Shock

by Francine Pascal

  Oh, jeez, it’s not me, is it? he wondered. What if she’s upset because she’s hung up on me? The idea seemed impossibly self-absorbed, but Ed couldn’t dismiss it as a possibility. Given how messed up he’d been feeling over Gaia, he now had ample evidence that a sick heart could ruin every aspect of someone’s life. And knowing he might be having that effect on Tatiana just made him feel even worse, and weirder, and less like a party animal. This night was getting really unfun.

  Ed shook his head and took another swig of beer. It wasn’t having the desired effect. His mind wasn’t clearer, it was more clouded, and he was starting to feel like Heather, Gaia, and Tatiana were three freaky personality-switching sprites. Heather went from bitchy to nice. Gaia was so hot and cold, she was practically a split personality. And now Tatiana had gone from Pleasantville to Cruel Intentions.

  Ed watched Tatiana from his spot on the banquette. This was just so confusing. The balls on the pool table made sense: You hit them and they rolled into each other. But Tatiana was one giant curveball, a cue ball that wiggled off in bizarre directions. Come to think of it, all girls were like crazy cue balls.

  It was enough to make Ed seriously consider some sort of skateboarding monastery.

  Loki

  I think I have a few things pieced together. I know certain things. I know that I am Oliver Moore. I know that my brother, Tom, has a wife, Katia, and that I think about her more than I should. I still don’t know who Gaia is. But she’s somehow connected to my brother and…damn. Whenever I try to force my mind to tell me what that name means, I hit a brick wall of incomprehension. She’s like a blind spot in my mind. Maybe she’s my wife? Could I have a wife who I don’t even remember? Gaia. No. I don’t think she’s my wife. It’s more complicated than that. With time. With more time, perhaps I’ll remember.

  I still have no way out of my body. My eyes blink, my fingers will sometimes make spasmodic movements, but basically I am trapped in a flesh prison. It’s like a diabolical form of torture. It’s all I can do not to go mad, with nothing but the nurses’ gossip and the nattering of daytime soap operas to fill my head. I force myself into disciplined mind exercises. First, when I was still very, very bewildered, it was all I could do to get through the multiplication tables. I would recite them to myself like a third grader learning them by rote all over again. Then I found the numbers came more easily. Like old friends. So I moved on to the periodic table, the elements…though something tells me there are a few new ones that have been added since I went into this vegetative state. I try to remember sonnets and speeches from Shakespeare. Poetry is more difficult than numbers, though. More variables. Less logic. But my mind needs all the challenges it can get.

  Lord knows, my daily dose of Family Feud will not stretch my intellect at all.

  Sometimes I lose hope. All this thinking, all this repetition of memorization, and for what? To lie here inside a body that ignores me? Legs that lie like far-flung lumps, arms that splay out to his sides attached by tubes to watery bags filled with food and medication—I don’t blame the doctors for ignoring me. I see them poke their heads in, whenever they feel they absolutely must, and they hurry away as quickly as possible. They must hate to be reminded that they can do nothing about me. They think I’m dead inside this flesh; they’d like to fill me with morphine and free up my hospital bed.

  Sometimes I feel so hopeless, I wish they would. Sometimes I wonder why I’m still alive if I’m just going to lie here for the next forty years. I just hope that if my mind gets stronger, my body will follow suit.

  Six times twelve. The square root of 6,561. Aluminum, boron, and cadmium. “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.” These are the twisted helices that I hope will help me evolve back into myself. If I can just hold onto my sanity long enough to get there. I’m Oliver Moore. I’m Oliver Moore, and I want to wake up. How long have I been like this? Am I getting better or just fooling myself? Why isn’t my brother here?

  Can’t anyone hear me?

  Nurse’s Report, New York Hospital

  2:30 A.M.

  Checked on patient Oliver Moore. No change in demeanor or physical presentation of symptoms. No response to queries or attempted stimulation. Some movement of fingers. Determined to be random. Patient still assumed to be in a persistent vegetative state.

  Gun

  And that would be the end of that.

  Blushing Brick Red

  AS SOON AS GAIA’S TRAIN HIT Manhattan, she was struck with a sudden, urgent need to set things right with Sam. The thought was clear and crystallized in her mind, like a diamond on black velvet—either it was the adrenaline of the ass-kicking, the hearty food, or just getting away from it all that snapped her mind into focus. Or a combination of the three. Whatever the reason, Gaia was shocked and ashamed that she hadn’t thought of it before. The gun in Tatiana’s bedroom proved that Sam wasn’t the shooter. Her suspicions of him had been totally unfounded. Whether or not she was unsure of her feelings for him—romantically, hormonally, or whatever—she’d been one billion percent wrong when she accused him of setting her up.

  Tatiana might even have his cell phone now. It wasn’t hidden with the gun, but Gaia had to assume, even if she wasn’t one hundred percent sure, that either Natasha or Tatiana had sent her that text message.

  Ugh! He had even told her the cell phone was lost, and she hadn’t believed him! The memory of that washed over her in a whole new wave of shame that left her blushing brick red. Apologies weren’t her strong suit, anyway; this one was making her squirm beyond belief.

  Before she went home to play ignorant-innocent with Natasha and Tatiana—pumping them for information while she pretended she hadn’t found the gun—she wanted to tell Sam how wrong she’d been. She replayed the scene from earlier in the day in her head. She saw Sam’s surprise, his concern, and his hurt when she’d turned on him. Over and over again. It drove her up a wall. Okay, so given the information she’d had—that the text message had come from Sam’s phone—she had been entirely justified in suspecting him. But she should have been able to weigh that evidence against what she knew about Sam: that he was the most soulful, kindhearted person she’d ever met and that unlike the embittered, world-weary people she usually had to deal with, he was incapable of hurting her. Gaia had been pissed at Ed for not trusting her—and that was exactly how Sam felt. She should have trusted him. She needed to say that to him, and she needed to do it now.

  Never mind that she really didn’t want to go back to Seventy-second Street. Never mind that she was hoping for something, anything, to make her feel good before she steeled herself for that snake pit. All that aside, she still wanted to apologize, and now was as good a time as any.

  She got off the train downtown and ran east, from the chichi galleries of SoHo to the place where the Lower East Side met Chinatown. The t’ai chi park was empty now; nobody was out but a few homeless people and the occasional person obviously hurrying home to a family or friends. Gaia hoped there were friendly faces waiting for her, too.

  She buzzed and was quickly let up. Dmitri answered the door. This time she wasn’t in a huff over almost getting barbecued in a fire. She couldn’t believe how much he had improved since they’d found him in the prison.

  “Wow, you look great,” she said. He did. Getting rid of his ratty long hair and putting food in his belly had given the old man a complete transformation. His blue eyes sparkled with intelligence.

  “Did you find anything out about my dad?” she asked.

  “Not yet, no,” he said. “But I think you are not here to speak to me.”

  “No, I’m not. Is Sam around?”

  “I’m right here,” Sam said, and Gaia whirled around to face him. But now that she was here, she didn’t know how to say anything.

  “I wanted to—Dmitri, could we?”

  “I’m going now,” he said, padding off to the kitchen.

  “I have to tell you something,” she said to Sam, grabbing him by the arm and pulling
him over to the window for the illusion of more privacy. As she looked at him, her heart gave a disconcerting little wobble. Here was the first guy she’d ever fallen in love with, the guy who’d made her see that there was more to the world than being pissed and playing chess in the park. He was thinner, more tired, badly injured…and all of it just made him look more handsome. Not in a movie-star way. In a real-person way. The way his brownish red hair fell onto his forehead, that same brown jacket that had hung in his NYU dorm room—she felt so much affection for him. She didn’t know if it was like, or love, or what, but she didn’t want this person to hurt because of her.

  “I was horribly, horribly wrong this afternoon when I got mad at you,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t being helpful.

  “I’m serious,” she said, grabbing his arm. “I accused you of setting me up. And it’s not even like that was the first time I said something like that to you. I’ve been suspicious of you ever since you came back, and that must have felt horrible.”

  Sam shifted his weight and leaned against the wall behind him. He wasn’t able to meet Gaia’s eyes. “Yeah. It did,” he admitted.

  “Well, I found out some things today, and they all point to someone else setting me up—I know for a fact it was someone else. It wasn’t you. I know that now, and I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You have proof?” Sam still wouldn’t look at her. He was staring uncomfortably out the window, at the moon, just about anywhere but at Gaia. And the way he asked—he was almost sarcastic.

  “Yeah. I found some pretty damning evidence.”

  “Well, I’m so glad that this evidence made you believe it wasn’t me, Gaia.” Sam sighed, finally turning his eyes to meet hers. They looked like sad brown puddles. “I just wish you had known that from the start.”

  “Sam, I’m sorry—I’ve had to watch my back for so long, it’s just instinct,” she tried to explain. “If you knew how many people have turned on me—”

  “I know that,” he said. “Look, I understand you’re involved in something huge and weird. But it’s turned you into someone I don’t know how to deal with.”

  “I’m not asking you to deal with anything,” Gaia said, finally putting a hand on his forearms, which were still crossed protectively across his chest. He didn’t pull away—a tiny slice of relief. “I’m just trying to admit I was wrong and to apologize for the fact that you got caught in the cross fire,” she went on, glancing down at his chest where his bullet wounds were still healing. “I’m not asking anything else from you.”

  As soon as she said the words, Gaia realized with a thud of her heart that it wasn’t quite true. She might not be asking for more, but she wanted more. A lot more. Maybe not love and romance, but at least affection, friendship, a warm hug to get her through the next few days. Forgiveness. A friend.

  “All right. Good.” Sam stood, no longer leaning against the wall, and Gaia’s hands dropped to her waist. She looked up at him helplessly. The ball was in his court.

  “I understand what you’re saying,” he said. “I mean, I accept your apology. But I’m glad you’re not asking anything else of me. I’m not sure I’ve got much left to give.” His eyes flicked toward hers, but it seemed almost painful to him. He went back to studying the wooden slats of the floor. “We’ll talk later, okay? I’ll see you.”

  “Okay, bye,” she said, though he had left the room by the time she got the words out. She felt like a total schmuck. And lonely. She felt weirdly lonely. She turned and saw Dmitri standing in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry you had to overhear the latest episode of Dawson’s Creek,” she said.

  “I am sorry you are having a difficult time with Sam,” Dmitri said. “But perhaps you will feel better when I tell you what I have now found out.”

  “I have information, too,” Gaia said. “It’s horrible news. Because of it I may be killed if I go back to the apartment on Seventy-second Street.”

  “What?” Dmitri was incredulous. “Something about the women you live with? Natasha and…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the other name.

  “Tatiana. Yes,” Gaia said. “They’re dangerous—more dangerous than I ever imagined. But if you can help me figure out how to handle them, we can get back to finding my dad.”

  She followed Dmitri into the kitchen. They both heard the front door of the apartment close with a slam. Sam was gone. Dmitri gave Gaia a sympathetic look. It wasn’t much, but to her, it was the most affection she’d had in forever, and she accepted it gladly. She felt a wave of fondness for the old guy. Then she steeled her mind for the task ahead and sat down at the kitchen table to discuss what was going to happen next.

  Sam

  Okay, so that was everything I wanted from Gaia. She admitted that it was totally wrong to accuse me and even agreed she should have trusted me.

  So why couldn’t I do what I wanted most? Why couldn’t I gather her up into my arms and give her a crushing hug? She was so close, I could feel the warmth of her body. Her hands were on my arms. I was so close, but something wouldn’t let me do it….

  I’m just angry. I’m really still angry. I don’t understand how I could love someone so much and she would still suspect me. Of trying to kill her, for chris-sake! It’s such a deep, huge thing to think I could do. She just doesn’t know me at all, and that feels so weird.

  I feel like now it’s me who can’t trust Gaia. It was just so crazy, the way she accused me, the way she looked at me with so much hate, with bullet-proof glass in her eyes. There was nothing I could do to get through to her. No way I could make her believe me. That was a cold, cold feeling. It hurt like hell.

  Gaia, I’m sorry. I wish I could have reached out to you like you were reaching out to me. But it came a little too late for the wholehearted response you wanted. I have to test my heart and see if it can still reach out to you. If I still have the nerve to get close to you. Whatever we are to each other, it all has to be on hold.

  Sorry again.

  Maybe tomorrow. Maybe someday.

  But not now.

  Glowing Green Screen

  AT THE BAR ED WAS STRUGGLING TO stay interested in the evening going on around him. He was planning to leave as soon as he could. The trouble was, every time he tried to make an excuse, Tatiana begged him to stay, and for some reason he wasn’t telling her no.

  What’s going on here, Fargo? he asked himself. Are you trying to make Gaia jealous? It’s not like she’s here to see this. Or are you seriously whipped—by a girl who’s not even your girlfriend?

  He was sitting next to Tatiana when she reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a strange cell phone. It wasn’t the one she’d been using that morning. She studied it as if she were checking for an incoming call she might have missed, then put it back in her bag. Ed remembered the two cell phones she’d pulled out after her racquetball game. Now it struck him as weird all over again.

  “What is with that thing?” he asked. “You’ve been checking it all night.”

  “It’s a cell phone, silly.”

  “Yeah, but it’s your mom’s cell phone.”

  “So?”

  “So why are you so worried about it?”

  Tatiana turned to him, turning up the heat in her eyes with a teasing wink. “Oh my, so many questions,” she said. “Do you really want to know what is going on with my mother’s messages?”

  “No!” Ed gave an I-surrender wave. “Forget I asked. Whatever.”

  “Such an inquisition,” Tatiana went on. “For someone who says he wants to be just friends, you do show an unusual amount of interest.”

  “Jeez, Tatiana,” he began, but he was cut off by a strange ring. It was the mysterious cell phone. Tatiana took it out of her bag and stared at the glowing green screen.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  She didn’t even answer. Just stared at the ringing phone for three…four…five…six rings, until it stopped. Then she waited, still staring, breathing slowly, u
ntil a small envelope popped up. It beeped once, announcing that there was a voice mail message. She put it back in her bag.

  “I am exhausted,” she announced to no one in particular. “I am getting in a cab and going home.”

  “Nooooo!” Megan said, hugging her like a long-lost relative. “You can’t go!”

  “I must go. I just realized what time it is. My mother is so angry about the party I threw, and if I am not home tonight, she will send me to one of those boot camps for unruly teens.”

  “That was a quick switch,” Ed commented.

  “Oh, look who is trying to tempt me to stay out,” Tatiana sang, totally missing (or pretending to miss) Ed’s jab. First she’d begged him to stay out—and now that he’d stayed, she was making her exit faster than Cinderella at 11:59? It didn’t make sense. But he didn’t have a chance to ask her what was up. She was out the door before he could say a word, and by the time he got through the crush of girls between him and the door, she had slammed the door of her yellow cab. Through the window he could see her pull out the phone and hit one of the buttons to check the voice mail message. Then the cab sped away from the curb with a squeal, and she was gone.

  He knew there were men who liked women with a little mystery. But right about now, Ed Fargo would have loved to meet someone ridiculously predictable.

  Natasha

  Amazing. This apartment is completely empty of people. But full of whispers and ghosts, phantoms of the past, crowding me out of each room. I’ve been wandering from the kitchen to the living room to my bedroom, in search of peace each time but each time finding some new memory that pushed me away from comfort. Is it the apartment that’s haunted? Or is it me?

  It makes me laugh. Even when I make a home for myself, I am still a wandering nomad.