Chapter Eleven #2
“Right.” She waved off his rejection. “You’re in Manhattan for the week, which means you’re probably spending all your free time with your sister and your niece.
” Not that she was expecting an invite, but still.
“So, what?” She continued the conversation, breezy and casual.
“You guys have some big family thing planned for Hanukkah tonight?”
David grimaced. “Actually, I kind of . . . have a date tonight.”
Her breath hitched in her throat.
Of course he was dating. Why wouldn’t he be dating? It had been two damn years since he walked out on her, and he had seen fit to move on with his life.
A million thoughts raced through her mind. She wanted to ask him who the woman was, how long they had been together, if it was serious. But speaking any of those words aloud would have been admitting . . . What, exactly? That he had hurt her? That she still loved him?
Never. She would rather go out like Ebenezer Scrooge, tossed into his own grave by some sixteen-foot hand-beaded puppet, than ever give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had hurt her.
“Anyway,” she said. “I should probably get going. I have a big night fondling a sixteen-foot puppet, after all.”
He attempted to follow her. “Evelyn . . .”
She turned at the threshold. “What? What is it, David? What do you want from me?”
Her words lingered in the air between them, icy and cold.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “Just . . . have a good night.”
Quickly, she made her exit—her good day, and the good mood that had come with it, fading fast.
Hell hath no fury like a woman dealing with a shiny puppet.
Evelyn tore open her bag of Q-tips and poured acetone into a foam coffee cup she had gathered.
Swirling the liquid around as she stood in front of that sixteen-foot Ghost of Christmas Future puppet, she was determined not to think about David.
They were divorced. What did she care that he had moved on with his life, met another woman .
. . was off somewhere, wining and dining her, with his sexy body, and his great hair, and his willingness to perform hours of cunnilingus in the bedroom.
She would have physically shaken the thought away, but her head was killing her. Her migraine had returned, and frankly—she glanced down at the cup of acetone in her hand—the fumes weren’t helping. She forced herself to ignore the pain, both physical and emotional, and focus on work.
The throbbing over her left eye increased to include her sinuses and the entirety of her forehead.
David, on some stupid date. David, who had the appalling audacity to return to her life after two years away.
David, and all their unresolved issues—like that crib he left behind when he abandoned her.
At least beads she could control.
She dipped her Q-tip into the acetone and, climbing back up that ladder, started at the top, using her flashlight to guide her. Providing she was delicate enough, the acetone would remove the shiny haze without disrupting the beads or the glue beneath them.
She worked hard, like always. First one in, last one out.
She got lost in the mindless repetition of it, dipping Q-tips into acetone, gently wiping away glue, even as her migraine worsened.
Freaking David. She imagined him choking on his appetizers, getting food poisoning, having massive and explosive diarrhea on the streets of Manhattan. See how your date likes that, huh?
Soon, the pain in her head was accompanied by a visual aura. The room began to spin. The beads all blurred together. Evelyn took a step down from the ladder, her head throbbing, when a voice came from behind her.
“You didn’t light the menorah.”
Evelyn spun around and found a gangly teenager, hands dug into his pockets. “Excuse me?” she asked, blinking him into focus. She didn’t recognize him from her cast and crew, and he was dressed strangely, wearing what appeared to be a vintage-style letterman jacket paired with dark blue jeans.
“The menorah,” he repeated, digging his hands into his dungarees, inching closer. “It’s Hanukkah, and you haven’t lit it.”
“What are you—” she grimaced “—the Hanukkah police?”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugged, moving closer to both her and the puppet. “Don’t you think that speaks to some inability to find necessary balance in your life?”
He went to touch the puppet.
Evelyn full-on screamed. “Don’t!”
“What?” He grinned mischievously. “You don’t want me to touch it?”
“It’s very delicate.”
“Delicate . . . like a heart?” He smirked.
She didn’t like his tone. Nor was she in the mood for being teased by teenagers.
“I’m sorry,” she said, perturbed. “Can I help you with something?”
“Actually, it’s the opposite. I’m here to help you. I’m Two.”
“Two?”
“Come on,” he said, rocking back on his heels.
“You’re really going to make me do the whole song and dance here?
I’m not a very good singer. Though I’ve heard you were .
. . back in high school, when you were younger.
I’ve been told by the powers that be that you could really belt out a musical tune. ”
Evelyn stumbled back. No, there was no way. There was no such thing as the eight heartbreaks of Hanukkah. This was clearly a delusion, brought on by a migraine, and breathing in acetone for the last hour, and the stress of knowing David was out banging another woman.
“So.” Two clapped his hands together. “You ready?”
“For what?”
“To journey back to high school.”
“No!” Evelyn did not hesitate. “No, I am not ready.”
“Well, unfortunately, what you want right now doesn’t entirely matter.”
“You’re a hallucination,” she shouted back at him. “You’re not real.”
“Is it the high school thing?” he inquired seriously.
“Because let me tell you . . . everyone I visit reacts this way when I tell them we’re going back to their adolescence.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck smelling like Axe body spray for all of eternity.
So really, between the two of us, who’s got the worse deal here? ”
“Screw this,” she said, and tried to run away.
She made it all the way to the door, when she stopped. Glancing back over her shoulder to see if the hallucination was still there, she realized that the specter had moved. Two was now positioned at the bottom of the ladder, both hands on the rungs, staring up at the puppet.
“What are you doing?” Evelyn asked.
“I’m taking a closer look.”
Two began climbing up the ladder.
“Don’t do that,” she said, coming back inside.
“What?” Two stopped halfway up, and then reached for the tulle.
“You don’t want me . . . touching this very cool, very sparkly puppet?
You worried I’m gonna break it or something?
I mean, isn’t that what teenagers do? Break stuff, sometimes by accident .
. . or sometimes, just because it’s fun . . .”
“You can’t break it,” she reminded him. “Because you’re a hallucination. The product of my migraine . . . and a bout with temporary insanity.”
“You sure?”
He lifted one finger into the air, and then, with great and dramatic flair, went to touch the puppet. Evelyn couldn’t take the risk.
“Stop!” she called out.
Two stopped.
“I’ll go with you,” she said, and felt distinctly like she was volunteering as tribute. “We’ll do it your way, okay? Whatever you want. Just please . . . don’t touch the puppet. The puppet is extremely important to the third act.”
Two considered her offer. “Actually,” he said, smirking in her direction, “I think we should do both.”
With all the effort he could muster, Two pushed that puppet in her direction.
The attack happened so quickly that Evelyn didn’t have time to jump out of the way.
All at once, she was enveloped by it. She tried to push it off, but it was no use.
Despite all her best efforts to escape the sixteen-foot monstrosity, she was lost in some supernatural maze of tulle, and beadwork, and acetone . . . before there was clarity.
And music.
Suddenly, she could hear Lenny Kravitz playing faintly in the distance, along with the sound of chatter, voices mingling and laughing; and the distinct smell of beer and baby powder.
She stopped fighting with the puppet because she knew where they were going.
The memory, like that smell, imprinted on her brain.
It was the night she had lost her virginity.