Maybe We’re Electric

by Val Emmich

  “We should cover it,” I say.

  I begin to wrap his wound with a bandage. It means pulling out my left hand. Returning it to the table.

  As I bandage him, round and round, my old frustration returns. I have questions and he has answers, and instead of coming out and asking my questions, I keep going round and round in cowardly ignorance.

  The chance to break the cycle may never come again.

  I ask my question: “What happened?”

  He shuts his eyes.

  Let me guess. Chopping wood for a fire. Saving a cat from a tree. Volunteer snow shoveling.

  “I smashed a brick,” Mac says, stripping the violence from what seems like a violent act, as if what he did was the only thing that could have been done. I try to picture it, the smashing of the brick, and Mac doing it, but it’s a video that never loads. I can’t see it happening—this unflappable person losing his cool.

  What I do see is how Mac feels about what happened: a muddled mix of shame and remorse and something like pride.

  He opens his eyes and waits for my reaction.

  “Well,” I say, after thinking it through. “Your hand still looks better than mine.”

  I smile at my joke, so he can feel safe to do the same.

  You were born different. The rest of the babies are given ten fingers and ten toes. Not you. You get one hand with only two fingers—thumb and ring—and barely those two. The condition is known as symbrachydactyly. It’s a word that hurts your brain to look at. Someone very creative invented a simpler name for it. When a person has limbs that look different, they are said to have, drumroll please, limb difference. Your parents go their own way. They call your left hand your special hand.

  Early on, your parents give serious consideration to surgery, but in the end, opt against it. They instead place all their hope in a risky approach called self-acceptance. At first, it seems to work. You are a carefree and oblivious child. You don’t know what it’s like to have ten fingers. Nothing feels amiss. Mom and Dad let you figure things out on your own. Buttoning shirts is annoying, and you never feel like you have a solid grip on your bike’s handlebars. But this stuff isn’t odd. It just is.

  Then you get older. You notice people staring. They’ve always stared, but you really sense it now. Your best friend since kindergarten, Isla, defends you fiercely against giggling boys. You begin to see yourself anew. For the first time, a doctor describes you as having a “disability.” You always knew you were different, but this new term—despite how matter-of-factly it’s delivered—makes it seem as if something’s wrong with you. Doubt creeps in about how “normal” you really are. You start to obsess about your difference in a way you know is unhealthy and unhelpful. You stare at your hand until it isn’t a hand anymore. It’s a mini calzone strapped to your wrist. Or a snake that swallowed an old TV antenna. It’s the last piece of tape salvaged from a roll that gets stuck to itself and becomes a frustrated tangle.

  You try to draw people’s attention away from the thing that makes you different. You wear long sleeves in summer. Shirts with bold, distracting slogans on the front. You make jokes, lots, most at your own expense.

  When you hit your teens, you’re over it. You’re bored of the subject. Really, who cares? It’s just a hand. Nothing special, far from it. No one pays attention to a hand. Not you. Not your family or friends. You’re all aware of it, but you don’t focus on it. Only strangers seem to care. The problem is there are many strangers, always more coming, reminding you of what you keep forgetting. It’s exhausting. You don’t have the energy to educate every new person you meet. Or to battle the old people in your life who still don’t know better. It’s easier just to sink into the background. To avoid their eyes. To make yourself small. To make yourself very, very quiet.

  6:54 PM

  I refill the first-aid kit and return the box to a bottom shelf. I stay low behind the counter, fiddling for longer than is realistic. I need a chance to think.

  What was that phone call about? Why ask me to place the call? And the blood! We can’t forget the bad blood!

  Maybe I’ll stand up and Mac will have magically disappeared and I can go back to worrying about just me.

  I rise and my prayer is answered. He’s gone.

  That was easy.

  I peer out the window. No sign of him. I scurry to the front door and crank the sticky lock, shutting out the world. My sigh is the sound of relief.

  Or is it disappointment? Did the most exciting moment of my life just pass me by? He was here a second ago, I swear: Mac Durant. He left without saying goodbye. Or thanking me for bandaging his hand.

  A sound from the back room turns me around. When I get there, Mac is handling one of the phonographs.

  “Careful,” I say, relieved to find him still here and yet frightened all over again. He’s scary in the way a unicorn would be if you met one: You just assumed the thing wasn’t real.

  I step in and catch the tonearm before it touches the disc. We’ve already soiled Mr. Edison’s face. The last thing I need is to be responsible for damaging one of these priceless machines.

  “This is from the thirties,” I say. “It’s irreplaceable.”

  “We’ve got a turntable at home.”

  “Not like this one.”

  “Pretty similar.”

  It’s nice, I guess, that his confidence is back in full force, but unfortunately he has no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Does it work?” Mac says.

  Even in his current state—oily hair pointing everywhere, cheeks a very relatable red—Mac wields a power that’s hard to defend against.

  Yes, the turntable works. It can’t play any odd record, only Edison’s proprietary discs, and those strictly on the guided tours. The museum is open four days a week. Today, Saturday, it closed at four and will reopen tomorrow at ten, weather permitting. But I haven’t worked at the Thomas Edison Center in months, and neither of us should be here right now.

  Except we are.

  Fine. Quickly.

  I swing open the front panel of our largest phonograph and drop the stylus. The music is egregiously peppy. We listen for a long minute (not easy). I feel unjustly responsible for what we’re listening to, as if I’m the artist who recorded the song and Mac’s assessment of it reflects on me personally. His foot appreciates the beat, tapping a nimble rhythm. He peeks at his phone and tucks it away. When the music finally ends, I holster the stylus and shut the panel.

  “It’s a huge hit with the over-ninety crowd,” I say, hoping to distance myself from the snoozefest he was forced to endure.

  He moves to another exhibit. His stroll—leisurely, inquisitive—creates the absurd impression that this was his plan all along for this Saturday night, to brush up on his long-ignored Thomas Edison history. I follow his movements, studying his profile (for security purposes, of course). His nose is pronounced and it works for him. His lips appear painted on with an expensive brush; to be honest, I’ve had daydreams about smearing his paint.

  “Shouldn’t you be closing?” Mac says. “It’s looking bad out there.”

  He gives me a once-over, absorbing my appearance only now, every curious inch of it. The laundry-shrunk red sweatshirt I’ve been loafing around in all day is my go-to for comfort and laziness, but it makes for unconvincing work attire. I may sound like an official employee of the museum, but I definitely don’t look like one.

  “My ride is coming,” I say. “Like any second.” A flat-out lie.

  “The governor might declare a state of emergency.” He shakes his head. “They always talk these things up. People love drama.”

  People. As in, other people. Not him. Mac Durant doesn’t go for drama. That’s the message he’s trying to convey. And yet he’s the one causing the drama here. I planned on hiding out for a while at the museum, but because of Mac, my safe space no longer feels safe. I should leave. Now.

  I don’t want to go home, but what choice do I have? I have no money, no phone
. None of my friends live within walking distance. I’d probably turn to Neel at a time like this, but he and I are in a fight.

  Going home doesn’t mean I have to talk to my mom. I’ll go straight to my room and hide under the covers. But before I can do that, I have to get Mac to leave.

  I clear my throat. “I’m sure you have, you know, plans or whatever.”

  He doesn’t answer, too busy perusing our museum wall.

  I’ll shut off the lights so he gets the hint. It’s extreme and potentially confusing, but it’s time to be bold. I override all self-loathing and slink toward the light switch. As I reach it, Mac unknowingly steps in my path and I’m forced to retreat.

  “You still take the bus?” Mac says, doing a near pirouette to locate me.

  “Yeah,” I say, surprised that he remembers. “Unfortunately.”

  Mac hasn’t taken the bus since middle school, and back then he was usually fast asleep on the morning ride. This is one subject I’d love to hear him elaborate on—the past, our past, the tiny amount we have—but he abandons the memory as abruptly as he raises it.

  It’s time, I decide, for the tried-and-true message sender: the yawn. As Mac browses, I make my first attempt. It’s too breathy, barely audible. On my second try, I really project and wind up sounding like an elderly wizard passing a kidney stone.

  “Boy,” I say, dialing back the dramatics. “I’m super tired.”

  Mac, oblivious, checks his phone for the millionth time and returns it to his pocket. His next question is absurd, given what I’ve just watched him do for the past five minutes.

  “Can I use your phone again?” Mac says.

  Why not use yours? is a sensible response that I talk myself out of.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He returns to the front room. I give it three Mississippis and follow, stopping at the end of the hallway, clinging to the last bit of wall. I lean slowly to the side until one of my nosy eyes gains a sliver of sight.

  Mac holds the receiver low, not moving, thinking. He lifts the receiver, dials, listens. He hangs up and waits. He turns to the window. Hard to see out there.

  He turns back, and I know I should be moving, but he completes his turn, and yup, half of my face is clearly visible, which is way weirder than a whole face.

  “Hi,” Mac says.

  I step out with my whole face. “Hi.”

  He sits on a stool behind the counter. His elbows drop to the glass and his hands clutch the sides of his fallen head.

  There’s only one good reason why Mac wouldn’t want to make a call from his own working phone: because he doesn’t want the person he’s calling to know it’s him. That explains the first call to 911. But what about this new call? Who was Mac Durant calling this time?

  Mac raises his head and looks at the ceiling. His torso lengthens and his neck stretches back. A deep groan putters out, and he rests his head sideways on the pillow of his unfurled palm. I watch in awe.

  Dreamily, he asks: “Are your parents still together?”

  The question is random and timely all at once. I shake my head. No, they’re not.

  “Lucky,” Mac says.

  Lucky? No, I don’t agree. Not lucky at all. If Mac only knew what I’ve had to endure today precisely because my nuclear family got blown apart.

  He sits tall in front of the window. Outside, the snow is dense. The flakes hold hands as they fall. You can’t see through the barricade they form.

  His focus shifts along the wall and holds at the front door. “They’re running pretty late,” Mac says.

  “Who?”

  “Your ride.”

  Oh right, my imaginary ride. “Must be the weather,” I say. That seems believable.

  He stands and walks out from behind the counter, his size growing as he comes, his bandaged hand dangling. I dig my back against the wall. His coat swishes loudly and then faintly as he passes by and again puts distance between us. He appears to be heading for the door. At last. Elvis is leaving the building.

  But no. He walks past the door.

  It’s torture. I left my house feeling like the loneliest person in the world, and now I’ve actually got company, and it’s exciting, yes, but also frightening and confusing, and the timing is all wrong.

  “I need to close up,” I say, nearing the end of my conversational rope. “Is there anything else I can help you with or…?”

  He checks his phone—again. Is he the one who’s waiting for someone? What the hell is going on? I can’t take it anymore.

  “Why are you still here?” I say.

  He looks up. “Me? Why are you still here?”

  Are you kidding? Hello! “I work here. Obviously.”

  “You haven’t called your ride. No text. Nothing.”

  “That’s because… I forgot my phone at home.”

  He smirks. “Really? There’s a phone right here.”

  My throat squeezes. He steps closer, infringing on my space. “Not to be a dick, but I don’t think anyone’s coming to get you.”

  I touch the wall in case I need help standing. “Why would you say that?”

  He points to the front door. Mac must have seen it earlier when he was by the window: the sign where the museum’s hours are posted.

  “You closed at four,” Mac says. “It’s past seven now.”

  In the completely bogus story I’ve woven, I’ve been off work for three hours, just waiting here patiently. Not bothering to contact anyone. Not checking for a car out the window. Dressed like a professional couch potato. Moments ago I was in the back room cowered on the floor. Mac observed all this. And I thought I was an expert at paying attention.

  “So?” I say.

  I still don’t know why any of this matters or what it is we’re really talking about.

  “So,” Mac says, beginning a slow circle around the room. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”

  My head sinks. I’ve been keeping it together, trying to, for months now, years really, and after the day I’ve had, I’m quickly coming apart.

  In a quiet voice, I admit, “I don’t want to go home.”

  He sighs. “Me neither.”

  I watch him. His steady circling—it now resembles nervous pacing. What should have been obvious from the start finally is: This guy, for whatever reason, can’t sit still.

  “Well?” Mac says, throwing his arms in the air in a kind of surrender. “Neither one of us wants to go home.”

  His golden eyes find mine across the room.

  “Then let’s not,” he says.

  7:31 PM

  Mac throws his coat open with the flair of a superhero and places it against the wall, on a hook that’s not there. The coat falls to the floor and he seems fine with it.

  “You got any snacks here?” Mac says. “A machine or whatever?”

  I shake my head. He hums a song of disappointment.

  I’ve watched Mac Durant in school, on the bus, online. There’s an intensity about him always, an inexhaustible playfulness, but his energy now feels manic. He’s bouncing on his heels, ready to run circles in our little hamster cage.

  I recognize the shirt he’s wearing. It’s black with Sneaker World embroidered across the heart. He sees me staring at it. He reads his own chest as if he’s forgotten what’s written there.

  “I came straight from work,” he says. “I’ve seen you in the store before, haven’t I?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Probably.”

  I’ve definitely seen him. I probably passed right by Sneaker World this afternoon when Mom and I were at the mall. I just can’t believe he’d remember seeing me, even vaguely. I’m pretty skilled at going unnoticed by his kind. But this is the second time he’s recalled my presence somewhere.

  His eyes search for something to grab on to and land back on me. “Maybe you should give me the tour.”

  “Yeah, sure. That’ll be five dollars.”

  He digs through his wallet. “You got change for a twenty?”

 
; “I was kidding.” I thought that was obvious.

  He pauses, shrugs, puts away his money.

  It still hasn’t occurred to him that I never agreed to his plan of us both staying here. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand, like, what this is. The whole thing, it’s just very…”

  He looks at me, assuming I’m about to define the whole thing, but I don’t. Because I can’t.

  “Trust me,” Mac says when he accepts that I’m done speaking. “This is not how I planned on spending my night.”

  We can agree on that. Finally, he’s acknowledging the weirdness of the situation. Also, is he insulting me? I can’t tell. I can only imagine what he’d be doing tonight if he wasn’t here with me. Yoga poses in a mirror. Sharing a sixer with his bros. Sexting random girls. No idea. As far as I know, he’s not dating anyone. Not publicly, anyway.

  “You sure there’s nothing to eat here?” He leans over the counter and sniffs around like a scavenger. There may be a few souvenir mints lying around, but that’s about it.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  His eager face tells me he believes I’ll be returning with food. Really, I’m taking a bathroom break. I need time to process.

  Alone in the bathroom, I check my eyes for tear evidence. I hope Mom is home right now worried sick about me. Pacing back and forth, biting her nails, calling everyone we know. She deserves it after what she’s done.

  That settles it: There’s no way I’m going home so quickly. I’d rather make my mom sweat it out. I guess that means I’m staying here with Mac.

  Wait. Say that again: I’m staying here with Mac Durant.

  Mac Durant is the kid who got the third-most votes for class president in sixth grade and he didn’t even run. In eighth grade, Brian Slatin, who was the first openly gay kid I can remember knowing, asked him to the spring dance, and Mac said yes, which pissed off girls and confused guys. Anyone who thought it was a goof for attention (as if Mac were starving for it) was proved wrong when Mac joined the LGBTQIA League freshman year.

  He’s straight, no doubt. He’s been with some of the prettiest girls in school, including the infamous (to me) Finley Wooten. His longest relationship was with Claire Wong, who’s a year ahead of us, and that lasted almost three months. She reportedly cried when he came to school last fall with a shaved head. He’s probably the only person that Isla, Brooke, and I have included in one of our rounds of F, Marry, Kill who hasn’t been sacrificed. No one seems willing to lose him.