"Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now; it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land, come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you—you'd forget me."'”
I stop. Bleeding inwardly. That is exactly how it feels to be parted from Janelle. I sent her away, now our cord of communion has snapped. The protection I feel for Ms. Andrews is a direct reflection of that old feeling I had for Janelle. It dawns on me that she really is gone. She's gone and I have to let her go.
I drop the book and reach for a tissue. I'm such a mess. This isn't the time or the place to be breaking down. Ms. Andrews bends and picks up the book. She sits with me as I weep. I'm such a sorry excuse for a human being, missing a woman who I'll never see again.
“I'm sorry.” It comes out in a weak whisper. “I... lost someone very important to me and it's...” I can't even finish my sentence.
After wasting half a box of tissues keeping my eyes dry, I begin to sober up.
“Your friend will be here soon,” I say, blowing my nose. “I'll just go wash up and see you next week at the same time.”
I start to get up, but before I can stand, she stops me, reaching out for the first time and resting her small hands on my shaking ones. In that touch, a thousand words pass between us. Somehow, I know she can feel my pain. In that moment, it stops being important that she can't speak. In that moment, the only thing that matters is that she's here listening to me, when she could just as easily get up and walk out the door.
“Another,” I say to the waiter, waving my empty glass. There are four of him, but who cares! Who cares?
This time I have a front row seat in The Royale's lounge. I've had dinner and now I'm washing it down with—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—eight shots of vodka. Number nine is on its way!
I set my head on my palm. Nope, not a care here, just vodka. I've never resorted to drink to drown out pain before, not like this. I could see it becoming a bad habit. With the way I'm feeling now, I almost welcome it. Who cares if I destroy my liver, if I'm going to die alone anyway?
Bring out the singer! Bring her out!
I check my watch, but my vision is too blurry to register the time. The waiter returns with my ninth shot, and I take it fast just like the others.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Eight o'clock, sir. The show is about to start.”
“Good. Bring me another,” I say, stuffing a twenty-dollar bill in his shirt pocket. “That's for all four of you!”
I burp and the smell is heinous. God damn! What did I eat? Hell, I'm too drunk to remember.
The lights lower and total euphoria sets in. Everything is glowing pleasantly. The emcee's words fade in and out. He shuffles off the stage.
The swaying, gorgeous singer slides onto the stage. If my insides were a circuit-board, every light would be on. I smile lazily at the sex symbol on the platform. In her long black dress, she looks like she's stepped directly out of an old noir film. She's wearing the veil again, but my concentration is not on her eyes.
She nods to the pianist and he begins.
“My heart is sad and lonely / for you I sigh / for you dear only / Why couldn't you see it? / I'm all for you... body and soul... / I spend my days in longing / and wondering why, it's me you're wronging / I tell you I mean it / I'm all for you / body and soul... / I can't believe it / It's hard to conceive it / that you've turned away romance / Are you pretending? / It looks like the ending / unless I could have one more chance to prove dear / My life, a wreck you're making / You know that I'm yours / for just the taking / I'd gladly surrender / body and soul...” The pianist does his bit for a minute or so, improvising with his deft hands on the keyboard. All the while, she pats her slender thigh with a gloved hand. “I can't believe it / It's hard to conceive it / that you'd turn away romance / Are you pretending? / It looks like the ending / unless I could have one more chance to prove dear / my life a wreck, you're making / you know I'm yours / for just the taking / I'd gladly surrender myself to you...
” She takes a weighted breath, then half-whispers into the mic, “body and soul...”
My god she does it to me every time. She gives me shivers through my whole body. She makes me want to do things, things that are ten times more sexual when I'm as drunk as I am. She waves and blows a kiss to the audience. I whistle at her, clapping louder than anyone else. For a moment I think her gaze passes over me, but her head tips to the other side of the audience. She moves offstage before I can attempt to arrest her attention again.
Remembering the last note I wrote to her, I decide to try that avenue again. If she can't hear me, she'll be able to read what I'm thinking. The waiter brings me a piece of paper, like before. I should start keeping paper with me whenever I come to The Royale.
'Dear Roxanne,
You were absolutely sensational tonight. You have no idea what kind of effect you have on me. I'd never turn away romance with you. I would gladly surrender. You'd have me, body and soul.
— J'
Man, I'm good at this romance thing! Or, at least I feel like I am, while I'm plastered. I'm sure there are a lot of things I would imagine I'm good at when I'm drunk.
I fold the note and write on the outside, 'J, Table Five'.
The waiter returns with my tenth drink.
“Here you go, my man.” I slip the note into his breast pocket along with my twenty. “Deliver that to the lady.” I pat his pocket and take the drink from him. He looks mildly vexed as he turns to walk away.
My phone begins to ring and I fish it out of my pocket. Two missed calls from Mom. The caller ID reads 'Mom'. Why is mom calling me? I snicker.
“Hellooo?”
“Jacob, where are you? I've been calling you for the past half hour?”
“Nobody important!” I exclaim.
“Nobody...? What? Look, this is serious. Pull yourself together,” she scolds.
“Sorry. Sorry,” I say, chuckling again.
“Your sister is in the hospital. I'm there now.”
The smile dies on my face. My stomach knots up.
“Wh—what? Lisa?”
“Have you been drinking?” she asks accusingly, as if I should have seen this coming.
“Yes, I can't... I can't drive.” I start to panic, patting my pockets for my keys. “I can't drive,” I repeat, fruitlessly.
“Calm down. Take a cab to Cedar Hills. Do you understand me? Cedar Hills.”
“Yes. Cedar Hills.” I feel sick, like I'm going to hurl any second. “What's wrong with her?”
“They aren't sure. She was found in a parking lot somewhere. She's...” I hear my mother's soft sobs begin, ones she has probably been holding in to keep herself strong, “She's in some kind of coma. They think she's had a heart-attack.”
“I'll be there,” I reply. I slide on my coat as I stand. “I'm coming.”
I hang up and shove my phone in my pocket, almost dropping it. I'm such a spectacle that people are staring as I maneuver the obstacle course of patrons, waiters and tables. I find my waiter and thrust my hand into my pocket, yanking the largest bill I can get my hands on from my money clip.
I shove it into his hands and rush out the door. Once on the sidewalk, there are ten-thousand people. At least half of them are wiggling figments of my imagination. Right about now, I'm trying not to puke on them all.
I step onto the street, “Taxi! Taxi!” I wave my arms, almost getting hit by the next cab to rumble down the street. I slide into the back seat. “Take me to Cedar Hills Hospital, right away!”
(Carmen)
No, it definitely wasn't my imagination. That was the doctor sitting front and center. He was listening t
o me sing, looking at me like he was going to eat me alive. I've never seen him look like that before, and it was petrifying. I peak out of the curtain corner, where nobody can see me, down at table five.
He's on his phone. His features twist, his eyes filling with terror. He staggers to his feet and takes off through the crowd. My hand grips the curtain, frustrated by my ignorance. My sore throat tightens, my lungs sinking in my chest. It takes everything I have not to tear after him. I hope everything's okay.
I let the curtain go and lean against the wall. I think of his face when he was crying in the office. I've never seen a man cry like that, not outside of a film or a funeral. I had never seen him express doubt, fear or weakness. He'd always appeared to be so strong, so above those feelings—superhuman. He's always had a way about him, one that has convinced me that, in his office, we are set apart from the rest of the world. He makes me feel singular and special, not because I don't talk, but because I choose not to.
He's never treated me with less respect, or like I was less of a person because I was silent.
It takes everything in me not to run after him, to take him in my arms in the street and shield him, make him feel singular and special, just like he had made me feel. I want to show him the same kindness and respect he's shown me. I want him to feel important, that his problems matter to me—that he matters.
“Are you okay?” Kyle asks, coming over. “It's not like you to hide in a corner.”
I nod.
“You're on again in six. Are you sure you're okay?”
I nod again.
“Okay.” He turns to leave, but stops and turns back. “I know today has been rough, but I just want to say that I'm here if you want to talk.” He hesitates. I see the notion dawn in his eyes, of exactly what he said. “You know what I mean,” he says, breaking into a smile.
I can't help but smile too, even though my heart is full of concern for the doctor.
Kyle wanders off, yelling at one of the grips about lighting.
I sink back against the wall, my smile fading.
God, I hope he's okay.
I'm still thinking of him when the show ends. I smile at the audience as they applaud. I bow, trying to look elated. As soon as I'm in the wings, I frown and slide off my gloves.
“Good show tonight, guys,” I hear Kyle saying from his office.
I take the stairs to my dressing room and stop before entering. It's another note.
'J, Table Five' it says on the outside. No...He can't be the J who wrote me that note! J for Jacob...
I grab it and let myself into the dressing room, locking it behind me. I sit at the vanity and unfold the new note and read its contents.
'You'd have me, body and soul.'
I close my eyes. Body and soul. I can't help but mouth the words, like a prayer.
I look back down at the note and grab my notebook. I take out the first note and smooth it out on the vanity top. I compare the hand-writing. Identical. I sit back and stare at them both. How do I answer it? I chew on the inside of my lip, and pick up a pen.
'Dear J,
Thank you so much, again, for your compliment. I'm happy to know my music affects you. That is why I took up singing. I'm flattered that you've thought of me in a romantic light. I'm fond of notes and romance. I'm sure that, if we were put in the proper situation, I wouldn't turn away romance with you either.' I stop writing, reading the word surrender. It sends a giddy shiver through me. 'I'm glad you recognize, like I do, that surrender can be a pleasurable thing. Hope to hear from you soon...
–Roxanne'
I read over it again. God, I can't send this! I hold the note between my fingers, ready to rip it in two, but my fingers stop, like they're weakened by the hard truth put down in the ink.
I turn it in my hands and fondly read it again. In that moment, the stunning realization comes to me—I mean every single word I wrote.
(Jacob)
I sprint out of the cab and through the hospital doors. Between leaving The Royale and arriving at Cedar Hills, my mom had texted me Lisa's room number. I follow the signs and take the elevator up to her floor. I speed-walk to her room. The door is open and Mom is sitting at her bedside, holding her hand. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.
The tubes running into Lisa's mouth and into her arms unsettle me. I sit on her other side and watch her face. Her eyelids are unmoving. She's not even dreaming. The EKG beeps steadily and my eyes begin to sting. I know what all the readouts say, what all the numbers mean. They mean that part of me is going to be gone soon. They mean she's dying.
I lay my head down on her hand, which rests above the sheets. Her hands still smell like the asphalt they found her lying on. My mom reaches out and strokes my head. We both know what's coming, and that it's coming in hours; not days, not months, not years. Hours.
I lay there till the end, until the EKG gives a steady tone, until the doctors and nurses come in and pull me away. I stand back, my face slack, my eyes dead as they try to restart her heart. A nurse injects her with two different syringes. My ears ring as they charge up the defibrillator, each time they shock her, my own heart feels like it's giving out.
“Go again!”
“Clear!”
Pump.
“Clear!”
Pump.
“Clear!”
Pump.
“Clear!”
Pump.
“Clear!”
Pump.
The line is still steady.
The nurses exchange glances. The frazzled, balding doctor stands, sweat trickling down his forehead. He checks his watch.
“10:47pm.”
They observe me with sympathy as they file out of the room. I'm looking right through them at my twin sister, lying white as a sheet on the hospital bed. My mom steps back up to it, and overwhelmed by the grief, she buries her face in my sister's hospital gown, squeezing the corpse's hand in her own.
I'm still standing in the corner, my world so rocked by Lisa's departure that I can't return to reality.
They say you can see death when it comes to take a soul away, that it's a shadow that moves near the body and takes the light away, but they are wrong. Death is a shadow that stands in the corner of my heart, taking away the people I love and leaving holes where they once were.
“I wanted to discuss with you the results of Lisa's autopsy,” says the doctor two days later. “She tested positive for high doses of atropine.”
I'm startled by the words, with the full weight of exactly what he's saying.
“I'm sorry, did you say atropine?” I ask, my face flushing. I feel like I might pass out.
“Yes. Does that hold any significance for you?”
“A friend died of the same thing, just a few weeks ago.” I can't seem to stop staring at the report in front of him.
“I see. Naturally, we searched Lisa's medical records and discovered she's never been prescribed or treated with atropine, so we've reported the findings to the police. They're currently investigating how it might have gotten into her system.”
“I... I'm sorry,” I say, standing. “I just can't—” I march out of the office and stand in the hall. I'm confused, dazed. Why would someone be picking off the people I care about? Am I next?
My mom comes out into the hallway and takes my hand. Is mom next? She turns me to face her, takes my cheeks in her soft, wrinkled hands. Her eyes are filled with tears. I'm sure that while my pain can stand beside hers, it doesn't measure up to the same magnitude. I lost the person I was born beside and she lost a daughter, a person she gave birth to.
“Do you know who did this, Jacob?” she asks.
I shake my head. “If I did, they'd be dead,” I say, grinding my teeth. “Whoever it is, they'll pay.” My whole body is trembling with pure, unadulterated anger. I've never felt so much rage. “They'll pay.”
At the funeral the speakers give beautiful speeches, saying the usual things one says about the dead. She was too young, too
bright, too wonderful. They're all right. Some of the kids she's helped place in safe and permanent homes show up, too. They all want to see her before she gets put in the ground. At the viewing, each one of them places flowers in her casket. Some of them cry.
I'm last in line to view her. Again, I'm standing at the side of a casket. She looks tranquil, made up prettily. We have the same nose, the same lips, and the same high cheekbones. I see parts of myself lying there. I want to pour my soul into her body so that flour-white skin will turn pink again, so those cheeks will light up. I'm shoving down the animal raging inside me, the one that wants to take her by the shoulders and scream at her to wake up.
I haven't cried about it, though I'm sure I will, eventually. At some point, it will all come rushing out. Eventually, I will scream.
Among the flowers is a folded up piece of paper that sticks out like a sore thumb. I narrow my eyes, seeing how it's ripped from a larger sheet of paper, as if it was made as an afterthought. I pick it up and open it.
'There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe...'
My fingers tighten around the slip of paper.
Shakespeare? Just like the note in my stack of resumes. What the Hell? What the Hell is going on?
I spin around, trying to distinguish any people in the crowd that I don't recognize.
“WHO PUT THIS IN HERE?!” I hold the note high above my head. The church goes completely silent. “I SAID, 'WHO PUT THIS IN HERE?!'”
My mom rushes up and pulls my arm down. She shakes her head.
I see a flash of gray rushing through the door, accompanied by the sound of jingling keys.
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