But which was Koko?
Their heads tended to look the same, and now Chelsea was sorry she hadn’t plied Eve Mandisa for more information. Monitor owners (who sometimes called them “companion animals” rather than pets, which Chelsea found a little creepy) all talked about their habitats, but none seemed quite as nice or as big as Koko’s. They mentioned the right temps, the dead rats for the larger lizards.
The most common “pet” monitors were the Savannah monitor and the Nile monitor, both of which could grow to be more than six feet. Maybe Koko was one of those, but his skin didn’t quite match the olive brown of the Savannah or have the distinct yellow bands of the Nile. There was a larger water monitor that could grow to nine (!) feet and a rare Australian Papuan, the longest lizard in the world, rumored to be able to attain lengths of up to fifteen feet.
She felt a little tickle, asking her to count. 6, 9, 15. She looked at her room and measured the distance. Six feet was as long as her bed. The image of a lizard in there, waiting for her, flashed in her head, but she beat it back. Nine feet was nearly the width of her ten-by-twelve room. But fifteen feet—something that long couldn’t even fit in here. Unless it curled up and waited for her. The Komodos, she read, would hide in the brush, take a bite out of their prey—a big bite—and then wait for it to either bleed to death or succumb to the venom in its saliva before feeding. Scientists used to think Komodos had filthy mouths full of bacteria that would infect their prey. It was only recently discovered that they actually did produce venom.
Chelsea looked at her leg and pictured a chunk of it missing down to the bone. Pictured it starting to rot while the lizard in her bed just waited, biding its time.
She snapped her head back to the screen.
The other thing a lot of the sites mentioned was how safe the monitors really were, how intelligent and interactive. The big water monitor was so popular because it was so docile. Koko could be a water monitor—a nice, docile water monitor. One of the sites echoed what Eve Mandisa said about dogs killing ten to fifteen people a year. Dogs: 15. Monitors: 1.
15, 1.
What was wrong with that picture? Something didn’t square with Chelsea’s mathematically diseased mind. Wouldn’t the real danger depend on how many dogs or monitor lizards are around? A quick Google told her there were more than sixty million pet dogs in the United States. Her OCD seized on it and pushed it to an illogical extreme.
If there are sixty million dogs and only fifteen kill someone, the kill rate is 0.00000025 percent. But if only one person owns a monitor lizard and it kills him, that makes the kill rate 100 percent!
Chelsea felt her heart rate rising. When her mother’s voice at the door startled her, she felt like she would explode.
“It’s amazing how far you’ve come.” Mom beamed. She stood smiling in the doorway and didn’t even yell at her about all the dirty clothes scattered around the room. She just came in and starting picking them up herself. “I don’t think I could feed anything dead rats.”
The word rats careened through the air, stuck to Chelsea’s skin, and started gnawing. She had to look at her arms and legs to prove there was nothing there. She started counting the hairs on her arm, the goose bumps on her skin. This was bad. Words hadn’t bothered her for about two years. She felt like she was slipping back to childhood. Slipping, hell—she was falling.
Why had her mother done that? The woman was forever finding just the wrong thing to say.
“Please!” Chelsea howled.
No. I am not going to let this beat me.
Her mother stood up straight, shocked, helpless with worry.
“It’s just words. It’s just feelings. The feelings will pass,” her mother said, but she sounded more like she was trying to convince herself.
Summoning her will, Chelsea swallowed and calmed herself. “Yes, I know. You’re right. Say it, if you want to.”
“If you can’t do this, you don’t have to go back there. It’s okay if you’re not ready.”
“No,” Chelsea said, sitting at her computer, typing away. “It’s not okay. Ms. Mandisa would have to come home from her trip. And I want to be able to work with animals.”
Her mother walked up and kissed her on the forehead. “You can’t do everything in a day, my darling.”
Chelsea was about to close her eyes when she thought she saw the blanket on her bed tremble. She wondered if the lizard in it had turned, but then she buried herself in her mother’s arms. In about fifteen minutes, as her mother held her, the feelings finally passed. A few hours after that, her emotionally exhausted brain finally crashed, and Chelsea fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
With no immediate midterms to occupy her, Chelsea got through breakfast and lunch by pretending it wasn’t her first day of lizard-sitting. When the sun hung heavy in the sky and further delay would mean visiting Koko at night, she thought of asking her parents to go with her or asking Dr. Gambinetti to give her a shot of something to get her through. But ultimately, she decided, no, she’d somehow have to handle it. She would power her way through, just do it. Don’t think about it at all, just go.
What might be always owes its deepest debt to what is.
She repeated it like a mantra, enjoying it more each time. Even the few OCD images that dogged her, bloody and dangerous, flitted by almost in the back of her mind. She was rested now and feeling better.
Resolute, she pulled her bicycle out and faced the wide streets. The cool air was bracing, demanding her attention, as was the bike and the road ahead. Block after block, she passed children playing in their yards. Then, entering the university proper, she swerved over and over to avoid the students that whizzed past her, driving their secondhand cars well above the speed limit.
On the other side of Bilsford University, many of the older houses, rented out to five or six students, looked like pig sties, with beer bottles lying on the porch, windows broken and signs for Hobson Night adorning the trees out front. It wasn’t until the sounds of the campus traffic faded in her ears that the houses were more well kept. Still, the good feeling lasted until she saw the small corner market, with its wrinkle-faced owner, that meant she’d reached the street where Eve Mandisa lived.
As Chelsea rode up, Tess Sullivan was on her porch, wearing an impossibly bright yellow jacket, cupping her hands to her mouth and calling, “Aristotle! Aristotle!”
Chelsea didn’t blame the little horse-dog for wanting to flee from that fashion nightmare. It was probably roaming a golf course somewhere, looking for a small cowboy to ride it.
As the woman continued yelling, Chelsea kept her eyes dead ahead and full of purpose. The Volvo was still in the driveway, but Eve had mentioned she was being driven to the airport by a limo service.
She climbed the steps and fished the keys from the pocket of her jeans. Finding the right one on the second try, she pushed the door in. It was again warm in the living room, but not quite as warm as she’d remembered. Eve had probably lowered the heat to save money.
Chelsea stripped off her thick coat and, not bothering to hang it in the hall closet, laid it across the couch. Then she did something she’d wanted to do the first time she was there. She pulled back the dark drapes and let bright sunlight exorcise the room. The darkness disappeared like a ghost. Even the huge couch and the elephantine lounge chair with its back to the hallway seemed cheerful. Chelsea actually smiled.
Now came the hard part. The kitchen. The refrigerator. She hesitated in the hallway, wavering, and again let herself count the steps up to the second floor. 10, 11, 12, 13. That seemed unlucky. She strained forward and felt satisfied to see the fourteenth step. Maybe she should walk up, count again and make sure?
No, not this time. Besides, Eve said she should just stay on the first floor. She was going into that damn kitchen.
You can’t! This lizard will…
Gritting her teeth, Chelsea stormed into the kitchen, threw open Koko’s refrigerator and pulled out one of the many plastic bags inside
. Her nose wrinkled and she turned her head, but she managed to shut the fridge and carry it toward the basement door. As she did, the phone rang.
She froze. Should she get it? No, she had momentum now, the bag was in her hand, she was halfway done. If someone wanted to reach her, she had her cell. It was obviously for Eve. She did wait, though, at the head of the stairs, counting the rings until the answering machine picked up. Four. It was set to pick up on four rings.
As she heard Eve Mandisa’s pleasant, perfect voice recite her phone number, Chelsea opened the basement door. The welcoming light was still on downstairs. By the time she reached the sixth step down, the machine beeped and someone was saying, “Eve, where are you?”
Probably some friend she’d forgotten to tell about the vacation. Maybe Chelsea should pick it up and tell her. No. Lizard first. Time to power through.
She walked downstairs and entered the pleasant room with its toy jungle. The moist heat again took her a little aback, but this time she was ready for it. She figured half her problem last time was probably all the temperature changes.
Still not looking at the bag in her hand, she scanned the temperature and humidity gauges. According to the printed sheet, they were all dead center in the right range. The humidifier thingy was hissing along too. Everything seemed perfectly in order.
She noticed this time that the far side of the Plexiglas enclosure fell shy of the basement wall, probably so someone could get in there for cleaning and maintenance. But how wide was the gap between habitat and cinderblock? One foot? Two?
Now, now, now…the lizard and the food.
Koko was still sitting on that comfortable nest of dead vegetation, mostly buried by it. She thought she saw a tip of his tail or something sticking out from one end of the pile. Most lizards, she recalled reading, are nearly all tail.
This time, though, Koko’s big head was sitting lazily on two claws, making it look even more human, more intelligent than it had last time.
“Hi, Koko!” Chelsea said. “It’s me. Your sitter.”
Koko raised his head slightly, turned his black eyes toward her and flicked his tongue just once. Could he recognize her already? Maybe he wasn’t so cold. Maybe she was just being prejudiced toward mammals.
She took another few seconds to take a good, long look at him, to try to memorize his dark clay color and the broad-snouted shape of the head so she might better compare him to the pictures she’d found online. Right now she was guessing water monitor. Big but docile. Maybe next time she should bring her digital camera, take a photo. But maybe the flash would bug him?
And how many photos could her camera hold? 32, 33, 34.
No, no, no. Now or never.
Keeping her eyes on Koko, she lowered the bag to the floor and opened it. The edges made a sloshing sound as they came undone. Still not looking down, she picked up the metal claw.
She had to look as she lowered the claw into it, but it really wasn’t so bad, just little lumps of fur in a dark pool. She snatched one with the claw, and once satisfied it was attached, again looked away.
Quickly, very quickly, she lifted claw and rat and slid them through the opening, pushing the arm out farther and farther, closer and closer to Koko, until…
SNAP!
She did it. A little smile came to her lips, not unlike the one Koko always seemed to have.
Thrilled at her victory, she quickly loaded the second rat and repeated the process.
THUNK!
The powerful snapping of the jaws was still startling, but she was getting used to it. She chose not to watch the chewing or the swallowing part.
Wow. One dead rat to go.
This time, she didn’t bother to look away, and even used the claw to shake the rat over the bag, removing a bit of the wetness. Koko raised his head in anticipation as it came. Maybe next time she could coax him out of that nest thing and take a really good look at him.
THUNK!
Something was wrong. He’d clamped down on the metal arm. Thinking quickly, she turned it sideways and he let go at once. It’d probably just gotten stuck on his jaw.
Terribly relieved and downright thrilled, she withdrew the claw, put it back on its hook and dumped the wet plastic bag in the trash. It didn’t look like Koko had messed his cage yet, so she didn’t even have to use the second claw to clear it.
She was done. Totally done. Her body shook a little, but in a good way. Maybe her parents and the doctor were right. Maybe the OCD could just become a helpless little squeaky voice that she would always be free to ignore.
Before she left, she took one last look at Koko. His head had shifted from the brief tussle with the claw, revealing a bit more of his nest. Among the bit of green leaf and brown twig, there was something else, something under his chin that didn’t look like it belonged. Thin and long, shredded at one end, it practically glowed against the clay gray of his skin. Curious, she stepped closer to the Plexiglas for a look.
In a second, her mind pieced together what it was and seized on the sight with its own reptile jaws.
Under Koko’s chin were what looked just like the remains of a pink and silver dog collar.
Shivering, Chelsea stumbled backward, nearly knocking over a garbage pail full of plastic bags soaked in rats’ blood. She raced up the stairs, grabbed her jacket and fumbled with the keys, nearly breaking the one that finally set her free.
She heard the door click behind her, vaguely remembering she hadn’t bothered to draw back the drapes. But by then she’d tossed her coat over her handle bars, hopped on her bike and started pedaling, as fast as she could, past the yellow-coated woman still shouting “Aristotle! Aristotle!” past the corner shop, and past all the houses, where she counted every window, every door, in the mistaken belief it would make what she’d seen just go away.
She couldn’t have really seen it. She couldn’t have. Could she?
Yes. It ate the dog.
Though freezing by the time she got home, she didn’t even wait for the water to heat up. She leaped into the shower and ran the bar of soap up and down her body in staccato pulses to wash off all the invisible rat and dog blood.
By the time she emerged, an hour later, Chelsea was together enough to lie to her parents about how things went. But they knew. She heard the heated whispers of their exchange. Mother wanted to pry, but Dad insisted they hew to their agreement to let their daughter sort it out herself, with the understanding she would ask for their help when she needed it.
The next day, Chelsea’s parents were gone until evening, so they never found out that after they’d said good-bye in the morning, Chelsea didn’t come out of her room until dinner.
5
“What do you mean you can’t do your bio midterm right now?”
Eve Mandisa’s substitute, a retired elementary schoolteacher named Kreeger, looked up from her New York Times crossword puzzle and glared at Chelsea. It was not possible for a human face to look more irritated.
She didn’t say it softly. Everyone in the classroom looked up from their work. Those who knew Chelsea shuddered for her. Chelsea, meanwhile, tried to explain. She spoke quietly, to maintain some semblance of dignity, but that only seemed to irritate Mrs. Kreeger all the more.
“OCP? You have OCP? What’s that supposed to be? Some club? These are the midterms, dear. Don’t take the test, you fail the class.”
Chelsea made her voice louder, still hoping to keep it low enough so that at least the back rows didn’t hear. “Obsessive compulsive disorder. It’s in my file. I’m allowed to delay or reschedule the test if I have to. And I have to.”
The older woman strained to make sense of her words. “Allowed? I don’t know where your file is. Just sit down, please, until the time is up.”
“Ms. Mandisa keeps our files in the upper right drawer.”
Mrs. Kreeger looked around as if she might actually open the drawer, but apparently decided it was too much trouble to push her chair away from the desk and bend. “Maybe you sho
uld just get yourself some water and try again. Everyone gets nervous now and then.”
Chelsea wavered, but held her ground. “This is different.”
As if affronted, Kreeger tossed the Times crossword puzzle down on the desk and turned her wide, frumpy body toward Chelsea. “You’re not a child anymore. What are you going to do when you have some real pressure in a job?”
Chelsea stared at her. “Get fired, I suppose.”
She didn’t say it meanly. Didn’t even mean to be rude. Thankfully, something in Kreeger recognized that. She grunted, opened the drawer and asked Chelsea her last name. Chelsea spelled it as she pointed to her file. A summary of the 504 was taped to the front, the important details highlighted in yellow. Chelsea felt a surge of profound love for her bio teacher, even if the woman did have strange tastes in pets.
And her pet had stranger tastes still.
Kreeger blasted air through her nose. “Fine. I guess it’s not up to me. You’re excused. But I’m not going to be the one sitting here when you retake the test whenever you please.”
Thank God, Chelsea thought as she nearly ran out of the room.
Kreeger was saying something else at her back, but Chelsea didn’t bother to listen, she just raced into the long, empty corridor, rubbing her temples and trying to stop her heart from hammering. When running felt silly, she put her head against the cool tile wall, trapping bits of blonde bangs between it and her skin.
Then she practiced her deep yoga breathing.
She hadn’t told a soul about her last visit with Koko, but the image of the pink dog collar sitting under those big, hand-like claws burned inside her, so hot, it felt like it would sear through her forehead and come dancing out into the air in front of her.
Why had the first question on the test involved a pink line on a bar graph? It was bio, for pity’s sake, not math! And why that shade of pink? She thought she might get away with the test, but once she saw the color, once her mind pronounced its name, it was all over. Was it the same shade as the leash or had she imagined it?
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