Live For This

by Kathryn R. Biel

  That’s it. I’m going in. I have to talk about my day.

  “Michael!” I open his door. I know I should knock. He’s stretched out on his bed, lying on his stomach. His face is turned away from the door. There’s no movement as I come in.

  “Michael! Are you okay?” I practically dive across the room to the bed. Please God, let him be okay.

  “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

  He’s staring at the wall. Even with my face down next to his, he’s not making eye contact. He won’t look at me. I don’t know what his problem is. I’m supposed to be the moody one here. My news is too good not to share.

  “You won’t believe what happened to me at work today! It’s the most amazing thing! I’m so excited. I’ve been waiting all day to tell you!”

  The only parts of him that moves are his eyes. They meet mine, and are filled with … anger?

  “Do you know? You’re not upset are you? I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t mean for it to happen; it just did.”

  “Can you please leave? I’m not feeling well. I need to rest.”

  “But I want—”

  “Samirah, please. I need some space right now.”

  I’m not used to this from Michael. I shrink back and retreat. Once back out in the kitchen, I start putting the food away. I haven’t eaten. My appetite is gone.

  I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought Nikki was happy with me. She must not be, if he’s this upset. He’s probably kicking himself for ever stopping to help me. If I had a cell phone, I’d call Nikki to ask her what I did wrong. Michael doesn’t have a house phone, and there’s no way I’m going to ask him to borrow his cell.

  I bet he’s in there right now, trying to figure out how to evict and fire me all at once.

  I do have a cell phone. I just haven’t wanted to turn it on. I don’t want to see what’s on it. Actually, I know very well what’s on it. I just don’t want to be reminded. But I need to call Nikki and find out what I did wrong.

  My cell is in the bottom drawer buried under my clothes. The charger is with it. I don’t know why I grabbed it. Habit, probably. I never intended to use the phone again, so there really was no need for the charger. Now I’m glad I have it. I plug the phone in and wait.

  I pace while I’m waiting. I figure I’ve got at least fifteen minutes to wait before I get enough of a charge to power on the cell phone. I don’t know what to do with myself. Before I know it, I’m back in the kitchen, looking for something to drink. I pause for a moment. Am I about to throw away the last seventy-eight days at the first sign of a bad day?

  Maybe.

  No. I will not. Tea will have to suffice, so I set about making it. With my first paycheck, I bought a proper teakettle—stainless steel with a copper bottom, like my mom and Mim had. At this point, I think I’d be hard pressed to walk away carrying all my goods on my back. In some ways, that’s a good thing. In others, not so much. What if I have to leave suddenly? From the looks of it, if Michael’s mood keeps up, he may want me out.

  Someday, it would be nice to have a permanent home. A place where I can’t be asked to leave. Where I have a right to be, and where I don’t have to worry about the control someone else has over me.

  While I’m waiting for the water to boil, I go to my purse and pull out the folded piece of paper. Columns of numbers run up and down the paper. I look at them again. With the money I still have left, as well as most of my salary, it will still take me about three more months to save up for an apartment. To get the first and last month’s rent, as well as the security deposit. I know I’ll get most of my furniture from thrift stores and garage sales, but I’ll need to save up for a bed. If I can finance it, I can move out.

  A car will be next, but this is the priority. I’m researching apartments on the bus line. I’m searching closer to where Salinger Homes is located so I don’t have to worry about getting to work.

  Provided I still have a job there.

  I need to get to the bottom of what’s going on.

  The kettle whistles, telling me it’s time to make my tea. I leave my paper on the counter and pour the boiling hot water over my tea bag. My phone should be about charged up, at least enough to make a phone call.

  I go back to my room and see that the battery is up to about fifteen percent. That’ll do. Looking around, I can’t find my cup of tea and realize it must still be out in the kitchen. I dash back out, only to hear Mitchell coming in.

  “Hey.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I rush over to Mitchell and throw my arms around him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad you’re here. Something’s not right with him. He’s been in his room all night. He’s really mad at me, and I don’t know why. I tried to talk to him, but he told me to leave him alone. He won’t even look at me. Do you know what’s going on?”

  “He didn’t answer his phone. That’s why I came over—to make sure he’s okay.”

  Mitchell will make everything all right. He’ll make Michael come out of his room. This will be better. We’ll be back to normal in no time. I need Michael to be okay. I don’t know what I’ll do if he’s not. I pace after Mitchell disappears into Michael’s room. How long will it take them to come out? Is Michael okay? Is he sick? Does he hate me?

  Within moments, they’re coming out of Michael’s room, laughing. I can see the relief in Mitchell’s eyes. Michael looks—normal. He looks like he always looks.

  Weird.

  I start pulling out the braciole and sauce. I dish up plates while the guys talk. They’re discussing different projects from work. I’m not familiar with any of these projects. I won’t get them until they’re in the final stage. Nikki puts the finishing touches on them.

  “Oh, that’s right! I almost forgot. I need to tell you about what happened at work today. It was amazing!”

  Michael’s hand stops midway to his mouth. He puts his fork back down. His entire demeanor downshifts. I pretend not to notice.

  “So, Nikki’s finishing up the Scarborough project. That’s the one that used to be a family home—a hundred-year-old farmhouse—and it’s being converted into a restaurant.”

  “Yeah, I know. I designed it.” Michael’s curt. I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  “Right. Anyway, Nikki was trying to figure out what she was going to use for the hostess station and the sideboard. I mentioned that when I was in the thrift store the other day, I saw a piece that I thought would work. She had been thinking about one thing, and it just wasn’t working. I sketched out the piece I’d seen, and she immediately took me over to look at it. It needs a little work, some paint and maybe new pulls. But, she bought it and is going to let me refinish it. She took my idea! My idea’s going in a restaurant!”

  “You get that I came up with the plans for that restaurant.”

  My mouth falls open.

  “Michael, stop being an ass. This is good news for Sam.” Mitchell is defending me? What kind of parallel universe is this? “That’s great, Sam. Nikki doesn’t trust a lot of people with her designs.”

  “That’s what I thought. So the next part is even better!”

  “Yeah?” Michael’s semi-engaged.

  “Because the unit I found was super cheap, Nikki gave me the difference between that price that she had budgeted. I get to spend it to buy more stuff for the project! Like, most of the decor in the front two rooms will be my design!”

  “That’s your news?” I am so freakin’ pissed at Michael right now. So much. Here I was, thinking we’re friends. This isn’t how friends react.

  “Yes, that’s my news. I know it may not be anything to you, Mr. Big Shot Engineer, but it’s huge for me. I did something that impressed someone else. I did a good job, and I’m being rewarded with more responsibility. I’m doing something productive. And, I’m saving your company money, to boot. If nothing else, you should appreciate that. But I guess that would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it?”


  I stand up and storm off to my room.

  I know my news isn’t huge. But it is for me. I don’t know if Michael truly understands how lost I am. I’ve never really had a direction. I’ve never known what I wanted. I’ve never been good at anything, other than manipulating people for my own benefit. Other than being treated like a whore because I was acting like a whore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: MICHAEL

  I’m an asshole. A huge asshole.

  “What the fuck, man?” Mitchell punches my shoulder. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  “My spine.”

  “Fuck that, man. You’re being a shit. Why?”

  I’m quiet for a minute.

  “That’s not the news I was expecting her to share. I thought she was all happy for a different reason.”

  “What? What could possibly justify that douchiness?”

  “Logan asked me about her today. He said he was going to ask her out.”

  “And?” Mitchell shovels another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

  “And it upset me.”

  “Why? She’s not gonna go out with him. He’s a lunk head. It’s pretty apparent. I’m sure she can see that.”

  “But she can if she wants. And someday, she’s gonna want to go out with someone.” I push the food around my plate. This is good. I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. Samirah’s turning out to be quite the cook. I’m seeing her heal and grow before my eyes.

  “Do you have a thing for her?”

  “No, but … I … I don’t know. I just don’t like the thought of her leaving. I like having someone here.”

  “Someone or her?” He’s scraping the last of the sauce off his plate. He clears it, automatically rinsing it and putting it in the dishwasher. My mom raised us well.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know, man, even if you’re not willing to admit it.”

  “I’m content with being friends. I can’t want more because I’ll never get more.”

  Mitchell exhales long and slow. “Just because Lainie couldn’t hang doesn’t mean no one else will.”

  “Lainie’s behavior is the norm. I think I have a better chance of walking again than I do of finding someone who is willing to love me and everything that comes with it.”

  “You’re not going to walk again.” His voice is low and somber.

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t think that means you won’t find someone. It’s going to be hard. But it’s always hard. Why do you think I don’t bother? It’s too hard. It’s a whole helluva lot easier to love ‘em and leave ‘em.”

  “Isn’t it enough for the universe that I’m paralyzed? Why can’t I have love too?”

  “Man, I want to support you, but you sound like such a girl right now.”

  Mitchell never was really good with the touchy-feely shit.

  “I need to go talk to her.”

  “Yeah ya do.”

  “Thanks, Mitch. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  I finish cleaning up the kitchen. I leave Samirah’s plate on the counter, in case she wants some more. I can’t believe I was such an ass to her. I have to get it together.

  Knocking on her door, I wait for her to answer. She doesn’t, not right away. I have to knock again. I guess I deserve it.

  Finally, I hear her respond. I pull the door open and roll in. Samirah’s lying on her bed hands folded on her stomach. I see her holding her phone.

  “I’m sorry. I was a gigantic ass. Something else was bothering me. That’s no excuse for … well, me.”

  “Whatever.” Her tone says anything but whatever.

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I was in a funk about something stupid. Totally stupid. And it has nothing to do with you. Well, a little to do with you, but not really.”

  She sits up. “Are you really blaming this on me?”

  “No. I’m blaming me.”

  “So what does this have to do with me?”

  “Nothing. It’s stupid. I left your plate out. Do you want to come out and finish it, or should I put it in the fridge?”

  “Fridge.” She’s getting up. Her phone is still clutched in her hand. I’ve never seen her phone before. I didn’t know she had one.

  “Let’s go watch TV. There’s some new reality show on tonight about babies in Manhattan or something ridiculous. I bet you like it.”

  “Um, you’re the one who watches Real Housewives. I never watched it before I met you. But I’m not coming out until you tell me what your snit has to do with me. Should I not have made that suggestion to Nikki? Am I overstepping? It’s just a desk. I just found it and thought it would fit in well with the design and decor.”

  “No, it’s not about that. That’s really cool, and I can’t wait to see the finished project. No, it’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Don’t lie to me. If anything, I need you to be honest with me.”

  “Logan was asking about you today.”

  “Logan? The big beefy guy?”

  “Yeah. That Logan. I think he wants to ask you out.”

  “He doesn’t want to. He already did.”

  “Oh.” I try to steady my voice. It’s no big deal, and they deserve to be happy. Or have fun. Or whatever. “When are you going out?”

  “Um, never?” She brushes past me and heads out to the living room.

  I chase after her. “You’re not going out with him? Why not?”

  Samirah flops down in her spot and reaches for the remote. “Because I’m not dating. I can’t date. I don’t want to date. And, if I ever do decide to date again, it’s not going to be with a guy who looks like he spends more time in a gym than doing anything else.”

  “I thought women liked that big beefy look.”

  “I always liked a leaner profile.” She’s drifting away, lost in thought. After a moment she says, “I could never be with anyone that much bigger than me.”

  I don’t know what she means by that. Logan’s not particularly tall, just stacked like a brick shithouse. I park my wheelchair, reaching under my knees to depress the brakes, and then pull my body over to the couch. The remote’s on the console table behind my sofa. I find the new TV show. The whole premise of the show is rich, privileged socialites try to prove they’re decent human beings by reproducing. The first couple has twin two year olds. They’re pretty ridiculous.

  “You know the second the cameras are off, they’re handing the kids off to nannies,” Samirah scoffs.

  “Oh, no doubt.” That’s what makes it juicy. You know these families are going to implode in the near future. Maybe I shouldn’t get enjoyment out of the misery of others, but these people deserve it.

  “How did you hear about this show?” She gets up and goes into the kitchen. I hear cabinets opening and then the microwave. Within a minute, the smell of popcorn fills the house.

  “Hurry up, it’s coming back on. The next couple is starting.”

  “Yeah?” She calls from the kitchen. I know she’s melting butter to put on the popcorn. “What’s their deal?”

  “New parents. He’s a workaholic, and she’s worried that he won’t be around now that their baby’s here. He assures her that family is his first priority.”

  “And shopping is hers?” she says, coming back into the room, napkins in one hand and the bowl of popcorn in the other.

  “I don’t know about her. She’s probably too good to be true. Hey—you make a better door than a window.” Samirah’s stopped dead in front of me. She still doesn’t move. Gently, I reach out and tap her leg. She bends in half and sits down where she is, which is practically on top of me on the couch. I do my best to shift out of the way.

  Her hands are frozen, holding the bowl and the napkins up. Her back is ramrod straight. She looks like I did wearing the back brace in those days after my surgery. I look at her face. It’s ashen, absolutely devoid of all color. Slowly, her hands sink down. I’m at an odd angle, on my side behind her, but I do my best to reach around
and grab the bowl. I manage to get a grip without spilling it and set the popcorn on the console table. The napkins flutter down to the floor.

  “Samirah, what’s wrong?”

  She doesn’t reply. She sits there, motionless, staring at the television. I turn it off, but Samirah remains still. I don’t know what to do. Finally, after what seems like forever, Samirah finds a quiet voice. “She’s as nice as she seems.”

  “Who?”

  “Grace.”

  “Who’s Grace?”

  “The mother on the show. The red head. She really is that nice. She emanates good from within and being around her makes you want to be a better person.”

  “You know her? Cool. How do you know her?”

  “I worked her baby shower. I was her personal staff that day. She truly is delightful.” Her voice is hollow, emotionless.

  “She didn’t complain about her workaholic husband?”

  “No, but she will. Although, he’s not a workaholic.”

  “No? What is he?”

  “He’s a lowlife scumbag womanizer. He’s also my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Him? That’s the married guy you were dating?”

  She nods. “And he’s also the guy who ruined my life.”

  *******

  Samirah hasn’t been the same since seeing her ex on TV. I guess I wouldn’t be okay with it either. She’s been quiet and reserved, back to how she was when she first came to stay with me. I guess it’s understandable. Her ex is everywhere. His own TV show. Teasers and commercials. On magazine covers. The show is a runaway hit, and people can’t seem to get enough. Samirah doesn’t say much about it, but I can tell she’s taking it all in.

  She works hard every day. Nikki’s gone out of her way to tell me what a good job Samirah’s doing. And she had been pretty skeptical at first since Samirah didn’t have experience in the field.

  “She’s got a real eye. And the stuff she finds! She does it on a shoestring budget. We’ve been taking the stuff back to my place to refinish it. She researches the techniques online and figures out how to do it. I never would have taken her for being good with tools.”