Chapter 8
He gets worse, not better
Dina
Ithought he would be an early riser.
Not sure if there’s a type of person who rises early, but if there is, he struck me as such. I’m somewhere in the middle. I don’t rise too early, like at the crack of dawn, but I don’t get out of bed too late either.
My salon operates from nine to nine, so I often work twelve-hour days on my feet for six days a week. Sunday is a day off. Unless I take a special call, I don’t work on that day. And today is a holiday which is both good and bad.
Good because I get to rest.
Not good because I can’t rest with a man in my house. A man I hit with my car. A man who gave me the thirty-five grand neatly stacked on my nightstand. I pick up a wad of cash and sniff it. Smells real. Looks real. Must be real. Right?
We’ll find out soon enough when I take it to the bank.
Wait, can I take this money to the bank? What if they ask me where it came from?
Shit.
I haven’t thought about what I’d do with it.
Maybe I can ask him. A man who carries cash and crashes at the house of a stranger might know how I could handle this sudden influx of cash.
He strikes me as a confident, comfortable-in-his-skin type of a man who’s calm and moves on his own dime.
The kind of man who, despite his age, doesn’t need a wife to parent him.
He can take care of himself. Sergei couldn’t take care of himself, and as he aged, he became more aware of all the other things he couldn’t do well, and I became the person he despised for doing what he couldn’t.
After I dropped out of law school, which was when Chi-chi was in third grade, I spent a year trying and failing at different online businesses. Then I remembered something silly. I remembered how much I loved dolls and doing their hair. The next thing I knew, I was enrolled in cosmetology school.
After I graduated, I started working for someone who then moved their business to a different part of the city, leaving me in charge of the salon here.
I took over the rent and changed the name of the salon, and now I own my own business.
It’s not much, but it pays all the regular bills.
The debts and lawyers get paid by income from part-time jobs I take here and there.
I make my way into the kitchen and turn on the news to hear the developments from yesterday’s Crossbow shootout.
While I make coffee, I wonder if I should make one for the man in the spare bedroom.
A mug in hand, I walk to the terrace and open the doors for fresh air, then sit outside and listen to the news.
Police apprehended dozens of people, and they’re questioning them about the murder of Massio Crossbow. There’s talk about women with matching clown tattoos. Branding. Human trafficking. It wouldn’t shock me if Massio trafficked women. Or men. I’m not crying over his demise, that’s for sure.
I switch the channel. There’s a panel on this one, and they’re talking about the Crossbow legacy. Massio has two sons. They’re twins in their twenties, from the woman he hanged from the bridge. I wonder whatever became of them. They were small when their mother died.
I was fourteen when mine disappeared. I remember everything.
Days before my mother went on a cruise, she locked herself in her bedroom and wouldn’t let me or Dad inside.
Well, maybe she let my dad inside. I don’t know.
I never asked. My therapist said when I’m ready, I’ll ask.
I doubt I’ll ever be ready because nobody knows that Mom unlocked the door the night before she left for the cruise and invited me in for a hug. She was crying.
I thought she was leaving us for good, but I didn’t know for sure, and so I said nothing. It might kill my dad to know the truth. If that is, in fact, the truth.
I remember being excited when the door to her bedroom finally opened. Then I was confused about why she was so sad about leaving on the vacation she’d been talking about for months.
It’s ironic how I forget what I was saying or come to the kitchen and stop midway, wondering what I went there for, but I can remember what happened over two decades ago.
Once, my dad asked what I thought happened with Mom, and I told him I thought she fell off the cruise ship and drowned. Perhaps I didn’t want to deal with the fact that she chose some other life over us.
I drop the coffee cup in the sink and dress in my yoga pants. Outside again, I practice yoga for an hour, then shower and throw on a comfortable cotton dress.
It’s almost noon, so I start to prepare lunch, wondering if the man has left.
I didn’t check on him. Peering inside his private quarters would be too weird, but if he doesn’t show up by one (in an hour), I’ll knock on his door.
His bag isn’t in the living room, but that doesn’t mean he left.
He could’ve brought it into the room with him.
I make my favorite soup-and-salad combo for lunch, which is enough for two. Since he’s not coming out and it’s almost one, I go to him. “Sorry to bother you,” I say at his door, “I made lunch, if you’re hungry.”
No answer, but I hear a noise coming from inside. I press my ear against the door. Retching. I think he’s sick. I listen for a while, and now I’m sure he’s throwing up in there.
I knock again. “Hey, are you okay?”
No answer, then, “No.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Can I get you a nice cold towel to put behind your neck?”
“No.”
Even though I worry about him, I respect his privacy and get on with my day.
In the evening, I check on him again. He refuses to let me in, and even though it’s my house, I respect his privacy and his will. He paid me well to stay out of his way.
But I worry because I hit him with my car. The impact could’ve caused internal damage we can’t see. I’m no expert, and he won’t go to the hospital.
He also needs a new ice bag for his leg, but at least he took all the ice from the freezer and likely put it in the small cooler unit in the room.
I heard him use the bathroom once, but he’s been quiet since, and while our dinner cools on the bar, I bite my lip. At this rate, I’ll make my lip bleed.
Fuck it.
I walk into the guest bathroom, which Chi-chi can enter from her bedroom too, and knock. “I’m really worried about you.” I press my ear against the door and hear him groan.
“No,” he says with less vigor than he had that morning.
“I’m coming in.” I open the door slowly, and the smell of puke makes me wrinkle my nose.
He’s on the bed with his leg propped up on his big bag, which he stacked pillows on.
His ankle is wrapped in ice. The man hugs the plastic trash can from the bathroom with one arm.
His other forearm covers his eyes, giving me the impression that he’s embarrassed.
“You’re sick,” I state the obvious.
“It’ll pass.”
“What will?”
“It’s just a concussion.”
I sit beside him on a chair. “That is not good. I can call an ambulance.”
He moves his arm and lifts his head, piercing me with a death glare. “I said no ambulance. No people. Nobody can know that I’m here.”
“But—”
“You swore.”
I look away. “That was before you were sick.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m afraid you’ll get worse.”
“If anyone finds out I’m here, they’ll kill you.”
I suck in a breath. “What…why would they kill me?”
“Because that’s the protocol. Remember protocols from the library? Familiar with civilian casualties? You’re it. No ambulance. No people. Just me and you.” He lifts two fingers.
I reach for my phone to google what I can do help him, but then remember he took my phone. From the kitchen, I get some water and a wet towel he can use to clean up. Then I leave him alone. I don’t want to die. My daughter needs a mother, even if she’s all grown up now. Doesn’t she?
On Tuesday, I wake up to find out the streets haven’t been cleared out after the riots, and I can’t reach the hair salon. I don’t know when I’ll safety reopen for businesses, but hopefully it will be tomorrow.
On a more positive note, I figured out how I’ll handle this sudden influx of cash. I’ll hide it under the loose floorboard near the closet.
The other problem is the man in the room who is not getting better.
If anything, he’s worse. When I visited him this morning, he was fast asleep.
During the night, he slept too, but he looked ashen this morning, as if the blood had drained from his body.
I had to touch him to make sure he was alive.
He felt a little cold, so I pressed my ear against his chest to make sure I heard his heart beating.
He was pale and drained of life, and his breathing was shallow.
I’m scared he’ll die, and it’ll all be my fault. I can’t just let him die, no matter the consequences I’ll face when everything unravels and I’m revealed as the driver who hit him.
With that in mind, I withdraw my phone from his pocket. He protests and tries to lift his arm, but doesn’t have the strength to stop me. First, I check my messages and see that he replied to my dad and daughter. A quick “everything is great” message saying I’m resting and watching the news.
My dad said I shouldn’t be going anywhere, which I’m sure the man appreciated.
He left the business contacts unread. I take a few minutes to scope out the news on the internet.
I have to stay informed. While the cops searched for Crossbow’s killer, violence spilled onto the streets.
People are saying it’s turf wars. They’re saying Selnoa is up for grabs.
Massio wasn’t the only criminal around. He was the strongest one, who dictated to the rest. With him gone, the other factions are coming out like cockroaches.
I pocket the phone and chew on my lip, wondering what I can do for this man.
He can’t eat or drink. I’ve thought of calling for the ambulance a hundred times.
But he forbade it. I respect his wishes, but decide that if he’s not better in a few hours, he’ll have to see Glenda, who is one of my clients.
I call her Glenda because we went to high school together, but most everyone else calls her Dr. Tuden.
She’ll come to the house and keep it private.