And maybe I’m not laughing as much as usual.
Because after a while, Cicely says, “Is everything OK?”
I want to tell her the truth, but I don’t want to add to her list of worries. I know she already has:
1. John.
Not to mention:
2. The entire world.
When Cicely takes my hand, a few tears escape me. And a few more.
“It’s the whole slapping thing,” I say, crackle. “I’m really starting to lose it.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I’m not Gordon, so I wipe away more and more tears.
Cicely puts her arm around me.
And the power of my mind isn’t strong enough anymore.
The pain floods out, fast and easy.
Cicely:
1. Holds me tighter.
2. Says, “We’ll get through this together, hon.”
3. Doesn’t let me go.
If I wasn’t crying so hard, I might smile.
#19
In my dream, Karl’s my roommate again. I’m trying to tell him how sorry I am that Heather died when I crashed the car, but he can’t hear me. Or maybe he’s ignoring me.
I notice a man outside the window. He’s watching us. He’s ugly, with bones poking out his face, but he’s still Sol.
Then my roommate’s body contorts. His flesh folds over and over, until he’s a rag doll on the floor.
I can’t help him.
Outside of this nightmare, awake, I escape to the kitchen.
“Morning,” Gordon says. He’s:
1. Sitting on his stool.
2. Crunching on granola.
3. Petting Meta with his bare feet.
“I need help,” I say.
“What with?”
“I need you to slap me.”
“Jesus fuck, Nick.”
“You’d be doing me a favor. Seriously.”
He puts down his spoon. “How’s that exactly?”
“If you don’t slap me, someone else will. I’d rather it be you.”
He snorts. “That’s almost flattering, in a twisted sort of way, but I’m not gonna slap you.”
“Consider it an experiment in the psychology of violence.”
“I’m not a scientist.”
“Please.” And I sound as desperate as I feel, maybe. “I really need your help with this.”
He sighs. “Slapping you isn’t gonna help, Nick. You’ve subconsciously constructed this sort of masochistic road to redemption, and I’m not gonna be one of your potholes. I’m not an enabler, remember? That’s why you wanted me as your roommate in the first place.”
“This isn’t something I’m doing to myself, Gordon. This is affecting everyone around me.”
“Of course it is! We’re all fucking connected. Anyway, I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I’m not a violent person, and punching you the other night was semi-traumatic for me. I’m still trying to get over it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” He picks up his spoon again.
“I’ve been slapped 18 days in a row.”
“That’s weird,” he says, and goes back to petting Meta with his bare feet and crunching his granola.
In other words, Gordon can’t help me.
I see Santa trapped in a mason jar, boxing with a furry octopus. And I see a painted-on crack in the wall with swirling darkness on the other side and 2 slivers of eye peeking through.
“He’s the one who did this to us,” Cicely says, and points at the slivers with her tennis ball. “This booger fork thinks he can hide from us, but I’ll find him. They don’t call me X-Ray Eyes for nothing.”
I take my spot on the couch.
Cicely, hers.
“Maybe I’m just paranoid about John coming back,” she says. “But lately I’ve felt like someone’s watching me.”
“Me too,” I say.
But even before I brought the curse on myself, I felt the eyes on me. They’re the eyes of the Universe or God, and they don’t watch me because I’m playing some big part in the fate of the world or because I’m the best humanity has to offer.
I don’t tell Cicely any of this.
Instead, I say, “I need help.”
She takes my hand. “What can I do, hon?”
And I want her to be more than my friend right now. I want her to be the hand of fate, slapping me across the face, saving me from my road to redemption.
And I know:
1. Cicely would slap me if I asked.
2. She’d feel terrible about it afterward.
3. She’d do it again tomorrow.
“I was bit by one of those vampire roaches,” I say. “And I don’t know how this works exactly. Am I gonna turn into a vampire or a bug or both?”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” she says. “What do you want first?”
“Good.” Because good should always come first.
“When it comes to vampiric insect attacks, there usually aren’t any trans-mogrifying effects.”
“That’s a relief. What’s the bad news?”
“Evil hemorrhoids.”
“I should’ve known.”
Cicely and me, we don’t solve The Mystery of the Curses.
Instead, we sit in silence for a while, and Cicely doesn’t let go of my hand, even when the phone rings.
“Do you want to take this one?” she says.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“The fairy that lives in my ear is getting a little tired of the prank calls. I promised her I’d take a break for a while. Do you mind?”
“No,” I say. I scramble for the plastic banana. “Hello? This is Cicely. I mean, Cicely’s house. Can I help you?”
I want to hide under the pastel labyrinth of a rug.
“Hi Cicely,” a man says. “I lost my wife last Tuesday.” He laughs. “That sounds like she died. I should say the divorce was finalized last Tuesday. I didn’t think it would hit me this hard, because I’ve been divorced three times before. But this one, it’s worse than all the others combined. I feel like such a failure, but I have no idea what I did wrong this time. I was a good husband to her. I feel so doomed.”
And I have a feeling he thinks this is some kind of hotline.
I suppose it is.
“We don’t really handle that sort of problem,” I say.
“Oh,” he says.
“But, um, I’m sure you’ll find the right person eventually.”
He laughs. “How could you possibly know that? Most people don’t ever find the right person, do they?”
“I don’t know. But if you do find her, and things work out, you’ll be thanking God for all these divorces, right?”
“I don’t believe in God, but I guess you’re right.” He sighs, and releases something doom and gloomy in that breath, maybe. “Thanks, Cicely.”
“No problem.”
He hangs up.
I sit down.
“That was real, wasn’t it?” Cicely says.
“Either that or the most obscure prank call of all time,” I say. “But it wasn’t our kind of curse.”
“No singing eyelashes, huh?”
“Not a one.”
“You did a good job, hon. I think you helped him.”
And there are many eyes on me when I say, “Thanks.” The eyes of:
1. God or the Universe.
2. The creature in the swirling darkness.
3. John, maybe, hiding outside.
But the only eyes I can really feel right now belong to:
4. Cicely.
Greg opens the door, but leaves the screen door closed. “If you’re here to apologize, Nadia’s not here,” he says.
“I’m not here to apologize,” I say.
“What then?”
“I drove all the way out here to talk to you. Thirty minutes. The least you can do is let me inside.”
The least he can do is slam the door in my face.
But he opens the scr
een and says, “Alright.” I’m sure he didn’t mean to sound so eager. So thrilled.
“Thank you,” I say. I step through the threshold, arms crossed.
“Sit down,” he says.
I do.
He doesn’t.
He looks down at me, smiling, and says, “What is it you want to talk about?”
“I want to show you something,” I say. I unfold the printout I’ve been squeezing, and hand it to Greg.
He’s more than my brother-in-law right now, even if he doesn’t know it. He’s my chance to take control.
“What is this?” he says.
“I found it on a website,” I say. “A website for elementary school kids.”
He scans the page some more. I thought about highlighting the vital sentence beforehand, but this is better.
Then his smile drops. His eyes narrow.
“You’re lucky Nadia doesn’t care about the size of a man’s brain,” I say.
I wonder if I sound as childish as I feel.
I hope so.
Greg:
1. Slaps me. And maybe it is really me he’s attacking.
2. Points to the door.
3. Says, “Go home.”
I can’t think of anything else to say but, “Thank you.”
Then I pick up my printout about penguins and obey.
#20
Right now they’re a happy couple on the beach, holding hands, maybe experienc-ing a moment of pure joy.
But when I get through with them, they’ll be:
1. A psychopathic bride, stained with blood.
2. A severed head, dripping that blood.
I put the photograph of the couple into my pocket, where it joins the company of:
1. The crumpled up penguin printout.
Though I already know penguins can’t fly.
2. The paper from my closet, 2nd stack on the left.
Though I’ve already memorized Cicely’s address.
3. This week’s to-do list
4. This week’s to-make list.
Though there isn’t much on either of those.
5. My little purple notebook.
Though I remember everything Cicely told me about herself.
So maybe I don’t need all this.
It doesn’t matter.
Every few hours today, I’m going to:
1. Sit down.
2. Empty my pockets.
3. Examine the bits and pieces of my life.
Because if I don’t, I might make too many stupid mistakes. And then, poof.
That’s the sound of the world I’ve created for myself crumbling away.
I check my watch.
The time’s 9:14.
2 hours and 46 minutes more, then I’ll go to Cicely’s for lunch.
I get back to work.
I’m in the middle of hand-stitching the body form of my octopus closed when someone knocks on the door.
My heart thuds hard.
I know that everyone in my family uses this knock, but I can’t help trembling as I reach for the knob.
It’s my mother’s knock too.
I open the door.
“Sol,” I say.
He hugs me, a little softer than usual. He says, “My son. My son.”
It makes me feel more than a little sad, and this time I know why.
“You didn’t have to drive all the way here,” I say. “You could’ve called me. I would’ve come over.”
“Let’s sit down for a while, hm?” he says.
I nod.
We sit inside.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I say. “I didn’t know how to apologize for what I said. I thought I’d try making you an apology octopus.”
“What’s an apology octopus?” Sol says.
I point to the winged octopus sitting in the corner.
“I’m not sure what good the wings would do for him,” I say. “Since he can’t breathe out of water.”
“Maybe he’s good at holding his breath,” Sol says.
“I’m sorry I said what I said before. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did, Nicholas.”
“No.” Suddenly, I feel like a child again.
“You shouldn’t have yelled at me. You shouldn’t have cursed at me or your sister. I’ll accept your apology for these things you did, but I’m glad you told me the truth.”
“It wasn’t the truth. Really.”
“You’re going to have to apologize for lying now, if you keep this up.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. I should never have slapped you.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was, Nicholas. I want you to know why I did it.”
“I know why.”
He rubs his knees with his hands. “Ever since Brienda and I became friends, I tried not to think about your mother at all. That’s a terrible thing, I know. I knew all the time how terrible it was, but I didn’t care. Then I saw you glaring at Brienda at the party, hating her, I thought, for being a part of my life. And in that moment, I hated her too, and I hated myself for loving her. I blamed you for that. That’s why I slapped you. But all that hatred was already inside me. Please forgive me.”
I want to:
1. Tell him the slap wasn’t his fault.
2. Tell him all his hatred came from my curse, and that there’s only love in his heart.
3. Keep believing in this fairy tale, forever.
Instead, I say, “Alright. I forgive you.”
He slaps his knees and stands, grinning.
We hug again, at the door.
“I don’t hate her,” I say. “Brienda.”
“I’m glad,” Sol says.
We say goodbye.
I don’t want to, really. I want to tell Sol not to love Brienda too much, because mom could be back any day now, and not to do the family knock in front of Brienda, ever.
But I can’t.
Instead, I close the door.
My watch beeps at 11:15, and it’s time for #2 on my to-do list.
I’m not looking forward to this one.
Before dialing the number, I study my list, close, as if searching for clues. But I don’t find any.
I make the call.
“This is Greg,” Greg says.
“This is Nicholas,” I say, and I feel stupid already. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“Right.”
“I really am, Greg.”
“OK.”
“Can I speak to Nadia, please?”
“She’s busy.”
“I want to apologize. Can you tell her I’m on the phone?”
He sighs static. “Alright.”
I wait, with my to-do list on my knee, and the paper covers up my large starburst of scar. I used to tell people the wound came from a:
1. Fight with someone I didn’t even know.
2. Fall from the 7th floor of a hotel.
3. Mountain lion attack.
I never mentioned:
1. The treadmill.
Or:
2. The crying.
Or:
3. The puppy Sol and my mom bought me for being so brave, even though I wasn’t at all.
“Hello?” Nadia says.
“It’s me,” I say. “I’m calling because I’m sorry. For what I said.” The words come out slow and awkward, though I should be an expert in contrition by now. “I’m really sorry, Nadia.”
“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” she says. “You should apologize to Svetlana for scaring her.”
“Alright. Put her on the phone.”
There’s a pause, then she says, “I don’t want you talking to her right now.”
I sigh. “I see.”
“Have you started drinking again, Nicky?” and when Nadia says, “Nicky,” what she means is, “my stupid baby brother.”
“No,” I say.
“You sounded drunk at the party.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Greg thinks so too.”
“Well, then, it must be true.”
“I just don’t want to lose you again, Nicky.”
“I know. I’m fine. Really.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
My watch beeps.
“I’d better go,” I say.
“I’ll tell Svetlana that you’re sorry,” she says.
“Thanks.” And I really mean that. “Maybe I could make her another doll.”
“She has enough dolls.”
“OK, well, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Goodbye, Nicky.”
I draw a big X over:
2. Nadia.
And I press a little too hard, so the pen pokes through the paper. Now there’s a little black dot in my middle of my starburst. I lick my finger to wash the mistake away.
But I change my mind.
Instead, I add:
1. Another dot.
2. A curved line.
Now there’s a little happy face on my knee.
It doesn’t make me:
1. Smile.
2. Laugh.
3. Feel any better.
But Cicely might like it.
That’s enough.
I see an unfinished jackalope balancing on the colossal nose of an albino Viking, but that’s only because it’s difficult for me to look at Cicely’s face as she’s saying, “He’s a monster. A real monster.”
And I’m sure:
1. Somehow, she means me.
2. She hates me.
3. She’s going to slap me, hard.
I want to close my eyes.
“Abby will be out of the bathroom soon,” Cicely says. “She’ll tell you the whole story.”
“Who’s Abby?” I say.
“I’m sorry. I’m not making much sense, am I? I’m so upset.”
But upset isn’t the word I’d use.
The fury in her forehead reminds me of John, and the grim passion in her eyes reminds me of Sol, when he held my shoulders years ago, squeezing so hard it hurt, and he said, “They’ll find her, Nicholas.”
“Abby’s one of us,” Cicely says. “She saw one of my flyers and called.”
Then Abby returns from the bathroom.
Compared to Cicely, she’s:
1. Younger, by 25 years, maybe.
2. Smaller.
And some might say she’s:
3. Better looking.
She’s the woman I wanted to grow up to marry, except:
1. Her eyebrows are a little bushy.
2. She’s missing her left thumb.
3. She’s a real person, with real problems, and I never really wanted that.
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