Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  It would be so easy to ignore her messages. Pretend I didn’t get them. But I read them, and she’ll see that. Against my heart telling me what I need is my bed and a gallon of ice cream, I say yes.

  A glance in the mirror reveals splotchy skin, mascara smudges, and pink-tinged eyes.

  I’m not fit for other humans or being in public. If I show up looking like a train wreck, Shari will ask questions.

  I send one more text.

  *Make it 45. Need to change*

  I park at the curb in front of my complex instead of driving around to the back. Passing Jim’s screen door, I shout, “Hello!” and wave. His TV blares The People’s Court, so I know he’s home. I don’t wait for a response. He often naps with the TV at top volume.

  Inside my apartment, I strip off my work clothes, leaving a trail behind me in the hall to the bathroom. Hot water pours over my head and down my back in the shower. A smaller tsunami of grief washes over me and I rest my forehead against the pink tile.

  I can cancel on Shari. Stay here. Maybe stand in the shower until the water runs cold.

  I think about Jim. He’s alone. In fact, he’s the older man version of me. And he doesn’t seem miserable. He has his routine and the guys down at the American Legion. Nothing wrong with his life.

  The difference is he’s lived a whole existence before now. He has stories and memories. A lifetime behind him.

  I shiver as the water turns tepid.

  Still a hot mess, but at least I’m clean now. Wrapping a towel around my chest, I quickly dry my hair with another towel. I find eye drops in the medicine cabinet and decide to skip makeup. More crying is highly likely.

  Ignoring the trail of dirty clothes, I step into my bedroom to find something to wear. My bed is a siren in the corner, luring me with soft pillows and the promise of sleep.

  I could lie down for a minute or two. Let my hair dry more.

  Fighting the pull to nap, I pick out a soft T-shirt dress from the closet. Just because it’s from the sleepwear section at Target doesn’t mean I can’t wear it as a dress.

  Once I’m dressed, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Plenty of time to lie down for a minute.

  I JOLT AWAKE.

  Blue light flashes through the dim, late afternoon light in my bedroom and eerie Theremin music fills the room. For a second, my mind goes to UFOs. Because of course it does.

  Then I realize my phone alarm is going off, muffled by my pillow. Fully awake, I decide the lights are from a police car on the street.

  The clock says I’ve only been asleep for an hour, but my body feels heavy like I’ve slept for days with the flu.

  I’m super late to meet Shari.

  Peeking out the bedroom curtain, I spy a police car as I suspected. Parked in front of the cruiser is an ambulance.

  Dread settles on my chest like a heavy weight. Given there are only three units in this complex, and I’m fine, that means it’s either Jim or Wanda. Unless it’s for one of the neighbors on the other side of the street. I cling to that hope as I dash through my apartment and outside.

  The screen door to Jim’s apartment is propped open, and an EMT is walking inside, donning rubber gloves.

  Oh no. No no no.

  “Is he okay?” I practically leap across the courtyard to get to Jim’s.

  “Are you family?” the EMT asks. He’s a young, blond guy with round, ruddy-colored cheeks that give him a baby face.

  “No, I’m his neighbor. He doesn’t have any family.”

  “Are you listed as a medical proxy? Or have a Power of Attorney?” Turning his back to the door, he blocks me from entering into the living room.

  “I don’t know if he has one.” I’m ducking and weaving in front of him like we’re in a boxing match.

  He stands still, managing to prevent me from seeing past him.

  “I can’t let you in, miss. We need to do our jobs and you’ll be in the way.” His answer is a definitive no.

  It sounds bad, really bad. Jim is alone like me. Who’s going to go with him to the hospital and help him? If only family can visit, he won’t have anyone.

  Tears spill down my face again as I jog over to Wanda’s. Pounding on the door, I call her name. There’s no way she can’t hear me if she’s home. When I don’t get an answer, I look for her car in her spot. It’s not there.

  Not wanting to leave Jim alone, I go back to my casita and sit on the small step where I can keep an eye on the whole complex.

  I’m not a religious person but for some reason, I begin to recite the Lord’s Prayer from memory. I might not have all the verses in the correct order, but it feels right to say it while I wait.

  A few more men go in and out of the apartment. One is a police officer, and another guy is also an EMT. I’m not sure about the third because he’s not wearing a uniform. Finally, the baby-faced guy I first spoke to brings a gurney from the ambulance to the door.

  That’s got to be a good sign.

  After some maneuvering, he manages to get it through the door.

  I stand, waiting to let Jim know I’m here for him and I’ll be at the hospital, too. From the time I spent in hospitals when my mom was sick, I know I can occupy a chair in a waiting room for hours without anyone bothering me. The doctors might not give me medical information, but they won’t kick me out for waiting.

  The police officer is the first to exit. He gives me a nod that is neither sad nor happy. Walking to his car, he speaks into the mic on his uniform. The man in plain clothes meets him at the car and they shake hands.

  A few seconds later, Baby Face backs out of the door, pulling the gurney over the threshold while his partner pushes from the other end.

  I take a step forward, ready to speak to Jim.

  But when I see the sheet pulled all the way over his head, I freeze.

  A weak sob obstructs my throat. Unable to take a deep breath, I crumple to the ground.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” baby-faced EMT tells me in a professional monotone. “He never regained consciousness. The police will notify the landlord to come lock up the apartment.”

  The words make sense, but I can’t comprehend the meaning behind them.

  Still crying, but not sobbing, I quietly observe them wheel Jim away.

  I’m still sitting on the step in front of my door when Wanda comes home.

  Seeing me there, she runs over. Her eyes widen when she sees Jim’s open door and empty chair.

  “What happened?”

  I try to speak the words, but my throat keeps closing.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Sitting next to me, she envelops me in her arms and her sweet, floral scent. “It’s going to be okay. He’s too stubborn to die.”

  “He’s not,” I finally manage to choke out. “He died. I should’ve checked on him when I walked by earlier, but I was too caught up in my own head.”

  Her tears join mine. “You should’ve called me when you found him.”

  I stiffen. “I didn’t find him. The EMTs were here and working on him when I woke up from a nap.”

  “He must’ve pushed his alert button.” Wanda squeezes my hand.

  The explanation only makes me feel worse. He was suffering enough to call for help and I was a dozen yards away, oblivious.

  The parallels to my dad hit me like a kick to the stomach.

  “Breathe, sweetie.” Wanda’s voice sounds far away. “Put your head between your knees.”

  She sounds like she’s underwater, but I’m the one drowning and can’t get oxygen into my lungs.

  Following her instructions, I lean forward.

  The darkness continues to encroach as I struggle to inhale. Wanda rubs circles on my back until my breathing normalizes.

  “You’re okay,” she speaks in a soothing voice. “I’ve got you.”

  My tears return harder than before at those two sentences. Boone said the same words when he found me in the storm.

  “Lucy?” someone calls my name.

  I li
ft my head at the familiar voice and see Shari standing in the middle of the courtyard.

  Seeing my face, she rushes over to us.

  “What happened? I called and sent a hundred texts when you didn’t show up. Are you okay? Was it something Boone did? Do I need to get a shovel?” Her words fly out of her. “Hi, I’m Shari.”

  Wanda manages a weak laugh. “I’m Wanda. And I like the way you think.”

  I forgot about meeting her tonight.

  “My neighbor died.” I point at Jim’s casita.

  Shari crouches in front of me and Wanda. “I’m so sorry. Did you know him well?”

  I think about her question. “Not really. We talked occasionally and I made him cookies sometimes.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeats.

  “Nothing to be done about it now,” Wanda says. “I’m going to lock up his place, then have some tequila. If you want to join me, good. If you don’t, I understand.”

  She pats my knee, then stands.

  Shari takes her place next to me. “Want me to stay with you?”

  Resting my head on her shoulder, I shake my head no. “It’s been a really shitty day and I think I need to go to sleep for a week. Maybe then I’ll wake up and feel okay.”

  “You can sleep and I’ll hang out in case you change your mind. How does that sound?” She leans her cheek on the top of my head.

  “It’s really sweet of you, but my couch is old and uncomfortable.” I think about the spring poking Boone and suddenly wish he was here instead of his sister. “Please don’t tell Boone. I . . . I would prefer it if he doesn’t know about Jim.”

  Something tells me Boone would be here in minutes if he knew I was hurt. Even the last time I saw him, when he was a complete and utter asshole, he still stayed with me until he knew I’d be safe.

  Rubbing my eyes, sleep settles heavy in my body. I feel a million years old and completely empty.

  “Promise you’ll call or text if you need anything. Or you wake up at three and want someone to be here. You don’t have to be sad alone, Lucy.”

  I nod and shift so I can stand up. “Thanks.”

  She also rises, brushing off her bottom. “I’m going to call you in the morning. If you don’t want to talk, text me back so I know you’re okay. Otherwise, I’ll be on your doorstep again.”

  One more tight hug later she leaves.

  If grief had an official holiday, today would be the day.

  I notice the glow of the full moon rising over Jim’s roof.

  We send people to the moon, but we can’t cure cancer, heal broken lungs, or restore memories.

  I flip off the glowing disk. Sadly, it doesn’t help me feel better.

  It’s not the moon’s fault.

  Memories from when I was little float into focus as I stare up at the sky.

  Images of Dad and I in his car, driving at night, especially during warm summer nights with the windows down and rock music playing on the car’s stereo.

  Neither of us cared where we went or if we drove around in circles, being in the car was special. Something about the glow of the dashboard, headlights illuminating the dark, made the time together feel magical. Like we were the last people on Earth. Some nights he’d pretend we were in a spaceship, flying through the stars.

  And at some point during all of our drives, he’d ask if I could see the moon.

  “I see the moon and the moon sees me,” he’d say.

  “No, Daddy, I see the moon, so the moon sees me,” I’d argue back.

  “If you see the moon, you’ll see me,” he’d sing to me. “The light of the stars shine on me, let them shine on you, my love.”

  Even now, when I see the moon, I think of those drives.

  Returning to the step outside of my front door, I gaze up at the sky, indigo to the east, still bright with violet and red in the west as the sun sets.

  “I see the moon,” I whisper. “Do you see me?”

  FOUR DAYS LATER, I pull myself together. I manage to take a shower and put on fresh clothes that aren’t the leggings and Boone’s shirt I’ve lived in for the past three days.

  Per her request, I’ve checked in with Shari a couple times a day. Wanda’s stopped by with food from the diner after her shifts. No word about how much work I’ve missed lately, so I assume I still have a job. At this point, I’m afraid to talk to Tony. He might fire me for being a flake. I’m also avoiding the diner in case Boone’s decided to return to his regular schedule.

  It’s been two weeks since the scene at Pete’s and I haven’t seen or heard from him.

  I know I asked Shari to not talk about me, but I wonder if the warning was even necessary.

  Deciding that I need to get out of my apartment, I drive into downtown. Without a set agenda, I circle Main Street and look for parking. I can window shop the tourist stores for a while. Little green aliens plastered on boxers, mugs, hats, and bras will be a good distraction from my woes.

  When I don’t instantly find a parking spot, I keep driving north, passing the spaceship-shaped McDonald’s and the cutout of a woman holding a pie while she welcomes a flying saucer full of green aliens.

  I wonder what kind of pie she made for them.

  Leaving the last buildings of Roswell behind me, I hit the interstate. Jim’s death has me thinking about my dad. I’m mourning both men, and pissed I never got to say good-bye to either of them. It’s time to come to terms with this abduction bullshit that brought me to New Mexico in the first place.

  Utility poles break up the endless flatness of the grasslands flanking the road. After passing mile marker one-thirty-three, I pull off the road, sending a spray of dust and gravel into the air from my tires. A semi roars past me, buffeting my car with wind. As far off the highway as I can be without getting myself stuck in the ditch, I slow down to make the sharp turn onto the narrow dirt road. A hand-painted white sign tells me I’m in the right place. Passing through a gate, my wheels clunk over the cattle grate.

  Bouncing down the dusty, red dirt road, I head west toward the Capitan Mountains in the distance. A few miles later, I come to a parking area with a small shed and tall, red stone rectangles marking a path.

  After triple-checking my surroundings, I open the door and step out.

  What do I think is going to transpire? Best case scenario, nothing. Worst case, my search for answers is somehow answered. Or the other way around, depending on the outcome.

  I’d like to think of aliens as the benevolent, long-lived glow worms from Cocoon, but I’m doubtful.

  Aliens aren’t little green men and they’re not E.T. or whatshisface from American Dad. Not the angry bitch mother as portrayed in Alien. They aren’t blue-skinned sex gods or short, gray men with probing fetishes. Nor the goofball horn dogs from the eighties classic, Earth Girls are Easy, aka intergalactic slut shaming. For what it’s worth, I totally thought Jeff Goldblum was super buff and completely believable as an alien in love. Although Boone is ten times as handsome as Mr. Goldblum at his hottest. Maybe Boone should play the sexy alien if they ever do a remake.

  Great, now I’m casting Boone in alien movies. I’m not sure he wants to give up his life as millionaire for a shot at fame in Hollywood.

  I’m the mayor of Crazyopolis.

  Evidenced by my current location, I am willingly tromping through the desert in an area populated by scorpions, snakes, and ranchers with guns and low tolerance for alien conspiracy theorists. I’m not even sure what I expect to find at the crash site that’s been scoured by the army, FBI, local sheriffs, and multiple generations of obsessive truth seekers.

  Ahead, I can see a rocky ridge where a spacecraft from a faraway galaxy may or may not have landed. Faded flags mark two spots on the cliff.

  That’s it.

  Wind whips my hair around my face as I stand still, waiting for some sign or feeling to tell me this place is special. I’m ready for answers.

  There’s no moon in the sky for me to talk to, so I speak to the emptiness.
/>   “If aliens are real and they kidnapped my dad, give me a sign,” I shout.

  Nothing happens.

  A pair of turkey vultures circle off in the distance.

  “Is that my sign? We all die and become carrion?”

  I wait for a better sign.

  Nothing comes, so I ask another question like I’m standing at a wishing well instead of a rocky outcrop.

  “What am I meant to do with my life?” I yell into the silence.

  Besides the whistle of the wind through the grasses, I’m alone.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I shout, flipping off the sky.

  The truth may be out there somewhere, but it’s not here.

  Giving up on a sign from the universe, I drive back into town.

  I press the buzzer at the Center, fully expecting to be ignored.

  “Lucy?” Zed’s disembodied voice squawks from the intercom.

  I face the camera and wave. “The prodigal daughter returns.”

  He buzzes me through the door.

  Halfway up the stairs, I know this is a bad decision. I have zero interest in scanning firsthand accounts of unexplainable phenomena. Nor do I want to be lectured about responsibility and gratitude. I pause and debate turning around before I have to face Zed.

  “Why are you taking so long?” He appears at the top of the staircase. “Are you not taking Zumba classes anymore?”

  “You remember me mentioning that?” I gape at him in surprise.

  “I pay attention more than you give me credit for.” He disappears from view. “If you decide to join me, I promise I’ll be nice.”

  I’m here, I might as well do what I came to do.

  He’s sitting at his desk by the time I enter the room. His very neat desk.

  “Where are all your files and top secret folders?” I scan the empty desktop and floor for the usual stacks.

  “I did some spring cleaning.” His chair squeaks when he leans back too far.

  “It’s August.”

  “End of winter in the southern hemisphere.”

  I’m not buying his explanation, but I take a seat opposite him. “I probably owe you an apology for my outburst.”

  “You’re not the first to freak out on me. This life isn’t easy.” He rests his hands on the top of his head. “Feeling better?”