CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

A sudden vibration. A ringing that initially sounded like a pillow was muffling it now grew more cacophonous. The sound could have easily been a frantic human voice chanting “Pleasepickuppleasepickuppleasepickup” if telephones were capable of conveying the distress of their callers.

“Hello?” Christopher’s voice was like gently used sandpaper.

“I need your help.”

“Trixie?” Silence for a few seconds, so much so that Christopher thought he could hear the hum of the electric current in the telephone wires. He wondered if he might still be wandering through the dense fog of sleep. He looked over at the red light of his alarm clock, barely defeated the thick film covering his eyes and read the time: 1:13 a.m. “Is that you? What are you… What do you—”

“I don’t know who else to call.” Her voice sounded desperate. Life or death desperate. “I don’t have anyone else to call. It’s my little Rico. He’s really sick, Christopher. He’s vomiting all over the place. It’s black and bright green. Oh God, it’s awful. I’m so freaked right now.” She sobbed uncontrollably.

Christopher adjusted to the conversation but still had no idea how to react. He felt torn. He and Trixie had only spoken once in the three weeks since their breakup, a determined plea on her end to try and make things work. Their tight unit had been greased and released.

His little talk with Adam had been helpful, but not necessarily the be-all, end-all solution he had hoped for. Despite what they had been through, or perhaps because of it, he loved Trixie. But it was a love that wrestled with an equal level of resentment, an affection that could not be voiced. Even if he could not reconcile his feelings, he knew he had to do the right thing and help her in her time of need. Maybe, at the very least, he could still be a good friend.

“Stay calm, Trix. Let me put on some pants and I’ll be right over.”

* * *

A reticent drive along mostly vacant streets. Christopher and Trixie were the only ones on the road save for a few cars manned by drivers probably not coherent enough to be operating them. Christopher faced forward, unlike just weeks ago when he would have risked running his Beetle off the road for a chance to steal a glance at Trixie’s profile. It was a sentiment from what felt like a much older life. “What Difference Does It Make” by The Smiths hummed quietly on the car stereo.

Trixie held Federico in her lap and gently stroked behind his ear. Federico did not purr. His breathing was sparse and heavy, the rhythm slightly off from the cranky snarl of the car’s engine, but almost as loud. She waved his favorite plush mouse in front of his face, but his sickly stare remained unchanged. Trixie let the toy drop to the floorboard.

Now, as they sat in the emergency vet’s waiting room, Christopher allowed his demeanor to soften. He held Trixie’s hand. Her skin was clammy. Tufts of Federico’s fur clung to her sweatshirt. Christopher felt like the biggest asshole for not being able to figure out the right words of comfort. Was there even anything to say that might come close to soothing her pain? He stared at a bright poster on the wall—a prepubescent boy plastered with an expression of unabashed joy, frolicking in the grass with his Golden Retriever puppy. Brand new companions with their whole lives ahead of them. The text on the poster read: Wanted: Love, Lifelong Companionship and Furry Fun Times! Adopt a New Family Member Today!

“Thank you so much for bringing me,” Trixie whispered. “For being there for me. I don’t know what I would have done without…” She abandoned all awkwardness between them and leaned her head into his shoulder. He removed his hand from hers and draped his arm around her. Her body’s warmth pulsed against his side. He felt guilty for enjoying it, but it felt natural. Right. Like they had never quit.

Only they had, hadn’t they?

“It’s okay, Trix. I’m glad you called me.”

She looked up at him and he caught a tiny smile in her eyes.

The veterinarian appeared in front of them like an apparition. Her expression was cautious, wary of revealing her cards just yet. Trixie sat up straight and grabbed Christopher’s hand again, this time much tighter. She wiped the tears from her eyes only to have fresh ones appear. Christopher wished there was a valve he could twist to shut them off.

“Do you know what’s wrong with my kitty?”

“We’re going to run some blood and urine tests, but I already have some suspicions.” The vet’s hair was disheveled after a long night on the graveyard shift. The edges of her upper lip showed the hint of unfortunate facial hair. “I’ve seen this reaction before. I’m fairly certain at this point that your little friend has ingested antifreeze.”

“What’s going to happen to him? What should we be concerned about?” Christopher caught the “we” in Trixie’s question. Were they a “we” again? Was an official reunion that simple? Did they need a witness? Was there a guarantee in “we”?

The doctor’s voice was emotionless. “That will depend on how much was ingested, if any. We’ll know more after we run the tests. At this point I’m most concerned about kidney failure, but try not to let yourself get too worked up yet. We’re going to do everything we can to help her and get her back to—”

“Him,” Trixie said, a barely audible squeak.

“Pardon?” The vet resisted raising her eyebrow, but Christopher noticed her face muscles shifting.

“I said ‘him.’ Federico. That’s a boy’s name. He’s a boy cat.”

Clearly embarrassed, but not willing to admit it, the vet continued, “It’s going to take a few hours before we’ve got more information. We’ll need to keep a close eye on her—him here. Would you like to go home for a little while, and we can give you a call once we know more?”

“No. I’d rather wait.”

“Trixie,” Christopher said. “I think sitting in here is going to drive both of us nuts. Vladimir’s is right down the street. I’m pretty sure they’re open twenty-four hours. Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee, catch up a bit, get our minds off all the stress? Or try to, at least. We’ll come back in a couple hours and check up on him.”

Trixie smiled as best she could in her current state. It was tragically pretty.

“I think I’d like that.”

Without another word, the doctor vanished back into the catacombs of the pet hospital. Christopher and Trixie left the building and entered the chilled night air, huddling together as if they were stranded in the Andes and their body warmth was crucial to survival. He could feel her pressing closer and closer, like she wanted to curl up and fit inside him. To merge.

To disappear.

* * *

Trixie made a beeline to the ladies room as soon as they entered Vladimir’s, likely to dry her eyes in private. Christopher noticed that the coffee crowd was especially peppy for this time of night. A man with intense googly eyes and caterpillar brows sat in a corner, his only companion a rusty typewriter that spoke back to him in rapid-fire tapping tongues whenever he seemed to come up with a thought worthy of committing to paper. Two Withering Wyldes played chess, contemplating their next moves. Their bodies swayed back and forth as if they were in the path of a wind gust. Moments after Trixie had made her temporary escape, a strange little man exited the men’s room. Christopher thought he looked like a tumorous potato with legs. He was dapperly dressed, though perhaps overdoing it a bit with the hand jewelry. The man waddled to the table where the Withering Wyldes sat in concentration, grabbed a pea coat, which he draped around his shoulders like a cape, and tipped his hat to them. They barely acknowledged him as he exited the cafe. A group of goth children out well past their curfew huddled together at another table, immersed in their game of Vampire: The Masquerade, rolling dice like their lives depended upon it. The Birthday Party’s “Release the Bats” pulsed from the jukebox, hiding behind the random chatter of Vladimir’s patrons. A sign above Christopher’s table read: Black Coffee for Black Souls.

Trixie returned from the restroom and her drink was already waiting for her. She looked refreshed, revitalized. She sipped from a colossal ceramic mug that might as well have been completely filled with whipped cream. A cloud of cream licked at the top of her lip. Christopher chuckled and took a napkin to it. Her face went pink.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said. They inspected each other’s eyes for a few seconds. “For everything. I know I deserve every bit of hostility you’re probably harboring, but God, I feel so awful about how things went down. I’m a horrible… I wanted so badly to tell—”

“Trixie, don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter.” Christopher paused and looked up at the chalkboard menu, squinting to see if the solution to ending their misery was scribbled somewhere between the caffé lattes and the blueberry scones. “Well, that’s not exactly true. It definitely does matter, but the upside is I’m willing to talk this out. Being with you, the feelings I had for you…”

“Had?” Trixie looked preciously pitiful.

Christopher almost threw caution to the wind and pressed his lips to hers right then and there. He smiled and realized he had been working toward that motion ever since he picked her up.

“I never stopped caring, Trix. Look, the point is, I don’t know or understand what it’s like to be with a girl like you. Hell, I don’t know that I understand what it’s like to be with any girl. I’m no expert, and you know as well as anyone that my choices have always been suspect.” His grin widened.

Trixie’s playful pout revealed that she had caught his slight sarcasm. One of the chess-playing Withering Wyldes squealed and threw one of its bishops at its partner. Everyone in Vladimir’s, including Christopher and Trixie, glared at them as if they had just committed a cardinal sin.

“All I know,” Christopher continued, “is that I sank my teeth into your heart and I liked what I tasted. I’ve thought about this so much the last few weeks. Every relationship is different. There’s always going to be roadblocks and strange things that need to be accepted, right? Why should this situation be any different?”

“You don’t need to accept me. Just love me.” Trixie’s eyes were once again filled with tears, negating her earlier trip to the restroom. She seemed to have temporarily forgotten about Federico, and Christopher thought her tears were now directed along a positive path.

Christopher had no clue how to respond. He simply smiled and stared. He felt the words and had certainly said the words in the past, but stating them now would be ripe with dangerous possibilities. He motioned to her cup.

“You want a refill?”

* * *

Caffeine kept both of them wired as they once again took up residence in the emergency waiting room. Trixie sprawled her body out along the row of chairs, tried to avoid the various sharp slashes in the vinyl cushions and laid her head in Christopher’s lap. He combed through her hair, twirled it between his fingers. An elderly man sat alone in the next row of chairs, cracking his knuckles. Christopher felt ill when he saw the man’s lost expression. Could this poor soul be on the verge of losing his only friend in the world? The man chewed on the side of his hand to maintain his composure. The veterinarian returned moments later, her expression still stoic, her hair somehow even more electrified than it had been earlier.

The news was the worst it could possibly be.

Christopher took the information in small doses. He was too busy trying to keep Trixie’s convulsing body from erupting like a bottle of well-shaken champagne. There was no cheerful spin he could put on the words spilling from the veterinarian’s mouth.

“Antifreeze poisoning confirmed…only takes half a tablespoon to be lethal…this was at least three times that amount…peculiarly large...suffering immensely…recommend you have him put to sleep…do apologize…nothing we can do.” After that last statement, Trixie’s cork finally popped. She buried herself in Christopher’s chest. He could feel moisture soaking through the collar of his t-shirt.

They were led down a narrow hall lined with ominous pale walls. A muscular, hairy assistant steered an ancient Cocker Spaniel past them, returning the dog to his equally fossilized human father in the waiting room. The Spaniel had seen better days, but he was alive and beaming with stupid affection.

In the cold, dark room of merciful death, from which many animal souls had likely traveled to greener pastures, Trixie kneeled in front of Federico’s face, gripping the edge of the surgical table. The cat’s eyes met hers and he seemed to recognize his human mother. Trixie’s eyes dampened again. Her well had yet to empty.

“You gave him a good life, Trix,” Christopher said, gently massaging her shoulders. “Better than a lot of animals come even close to.” This statement burst the dam within her wide open. Her face twisted into a demented mask of agony. Under different circumstances, her expression might have been comical. She could barely form words, but she had to because they would be the last sounds Federico would ever hear. Maybe the cat understood, maybe not, but it didn’t matter. The words, the tone, every breath had to count.

“I wish I had a can of tuna for you, Rico. Two cans. I’d give you as much as you want.” Federico’s tongue protruded a few centimeters and weakly brushed Trixie’s nose. The smell of rot wafted up to Christopher’s nose. Trixie stroked Federico’s front paws. “I’ll see you again, baby cat. I promise. I won’t ever forget about you. Never.”

Sedation. Pressure on the vein. A thin pinprick. Chemical combination with the intent of painless and quick results. Involuntary twitches and spasms. Deep, low gasps. Termination of nerve transmission and complete muscle relaxation. Expulsion, slight defecation. No thought, sensation, movement. Gone.

* * *

They passed through Trixie’s apartment door like voodoo victims, trudged past the recently cleaned litter box that would never need to be emptied again, dragged their drained bodies to the bedroom, pulled the dark curtains tight to battle the impending first moments of sunlight, turned on the stereo to help them forget, kicked off their shoes and removed other unwanted articles of clothing, spread themselves into bed, and became one embracing being. They huddled and hugged and stroked and Trixie bawled, hyperventilated and quivered. Mazzy Star’s “Into Dust” cast a ghostly sonic aura about the room, beautiful like a Reaper’s kiss. Their fingers needed, flesh kneaded. Claims of I love you, I’ll never leave you and I’ll always trust you we must stick together were spat out with unabashed eros as lips became locked and less and less clothing became necessary—or even useful—until there was nothing left but the skin attached to their bones, which they would have been more than willing to remove if they thought it might help them squeeze even closer.

Then, like a statue that had been defaced, there dangled a part of Trixie that Christopher had never before seen, didn’t believe really existed until his own eyes witnessed it, a penile piece that didn’t fit her puzzle. He averted and squinted, using a curtain of eyelashes to obscure the meat. He wanted to erase it or invert it or find a way not to care, all of which were impossible. But through respect or mature acceptance or perhaps sheer dumb lust he accomplished a satisfactory level of indifference. He clutched at her chest and nibbled her navel and mumbled passionate prayers. She caressed him below his waist and realized he was committed to his words at that exact moment, and so she did not hesitate, reaching into her drawer for the conveniently located lubricant and prophylactic. The lovers applied these items, she turned to her side, they spooned, he mauled her small breasts tenderly. Their bodies grinded and chafed and merged, and he entered her where Leviticus condemns. It was tight and warm and perfect, and he gyrated and pumped and never wanted to be anywhere else but this moment, this place right here right now and then he climaxed and it felt like a thousand tingling insects skittering through his urethra, a sensation that he hoped would never end.