by Lisa Acerbo
It’s only been a few months since he called me to help get his heat restored after his failure to pay. I had to go to a bunch of special agencies and get him on some special heating program for those who cannot afford it so he wouldn’t freeze during the winter. The process had eaten up an entire day, and I missed afternoon classes. Before heading back to college, I stop home, having a quick therapy session with my mom even though she can’t have anything to do with Antonio anymore due to a restraining order he’s trying to take out against her and her family.
Another of his paranoid delusions.
And I wonder where I get it from?
The Galaxy Diner, a glorious senior hangout, appears before us in all its thematic splendor. The outside is silver and gold. The interior is a brash mix of Greek and typical diner. Lots of cushioned booths in dark wood. Older wait staff fly around the corners, talking loudly, and filling small white mugs with endless streams of coffee. We get a booth and menus, and Antonio, gaze intent, is engrossed by the options.
“I’ll have two eggs, scrambled, toast, and home fries,” he says when the waitress arrives.
“And to drink?” the waitress, appearing bored in her black and white uniform, asks.
“Coffee.”
I order a bagel and coffee, and the waitress departs.
“It’s because of your mom and her family that I can't work,” my dad says. “They’ve caused me to lose my electrical license, which was never any of their business. Your mother’s family has been plotting for decades against me.”
“I think your license lapsed from non-payment after your fall.” I knew the rant about the past was coming. The years before my parent’s divorce were blessed with bedtime stories about how my mother was trying to poison my father’s food or the fact that our extended family planned to murder him. But I’m not in the mood today. I just want to go back to school, hang out with Tanya, and enjoy my peaceful, organized apartment. I’m excited to run the vacuum as soon as I get back to pick up any holiday dust.
He huffs and frowns at me. “Blame them. It’s always them.”
“Maybe it’s good you’re divorced then.” I need to keep my calm and not antagonize him. It will only make the situation worse, but it’s hard to listen to him say bad things about my mother, who has been there for me even in my worse times. I hope we are not overheard and drum the table with my fingers, the tune melting into my overactive brain. “It’s supposed to snow this weekend.”
He ignores my attempt to change the subject. “Your mother and her family have been trying to take me out.”
I sigh. “They are not trying to hurt you.” I slap my hand against my thigh to enjoy the sting.
“They even sabotaged my relationships with the neighbors. The people across the street dumped bacteria-infected chicken bones in my truck. They’re trying to curse me. They’re causing trouble everywhere. Left, right, central.”
I can’t help it. The words tumble out on their own. “That’s a whole heck of a lot of trouble.”
He stares at me, angry. I stare out the window.
“Your mother’s father, Stan, is the instigator.”
I try reason. “He’s in his seventies.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s pure evil. A snake. A viper.”
“Just stop.” I rub my eyes, only afterward realizing I’ve destroyed my mascara. “You’re not making any sense.”
He is angry. “You need to be a good girl. Don’t be like them. It would kill me if you did. But I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d stop it before.”
This sounds scary, like a real threat.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just promise me you’ll be a good girl.”
“Yes, sir.” I want to ask more, but the food arrives.
My temptation to spar with Antonio dissipates as he digs into his eggs, more interested in breakfast than further family discussion. A good meal always does that to him, at least until it’s completed.
It gives me a chance to relax as I nibble on the edges of my bagel and drink my bitter coffee made cold with too much milk.
Egg ends up on my father’s chin, and I hand him a napkin. Antonio lights up his cigarette in the middle of the diner until the waitress, not so politely, asks his to extinguish it. I shove my plate away. My half-eaten bagel tastes like cardboard. College seems so far away. I treat my father to the meal, leaving the waitress an extra-large tip.
#happyhome
* * * *
By the end of January, I’m settled back in my small apartment and love the distance it has put between my family and my life. Campus is serene, blanketed in a crisp white snow. Even Jace has been quiet and hasn’t invaded my Snapchat feed lately. His crazy-patterned scarves have remained outside my peripheral vision.
My last semester appears easy. I’m taking a sociology class about natural disasters and an Animal Nutrition class. My Lab Animal Science class might be the only crinkle in my smooth exit from college. Rickey is in that one, but I’m not unhappy to see him. At least my labs will get done on time and be completed to my standards.
The professor, Professor Battley, is exactly that—bat shit crazy. He stops his lecture, pursuing a tangent about how he shot two toes off in a hunting accident years ago. If that isn’t bad enough, he then sheds his sock and shoe to parade around his mangled foot in front of the twenty-odd students in class. I get a good viewing, but luckily have a pretty strong stomach when it comes to that kind of stuff.
I need it. I’m working with rats in Lab Animal Science class this semester. In lectures, we talk about the laboratory animal care and management, how to properly handle and restrain them, and legal regulations. In lab, we experiment on them, which sounds mean, but it’s not. It’s the only way to learn about the proper procedures, handling, and care for when I start working in research and development at a pharmaceutical company. Ultimately, I’ll perform a dissection, but today, I’m doing a castration.
That involves the use of ketamine, an injectable anesthetic. Ketamine is easy to administer in an injection without the need for specialized equipment. I’m holding the rat, who I named Joe, when Professor Battley makes his way to my table.
“How are you today, Dani?” He has memorized all of our names.
“Good. This will be an interesting lab. I’m excited to do a little surgery.”
“You’re always excited for lab.” He’s chuckling as he stabs the needle into the rat’s side.
“Ouch!” The rat, squirming at the last moment, avoids the needle, which then sinks through my white latex glove. “You injected me!”
“Oh!” His eyes register surprise. “Don’t worry. It happens more often than you think.”
“Is it safe?” I ask.
“You should be fine,” Professor Battley says, waving the needle carelessly in the air. “It’s only in high doses that cause hallucinations and feelings of disassociation. You might feel happy. Ketamine does have an antidepressant agent.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I say, trying to focus on the bright side.
“Let me get another needle, and we can try this again.”
* * * *
That evening, a chill runs through me as I step outside, ripped screen door banging loudly behind me. I grab the mail from the box at the end of the short walkway and enjoy the view of the woods on the other side of the road, relishing the quiet.
Heading inside, I sift through the envelopes. There are some flyers for restaurants I throw in the garbage and a card from my grandmother. There’s also a crisp white envelope without anything written on it. It’s sealed shut. I twist it from front to back a few times, not sure what to do. I doubt it’s for me and don’t want to open Tanya’s mail, but she’s napping upstairs. Part of me is curious about the contents. I go for it, planning my apology to Tanya if it’s a love note from her current man.
The paper rips jaggedly as I force my pinky finger under the seal and across the top. “Damn!” I suck at the thin slit in my picky. Damn p
aper cut. I shake my finger to relieve the sting. Stabbed by the professor and slashed by a mystery letter. Today is not my day. I’ve destroyed the envelope and now hope it is for me so I don’t have to present it to Tanya this way.
There’s a single sheet of folded paper inside. I take it out and read.
You always want more, bitch. Like a dog in heat. I smell it on you, and I’m coming to take what’s mine.
The paper flutters to the floor, and I do nothing but stare at it on the way down. The need to wash my hands overwhelms me. I peer out the open door, jagged rip in the screen like a mocking smile. I’m suddenly scared.
I close the door, lock it, and throw out the note. Then I dig it out of the garbage to show Tanya. I’m so happy to have a roommate at this moment.
I climb up the stairs with the note, enter her room uninvited, and sit on her bed, making sure to bounce. When that doesn’t wake her, I shake her and put the note under her nose.
“This was in the mail.”
“What?” She’s groggy and disoriented. Her eyes have trouble focusing on the paper.
“Someone left this in the mailbox.” I shake the offending note back and forth like a disobedient dog on a leash.
She snatches the paper out of my hand. “I was sleeping.”
“This is worth waking up for,” I say.
She examines the words. Her eyes roam back and forth like she’s reading them again and again. “Shit. What is this?”
“My question exactly. Who’d do this? Are you dating anyone we should be concerned about?”
“Me? Never?” Tanya says.
“Right.” I laugh out the words and begin to cough.
“Seriously. All mister nice guys of late.” Tanya rubs the sleep from her eyes and sits up. “At least I hope they are nice-ish, but not too nice if you get my point. Plus, this started before my current round of men.”
“It’s not Kyle, and I can’t imagine it’s my boss.”
“You never know. Older men have fetishes.” Tanya appears wiser than her twenty-one years, even with hair standing like lightning and sleep lines pressed across her face.
“Stop. It’s not like that at all. We haven’t even done the deed.”
“Yet.” Her smile is wicked. “How’s the old hottie doing?”
“We’re making strides in the right direction, but we haven’t done it. Yet,” I admit. “Focus. This is a real problem.”
“Should we go to the campus police?” she asks.
“We don’t have the other notes. What are they going to do?” My frustration leaks out as I repeatedly tap the bed with my hand.
“I guess we need to figure out who is doing this,” she says. “We also need to be extra careful. I don’t want either of us to end up dead in a back alley somewhere.”
“Agreed. We go out together, with friends or on dates with guys we know well.” Even as I say it, I understand Tanya will last a few days, a week at most, only dating guys she has history with.
She lifts her pinky. “Pinky promise.” She smiles as we shake digits. Tanya lies back down, throwing the covers over her head, crisis diverted.
In a couple of hours, I’m meeting Kyle to tell him I’m dating someone, or at least I would like to believe I am. While Brice and I still haven’t completed what we started that night in his office, there have been a few stolen make-out sessions during work in the supply closet, in the copy room, and, yes, back in his office.
I decide to cancel, but then change my mind.
Right now, I’m scared, and need Kyle.
#pinkypromises
* * * *
As if I’m not paranoid enough, the note has me looking over my shoulder, around the corner, and at students I would normally never glance at. For a week, Shami shows up everywhere, strolling down the sidewalk at the apartment complex, buying groceries at Big Y, even crossing the green on campus. Jace’s scarves reemerge, but at least he always remains at a distance. Everyone in my new classes comes under scrutiny. Everyone at work, those I formerly loved and others I tolerated, become suspect.
I even run into Bogden, my boyfriend from sophomore year. I’m meandering across campus when I notice his bright orange hoodie. No one else I’ve known has ever worn one like it. I’m not sure what to do. We’ve maintained a friendly relationship, but I wouldn’t call us close. Yet it would be rude to ignore him.
I stroll in his direction. “Hey.” I have to yell it to be heard, and that alone makes me regret saying hi.
“Dani!” Bogden pivots, his huge smile lighting his face. He reels me in for a hug, and I remember how comfortable we used to be with each other. “How are you doing?”
It’s what I love and hate about him. Always happy and optimistic, he could never understand what I lived through in my worst times. And I couldn’t force myself to believe Bogden could be so bright and shiny twenty-four-seven.
“Good,” I tell him, running a hand through my hair after we disengage. “You?”
“Getting ready to graduate just like you must be.” His hand touches my sleeve. “Miss you, pooh bear.”
I’m happy my cheeks are red in the wind because being reminded of my nickname embarrasses me. I’m not sure how to respond, so I try my standard. “We should get coffee sometime soon.”
“You don’t miss me?” Bogden asks. “I think about our time together. Do you?”
This conversation is not going as expected, and my brain instantly overloads. We had lost our virginity with one another, and it had been meaningful and right, but I moved on. I was beginning to wonder if Bogden had.
“I think about us,” I say. “Sophomore year was stressful. You really helped me get through it.”
“You had some tough times that year.” He shakes his head, remembering. “Before the holidays was especially rough. How was it this year?”
“Much better. Thanks for asking.”
I can’t believe Bogden remembered how much of a mess I was. Does that mean he doesn’t remember the good times? The studying in the student union for hours, the stupid jokes, staying up all night talking, even my first experience with too much wine. He was supportive that year, the year my father had a major meltdown. Maybe he understood more than I gave him credit for, but ultimately not the type of support I needed.
“I have to go.” I need time to process this meeting.
“I wasn’t lying. I miss you.” His blond hair shoots up like fireworks. His brown eyes droop. “We should get together soon.”
“I have to get to work. Text me,” I say as I give Bogden another brief hug before moving away.
At work, I sit at the front desk, answering phones and checking people in and out. An old lady enters.
“Sign in here,” I say.
“I’m Mrs. Walter McLaughlin.” She ignores the pen and paper attached to the clipboard. “Can you help me, dear? My husband is in a wheelchair in the hallway.”
I begin to sweat as I rise from my desk chair, asking Becky, the other receptionist to cover and head out to the hallway, wondering if I will find an old man in an ancient wheelchair, head lolling to the side. I hope I won’t freak out when I see him. I’m not good with old people or lame people. That’s why I liked being the receptionist, with a desk and large screen separating me from the patients.
His back wheel is stuck in the elevator. Half in, half out. The door tries to close, banging against the chair. Even I feel bad for the old guy and forget my unease. Someone is actually worse off than I am.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
The poor old woman doesn’t have the strength to maneuver him out. His head isn’t lolling; it’s held high. From his mouth comes less than kind words. I’m shocked by his language but try not to react. As I approach, he’s trying to use his scrawny arms to propel his chair out of the elevator.
“Hi.” I squeeze behind him. “Why don’t you let me help you?” I back up the chair so it won’t hit the door frame and make it out of the elevator, no problem. With his wife shuffling slowly be
hind me and Mr. McLaughlin muttering invectives, we all make it into the office without further problems. Once I get them settled and checked in, I grab my water out of the fridge in our private break room. I need a moment.
“Good job with Mr. McLaughlin,” Brice says.
I take a sip of water. “Thanks. Nice old man, isn’t he?”
Brice lets out a chuckle. “You should hear him when I give him physical therapy.”
“Glad I get to miss that.” I take another sip.
“What are you doing tonight?” Brice asks.
“Me?” My eyes meet his.
“Yes, you.”
I shrug. “Nothing interesting. Probably studying a little.”
“Want to get dinner?”
“Sure.” Finally, a real date, not a hot groping in a closet. I’m not sure I can hold the thrill inside my chest that wants to escape and dance.
I go back to the reception desk, the rest of the day passing in a blur.
* * * *
It’s a few days after my date with Brice, and I can’t wait to tell Kyle all about it. I’ve already shared the details with Tanya and received plenty of advice. Kyle and I settle into a booth at Pizza Palace. The restaurant hasn’t been redecorated since the seventies, but the pizza is tasty and cheap, just my style.
“Dish,” Kyle says after the waitress takes our order.
“No preliminaries? How’s school? How Tanya? Any of that?”
“Naw,” he says. “That’s boring. I like to be direct and get to the good stuff.”
“You’re a girl at heart.” I’m joking, but believe I’ve insulted Kyle when his face puckers. “What?”
“Nothing.” He works hard to bring a smile to his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you want to tell me or not?”
“Absolutely.” I consider where to start the story and how much to tell him.
“You ate dinner, and…” Kyle had to prompt me.
“We listened to one of those classical music concerts in Hartford. I’m not much into classical music, so I didn’t really know what to expect, but I liked it.”
