The quiet was what would do it in the end. She was going crazy. She needed to stop this. She needed to stop feeling so alone. “Okay,” she said to nothing in particular and began pushing Dite back in the direction she had come.
She turned the corner, propped Dite against the wall, and squatted. She waited as long as her curiosity would allow before peering around the corner. The glint was there, and this time it didn’t disappear. A small, red mirror was being held between the bars of one of the windows. It hadn’t been there before, and now it was, which meant someone was holding it. Someone was awake up there and holding a mirror looking for her.
Anger returned full force, and almost before Troy had uttered the words, the mirror was being pulled back inside. “I see you, you son of a…”
Troy heard a dull clang followed by a gasp and the sound of glass shattering on the sidewalk. She ran to the splintered remnants of the mirror and crowed up at the barred window. “Can’t spy on people now, can you?” Anger felt good. She had someone to focus on instead of something she didn’t understand. “So you’re not going to say anything? You’re just going to hide up there and not fucking say anything?” Troy waited, her fury growing as the silence continued.
She felt like she had been alone forever. And now she had found someone, except they didn’t want to be found. “Well guess what, lady?” Troy paused and then repeated herself because she was sure the gasp had been from a female. “You don’t want to talk to me? Fine. I was on my way to…” Troy stood up and ran around the corner to where she had left her bag. She ran back and sat down on the curb fumbling in her bag for the fourteen or so pill bottles she had stolen from the drug store. “I’m not going to be here for long, and then you can talk to your own damn self.” Troy’s eyes stung and her throat tightened. What the hell am I doing? “I’m going to do it right here where you’ll remember my ass every time the fucking wind blows.”
So someone doesn’t want to talk to you, you decide to kill yourself in front of her window? What kind of shit is that? Why am I so angry?
“I don’t suppose you’d drop a bottle of water down, huh?” No answer came from the window. Not even a glimmer of movement. What the hell was up with this chick? She had been delirious when she realized that someone else was awake. Maybe she doesn’t care that everyone else is asleep. Maybe she would rather be alone than be around you.
Troy slumped forward and put her forehead in her hands. If I was up there in the safety of that condo I wouldn’t let some drunk, crazy bitch in either. She was acting psycho, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. She was just tired of feeling so…alone. She had been tired long before she woke up in that odd-ass hospital.
“If you’re still there…please, listen to me. I don’t know what’s going on, but everyone I know, everyone in this city is asleep, and I’m scared. I don’t want anything from you. I just need to know that I’m not alone.
“I’m not crazy. At least I don’t think I am. Hell, maybe I am crazy. I wouldn’t let me in, either. I just wanted to talk to you, see that someone else in this world is still awake.” Troy swept the pill bottles into her bag and stood. She didn’t look up at the window for fear her heart would start that desperate longing again. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I won’t bother you again.” She swung the bag over her head and adjusted it as she started toward the corner where she had left Dite.
“Wait.”
Troy stopped almost too afraid to move.
“Don’t go.”
The voice was soft, frightened, and young. A kid maybe. Troy’s lower jaw cracked when she opened her mouth to answer. “I won’t leave, I promise.”
Troy was startled at how relieved she felt. There was someone else awake. This was not a hell built for her. Well, if it was, it was a shared hell. There was someone else in it with her. Troy swung her bag from her shoulder and sat down on the curb, her back to the window. Lack of sleep, rum, and relief made her eyelids feel weighted. She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her legs, and squeezed as hard as she could; there was someone else up there. She was alone, too, and no doubt terrified of the demented chick out front, but she didn’t want to be alone any more than Troy did. Troy let hot tears drift down her cheeks and this time they tasted like a warm sea.
*
Emma had been sitting at the window seat for over an hour when she spotted the monstrosity of a bike at five minutes past six. She had expected her earlier, not because of anything spoken between them, but because that’s what time she had shown up the previous two days.
On that first day, Emma could do nothing but watch her sit on the curb and cry. Emma’s head had begun to throb and her own tears flowed as she was drawn into the stranger’s pain. She hated feeling so helpless. She was relieved to watch her get on that bike and ride away three hours later.
But the relief soon faded and fear settled in its place. She’s been sitting out there for two days already. What if she’s tired of waiting and doesn’t come back? What if she gets hurt again? What if she hurts herself? The what if’s shoved themselves into her waking moments and didn’t let up until she returned on the second day, embarrassed, but not as sad and a lot more talkative. Emma learned that her name was Troy, that she had no family, and that she made her living as a bicycle messenger.
Emma watched as Troy disappeared, probably propping her bike against the building, before reappearing on the sidewalk below her window. Winter clothes on that body would be a shame. Emma flushed. It had been a long time since she had had a thought like that. Not since Sharon. Not since that night.
Troy placed her hand on her forehead to block the glare. “Hey, are you up there?”
Emma wanted to answer, but her throat constricted and choked off her planned response. Her “yes,” when it came, was pathetic, but Troy must have heard because she grinned, sat down on the curb, and began rummaging in her messenger bag. She pulled out a yellow and green box and began to talk. Even hunched forward and with her back to the window Emma had no trouble hearing her in the absolute quiet. She watched the muscles flex in Troy’s back and she wished she were close enough to see what she was doing.
“I bet you went to college, huh?” Troy asked, without looking up.
Emma leaned so close to the blinds that her upper lip brushed against the faux-wood. She opened her mouth to answer, but Troy was already speaking.
“I tried going to college, but I dropped out after a couple months. They wanted me to take classes that I hated, like math and science and shit.” Troy’s body seemed to go into a frenzy of motion.
“I mean, what the hell does a fashion design major need advanced math for?”
Emma smiled. She could remember saying something very similar to her parents when she was trying to convince them to let her drop out of college. Emma found herself wanting to ask Troy to go into more detail.
“I think about going back. I used to anyway.” Troy stood up and moved to the side.
Emma’s lips brushed against her blinds again as she leaned close to see what Troy had been so intent on drawing. She had drawn herself on her bike with wild hair, big wrap-around style glasses, shoes untied, and grinning like a madwoman.
“I ain’t no Picasso, but I used to like to draw,” Troy said as she studied her picture, and then Emma felt an overwhelming sense of weariness coming from her.
She’s not sleeping. Maybe she’s afraid she won’t wake up, which makes two of us.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Troy said. She didn’t look up at the window as she walked away, but Emma could sense that Troy was becoming weary of their one-sided conversations and was in need of something else.
What if she doesn’t come back tomorrow? Emma thought, No, she just said she would see me tomorrow, but what about the next day and the next? How long can I expect her to keep me company with nothing in return? But what can I give her? You can give her human companionship. That’s all she wants.
Troy had swung her bag across her back and was now rifling inside it.
Emma wanted to call out to her. She wanted to say, “Don’t go. Don’t hurt. Don’t be afraid,” but none of that came out. Why can’t I just talk to her? She’s stood down there and let her heart pour out on the sidewalk, and you can’t even speak to her?
Troy was looking up at the window now, her hand still in the bag. When she spoke, Emma heard the desolation in her words.
“Can you just tell me your name before I go…please?”
Emma closed her eyes. My name isn’t important. I can’t be what you need. I wish I could.
“Why is it so hard for you to fucking talk to me? This is driving me nuts. I swear there are times when I’m sitting here thinking that I made you up.”
Emma turned away from the window and the agony. Troy had a very expressive face, and her feelings were so acute that Emma could sense most of them, even from a distance. A loud crack close to her ear sent Emma sliding off the seat and onto the floor. Desperation overwhelmed her with so much force that it took her a moment to realize that the feelings weren’t her own. She hesitated before standing and peering between the blinds. One of the fists that had been balled at Troy’s side shot up in a gesture so violent that her bag swung out and knocked her bike over.
Emma gasped. Troy had just thrown chalk at her window and then flipped her the bird!
“Screw you, too, lady,” she said low enough that she was sure Troy wouldn’t hear her. Troy yanked her bike up and readjusted her bag across her body. In a few seconds, she would be on that monstrosity and pedaling off to wherever the hell she went when she wasn’t sitting down there on the curb.
Emma stood up, telling herself to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach and the yearning she felt for the fierce young woman. She’s out there all alone and she’s scared. Emma found herself facing her front door.
What are you gonna do? Run after her? Yeah right, you couldn’t run if you wanted to. The internal trash talk was as familiar as the fear. Both kept her rooted to the floor when she should have been trying to get back to the window to beg Troy not to go. She was already at the door before she realized it. Her hand went to the knob and then away from it, and then she went to the release button for the front door and pressed it. She kept her eyes closed. The buzzer seemed louder than usual. She sensed no surprise, no anger. She sensed nothing that she could attribute to Troy.
Had she already ridden away before Emma had made up her mind to let her come up to the condo? Or had she just realized it wasn’t worth it, ignored the buzzer, and ridden away? Emma limped back to the window seat. Troy’s self-portrait seemed to have grown larger in her absence. She was right, she was no Picasso, but she had captured what Emma felt from her—a wild joy with a nucleus of sadness.
Emma remembered how Troy had cried that first day. Troy had seemed so sad that Emma had been forced to speak to her for fear she would harm herself. Troy would have had to have been desperate to have sat on that sidewalk for two days straight in the hopes that Emma would talk to her.
Tears dropped down Emma’s cheeks. She was surprised at how hurt she felt. Not so much for herself. She had been alone for a long time. If anything, she felt less afraid right now than she had in two years. Her hurt was for Troy and the utter loneliness that she must feel to consider killing herself.
“Please, don’t do it,” she whispered. The knock on the door startled Emma so much that if she hadn’t been sitting she was sure she would have fallen on the floor. She stood, her hand reached for and found the cane, but she didn’t make a move toward the door. Her leg ached, and even though she was expecting it, she still jumped when the knock came again.
“It’s me. Troy.”
Emma looked down at the blue jeans and white tank top she was wearing and then back at the door. Her hand went to her hair. She could feel Troy now. There was uncertainty, and, yes, that under-layer of sadness.
“You pushed the buzzer, so I figured it was okay to come up.” Troy’s voice sounded different now that she didn’t have to raise it to be heard. Emma limped to the door, and she got the sense of someone holding her breath. Was it Troy? No, it was her. Maybe it was both of them. She slid the first latch back and then the second, followed by the lock on the knob. She stared at the door. Should she tell her to come in? Would she try the knob herself? She had to have heard her take the lock off. Emma gripped hard on her cane and felt more tears prickle her eyes. Why was this so damn hard? It’s because you’re tired and hungry. No, it’s something else and you know it. Emma turned the knob and pulled the door open. Her heart slammed against her chest the whole time.
Troy was wearing a pair of fitted tan pants with pockets on the sides, shoes with no socks, and a thin, tight t-shirt. The strap of her bag cut across her torso, pressing the formfitting t-shirt even closer to her skin. Emma blushed as her eyes went once, twice, and then a third time to Troy’s nipples. Could I behave any more inappropriately?
She watched as Troy took in her bare feet, the cane, and then rested on her eyes with so much honest curiosity that Emma had to look away. Her gaze landed on Troy’s bare midriff and then skittered away to somewhere safe.
“Emma,” she mumbled.
“You’re a what?” Troy looked confused and Emma would have laughed in other circumstances. Instead, she shook her head and looked anywhere but at Troy’s upper body. Good going, Emma. You ask the girl up, you ogle her chest, and then you act like you don’t have control of your tongue. Feet were a good place she decided, and settled on Troy’s shoes. I’ve never seen any quite like that. They must help her pedal faster or something. Of course with calves like that—.
“No,” Emma said out loud. She made herself meet Troy’s eyes and was surprised by the compassion she saw there. She thinks something’s wrong with me. “I was trying to tell you my name. It’s Emma.”
“Emma,” Troy said and slanted her head to the side as if deciding whether she would allow Emma to keep her name. “You look like an Emma.”
“Uh, thanks…I think.”
Troy grinned. “You’re welcome.”
“You look like a Troy, too.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I come in?” Troy tried to look beyond Emma into the condo.
“No.”
Emma expected her to look angry or at least surprised. Instead, Troy threw her head back and laughed. She held the bike as if it were a toy. Her bicep bulged, but didn’t look the least bit taxed. Emma wondered why she had carried the bike up at all. According to her, there was no one awake to steal her bike. In Emma’s opinion, it was doubtful anyone would have tried to steal the bike even before Portland fell asleep.
“Do you always make your visitors sit on the curb for three days and then not let them in?” Troy asked, the smile still playing at her lips.
Emma almost told the truth—that aside from her parents, she’d never had visitors in the condo. “I’m sorry,” she said instead. Her eyes went back to Troy’s chest. And then to the small necklace she wore around her neck.
Troy shifted from one foot to the other. She didn’t say anything, just stood there. Emma looked down. What now? She couldn’t tell Troy she had made a mistake by letting her up, but she couldn’t just—let her in. Could she? But what if she doesn’t come back? What if she—
Once again Troy’s emotions were so clear to Emma that she thought they were her own. Utter loneliness, fear, desperation, desolation. She backed away from the open door. Troy didn’t move right away. It was as if she was giving Emma the chance to change her mind before she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.
Chapter Six
When Abe broke into sixty-three-year-old Desdemona Bernard’s home, he hadn’t expected that he would be spending two nights in the tiny cottage amusing himself by going through her correspondence and personal items.
He now knew that Desdemona stretched her paltry social security checks by organizing monthly bus trips across the Canadian border to buy prescription drugs. S
he had two daughters. One was in love with her jailbird husband and the other was contemplating whether or not she should have an HIV/AIDS test because of an unfaithful partner. Desdemona also had thirteen cans of cat food, but no cat hairs, cat toys, or cat smells present in her home. Abe hoped she had been unable to bring herself to throw away the food because the cat had recently passed away, but he had a feeling Desdemona was forced to stretch her food budget in other unsavory ways.
Abe was sitting at her desk because the only other seating with a view of the window was occupied by Desdemona’s sleeping form. Her luxuriant gray hair spilled over the arm of her sofa. Abe thought she looked as if she was napping. Desdemona may have been a beauty at one time, but, Abe guessed, a harsh life and the birth of her children had sapped all but the last residue of that away.
Although the desk chair offered no lumbar support, he had the perfect view of Southwest Bonita Lane. On either side of the street were cottages identical to Mrs. Bernard’s. Abe guessed they had been built forty years ago as low-income housing and were still being used as such. In Abe’s opinion, no matter what race of people lived there, poor neighborhoods always had one thing in common—they always lacked space. Although it looked cared for, this neighborhood was no different.
All the cottages on Southwest Bonita Lane crowded the curb, leaving a strip of sidewalk that would be too small for a grown man to walk on. They were grouped in sets of three, with the unfortunate soul in the middle having only views of their neighbors’ buildings out their bedroom windows. Both Mrs. Bernard and Troy Nanson had middle units. Abe would bet money those were the least expensive. The advantage was that both had large windows bracketing either side of their front doors, whereas, the other cottages only had one small one. Someone had helped Mrs. Bernard push a large ancient desk up to one of her front windows. He wondered if it had been Troy.
Never Wake Page 6