Chapter 33
Amaya’s parents arrive, bleary-eyed and exhausted. For a few shockingly real seconds I picture them as my parents arriving at my brother’s bedside. I blink this vision away. That scene ended differently, and for that I am grateful. Amaya will be okay.
Both Amaya’s parents cry when they see her there, as she begins to wake up from the grogginess of surgical drugs.
The reunion makes me emotional, and I slip away unnoticed before prying questions can be hurtled my way.
Had I been someone to Amaya, a proper friend, I would have stayed.
But that is not our relationship. We are not friends.
Our relationship is a professional one, brought together by a terrible tragedy and nothing more.
I found myself in the position of bringing her to the hospital by happenstance, convenience, and urgency.
I’ve done my duty, ensured that she would be okay.
I walk out of the hospital alone, eager to leave the place that has so many sad memories. I am relieved to be away from the lights and the smells. The doctors delivering bad news and the families practically living at the bedside of someone sick.
I see something in the shadows outside the hospital.
“Hey!” I shriek. This may be the first time in my life I’ve willingly walked toward danger.
It’s the woman from Green World and the intersection again, I’m sure of it.
I start to run. She is involved. I just had no name, no information, no way of tracking her down until now.
I run, and she starts to run. I’m not in shape by any means, but adrenaline courses through me, allowing me to run faster than I ever have. She’s quicker.
“Stop!” I yell uselessly.
She runs into traffic, is almost hit by a car, and at the last minute darts away into a crowd. I’ve lost her. I’m out of breath and mad at myself.
I look up at the night sky. “Why is she following me?” I demand of no one. A few people walking by move away from me before crossing the street.
There are no stars that I can see. They are there, I remind myself, just hidden from view by the clouds and light pollution.
I think of Ammi, who once said that just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
Have faith in the unseen. I always wonder if she was talking about my brother.
Does Ammi think my brother’s spirit or soul is here, without a body?
This seems to go against all science and reason, but I can’t help wondering—no, hoping—that some part of him will always be with me, even as my memories of him begin to fade.
In the distance, an ambulance siren blares.
I think about the time my brother collapsed.
How I rushed him to the hospital, how certain he had been that it was just low blood sugar and stress, until it wasn’t.
Until I held my parents as the doctor told us all that my brother, my best friend, my guide in this world, had terminal brain cancer and just weeks to live.
If he is out here, guiding me, unseen, why do I feel so lost?
Why do all the promising leads seem suspicious with no single clear suspect?
If he is really looking out for me, why didn’t he make sure that James Wilkerson-Taylor never got into my cab that night?
Why didn’t he give me some clue as to why there is a woman following me?
No, my mother is wrong. My brother is dead and gone.
Amaya is injured and out of commission. I am going back to jail.
I walk down the streets of Midtown, which are much quieter now that it is late at night.
The suits have gone home only to rest ahead of coming back and doing it again tomorrow morning.
Midtown isn’t really a place to live, more a place to work.
I pass by a bar and stare at it, contemplating going in.
It takes six minutes for the brain to react to alcohol.
Six minutes to begin to forget. Maybe I will order vodka, the most popular alcohol in the world, with five billion liters consumed every year.
I walk inside the bar. It’s wood paneled and cozy, and I see a few dates snuggled up in the booths in the back.
A big mirror behind the bar makes the space seem a little bigger than it really is.
I scooch onto an empty leather stool at the bar; it’s the farthest away I can get from the other people.
My brother wouldn’t be happy that I’m numbing my feelings with alcohol.
He always encouraged me to feel things, whatever that meant, but he isn’t here to stop me.
I contemplate ordering a glass of red wine in a sad attempt to be more sophisticated, but eventually capitulate to my adult baby ways and order a mango margarita.
I still need drinks to be sweet enough to cover the taste of alcohol, like a high schooler at their first party.
One glance at the bartender tells me this isn’t a mango margarita sort of place, and making it is going to involve a lot of effort he doesn’t want to expend.
I should call my parents so they won’t worry. I should do a lot of things.
But I am tired. And sad. And so I will drink away my sorrows, and ready myself for the day I have to return to jail.
I take a sip of what is most definitely a regular marg, and I gag slightly. A man sits next to me, and I notice his expensive watch. I’m about to feel sorry for myself again, when I remember something. Something important.