Malachi and I

by J. J. McAvoy

  ‘Bye.’ Rafi mouthed and clasped his hands together, nodding his head to me once before clicking the remote that caused the glass walls to frost over making it impossible to see into his office.

  “You speak Hindi too?” Li-Mei rolled out from behind her desk in the center of the office. The hive we called it…because it was actually designed to look like a hive, thankful it wasn’t bright yellow, but made of glass.

  “Hindi, Mandarin, Turkish, Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, Arabic, Hebrew, Russian…keep in mind we’re still in Asia!” Howard smiled as he came over hand and handed me a bottle of iced tea.

  “Wo de tian na!” (Oh my god!) Li-Mei exclaimed as her mouth dropped opened. “How did I not know that? Honestly, I’m kinda hurt. Impressed, but hurt.”

  “Yīzhǒng yǔyán yǒngyuǎn bùgòu.” (One language is never enough.) I shrugged smiling as Howard looked at us, waiting for a translation but I simply drank my tea.

  “Guys…what did you say?”

  “Aren’t you part Chinese? How do you not know even the simplest Mandarin?” Li-Mei grinned and slid back behind her desk and popped a green cake pop from her Gwen Stefani Harajuku jar into her mouth.

  “First of all, I’m half Japanese, half German. Secondly, I know neither languages because my parents were born and raised here in New York. Luckily, maybe my girlfriend will teach me,” he said proudly while I choked mid-swallow causing me to cough so hard I had to grip the edge of Li-Mei’s desk.

  “You—”

  “I’m fine,” I said quickly glaring at him. “Excuse us, Li-Mei.”

  “Don’t mind me ,I’ll just be here pretending to not be interested,” she replied chewing the cake in her mouth.

  Ignoring her, I walked towards the conference room we’d just left and over towards the window that overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “You can’t go around saying that.” I hollered at him the moment he closed the door.

  “Saying what? That you’re my girlfriend? Everyone knows, Esther—”

  “That’s not the point. This is work.”

  “Come on. How long are you going to play the ‘we’re at work’ card?”

  “For as long as we’re at work!” I clasped my mouth shut trying not yell. “Everyone knows that I’m here because of my grandfather—”

  “It’s been a year. Everyone can see you aren’t some entitled brat. The fact that there is now a foreign distribution floor and not a foreign rights desk is mostly because of you.”

  “Exactly! There is more on my plate now. More I want to do—”

  “And being my girlfriend impedes that how?”

  I stopped unsure of how to reply. And so, like an idiot, I stared at Howard—the Yale grad, the golden boy from a good family, the Mr. Nice Guy who had been sweet, kind, and patient, who was allergic to cats but still left food out for his neighbor’s when it came over, the guy who was staring at me waiting for an answer that I owed him but was too much of a chicken to say.

  “Esther, are we breaking up? Is that what’s happening?”

  I put my hands behind my back and hung my head. “I don’t know…sorry no… I mean…I’m… yeah. I don’t want to move in. I don’t want to settle down. There are so many things I need to do and I need to do them in my own space.”

  “I’m sorry too.” He sighed, walked over to me and wrapped me in his arms while I stood there. “I shouldn’t have rushed you. We’ll keep taking things slow, okay?”

  When he pulled back I was too dumbfounded to speak so I just nodded.

  “Good. I’ll see you later.” He kissed my lips quickly then turned around and walked out.

  I walked out towards the hive as he walked towards the elevator to go down to his floor and placed my bag on the desk.

  “Did you break up?” she asked sitting up and handing me a cake pop.

  “I don’t know.” I frowned as I took it and sat down slowly.

  She came around and leaned on my desk. “What do you mean you don’t know? One usually know these things.”

  “Apparently not. Should I be happy or sad?” I asked taking a bite, and the moment I did I wanted the whole velvet cake. “This is good and I should be happy, right?”

  “Rule of thumb, if you have to ask whether or not you’re happy, you’re not.” She sat up and then sighed dramatically. “But what do I know? I’m just a twenty-eight-year-old single woman in New York.”

  “Successful.” I added with a smile. “You are a successful, beautiful, single woman in New York.”

  “Right?” She grinned. “Look at this skin? Not a blemish anywhere. And not a single student debt is left for me to pay off…I even like my apartment.”

  “We are not worthy.” I bowed to her and she laughed.

  “I like you, Noëlle.”

  Grinning I put my hand over my chest. “Aww, thank you but my love life is already complicated—”

  “Shut up.” She giggled, shaking her head as she looked on her laptop screen and I did the same though I couldn’t really focus.

  For some reason I felt like I was missing something. Like there was this big blind spot in myself and the more I tried to figure it out the blinder I became. When I looked around, everyone at Penohxi Publishing House seemed to have their head on straight. Everyone was talented, the best of the best. English and Humanities majors from Ivy League schools, with larger-than-life dreams. Then there was just me, Esther Noëlle. My only two skills were reading comparison and languages. I know that alone was great. I knew most people barely spoke two. However, I always felt like…like I wasn’t whole. Like I wasn’t really living but merely going through the motions. Whenever I wanted to go I found myself staying put like I was waiting…waiting for what though?

  Li-Mei was twenty-eight and after graduating from Princeton she backpacked all across Europe taking the most breathtaking photos, of which she later published in multiple magazines before joining us only two weeks ago. She was single but not because she was too busy traveling or too beautiful, but because she was searching for the one. She had almost everything she wanted and her life was all laid out for her.

  Rafi Patel, my grandfather’s personal assistant, was a recent film graduate who’d won the honor to shadow and be mentored by my grandfather for a year. Penohxi was created only twenty-three years ago and my grandfather’s dream to bring more diverse stories and backgrounds to the forefront of entertainment had exploded faster than even he’d expected. We were now ranked alongside Google and Facebook as one of the happiest places to work. Working here was every English Major’s dream job, and to get here you needed to be the best.

  But I didn’t go to any Ivy League, instead, I went to NYU.

  I got average grades: As and Bs.

  I’d never traveled anywhere outside of New York, California, and New Jersey. And those were all for work with my grandfather when I was younger. Everywhere I looked people all around me had a goal they were running towards and I was just following my grandfather.

  You’ve got FanMail!

  The crown icon on my computer screen blinked.

  “I wish,” I muttered to myself as I opened it and read AngstLover4Lord’s message.

  Dear Mr. Lord,

  First off your name is so cool! Has anyone every told you that?

  “Yeah like almost every other day,” I replied softly still reading.

  I know you like to keep a low profile and I’m not even sure if this message will get to you but I just needed to tell you…your book changed my life. Seriously, I’ve always been so depressed and being shy makes it hard for me to speak up most times. But after reading Smile at Her and Duchess of Hope I realized how fleeting life can be and why we need to speak or die with our words. Today, some girls at school were trying to get me to do their homework for them again. When I told them no, you should have seen their faces. It’s a small step but I’m sure by the time I go to college next year I’ll have it down pat like the Duchess of Marina. Thank you and never stop writing. I’ll always keep r
eading.

  Your #1 fan from Austria,

  Franziska.

  “Wow.” I had to fight back tears. I was a crybaby, yeah, I know, but it was so sweet, and I completely understood her.

  I wanted to reply to her personally and let her know that I’d gotten her message and would send it off but I’d be here all day if I tried to reply to his letters. Instead, the email sent out the automated message which read:

  Thank you for taking the time to write to Malachi Lord and for being such an amazing fan of his work. He truly enjoys getting these messages! We will forward it and I’ll let you know when he’s gotten it. Until then, join us at Lord Nation where fellow fans can share their love, support and overall thoughts of each novel.

  Esther Noëlle,

  Translation Editor.

  Penohxi Publishing House.

  Lord Nation Creator/Blogger.

  “Hold the elevators!” I jumped at the sound of Rafi’s voice, and I rose to my feet as he ran towards the door after my grandfather.

  “Grandpa?” I called out but he wasn’t listening. I wasn’t even sure he’d seen me. With his ear to the phone, he put his jacket on and got into the elevator. Rafi tried to get on after him but he shook his head.

  “Rafi, what is it?” I asked as he rushed back to the hive and reached for the projector’s remote to turn on the television so that it would reflect on the glass of my grandfather’s office.

  On screen we watched as a tall man with what looked like a tire iron broke the glass window of silver BWM, which was one of at least a dozen cars involved in the accident but it didn’t look like New York.

  Smoke was coming out of the car and he pulled and pulled until the door budged open, then he lifted an elderly woman out of the car like bloody Superman. The camera zoomed in on his ashy, bloody, scratched up face as he yelled for help.

  “What’s wrong with the volume?” Rafi banged the remote on his hand until he turned to us frustrated. “Forget about that. Guys, that’s Malachi Lord!”

  “Shut up!” I yelled as we all moved in closer to see.

  “He’s bloody hot man!” Diane gasped and then giggled. “I thought he was some old geezer who your grandfather knew, Esther.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered staring at the replay over and over again, unable to take my eyes off him. He wasn’t hot…he was…beautiful. And to say that as he was bruised, cut up, and sweaty made me wonder what he looked like every day. It made me wonder if his eyes really were that blue.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

  “Ah!” Everyone covered our ears as the volume blasted on.

  “Sorry!” Rafi said quickly turning it down enough for us to hear the anchor speak.

  “As you can see, Malachi Lord, the award-winning and best-selling poet and novelist, who has all but avoided the public eye, refusing interviews, photos, even signings, leaped to the aid of an elderly woman who was trapped in her car. We have reports that despite the fact that he appeared fine during this ordeal, he fell unconscious due to the injuries he’d sustained only seconds after the video feed was cut. He was transferred to a local hospital where he is reportedly in a stable condition.”

  “How do they know it’s him?” Leon asked as he chewed on the back of his pen. “I mean, come on? Romance novelist by day, superhero stud…also by day?”

  Before all of us could speak our phones started to ring or beep.

  It was a good question…a question everyone wanted to know. And the only two people who knew for sure if the man on screen was Malachi Lord, was Malachi Lord himself, and my grandfather, his agent, and publisher.

  “I have Reader’s Digest on the line asking if it’s really him!”

  “We say Penohxi Publishing House does not disclose any private information about our authors unless authorized to do so by said authors,” I said as they moved to their desks. “Say it over and over again like canaries until you’re either sick of answering the phones and tweeting or you clock out for the day.”

  They all stared at me and I didn’t realize why until Rafi handed me a tissue. “You okay?”

  I blinked a few times and sure enough water was coming out of my eyes and I had no idea why. This always seemed to happen!

  “Yeah.” I wiped my face quickly and tried to deflect. “So does anyone have a better idea?”

  “We’re canaries.” Rafi nodded as he answered his phone and, in a heavy Indian accent, repeated what I’d said. Everyone did so with the exception of Li-Mei, who instead of answering calls was making them. She’d dial, lift it to her ear, hang up and dial again. Panicked, she started to shake as she ran her hands through her blonde hair. Her beloved velvet cake pops lay on the ground crumbled and broken.

  “Li-Mei? What is it?”

  She pointed to the old woman being pulled out of the car. “The woman he’s carrying. That’s my mom!”

  3. PAIN AND NOVOCAINE

  MALACHI

  “I’m thinking of raising my agent fees.” His voice sounded the way the movies portrayed God’s voice; calm yet strong, steady but with a hint of mystery. Luckily Alfred was not God or I'd—

  “A five percent raise sound good to you?”

  Tilting my head towards his voice I opened my eyes and found him sitting in a chair beside me with his feet kicked up onto a small space of the bed, and, as he finished peeling his tangerine, he stuck a piece between his lips. He wasn't watching me but the television across from the hospital bed.

  “How much do you currently make?”

  He paused and looked to me. Annoyed he shook his head and asked, “What do you do with the contracts I give you?”

  “Sign the last page and give them back to you.”

  He sucked his teeth, he frowned. “Why do I even bother?” He muttered and continued eating.

  “Guilt.” I reminded him. Alfred Noëlle, great director, and the man who carried the death of my mother on his shoulders, had devoted more than twenty years of his life to watching over the son that had been left behind.

  “Guilt.” He repeated as he nodded to himself. Rising from his chair he gathered his stuff and walked to the door.

  “How long was I out this time?”

  “Twelve hours.”

  “Not bad.” I hadn't meant for him to hear but he did and being the man he was... he had to comment.

  “Do you even remember what happened?” he asked me, and in all honesty I'd been so used to coming to the hospital that I hadn’t thought about…

  Shit. “The accident.”

  “Yes.” He pointed to the screen and I focused on it for the first time ever, watching myself as I pulled the woman from the car, and reading my name on the banner under the video: Malachi Lord: Hero.

  “Shit!” I sat up quickly, apparently too quickly and my shoulder ached in protest. “Alfred, tell them to take it down—”

  “Do I look like the Wizard of Oz? How? You chose the slowest news day in America’s history to publicly expose yourself. Your days of hiding are over, Malachi.”

  “No…No!” I hollered, panic setting in as I watched myself on screen. The more I watched, the more pain I was in until I found myself hunched over and slamming my palm over my right eye. Grinding my teeth, I tore off all the wires attached to my body before it brought in the white coats.

  “Malachi!” He reached over to me but I smacked his hands away.

  “I need to go home!” I snapped at him.

  “Malachi you need the doctor—”

  “THEY CAN’T HELP ME!”

  “You can’t leave like this, you need to calm down.”

  I didn’t say anything as I rolled onto my side and focused on the chair he’d been sitting in. And slowly, far too slowly, like the calm waters after a tsunami, the pain retreated…leaving that familiar feeling of Novocaine in my mouth. As I lay there like the pitiful waste of flesh I was, I wondered for maybe the billionth time, what I had done to be cursed like this.

  “Malachi?”

  “She’s going to find me, Al
fred,” I whispered despairingly. I’d made a mistake. Twenty-nine…thirty years next weekend, that’s how long I’d been able to avoid her, and now with my face plastered everywhere… and all because I’d saved the old woman who for some absurd reason I’d felt bad for.”

  “At least the pain will end, Malachi.”

  “No.” I blinked slowly still staring at the chair. “That’s when the real pain starts.”

  “Maybe…maybe she’ll run from you too.”

  “She won’t be able to.” It didn’t work that way. I remembered the moment I got the scar over my eye time and time again. For her it was different. She couldn’t remember anything. She’d experience a series of déjà-vus that she’d try to piece together until she found me. Once she did…we’d die and do it all again.

  “I’ll get you discharged.” Listening to his voice I really wished he was God, maybe then I could demand we settle this like men…

  Smirking at the idea I closed my eyes and whispered, “Make it ten percent, Alfred.”

  I didn’t hear what he said in return. I waited for a few seconds before I pushed myself up from the bed and stretched out my neck. Hanging on the back of the bathroom door was a suit bag courtesy of Alfred.

  “I have to ask you.” No one was in the room, but I spoke anyway knowing that the same God that could keep returning the memories of my past lives had to be watching, or at the very least listening. “Why bother letting me die?”

  Ignoring the physical pain, I reached for the bag and entered the bathroom. “I mean, if I’m going to remember anyway, why not just make me immortal?”

  Turning on the faucet, I splashed water onto my face and took a deep breath before glancing up into the mirror. Seeing those blue eyes stare back at me, my eyes, yet they didn’t feel like it… The white skin, the black hair…none of it felt like me with the exception of the scar; the faint line which ran from my cheekbone through my eyelid and stopped right above my eyebrow…not just this face but every face. My face didn’t feel like my face because when I looked in the mirror it sometimes changed to reflect my past lives and it was as if they were all standing right beside me and I could see them clearly, one by one.