So Much It Hurts

by Monique Polak

  An antihistamine can help.

  I add cold water to the tub, swishing the water until it’s lukewarm, then rummage through the kitchen cabinets until I find a packet of oatmeal. I hope the instant micro-waveable kind counts.

  I lower myself into the tub and stretch out so that every part of me except my face is underwater. The oatmeal flakes float to the surface.

  My cell phone is on the bathmat by the tub so I can see it. But Mick doesn’t call or text. Where can he be?

  I close my eyes and try to relax. But when I do, I picture that guy at Scoops and hear the sound of his fingers snapping. When I open my eyes, I see the hives on my belly. They don’t seem to be getting any smaller, but at least I’m not so itchy now. I scratch my belly, but this time I’m careful to use just my fingertips, not my nails.

  I make myself stay in the tub for fifteen minutes. Mick still hasn’t phoned. I hope he won’t go all the way downtown to pick me up and then not find me there. When he does phone, I’ll ask him if he minds stopping at the pharmacy and getting me some antihistamines.

  I dry myself carefully, dabbing at my skin instead of toweling myself dry the way I usually do. Poor you, I think. You’ve had a rough night.

  I put on Mick’s softest T-shirt—it’s 100 percent cotton. He likes it when I wear pretty camis, but right now I couldn’t bear anything lacy on my skin. I’m still itchy, but I’m trying not to scratch. I think the oatmeal has helped, even if it was the instant kind.

  I’m sitting on the couch, rereading Hamlet (or trying to), when I hear Mick opening the door to the loft. “Joey!” he says too loudly. “You here?”

  “Uh-huh,” I answer in a small voice. I don’t have the energy to get up from the couch. “I tried your cell. Did you go pick me up? I tried to tell you not to bother. I’m sorry if you did.”

  Mick is standing in front of me now. I smell wine on his breath. Why has he been out drinking when he told me he’d be here reviewing scripts? And who was he with? I can’t read the look in his dark eyes. He’s either concerned—or angry. Please don’t be angry now, I think, willing him to read my mind. I can’t take any more anger—especially not tonight.

  “Damn cell phone’s out of juice,” he says, pulling the phone out of his jeans pocket and showing it to me as if I don’t know what he means. “I was there at eleven fifteen sharp at the corner. When you weren’t out at eleven thirty, I went in to see what was going on. That other waitress—what’s her name again? Joyce?—she told me you got into some trouble. So I came right home, figuring you’d come here.”

  When Mick opens his arms, spreading them wide, I know he’s not angry. No, he wants to comfort me. So I stand up and let myself fall into his arms. “I quit,” I tell him. “Some guy was super rude to me and I lost it.”

  Mick presses me close and strokes my back. Ah, this feels so good, so right—like heaven, if there’s a heaven. He cradles me and whispers into my ear, “You did the right thing, Joey. It was a lousy job anyway. It was beneath you.”

  I can practically feel the hives starting to go back to wherever they came from. I don’t say anything about Mick’s wine breath—or ask him where he’s been and who he was with. And I don’t mention the restraining order or the poem either. Now’s not the time.

  In the morning, I’m awake before Mick. There’s no sign of the hives—not even any scratch marks on my skin. Outside, the sky is still rosy and everything feels possible. Mick’s right—that job was beneath me. I was right to quit.

  I put the kettle on for tea and give William Shakespeare his breakfast. I’m careful not to make too much noise, because I don’t want to wake Mick. In a little while, I’ll go next door to feed Sunshine.

  I bring my cup of tea over to the couch. Mick’s cell phone is on the coffee table. He’s forgotten to recharge it. When I pick it up to plug it in, the screen lights up. I check the battery level. The phone’s not out of juice at all.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Then is doomsday near.”

  —HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  When I go next door, I’m startled to find Mrs. Karpman sitting in her velvet chair. Because she isn’t wearing pantyhose, I can see the deep-purple veins in her legs. She’s rubbing her forehead. Maybe she has a sinus infection. She’s mentioned that she gets them sometimes. That would also explain why she’s home a day early from Toronto.

  “Is something wrong?” I call out as I slip off my shoes (Mrs. Karpman is particular about her floors). “I thought you weren’t getting home till tomorrow.” When she realizes I’m there, she looks confused, almost as if she doesn’t know who I am. “It’s me, Iris,” I say. “I came to feed Sunshine.”

  “Oh, Iris,” she says. “Of course.” I don’t usually notice the lines on Mrs. Karpman’s face, but this morning I do. Maybe it’s because of the way the sun is shining in through her windows. Or maybe it’s because she hasn’t put on the shimmery face powder she usually wears.

  “Oh, Iris,” she says again, shaking her head this time. “I cut my trip short because I had the oddest feeling that I needed to come home—and I was right. Something terrible has happened.”

  I bring my hand to my mouth. “It’s not Sunshine, is it?” I know how much she loves her bird.

  Sunshine chirps when I say his name. Phew. I’d have felt awful if he had gotten sick—or died—while I was looking after him.

  “What’s wrong?” I hope no one in Mrs. Karpman’s family is sick.

  At first, Mrs. Karpman doesn’t say anything. I wish she’d stop shaking her head like that. It’s making me nervous. When she finally speaks, her voice sounds exhausted—as if she hasn’t slept in days. “The apartment’s been robbed. All my jewelry’s gone.” Now I notice the rims of her eyes are red, like Sunshine’s. She’s probably been crying. “Every piece was a gift from my Nelson,” she says softly.

  My heart is breaking open. I go over and give her the biggest hug I can. Her shoulders are bony, and she feels like a small bird in my arms. “How could it have happened?” I ask. “I was here yesterday morning and everything was fine. I double-checked the door when I left, the way I always do.” Though I haven’t done anything wrong, I still feel guilty. I was responsible for Mrs. Karpman’s apartment while she was away.

  “The apartment looked fine to me, too, when I came home last night,” she says, and I can tell she’s making an effort to collect herself. “At least, at first. I only noticed something was wrong when I was getting ready for bed. Whoever robbed me went straight to my bedroom—and to the jewelry box on my dresser. I think he knew what he was looking for. That’s what the police think too. I suppose it could have been worse. Imagine if I’d walked in on him!” Mrs. Karpman shuts her eyes. “I’d have had a heart attack!”

  “But how did a burglar get in here? The lock wasn’t broken, was it?”

  “Probably with a credit card. According to the police, that’s what burglars use nowadays. I phoned the police as soon as I noticed someone had emptied my jewelry box. I tried knocking on your door, but you two were out. The police say this sort of thing happens a lot in apartment buildings. Especially ones with old people in them.” Mrs. Karpman sighs. “They told me I need to compile a list. For the insurance company. But I can’t think straight, Iris. I just can’t get over the idea that someone was in here— prowling and going through my personal things.” Mrs. Karpman shudders.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly, Iris. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Does Mrs. Karpman give me a funny look when she says that? I hope she doesn’t think I’m responsible! But when I look at her again, the funny look is gone. I must have imagined it. “By the way, dear, I nearly forgot to thank you—for looking after Sunshine.”

  Sunshine chirps again when Mrs. Karpman says his name. That makes us both laugh a little. I’m glad to see Mrs. Karpman’s face relax. “I can stay and help you with the list. If you think that would help.”

  “That would be wonderful. You’re a darling girl. Let me put on so
me tea.”

  I watch Mrs. Karpman as she shuffles into her kitchen and plugs in the kettle. “How would you like to use this teacup?” she asks, showing me a blue-and-white cup with a windmill on it. “We bought it when we were in Delft. In Holland.” As we wait for the water to boil, Mrs. Karpman looks into Sunshine’s cage. “It’s a shame you don’t speak English,” I hear her tell the bird. “If you did, you could tell us who took my jewelry.”

  Mrs. Karpman keeps remembering more pieces of jewelry. Her pearl necklace (she tears up a little when she mentions it; Nelson bought it for her when they were on a river cruise in China), several gold brooches, a diamond tennis bracelet (“I should have worn it to Toronto and then I’d still have it,” she says), a pearl ring (“I wanted to give it to Sarah, my eldest granddaughter, when she turned sixteen”), her good watch. “Write down that it was eighteen-karat gold, a Longines,” she says, watching over my shoulder to see that I’m following her instructions.

  Mrs. Karpman bites her lip when she remembers that Nelson’s pocket watch is missing too. “He adored that watch. I bought it at Birks. He said it always reminded him that time was precious.” I don’t tell her I’ve already heard the story of the watch and how she bought it for Nelson’s fiftieth birthday. “I’d been planning to give the watch to Errol.” Mrs. Karpman’s voice breaks. “Have I told you he’s coming to Montreal?”

  I shake out my arm. The list is getting quite long. “No, you didn’t mention it.”

  “When I phoned my children to tell them about the break-in, they got very upset. Between you and me, Iris, I think they’re just looking for an excuse to move me to an old folks’ home. They’re sending Errol to check on me.” Mrs. Karpman makes a harrmphing sound. “To think how many times I babysat that boy. And now they seem to think I need a babysitter! Enjoy your youth, Iris, that’s all I can say.”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “When’s who coming?”

  Now I start to worry that Mrs. Karpman is losing her marbles. “Errol. You told me he’s coming to look in on you.”

  “Oh yes, Errol. He’ll be here in time for dinner. Which reminds me, I need to phone the butcher shop and get them to deliver an extra large grain-fed capon. My Errol eats enough for two people.”

  At least the thought of Errol eating her extra large grain-fed capon makes Mrs. Karpman smile.

  Mick is standing by the window, stretching, when I get back from Mrs. Karpman’s. He turns to look at me. “Where were you?” he asks sleepily.

  “Over at Mrs. Karpman’s. Her apartment got broken into. She thinks it happened yesterday.”

  Mick crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s awful. What did they take?”

  “Mostly jewelry, I think. I feel terrible about it.” William Shakespeare is brushing his head against my leg, and I lean down to pet him.

  Mick walks to the kitchen and puts two slices of whole-wheat bread into the toaster. “Why in the world should you feel terrible about it, Joey?” he asks as he reaches into the pantry for the jam he likes.

  “Well, I was supposed to be looking after the apartment. I hope she doesn’t think I did it.”

  Mick yawns. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Sometimes I honestly wonder what’s wrong with you, Joey. Why you feel so damned responsible for everything. Come on over here and have some toast, will you?” It’s a question, but it doesn’t feel like one.

  I take a tiny bite of toast. Even if I don’t have much of an appetite.

  “So tell me exactly what happened at work yesterday,” Mick says.

  If I talk about it, I’ll have to relive the whole scene. Then again, I might as well get this over with. “Some guy snapped his fingers at me and, well—” I stop to find the right words. “I went kinda crazy…I dumped one of those tubs of dirty dishes over him.”

  I watch Mick’s face as I tell the story. I want him to laugh, because I’m realizing that though it didn’t seem funny when it happened, it makes a good story now. What I really want is for Mick to tell me I did the right thing, but so far he’s not reacting. His face is perfectly blank. So I keep talking. “I think I’d had it with that job—with being disrespected.” It’s only when I say it that I realize that’s exactly why I lost it. “What did you say last night… that the job was beneath me?”

  Mick raises his eyebrows. “I said that?” I can’t tell if he’s being serious or teasing me. “I must’ve had too much to drink. You made good money at that job, Joey.”

  My eyes are glued to Mick’s face. For the first time since I met him, I have the weird feeling that I don’t really know him. I love him, I’m sure of that, but I don’t really really know him. What goes on inside his head? Why does he sometimes get so angry? Are there more secrets he is keeping from me?

  I think about Mrs. Karpman’s key in Mick’s kitchen drawer. I think about what Mick made me do at Forever 21. What I did at Forever 21. I haven’t been able to wear any of those clothes, not even the maxi dress I liked so much. Just seeing those clothes in the closet makes my stomach lurch.

  “You didn’t do it, did you?” I blurt out.

  Mick wipes his mouth with the inside of his hand. “What are you talking about, Joey?”

  “You didn’t rob Mrs. Karpman, did you?”

  “How could you ask me that?” Mick’s eyes are turning wild again, and I wish I could take back the question. But it’s too late. I’m watching his hands, and instinctively I pull back a little from the table.

  One of Mick’s hands is moving in slow motion. Or maybe it’s not that his hand is moving slowly but that my brain is slowing the moment down, splitting it into separate frames.

  I watch as the back of Mick’s hand sweeps the dishes off the table. Our two plates, our teacups, the sugar bowl and the jam jar too.

  “Stop it!” I raise my voice so he’ll hear me over the sound of the clattering dishes. When I look down at the floor, I see that the plates have not broken, but the sugar bowl has shattered into a thousand pieces and there is sugar everywhere. I get up to find the dustpan and a wet cloth. If I don’t clean this mess up right away, the whole floor will get sticky. I don’t ever want to walk on another sticky floor.

  “Why should I stop it?” Mick yells. “What do you think I am? Who do you think I am? Do you honestly think I’d rob an old woman?”

  I know I shouldn’t fight. I know I should let Mick do whatever he has to do to spend his anger. But it’s getting harder for me to just stand by and do nothing. “I know you’d rob a clothing store. Or make me rob one,” I say.

  “That’s different,” Mick says. “Completely different.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not different at all!” I’m yelling now too. I know I shouldn’t. That yelling will only make things worse. But I can’t help it. The dustpan flies out of my hands.

  He punches me again. Same spot. On the right side of my face. Why does he always aim for the same spot? It’s weird the things you think about when something terrible is happening. He punches me so hard I can feel my teeth breaking through the soft skin inside my mouth. So hard I taste blood. The taste is flat, like metal, but somehow not unpleasant.

  Why is everything happening in slow motion again? It’s as if I’m watching my life on the screen, or in a play. As if it’s all happening to someone else. A girl who happens to be named Iris Wagner, a girl I hardly know anymore.

  I’ve dropped to my knees. I’m too winded to stand. Mick is glaring at me. Why is he looking at me as if I’m the one who’s done something wrong? “Maybe you shouldn’t have quit that job,” he mutters.

  It hurts to talk. But there’s something else I want to say. And I don’t care if it makes him angrier. “I found the restraining order—and that poem,” I tell him, looking straight into his eyes. “The one you said you wrote for me.”

  Mick shakes his head. I’m sure he’s going to punch me again, but I don’t care. I feel like I have nothing more to lose. Let him punch me.

  CHAPTER 24

&
nbsp; “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

  Seem to me all the uses of this world!”

  —HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 2

  Afterward.

  I am sitting hunched on the closet floor, rocking back and forth, hugging myself.

  Every inch of me aches. My arms, my legs and especially the skin around my nose and cheek. I lift one finger to my cheekbone, but at the last second I pull my hand away. The skin is too tender to touch, and it’s so hot I can feel the heat even without touching it.

  There’s a ringing in my skull that feels like it will never stop. Boom, boom, boom. Like an angry church bell.

  Even though it’s over now and my heart isn’t thumping triple-time the way it was before, I can’t stop picturing his fingers. Long thin fingers balled into a tight fist, coming at me like a cannon. And the rage in his eyes. Why, I wonder for the first time, don’t I ever fight back? What is it about me that makes me feel so helpless, so paralyzed, when Mick loses it?

  Cartoonists draw stars around someone who gets punched. The funny thing is, when you get punched in real life, you actually see stars. Silver and gold stars ricocheting off each other like fireworks. That’s what it’s like for me anyway. I wonder how the cartoonists figured it out. Did they all get punched in the head too?

  I want to cry. I want to let everything out—my sorrow, my disappointment in myself, in Mick, in us, how lost and overwhelmed and small I feel—but I have no tears left. Not one. There’s a desert in my head.

  I hear Mick moving around the apartment, making normal sounds. I strain my ears to hear better. He’s taking something out of a drawer, clearing his throat, closing the drawer, opening up his laptop, humming. How can he be humming? He knows where I am. Besides the bathroom, this closet is the only place to hide.

  But I don’t expect him to come and talk to me now or say he’s sorry. He’s regrouping. The way I am doing in the closet. It’s what we do after a terrible fight—and there’s no question, this one was a terrible fight, not a squabble.