Jessica Z

by Shawn Klomparens

  “I don’t care. Just get something.”

  “Such as?”

  “Just order something.”

  “Josh,” I start to say, feeling like I might burst into tears, “this is exactly why I…?” But he’s already stepped away to wait out on the sidewalk.

  “Do a second chicken salad,” I say to the kid at the counter.

  Josh looks at his watch while we wait. And after we get our sandwiches, wrapped in white paper, we go out and he starts to walk back up to the bus stop.

  “Wait,” I say. “Wait. We need to sit.”

  “We need to go.”

  I was feeling nervous, but now I’m angry. “Five minutes, Josh. Sit, and eat, and listen to me. Five minutes.”

  Josh turns back to me and sits down at one of the sidewalk tables. It’s gray outside, and cool, and no one else is out here. Perfect. I sit down and unwrap my sandwich, and take a deep breath.

  “Josh, I—”

  “We really, really need to go.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “We’re going to be late.” He won’t look at me, and he hasn’t unwrapped his lunch.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “Okay. I have to go. Come if you want.” I can see the muscles in his face tighten and relax as he clenches his jaw before standing up and walking toward the bus stop.

  “What is your problem?” I say, my voice cracking like I’m going to cry. I wrap up my sandwich—I haven’t even taken a bite of it—and follow him. “I’m asking you, what is your problem? Why won’t you listen to me?”

  “I don’t think you understand how important this is.”

  “I don’t understand how important this is? Are you serious?”

  A bus pulls up and stops with its air brake hiss, and I consider storming away but I want him to hear me out and I step on and swipe my pass. I take the seat across from him. There aren’t as many people on this bus.

  “Why won’t you listen to me? You know what? You have never listened to me.”

  Josh doesn’t say anything, and the bus starts moving.

  “I’m nothing but your subject. I’m like, I’m like, like a still life.” I am crying now, and I hate it. “Why won’t you even look at me?” I yell. He may not be looking at me, but some other people on the bus are.

  “Jessica, this is very, very important.”

  “I am important! I am! Right here! Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

  “What?”

  “Exactly! That’s exactly it!” I turn and yank the stop cord. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. This is done. Use the scans, whatever. Don’t ever talk to me again.”

  “Wait, Jess, what? What are you talking about?”

  I pull the stop cord again, and the driver looks up in her mirror and says, “I hear you, girl, I hear you, you just hold on.” An Asian man three seats in front of Josh looks extremely irritated.

  The bus barely slows down to a stop before the doors swing open.

  “There you go,” the driver says. “You get yourself out and settle down a little.”

  I grab my bag. “Don’t call me. Don’t see me.” Josh looks at me like I’m talking to him in a foreign language.

  “Wait, Jess, wait.”

  “No,” I say, and I climb down out through the rear set of doors to the sidewalk and hope, hope that Josh does not follow me. I reach in my bag for my phone and look for my sister’s new number on the speed dial as the doors finally fold closed. Just go, go, please go.

  I find the new number and press send, and the phone is to my ear just as the bus groans and starts to pull away from the curb. There’s a ring, and a ring again.

  I did it, Katie. I think I did it.

  A ring again, and the bus is moving.

  Then there is a brightness and a thump that hits me in the chest, and a clatter and a howl and a rush of air.

  My phone is pulled from my hand and I’m falling to the ground.

  I’m on the ground.

  And then there’s nothing.

  21

  The first thing I’m aware of, after who knows how long, is the ringing. Not like a phone, or a bell, really, but a shrill tone, a squeal, a siren that doesn’t go away. Putting my hands over my ears does nothing, so, after a while, I give up.

  The next thing that I’m able to notice, as I open my eyes and blink the room into focus, is my bag, lying like a deflated beach ball right in the middle of the floor, encircled by a halo of loose change, a mint tin, some tampons, and my checkbook. A mini-pack of tissues left over from my cousin Tricia’s wedding is over by my bookshelf.

  Perhaps most important, my butt—and the couch underneath it—is cold and wet.

  These three things have me at my limit. Sitting here, curled in a wet spot at the end of my couch with a scream in my ears and a mess on the floor is enough; I’m not going to bother finding anything else out for the time being.

  But there’s something else forcing its way in. Over the scream there’s a thumping, banging sound. At the hazy edge of my vision, it looks like my door is moving. The chain is engaged, though, and the door can only move so far. Something red and black—it looks like a beak—pokes in up by the chain.

  Maybe a giant parrot is breaking into my apartment?

  Suddenly the door swings all the way open, and I cower down into the couch cushions. It’s not a tropical bird, but Danny, standing there, holding a big pair of bolt cutters. Behind him stands Patrick, along with two men in suits, and behind them is my landlord. There’s a woman next to him too, tallish and plain, I think I know her maybe? Her hand is over her mouth and she takes a step back and I can’t really see her anymore.

  They come in, all of them except the landlord and the woman. Their mouths are moving, but their words don’t make any sense, the voices delayed like in an old TV movie where the sound has gone out of sync.

  “Jesus, Jessica.”

  “Jessica. Jessica.”

  “Mr. McAvoy, sir, I’m telling you, don’t go over there until we’ve had a chance to talk to her. Don’t go over there.”

  “Why don’t you step the fuck off?”

  “Danny, calm down.”

  I can’t tell who is talking, so I close my eyes and put my hands over my ears again. I feel something touching my knee and I recoil even further, but when I open my eyes I see Patrick crouching next to me. Back at the doorway, Danny has puffed himself up in front of the suits and looks like he’s ready to swing the bolt cutters at one of them.

  “Jessica, I’m here.” The voice makes it through the scream in my head.

  “Mr. McAvoy, don’t do that. Don’t touch her. Do not speak to her. Please.”

  “Jessica.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Can you talk to me? Can you say something?”

  I blink at Patrick, and he blinks too, again and again. Then I see him sniff the air, and he touches his hand to the couch and the seat of my pants. And then, like it’s nothing, he slides both arms under me and picks me up and carries me into my room.

  “Jessica, I’m sorry. You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m sorry.”

  My eyes are closed again. I’m weightless.

  “Mr. McAvoy—”

  “Goddammit, I’m just getting her into some dry pants, okay?”

  Over the noise in my ears, I can hear his voice breaking.

  “Danny, can you do something with that cushion?”

  My eyes stay closed as I’m placed on my bed, and I squeeze them shut tighter at the feel of hands unbuttoning and pulling off my jeans. Underwear too.

  “I’m sorry, Jessica. I’m sorry. I’m fixing this.”

  “Mr. McAvoy!”

  “Your sweats, Jess. Where are your sweats?”

  Patrick finds them without my help, and he pulls them on me, warm and, better still, dry. I keep my eyes closed even while reflexively lifting my hips. Then I’m weightless again, but not moving, just held tightly.

  “I’m
sorry.”

  It’s a whisper.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Mr. McAvoy! We can have you arrested—”

  We move, and I open my eyes as Patrick eases me down into the old recliner in my living room. One of the cushions, the one I was sitting on, is gone from the couch.

  Another whisper, close to my ear.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “We’d like you both to step out of the room.”

  “Bullshit. Why don’t you try to make us, asshole.”

  “Danny, relax. Calm down.”

  “Out of the room, please.”

  “We’ll wait in the hallway. Door stays open.”

  “Mr. McAvoy, we can’t—”

  “Jesus Christ, look at her. What do you think you’re going to get out of her? Can you just let her rest?”

  “That isn’t an option for us right now. This is all developing—”

  “Then the door stays open.”

  They’re all looking at each other, and Danny is still holding the bolt cutters.

  “Alright. Wait in the hall.”

  “Try to be quick.”

  “It’s going to take as long as it takes, Mr. McAvoy.”

  Patrick and Danny back themselves into the hall, facing me the whole time. One of the suits, the taller one, starts to close the door and I feel panic in my stomach, but Danny holds out his arm and stops the door from closing all the way. The other suit comes close to me and kneels down and starts to move his mouth.

  “Jessica Zorich? Is your name Jessica Zorich?”

  I can only stare at him. The disconnect between his mouth and his voice is making me queasy. I know you. Do I? Do I know you from somewhere? Behind him, the other suit brings chairs from my kitchen. They both take a seat in front of me, and I try to disappear into the recliner.

  “Are you Jessica Zorich? Is that your name? Can you nod for me? Can you indicate yes or no?”

  I manage to nod, but the space in time between his lips moving and the sound hitting my brain is getting to be too much, so I close my eyes and cover my ears. But some things still come through.

  My name is——.

  And this is Agent——.

  We’re with the DHS.

  Must be very difficult for you.

  Investigation.

  Bombing.

  Investigation.

  Something, a different sound, makes me open my eyes. The tall one is pulling the elastic from around a bulging accordion file, and he lifts the flap and starts to look through the papers inside. More words come as I watch him.

  Concentrate.

  Important.

  Concentrate.

  “Miss Zorich, we need you to concentrate. We need to ask you some very important questions. Can you help us? Can you concentrate for us?”

  I just look at them.

  “Okay. Good. Miss Zorich, did you board the Muni bus line 54 yesterday morning around eleven-forty?”

  The bus. Josh. Oh God. We fought. Was it yesterday? What time is it now?

  I nod.

  “Alright. You got off the bus almost ten minutes later, close to the intersection of Taraval and Sixteenth. Is that correct?”

  We fought, didn’t we?

  I nod again, and the tall one leans closer.

  “Miss Zorich, did you know something was going to happen on that bus?”

  I’m honestly not sure what has happened.

  I shake my head, and the way they’re looking at me makes me feel a little scared.

  “Jessica, did you know that an explosive device was going to be detonated on that bus after you got off?”

  “Did you know something was going to happen?”

  “Is that why you exited the bus?”

  “Did you know it would be blown up?”

  Explosive?

  Detonated?

  Blown up?

  Josh?

  I want to speak, to tell them about the argument we had. I know, though, that if I open my mouth, the only sound that will come out is the screeching in my head. So I keep it shut.

  I want to ask what happened, but all I can do is shake my head.

  I put my hands over my ears again.

  “Jessica, we’d like you to look at some pictures. Tell us if you recognize any of these people, okay? Can you look up, up here, look at me, please. Have you ever seen this man before? How about him? Him?”

  The tall one flips through a stack of glossy black and white photos. They all seem familiar. A black woman. An angry Asian man. And the last one.

  “This person?”

  It’s Josh’s passport photo, the one with the long hair. I can’t stop looking at it, and it doesn’t stop looking at me.

  “Do you know this man?”

  “Joshua Alan Hadden?”

  “Did you board the bus with him?”

  I’m nodding, nodding, keeping my hands over my ears and trying to blink away the blurriness that’s filling my eyes and overflowing down my cheeks. I can’t force it out, not the blurriness or the screaming or their words, so I pull up my knees and close my eyes. They keep talking.

  Associates in Britain.

  Associates in El Salvador.

  Panama City.

  Berlin.

  No, no, no, I don’t know about any of this!

  “Do you have any knowledge of Mr. Hadden’s experience with chemicals?”

  I open my eyes. Well, there was everything in the studio.

  “Had you ever seen Mr. Hadden handling explosives?”

  What?

  “Jessica, this is a photograph of an industrial detonator. Did you ever see something like this in Mr. Hadden’s possession?”

  What are you trying to say?

  “Was Mr. Hadden carrying a backpack or a bag yesterday? Did you notice anything unusual about his clothing? Did it seem unusually bulky?”

  With this, my mouth fills with rotten bile. I cough once, choking, and then I spit watery puke down the front of my shirt and start to sob.

  “Come on, Jesus Christ, that’s enough. She’s had enough.”

  What are they saying? This can’t be for real.

  Patrick stands next to me now, and the two men rise from the chairs.

  “Do your search and get out of here. She’s not going anywhere. She’s gone through enough. Please. Guys, come on. I told you upstairs, there’s no way she knows anything about this. Just do whatever you have to do and go.”

  They speak to each other, the suits, and the tall one goes out into the hall and comes back with a pair of big plastic toolboxes. He opens one of the boxes and pulls out some rubber gloves that he squeezes his hands into while the other one goes to my computer and turns it on. Danny comes over with a wet towel and gives it to Patrick, who kneels down and cleans up the front of my shirt.

  “I’m sorry, Jess. I’m sorry.”

  The one with the gloves walks around my apartment with a stack of white gauzy pads. He takes a pad and wipes it over my things—my dresser, my bookshelf, my shoe—then drops it into a plastic bag that he labels with a Sharpie and ties off before throwing it into one of the open toolboxes. The other one has hooked a cable from a little gray metal box up to my computer, and he’s typing something on the keyboard. He waits and he waits as a light on the gray box flickers, then he turns off the computer and unhooks the box and whispers something into his partner’s ear before leaving. A moment later, the other one snaps off his gloves and drops them into the open toolbox. He latches the lid, then rises up and hands a card to Patrick.

  “Please call if you have any questions.”

  Patrick says nothing, and finally the suit picks up the toolboxes and walks out the door. Danny goes over and shuts it behind him, and the sound of the lock clicking into place feels like it might be the first clear thing I’ve ever heard.

  22

  I don’t know when it turned to night, but now it’s dark in my apartment. Patrick has been coming and going all afternoon, trying to get me to drink water, takin
g me on an unproductive trip to the bathroom, putting a blanket over me, asking if I’m okay. Telling me I’m okay. Telling me he’s sorry.

  I want to answer, but I can’t. There’s that screaming sound in my head, for one, and it’s taking everything else I’ve got in me to not think about what I might have seen. So I sit in the recliner, with my afghan over my legs. If Patrick is here, I don’t know it, and if he’s gone, I’m not sure how long he’s been away.

  All I know is that it’s dark in my apartment.

  The sound of my door opening makes its way into my head, but I don’t bother to look at first, then a light comes on and I see that Gretchen is standing with Patrick in the doorway. She comes over to the chair and looks down at me and forces herself to smile.

  “Jess, I’m so glad you’re, I tracked down—”

  She stops and presses her lips together and turns her head away, and then she takes a breath and looks back at me with wet eyes.

  “I got ahold of…Oh, Jess.”

  Her face falls apart into tears and she runs off, and I can hear her crying in my bathroom. It’s a distinct noise coming from back there, little snotty yelps. I’ve never seen or heard Gretchen crying before. As the sound goes on, Patrick lowers himself down next to me with his hands on the arm of the recliner.

  “Gretchen called your doctor. She’s on her way here right now to take a look at you. We want to make sure you’re…she’s going to check to make sure everything is alright.”

  Now Gretchen is back, sniffling, and she kneels at my other side and takes my hand.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  There’s a new sound, not so unlike the screaming sound that won’t stop in my ears, and Patrick gets up to buzz open the door downstairs. A moment later I see Miss Nakamura, the nurse practitioner I’ve seen for my annual ever since I moved here. She looks at me, and I think she can tell I’m trying to smile at her. She has always insisted that I call her Elaine, but, with regard to our professional relationship, I like the formality of using her last name.

  “Jessica. Hi. Hi.” She puts her bag on the floor and crouches down and strokes the back of my hand. “You’re here, honey. You’re here. You see me, yes? You hear my voice?”

  I’m trying to smile at her, I really am.

  “I want to take a look at you.”