by Cassia Leo
‘The more blood, the better.’
I’ve never ordered room service before, and I’m certain the guy taking my order knows. He sighs audibly when I don’t immediately know what cut of steak I want to order or what I want to drink. A few minutes later, I hang up the hotel phone and Crush walks out of his bedroom looking like the lead character in a blockbuster movie about demon hunters. I press my lips together as I head for the sofa in the living room to keep from smiling.
We both sit down and he begins fiddling with the remote as he searches for something to watch. ‘If I can’t find Pretty in Kink, are you going to be upset? Like, will you start crying or force-feeding me muffin tops until I burst, or something?’
‘No, but I might nuke your steak in the microwave and force you to eat that.’
‘Fair enough.’ He continues flipping through the various apps on the TV, searching for somewhere he can purchase a movie and I pull my feet up on the sofa to hug my knees. ‘Maybe we should just read,’ he says after a few minutes of fruitless searching.
I turn to him and I can’t help but smile, even though I’m so tired from not having slept all night. Reading will probably put me to sleep. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
‘I’ll get the book.’ I spring up from the sofa, practically skipping as I make my way to my bedroom to retrieve the book from on top of the armchair where I left it yesterday.
When I come out of the room, Crush is letting in the room service guy. The guy sets all our dishes on the dining table and pours us each a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice and ice water while Crush signs the check. I sit down at the table again, laying the book in my lap as I wait for Crush to take a seat.
‘I don’t know what’s what, so go ahead and start unveiling,’ he says, lifting the lid on one of the plates.
He gets lucky and finds his steak on the first try. I lift the lid closest to me and find the warm croissants I ordered. Setting aside the lid, I pour myself a cup of coffee – black – then pull my legs up on the chair to sit cross-legged. I hand the book to Crush so he can place it on the other side of the table, away from all the food and drink, but he opens it up instead.
‘Can we start in the middle so we have time to finish it before the flight?’ he asks, thumbing through the pages until he finds the first page of chapter twenty-three. I know that chapter. So does he.
‘We can start wherever you want. It’s your book and you haven’t read it in way longer than I have.’ I tear off a chunk of the croissant and pop it in my mouth, letting out a soft moan. ‘This is fucking delicious. Have you tried these?’
He nods as he pulls the ribbon bookmark down the center of the book and closes it. ‘When was the last time you read Black Box?’
I wash down my croissant with some equally delicious black coffee before I respond. ‘Last week.’
He chuckles softly as he cuts off a piece of steak. The blood runs from the steak and all I can think is that I hope it doesn’t run into his scrambled eggs. That would be disgusting. Scrambled eggs should be eaten with ketchup. Not blood.
He swallows his food and gulps down some orange juice before he turns to me. ‘Black Box is my grandfather’s story. It’s the only book he ever wrote and he never got it published.’
‘You gave me the one copy of the only book your grandfather ever wrote?’ He nods and continues eating, as if this is no big deal. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’
He doesn’t flinch at my question. He finishes chewing his eggs then he slowly sets down his fork and turns to me. ‘You would have done the same thing.’
‘But . . . if that’s your grandfather’s story, that means . . . The black box exists?’ He nods and I feel as if I can’t breathe. ‘Can we start reading now?’ He hands me the book and I push my plate of croissants aside so I can lay the book on the table. I open the book to the page he marked and begin to read aloud.
‘Herman’s plane landed in Boston airport at seven in the evening. His relief to finally be home after eight months away could only be matched by his utter elation at finally being able to see Leah and June.’
I quickly close the book and cover my face as the tears begin. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it. You have to read it.’
I know why he picked this chapter to start with and I’m almost angry with him. Though I’ve relived it a million times over the past three years, it still kills me when Herman returns from the war to find his seven-year-old daughter, June, has died. Now, knowing it’s his grandfather’s story only makes it worse.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks as he takes the book from me and sets it on the seat of the chair next to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I blubber into my hands. ‘I just hate that she died. I really wanted him to read her letters.’
I can’t stop the tears. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I cry. Suddenly, I feel movement in my hair. I pull my hands away from my face and Crush is touching my hair.
‘This isn’t your real hair color,’ he says, mesmerized as he rubs a lock of black hair between his fingers.
‘I’ve dyed my hair a dozen different colors since that night, but black is my favorite. I’ll never go back to my natural color. I don’t want to see . . . I don’t want to even know what I used to look like.’
‘You mean, you don’t have any pictures of yourself before that?’
I shake my head as I use the sleeves of my sweater to wipe my face. ‘I burned them all.’
He reaches his hand forward slowly and I close my eyes as he brushes a tear from my jaw. ‘I think you’d look beautiful with any hair color.’ He pulls his hand away and I open my eyes. ‘Can you come with me to the library?’
‘The library?’
‘I know you don’t want to leave the hotel, but my grandfather donated some rare books to the Boston Public Library. They have them in a glass case on the third floor of the McKim Building. I’ve been too scared to go see them because I’ve missed him so much. Then Jordan died and . . . Anyway, I think I’m ready to go.’
I want to say yes to him. He obviously needs this. But I can’t risk getting caught. I’ve been planning this trip for too long. I’m not backing out now.
‘Can’t you go alone?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think I can. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to go. I promised you we’d stay in. That’s what we’ll do.’ He places the silver lid over his half-eaten steak and eggs, then he drains the last drops of orange juice from his glass before he rises from the table. ‘Let’s go read.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BLACK BOX
Herman’s plane landed in Boston airport at seven in the evening. His relief to finally be home after eight months away could only be matched by his utter elation at finally being able to see Leah and June. Captain Winters sent his wife’s brother to retrieve Herman from the airport, since Leah and Herman didn’t own an automobile. The last letter he received from Leah six weeks earlier, she wrote of her outing with June to the marathon finish line. Three runners broke the world record this year. Leah said June was ecstatic to witness such an unbelievable feat.
Terry Knott, Captain Winters’ brother-in-law, seemed like a decent enough fellow. He worked as a longshoreman at the Port of Boston, loading and unloading the enormous crates on the cargo ships. He didn’t speak much on the drive home, but the ropy muscles in his neck tightened every time he nodded in reply to one of Herman’s questions. Herman got the sense Terry was tense about something, but it wasn’t his place to pry into William’s private life, so he kept quiet.
When they arrived at the apartment on Howard Avenue, the rain was coming down pretty hard. Terry helped him unload his army-issue duffel bag onto the sidewalk then, with a curt nod and a stiff good luck, he raced back into the driver’s seat and set off in his shiny Ford truck. Herman didn’t know if he had offended Terry, but he didn’t have much desire to find out. He had to get out of this downpour and upstairs to his two favorite girls.
The three-story, brick-f
aced home in Roxbury had been converted into six tiny apartments over a decade before. Herman, Leah, and June all shared one bedroom, living room, kitchen, and a bathroom the size of a matchbox. The neighborhood could be rough, but it was home to some of the best jazz clubs in Boston. And, other than his girls, there was nothing he loved more than nursing a glass of bourbon while puffing on a DC and listening to some great jazz.
Herman swung his duffel bag over his shoulder and dashed up the front walk and the six concrete steps, his boots splashing in the tiny puddles accumulated in the cracks of the concrete. The stairs delivered him to the front door of the building and he breathed a sigh of relief. He was home.
He didn’t have a key, but the landlord had installed a buzzer shortly before Herman left for Korea. He lived in apartment four, but he pressed the buzzer for apartment three; the apartment across the hall from theirs. He wanted to surprise Leah.
‘Who’s there?’ the female voice crackled through the speaker.
It was Mrs Yardley; a nice woman who did most of the ironing and mending for the neighborhood. Her husband was a drunk who beat her frequently. One of these days, Herman was going to move Leah and June into a big house in Cambridge and the day they left he’d tell Mrs Yardley that she and her two boys deserved better. But he couldn’t do that now. Her marriage wasn’t any of his business; even if Mr and Mrs Yardley did keep June up with their arguing on occasion.
‘Mrs Yardley, it’s Herman. Would you please buzz me in?’
‘Herman?’ she replied. ‘Would you like me to call Leah?’
‘No, no,’ he answered quickly. ‘I want to surprise her, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Just a moment.’
A second later, the door buzzed and he nearly broke the rusty doorknob off in his haste to yank it open. The smell of damp wood was heavy in the dark entry hall, but it diminished as he raced up the staircase to the second floor. The sight of the brass number four on the face of the dark wooden door made his stomach drop. He was home.
He knocked on the door and eventually heard signs of slow movement inside the apartment. His heart raced at the sound of the lock turning. Then the doorknob began to rotate and he had to stop himself from throwing the door open.
The door creaked inward and Leah was standing there with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open; but it wasn’t the same Leah. She’d changed.
She’d lost at least ten pounds, and she was already too thin when Herman shipped out. Her eyes were glassy and vacant and she appeared almost afraid. He knew he’d changed a bit over the past eight months; his skin had darkened from hours in the hot Korean sun on the deck of the USS Los Angeles.
‘Leah, it’s me. It’s Herman. I’m home.’ Her lip trembled as she stared at Herman, still unable to speak. ‘Darling, it’s me.’
He took one step forward and she took three steps back, bumping into the armchair in the sitting room. Herman dropped his duffel onto the floor and she shook her head adamantly as she began to cry.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. I know I caught you by surprise.’ Herman reached for her, but she scuttled around the armchair to keep the distance between them. ‘Leah, what’s wrong? Where’s June?’
Leah continued to shake her head and Herman knew that he had come home too late. Something had happened to June. He tore across the living room and threw open the door to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn so tight, not a crack of light penetrated the space. Herman yanked the chain on the lamp near the door and the bed was empty.
‘Where is she?’ he roared at Leah from the bedroom. ‘Where’s June, God damn it?’
Leah crept toward the open bedroom door, tears streaming down her face as she clasped her hands tightly over her chest. ‘She’s gone. They put her in isolation when she got TB and the medicine they gave her . . .’ She covered her face and sobbed into her hands.
Herman grabbed her wrists. ‘What about the medicine? What happened?’
But Herman didn’t need to know anything more. June’s history with psychosis always put her at risk when she needed treatment for any type of illness. Anything could set her off.
‘She stole a needle from one of the nurses and stabbed herself in the neck so many times . . . in the middle of the night.’ Leah choked on her words. ‘By morning, she was gone.’
Herman shook his head in disbelief. Not his little girl. The same girl who filled his world with sunlight could not deliberately turn his world black.
He couldn’t voice this aloud. Herman knew Leah would not lie about something like this. She struggled with June’s psychosis more than anyone. For many years, she had been certain June’s condition was her fault; maybe she didn’t sing to her enough as a baby or maybe June had inherited the psychosis from Leah’s grandmother who died not knowing her own name. Just one look at Leah’s emaciated face and Herman knew she would blame herself for this for years to come.
He wanted to comfort Leah, but there was one more pressing matter to attend to first. He marched across the bedroom and yanked open the closet door to search for the black box. He shoved boxes of shoes and photographs off the shelf in the closet then dug through all the shoes and boxes on the floor and found nothing.
‘Where is it?’ Herman demanded and Leah pointed to the top drawer of the bedside table.
Herman yanked it open and retrieved the wooden box made out of solid walnut and finished to a mirror shine with black lacquer. He felt around the inside of the drawer for the key to open the box, but came up short.
‘And the key?’ he asked Leah.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve searched everywhere.’
And just like that, Herman lost his daughter twice in one day.
I set the book down in my lap to give Mikki some time to recover. She’s in the middle of the sofa with her legs folded under her, using a box of tissues she pilfered from the restroom to soak up her tears. The pile of crumpled tissues on the coffee table in front of us is stained with black mascara and violet eyeshadow. When she’s finally settled down enough for me to continue, I’m not surprised to find that most of her makeup is gone. Even the red lipstick she was wearing is now smudged across her mouth, as if she just kissed someone.
‘Why are you staring at my mouth?’ she asks in a small voice and I immediately look up to focus on her puffy eyes.
‘Your lipstick is gone.’
‘Oh.’
She stares off into space and my heart rate speeds up as she traces the pads of her fingers over her lips. I just want to shove her hand away and kiss her. Instead, I decide to test the waters by reaching for the damp tissue balled up in her fist. She flinches a little before she hands it over and I know I made the right decision. She’s not ready to be touched. Not the way I want to touch her.
‘So June was . . . your aunt?’ she asks, her eyes pleading with me, hoping I’ll tell her that nothing in Black Box is true.
I nod and reach for her hand. I trace my finger over the letter G tattooed on her right ring finger as I answer. ‘She was sick and they didn’t know how to deal with her in those days.’
The tears stream down her face again, though her gaze is glued to her finger. ‘Do you know where she’s buried?’
‘She was buried at St Joseph’s until my grandfather purchased the estate in Cambridge. She’s buried there now.’
‘The estate . . . I can’t believe this is the story of your grandfather. Herman – I mean, what’s your grandfather’s real name?’
‘Hugh.’
Her fingers close around mine as she continues, but I don’t know if she’s doing it consciously or subconsciously. ‘Hugh blamed himself for her death. He thought if he’d had enough money to get Leah and June that big house, he never would have had to go to Korea and June would still be alive. He never stopped blaming himself.’
‘Jane.’
‘What?’
‘My aunt. Her real name was Jane. And you’re right.
Grandpa Hugh never stopped blaming himself for what happened to her. And that’s why he bought that rundown hotel just a few months after her death and turned it into an empire.’
She wipes at the half-dried tear tracks on her face then looks me in the eyes. ‘What happened to the black box?’
I gaze into her eyes a bit longer, savoring the softness of her skin against mine. ‘It’s here with me.’
‘Here? Like, in this hotel room?’
‘Yes. My grandfather left it to me in his will when I was ten, but he didn’t leave me the key. He left me a note telling me that when I was eighteen I could go to Boston Public Library where they have the books he donated on display in an exhibit dedicated to Jane. He said I’d find the key there, but I never went.’
‘What? Why? How could you not go?’
I glance at the book where it rests in my lap and she does the same. ‘I didn’t go because I gave you the book when I was seventeen. I felt like whatever was inside that box didn’t belong to me anymore.’
She pulls her hand away suddenly and I feel a flash of pain throughout my entire body, as if part of my body has been cut off.
‘We have to go to the library.’
‘We?’
The look on Crush’s face, that crazy hope in his eyes, scares me. He still doesn’t know why I’m trying to avoid being seen in public. I need to tell him something, even if it’s not the truth, so he understands that we can’t indiscreetly wander the streets of Boston. Maybe I should tell him I’m a fugitive. Technically, he did kill someone. Even if it was to protect me, that makes him a fugitive.
‘But first, I have to tell you something,’ I begin, wishing he were still holding my hand.
His skin on mine felt so comforting and natural. It actually put me at ease. I know Crush would never do anything to hurt me. Though I hardly know him, I’m pretty sure he’s the only person I can say that about, other than Meaghan.
Meaghan. I hope she hasn’t found the note yet. It’s been twenty-four hours since I left for the airport. By now, they’ll have called Rina to ask her if she knows where I might be. With my history of attempted suicide, they’ll search my room for a note or anything that might suggest where I’d go after the flight was canceled. I don’t like to worry my family, especially Meaghan, but the reasons I have for taking my life are still valid.
Crush grabs my hand and tilts his head as he waits for me to spill. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to lie to you.’
‘Then don’t.’
I look up at him and, for the first time, I allow myself to take in his features: the vibrant green irises of his eyes, the long eyelashes, his chiseled cheekbones, the perfect slope of his nose, the symmetrical peaks of his top lip. It dawns on me that, except for the slope of my nose, which is still a bit crooked from the attack, all of those features are mirrored in me. My green eyes, long eyelashes, strong cheekbones, and the symmetrical bow of my lips. But looking like someone on the outside doesn’t mean you look like them on the inside.
If I tell Crush I’m going to L.A. to kill myself, he’ll probably take me to the nearest hospital. That’s what the average person thinks is the responsible thing to do. They have no idea what it’s like to be committed. They don’t know that my desperate desire not to be committed again is one of the things propelling me toward suicide.
‘First, let me tell you the small stuff.’ I pull his hand into my lap so I can stare at our hands clasped together as I speak. ‘I told you that I’m bipolar, but that pill you saw me taking yesterday wasn’t my medication. I’ve been off my meds for a couple of weeks now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to be free,’ I reply defensively. ‘I don’t want to just exist. Existing is not enough. I want to feel everything. I want to live my life my way, not the way everyone else thinks I should, suffocating in a cloud of psych meds. I want to breathe and not wonder if it’s my last breath of freedom. Is that too much to ask?’
He’s silent as he reaches for my face. The backs of his fingers are warm against my skin as he pushes a piece of hair out of my eyes. ‘You’re so afraid.’ He grabs my chin and gently turns my face toward him. ‘But I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not going to force you to take your meds or go home or anything like that. I’d never force you to do anything you don’t want to do. You believe me, don’t you?’ I nod and he flashes me a warm smile. ‘Then, can you tell me the real reason you’re going to L.A.?’
‘To kill myself,’ I say, holding my breath as I look into his eyes, awaiting his reaction.
His gaze falls. ‘I was afraid of that.’
‘I don’t want to lie to you.’ He lets go of my face and stands suddenly, leaving me with the painful ache of rejection. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get the black box. We have to go to the library. I want to know what’s inside that box. I just . . . I have a feeling it will change everything.’ His gaze burns into me. ‘I hope it will change everything.’
*****
Though Crush called concierge and asked them to have a cab ready for us, I still pull my hood tightly over my head to cover as much of my face as possible. I decide not to reapply my makeup. After getting rid of all of my old pictures, I made sure to never again take a picture looking all fresh-faced and innocent.