Chapter 37
On my way home, Joel writes. Then it says he’s typing; I can feel him thinking about whether to send the next part. He does. Please tell me you’re still at my house.
I smile. No. I send that. I write, I wish. I send that, too.
Come back?
My thumbs hover, hesitating. I can’t right now, I write. I’m sorry.
There is a pause and the screen is white with anticipation. Then he sends, I understand.
He thinks it’s about Grub. It should be about Grub.
Are you feeling ok? I ask him.
Yes. You?
Not bad, I lie. I am in my bed. It’s a good thing it’s the weekend and Dee can take care of Ella. I told Dee I must’ve caught a virus. She said it’d been a while since that happened. I’ve been so healthy.
I know why I’m lying; there’s nothing anyone can do.
If I get better, I will have spared Dee the panic. If I get worse, I’ll tell her. Either way, I can’t see Joel again.
If he touches me now, I will die.
I may already be dying.
You sure? he writes. He knows. Or at least a little.
Yup.
Good.
“Good,” I whisper with my dragon’s breath.
There are stinging blisters on the roof of my mouth.
My fever has gone up again. I take two more Aleve tablets.
My fingers hurt on the lid of the plastic bottle; my skin feels like it’ll come off with the twist. I watch the water level in my glass by the bed—it’s nearing drought conditions, and I will need to get up again, which seems hard.
Ella hovers in the doorway, uneasy. She studies me for a flinching moment and then looks away as though she’s seen something inappropriate. “Are you still feeling really sick, Titi?”
“Yeah, sweetie. Sorry.”
“Do you think I could come in anyway?”
I nod.
She takes two steps forward into the room. “Mommy said you might be contagious.” She waits.
Right. And I should keep up that pretense. But I don’t. “I’m not going to get you sick, baby. I promise.”
The serious dark eyes study me. She walks the rest of the way in, stands next to the bed. She reaches out and touches my wrist. “You feel warm.”
I nod.
“I hope you get better soon, Titi.”
“Me, too, Els.” Each word is pain, like the Little Mermaid in the original fairy tale, when each step on her new human feet is like walking on the blades of knives. I, too, am being magicked to suffer.
“Do you want me to read to you?”
I blink in surprise and try not to let her see it in my face. “That would be nice.”
“Okay, I’ll go get a book. I’ll be right back.”
She dashes out. I wonder what she’ll bring.
One of the really simple ones—Dan the Duck, maybe, with four words per page.
But when she returns, she’s carrying a chapter book.
It’s the second book in the Libby series.
The one that has been sitting forever on a forgotten table on the far side of the couch, except for a brief trip to the waterpark.
“Wow,” I say, my voice rasping.
Her smile is a tiny fish shimmying close to the surface. She knows I’m surprised. She is proud of herself. “We can start this one together. I decided to start it.”
“Good decision. Looks like a good book.”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet. It might have some scary parts.” She looks up at me.
I nod. “Yeah. It might. But I bet you can handle it.”
“I was so scared when that woman made you put the bag on your head,” she says instantly. We’ve already talked about it ad nauseam. She will continue to talk about it for many years, I know, integrating it bit by bit into her understanding of reality.
“You were so brave,” I tell her. “You’re a brave girl.”
She tips her head down thoughtfully, picks at a hole in the hem of her overworn dress.
(It is the right soft material; she’s been wearing it for two years now, from maxi to mini length.) “Maybe.” And then, without further ado, she snuggles close, opens the book, and begins, haltingly and a little robotically, to read.
Don’t cry, I tell myself. Do not cry.
I do cry, just a little, but I successfully keep it to myself.
* * *
It’s 3:45 PM. I should sleep. I am afraid to sleep.
I reach for my water, drink the last of it with two more Aleve tablets.
If I wake up tomorrow, I need to tell Dee.
She will probably throw me over her shoulder and take me straight to the hospital.
Where they won’t be able to help me at all.
They weren’t able to help Omar, when I called 911.
He died on the floor of his dorm room, gasping, his lips gray, the paramedics slamming on his chest, his green flannel shirt that I always loved torn off, forgotten.
His scent, the specific bittersweet tang of his deodorant and sweat, lingered in its folds for months after.
They didn’t help Omar. Or Arlo or Benny or Sam. Or Adam.
I wonder what Ella will be like when she’s ten.
When she will stop asking, “Is it okay?” Maybe she’ll keep asking for her whole life.
But I have a feeling it will fall away, gently, with time.
It will slough off invisibly, as most things do.
And one day she will be a girl, and then a woman, who doesn’t need to ask. Who knows that it is okay.
Am I a woman who knows that it is okay?
I’m not sure.
I lift my phone with flimsy, pain-crusted fingers. Can you tell me you love me? I think. But I don’t type anything.
I’m so tired. Sleep is a heavy door closing on my brain— the vault door in a movie about a robbery at a casino. It’s swinging shut, and no one is strong enough to stop it, least of all me.
I’m vanishing into a velvet blackness when something wakes me back up. A voice, downstairs. A voice I know, though for a moment I’m not sure how I know it. I don’t like it. I know that much. I don’t like it at all.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, assertive.
I am cringing into the softness of my bed.
The door is opening.
Why is no one stopping him?
But I know why.
They can’t. No one has ever been able to stop him.
“There she is,” Dick Face says, silky sweet and pleased. “My favorite little succubus.”