by Cubed, Magen
He paused. “Twelve weeks.”
“So, you came down here to guilt me into letting you see the kid you have floating around so you can feel better about the one you have in the oven.” Jerking her arm back, she turned to walk away.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like, because I really don’t know.”
“She’s my daughter, too.”
“But it’s not fair, Chris. She doesn’t even know who you are. Whatever Disney-movie reunion you have in your head, it’s not going to happen. She’s already been through so much. And what if you bail again? Then what?”
He scoffed, hurt. “It’s not your choice to make, Norah. You can’t decide what relationship we have.”
Norah spun around and stopped, bringing Chris up short behind her. “Do not say another word to me. You left us, okay? Not the other way around. You don’t get to be mad.”
“I’m her father, Norah. I have the right to see her.”
“Yes, on paper, you have all sorts of rights. But I was the one who had the surgery before she was born to fix her spine. I held her hands while she tried to get out of the wheelchair for the first time. I put her braces on every morning. I take her to her physical therapy. I pay for her prescriptions and her glasses and all of her school supplies. I do that because I’m her mother, Chris. Where the hell were you?”
He took a deep breath. “I made a mistake, all right? I saw a roadblock in our future and I panicked. That was shitty and selfish, and it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Now, I know I can never make up for that, but, Norah, come on. You nearly died. What if something else happens to you? What about Hannah?”
“Well, I didn’t die,” she said sharply. “So, it’s a moot point.”
“You’re not invincible. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“Yeah? Watch me.”
Chris paused. “Maybe another time.”
“Good.” Norah straightened her jacket collar and walked.
“Where are you going?”
“Bus stop. I have to go to Camden to pick up some stuff from my old job.”
“It’s an hour bus ride. At least let me drive you.”
“You really want to help me, Chris? Kick me an extra sixty bucks on your child support check so I can pay the water bill. Other than that, I’ll call you.”
Without as much as a backward glance, she walked away. He let her go. It was a fair enough compromise for now.
III.
Clara walked down the halls of the science building like nothing had changed. She hadn’t spent three sleepless nights staring at her ceiling and counting the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. There’d been no crying, late-night phone calls to her mother and Abuelita, begging their forgiveness for trespasses she never committed in their eyes. The little scrapbook of grades and acceptance letters she had been keeping since she got to the EBC was still shut away on her bookshelf, never taken out and examined page by page. Clara couldn’t bring herself to examine contents of her college career, reduced to department letterheads and school paper clippings. There was no time for that now.
So, in the morning, Clara got up, brushed her hair, and put herself together again. After dressing, she ate some fruit and oatmeal. She packed her bag and slipped on her shoes to leave, saying goodbye to Padma’s unconscious sprawl on the couch. She kept up appearances. Without appearances, she had nothing else to look forward to.
In Dr. Onobe’s 12:30 lecture, the entire class burned holes into Clara’s back as she took her seat in the front row. Advanced classes were fifteen to a room, so students from her five other classes overlapped enough for word to spread like wildfire. Clara Reyes, the name on the top of the Dean’s List, had been awarded the golden ticket: the internship at Bern and a 4.0 for the semester. While her peers had to sweat and starve and chew Ritalin just to survive their course loads, she was free. Perhaps if she had told someone other than Padma that she hadn’t even wanted the charity, the entire classroom might not have turned on Clara, but it was none of their business. Anything she said now—every ugly rumor she’d try to deny about mental breakdowns or suicide attempts—would only indict her further. Instead, she sat in Dr. Onobe’s classroom for the allotted eighty minutes, gathered her books, and left as quietly as she had arrived. People stared at her as she trudged past with her head down and her books in her arms. If she’d listened close enough, she could have heard the whispered accusations and gossip.
The ramble of the corridors was a hot, white and claustrophobic maze of eyes and corners. Her face reflected back at her in the porthole of every classroom. In the women’s room, she stared into the black hole of the sink and tried not to panic.
“No more episodes,” she told herself. “You can do this. You have to do this.”
“You can’t let them win,” her mother’s voice murmured back. “You can’t let them take this away from you.”
She couldn’t let them take the grants or the awards, the blue ribbons or the interviews with local papers. Those were hers. Washing the cold sweat from her face, Clara breathed deeply and herself to go. Go outside. Go for a walk. Don’t come back. Run. Don’t come back. Fuck them. Fuck everything. Run down the street and don’t regret it. Stop regretting. The next time Clara opened her eyes, she was overlooking the water. Her toes dangled over the edge of the Pascal Bridge. Her hands gripped the railing. The ocean breeze her hair and on her clothes. She took another breath and realized she was no longer alone. A familiar white dress fluttered in her periphery.
IV.
“Well, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not the cancer.”
Dr. Kumar held the results of Bridger’s scan to the light and wrinkled his nose. Through the filmy, gray tissue, Bridger saw the mass in his left lung. It was familiar to him now, like an extra digit or a new appendage that had grown just to mock him. He felt nothing but irritation at the sight of it and buttoned up his shirt with a shake of his head.
“I coughed up water like I was drowning. Tell me how that’s got nothing to do with the cancer.”
“You have a tumor. You’re not drowning.”
“I had a seizure, or a stroke—”
“Your brain scan came back already. It’s clean, too.”
“Then, how do you explain me passing out and drowning?”
“I can’t,” Dr. Kumar said with a shrug. He pinned the scan to the light box. “Not easily, anyway. But let’s start with the obvious. Are you feeling fluish? You could have just coughed up excess mucus.”
Bridger sat on the exam table. “No, I’m not feeling fluish. And I can tell water from phlegm, thank you.”
“Have you been having any headaches, dizziness or migraines?”
“No. Well... No, not since I fell.”
“Any new or worsening sleep problems?”
“No. Is this going somewhere?”
Dr. Kumar sighed. “As for your head, my best guess is you had a stress-induced panic attack and fainted.”
“So, that’s it? I’m stressed out because I’m dying?”
“You’re not dying yet, Bridger. Not yet. Your prognosis isn’t stellar, but you have options. There’s always treatment.”
“Yeah, I know. I keep hearing that.” Looking at his lap, Bridger let out a deep breath. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“When I passed out, I saw... something. I don’t know. I was on the street, and I was surrounded by people—running, screaming, coming at me from every angle. They were being shot at like we were in a war zone.”
Dr. Kumar wrinkled his nose again. “Have you had any episodes like this before?”
“No. It felt real, like I was there.”
“Well, are you talking to anybody about this?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“About the accident, Bridger. About the cancer. Hell, even if it’s just about the weather, every little bit helps.”
Bridger shrugged and looked to
the tumor in his scan. “I don’t see much point in talking to someone about something I can’t fix.”
“Part of your treatment will involve unpacking the emotional component of your illness. We have to manage our expectations, but just seeing a therapist a few times a month can help focus your priorities.”
“I have my ducks in a row, Doc, thanks.” Bridger slid to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the corner chair. “There’s not much more talking is going to do for me.”
“You’re not even going to consider treatment,” Dr. Kumar said flatly. “Are you?”
At the door, Bridger’s smiled weakly. “The only thing I’m considering right now is how long I want to keep this going before I punch my own ticket.”
“You have options, Bridger. It’s not all or nothing.”
“I never said it was.”
“Have you at least spoken to Caitlin about your decision yet?”
“All the bridges I’m burning are of my own design, Doc. Let me handle that, okay?”
Leaving, Bridger closed the door behind him. Dr. Kumar didn’t bother trying to stop him. After all, whether Bridger chose to walk to Pascal Bridge that afternoon and hurl himself over the edge was his choice to make and his secret to keep.
V.
The folder was thick with quickly scanned copies of handwritten statements and hospital charts. Kyle found it wrapped in brown paper with a length of twine holding down a little note: “Thought you’d like a peek.” When he first saw the parcel, he half-expected it to be some confused attempt at condolences from Helene’s desk, sent out like bait to lure him back to Kyrios’s door. Instead, he found Amanda’s familiar chicken scratch. It gently reminded him of sticky notes on the bathroom mirror and the shopping list on the refrigerator. He tried not to look at it, but the package—full of accident reports, eyewitness accounts, medical photos and diagnostic notation—was so tempting.
Human violence dripped off the page in detailed accounts of the bodies pulled from the wreckage, cataloged by dental records and photo identification. Pictures of his own body—crooked, scanned copies of his bloodstained clothes, bruised knuckles and scratched face —were scattered amid the files. He flipped through them quickly to find the files on his roommates at Alexander Hills. Each one had been pronounced dead initially. Shattered bones, cranial hemorrhaging, punctured organs. Nineteen-year-old female, revived at the scene. Thirty-two-year-old female, revived at the scene. Forty-five-year-old male, revived at the scene. Twenty-five-year-old male, revived at the scene.
He didn’t even notice Amanda as she sagged into the battered upholstery of his corner booth at the Go Nightly Diner. When he did look up, she was working on a cup of black coffee. Her peach lip balm smeared on the rim, and she tapped her knee on the underside of the table. He was already on his third cup and anxious for a cigarette.
“It’s actually generous of you to leave this for me,” he offered. “How guilty are you feeling?”
“Not particularly,” she said. “I knew you’d ask for it eventually. Figured I’d expedite the process.”
“Why the charity?”
“You were part of it. Besides, Kyle, I know you. You won’t sleep until you see the files.”
Shrugging, he closed the folder. “Thank you.”
“So?” She leaned forward and bounced an eyebrow at him. “Are you working up a profile yet?”
“No,” he said and leaned away. “I’m resting easy and complying with the conditions of my release.”
She smirked. “Should I call your P.O. to check with her?”
“Check yourself. I’m a model citizen.”
“Whatever. How’s the job search?”
“Stalled.”
“Ben said he got you an interview with some security firm. Set you up as a rent-a-cop.”
“Ben talks. Didn’t work out.”
“Not your style?”
“Something like that.”
She took a sip of coffee. “Just promise me you’ll get some sleep from now on, okay?”
“Why? You worried?”
“Yes, you idiot. Because I’m a decent human being.”
“Glen okay with that?”
“You mean Tim?”
“Him, too.”
Rolling her eyes, Amanda pushed her empty cup away to join his in the center of the table. “Behave yourself, Jeong. Call me sometime so I know you’re still alive.”
“I’ll try.”
“To call?”
“Or something.”
“Idiot.”
Kyle refused to watch Amanda leave no matter how comfortable the inclination felt. He looked down at the manila folder and tapped his fingers on it until the urge to look at her passed. Finally, he signaled the waitress for the check and cashed out, making sure to leave a few extra dollars in the tip jar for the cashier. Outside, he felt no pain as he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He tucked the folder inside his jacket for safekeeping. Downtown Camden bustled around him in a rush of people—all bumping and touching and avoiding contact. He should have gone home to hide, avoid the sunlight soaking into him with the dust and pollution and grit of it all, and wait for the last tremors of anxiety to pass.
There was no time for any of that as he came to the light on Venice Boulevard and found the girl from the train waiting for him. Her white dress fluttered around her as her little white petticoat gathered up in the breeze. She didn’t smile this time. Instead, she turned away to vanish down the sidewalk. Kyle felt compelled to follow after her on his heavy, booted feet. They walked down the street for eight blocks through the maze of human traffic to the intersection at the center of Darrington Square. The six main throughways of Camden met in a snare of traffic lights and rumbling cars. In the square’s sprawling shopping and restaurant spaces stood the city’s main branch of Welsh Regional Bank. It faced the intersection through a row of full-length glass windows and tall doors.
When Kyle reached the intersection, he saw others had gathered on opposing sides of the street: Adam, Clara, Bridger, and Norah. Each of them arrived at the same realization: they had been led here. Before anyone could think to speak up or question, there was an explosion.
Chapter Five
I.
When the dust finally settled, Kyle didn’t wake up so much as snap back into his rightful place in the world. His breath filled his lungs again in a panicked gasp as though he had forgotten how to exist in the moments after the explosion. Every bone in his body ached. In his ears buzzed the last echoes of fire and violence. He brought himself upright from his sprawl against the concave frame of the commuter bus. To his slowly dawning horror, Kyle realized the bus had not bowed because of the explosion itself; it had molded to accept his weight as he was thrown away from the blast. The massive, steel cage had cracked under the force, leaving his shadow in its twisted guts. He remained untouched, without a scratch to show for himself.
Darrington Square was reduced to the chaos of broken glass, twisted steel, overturned cars, and bodies in the street. The air smelled of seared meat and the toxic exhaust of blown engines and burning gasoline. All around Kyle were the remains of his once and future companions: Adam, Bridger, Norah, and Clara. Doll-limp and heads lulled back to expose Norah’s opened throat; Clara’s burnt face scorched to the bone; Adam’s blown skull, soft and wet and pulpy inside; and Bridger’s lifeless sag, pierced through the middle by a steel rod. Kyle breathed through the initial terror and tried not to stare at his unmarked hands.
Each of the four dead people scattered around him began to stir, slowly and mechanically. They were like broken toys spurred on by their windup gears, their limbs sparked by new batteries. As everyone rose, Kyle watched the traces of violence and death smooth over, fade, and vanish. Broken ribs mended. Adam’s skull sealed. Norah’s throat closed. Clara’s flesh mended. With a wet groan, Bridger levered himself off the rod, unaware of the gaping hole left in his chest. Adam was the first to fully right himself. He helped Clara to her feet before dust
ing her off reflexively. Norah walked to the edge of the curb and coughed from the taste of dust. She surveyed the cavern left of the lobby of the Welsh Regional Bank. Fires still roared inside. When Bridger stumbled on unsure feet, Adam picked him up, too. Clara touched the blood still wet on her newly formed face.
“Hey.” Four sets of eyes flicked to Bridger, who hung from Adam’s shoulder. He gestured to Kyle. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Kyle said. “And I think we need to talk.”
II.
Norah was the first to ask, staring at a spot in the wall above their heads. “We didn’t survive the bomb, did we?”
The five of them were huddled around a table in the back of Joe’s Coffee on 41st Street. The cops and ambulances had made a three-block barricade around Darrington Square. Sirens squalled in the distance. Police lights glinted off shop windows. Outside, people crowded around the taped-off perimeter, phones in hand as they tried to catch a glimpse of the grisly scene. There had been no reason for the five of them to stay behind and wait for the authorities. They had no way of explaining themselves, how they had all gotten there, or why they had survived. Any attempted explanation would end up with them in handcuffs in the back of a squad car.
To Norah’s question, Kyle shrugged. “You didn’t survive the crash, either, if that helps at all.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Adam said softly. One of his hands cradled a cup of coffee; the other thumbed over the dog tags at his neck. “We don’t know anything yet.”
“No, but we have a pretty good fucking idea.” Bridger sagged into his seat and crossed his arms. “We did just mop ourselves up back there.”
“Okay, but back up five minutes. There’s another part to this,” Clara said. “We weren’t just at the bombing – we were at the crash, too. All of us, together. We died there, and now we die together here? Does anybody else think that’s too crazy to be a coincidence?”
“You died. I didn’t.” When everyone looked at Kyle, he sighed and reached for the folder in his jacket. “According to your medical records, all of you were DOAs at the subway crash. Twenty minutes ago, I watched all of you come back from being turned into pulp. So, again—you died. I didn’t.”
