I offered Lucinda my hand. "Nice to meet you."
She accepted the handshake. "Thanks, Miss Rose."
"Call me Viviane. We don’t do formality on the graveyard shift."
Ajani said, "Miss Viviane is the only white woman at the laundry, but don’t let that fool you. She’s the best damned floor supervisor we got."
I wagged a warning finger at him. "You better watch that racist shit. Around here, we’re all just stains."
"True dat." Ajani laughed and nodded wisely. He took off his jeans and stood there in his boxers, turning his back to us.
"That's Julio," I told Lucinda. They gave each other a little wave.
I changed out of my street clothes. It was far too hot in the laundry to wear more than running shorts and a tank top under our uniforms, and some people wore less. I felt vulnerable without the added cloth between me and the laundry scrubs. It wasn’t a question of modesty. Modesty wasn’t necessary in the laundry—we all sweated together. No, it was about having an extra layer of protection against the three Ps, even if it was just psychological armor.
Scarlett "Lettie" Sorvino rushed into the break room, boobs bouncing and girly heels clattering on the concrete. She skidded to a halt in front of a locker, grabbed the waistband of her skirt, and shoved it down to her ankles revealing spandex bike shorts snugged tight to a curvaceous behind.
I said, "Cutting it close, aren’t you, Lettie?"
"Sorry—had to break up with Nina tonight." She glanced at the clock as she kicked off the skirt and her shoes. Lettie had the kind of looks that could go in any direction, from slutty to Catholic schoolgirl, from dangerous to dazzling, and back again. She was a chameleon, but she called herself a mutt, and her African-Italian mix of genes showed in the color of her skin and hair, the prominence of her nose. I had always thought she was at her most beautiful without make-up, though she used quite a lot most of the time—even at the laundry.
"You broke up with Nina?"
"It was overdue. I’m fine."
I dropped it. "Ajani, you’re on washers. Lettie, you’re sorting. Julio's on dryers."
Lettie slid her jaw to one side and rolled her eyes. "I s’pose it’s my turn." Nobody wanted to sort. That was where you ran into the three Ps.
Jaxon said, "Guess that leaves me ironing and folding?" Neither tall nor short, his body had a powerful, substantial mass. His trimmed beard and mustache joined sideburns and melded into a cap of hair, all the color of Turkish coffee.
"Yeah, Jax. You’re the caboose tonight." I clapped my hands. "Time to go, people. This train is leavin’ the station." Tick. Tock. The team spread out across the laundry facility, and we took over for the previous shift.
"Have a good shift," Lucinda called as we filed out.
♦
I still had three hours to go before we were done for the night and, I was steamy with sweat. After fifteen years on the job, I was used to it, but that didn't make it any less unpleasant. When you worked in the Center’s laundry, you wore sangfroid as a shield. You had to, or you’d never make it. The laundry was no picnic. Far too often, you’d pull a sheet out of a bag and find one of the three Ps: piss, poop, or puke. It took time to get used to that. Whenever it happened to new employees, some gagged, some recoiled, and some quit—some on the first day, some a week or two into it. Those of us who stuck it out—who survived the heat, humidity, noise, mind-bending boredom, and constant contact with bio hazmat—were badass and proud of it.
Everything about the laundry dampened your senses, from the earplugs to the latex gloves. The washers went through their cycles, firing up, spinning down, and rattling away. The gargantuan laundry machines—three washers and three dryers—created a constant cacophony. Twenty-four hours a day—boom, boom, boom—the machines roared. Shifts came and went. Tick. Tock. The faces changed, but the machines never stopped because the three Ps never stopped.
Someone with a morbid sense of poetry once scratched a saying into the paint on one of the dryers. It became the laundry’s motto: "Today, you’re pain. Tomorrow, a stain."
I could tell by the tone of a washer’s hum that it needed repairing, and I could hear a solid object knocking about before anyone else. It was a gift. The laundry facility was the one place where I was in control—of my world and of my mind. I'd worked my way up through the ranks to manager, and I ran a tight team.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
U coming 2 see me? A text message from my fiancé Colin.
I typed: Maybe.
Tease.
I went back to inventorying supplies with a lighter step. As I counted, Jaxon Bellonescu peeled away from the ironing machine and crossed toward me. Even in a baby-blue laundry smock and pants, he could have been a desert nomad, skin tanned by a harsh sun, mouth hardened by a harsh life. "That load’s done." he said. "You want me to start the next one?" His Turkish accent rolled the words roundly in his mouth.
"Yeah." I checked off another load on the big board. That made ten for the night. Right on schedule for another Productivity Award.
A scream sounded above the din.
All heads turned to Lettie as she stumbled back from the table where she'd been prepping dirty laundry for the washers.
"Kill it!" she cried. "Kill it!"
Everyone in the room dropped what they were doing and headed toward her, including me. She started cursing a blue streak, and as I got closer, I saw why. A snake lay on top of the pile of sheets, aprons, and towels. Not a big one, but a snake nevertheless.
"Somebody kill it!" Lettie shouted again, cringing away so she didn't have to look at it, then peeking, afraid to turn her back on it.
Julio M.F. Quinones worked the dryers. M.F. stood for Marcos Fernandez, despite what he told everyone. He walked right up to the snake and dropped a plastic storage bowl over it, relaxed as you please. A wave of relief rippled around the room.
"It's only a garden snake. You don't kill them," Julio said. "They work hard for you. Hand me that clipboard over there."
I stepped up, nabbing the empty clipboard and handing it to him.
Julio slid the board under the bowl with surprising gentleness. He picked the whole package up and carried it to the exit, where he paused. "Señorita Rose," Julio shouted, "Can I grab a smoke while I'm out there?"
The clock told me he was once again ignoring the 15-30-15 break schedule, but I nodded my approval anyway. How could I not, after that heroic display.
Earlier that night, Julio’d had us in stitches, telling us how his gringa girlfriend had dumped him to join a community of vegan hippies. He said it was his own fault. He should have stuck with Latinas as his mother had advised. "Latinas don’t go vegan," he'd said, "and they don’t leave a boyfriend—especially an employed one—to join a tits-free commune." Then, he'd spat into one of the garbage cans and walked away. That was how he was.
Maybe I sensed that his humor hid very real pain at the break-up. Maybe the thought of a bummed smoke called to me. Whatever the reason, I gave him a few minutes to release the snake outside, then followed after him.
As soon as the laundry’s fire door closed behind me, the noise level dropped significantly, and I pulled the earplugs from my ears. I walked down the concrete-block corridor. No windows. No nothing. Cool air dried my sweat and left a pleasant chill on my skin. My footsteps echoed in the emptiness. I hit the door to the back stairwell with one smooth, practiced move. The stairwell was the best place to smoke. No one ever came down that way, so the likelihood of getting caught was slim.
"Hey, Julio," I said. "It’s me. Gimme a…"
I froze in place.
Julio was sliding slowly down the wall. His arms twitched, hands like spiders riding their webs. Rolling upward, the whites of his eyeballs glowed in the fluorescent lighting, and his pupils eclipsed his brown irises. His mouth gaped, revealing a convulsing tongue and the entrance to his cavernous throat.
The door slammed shut behind me, breaking me out of my stunned inaction. I
ran to him.
"Julio!" I cried, shaking his shoulder. He didn’t respond—just crumpled to the floor and slumped to one side. "Julio!" I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the Center’s security desk. Nothing. No bars. I stumbled up the stairs until I got a signal, then dialed again.
Esteban, the night watchman, answered.
"I need a doctor or an ambulance. Julio's having some kind of seizure, in the back stairwell, basement level. This is Viviane Rose. Please, hurry."
"I’ll get—" Our connection broke as I raced back down the stairs.
Julio wasn’t breathing. He had no pulse. What was next? Why hadn’t I taken that CPR refresher last year? Whatever memories I had of the required training from years ago jumbled in my head.
I grabbed him by the shoulders of his smock, pulled him down the stairs toward the concrete landing. He was heavy, and as soon as gravity overtook him, it nearly dragged me down with him.
My version of cardiopulmonary resuscitation was inelegant at best, but I was determined to keep Julio alive. The air was going in and coming back out, but his heart had stopped. As the minutes passed and my back began to ache, I grew less confident that I'd have the strength to see it through.
Finally, Nurse Andrea, the overnight nurse from the women’s wing, arrived.
"What happened?"
"I don’t know," I told her between chest pumps. "There was…a snake. He was…taking it out. Went on break…and I was…looking for him…when I found him…he was having...some kind of fit…maybe the snake bit him…don’t know."
Andrea checked his pulse. "I’ll take over the heart massage. You breathe for him. I’ll tell you when."
"Okay." Tears crawled up into my nose and sinuses. I sniffled. I couldn’t afford to lose my shit. I had to keep it together. I felt for the straight pin I kept in my pocket. It was my anchor, my lifeline to sanity. I pushed it through my clothes and into my thigh. The pain brought everything back into focus, cleared my vision, and quieted my mind. In the space of a second, I was fine again. I positioned Julio’s head, opened his mouth, and pinched off his nose.
Andrea counted. "Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Now. Breathe." She paused long enough to watch me give Julio the kiss of life. We repeated it more times than I could count.
When the paramedics finally arrived, led by the night watchman, they brought equipment, a defibrillator. It took two shocks, but Julio came back. He sucked in air as if he had a black hole inside him. Andrea and I both gasped with him.
Julio began to talk, rambling in Spanish. "Ella se enoja. Coatlicue se enoja. Se enoja."
She's angry. Coatlicue is angry. She's angry.
The paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher. As they strapped him down, he hissed my name, "Señorita Rose. Ella se enoja," he croaked. He rolled frightened-animal eyes toward me.
"It’s okay, Julio," I told him. "Nobody’s angry. It’s okay."
Around seven a.m., as I filed the paperwork requesting a temporary replacement for Julio, I thought about calling Richard, but eventually decided against it. I didn’t need my psychiatrist as much as I needed a good stiff drink
What I got was bacon and eggs. Abram had breakfast waiting for me when I walked in the door—as he usually did.
♦♦♦
CHAPTER 4
The next evening, I crossed the barrier into the Men’s Wing and knocked on Colin's door. They had taken him off suicide watch, and I could visit him as I usually did.
"Come in."
I entered, shut the door behind me, and would have locked it, if it had a lock. We met in the middle of the room and went straight into an embrace, our bodies crushed together, hungry mouths seeking each other. He was taller than me, strong and masculine. The bit of reddish stubble on his cheeks scratched my face.
I thrust my fingers through his auburn curls, melding my palms to his head, and held his mouth against mine. It had been days that had felt like weeks, months even, since the last time I’d felt his arms around me.
He backed me against his desk, hands pulling my skirt up, tugging my panties down, and all the while, our tongues danced. The edge of the desk was hard against my ass, but I didn’t mind. It added to the urgency of our lovemaking.
We were both ready when he slid into me, erect and wet, and I bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. I locked my ankles behind his back, being careful—mostly—not to dig the heels of my boots into him.
He rocked me hard. I came. He came, and he held me so tightly that we were one body. I clung to him, hid my face in the crook of his neck, and breathed in his smell, trembling.
"One day," he whispered, "you’ll be my queen."
"One day," I said, "we're going to get caught, and I'll lose my job." I licked up his neck to his mouth, and we kissed until he withdrew from me and pulled me to the bed where we rested together, letting our heartbeats slow. I was back in high school, hiding my boyfriend from Abram, making out in risky places.
"I want to find your lost memories," I said. "Hypnotize you the way Richard does me."
Colin sighed heavily. "We've talked about this, Viv. It sounds dangerous." He lay on his back, and I curled in against him, one hand on his bare chest.
"It's not, and if it can break through your amnesia—"
"If it could break through my amnesia, then Doc Bella would've tried it already."
I grunted in frustration and raised up on one elbow to glare down at him. "Sometimes I think you don't want a normal life."
"Viv…c'mon."
"Seriously. I think you're afraid to get well. Honey, the sooner you remember, the sooner we can get on with our life together."
"Maybe I don't want to know."
"Not knowing is…more dangerous than knowing."
After a pause, he said, "Let's give it a try, but if it doesn't work, you let it go. For good."
I nodded enthusiastically and sat up. "Promise."
Tick. Tock.
He trusted me. I was the pillar against which he leaned, the crutch that held him upright. I had a touch of worry that I might not be able to handle what came up out of his subconscious, but I pushed it aside. We had to do something. I was impatient for Colin to be whole, to know what demons from his past we would have to overcome. Together, I told myself, we could handle anything.
I counted him down. For the first time, I understood how Richard must have felt whenever he and I were in session. With my role reversed, I had immense power, and it filled me with a calm elation—and hope.
When I was sure he was under, I said, "You’re standing in front of a mirror. The mirror is foggy, so you can’t see yourself. If you want, you can pick up a towel and wipe away the fog."
"I see the mirror. The towel is around my waist. If I take it off, I’ll be naked."
"It’s okay to be naked here," I said. "Nobody can see you but you."
"Okay. I’m wiping off the fog. I see myself."
"Describe what you know about yourself."
"I’m very far from home."
"Where’s home?"
"Gehenna."
"Do you know your name?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"You may hate me when you find out."
"I could never hate you."
Much to my surprise, tears flowed out of the corners of his eyes. His hands remained at his sides, still and relaxed. "I can never go back," he said. "They’ll kill me." His face grew sharp, features taking on a more angular edge. That frightened me more than the tears. "I remember."
He remembered. Excitement and fear coursed through me simultaneously. I tugged at a hangnail with my teeth. The flap of skin pulled away with a sharp pain followed by a welling of blood. I sucked on it.
When I woke him, Colin’s face relaxed, and the frightening mask fell away. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling as if processing, then he turned his eyes to meet mine.
"What do you remember?" I asked him with more than a little trepidation.
He smiled. "Not
hing significant."
"You said you were from a place called Gehenna. You said, 'I can never go back. They'll kill me.'"
"I did?"
"We can go again. Close your eyes."
"No." Colin took one of my hands. "I have the naughtiest urge to make love to you all night long," he said. "Did you put some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion in me?"
I laughed, and it broke the tension. I let it go—for the moment.
We went to dinner in the men’s cafeteria, taking a corner table with our mashed potatoes, breaded pork tenderloins, chocolate pudding, and milk. The room buzzed with quiet conversations, the vibe different somehow, as if the patients were afraid to talk above a whisper.
"What’s going on?"
Colin surveyed the room, then went back to his meal. "One of the guys died last night."
"Oh no. Which one? Did I know him?"
"Danny MacIntyr." The name rang a small bell, and I envisioned his face—quirky and mischievous.
"He was so young," I said.
"Twenty-two."
I put the fork down without taking the bite and rested my hand on his arm. "Were you guys close?"
"He was my friend."
"Why didn’t you say something before?"
Colin put his hand on my cheek and looked me in the eyes. "And what? Spoil our time together? No way." He kissed me on the forehead. "People die. Life goes on. I’ll miss him, but not enough to stop grabbing every second with you. Or grabbing you every second I can. Or grabbing you for seconds, if I can."
I laughed. "Stop, stop. You had me at ‘grab.’"
"Seriously, though. You never know how much time we have left."
Tears of love filled my eyes. "You’re right."
"You have to be careful, okay? Promise me." Colin’s tone went from casual serious to dead serious.
"I’m always careful."
"No. You have to be extra careful. She’s watching us."
A cathedral of alarm bells sounded in my head. "Who’s watching us?"
Colin lowered his voice. "The hag. The one who killed Danny."
I had a sudden memory of Julio's wild eyes, spitting out the words, "She's angry!" It shook me, so I resorted to platitudes and diversion. "It’s okay. Finish your dinner. We’re safe."
Stalking the Moon Page 3
