Ammar stared at her, aghast. “He did it more than once?”
“A hundred, two hundred, a thousand times … as long as I can remember. It’s not something you keep track of. He’s seven years older than me. He had plenty of time.”
No fucking wonder she shoots up, Ammar thought. He wanted to hurt Mark Carras and the hateful people who had parented them. How did they not know what was happening under their roof, or was denying it easier than dealing with it? It seemed too bizarre and Ammar felt a fragment of doubt, but the broken soul slumped against the wall made it believable.
“I’m sorry they did this to you.” He hoped she recognized his sincerity.
She pulled a battered pack of Winstons from her pocket, jiggled a torn cigarette from it, threw it to the floor, freed another, and lit up. She blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Shit happens.”
“It’s not right.”
“Which matters, how?” She dug at a hangnail.
“You be here tomorrow?” he asked.
“I don’t know, hero,” she said, drowsy.
“Maintenance doesn’t usually work weekends,” Ammar said.
Her eyes cycled between agitation and exhaustion until they closed.
The horrors Selene had suffered tormented Ammar through the night and he fought the urge to check on her. Despite her being eighteen, he had embraced a sense of responsibility for her and feared she would go in search of another fix. He tossed and turned enough to awaken his mother in her bedroom across the apartment; not easy since she would collapse into bed each night under the weight of total fatigue. He felt guilty. She was scheduled to work seven to three on Sunday and was gone when he arose at eight.
Ammar dressed, brushed his teeth and hair. He scanned the refrigerator, grabbed a leftover burrito, took two bites and tossed it, noting never to eat burritos again after brushing.
Multiple scenarios played out as he headed for the basement: Selene gone, Selene blitzed on smack, Selene with a man, Selene lifeless. He pushed the thoughts away.
What he did find was Selene lying on the floor, her body shaking, and her face drenched in enough sweat to dampen the cardboard beneath her. A puddle of vomit near her head also clung to her hat and matted her hair. Ammar was no authority on addiction, but he knew what he was seeing. It had been two to four days since she had last shot up.
Ammar knelt and gently rested a hand on her.
“Ffffuuuccckkk! My fucking head. Don’t touch me,” Selene croaked.
“You’re having DTs,” Ammar said.
“No fucking shit,” she said between rapid breaths. “I need some candy, just a taste. Get me some, please. Just this once.”
“I don’t have money,” Ammar said. Not entirely true, but he had no intention of feeding her craving, not that he’d know where to find any.
“You said you care. You don’t fucking care or you’d get me some.”
“Sorry, can’t do it.”
“Then just kill me, pleeese!”
“Can’t do that either.”
“You’re an asshole. I hate you.”
Ammar rose and headed for a paper towel dispenser near a utility sink.
“Don’t fucking leave me!” Selene demanded.
Ammar smiled despite himself, returned and gently wiped vomit from her face. She pulled away but then let him press the cool paper towel to her forehead. He remained with her for two hours, fearing maintenance workers would show up and formulating an explanation in case they did.
Selene drifted in and out of a troubled sleep. Ammar wanted to do something for her, but being sixteen and financially limited didn’t present a lot of opportunities. He couldn’t take her to a movie or a meal looking the way she did, not that she’d eat anything.
“Hey,” she croaked.
“Hi,” said Ammar.
“This sucks.”
“I can’t even guess. You impress me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I puked?”
“A little.”
“Oh, God, I’m fucking disgusting. How can you stand looking at me?”
“I’ve seen you looking better,” he admitted. “Hey, I work four to eight today, my mother works until four. Come up to the apartment and hang for a while.”
“I don’t think your momma would like catching you with a whore.” Selene laughed, dry and raspy, as if her laughter had sat idle too long and had rusted. She rocked in place, lightly kneading her arm.
“Don’t call yourself that,” Ammar said, but she was right. His mother was devout. If she found a woman in their apartment who’d been arrested for prostitution, she’d have him doing Salat at the mosque in minutes. “Nothing personal, but I figured you’d like to shower, maybe sit after and watch TV.”
“Do I smell bad?”
She reeked of sweat, vomit, and addiction, but he had acclimated to it. “You don’t smell good, but I’ve smelled worse.”
“What the fuck. Help me up … slowly.” She extended her hand.
Ammar led her to the fourth-floor apartment, getting curious glances but passing no one he recognized.
Selene entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. “Can I take a bath instead?”
“Of course.”
“You have a washer and dryer?” she called from the bathroom.
“Yeah.”
Ammar retrieved his robe from his bedroom, returned to the bathroom and timidly knocked. Selene opened the door and stood before him, naked and unabashed. Ammar reflexively averted his gaze from her as she dropped her soiled clothes into a pile at his feet.
“There’s more in my backpack,” she said. “Can I?”
“Yeah.” He held the robe out to her, which she grabbed.
He stole a glance as she closed the door. She was painfully thin, childlike. Anger seared in him, toward her father, her mother, her brother, at the bastard lawyer and anyone else who had ever hurt her. He loaded her clothes into a washing machine set behind bi-fold doors near his bedroom. Her small collection of possessions was as heartbreaking as everything else about her.
He sprawled on the couch and watched Lizzy McGuire, The Proud Family, swapped the wash to the dryer and watched half an episode of Kim Possible before Selene emerged from the bathroom. She dropped onto the couch beside him, looking smaller than ever draped in Ammar’s oversized robe, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. He smiled.
“Welcome back. I was ready to send a search team.”
“I had to scrub the tub. Had a ring like Saturn.”
Again, her bluntness knocked him off center. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“I feel like shit, but I feel like clean shit, so that’s better. The bath helped a lot,” she said, holding his gaze for the first time since he’d brought her the soup.
“Your clothes should be done soon.”
“Sending me packing already?”
“No! Just saying. My mother doesn’t come home until four.”
She smiled and removed the towel from her head, her arm visibly trembling. She shook her head, fanning her hair out, increasing her appearance from twelve to fifteen years old. Two small lesions near her lips and a mild darkness beneath her eyes confirmed her addiction, yet were evidence of a relatively new dependency… as addictions go.
“In the bathroom cabinet, there’s—” Ammar struggled.
“What?” Selene pressed.
“You know … woman things. You said—”
“I lied,” she admitted, shrugged. “I haven’t had a period in months. Benefits of smack. You have a brush?”
He retrieved one of his mother’s brushes, thoughts of lice crossing his mind. He’d boil it once Selene left. She ran the brush through her hair with a quivering hand as they shared small talk, the Power Rangers flickering on screen.
“In another life, I would do this five hundred times every morning,” she said.
Ammar looked at her familiar spray of freckles. She was still pretty, but the wholesome beauty had dampened. She set the brush
on the couch and turned to him.
“We can fuck if you want,” she said.
A flicker of panic and a stream of thoughts sped through Ammar. What do I do? What if mom comes home early? How do I explain a woman wearing nothing but my robe? She spilled a drink? She puked? At least that was somewhat true.
He had often deliberated when and how his first sexual encounter would transpire, and while the prospect was certainly appealing, Selene’s condition, childlike appearance, and his mother’s many warnings about STDs were huge deterrents.
Seeing his hesitance, Selene said, “Yeah, I don’t blame you.”
“No! I want to. You’re very pretty, but if it happens, I want to be sure it’s what we want and that you don’t feel obligated.”
She searched his eyes. “Are you for fucking real?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“Will you hold me for a while at least?” she asked, almost plaintive.
Selene curled against Ammar and he held her, reverberations of her dependency humming through her and into him.
“You know,” Selene said, breaking a long silence, “right now, at this moment, I feel like I could kick this thing and someday maybe have a normal life.”
“I’d like that for you. I think you can,” Ammar said. “How’d you get started?”
“Mother’s Vicodin. Heavy-duty stuff, ten milligrams of hydrocodone per tablet. Life was warm and fuzzy on vikes, not so much once the bottles were empty.” She rubbed her forehead and then took Ammar’s hand. “Vicodin’s hard to find on the streets. Heroin and meth are easy. You don’t need a prescription. Someone told me it gave the same high.”
“Does it?”
“Yes and no. It’s the best-worst feeling ever. I love it, I hate it. I don’t recommend it.”
When the sweats and shakes again took hold of Selene, she lay down, restless, agitated, often crying out. “I want to rip off my skin,” she groaned, fingers clawed.
Slightly after noon, she leveled out. Ammar made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and Selene ate a quarter of hers with mouse-like nibbles before her stomach knotted. It was the most Ammar had seen her eat since he’d found her and it encouraged him.
At two-thirty, Selene carefully dressed and stuffed her few extra items in her backpack. “I need to go—before I can’t,” she explained.
Ammar followed her to the parking lot where she kissed him sweetly.
“See you soon, hero?” she said.
“Hey, I need a favor!” Ammar said.
“What?”
“If you get the urge to use, don’t. Okay? I promised to hang with Chris and Jimmy after work, but I’ll be home later. Promise you’ll come back here. I’ll help you through it.”
“I know you will.” She kissed him again and walked away.
Ammar waited in the boiler room until midnight but Selene never showed. He wandered downtown with little hope of finding her; if she were anywhere, it wouldn’t be the city’s main drag, Washington Street. He checked the boiler room again. He was frightened for her, desperate to know she was okay. He imagined her passed out or walking the streets, oblivious, or doing tricks to buy a high. He closed his eyes to the images but understood he had no power over her choices, and regardless how hard he tried, he couldn’t drive them from his head. He stared into the darkness for a long time before sleep finally claimed him.
Ammar’s mother had already left for work when his alarm woke him. His first thought was of Selene. He had an hour to dress and get to school. He hurried through his morning routine, grabbed his book bag, and sped out the door. Exiting the apartment complex, he turned for the alleyway between the buildings and froze, panic congealing his legs.
Outside the boiler room door, a police cruiser and ambulance idled, red and blue lights flashing and strobing defiantly. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, crowding yellow cordon tape that read “POLICE LINE” and “DO NOT CROSS.”
Coaxing his legs, he walked and then ran toward the scene. As he neared, he saw a stretcher near the ambulance, covered by a sheet … completely covered.
“No…no, no…no no!” He tried to duck beneath the tape. A police officer stepped in front of him and corralled him backward.
“Please stay behind the line, son,” he said, but Ammar surged forward again and the officer grasped his arm.
“No, no!” He said, trying to string his words together. He bounced on the balls of his feet, staring at the small shape outlined beneath the sheet, child-small.
Who else could it be?
The officer spoke to him but Ammar was beyond hearing. Near the doorway, a maintenance man stood looking troubled and pale.
“Roger!” Ammar yelled.
Roger glanced his way and sullenly turned back to the officer, without acknowledging Ammar.
“Wait! Is she dead?” Ammar asked, but he knew. His words got the officer’s attention.
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“I know her. She’s homeless!”
“Wait here. Don’t move.”
The cop walked to the other officer, spoke, and then both policemen returned. They gently led Ammar away from the crowd and the stretcher, though his eyes couldn’t leave it.
“Is it her?” Ammar asked.
“I don’t know, son. Can you tell us who you think it might be?”
“Her name is Selene Carras. She’s homeless but it’s not her fault.”
The officers shared a glance. “Please wait near the cruiser. We may need to ask you a couple questions.”
The questions were quick and perfunctory. How long have you known her? When was the last time you saw her? What? How? Who? They answered none of Ammar’s questions, acting deaf to them. The paramedics loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and drove away, not confirming who lay beneath the sheet. He knew.
Ammar suffered through school and work in a daze, thinking only of the girl he had met a month earlier … now gone forever.
His mother was asleep when he arrived home, but sleep evaded him, not from wondering when he’d see Selene again, but knowing he never would.
He dozed sporadically until his mother’s activity dragged him from his stupor. He joined her at the table where she, already in her janitorial garb and kerchief, drank coffee and read the paper.
“You’re up early. Can’t sleep?”
“No,” He leaned to kiss her cheek.
“You okay?” she asked, ever intuitive.
“Yeah.”
“Coffee on the stove.”
“You know I don’t drink the stuff, Mom.”
“Forgot you’re an alien. You hear about the homeless girl they found dead in the basement?” she asked, seeming slightly animated.
“Yeah, it’s freaking sad,” Ammar said, hoping she’d mention it no more.
“Poor thing, just looking for a place to stay warm and she gets electrocuted.”
“What? What do you mean electrocuted?”
“Says it here.” She pushed the paper forward, looking at him oddly. “Daughter of some local bigwig. We clean his offices on Thursdays.”
Ammar grabbed the paper. The article buried on page four read:
Riverside Woman Electrocuted
In Tenement Basement
The body of a homeless teen was discovered in the basement of a Riverside apartment complex early Monday morning by the complex maintenance head, Roger Demeister. The deceased, identified as Selene Marie Carras, estranged daughter of local financier Alexei Carras, appeared to have inadvertently come in contact with exposed electrical conductors after forcing her way into the building’s boiler room. Police Captain Greg Foley said there will be an investigation, but believes no foul play is involved.
Reportedly, Selena Carras had run away from home in 2001 after a family dispute resulting from an arrest. Alexei Carras believed his daughter had fled to the West Coast.
Selena Carras is survived by her parents, Alexei and Dorinda Carras, of Riverside, a brother, Mark Carras, also of Rive
rside, and a number of aunts, uncles, and cousins residing in Greece. Holland Funeral Home will be handling Services.
Ammar read the article three times, saddened and confused. It was the last line ‘Holland Funeral Home will be handling Services,’ that that troubled him. Would they be pretentious and insincere enough to put on airs after the way they had abused, neglected, and denied Selene? Would they shower their deceased daughter with traitorous love and provide a beautiful funeral only to impress observers?
Ammar intended to be present at Selene’s funeral.
Ammar knocked on the boiler room door. A plate had been installed, restricting access to the latch. He knocked again with no answer, searched the property for twenty minutes before finding Roger Demeister seated on a stairway, smoking a cigar.
“Hi, Roger.”
The maintenance man looked at him and nodded. He still appeared pale.
“Ammar, right?”
“Good memory,” Ammar said. The only time he recalled talking to the man was the day he and his mother had moved in.
“I remember the names of the people I like … and the people I don’t like. You I like. You don’t cause trouble.”
It was difficult telling Roger’s age. He was short with ropey arms, his hair graying at the temple and mostly gone, wrapped around the back of his head like a laurel wreath. He released a stream of cigar smoke from beneath a walrus mustache.
“Thanks,” said Ammar. “Roger, can you tell me what happened to Selene Carras yesterday morning?”
“Electrocuted. Fucking shame, poor kid dying like that. Excuse my French.”
“I know, but what happened?”
“You know her? You were pretty upset.”
So he did notice me, Ammar thought. “She was a friend.”
“She was troubled,” Roger said.
“She was still a good person.”
Roger shrugged. “Fair enough. Stupid shit luck, as far as I can tell. She knocked the junction box cover off the water heater when she tried to sit or something—bumped into the element. She was still holding onto a copper water line when I found her. Two hundred and seventy-seven volts makes every part of you contract. No letting go of that pipe until it tripped the breaker. Pretty much cooked her from the inside out, poor kid.”
A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales Page 12
