by S R Savell
I’m in the bathroom enjoying the hot water when I hear her knock.
“We need to talk.”
The hound has treed her prey.
“Can I bathe first?” My words are stranded in the steam.
“What?”
I stomp out of the bath, yanking a towel on and cracking the door open. “What do you want?”
She checks her watch. “You know what I want.”
“It’s not changing anything. I’m going with Nathaniel today.”
“Why?”
I stay silent.
Arms cross and knees lock. “I asked why.”
Slack jaw, blank face.
“Don’t you give me that look. You know how I hate that look.”
“And I’m getting cold. We’re both suffering now.”
I count in my head as the standoff continues.
Four . . . five . . .
Her arms drop. “Peter said he’s a nice boy, so I’m going to trust his judgment for now.”
“But not mine.”
She goes to my bed, laying an envelope next to my favorite lumpy pillow. “Here’s your excuse, so don’t forget it tomorrow. And, baby?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Yeah.”
She walks out, lemongrass scent, excuses, and bad mood left behind.
After going back to finish my bath, I flop onto my bed, wearing the extra-large towel toga style.
The envelope cracks under my head. I pick it up.
To: Attendance Clerk
From: Karen Yates
Mom. Funny how she can drain me of happiness just like that. And the thought of her does just like that.
What kind of mother gives in that easily? Yeah, I’m a stubborn pain in the ass, but you’d think I was worth a little backbone. I know I’m hard on her. Too hard sometimes. But when the game of give and take becomes all give, no one wins. Not even the taker.
On the way out, the excuse makes it into the trash, where it stays.
I slide my hands deeper into my jacket pockets to stave off frostbite. A wind bucks my jacket, throwing it up at the ends. I order my numb legs to move faster.
The bus stop comes into view. He’s there, shivering on the bus bench. I know it’s a good forty degrees out, but he doesn’t have a jacket or anything. From the looks of it, he’s wearing the same shirt he’s had on for the past two days, and the need to help him hits me hard. But I can’t because he won’t let me.
So I jerk my hands out of my jacket and drop them at my sides, then take down my hood. If he’s freezing, I can manage some cold.
He waves from the bench. “Hi, Michelle.”
I stop right in front of him. I wave and smile back. “Hi, Nathaniel.”
I’m dwarfed again when he stands. I can taste his body heat, the smell of trees and dirt and autumn thick on my tongue.
“Want to sit?”
“Sure.”
I do, and he follows.
“Want my jacket?”
“No, thank you. Sorry we’re waiting. The bus is supposed to be here by now.”
The seat under me is slightly warm from his lingering heat. “You should sit here.”
“Why?” He sniffs, trying to stop the trickle of snot from escaping his raw nose.
“I like sitting on the right side of benches. It’s just a thing of mine.”
“Oh, sure.”
We switch. He doesn’t look any warmer, but I hope he is.
“So where we headed, big guy?”
“Big guy?”
“Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I tuck my right foot under my left kneecap, afraid he’s upset and not looking at him. When I do, his expression is happy.
“Is that my nickname?”
“Er. If you want it to be.”
He nods and lets out a wet cough that sounds like sloshing water in an oil drum.
“You’re sick.”
“I’ll be fine. I hope you don’t get sick.” He shudders.
“If the bus isn’t here in”—I check my phone—“one minute, you’re getting my jacket, even if you just drape it over your back or something. Deal?”
He’s going to argue, but as if God ordered it, the bus roars up the street, breezing through traffic.
We get on. He buys two tickets, and we sit down.
“Michelle?”
“Yeah?” I’m trying to remember the last time I had a friend to ride the bus with. Or a friend. My fingers have reached the hurting stage of numbness, so I’m whacking them on my knees.
“Are you weird about bus seats too?”
I glance to see him at the edge of the seat, ready to switch just in case.
It takes a second to register. “Nope. Just bus stop benches.”
He settles in with a sniffle and a smile before looking out the window. One hand comes up to rub the top of his nose, then falls to his knee. Broad, built with thick tendons that slide beneath the surface, his hands are a working man’s. Scars like little ant tracks, faint and uneven, huddle around the knuckles and end halfway to his wrist. My gaze slides to his forearms, wind chapped, the greenish-blue veins snaking beneath the tanned skin in thick patterns. They rise like vines, poking up here and there before hiding under the muscled flesh.
My fingers get antsy, so I look to my own forearms. The veins are there, not as noticeable but about the same color. I push up my sleeve and trace my favorite, the three-clawed one that looks like a cat scratch, running my fingers from my lower forearm to my inner elbow.
“That’s a pretty vein.”
I glance up, back in reality. “Thanks. Yours too.” I point at the bluish tube starting at his wrist and ending somewhere in the middle of his forearm.
“Thanks.” He rubs his thumb over his arm, looking thoughtful.
I pull my bag off my back and into my lap, careful not to whack him in the face. It drives my mother crazy, this raggedy bag that I’ve had since middle school, but I love the stupid thing. At the moment, the zipper has decided to show its six-plus years and is jamming. I swear at my cramping fingers, willing the curses to unzip my backpack.
“Need help?”
At first I think he’s being a smart-ass, but then I remember Nathaniel doesn’t do cruel sarcasm. I give a “Nah” and a head shake, jerking the zipper back and forth. Finally, I give in. “I’ll give you the money back later, okay?”
“For what?”
“The fare.”
He shakes his head. “No, I asked you here today, so I want to pay.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“What?” he asks, sniffing again.
“I’ve met someone more stubborn than me.”
“Sorry.”
I roll my eyes, and he does too before we both laugh.
“So what’s your opinion on public transportation?” I motion around us, chewing on a nail.
“I like it. You get to see all sorts of people and places.”
“And it stinks like all those people.”
“It’s safer than a car.”
“And slower than a car.”
“But it’s roomier.”
“And tears up the road twenty times more.”
“But it helps people get places.”
“But at what cost?”
“The taxpayers’?”
“What are we arguing about again?” I ask, feeling the bus slowing down.
“You asked how I felt about buses.”
“Oh, right. Well, overall, it beats walking.”
“And it could smell better,” he admits just as the bus bumps to a standstill.
I look at him, but he doesn’t move. People get on, people get off, and I ask him, “Want to play the people game?”
“People game?”
“Yeah. You pick a person and make a story about them.”
“Oh, I’ve played this before.”
I turn, knee knocking into his thigh every time the bus shakes. “All right, you first.”
“See that guy?”
“Which one?” I lean, trying to see out the foggy window.
“He’s gone now. Okay, that one in the gray suit. At the light?”
The bus does a quick stop, tossing my head into the metal corner of the window and the hard seat.
“Shit. Learn to drive.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I glare into the mirror above Deena’s head. When the light goes green she floors it, smirking into the glass.
The very ends of Nathaniel’s fingers press against my forehead. “I don’t think it’ll bruise.”
I rub my head, my hand grazing his calloused fingertips. I feel like an idiot and not just because I’ve been injured while sitting still but because having him care is jacking with my heart, making it kick when it shouldn’t and stop when it’s supposed to beat. Then my throat starts swelling like I’m bee stung with no antihistamine, and I have to scoot away.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. And didn’t you say this was safe transportation?”
“I did, but I forgot one thing.”
“What?”
“No seat belts.”
When we finally get off the bus, I’ve told Nathaniel all about Deena, the transgender walrus bus driver with leprosy. He didn’t find it all that funny but still pity laughed. Everyone’s a critic.
The buildings vault into the sky, stacked alongside one another like towering metallic cinder blocks. People buzz around us, a shaken beehive of motion. A siren screeches somewhere far off. A dog barks right behind. Taxis honk, kids cry, vendors shout, cellphones ring, the sidewalk groans. Exhaust makes its way between the cracks of my clenched teeth.
I wipe my nose on my jacket, then see that Nathaniel’s losing the snot war. I walk faster, wanting to get there before he freezes. “If you die of pneumonia, I’m kicking your ass.”
“I’ll be fine. I hope you don’t get sick.”
“I’ll live.”
And I get my for-Michelle-only smile.
When we stop, I don’t exactly know what to think, but I’ve got a niggling notion.
“We’re here.” His gaze travels from the bottom to the top of the building, then levels with mine.
I notice the solemn tone and don’t say what I want. “A hospital?” My body shakes.
“Yeah.”
We check in and head for the elevator, the only place not stinking like death or bleach.
He’s withdrawn, studying the door.
I remember way too late that I have tissues in my bag, so I jerk my backpack around, manage to unzip it, then hand him some.
“Now you gonna tell me why we’re here?”
“I told you it’s a surprise.” He almost looks mischievous, his own brand of playful, sweet with no malice.
“Well, you look like shit, so it’d better be worth it.”
The half-moons under his eyes are even blacker than normal and look like water-stained paper that’s dried to a thin, warped sheet. He rubs them. “I’m fine.”
“Did you get any sleep last night?” I don’t ask where. Not going to touch that topic again.
“Yeah, a couple of hours.”
The opening door cuts off my reply. A man and woman are waiting to get on the elevator, standing off to the side. They’re both laughing. The woman slaps the guy on the arm, giggling.
When they look up, the joy is dead.
They stare at Nathaniel for a few seconds. Then they look to one another, clearly disturbed.
Nathaniel melts into the corner.
See what I mean? his eyes say.
I hit the Close button. By the time they realize this, the door is a quarter of the way closed; they both couldn’t make it.
I enjoy the insults as they’re slowly cut from the picture.
“Michelle?”
“They wanted the next one.” I turn to the emergency button. The bright red matches my shirt perfectly, just like blood and his tired eyes.
I hear his breathing, slow and deep. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
I nod, turning my iPod over and over in my jacket pocket.
The door opens into a wide, white hallway. I’m struck by the quietness of it all. A man shuffles by in blue house shoes, bony shoulders sticking out beneath the hospital gown. I look down the hall for a nurse to help him, but there’s no one else in sight. His breath is a rasp, a rattle in his chest. He looks at us, unblinking, before creeping into the next room over.
I know this ward. This is the place where patients go to die.
We go to a door numbered 292.
“I have someone I want you to meet. And, Michelle?”
“What?”
“Please don’t stare.”
“Why would I stare?”
“Because she’s beautiful.”
And she is. When we go in, an elderly lady is hooked to an IV, covered from waist to feet with a blue blanket. The white sheets make her tanned complexion pop, hazel eyes and moon-gray hair reminding me of a forest elf’s. Her frame is thin, a sickly body gowned in a green dress that adds to the foresty feeling.
She glances up from a thick paperbound book, peering over the rim of the rectangular glasses squatting on her nose.
“Hi, Grandma.”
“Hey, baby. Don’t I get a hug?”
“I don’t want to get you sick.”
She rolls her eyes heavenward, mumbling.
It’s then she notices me lurking like a bad odor in the doorway.
“Is this Michelle? The Michelle?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is Michelle Pearce. Michelle, this is my grandma, Elena Stotes.”
“Well, come over here so I can see you both. Nathaniel, get those chairs, would you?”
He nearly trips on his own feet in his haste to bring them over.
When I sit, she takes one of my hands.
“It’s very good to meet you, Michelle.” She gives me a handshake, warm and strong.
“You too. So I’m the Michelle, huh?” I look at Nathaniel, expecting a blush.
He’s his normal self, sitting a good four feet from the bed. He nods, grin getting bigger, before snot treks down.
I want to give him a hug, a sudden feeling I bat away before it can bury its stinger too deep.
“Yes, you’re all he talks about. I can see why he does. You’re lovely.”
I snort.
She raises her eyebrows. “I never lie. You are.”
Nathaniel drops the used tissue into the wastebasket. “Yep, Gran never lies.”
My own raised eyebrows don’t bring the blush I’m aiming for. “Then maybe she’s delusional,” I say, looking at her.
“Old, not delusional,” she says with an upraised finger and a solemn nod.
We talk for some time. A third tissue is in Nathaniel’s hand when she turns to him, frowning. “Hon, you need to get some orange juice or something. Why don’t you go so us girls can talk, huh?”
Don’t leave, my eyes say to him.
“Are you sure?” He’s already standing.
I try synchronizing our brain waves and resending the message: Don’t leave me.
She nods, and with a little more urging, he leaves, promising to bring us something.
Telepathy fail.
“That boy. Worried about getting me sick. Hell, I’m half dead already. I don’t like to tell him, though.” She smooths out the covers, saying all this like she’s reading bingo numbers.
I glance out the window, playing disinterested in hopes she’ll get the hint.
She doesn’t.
“He’s spent the last two years of his life taking care of me when he should have been taking care of himself.” She pushes the button on the bed, gearing up for talk mode.
I find I’m curious. It’s morbid, but I still am. “What do you have?”
“It’s not im
portant. Just know it’s not airborne contagious and it’s taking forever to kill me. I wish they’d induce a coma just so I could get someone to pull the plug.”
“Do you want to die that badly?” My voice is like a green persimmon, so bitter it numbs your mouth.
She rears back, watching me from the bottom of her glasses. “Oh, hon, I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t want to die for me. I want to die for him. Hasn’t he told you?”
“No.”
“Do you want to hear it or not?”
I give a disgruntled nod.
“Seventeen years ago, Nathaniel’s parents were killed.”
Like someone flashed a cue card, the nurse walks in. She starts checking monitors and temperatures.
Our Team Stalker stares finally drive her off.
“As I was saying, Nathaniel’s parents were killed in a bank robbery. He was two. It was then he came to live with me and his grandpa Frank. He was always a good boy. Quiet, did what he was told. Not great in school but a hard worker. And he never fit in. I know how it sounds, but it doesn’t make it any less true. The children were terrified of him, and because of that, they were violent. Even as he aged, he couldn’t shake the bullying.”
“Did you go to the school?” Why I ask this, I can’t say. I’ve seen how unsuccessful that tactic normally is.
“We did, but there was really nothing they could do, not without the names of those responsible. Nathaniel refused to say who had been doing it, and so the situation simply worsened from there.”
I think of Nia moving her purse away from Nathaniel, the wary couple outside of the elevator today. Then I think of me, how I immediately assumed he was going to shoot the place up the first time we met. A feeling that only Nathaniel can elicit from me—shame—nearly makes me miss her next words.
“They knew he wouldn’t fight them. They were so cruel, Michelle.” Her gaze drifts to the table. “You can’t imagine how horrible it is to know your baby is suffering and live with the fact that you can do nothing to stop it.” She grips the sheets. “Sometimes we’d catch him sneaking into the house so we wouldn’t see he’d been hurt. Frank, rest his soul, encouraged him to fight, but Nathaniel never would.” She clears her throat, adjusts the covers. “Well, Frank passed away when Nathaniel was twelve. I was a housewife with no marketable skills, but I started waitressing and housecleaning, things like that. Nathaniel took over most of our housework. He also did a few odd jobs, walking the neighbors’ dogs or washing cars or splitting wood—whatever he could come by.
