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“Yes, of course! It’s great to hear from you.”
She’s calledme. I sit back in my chair, chest expanding. This hack I’ve been doing is going backward rather than forward, and despite the fact that I need to explain and apologize to her, I love chatting to Kate. A miracle in its own right.
“How’s the ER?” I want an update on everything. “What’s happened with the asshole physician?”
She laughs. “I’ve not been on with him since I saw you.” Her voice dips a bit, and I’m straight back to the bar dancing in front of her, hand on her back, her hip. “Thank God. But the ER is fine. I’m fine. Just … fine.”
Her voice tails off, and I have a feeling that she’s not fine at all, but I don’t know her well enough to push. Now I’m even more determined not to add to her problems. I suck in a deep breath.
“I’m glad you called,” I say. “I’m sorry I rushed off the other night.”
“Oh! That’s okay. I had too much to drink, and my mouth ran away with me.”
Sweat trickles down my spine. “It was all good, Kate. I’m highly flattered, but I’m not what you need.”
Silence ticks down the line. I have no radar for poor decisions, no inner compass that says this is a bad decision and this one is better, but something about this feels off, like a cymbal clashing in the wrong part of the music. I stand up and pace away from my desk.
“That’s okay,” she says quietly.
And I groan internally. I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this. This is worse: She’s taking it as a rejection. I don’t want to reject Kate. I don’t want her to feel that she’s not worthy or interesting or … I’m the one at fault here.
But before I can say anything else, she says, “Friends?”
I come to a halt where I’m wearing a familiar path across the rug.Friends? God, no.
“Okay,” I say because my head is empty of any other sensible response, and how can I explain all that is my life, my past, over the phone like this?
“Actually, I rang because I’ve got a favor to ask,friend,” she says.
“Oh yeah?” Ah! A tech question. I should have known. People always call when they need help with their computer. Although … why didn’t she ask Jo?
“I’ve got a bit of a difficulty with my family,” she says, and I stare blindly at the window that overlooks the street.
What?
She’s so together I can’t imagine her parents as anything less than organized and kind. And I amnotthe person to consult about any sort of family problem. All my life I’ve kicked sand over my fucked-up history and buried the trails. Dad was a violent offender with terrifying anger problems, regularly careening into the house completely plastered to take whatever was eating him out on us with his fists. He was in and out of jail, and we werealwaysfucking delighted when he was behind bars. He went there permanently when he went crazy one night and killed my mom in a jealous rage when I was sixteen. He’s been in there a long time. Zach—my brother—and I testified against him.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I swing around, taking in the empty room. I stretch out my throat. The ghost of his hand always sits on the back of my neck, his whisper in my ear saying, “What you doing, boy?” in that way he had. He used to tighten his hand around our throats if he didn’t like the way we answered his questions, my mom’s hysterical voice promising him anything, anything if he’d stop.
Killing my mom, I suspect, was an accident. Oh! I’m not trying to excuse him. He was way too drunk most of the time to ever think about anything he did. But holding on to the rage I felt afterward ate away at me. I have no idea whether he’s still alive or not, or even still in jail, although he should be—he got life. Zach and I ran wild after she died: burglaries, drugs, booze, out of reach of the authorities. Unhinged and free, we could have killed ourselves and not cared. We both felt we could have saved our mom if we had known, if we had acted sooner: If, if, if.
Kate clears her throat. And oh shit! My silence has gone on way too long.
“Okay,” I say.
And a whole story comes tumbling out about her cousin’s wedding, about her family’s expectations, the pressure they place on her, and how she told them she was bringing someone along. I put her on speaker and sit down to listen. Is this what normal families do? My dad used his disapproval of us to fuel his anger and excuse his violent behavior: Somehow it was always our fault. Is this just a different, more civilized, condemnation?
“God, Kate, they sound …” well, at best they sound “… manipulative?”
“That’s about right.”
Footsteps scuff in the background, a cupboard door opens and closes, a spoon clinks against a cup, and I stare at the dark outside. She’s probably in a soft T-shirt and sweatpants. I would stand behind her, lift that blonde silk, and kiss her neck. As I examine my weary reflection in the window, the warm glow of the lamp by the couch, the penny drops, and my heart takes off.
“Just a minute, let me get this straight. You wantmeto go along?” She wants the unstable, tattooed hacker guy to go with her to … “Why?”
I stand again and pad across the worn floorboards and kilims to the kitchen. If she’s drinking coffee, then so am I.
“I don’t think—” she starts, as I say: “I’ll do it if you want me to but”—her breath drifting down the line brings goosebumps up on my neck—“why me? I’d go down like a lead balloon.” I tuck my phone under my chin, turn on the tap, and pick up the brush to clean out my coffeemaker. “I mean I’m hardly the most appropriate …”
