Chapter 18 In the Pope’s Room of Buca di Beppo #2
“There’s no way they accomplished this much carnage in twenty minutes.”
Lainey was fuming, and fuming made her pace.
“They didn’t have to talk to us,” Elliot said, picking up her sculpture from the ground and placing it on the cut stump like a serial killer reassembling a dismembered corpse. “Most people would’ve left it for us to find on our own.”
“I’m not quite ready to applaud them for basic decency. Why are you not more upset? They took a chisel to your future house, you know.”
He swayed his head side to side. “Yeah, but I assumed this might happen when we started renting the place. So it seems sort of ridiculous to be upset about it.”
“Right,” she replied, her voice clipped.
“I’m sorry I have the audacity to be upset that someone hacked up a sculpture I worked hard on, the only one from the time that you’ve been a part of my life.
What a stupid emotion.” Her laugh was crazed and humorless, one heartbeat away from an outright sob.
“No.” He rushed to her side. “I’m not saying it’s stupid for you to feel that way.”
“But I should’ve expected this,” she said, putting words in his mouth.
“I’m not saying that. I feel like you want me to say that, because you’re mad and I’m here—a person you can be mad at—”
“Then what are you saying?”
He threw up his hands. “I don’t know. Maybe don’t leave priceless art lying around an Airbnb. Something is bound to happen to it. Or once you sell—”
“Are you going to cut them down the second I leave town?”
“No! Lainey, that is so far from what I’m planning, you have no idea.” He took her hands in his and squeezed. “We’ll figure all this out together. For now, can we just go home? Please.”
But this was her home. And she was giving it away, bit by bit.
In that moment, she knew how she was supposed to feel: detached. Unbothered. Perhaps even relieved that the universe had provided yet another reason for her to run from this place. Instead, she felt lonely.
She’d been so isolated, sharing this house with nothing but echoes, watching everyone around her move forward while she’d been cemented to its tile floors. That is, until Elliot appeared, like sunlight breaking through clouds, and brought these rooms to life.
We’ll figure all this out together, he’d said. For now, she thought. Because when all was said and done, these walls would be the only thing he’d be keeping.
···
That night, Elliot made a claim with their insurance company.
They’d need to hire a “real” electrician to pass a meticulous inspection from Brad Bauer before they’d be allowed to host any more guests.
Any chance of getting all their i’s dotted and t’s crossed in the next week was out of the question, which meant they had to cancel the couple who’d agreed to pay triple the rate to stay the weekend of June twenty-first, when the famous bridge was meant to connect.
No one but them would be there to see why Vincent Groff had designed the house the way he had.
Lainey’s financial insecurities bore down on her like an anvil.
In contrast, Elliot was taking their setbacks in stride, which only made Lainey feel worse.
In the meantime, they searched for affordable suppliers for the materials they needed, so they’d be off and running the second they got the green light.
McQueens of the Stone Age happened to have exactly what they needed to repair the hearth for a halfway reasonable price.
It’d made sense for Elliot to go alone. It was a long drive to Milwaukee, and he’d wanted to get on the road before first light.
High beams that early in the morning seemed like a recipe for a headache.
She felt his lips against her forehead sometime after three.
After that, Waffle never went back to sleep, so Lainey never went back to sleep.
The rain pattered against the tin roof in maddening asynchronous drops, indecisively straddling a light shower and a heavy downpour all night long.
Lurking in her chest was a sense of dread she couldn’t seem to shake.
Just before five in the morning, she felt the creep of an aura.
Waffle attempted to tend to her with tiny licks at her neck, which wasn’t exactly helping the nausea bobbing at her throat.
She went into the bathroom to take a pill.
She’d be chasing the migraine, which wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.
She poured the contents of the opened box on the counter and squinted at the blister pack.
Bits of foil curled up in all directions.
The bottom wasn’t much better, with little inverted dome after inverted dome.
They were all used up. She threw that pack in the trash and opened the cabinet, in search of another box.
Nothing.
It came back to her in a rush. She had been going to pick up her refill when her car broke down.
But Elliot had said he’d pick it up for her, right? He’d said that.
It’d been weeks since her last migraine—months since the one that had sent her to urgent care—but in all those instances, she’d had something on hand to sand off the edges of the ache before it absolutely flattened her.
She searched the bathroom. Ransacked the bedroom. Tore into the kitchen like a rabid raccoon. Pillaged the bathroom a second time. Her body raced against the veil of pain that was falling over her body like a sheet.
She texted Elliot twice. Called three times. No response.
He was driving. She knew he was driving. She wasn’t angry that he was driving. She wasn’t even angry at him. She was furious at herself. For being naive enough to believe she could finally find freedom from pain. For letting this slip. For not protecting herself.
She didn’t know if it was the aura or the anxiety that had turned her fingers to rigid sticks, but when she tried to dial Bree, the phone slipped through her grasp, colliding against the tile floor with a menacing crunch. Spiderweb cracks covered the screen, rendering it unusable.
She left the phone where it fell. The pain had already planted into her skull, spreading through her limbs like an invasive species.
She wanted to fall into the earth. She wanted the cool, damp pressure of the ground to swallow her up until she could no longer sense where she ended and everything else began.
Hours of sitting in the dark didn’t help.
The pain was omnivorous, tearing through her brain, her face, her shoulders, her clothes, the air.
It bit into the ground beneath her as she crossed the pea-gravel porch with the burned-out twinkle lights.
She pulled herself onto the bicycle pressed against the side of cabin one and pedaled three miles to town, in the rain, as her brain ate itself alive.
Water trailed her into the pharmacy like the train on a wedding dress. Her eyes squinted under the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescents. She was soaked and shaking when she charged up to the pharmacy window. Banging on the closed partition, she yelled out, “Ernie. It’s an emergency. Ernie.”
“Christ almighty, Elaine,” the older man said, opening the window to reveal himself.
“I need to pick up my refill. Davis.”
“I know who you are,” he said, bristling. “I can’t give you your refill, because your beau already picked it up for you the other day.”
“No, he didn’t.” She refused to believe it. She’d made it all the way there. She was wet and cold, and her skull was cracking open, and she wasn’t fucking leaving without her refill.
“Well, you are going to have to,” he spat, indignant, because apparently that last thought had escaped the confines of her mind. “Do you need to purchase a towel?”
With an inhale through her nose, she turned and walked straight into the rack of foot creams. She righted herself and trudged back through the aisles, out the store, and all the way to the bike racks on the sidewalk.
“You should always lock your bike,” a man said. She turned and found Larry Pometti.
“You only lock your bike when you care if someone steals it,” she responded. “And my life cannot possibly get worse, so…”
She swung her leg over her bike, wondering if it would make more sense to be hit by a car, because at least then someone would have to drive her someplace.
She considered Larry again. The man whose easy money she’d turned down. Standing beside him—too broke to fix her car, without the medication she needed, and now in need of a new phone she couldn’t pay for—she tried to remember the last time she felt so desperate. So painfully alone.
With her pulse in her eyeballs, she faced Larry and asked, “Are you still good for that seventy-thirty split?”