by E. E. Cooper
I wanted to push the chair away from her desk so I could have more space. “I’m not doing things that are bad for me.”
“How are your interactions with Britney good for you at this point?”
Now I felt like crying. My emotions were on a roller coaster, angry one second then diving into depression before jerking into a hard turn of confusion. I wanted to get off this ride. “It’s not good or bad, it just is.”
Dr. Sherman watched me. “Okay. I think that’s enough for today. We’ll tackle this again next week.”
I nodded weakly and stood. My brain hurt as if Dr. Sherman had been punching me instead of lobbing questions. I knew she was right: I wasn’t well and the longer all of this went on the worse I was getting.
Being near Britney was like exposure to some kind of caustic chemical or radiation. But not for the reasons Dr. Sherman thought. It was the constant lying that was making me ill. Eroding my soul. But if I gave up now, if I just walked away, Brit would win. Sometimes you had to risk yourself because what you were trying to do was worth that risk, that damage. It’s like chemotherapy: sometimes you need to make yourself sicker to have chance of getting better.
“I’m going to have your doctor call in a new prescription,” Dr. Sherman said as I reached the door.
The hair on the back of my neck rose up. “Why?” I asked.
“I’d hoped to see a bit more of an impact from the medication we’ve got you on,” she said. She must have seen the stress in my face. “Don’t worry, it’s not unusual for it to take a while to find just the right dosage. It’s a part of the process; we want to start you on the lowest dose and then go up slowly. This will be just a slight jump.”
“Oh,” I said. I could picture the tiny white pill, like a miniature egg, balanced on top of the container of strawberry Yoplait my mom would leave out for me each morning. The same pill I would mime popping in my mouth, while actually keeping it cupped in my hand and then shove into my pocket. I had a tidy collection of the untaken medication growing in my locker. At this rate I’d be able to open my own pharmacy soon.
Dr. Sherman glanced up and realized I was still standing in her office. “Any trouble with the medication? Fatigue, dizziness?” I noticed she didn’t go into the long list of possible side effects that appeared in small print on the insert that came with the pills. That included everything from trouble with coordination, to nausea, to really fun things like trouble breathing, vomiting blood, or developing a desire to kill yourself. Better living through modern pharmaceuticals.
I shook my head. “It’s just that I don’t like being on medication.”
“Our goal isn’t to keep you on it; it’s to get you through this period. Think of it like wearing a cast on a broken arm. The cast doesn’t make the bone heal—the body does that. The cast just gives you the support you need.” Dr. Sherman smiled at me, and I forced the corners of my mouth to lift. Medication also made things fuzzy and a tiny bit less focused, and I couldn’t afford to be off my game by even a millimeter. No way was I taking that risk.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I turned off the car and let out the breath I’d been holding. It didn’t matter how many times I visited, driving in East Lansing always made me nervous. People drove faster and students had a habit of darting out into traffic. Driving felt like playing one of Nadir’s video games, only if I crashed and burned there was no do-over. I dug my phone out of my bag and texted Nadir that I’d arrived and would wait for him at the parking garage.
I pulled my duffel out of the trunk and the shoe box I’d lined with foil and filled with homemade cookies for this spur-of-the-moment weekend trip to see my brother. I’d told my parents that I wanted to go down and visit Nadir because he seemed down with exams looming ahead. I’d told Nadir I was coming because my parents were worried he was stressing out over his classes and wanted someone to check on him. My phone buzzed. Nadir was on his way. I felt like shit about lying to my family, but what really worried me was the lie to Brit. If she figured out I was poking around East Lansing she might realize I didn’t believe her story. I’d told her I was going to my grandparents’. I was trailing around a bunch of lies like toilet paper stuck to my All-Stars.
“Hey, tell me those are Dad’s chocolate cookies.” Nadir loped toward me across the parking lot.
I held out the box with a small shake. Nadir took the box, lifted the lid, and took a deep breath.
“I miss these.” He took one and ate it in one bite, his eyes closing in bliss.
“Well, Mom and Dad miss you.”
Nadir swallowed. “So what’s up with them?”
I shrugged as if understanding the mysteries of our parents was more than I could fathom. “I think Mom is going through another one of those all my babies are all grown-up phases. I knew she’d feel better if someone came down and made sure you were surviving.” I smiled.
Nadir turned in a slow circle so I could check him out. “You can officially report back that I’m eating and sleeping.”
I poked at a spot of something on his dark green hoodie. “Doesn’t look like you’re keeping up with laundry. Isn’t it a sign of depression if you’re living in your own filth?”
Nadir scraped at the mystery stain with his thumbnail and sniffed it in curiosity. “Among college-aged men, this kind of thing is part of our charm. Like a patina.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure, tell yourself that.”
Nadir took my bag from me and slung it over his shoulder. “We can grab a quick lunch at the Union if you’re hungry. I’ve got a study group this afternoon—I can’t get out of it; we’ve got a group project—but then I thought we could go out for dinner, and there’s a party in the dorm tonight.”
“Sounds great,” I said trying to make sure my voice had some enthusiasm in it. “I might do some shopping while you’re busy,” I lied. I’d known all about the group thanks to his Facebook page. That’s why I’d picked today to visit.
“And now we discover the real reason you came to see me.”
For a split second my heart lurched thinking Nadir had guessed something and then realized he was just giving me a hard time.
I linked arms with him. “A little retail therapy never hurt a girl.”
I thought I saw a twitch in his eyelid when I said therapy. “How are things?” Nadir asked, trying to sound casual.
“You mean has Dr. Sherman managed to make me normal yet?”
Nadir snorted. “The woman isn’t a miracle worker; normal is asking a lot.”
I punched him lightly in the side. “I’m fine.” I took a few steps before I realized he’d stopped. “What? I am.”
“I worry about you,” Nadir said. “You’re the only sister I’ve got, and I’m pretty sure I can’t talk Mom and Dad into getting me another. Mom says she doesn’t think you’re sleeping well and that your anxiety is worse.”
My stomach pinched. I hadn’t thought she’d noticed. Suddenly it occurred to me that while I’d thought I’d talked my parents into letting me come down to see Nadir, they may have wanted me to come. They had agreed to give me the Honda for the night pretty easily.
Nadir touched my arm. “I’ll do anything I can do to help you, but you’ve got to help yourself too.”
I bit my lip. “I know. Believe me, I’m doing everything I can.” Nadir searched my face and then nodded and started walking again, talking about how I should be sure to avoid some guy on his floor at the party. He and my parents wouldn’t agree with what I was doing, but even though I couldn’t make them understand, I was at least doing something.
As soon as Nadir left for his study group I bolted out of his dorm and headed for Grand River Avenue, the main shopping district across from the university. It was crammed with students making the most of the warm day. I made a mental note of things in the windows in case Nadir asked me anything. I ducked up the side street and saw the sign for El Az. The lunch rush was over, but there were still lots of full tables. A group of sorority sisters, all weari
ng matching sweatshirts with their Greek letters on the front, were dissecting a date one of them had been on. There was another table with a group playing cards and splitting a giant platter of nachos and pitchers of margaritas. There were also few solo people hunched over a textbook or laptop on one of the big wood tables trying to cram some facts into their heads even on a Saturday.
The hostess dropped the worn, laminated menu on the table and slid a red plastic tumbler of water over to me without a word. I rubbed my palms on my jeans and took a deep breath of the tortilla chip–scented air. I felt like bouncing on the wooden bench seat. I was close. I could tell.
A waitress came over to my table, pulling out a small pad of paper.
“I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to find someone.” I pulled out the picture of Britney that I’d brought. I’d Photoshopped it so she had the dark hair she’d come back from the dead with. “She worked here.”
The waitress looked down. “I don’t know, I just started. You want me to check with the manager?”
I nodded. I’d come up with a hundred different cover stories, that Brit was a runaway, that I was her long-lost adopted sister, that she’d won some kind of lottery, but then figured I was better off keeping it simple. Brit was a friend of mine and we’d lost track of each other.
The manager had dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing an apron that matched the one I had in my bag. “Yeah?”
“My friend Britney worked here,” I said. “She might have gone by her middle name, Beth?” I slid the picture across the table. “I wanted to ask some questions about her.”
“Nope, sorry.” The manager started to turn, her sneaker squeaking on the painted cement floor.
I grabbed her elbow to keep her from leaving. “Wait, I’m sure she worked here.”
The manager looked down at her elbow and then at me. I let go of her. “She didn’t work here,” the manager repeated slowly as if I had a hearing problem.
“I’m trying to find out some information on her.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. She didn’t work here. Now did you want to order anything or were you leaving?”
I blinked. Brit had to have worked here. The manager’s foot was tapping impatiently on the floor. “Um, I’ll have some cheese dip and a Diet Coke,” I mumbled. The manager bustled back to the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t feel ready to leave—something was off.
“You said your friend’s name was Beth?” a guy one table over called to me. He had one of those giant circle spacers in his ear and tattoos covering almost every inch of skin. A dragon on his left arm was wrapped around a desperate-looking Homer Simpson. “Dark hair, kinda bitchy?”
I passed him the photo. He looked at it and showed it to his friend, who nodded.
“Yeah, that looks like her. She worked here,” he said. He turned around to make sure no one was listening. “The shift manager, Helen, hires some people under the table.” He yanked his head toward the kitchen. “That’s why she’s not going to admit anything—she’d get in huge trouble with the owner.”
“But why?”
“Tons of people are willing to work for just tips, and Helen gets a bonus if she keeps labor costs down.”
“Are you sure it was her?” I asked, tapping the photo.
The guy screwed up his face as he looked at the picture. “Pretty sure. I wash dishes here. I know most the girls. Nothing against you, but your friend was a shit waitress. She spilled salsa on some guy and yelled at him like it was his fault. She got fired after that.”
“But it was her,” I insisted, wanting him to be sure.
The guy shrugged. “I couldn’t swear to it, but I think so. She didn’t work here that long, maybe a couple of weeks max. Her hair was different. I don’t think I said three words to her. It gets pretty busy in the kitchen.”
The excitement that had been building in my chest started to deflate. I would need someone to swear to it. Brit had already proved rumors weren’t enough to shake her standing. I needed someone she talked to a lot. Someone who might have heard her call herself Brit. “Would anyone else here know her?”
The guy chewed a giant mouthful of nachos while he thought about it and then snapped his fingers. “You know, I’m pretty sure she was crashing with Nicole. Nicole picks up shifts here too—that’s probably how your friend heard about the job.”
I leaned forward. “How I can find this Nicole?”
There was a smear of salsa on the guy’s upper lip. “I haven’t seen Nic for a few weeks. She lives a couple of blocks over on Charles, by Linden Street, huge white house, someone’s got a giant Canadian flag in one of the windows. They throw killer parties.”
I pulled some money out of bag and left it on the table to cover the food I hadn’t wanted. I tapped the side of the table five times and then made myself stop. I was giving in to the compulsions too often. “Thanks.” I was getting closer. The fact I hadn’t tapped the table six times wouldn’t make any difference. I was done relying on magical thinking to fix the problem. Nicole would have the answers I needed.
The house was easy to find. The Canadian maple leaf was in the upstairs window the way the guy had mentioned. The window in the front had a giant beer can pyramid, and there were four cars parked in the driveway like a used car graveyard and a group of bikes chained to the peeling porch railings.
The front steps sagged and creaked as I walked up. I could hear the sounds of explosions and gunfire, a video game, coming from inside. I knocked on the door. Nothing. I knocked harder.
“Hang on,” a voice yelled.
I waited on the porch. I checked the time on my phone to make sure Nadir would still be with his group. The door opened. The guy inside looked like he hadn’t yet worked himself up to the task of a shower today—possibly for a couple of days. He ran his hands over his face, his stubble giving a raspy, insect-like sound. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Nicole,” I said.
“Sorry, she’s not here.” He started to close the door, but I jammed my foot inside.
“I really need to talk to her. Do you have a number for her, or know when she’ll be back?”
“Do I look like the fucking concierge? She moved out.”
My heart dropped. “Where did she go?”
“If I knew that, I’d make her pay for her part of the electric bill.” He started to close the door again and I burst into tears. It wasn’t that I was sad—it was sheer frustration, but it was if all the pressure I’d been building up inside exploded out.
“Jesus, don’t cry.” The guy stood there looking up and down the street like he thought someone might yell at him for doing something to me.
“I have to find her,” I insisted. I forced myself to stop crying and pulled myself together. I wanted to explain I wasn’t sad, that was too easy for what I felt. There was rage, frustration, despair, and fear all rolled up together, but there was no way to explain that to someone I’d just met.
He opened the door wider. “Look, come in, let me get you a Coke or something.” He held out his hand. “Everyone calls me Lizard.”
“Kalah,” I said with a hiccup. I followed him inside. The house smelled like stale pizza and dirty laundry. I sank down on the sofa. It was too soft, as if the wooden structure had decayed, leaving only the cushions.
Lizard came out of the kitchen and passed me a can of Coke and a bunch of wrinkled paper Subway napkins. “I don’t have any Kleenex.”
I blotted my face and blew my nose. “Sorry. It’s just really important that I find Nicole.”
“I wasn’t lying. I don’t know where she is exactly. Nicole went to Europe a few weeks ago. She’ll be back when the cash runs out, by next fall at the latest. She’s only got a couple of terms left.”
Fall? No way could I wait until next September. “Do you know this girl?” I fumbled for the picture and passed it over. “Someone told me that she was staying here with Nicole.”
Lizard looked at the picture. “Nicole pu
t flyers up around town looking for people to share her room. It was part of her plan to raise some cash for her trip. This girl might have stayed here for a bit.” He looked over at me. “We’ve got eight people on the lease, but people always have friends over or people they’re hooking up with stay the night. There are a lot of people in and out of here. Sorry.” He shifted in front of me. I could see that his toenails were way too long, like claws. “You wanna see Nic’s room? She cleaned it out, but there were a few things left behind. I haven’t been able to get anyone in there ’cause the term’s almost over. Maybe there’s something that belonged to your friend.”
I nodded. Lizard motioned for me to follow him down the hall, and he opened a door. There was a small room with two twin mattresses on the floor. Someone had tacked a cheap Indian-print scarf done in blues and blacks to one wall and a print of Klimt’s The Kiss on the other. The closet door was open, empty except for a bunch of wire hangers and a pair of cheap flip-flops on the floor. I wandered over and looked over the desktop. There were a couple of paperback books, a few loose sheets of notebook paper, a couple of pens, and an empty Diet Coke can. Then I saw it. I snatched it up. It was a half-full bag of Glitterati hard candy. Brit was addicted to the tiny Italian fruit candy. I was never sure if it was that she really liked them that much or if she liked being the kind of person who had imported candy—no Jolly Ranchers for her. They weren’t a common candy. It meant she had to have been here. I poured six pieces out of the bag and put them into my pocket like a sugary talisman. She’d been here, all right, and if she had amnesia she still at least remembered her favorite snack foods.
I looked around. No wonder Brit came back. She’d taken a bunch of cash with her when she left town, but she’d probably spent it quickly. She’s a girl used to having unlimited access to her daddy’s credit card. I was willing to bet she’d stayed in a hotel for a few nights when she first took off. I could picture her wrapped up in a fluffy bathrobe watching movies on cable, but it would have been clear that she couldn’t afford to do that forever. That’s when things would have gotten complicated. Britney couldn’t use her own ID since she was supposed to be dead. She had Beth’s, but she had to be careful because she couldn’t have anyone looking at it too closely. It made getting a legit job difficult and her escape plan nearly impossible.
