8. Georgie
CHAPTER EIGHT
GEORGIE
Trying to search for a company you don't know the name of is like trying to find a penny from a very specific time period in an old piggybank. All of them are rusting, worn out, and some are illegible. Some aren’t even pennies.
There’s no guarantee you have the right one.
Much like this search for the elevator monitoring company.
Everything looks the same, sounds the same, feels the same.
It’s impossible to find unless you know what you’re looking for.
Which I don’t. I search for hours every day, and Franny continues to watch me struggle, still refusing to tell me. But I am determined to figure this out.
Franny asks me what I plan to do if I ever find the answer, to which I say I will find it, and when I do…
. I don’t know. What is my plan here exactly?
It’s not unlike me to go at something with only half a plan and figure the rest out as I go along.
So, what would I do if I found the company? What then?
I would ask them about N, and I would ask why they’re making him pay for doing his job.
I would… Ask if he’s available to talk to, to thank him.
And if he wasn’t there? If it was his day off?
If he got fired and fined? If—there are way too many ifs.
I still don’t know what I’d do. But that's future me’s problem.
“Am I even close?” I whine, flailing my head back to meet Franny’s gaze.
I set my computer up to cast to my TV so she can watch the hunt live in action.
So far, she’s sniffled at every search, every decision.
I take the sniffles as no’s. But if I am remotely warm, she sighs, a long drawn out hmmmmmmm as if she’s unaware that I am aware that that is what she’s doing.
She’s protecting herself, I know, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.
She sniffles, once, twice. Shit.
“Oh, I give up.” I groan, throwing down the laptop onto the neighbouring cushion. It softly bumps against the dark brown leather, the only sound in the room. Franny presses her lips together. She looks like her emotions are mixed, the wanting to tell and the fear of telling.
I glance at the clock on my wall to avoid her gaze.
It’s 1 o’clock on a Tuesday, realistically, this would be the ideal time to get my shit together and go grocery shopping.
The only thing I have left in my fridge is a box of baking soda that I used to get a horrid garlic smell out once, and some sad-looking kale I told myself I’d eat ‘healthier’.
“Groceries?”
“Groceries.” Franny agrees, getting out of the chair and heading to my bedroom where she knows I’ll be headed myself to get dressed.
One thing I love about having a best friend that is like your other half is there is no need to walk on eggshells, no need to explain anything, they just get it. They see you for you, they don’t care if you’re scarred or imperfect. They love you anyway.
Groceries turns into a coffee run and a trip to the dollar store to spend money I should be saving on things I don’t need, and then we go to the grocery store. We then begin our routine.
She and I have developed a system for groceries.
We park, I go to grab two carts with Franny’s grocery quarters from her cup holder in the Chevy, and she gets her fancy fabric crate-style bags from the flatbed so we don’t have to pay for plastic bags.
We go into the store together. We text each other our respective lists.
I hit even aisles; she hits odd. We meet up in the freezer section and exchange the odds and evens items we grab for each other.
Two cans of soup for hamburger. A bag of chips for a container of strawberries.
The final step in our grocery store master plan?
Ice cream. Ice cream hates me, but I can’t quit it.
Franny gets her plain vanilla frozen yogurt, and I go for the more adventurous flavours, like cherry cheesecake or vanilla pretzel caramel.
We are about to head to the cash when I freeze, mid freezer section. Above the music, above the nonsensical chatter of shoppers and the loudspeaker of the grocers calling codes for God knows what, I hear him.
N. I can hear his voice. I’m sure of it.
It’s like that feeling where the back of your neck tingles because you just know.
Franny can see that something is up, turning back at the end of the freezer aisle and waits for me to follow.
But I can’t. I’m trying to hear him, to see if I can figure out how far away he is, what he’s chatting about to someone.
I hear him pause. I can’t tell what he’s talking about, but it must be important because his tone is calm yet cold.
Like this freezer aisle. Like a cold, dark unmoving elevator.
I shiver at the memory and that’s when I realize he’s no longer talking.
I panic, scrambling around the corner to the next aisle, ignoring Franny’s call to make sure I am okay.
There’s one older woman in the frozen breakfast food aisle, but no N.
I try the next. And the next. But time and time again there’s no one there.
I hear Franny call me again, and I turn back to where I came from.
“What the hell was that?”
“I thought…” I point in the direction that I ran but shake my head, dismissing the idea of telling her who I thought I heard. She wouldn’t get it. But she doesn’t let up, so I lie. “I thought I saw someone I knew,”
She laughs, “And you decided to take off like a rocket?”
If only she knew that I could pick that voice out of a lineup.
If only she knew that I listen for his voice wherever I go, just in case.
If she knew why I really went running. For a stranger that may not have even been him, but hoping it was.
She’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe she already does. Maybe I am a bit crazy.
I am trying to find a man I only knew in a time of crisis, and who am I kidding?
What do I truly intend to do if I were to find him?
What if he doesn’t look like I thought he would?
What if he’s a terrible person? What if I’m reading too far into this?
Wouldn’t it be better if I could just forget this whole thing ever happened?
Has he forgotten about me? It’s been weeks.
I’m sure he’s taken so many elevator emergency calls since mine.
What gives me the right to think I was any different from the hundreds of calls he takes?
“G?” Franny’s hand touches my arm, bringing me back to the present where the cashier is watching me with concern as I stare off into space, lost in thought.
“Sorry, I… sorry.” I don’t remember walking to the cashier, but I realize I am holding up the line, so I frantically begin to load my groceries onto the belt.
I am silent the whole way home, even when Franny blasts our collaborative car music playlist. She keeps eyeing me, once, twice, at every red light or any chance to look my way.
I want to tell her not to worry, that it’s not something she can fix with her Franny magic.
She pulls into her parking space in the lot behind our building, but she does not turn off the engine.
She sits and she waits and her face shifts when I sigh and finally meet her worried gaze.
“Should I be worried? G, you’re just not yourself. Where did my confident and sarcastic best friend go? She hasn’t been here in weeks, and I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt with everything that happened, but I can only wait for so long before I say something.”
“Franny,” I say her name like what she’s telling me wounds me, and it does, but not because she’s intentionally trying to hurt me. She’s being honest, and she’s not wrong. I just wish she was.
“Seriously. We need to get you out of this funk. What can I do to help you?”
“I think…” I shrug, unsure how to respond. “I think maybe I need to get away. Maybe I could go to Mom’s for the weekend. That might do it. She can feed me until I burst, and I can clear my head there. I am just so…” I shake my hands as if it will explain just how I am feeling, but Franny frowns.
“You can’t just run away from it. I think the elevator thing got to you more than you’re letting on. You’re not still having nightmares about it, right?”
I am, but I don't tell her that. I don’t tell her that my heart races every morning, that I have to keep the lights on in the hall, so I am not submerged in complete darkness.
I don’t tell her that I still feel the drop of the car every time I sit.
I don’t tell her that the sight of the elevator door when we go into the apartment makes me feel ill.
I tell her none of this because I don’t want to worry her.
So instead, I put on my bravest face, force my brightest smile to appear, and I say exactly what she wants to hear.
“I am good. No nightmares. I just need… something different.”
Though Franny hardly looks like she believes me, she does drop it.
She shuts the car off, and then we’re off.
We take her groceries inside first, then she helps me hike the stairs with my groceries, complaining the whole way that I could’ve let her take the elevator with them and meet her at the top.
On the third floor, we stop for a breather.
Mr. Pisano from #305 enters the stairwell and startles when he sees us, but he smiles.
It’s a friendly smile, completely judgement free that is welcomed by two plus size women hiking 5 flights of uneven stairs.
“How’s the weather today, ladies?” He asks, making small talk as he goes down the first set of stairs on this level.
“Another sunny day, Mr. Pisano. Hey, did Trev ever come by to fix that sink of yours?” Franny asks.
“You know, I don’t think he did.”
“I’ll be by in a little bit to fix it then.
Can’t let my favourite resident go with a leaky faucet now, can I?
” She winks at him, and he chuckles when I nudge her and grumble that I should be her favourite since I am her best friend.
He tells her he’ll be back from his afternoon walk in a bit and continues about his day.
We take that as our cue to continue the trek up to my apartment.
“You’re sure there’s not something I can do—”
“Franny, I love you, but really, I’m fine. I’ll message you when I’m at Mom’s. We can play Animal Crossing and everything.”
She looks as though she wants to argue with me, just like before.
She doesn’t, because it’s Franny and it’s me and she knows better.
All I see is her pursed lips, narrowed eyes and tilted stance with a hand on her hip, like she’s waiting expectantly for me to talk about it. She better keep on waiting.
“You owe me a pocketful of bells,” She reminds me, and I roll my eyes.
“Sure,”
She makes for my front door, her hand on the doorknob when she turns to point at me, still bargaining, “And a turnip heist.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “Deal.”
She still looks like she has things that have been left unsaid, but she nods. She turns the handle and shouts, “Love you, George!” through my house like I am not standing here.
I shout, “Love you, Francis!”
I am alone again, standing in the middle of my living room and watching the door swing shut behind her.
The silence is deafening. One thing they don’t tell you about living alone, it can be extremely lonely.
I kick the mood to the curb and tell myself to prepare for a weekend of drinking wine with my mom in her backyard, a weekend of video games with Franny. A weekend to forget.
This is what I need, this will be good, I remind myself.
As I turn to go to my room to pack an overnight bag of clothes and dressings for monster spots that may arise at any time, I glance to my couch.
The computer is sitting where I threw it earlier, the bubbles screensaver floating from corner to corner, mocking me.
It would be so easy to let myself go over there, sink into the broken couch cushion, to dive down the rabbit hole again, to be consumed by it.
I know this isn’t healthy, to be obsessed with something like this.
I know I need to give it up. What’s past is past. But something, deep down, just won't shut up. It says that I have to keep trying. That it will be worth it. For what reason, I can’t say. I haven’t got that far yet.
I throw clothes I think will be comfortable into the nearest thing I can find, a gym bag I was given as a freebie for signing up.
I pack my video game, my hairbrush, and a separate bag for my latest travel crochet project.
My mom was the one to teach me when I was a teenager, and I use it as a way to feel creative, productive, like I am making something important for someone to love.
I make batches of baby blankets and hats and loveys every year for the local NICU, and each year I get photos of the babies in my crocheted blanket Halloween costumes for the babies that are too tiny to wear regular costumes.
It makes my heart happy to see them, to know I brought joy to a parent who is going through so much with their little warrior.
Lately, I’ve been making my bumble-baby costumes, little black and yellow blankies with wings and hats with the smallest antennae to match.
They’re always a hit, and I have quite a few more before I can create a new pattern for the newest idea in my mind: lady-buggy baby.
I can see it now, the circle blanket, the black polka dots, trimming, the black and white hat with the antennae.
I pack my red, white, and black yarn too, knowing I can probably convince mom to take over the bumble-baby crafting so I can start on this one.
These designs are ones I keep to myself, committed to memory, but I do write them out for her.
She’s slowed down as her hands have gotten worse with carpal tunnel, but she still can crochet faster than I can after all these years.
I’m on my way to the front door, about to call my mom to tell her she will in fact have company this weekend when I hear it. The tiny popping noise of my computer lighting up with a notification. I freeze, unsure if I should turn back after I’ve done well getting myself away.
But my curiosity is eating me alive. I have to know what the notification is. I can do this. I can be good.
Just one more search wouldn’t hurt, right?