60. Doesn’t Do Me Any Good
STEPHEN SANCHEZ
By the time I reach Union City, snow’s coming down hard, fat white flakes sticking to my windshield.
The only spot is two streets over from his house, and after parking, I shiver inside my black jacket as my snow boots stomp through sleet.
Andison’s tucked against one hip, blinking stars into my hair, and both of my arms are lined with bags.
When I reach Andrew’s house, I pause on the sidewalk to catch my breath. From the window, a colorful Christmas tree glows.
The last time I had a real Christmas tree, I was fifteen. Stringing lights, hanging ornaments, topping it off with a star, then passing by it every day for an entire month—it's all more painful than not having one at all.
Christmas trees are for families.
With memories,
and presents,
and tradition,
and people who sneak zabaglione
in the middle of the night.
I grip the bags tighter.
My arms are going numb,
snow’s melting down my neck.
And I feel crazy. My own skin’s become a straitjacket for my body. My heart’s kneeling in the snow, calling out his name. My brain’s behind her with a shovel, digging the grave.
I didn’t even give him seventy-two hours. But I did all the research. I know what ‘I need space’ actually means.
It’s the slow closing of the door…
‘cause he’s too polite
to slam it in my face.
So before he says goodbye,
I can make sure he doesn’t die.
After knocking, Paola opens the door.
“Andrew is living in a toxic waste dump,” I announce.
She’s standing in red-and-green plaid Christmas pajamas, one hand still on the knob, hair clipped up, face stuck between surprise and the-fuck?
“I’m sorry, what?”
I bypass Paola, knocking the bags into her on the way, kick off my boots by the door, march around the corner.
“Allison, sweetheart,” Paola calls behind me. “Andrew’s not here.”
Relief sighs out of me. “Even better.”
Then my relief trips over the obvious.
If he’s not here, then he’s somewhere else…
With other people.
Or other… person.
My steps slow around the corner.
The living room is set in an orange fireplace glow and Christmas-movie darkness. On the TV, a Hallmark couple is kissing under a mistletoe. Wineglasses are everywhere. Trays of Christmas cookies. Blankets. Pillows. Six women in matching pajamas, frozen mid-sip, staring at me.
Maria’s in the recliner with Teddy Vale fleece. Aunt Lisa’s on one corner of the couch. Aunt Fran’s in the other recliner, next to her, picking popcorn out of her bra.
Gabby’s tucked under a blanket.
The other two—never seen them before.
Maria’s face lights up. “Allison! La mia ragazza preferita!” She reaches for me. “You’re here. Come here, bella mia, come give Maria a hug.”
Paola follows me in, watching me cautiously as I unload everything onto the counter—the bags, my coat, Andison. I step down into the living room and cross to Maria’s recliner.
Maria catches me and kisses my cheek,
then my other cheek,
then my first cheek again,
then she pulls me into her chest,
murmuring Italian.
She smells like Vicks Vapor rub
and meatballs
and something else.
Mother, maybe.
It makes my throat tight.
When I pull away, she grabs my chin. “Ah, Allison,” she says, eyes scanning my face. “You came here with that face.”
“I have one face, Maria.”
“No. This one is lost.”
“I’m not lost,” I assure her.
Her thick brows narrow as if I offended her by lying.
“Look at me, amore,” she whispers raspy.
I do, and her grip around my chin tightens.
“You got pain sittin’ right here.” She smooths her thumb under my eye.
“And here.” Her fingers brush my chest. “But you still came,” she says, patting my cheek. “Brava ragazza. Brave girl.”
Next, Aunt Fran squeezes me tight, swinging me side to side. Aunt Lisa soothes her hand up and down my back, then makes a comment about the purple carving my eyes.
I bend down to Gabby,
she gives me a half-hug.
But I pause at the women I don’t know.
Paola waves her wine between them.
“My sister, Sabrina. My niece, Sera.”
Sabrina lifts her hand,
wiggling five fingers,
all while sipping from her wine,
eyes floating back to the movie.
Sera doesn’t look at me at all.
She sits on the floor with her wineglass—twenties. Freakishly round brown eyes. Big teeth. Big chest.
Big who-the-hell-is-this-bitch energy.
Lovely.
“I didn’t mean to crash your Christmas,” I say, stepping around a tray of Santa cookies. “but I’m gonna need everyone to listen carefully and not panic.”
Aunt Fran freezes,
only her eyes moving across the room.
“Why would we panic?”
I open a cabinet and gasp.
Plastic.
Plastic everywhere.
Containers stacked to the ceiling,
cloudy bottoms.
Lids jammed sideways,
all red and blue and clear.
“Oh, thank God I came.”
Sera’s brow pops.
“Okay. Who is this girl?”
Paola says, “Andrew’s friend.”
Maria sighs, dreamy and proud.
“L’unico vero amore di Andrew.
“Andrew’s one true love.”
My head pops up from under the sink, and I point a trash bag at her ‘cause, like, she didn’t have to say it in both languages.
“Okay, so. First of all, Maria’s heavily medicated and cannot be trusted with anything she says.” I snap the trash bag open. “Second—I regret to inform you that the Harding household has been storing lasagna in slow-release poison boxes.”
Paola takes the trash bag from me.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“DEHP. Phthalate leaching.” I dump a stack of containers into the bag she doesn’t realize she’s now holding open. “You are storing your food inside plastic made from the same ancestral sludge as gasoline.”
Maria gasps from the recliner.
“Exactly.” I point at her.
“Correct response.”
“Allison—” Paola starts.
But I keep going, “Microscopic plastic is probably lodged in Andrew’s arteries as we speak.” I grab a stack of lids and throw them in. “This?” I snatch a small measuring cup off the counter and hold it up between two fingers. “This is literally killing Andrew.”
The living room falls quiet.
Then Lisa snaps,
pointing a red nail at me.
“See? Told you she was crazy.”
Paola’s gaze follows the cup I’m tossing into the trash, brows pulled tight, face pulled horrified.
Her gaze slings back to me.
“Tell me more.”
Lisa’s head drops back.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Paola turns her narrowed eyes at her.
“No, I wanna know.”
“I saw the documentary,” Sera announces, eyes half-rolling. “It’s literally all bullshit.”
“It’s literally a global crisis,” I shoot back, rising onto my toes to grab a container from the top cabinet.
“Did you know the average person consumes a credit card with the amount of water they drink from plastic bottles in a week alone? True story. And it doesn’t stop at the heart.
Plastic exposure can mess with hormones, tumor risk, cancer—”
My head swings behind me to Maria.
“Liver disease.”
Maria slaps a hand to her chest. “Madonn’. You mean maybe it was never the wine?”
“No, Maria.” Lisa snorts.
“For you, it was always the wine.”
Maria throws a pill bottle at her.
“Don’t worry. I’m not staying,” I say, pawing through another cabinet. “I’m just replacing everything with glass containers, plastic-proof Andrew’s bathroom, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Paola follows me around the kitchen,
still holding the trash bag.
“What glass containers?”
“The ones I bought for the house.”
Sera’s mid-sip when a laugh shoots out of her. She gulps down the rest. “You bought strangers glass tupperware?”
I click my tongue. “I bought Andrew and his moms glass containers,” I correct while reaching for the fridge handle, then grumble, “Ones that don’t whisper cancer into Andrew’s baked ziti.”
I swing the fridge door open,
the cold air rushing out.
Paola’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“Allison, you don’t have to do all this.”
Maria rocks back in her recliner, the fire in the hearth reflecting her glasses. “She loves us.”
“Maria,” Lisa warns.
“This is concerning.”
“It’s love,” Maria insists.
I ignore both ‘cause I’m staring into the fridge, a little petrified. It’s stocked from bottom to top for Christmas.
Foil trays. Stuffed shells.
Meatballs sitting fat in red sauce.
Cutlets. Roasted peppers.
Cookie dough shaped, ready to be bake.
It’s Planet Plastic.
Red and blue poisonous death traps.
My hand tightens on the fridge handle.
“Okay,” I say. “Tiny update.”
Lisa groans.
I look over my shoulder.
“This might take me all night.”
Paola accepts defeat and turns toward the cabinet.
“Let me pour you a glass of wine.”
I start in Andrew’s bathroom, switching his three-in-one shampoo and mouthwash into glass bottles, slapping a sticky note across the shampoo:
Do not bring glass shampoo bottle in shower. You might break and cut your cute feetsies.
I replace his toothbrush with a bamboo one, toss the plastic shower liner, and stop right outside the door.
‘Cause his bedroom is right there.
Fifty-thousand dollars,
I hear Celie’s panic in my head.
I should check under the bed.
No… I really shouldn’t.
That would be crazy.
If Celie says there’s fifty grand there,
there’s fifty grand there.
So I drop the trash bag by the door,
then walk into his room casually.
Casually meaning: knees hitting the floor in under four seconds, cheek pressed to the rug, ass in the air as I look underneath.
There’s a shoebox. Just like Celie said.
I drag it out. Lift the lid slowly.
But there’s no cash.
None. It’s empty.
Maybe he deposited it into his bank account. Or he spent it on whatever he was saving for.
Could’ve gone to the hospital bills.
Catch up on the mortgage.
Maybe Celie stole it.
I push it back under his bed,
then I’m sitting on top of it.
As much as I want to fantasize about where fifty grand went, the memory of Thanksgiving night invades me instead, and I close my eyes, letting flashes of us race across my mind:
Sweat sliding between us.
Breathing heavy. Moaning.
‘Allison…’ he groans
as his cock grinds through me,
every jagged vein, every ridge,
every inch soaked in me,
his chest fighting a tremor under my palms.
I hold on, nails sinking into his skin,
spine tingling…
His eyes—
black holes,
bottomless,
gasping for air.