Push

by Claire Wallis

“I don’t know.” Truthfully, I hadn’t even considered it. I’m not sure talking with Ricky is going to be worth anything. I can probably get more information from the hospital. “I’m not going to do anything tonight but hang out with you,” I say, realizing that if Michael is out of the picture, I lose a little bit of protective David. “That is, if you still want to stay, now that I guess you don’t have to.”

  David lets go of me and steps back. He cocks his head to the side and squints his eyes at me quizzically. “I want to stay. Shit, Emma, I always want to stay.”

  “Good,” I say. “Let me make us some dinner.”

  While we are eating, I tease David about what good timing all this is for him. About how lucky he is that he doesn’t have to take his girlfriend to poker with him again tomorrow night. He gets a rise out of my comment, and then tells me that I can still come if I want to. He liked having me there, he says, except for the “fall-down drunk” part—but even that was kind of entertaining. I give him my best sideways snivel and tell him emphatically to fuck off. I know he likes it because the current is there. Again.

  After a minute or two of weighted silence, I tell David that Ricky’s note was postmarked on Thursday which means that, by now, Michael could be dead. I tell David that I will call the hospital tomorrow morning to find out what is going on. To find out if Michael is still alive. David says he thinks that is a good idea. It would make him feel better, he says, knowing that there was no chance of Michael showing up while he is at poker.

  When we finish eating, I wash the dishes, and David dries. I look at him with a secret sideways glance, watching his arms move, watching the birds bend and flex. I put down the dishrag and quickly swipe my wet hands against my jeans. I turn toward him and grasp his arm, the one holding the towel. My palms and fingers rub against his skin, up and down his arm, feeling the birds. Feeling David.

  He remains still as I push his sleeve up over the top of his shoulder, exposing his bicep. On the round of his shoulder is a brilliant, parrot-like bird. Its head is turned to the side, and one dark eye is looking out over its outstretched wing. Nestled under the wing is a tiny, purple hummingbird with an iridescent green head. The hummingbird looks small and lost. It is resting on a crooked twig that the parrot is holding with its foot. I notice now that, unlike all the larger birds with their outstretched wings and confident posture, the hummingbird seems unsure of itself. Unsure of whether or not it will slide off the end of the twig and drop. Unsure if it is able to fly.

  I put my index finger on the hummingbird, pressing myself into this tiny thing. This tiny, vulnerable thing. The one bird that seems like a glitch. An anomaly in David’s confidence.

  “Who did this?” I ask, raising my eyes to his. “Who put these on you?”

  “An artist. In New Orleans,” he says, looking down at me. I expect him to look surprised, but he doesn’t. He looks calm and light.

  “What does this one mean? This tiny hummingbird.” My voice is so quiet. And yet I can hear my own awe. “What do all of them mean?”

  I am awash with emotion, and I’m not sure if it is because of Ricky’s letter or because I told David I love him or because of the hummingbird. Maybe it is everything. All of it.

  David is silent for a long time. My hands move to his other arm. They grasp him by the wrist, and my fingers trail up along the inside of his elbow to the crest of his arm. I move up to his neck, then to his chin. I am holding his face like a child’s, rubbing my thumbs against his jaw and looking at his open eyes.

  “They’re for my mother,” he says quietly. “She called me her bright little bird.”

  I know that David’s mother died when he was young. He told me the night I came home to find my new kitchen. He said he was eight.

  My fingers move back to the hummingbird. Tracing it. “Is this one you?” I ask.

  He grins at me and shakes his head. “No. It isn’t me.”

  “Then who is it?” I ask. He looks as if he doesn’t want to answer.

  “That one belongs to the artist.”

  “Oh,” I say, rubbing my finger against its folded wings. “Did you ask him to put it there?”

  “No,” he says cautiously. “She put it there on her own.” She. He said, “she.” Why would a woman put herself, in bird form, on a stranger’s arm? She wouldn’t. She would only put herself on the arm of a man she cared for.

  “Did you love her?” I don’t know why I ask, but I do. I can’t take it back.

  David pauses for a moment before he answers. “I didn’t love her, no. But she loved me. Or at least she said she did.” Oh. Another woman loved him. Another woman said those words and didn’t hear them back. David must sense that I am sinking inside because he keeps talking, trying to pull me back up. “She was messed up, Emma. She was a junkie. How could she have loved me when half the time she didn’t even know if it was Tuesday?” His hands are on my shoulders now, and I feel as if he is trying to hold me up. Trying to help me find my balance.

  “Where is she now?”

  “She died. Years ago.”

  Anna Spaight’s obituary didn’t say that she was a tattoo artist, nor did any of the other articles about her death. But, in the picture, the one where David is standing behind her, his tattoos are there. Wrapped around her. Is he talking about Anna, or is he talking about someone else? Being on medication for depression and paranoid schizophrenia doesn’t make you a junkie, does it? I want to ask him if it is Anna—but I won’t, because my question will tell him that I know about her. To have two women in your life die would break a man—even a man like David. It must be Anna he is talking about.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I want to cry. I want to cry for Anna. And for David. And for me.

  “It’s okay,” David says. “Really. She was messed up, and it was over between us long before she died. I only stayed for as long as I did because I was trying to help her.”

  “Oh.” It must be Anna. In my mind, I am picturing David and Anna together, imagining him holding her up by the shoulders the same way he is holding me right now. Trying to help her find her balance.

  “You already know that I am the raven, Emma. We both are.” He lets me go and lifts up his arm to show me the dark, thick bird. The one above his right underarm. The one I found the night he took me to the bridge. The clever and self-assured and peculiar raven. How could I have thought that he would see himself as a frail hummingbird? The ridiculousness of my earlier question tugs at me. Anna was the frail one. And David didn’t love her because ravens don’t love the weak.

  With that thought, I straighten myself. I don’t need David to hold me up. I am centered now, and I put my lips against the raven. I kiss its beak and run my tongue across its body. David tastes of salt, of skin. His hands move to the back of my head, and he lifts my face up to his, kissing my mouth, lapping his tongue against mine. I can feel how much he wants this. How much he wants me. When we finally separate, it’s clear that David has something on his mind.

  “I know Saz told you about Lucia the other night. I’m sorry you had to hear about that from him.” His voice sounds uncomfortable. As if he is embarrassed and ashamed.

  “It’s okay,” I say, hoping to quell his feelings.

  “I should have told you about her.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I guess because you never asked. You’re different than anyone else I have ever been with. You don’t ask a lot of questions about where I’ve been and who I’ve been with.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s not that I’m not interested, because, trust me, I am. But I figure you’ll tell me what I need to know, whenever the time is right.” I shrug and add, “Your past is really none of my business.”

  “But it is your business,” he says sharply. He is looking down at me, and I give him a what-the-fuck-is-that-supposed-to-mean look. “It’s your business because the women I have been with are a part of who I am. They matter to me because they all became a small part of me in some way. A small part of who I a
m today.”

  I’m not sure if this is my cue to start asking him questions, but right now, I am too fucking tired to go there.

  We walk down the hallway together and lie down on my bed. I shift down into the crook of his arm and close my eyes. What if he tells me a bunch of shit I don’t want to know? What if whatever he has to say about his past changes things between us? It won’t, I tell myself. Because whatever it is—when you love someone—it doesn’t matter.

  Chapter Thirty

  David drives me to work on Tuesday, and when I get to the office, I know that I must start my day with a phone call. I have decided against calling Ricky, at least for now, so instead I search the internet for the phone number of the hospital in the town where I grew up.

  When I tell her why I am calling, the somber young woman who answers the phone transfers me to another line. The phone rings a few times, and a male voice answers.

  “Nurse’s Station. Trauma I.C.U. May I help you?” I tell him I am calling to find out the status of a patient named Michael Groff.

  “Are you a family member?” he asks. Yes. I am his stepdaughter. Emma Searfoss.

  “Ms. Searfoss,” he says when he returns to the line after putting me on hold for a few minutes, “I’m sorry no one from your family contacted you about this, but Mr. Groff died yesterday morning. Your brother Ricky made the decision to remove your father’s ventilator.”

  Holy fuck. Michael is dead. “He wasn’t my father,” I say bitterly.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “Would you like to speak with one of Mr. Groff’s physicians? I can have someone call you to provide you with further details if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I’m good.”

  I say goodbye and hang up the phone.

  I sit in my cubicle staring at the calendar pinned to the wall. My hands are in my lap, and I feel as if the floor is rising beneath me. As if I am about to be catapulted up into the air. As if I could jump up out of this seat and throw myself right up into the sky. Relief and elation are pouring out of my body. It is over. He is over. I think of my mother, and I am thankful, for the first time, that she is not alive. That she did not have to see this. That she did not know about the shame of Michael’s business activities or that he was murdered so brutally.

  I don’t think I could be any happier about Michael’s death. Still...I start to cry. I sink my face into my hands and begin to weep. It is half out of relief and half out of sorrow. For my mother, not for Michael. Not for him.

  My shoulders are hunched over my body, jolting sharply with each sob, and soon I feel a hand at the top of my back. It is resting there softly, slowly moving back and forth.

  “Emma,” I hear. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” It’s Matt. He is crouched down next to me, trying to look at my eyes. I straighten my back and wipe the tears away with my fingers.

  “My stepfather died yesterday,” I say quietly. “I just found out.”

  “Oh, Emma. I am so sorry,” he says. I can hear the compassion in his voice. I don’t want it.

  “Don’t be,” I say. “The man was an asshole. I’m crying because I’m relieved. Not because I’m sad.”

  “Oh,” he says. He looks very confused, and after a time, he stands up and puts his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Just to get back to work,” I say. “But let me text David first and tell him what’s going on.” I smooth my hair back off my face and twist it down over the front of my shoulder. “Can you come back in a few minutes?”

  “Sure. Are you sure you want to stick around today because I know they’ll be cool with you going home if you want to.”

  “I’ll be fine. Really, I will,” I say with a small smile. Matt shakes his head at me and walks out of my cubicle. I reach for my cell phone.

  Hi.

  Hi back.

  He’s dead.

  What???

  I called the hospital.

  R u ok?

  Yes.

  Who told you?

  A nurse. They took him off life support.

  Wow. That’s some crazy shit.

  I know.

  Do u want to come tonight?

  Thanks but no.

  What r u going to do?

  Chill out.

  U sure?

  Yes.

  OK. But call if u need anything.

  Will do.

  Tomorrow night then?

  Yes.

  Sounds good.

  I don’t know how to end it. The end of the last text I sent him was my “I love you.” Do I want to go there again? While I am thinking about what to type, my phone pings again.

  U r one hell of a raven, Emma.

  I don’t feel like a raven right now. A raven wouldn’t have cried like a fucking idiot.

  Sometimes I wonder.

  I don’t.

  I am thankful for David’s confidence. It makes me feel good inside. I flip my phone closed and tuck it back into my purse.

  The rest of the workday proves to be a welcome distraction. Matt doesn’t ask me any more about Michael, nor does he try to make me feel better. He just talks when I reach out to him and stays quiet when I don’t. We are getting the hang of this, Matt and I. I wonder what David would think.

  When I leave at the end of the day, Matt asks me if he will see me tonight.

  “No,” I say. “I’m staying home. I’m just going to hang out by myself. Plus, I wouldn’t want a repeat of last Tuesday night, and I know you wouldn’t either.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” he says with a smile, “for me anyway.”

  “Very funny,” I say with a smile of my own. I’m not sure why, but then I tell Matt to make sure David behaves tonight. He rolls his eyes at me and walks down the hallway.

  “See you tomorrow, Emma,” he says with an overly dramatic sigh. “And take care of yourself.” I think he wants to tell me he’s sorry about Michael’s death, but he stops himself. I’m glad when he doesn’t say another word.

  The bus ride home is boring, but the Silversun Pickups keep me company on my iPod, and when I get home I find that I am very much looking forward to spending the evening by myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve had time to myself. I’m considering my self-entertainment options when I open my apartment door. There, on my little table, is another small box. I instinctively reach up to my neck and touch the chain of the dog tags hanging beneath my shirt.

  The thing is, I’m not worried about this package. It can’t be from Michael because he is gone. For the first time in over fifteen years, I am not drowning in dread over what he will do next. Plus, I already know that this box is from David. I can feel it.

  I open it quickly, and wrapped inside I find a silver pendant. It is a raven. I turn it over in my hand, feeling the smooth metal and rubbing my thumb into its wings. The bird is curled into itself; its head is turned to the side, and its wings are folded down against its body. Its one exposed eye is made of a dark, velvety stone. I think that it must be Inuit or something. It’s beautiful.

  I lift the dog tags up over my head, open the chain, and slide on the raven pendant. When the chain is back around my neck, I walk to my bedroom and look at myself in the mirror. The raven rests against my chest, on top of the dog tags. I look younger somehow. Less worn. Less worried. I feel powerful. I feel cared for.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and send David a text. His reply is instant.

  Hi.

  Hi back.

  Thank u.

  U R welcome.

  I love it.

  Good.

  I miss u.

  Better.

  And then I do it again. I already know what he is going to say because it is the same as the last time.

  I love u.

  Best.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is warm and flushed. But it isn’t because I’m angry. It is because, even though he hasn’t said it, I know that David loves me back.

  * * *


  After I eat some dinner, I settle down at my computer. I want to see if I can find anything more about what happened to Michael. I Google his name and find exactly what I am looking for. There are two newspaper articles from a few months ago that describe the charges pending against TruTimber Imports and its owner, Michael Groff. From the sound of them, Michael was in it pretty deep. One of the articles describes a federal hearing in which the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Department of Agriculture were charging TruTimber Imports under the Lacey Act, a tool intended to combat trafficking in illegal wildlife, lumber, and other plant products. Michael was facing a corporate shutdown, a half million dollars in fines, and five or more years of prison time. After the hearing, he had posted his own bail.

  I also find another series of more recent articles, the one that Ricky sent and a few more subsequent to that. They all describe Michael’s medical condition as “critical” and talk about the lack of leads in the police investigation of the attack. The FBI is now involved, as it’s suspected that the incident may have more to do with TruTimber Import’s illegal activities than the police previously thought. There is also an article from this morning. It briefly notes Michael’s death with no update on the investigation.