Snow, Blood, and Envy

by Haus, Jean

  My father pushes away from the counter. “You need to apologize to Smith in the morning. Though he’s Mali’s chauffeur, he’s ours now too.”

  I frown. My head rings, simple coexistence. “O-okay, but how long is Harrison going to be on vacation?”

  He shrugs his coat on. “Don’t know. Mali’s in charge of domestic affairs now.”

  “Two weeks,” she hoists her designer purse from the counter, “unless he calls to extend his vacation. I suppose deep sea fishing for some can be addicting.”

  My frown deepens. I’ve a hard time imagining Harrison fishing. He isn’t an outdoorsy kind of guy. He’s more like a Harley Davison convention kind of guy.

  As my dad helps her into her coat, Mali points to the fridge. “Your dinner has already been delivered.”

  I nod while my stomach, knowing some gross healthy concoction waits for me, does a flip.

  “Don’t wait up,” my father says over his shoulder as they leave the kitchen.

  At the click of the front door, I get a doggie treat and set Chilly on the floor. Relieved they’re finally gone I pull out my dinner from the stainless steel fridge. Grilled salmon surrounded by an array of raw vegetables under a plastic lid. Yuck. The hunk of pink meat is going to stay under plastic forever. I toss the fish into the garbage and open the freezer to search. After digging for some time, I’m worried Mali has gotten to Rosa. Then at the bottom, under a bag of organic peas, I find a single pepperoni pizza.

  While the microwave brings the scent of sauce and pepperoni into the air, I study the bracelet. The white stones are dull with a brownish tinge while the copper shines bright. My wavy reflection stares back at me from the metal. It looks like something from a craft store or a flea market. Where had Mali found it? An overpriced art boutique is the only place I can imagine.

  With an ice of glass and a hidden Coke, I go to the computer in my elegantly appointed room. The room is so not me. In my old room, drawings and artwork covered the walls. Cartoon characters in the form of posters and knickknacks littered the space. Now those things gather dust in storage. Such items wouldn’t go with the modern ambience my father’s decorator created with dark woods, cream linens, and shiny, turquoise pottery. Only two things of mine help decorate the room, a Bugs Bunny cup full of pencils and a framed photo of my mother and me at our cabin in West Virginia. I usually pile books in front of the picture so I don’t have to look at it, don’t have to face those memories at the cabin.

  In between slices of pizza—Chilly sits at my feet waiting for his piece of crust—I search for where Mali found the bracelet. The curiosity is killing me. I suppose because of her desire for me to be a mini-Mali, the gift amazes me. I type a variety of words in the search engine, but nothing for sale is the same as the bracelet I wear. After an image search, the only items comparable are ancient pieces of jewelry on museum sites. Some are so similar mine is obviously a reproduction from ancient history, which is cool. A bracelet inspired by early civilization. Now I really want to identify where she bought the thing. I click shut down on the computer. I’ll have to ask her tomorrow.

  Finished with dinner, I do homework. I won’t be able to sketch tonight. Since missing my afternoon classes the other day, I’ve been behind. One hundred pages of the Grapes of Wrath, a page of equations, a five-page essay about Communism, studying for a test on French verbs, and a packet of unit conversions for Chemistry are all on my agenda for the evening. Almost five hours later, I’ve had enough. The French verbs will have to wait for the morning.

  After Chilly’s nightly walk, I dress in a Mighty Mouse tank and sweats for pajamas. I release my ponytail and remove my bracelets, but the new one won’t unclasp. My fingers attempt to push the bracelet off. It squeezes my hand until my skin becomes red. Giving up, I let it dangle on my wrist. With a shrug, I flip off the lamp next to the bed and cuddle next to Chilly. It’s not like a bracelet is going to hurt me.

  Chapter 11~Snow

  Running late the next morning, I stuff my phone into the front of my bag—I’m not going to be without it ever again—and race out the front doors of our building. The doorman tips his hat to me. In such a rush, I skip my usual hello. Monotone Smith waits at the curb with the Mercedes SUV passenger door open. I dash past him saying, “Sorry about yesterday, I’ll try to be a better passenger.” I leave my apology at that because in reality I’m not sorry, and if put in the situation again I’d still ditch him.

  “No harm was done,” he says in his monotone voice.

  Ugh. I’d rather he yell than talk like that.

  He slips into the driver seat and pulls away from the curb.

  “Do you mind?” I ask, pushing the overhead light on. The morning is still gray.

  Monotone Smith shakes his head. “You should have done your homework last evening.”

  Wow. He’s so annoying. I pull out my French verb notes and begin to study. Cramming sucks but I’m a pro. Back home, I played on the basketball team, ran track, and was the president of the art club. If I didn’t keep my grades up, my mother wouldn’t let me do anything extracurricular so I learned how to cram big time. Immersed in the foreign tenses swimming before my eyes, I don’t look up until an old warehouse looms above us.

  “Hey, where are we?” I ask.

  Smith whips out a syringe with a long needle from under his coat.

  My eyes widen. “What the—”

  The blast of the needle in my neck stops the words. Shock freezes me. The papers in my hand flutter to my lap.

  I blink at him in unbelief.

  The sensation of the cool liquid entering my veins snaps the shock out of me. The urge to get away from him surges through me. More than whatever he just injected me with. I twist before jerking away from his hands. Clearly written French verbs tear, crack, and flutter between us. The syringe flops against the side of my neck while my nails dig at the door handle. A gloved hand yanks my hair. I yell and scratch at the fingers creating fire on my scalp. He pulls harder. I scratch harder. The needle wobbles and tears at my skin, but I’m determined to get free.

  Smack! He belts me across the face.

  Fire spreads to my cheek but anger makes my skin hotter. I find the strap of my book bag and swing at him with vengeance. The weight of my books hit his head with a thud before his skull whacks against the glass. I want to smash his head into the glass again. Instead, I rip the needle from my neck and pound the point into his thigh.

  He screams.

  The sound fills the car’s interior.

  I hope I’ve hit bone.

  “Bitch,” he pants breaking his monotone.

  He claws at the needle. I claw at the door. It won’t unlock. Desperate to be free, I belt him with my bag again, give the needle an extra push, and reach across him to slap the unlock button.

  The echoing click sounds like freedom.

  He seizes me just as my feet hit the cement. I drop my bag, unzip my coat, pick up my bag, and flee. Skidding around an icy corner, I look back. He isn’t out of the car yet. Through the foggy windows I can see him bent over, wrestling with the needle. The idea of him in pain gives me a twisted surge of glee. I slip both arms through my backpack straps and race away. I almost slip again while veering around a forklift. The man driving the machine yells out a, “Whoa!” as I pass, but my feet keep going. I have no idea where I am. Location doesn’t matter, only getting away matters.

  I race past warehouses covered with neon graffiti and veer around a man lying on the sidewalk. Another man, dressed in rags, gasps out a stream of fog when I jump over him and rush past a car waiting at a stoplight. I keep checking behind me. My attacker never materializes. Though in an industrialized part of town, I’m pretty much free.

  My nerves calm as I slow to a walk. The morning, the area, becomes peaceful. A spike of energy rushes through me. So what if Smith is behind me? Does it matter? Suddenly nothing matters but the moment. Breathing, walking, seeing matter. The pump of my heart, the pressure in my ears, and the blink of my eyes
feel amazing and new. My skin tingles. My brain hums with a nameless song as the world around me changes into a kaleidoscope. Living art encircles me. My surroundings rush past me like the smear of a paintbrush dipped in every color. Colors mesh, the snow sparkles like shiny diamonds, and the sky is a lush blue backdrop peppered with wisps of cotton.

  I stroll along in admiration until a gleaming orange semi stands in my way. I stop and stare. The lines and shape of the truck are like a moving masterpiece. Straight then curved. Straight then curved. The truck is a streak of bright orange against the sparkly snow. The spin of glistening black wheels outside of brilliant silver hubcaps is mesmerizing and lovely.

  Lost in appreciation, I don’t hear the voice behind me until the slur is almost in my ear.

  Chapter 12~Snow

  “Hey girlie, wanna buy some?” the voice slurs.

  I turn toward that oily voice and horror steals my breath. The shock isn’t from the echo coming out of the toothless mouth. Or even the odor of BO and piss filling my nostrils. Nor does the grimy paper bag, filled with who knows what, he holds up scare me. Rather his melting face with burning eyes makes my feet tangle as I try to back away. It can’t be real. His face drips and I stumble. It looks pretty freakin’ real. The man’s face is actually dissolving before my eyes.

  “I can make the price right.” His voice sounds as if it’s coming from down a long tunnel.

  My backpack hits the side of the building. The once beautiful surroundings turn as grim and horrifying as his face. The bright colors twist into drab and bleak, the snow transforms to pale ashes, and the buildings loom over me. My lungs constrict while the man’s face keeps melting. I release a high-pitched scream into the wind and catapult forward, knocking the man on the ground.

  I run again. This time, I run through hell. Dark buildings almost topple on me. Faces melt as I pass by. Snow pulsates, wants to swallow me. Unable to escape the sinister structures or the melting faces by running, I duck behind the walls of a crumbling building.

  I burrow into a corner with my head tucked into my knees. Sobs shake my body as I search for a piece of reality, a piece of the real me, inside myself. Some part of me, a small part, recognizes that whatever Monotone Smith injected into me has flipped my world sideways then upside down. Now, without vision I concentrate on that sliver of knowledge, repeating to myself again and again, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

  When I lift my head and open my eyes, the images still seem real, but the chant remains in my brain. I watch my breath fog in the air. The cloud of warm air and the fact I sit in snow remind me of the frigid weather even though I’m not cold. Refusing to look at the brick wall looming over me, I keep the chant—it’s not real—in my head.

  I close my eyes. I want to go home. The home that explodes in my brain isn’t my father’s penthouse. Visions of our ranch at the end of the cul-de-sac with its mismatched furniture, piles of books, homemade afghans, and family pictures on the walls flash through my mind. My mother opens the door and reaches out to hug me, but her hands are rotten and decaying, her mouth a black hole.

  No! I shoot up and open my eyes not caring if the wall falls on me. My cheek scrapes the bricks. I welcome the pain. It feels real. Panting, I force my mind to clear the image, but it pulls at me and threatens to plunge me into a pit of despair.

  I bang my head against the moving bricks. I have to get out of this nightmare.

  Then—like a bright beacon in the dark—Jai’s note tucked in the front pocket of my bag calls to me. If you’re ever in trouble, he had written. This is definitely trouble. I wiggle off my backpack while keeping my eyes averted from the pulsating world around me. The crinkled paper quivers in my hand while I concentrate on the numbers. Each button pushed is a major victory. Hitting send is like conquering the world.

  After several rings, I hear an uncertain, “Hello?”

  The word sounds far away, but the sound of his voice fills me with hope.

  “Jai?” My voice cracks in the middle of his name.

  “Nivi?”

  “Yes, yes,” I gasp and laugh like a crazy woman.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No.” My laugh turns into a sob as the snow shifts and throbs around me. “He put something in me. I’m seeing things. Crazy things, scary things,” I say in a rush.

  “Okay, settle down. Where are you?”

  “I don’t know.” I let out another sob.

  “Damn. Listen, Nivi, you have to go find something, a street sign or a building name.” At the thought of leaving my little corner, another sob escapes me. “Find something, anything,” he begs in a desperate tone.

  Fear fills me at the thought of going back out on the street. “I don’t think I can.”

  “You can. I can’t come to you unless you give me a clue where you are.” His voice is now harsh.

  It’s not real. “Okay, okay,” I say, inching my way along the wall.

  “What are you doing right now?”

  “Walking, walking with the wall,” I reply, trying to keep my terror in control.

  “Huh? All right, just keep moving.” His tone is now smooth and patient.

  I’m about to step out. “Can I come back and hide after?”

  He pauses and yells something. “What’s the wall look like?”

  “Falling bricks, a broken wall of fallen, tumbling bricks,” I say.

  “Yeah, you can hide there.” Stepping onto the sidewalk, I hear him shout to wait at someone. “Just answer when I call out your name.”

  “I’ll try.” The cracked sidewalk moves. Hills and valleys form. I step on each moving target with caution. My legs tremble, but I force myself forward even though I want to run back behind the wall and cry.

  “Can you see anything?”

  A building looms in front of me. “Yes.” A car passes and I jump back.

  “What?”

  I force myself to look up. “A sign, but I can’t read it.” I hold in a sob.

  “It’s all right. Walk closer and concentrate on the letters.”

  His voice soothes me enough to tiptoe across the moving sidewalk until I stand under the sign. “It’s Br-Brown and…Cheese, no Chase.” The pulsating building is large and windowless. “I-I think it’s a warehouse.”

  “Okay, just a minute.” I catch the words GPS and warehouse while I stand there on the sidewalk trembling in fear. “Nivi?”

  “Un-huh.” My voice sounds weak to my own ears.

  “Go back to your spot just stay with me on the phone.”

  “O-okay,” I say, walking on the sidewalk now full of gaping holes.

  “Are you behind the wall?”

  “Al-most there.”

  Once back in my corner and feeling a touch more safe, he asks me to stay on the phone. He tries to keep me talking with questions about my life, my school, and my family, but I’m too wigged out to form coherent answers. So he tells me a story about butterflies and love in ancient China.

  I think.

  His words float around me. Some I catch, others escape. I can make out two lovers and a tragedy that keeps them apart. The words don’t matter though. His voice, smooth and deep and rhythmic, tells a different story. The bricks may still be moving and the snow breathing, but I am sure of this—he loves whoever told him these words.

  The two lovers escape and fly away in the form of butterflies while I fall in love with the sound of his voice.

  Chapter 13~Snow

  I don’t open my eyes when he pulls me up, or even when he softly says my name. I’m too afraid my wild, drug induced imagination has conjured him up. Until I inhale the scent of soap and wood. I can’t imagine that. Opening my eyes, I catch a glimpse of his blurry face and throw myself at him. I bury my face in his shoulder while both laughing and sobbing. Even amid the breathing snow, I feel safe in his arms.

  “Whoa, it’s alright,” he says against my ear. “You’re safe now.” Another sob escapes, but inside of his embrace, I believe him. He
feels secure, solid, and very, very real. He holds me for a moment longer then says, “Let’s go. You’re a block of ice.”

  I have to force myself to release the canvas of his coat. Hand in hand, he leads me to the street while I keep my gaze on the ground. Although the ground is cracked and uneven, the breathing buildings are more threatening.

  The view inside the cab causes me to tilt back, but Jai gently pushes me forward into the dark, upholstered cave. My eyes dart around the enclosed space. The ceiling breathes down on me. The glass wavers and a stale smell fills my nostrils. My stomach rolls. I clutch my abdomen as sweat surges out of every pore of my body.

  “Hey, she better not puke!” The threatening words coming from the orange fuzzy hat has me scrambling for the door handle.

  “Don’t worry, she won’t,” Jai says, grabbing my hands. He wraps an arm around me and tucks my head against his shoulder. “Just take us back to Canal Street.”

  Safe again with my vision blocked, my body calms until orange hat starts driving. The motion of the vehicle makes the rolling in my stomach build into a storm, a tsunami forming within me. I bury my head deeper into Jai’s shoulder and inhale his scent.

  “You pick up junkies a lot?” the voice in front asks.

  “Just drive old man,” Jai snaps.

  “Yeah, you just remember no hurling.”

  The ride is pure agony. While Jai rubs the skin of my hands and my knees, I pant against his coat. His hands help calm me, but the movement of the car supersedes everything. Soon the building wave will hit shore. Every turn, every stop, every push on the accelerator builds the storm within me.

  When we stop, Jai doesn’t need to help me out. I fly out of the cab and would have kept going, yet he holds my wrist in a steel grip. While he pays the driver, my body trembles. Two steps onto the sidewalk and the trembling turns violent. The wave in me crashes against my rib cage. I gasp and bend over. My insides eject everything as the cabbie had predicted. I hear gasps, swearing, and Jai’s ‘shut ups’ from above as I continue to heave. I’m too nauseated to feel embarrassed. Once done, Jai helps me stand and digs in my bag.