored appearance, because they understand that nothing of value can be accomplished without sacrifice. It can’t be avoided. Even Marie Curie—for years while she studied, she survived on tea and buttered bread.

  * * *

  That evening I was back at Gary’s front door, which he’d started leaving unlocked in anticipation of me. I could hear music drifting out from inside. Gary had never played music before, and I entered hesitantly, inching through the living room toward the kitchen, where I spotted the silhouette of a woman. She sat at his kitchen table pressing the end of a cigarette into a dish. Irina? She could have arrived early and been kept secret, a surprise for me. I had the impulse to run back upstairs to check my breath and change my clothes. But as my eyes adjusted, I realized she bore little resemblance to the woman in the red turtleneck. “Oh, sorry,” I said as a way of announcing myself.

  Gary turned from the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand. “Amy!” He cupped his other hand under to catch a drip. “Come in. Meet my mother. A surprise visit. I tried knocking on your door, but you must not have been home yet.”

  “Oh, sorry. That’s all right,” I said, taking a step backward. “I’ll just see you next time.”

  “No, stay. She isn’t even hungry, for some reason. I made two servings.”

  “Yes, stay,” his mother said. “We’re better when we have a third party.”

  “Ignore her,” Gary said.

  She laughed, so I did too. I liked the hearty sound of her laugh and the look of her. She wore long earrings and three beaded necklaces that came alive as she moved. She was thin and didn’t seem to share any physical traits with Gary. She took up one of the kitchen chairs, which left the other empty, for Gary, so I dragged in an armchair from the living room. It sank me down low and set my head adrift above the table like a balloon. The music came from a vintage-style radio set on top of the microwave, where Irina’s photograph used to be. It was tuned to classic rock, the Rolling Stones.

  “You might splurge for another chair,” his mother said, watching me.

  “You’re lucky I even have a table. You have to thank Amy for that. I’d be lost without her. We’d all be sitting on the floor. Surrounded by ugly fake flowers. Those really we
re ugly.”

  “Well then, thank god for Amy.”

  “Yes, thank god for Amy.” Gary poured glasses of water and wine for the three of us with a steady, confident hand. “Lamb and beef tagine with herb couscous and labneh,” he said, leaving his mother’s place empty.

  “Labneh?” I asked, inhaling the delicious aroma.

  “The white stuff. It seems kind of like yogurt. But I didn’t have a chance to read the description. What with my dear mother showing up out of the blue.”

  Gary and I began to eat. It felt odd with his mother just sitting there, watching and sifting the beads of her necklaces through her hands. “So . . . is it that you’re scared of Gary’s cooking?” I said.

  He laughed emphatically. “She once ate a soup made of bird saliva! I’m not kidding.”

  I chewed slowly, unsure whether a punch line was coming.

  She dismissed him with her hand. “He loves bringing that up, just to get a reaction. Bird’s nest soup. I paid good money for it at one of the best restaurants in Hong Kong, and I loved every bite. It’s known as the Caviar of the East, actually.”

  He snorted.

  “And why not?” She finished her wine and went to the counter. “Everything’s arbitrary.” She filled her glass with ice, vodka, and tonic water.

  “She’s a relativist,” Gary said.

  “Gold—why not apples? Or vodka, or wampum beads.” She sashayed back to the table, drink overflowing, and slurped the drippings off her hand.

  “Wow, Hong Kong. So have you done a lot of traveling?” I said.

  “More countries than I have fingers and toes.” She grinned. “He hates when I say that.”