Tears

by Francine Pascal

  “I’m not going to do it anymore,” Sam said. His extremities tingled with anxiety, but he kept his face blank.

  “Do what?” Josh asked, almost sleepily.

  “I swear to God, Josh, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Josh interrupted. His blue eyes clouded. “You’ve gotten a taste of what you’re dealing with here, Sammy. Just a taste. So you know that you’re in absolutely no position to make demands.” His voice softened. “Don’t screw yourself now. Not when you’re so close.”

  Sam blinked, fighting to ignore the chill that enveloped his body. “Close to what?” he asked.

  Josh laughed. “Oh, no. I am not going to spoil the surprise.”

  Sam suddenly realized his fists were clenched so tightly that he was digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Never before had he felt so completely out of control, so powerless. He didn’t know what he’d intended to accomplish by confronting Josh like this. But he hadn’t been thinking; his rage over the way Josh had acted around Gaia annihilated every rational impulse. Still, he knew better than to do something rash. Someone could be watching them right now. Someone was probably snapping pictures of every gesture, recording every word.

  “I’m not going to do it anymore,” Sam heard himself whisper. “I can’t. Just tell me who you’re working for, Josh. Let me talk to them.”

  For a moment Josh just stared at him. “You’re losing it, buddy.” He lay back down on his bed, then grabbed a bottle of spring water from his nightstand and tossed it to Sam. “Have some water. You look like you could use some. It’s important to stay healthy, after all. It’s almost show time.”

  Show time? The words snaked down Sam’s spine. Another stupid joke...but there was cold finality in it. And of course, he didn’t have a clue what Josh was talking about. It was just one more huge mystery that involved Sam’s life—and for all he knew, his death. But as he hurled the bottle of water against the wall, he realized he didn’t want to know what it meant.

  Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do and die....

  To: J

  From: L

  Date: February 16

  File: 001

  Subject: Dinner party

  Costume received. Confirm that guest will be attending. Please inform upon delivery of party favors.

  To: L

  From: J

  Date: February 16

  File: 001

  Subject: Dinner party

  Guest is confirmed. Impressive work. Truly uncanny. Party favor status to follow.

  GAIA

  Love means implicit, unconditional trust in the person you’re with. When they ask for space or tell you they need to sort something out by themselves, something they can’t share with you, you oblige them. You don’t second-guess.

  Like hell, you don’t.

  I gave Sam the benefit of the doubt today, but I’ve spent every moment since then second guessing my decision. Part of me knows I need to support Sam. But the other part thinks I’m setting myself up for disaster. Let’s face it, “asking for space” is just a euphemism for deception. Sam and I swore we would have an honest relationship after all the crap that preceded it. But we’ve barely even begun, and this is where we are.

  Still, if I can’t trust Sam to know when to spill and when to keep silent, what does that say about my ability to love him?

  But I do love him. I want to help him.

  Major dilemma.

  So tonight, after driving myself insane for so long, I came up with the only rational solution: I took my biggie box of Good & Plenty and shook it up so that all the pinks and whites were mixed nicely. Then I decided white was the color of trust and love and all things good. And pink was the color of deception and danger and all things bad, like the plus sign on pregnancy tests. I’ve seen a lot of pink on the FOHs recently, so the designation of color significance was not arbitrary.

  And then I fumbled in the box precisely three times, three being the number of sugars I take in my coffee.

  I drew three candies. If it turned out that there were more whites than pinks, then I’d trust Sam and stick to my promise not to pry. If pink came out on top, then I’d do some snooping.

  Three whites.

  Love means implicit, unconditional trust in. . . yeah, well, whatever.

  Best just not to think about Sam. But Ed is a different story, and I don’t need candy to help me out with my game plan there. True friendship is unconditional, and Ed and I have always been honest with each other. But now he’s just straight pissing me off. It’s like he wants me to drop him and quit trying.

  This reminds me of Mary Moss and of how close I came to losing her friendship before it even began. I even walked away. But luckily Mary just forced herself back into my life, and for that I will always be grateful. I can’t let Ed slip away like that. And if that means forcing myself back in, then so be it. It’s not like I’ve ever been averse to using force where necessary.

  ED

  How can a person know when it’s the right time to give up on something or someone? Where is the cutoff point, the moment you finally realize there’s too much water under the bridge and the bridge itself is officially being burned?

  Here’s a better question: How much is love worth?

  A guy can really go crazy on that one. I’m of the opinion that it’s impossible to assign a monetary value to love, but it seems like I might be alone there. So I’ve been trying to work it out. There’s no material difference between $999,999 and $1 million, or between $26 million and $25,999,999. Yet everyone has to have a limit, that figure where they would trade money for the person they love. “I’d do it for a billion, but not a dollar less.” Sure, a cutoff point in this game of numbers always has to be random and artificial. But that’s the nature of the game.

  And when you really think about it, in the end, what you basically have is someone willing to sell out the person they love for one measly buck.

  I wonder if Heather has played this game.

  I know I shouldn’t cast her as some mercenary. The situation is complicated. But I can’t ignore the fact that she just isn’t there for me now. Not in the way that counts. I need encouragement, not negativity, and even if—best-case scenario—she’s holding back her support because she doesn’t want to get my hopes up, she’s still holding back.

  Gaia would be elated for me if she knew, no matter what her problems. But Heather’s too caught up in her own world. Instead she’s forcing my hand, forcing me to lie and stay squarely in the wheelchair. Which begs another question: If Heather is with me for the money, then what does that say about me if I’m willing to give it to her?

  Am I buying her love? Am I just as low?

  Either way, there’s a lot wrong with this picture.

  You know, the wheelchair has always been a hindrance, limiting my mobility. But it’s never felt like a trap. Until now. Literally and figuratively stuck, that’s where I am. And here’s the final irony: I could just walk away, probably in more ways than one. So why don’t I? Because I can’t help hearing Heather’s words: that I always think the worst of her.

  Heather, give me a reason to think the best of you. I’m waiting to hear it. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.

  jokes about wheelchairs

  Sam went cold. He was over the edge now, well and truly. He was hearing voices, coming out of the wall.

  “SORRY!” GAIA PANTED, SPRINTING down the sidewalk. She’d almost flattened a tiny, bespectacled old crone in a polka-dotted blouse. The woman had appeared out of nowhere. Like a thousand other people. The streets of Greenwich Village were just too damn crowded in the morning.

  Right-of-way

  “Jesus! Watch where you’re going, bitch!”

  Gaia laughed as she flew toward the drab red pile of bricks that was the Village School, amazed at the words falling from such prim and wizened lips. Amazed, yet not. That was New York. Nobody—not even little blue-haired ladies—stood on ceremony for anyone. And just whe
n I was beginning to feel bad for almost knocking down a sweet little old lady. . . lesson two about New York: What you saw was never what you got.

  In spite of all her problems and woes, Gaia actually felt halfway decent today. Sure, she’d overslept. But that was par for the course. At least she was going to school. Maybe she was just optimistic because it was Friday. Tonight was the dinner with Sam and her dad. Tonight she would set things straight, get to the bottom of whatever it was that was torturing her boyfriend. Tonight all would be made well.

  They had reservations at Le Jardin. She had even found a half-decent dress to wear, a slim-fitting black number that her father had bought for her in Paris and that she could just tolerate seeing herself in. On second thought, maybe she should just wear jeans, be her usual mangy self. After all, the ratty girl was the one Sam had fallen for....

  She drew in a deep breath as she clattered up the school stairs and burst through the big double doors. The only problem, of course, was that Ed wouldn’t be there. She hadn’t even had a chance to talk to him about it. But maybe she should just tackle one problem at a time. After she’d settled with Sam, she would settle with Ed. Things were almost back to normal with them, anyway. Almost being the key word—

  Speak of the devil.

  There was a flash of metal at her side, followed by the sound of skidding. Ed’s wheelchair swerved in front of her, momentarily cutting her off. She had to laugh. She was having major pedestrian traffic problems today.

  “Goddamn paraplegics think they got the right-of-way,” she quipped.

  Ed screeched to a stop. He whirled and glared at her. “You know, I’m really looking forward to the day when I don’t have to put up with shit like that anymore,” he spat.

  Time seemed to freeze.

  Gaia gaped at him. Wait a second. Had she just been beamed into some alternate universe? Jokes about wheelchairs were kosher. Calling a spade a spade was how Gaia and Ed had always operated. That was part of the reason they’d become friends in the first place. It was the no-bullshit, no-euphemism fulcrum around which their entire friendship turned. She’d meant the remark as an icebreaker, as a way of saying that everything was still cool between them.

  “Uh... sorry,” she mumbled, not knowing how to react—suddenly wishing she could run outside and come back in all over again, start the school day from scratch. But she couldn’t help but be annoyed, too. How the hell was she supposed to know that Ed had abruptly developed a sensitive streak?

  “No, it’s cool,” Ed muttered, his face unreadable, a mix of emotions that Gaia couldn’t translate. “I just meant that I didn’t feel like... that I was sick of... look, just ignore me, okay? Things’ll be better once. . . Forget it.”

  “Once what?” Gaia prompted, baffled.

  He shook his head. “Forget it.”

  All at once Gaia was angry. She was sick of this—sick of sweating through people’s odd moods and silences. You’d think between Ed and Sam, one of them might give the cryptology a rest. . . . But then, apparently, you’d have to think again. She scrutinized Ed’s face as if she were deciphering a map. Clues to some inner turmoil were there, all right. But they pointed at nothing concrete. Or at too many things. There was apology in there. And worry. But something else, too. Something like anxiety but with more of a kick in it. Excitement?

  “Things’ll be better once...”

  Gaia’s lips tightened. Ed was beginning to sound a hell of a lot like Sam. Yes, it was definitely a good thing that Ed wasn’t coming to the dinner tonight. Dealing with one secretive jerk at a time was about all she could handle.

  “PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE closing doors.”

  Veiny Hands

  Sam gripped the metal pole as the subway doors pinged shut, watching as the Thirty-fourth Street station receded from view. Warily his eyes flicked across the train compartment. He felt like he’d swallowed a steel rod: His stomach was cold and uncomfortable, and he wasn’t hungry, even though he’d barely eaten all day. Once again he was looking for something. Someone. Only he didn’t have even the vaguest idea who that person was. Which meant it could be anyone.

  Anybody. Everybody.

  Sam shivered. His mind seemed to race the train itself, one suspicion tumbling over the next as he recast the sequence of events that had led him to this moment.

  Point of origination: Mike’s death. No, Ella. Or maybe before that. . .

  One more stop to go: Grand Central Station. But the journey through the black tunnel seemed interminable. The fluorescent lighting hurt Sam’s eyes. He was bone tired, so tired that his body felt wired into overdrive, every cell screaming and throbbing. Sleep was no longer an option. Not since the nightmares, and not since Sam had known for sure that someone was watching him. Beyond the guys Gaia had found trying to break into his room. Beyond a doubt.

  He’d felt it in the library. He’d felt it walking home after talking with Gaia in the park. Unseen eyes. Unseen, all-seeing eyes. Sam watched the floor. Anything to avoid looking at the people around him. They could all be with. . . them. The sullen Latino guy hiding behind a paperback in the corner. The upscale exec with her cat-frame glasses and the pencil at her lip. She could easily just be in “work” disguise. He thought he might truly lose it now, if he hadn’t already. Paranoia. Sam would have laughed if he hadn’t been thoroughly stripped of that ability. He’d actually begun to feel paranoid about paranoia itself.

  Chasing your own tail.

  Suddenly Sam’s forehead turned fiery hot. He’d heard that line very recently. Was it from his dreams? Hadn’t someone said that to him while he lay in a diabetic slump on the cold, hard floors of some warehouse?

  Or was that just another instance of paranoia feeding off itself?

  The train jerked to a stop. Jesus. He hadn’t even noticed he’d arrived.

  The doors slid open, and Sam bolted straight for Grand Central terminal. Before exiting the turnstile, he stood for a moment leaning against a pillar, the white tile cooling off the skin of his cheek as he struggled to force his head clear. He had to keep it together. Focus on the positives: The police were no longer looking for him, and this was the last pickup.

  So says Josh.

  Sam laughed hollowly, tearing himself away from the pillar and moving between clouds of commuters and groups of tourists. What else did he have to go on but Josh’s word? He had no choice but to believe Josh. None at all. As he reached the main concourse, he couldn’t help but glance up at the famous ceiling: turquoise, decorated with the signs of the zodiac and twenty-five hundred stars in pinpricks of electric light. What he would give to be out in space right now, drifting, alone, far from this planet. . . a bittersweet ping of nostalgia shot through him. He’d seen this with his mother shortly after the renovation had been unveiled. They’d stopped for lunch at the Oyster Bar. . . a million lifetimes ago, yet so tantalizingly recent that he could almost taste it....

  Get a grip!

  Sam turned his head away from the throng of passersby. He felt seasick. Breathe. Abruptly Sam stopped. He realized he’d found the designated spot: an anonymous pillar in a corner where the arteries of two tunnels bisected each other. He stood under the arch, searching the faces that flickered by. But no one paused. One minute slipped into the next. He faced the wall, sucked in air, and talked himself down. The last pickup. This would be the very last—

  “Hellooo, Sam...”

  Sam went cold. He was over the edge now, well and truly. He was hearing voices, coming out of the wall.

  “Hello, Sam Moon.”

  That was it. Time to get out of here. Book himself into a lunatic hospital. A nervous breakdown, that was what he was having... voices in the wall... the insidious whispering. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Flipping out, he was flipping out, losing the edge, losing the—

  “I know you can hear me, Sam Moon.”

  He slipped down the cold pillar, shaking. And then he saw it. Him. A thin, spidery man diagonally opposite him, standing wh
ere the arch above them bisected another pillar. He smiled at Sam, turned, and whispered into the corner.

  “Didn’t I tell you that you could hear me?”

  An acoustic effect. Some chance amplification of sound waves through the placement of tiled pillar and arch. That was all. His sanity was still intact. Well, maybe not intact. . . but he should be thankful for small favors. Stiffly Sam approached the man and without a word accepted a brown-paper-wrapped package from his veiny hands. The man smiled again, gave an impish salute, and walked away.

  Manhattan Federal Prison

  Sam read the instruction without expression, then opened his bag, the buzz of the Velcro like a chain saw to his hyperattuned ears. After tucking the package inside, he walked through the terminal’s giant hall, craned his neck, and looked up at the stars.

  Taurus, the bull. Aquarius, the water bearer.

  But the vaulted ceiling’s imagery didn’t calm him. It only gave him pause to run the same conflicting ideas through his numb brain, to turn the dots of light into visual representations of his fears. Enough. Sam continued walking—back through the drop zone, where three children now giggled and whispered into the corners of pillars. Apparently everyone knew this trick. Everyone but him.

  He supposed he should feel used to being left in the dark by now.

  INSULT ME ALREADY, GAIA DE- manded silently. What are you waiting for?

  Makeup Nookie

  But Heather just stared straight through Gaia as if she were made of glass. “Have you seen Ed?” she asked in her new robo-voice, completely devoid of anything even vaguely approximating emotion.

  “No,” Gaia answered. Not since their early morning near collision, anyway. After Ed’s fuzzy apology, he’d disappeared. And since Gaia didn’t have a class with Ed until after lunch, she’d passed the time by carefully prepping the speech she would present to him. This time he wouldn’t worm his way out of her questions. Once Gaia saw Ed again, she’d get the truth if it killed her. Or him.