A Five-Minute Life

by Emma Scott

  “She wanted to know which hotel we’re staying in. As if. I should have taken a photo of us in bed together just to piss her off.”

  “Keep checking in with her. Let her know you’re okay. It’s all she wants.”

  Thea gave me a dry look. “She wants your head on a platter, James,” she said. “As if I have zero ability to think for myself.”

  She tossed the phone into her backpack with a disgusted snort, then hopped to her feet, her blue eyes alit from within. She wore her jean shorts and a maroon tank top with a drawing of a turtle on the front in white. She’d tied her hair up into a high ponytail that showed off the curve of her neck and small ears pierced with tiny silver hoops.

  “First on my list,” she said. “The Met.”

  “The Mets?” I asked, hiding my smile while pulling on a boot. “You want to watch baseball?”

  “You’re so cute. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I checked on my phone while you were in the shower, and they have a ton of amazing exhibitions right now. One is a collection of paintings by the classic Dutch masters, and the Drawing and Prints Department is showing a bunch of stuff from my boy, Leo DaVinci. Not to mention they have one of the largest collections of Egyptian antiquities eh-vah.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You sure? You won’t be totally bored? I remember you said art wasn’t your thing.”

  “But it’s your thing,” I said. “This is your trip.”

  “It’s our trip. I only have a few must-sees on my list. Anything else you want to do is gravy.”

  “I’m good with whatever, Thea.”

  She pursed her lips at me. “Okay, well, I was thinking we should probably check out of here. The Met is up in Central Park. I found this cute hotel nearby that looks perfect, and the parking isn’t going to wipe us out. Check-in at the new place isn’t until four. I figure we can get out of here, drive up to the park, and grab some breakfast before the museum. Sound good?”

  “Great.”

  We checked out and drove a slow crawl from the Times Square area, up the West Side of Manhattan, parked the truck at a public garage, then walked to a café for breakfast. Thea chatted animatedly the entire time, telling me about her life before the accident.

  “I was a year away from graduating from the VCU School of Art in Richmond,” she said over eggs, bacon, and coffee. “I was hoping I was good enough for a scholarship for the Academy of Art here for my grad studies. Then a truck smashed my parents’ car and smashed all my plans too.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But so what? I’d never paint again if it brought them back.”

  I reached across the small table and held her hand as she sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “But I’m going to start over again. Go back to school. I think that’s what they’d want me to do.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “What about you? Have you thought at all about going back to school for speech therapy?”

  I shrugged. “Not much.”

  “If it’s something you really want to do, you should do it. I think you’d be amazing at it.”

  She dropped the subject, but I turned it around and around in my head. Being with Thea was a doorway to a real life opening and possibilities pouring through. A future vision unfurled in my mind: Thea in a studio painting, a ring glinting on her left hand, and me sitting with a little boy who couldn’t talk, and I was telling him things were going to be okay. Because they’d turned out okay for me. More than okay.

  You’re going to tell him he can have everything he’s ever wanted? Doris sneered. Bullshit and lies. Life doesn’t work that way and you know it.

  I tried to ignore the insidious thoughts, but they were ingrained in me. Part of the fiber of my being, woven by years of abuse and neglect in a fucked-up system.

  I looked at Thea across from me, radiant and beautiful and full of love. Love was a stranger. Fear had been my constant companion.

  Take care of her. Give her this trip. That’s your job. Your only job.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look sad.”

  “I’m good,” I said.

  The waiter came by and dropped the check.

  Thea made a grab for it, but I was faster. “I got it.”

  “Jimmy—”

  “I got it, Thea.” I forced a smile to soften the harsh tone. “Come on. Let’s get you to that museum.”

  Chapter 30

  Thea

  Jimmy and I walked through Central Park, from the Upper West side to the Upper East Side, under a brilliant sun and thick humidity. The city still smelled of the rain that came through last night, but the sky was a perfect blue, empty of clouds

  “It’s beautiful,” I said as we strolled along a path. “I love this piece of the green in the midst of all the concrete and steel.”

  Jimmy made a sound in his chest but said nothing else. He’d snapped at me pretty hard over the check in the restaurant, and now a hard glint was in his dark eyes, a thousand unspoken thoughts lurking behind them.

  All morning, I talked about myself and my past. Telling him was remembering and remembering felt like a gift I got to open every second.

  But maybe Jim wanted—or needed—to talk about his own childhood. I could hardly fathom eighteen years in the foster care system with no good memories to show for it.

  Remembering might not be such a gift for him.

  Still, Mom and Dad always said talking about the bad stuff was a way of taking away some of its power.

  “Hey,” I said, slipping my hand into his and giving it a squeeze. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” He squeezed back. “Tired, maybe.” He gave me a knowing look. “Not much sleep last night.”

  “Spoiler alert: you’re not going to get much sleep tonight either.”

  He let out a laugh that softened the hard edges of his features.

  He’s okay. We’re okay and we’re in New York. Not everything is everything.

  As we strolled the museum galleries, my art school education came back to me, along with my love of painting. We stood in front of Vermeer’s Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, and I stared in awe at its beauty.

  “It’s the sunlight,” I said. “See how he floods the room with it? How it glints on the pitcher and the glass in the window. All that blue and gold…” I shook my head, drinking it in. “It’s such a simple moment, it becomes almost spiritual. Something divine about that young woman, in her home, opening a window to let the morning in.”

  I filled my eyes with the painting until I felt Jimmy’s on me, a strange, nostalgic expression on his face.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I was remembering our first conversation,” he said. “Standing in front of the painting at Blue Ridge. You described how the light touched the fruit.”

  “I remember.”

  “Even then?”

  He nodded. “But it didn’t last. That perfect moment.”

  “Not then,” I said. “But I’m here now.”

  His eyes took me in the way I’d gazed at the Vermeer, the strange nostalgia returning. He nodded and moved on to the next painting.

  We continued through the museum and to the Egyptian galleries I’d been so excited to see. But once there, I wasn’t as moved as I’d been by the Vermeer.

  “I love the artifacts,” I said as we passed a bright blue hippo in its glass case. “I love the history and rituals. That’s all still there but…”

  “But what?” Jimmy asked.

  I put my hand to the glass display that held a fragmented stone sculpture of a king’s face, nothing left of his eyes or head.

  “I don’t know,” I murmured. “It feels different. Like that part of me that was obsessed with Egypt is gone now.”

  I couldn’t describe it any further until we headed to the Sackler wing and stood in front of the Temple of Dendur that had been moved from Egypt, brick by brick, across the Atlantic and reassembled here.

  I expected my breath to be stolen away at the sight of the temple
and the two huge statues that sat guard over it. But I shivered and rubbed my arms.

  “A tomb.”

  Jimmy glanced down at me.

  “It’s not,” I said. “That’s a sanctuary, not a tomb, but the amnesia… That’s what it felt like. A tomb, and Blue Ridge was the pyramid in which all things I needed for life were stored. But it wasn’t life. This is life, and I don’t need the pyramid anymore. I’m free.”

  We stood side by side in front of the monument. I inhaled through my nose and let it out.

  “Okay,” I said, slipping my hand into Jimmy’s. “I’m ready to go.”

  We headed to the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibit and stayed until we’d seen as much as I felt Jimmy could take before he grew bored—and we headed back into the brilliant sunshine, and the space between us didn’t seem so far anymore.

  “Item number two on my list,” I said. “Have a picnic in Central Park, then walk across the Bow Bridge. I’m starved.”

  “How about a hot dog?” Jimmy asked with a nod at a vendor on the street a little way from the museum.

  “I am in desperate need of a hot dog.” I gasped, and I gripped Jimmy’s arm, staring at him with wide eyes. “That’s what she said.”

  He smirked. “Let me guess. The Office?”

  “I’ve been waiting two years to say that,” I said. “My life is complete.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Come on, woman. Let’s go get you a hot dog.”

  We bought two hot dogs, two lemonades and two little bags of chips, and took them to a bench shaded by a huge oak tree to eat.

  After we ate, Jimmy balled up his napkin. “I think I need seconds.”

  “I’m on the job,” I said, jumping to my feet.

  “No, I got it.”

  “Not this time.” I kissed his cheek. “B-R-B.”

  I came back with another hot dog for him, extra mustard and relish, like his first.

  “Shit, I forgot napkins.”

  “Thea, wait. I’ll go.”

  “Nope. You’re eating.”

  I went back to the vendor, practically skipping with happiness and returned with a pile of napkins.

  “Here you go,” I said, plopping back down on the bench beside him. I took a swig of my lemonade. “God, today could not be more perfect.”

  Jim hadn’t touched his second hot dog. I gave him a quizzical look and he turned his gaze away, to the park in front of us.

  “What’s next?” he asked. “Bow Bridge?”

  I nodded. “It’s one of the most photographed landmarks in New York. So beautiful and romantic.” I nudged his arm. “And if you’re totally done with paintings and pretty bridges, tonight we can go to… I don’t know. WrestleMania or something.”

  He didn’t smile but got up and gave his uneaten food to a homeless man sitting on a nearby bench.

  “He needed it more,” he said, answering my look.

  “Okay.”

  It was a sweet gesture, but that heaviness was in his eyes again.

  We walked to Bow Bridge, the graceful arch spanning The Lake and crossed its length along with a dozen other tourists.

  “We don’t have one photo of us together,” I said, fishing my phone out of my backpack. “It’ll be the first on this phone since the accident. I think that’s fitting. My old life right alongside the new with nothing in between.”

  We moved close together, and I held the phone up, turned the cracked screen around to capture us, the green waters of The Lake, and New York City rising behind the treetops beyond that.

  “Say cheese doodles,” I said, my throat threatening to close on me. Hearing the tears in my voice. Jimmy turned to me just as I snapped the pic.

  I opened it back up and we leaned in to examine it.

  “Not very cheery. I’m obviously about to cry and you’re looking at me.” I shook my head, swallowed. “You’re looking at me with so much…”

  The words fell apart. Jimmy pulled me to him.

  “I never used to cry this much,” I said against his chest. “Or maybe I did. But not for so many intense emotions. Horrible grief and pure happiness, both.”

  We stood for a few minutes on the bridge, our arms wrapped around each other. Jimmy still didn’t say a word.

  I sniffed and glanced at our photo one more time.

  “I’ve taken better. Although the tears in my eyes make them really blue.”

  “You’re blue and gold, like that painting,” Jimmy said. “Nothing’s more beautiful than the way the sunlight touches you.”

  Before I could answer, he pulled me back to him and kissed me hard. Fiercely. Almost possessively. My eyes fluttered open to see his eyes shut tight, his brows furrowed as if kissing me caused him pain.

  “Damn, Jimmy,” I searched his face as I caught my breath back. “What is going on with you today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That kiss was not nothing.”

  “Let’s get to the hotel and I’ll kiss you like that again.”

  “You’re trying to change the subject with promises of sex. It’s not going to work.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Okay, it’s working a little.” I slipped back into his arms. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Thea,” he said in nearly the same tone he’d told me he’d pay for breakfast. “Let’s go.”

  His mood swings between brooding and grouchy, to romantic and considerate were driving me crazy, but I decided to bite my tongue until we were alone in our room.

  “The ArtHouse,” Jimmy said, reading the marquee. “Of course.”

  “It’s kind of my theme,” I said with a grin.

  The room was cozy and clean and had a partial view of the park.

  And a king-sized bed.

  “Oh my God, we are going to have so much sex on this bed,” I said, kicking off my sandals and jumping up and down on the king-sized mattress. “Come here, Jimmy.”

  I suddenly needed to hold him, he seemed so far away. He moved to where I stood on the mattress and wordlessly slid his arms around my waist. He kissed my middle, breathing hotly through the thin cotton of my shirt. I wrapped my arms around his head, holding him close, raking my fingers through his hair.

  “You’re a good man. I want to be a good woman for you.”

  “You are,” he said gruffly.

  I shook my head. “I’m going to take care of you,” I said, trailing my hands over his shoulders and down his chest. “You’ve taken care of me for months, and now it’s my turn.”

  He stiffened in my arms.

  “What is it?” I asked. “And don’t say nothing.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not used to being taken care of.”

  “I got that,” I said softly. “I saw your face when I brought you a bunch of napkins. Just napkins…”

  He started to answer when his eyes widened. “Holy shit, your medication,” he said. “Did you remember to get it from the safe at the other hotel?”

  I froze and turned my face into a perfect mask of oh shit. My eyes widened and my lips parted.

  “Fuck.” His face went white, and he tore his hand through his hair. “We have to go back. N-N-Now…”

  “Jimmy, wait,” I said, reaching for his sleeve. “I’m kidding. I have it. I grabbed it after I found our new hotel. You were probably in the shower. It’s in my backpack.”

  He stared at me for a solid ten seconds then tore his hand from mine. “The fuck, Thea?”

  “What…? I-I’m sorry,” I said, my heart pounding as liquid guilt surged through my veins, sludgy and thick. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. It was a joke. I—”

  “A b-b-bad fucking joke.” I could see the frustration ratchet up with the return of his stutter. He hadn’t stuttered once since we arrived in New York.

  I jumped off the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think I’d be scared shitless for you? Or you d-d-didn’t think at all?”

  “The second one,” I said in a
small voice. “It’s what I do. When things get heavy, my instinct is to go for the joke. To lighten the mood. I’m so sorry.”

  He stared at me again, his brows drawn tight, then he turned away, hands on his hips. “It’s fine. I’m just… tired.”

  “It’s not fine and you don’t have to be tired to be mad,” I said, slipping into his arms. “You should be mad at me if I do stupid shit. We’ll still be okay. And I promise to think before I do any more stupid shit. And then not do it.”

  He nodded stiffly and pulled away. “It’s early yet,” he said. “Let’s go out to… wherever you want to go next.”

  “Wait, Jimmy. We should talk.”

  “About what? I freaked out, and you apologized. Nothing to talk about.”

  “You’ve been off and on, all day,” I said. “Sometimes right here with me, and sometimes a million miles away. Or even angry with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Since breakfast, when I talked about my life before the accident. I was thinking, maybe you wanted to talk about yours too. Maybe you need to—”

  “I don’t.”

  “Jimmy…”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s done.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why is it important, Thea? Just drop it.”

  I stared. “Why is it important? Because you are. You’re important to me.” He started to turn, but I grabbed his arm. “No. We’re going to talk about this.”

  “About what? My fucked-up childhood?”

  “Yes,” I cried. “Or whatever it is that’s making you so upset right now.”

  “You want to hear about it, Thea? Why? What fucking difference will it make?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it will. Because I care about you.”

  He flinched as if the words whipped him. “You want to know what it was like? Fine. Let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about how one foster mother came home from her job every day and locked me in a closet until dinner so she wouldn’t have to deal with me. Or about the racist asshole who saw me hanging out with a black friend after school when I was in third grade. He chained me to a fence in the backyard in the dead of winter and said he’d leave me there for a week if he saw me with that friend again. Or how about Doris, the foster mother I was with the longest? She insulted me day in, day out until I thought my n-n-name was Fucking Moron, or Big Dummy. She made sure I knew every fucking day of my life that I was n-n-nothing and no one.”