Chapter 1 #3
Her smile was warm, bunching her round cheeks, and all of the patience in it made Micah want to slam the door and lock it. How ridiculous he must look, afraid to let innocent maintenance people into his bathroom.
After shutting the door and pulling away the slide chain, he stepped outside and nodded to the men as they carried the mirror into the studio. The light stabbed at his left eye, and he shielded it, squinting.
A cool breeze rustled his hair, and a dove made a soft coo from a nearby tree.
His place was on the second floor by the stairs that wrapped around the outside of the complex, and it gave him a lovely view of the city.
In the distance, the tops of buildings scratched the bellies of fat clouds, sunlight turning windows and peaked roofs into the brilliant facets of gems. He inhaled, and a little of the tightness in his chest eased. It really was nice out this morning.
“The silicone won’t be cured in fifteen minutes,” Ximena said, “but they’re going to put tape around the edges of the mirror to hold it to the cabinet door. Leave it for, like, three days, just to be certain, okay? I hope you didn’t clean up the mess last night. Sweeping at night is bad luck.”
“So is breaking a mirror. And I’ve fulfilled my quota of bad luck for the last year already.”
She patted his arm. “Yes, you have.” Her gaze hung on him, and he imagined how she must see him, with his blown pupil and the scars snaking over his cheekbone and through his eyebrow.
They had waned from their deep mauve, but they were still far pinker after nine months than the doctor had promised.
Micah’s face would never be the same again no matter what, but the scars’ stubborn refusal to fade to white felt like an additional sign to others that he was not okay.
Evident by Ximena looking at him like this fragile, damaged thing that needed to be coddled.
Or maybe she was remembering how he looked after returning from the hospital, swollen and stitched and covered in gauze.
Holding out the tote bag, she said, “I brought you chicharrónes con pico de gallo.”
Micah sighed.
“You don’t like it? Or you don’t know?” she asked. “I can’t remember if I brought you some before.”
“You have, and it’s delicious. But you don’t need to bring me food anymore.
” After he came home from surgery, she’d ordered delivery every night and had the driver leave it at his door, until he called to tell her that though the gesture was lovely, he couldn’t stomach any more greasy burgers and congealed mac and cheese.
She’d replied apologetically, I don’t really know what white people eat.
After that, it had stopped being delivery and instead handmade tamales, pozole, and thick sheets of chicharrón with salsa.
He hadn’t had the energy to protest then, since he spent most of the time lying in bed, hoping that if he didn’t move, he’d be absorbed into the mattress.
But needing to give her the dishes back had motivated him to get up and wash them, sometimes tidying the kitchen a little while he was at it.
But he wasn’t trying to assimilate into the furniture anymore, and he didn’t need incentive to clean, do laundry, or shower.
Ximena pushed the tote bag at him. “It’s no trouble.”
“Stop feeling sorry for me. It’s been almost nine months.”
Lines bracketed her mouth. “What did you eat for dinner last night? Did you cook? Did you go out to a restaurant?” She shook her head and waved her hand as though erasing her last question. “You didn’t go anywhere.”
“You’re worse than my grandma used to be.”
“And I’m sure she’d be thanking me for saving you another day of eating microwave ramen from the back of your cabinet. You love my food. I love that you love it. I don’t have to feel sorry for you to bring you some.”
She was lying, but he took the bag and peeked inside. “Thanks. I’ll bring your dish back later.”
“I know you will.” She smiled. “Is it quiet at night now?”
“No,” he muttered. “Someone is still playing music in the middle of the night. It sounds like it’s being piped directly into my studio. I can’t sleep.”
Ximena pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Well, I’ve already talked to Randi, and she’s never home at night, either working or staying at her girlfriend’s place, so it’s not her.”
“Which one is she?”
“Directly above you.”
No wonder pounding on the ceiling didn’t do any good. But if it wasn’t her, then who? “Maybe I need to buy a white noise machine or a louder fan.”
“No. I’ll figure it out.”
“Just ask them to show you their playlists. Whoever has Soft Cell set to repeat is your culprit. You can ask them when you’re installing more mirrors that have fallen down from crumbling silicone.”
She shook her head. “This apartment is the only one I’ve had trouble with.”
“You said you had to replace one of the mirrors before.”
“Yes, here! Same thing happened to the last tenant. He said it fell by itself in the night.”
“That’s… odd.” He chuckled. “He wasn’t tormented by eighties music at two am, was he?”
“Not that I remember. But he was weird. And his sculptures were” – she wrinkled her nose – “grotesque. Garish.”
“He was an artist too?” This neighborhood was called the Artists’ District for a reason, but he’d met plenty of people here who weren’t. Or they wrote horrible poetry, which was worse.
“Yes, of course. And he was a polite boy. Friendly. But his art was not tasteful like yours. It wouldn’t surprise me if he broke the mirror in the bathroom on purpose as part of some experimental, artsy thing.”
Making garish and grotesque art to channel complicated feelings wasn’t any worse than what Micah was doing – except that he was able to hide his peculiar habits from everyone but his phone company.
Ximena peered at her reflection in his window and tucked loose strands of hair back into her updo.
He didn’t think she was that much older than him, maybe ten years, but her gray hair and motherly concern threw him off.
Turning back to him, she said, “That wasn’t right.
Forget I said any of that. I shouldn’t be talking about the dead. ”
“The last tenant died?”
“Yes.” She clutched her elbows and shifted uncomfortably, her gauzy blouse rippling in the wind. “I came out of the office one day to see people moving furniture out of his place. They gave me an invitation to the funeral, but I didn’t go.”
“Damn. What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. There was an obituary, but they never tell you in those things. Shame, though. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, twenty-seven.”
The door creaked open, and the maintenance men walked out. “All done,” one of them said. “Hey, your art is really good. Do you draw those from live models?”
“Dead ones. It’s a little tricky getting a corpse up the stairs, but I can pose them on the couch, and they’ll sit still for me for hours.
They never complain that they have a cramp or that it’s too drafty…
” Micah trailed off at the man’s blank expression, then said, “That was a joke.” Maybe not a very good one in light of the previous topic.
“And no, I didn’t draw those ones from live models, but I used to.
They’d commission me to do their portrait. ”
“Some of those women you’ve got up there are super hot.” He whistled. “That’s a sweet gig. They pay you to look at them naked basically. Wish I knew how to draw.”
Micah pursed his lips and hoped it resembled a smile. “The people who came to my studio usually stayed clothed. I appreciate you stopping by this morning.” He nodded to Ximena. “Thanks for the chicharrónes.”
He carried the bag inside and set it on the kitchen counter. As he reached in for the food, the front door swung open, and the maintenance man stepped over the threshold and onto the carpet.
“I forgot the silicone.”
Micah screeched, and his heart caught in his throat. No no no. No one could be inside with him.
Get out!
Get out!
His vision tunneled, limbs going rigid. The oven handle scraped into his side as he pressed against the counter, but he barely felt it.
Though his mind screamed at him to flee, or to grab a weapon and fight, he was paralyzed.
He needed to tell the man to leave, but each word crowded in his throat until he was certain he would choke on them.
A hand – Ximena’s – snatched the man’s shirt sleeve and yanked him outside. The door slammed shut and she shouted, “I’m so sorry, mijo!”
Breaking from his cemented position, Micah rushed to the door and threw the deadbolts and the slide chain.
He trembled, nerves short-circuiting and terror pumping through his veins.
His cheek pressed against the door, eyes watering, and he slowly sank to his knees and thudded his forehead against the grainy tile.
Tremors quaked his chest, dust bunnies and a pencil shaving stirring from his frantic breath.
Footsteps clanged down the stairs outside, the maintenance man’s mutters of “I’m sorry” standing no chance against Ximena’s sharp admonishments.
Shame plunged into Micah’s gut amid the other mess of signals his body was sending him. That guy didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t deserve Micah’s reaction. Micah didn’t deserve Micah’s reaction.
He balled his fists, intent on taking this energy out on something, but he’d already stomped on half-painted canvases and flipped over his drafting table after returning from the hospital, and it hadn’t made him feel better.
Pushing to his feet, he ran his hands through his hair, slapped his cheeks, and walked to the bathroom.
The new mirror looked exactly like the old one, save for the strips of tape on each corner.
The silicone sat on the toilet tank. He could return it with Ximena’s dish later, and maybe he could get the maintenance guy a six-pack next time he went shopping.
A shadow drifted in his peripheral vision, and he tensed. Great, now his body was in overdrive, imagining intruders who weren’t there.
Everyone left. He was alone. He’d locked the door.
Even so, he peered down the empty hall. Nothing. But when he turned back toward the mirror, he gasped. Written across it in cheery pink was the phrase:
EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY