28

HARRY WAS WAITING FOR ME AT THE DOOR WHEN I OPENED THE apartment, clingier than usual, then vocal. He mewed at me once, and when I didn’t respond, he did it again, louder.

“I know,” I said. “I come and go as I please, manipulate your environment, play God—feast or famine, heat or A/C, light or dark.”

First I’d told him he would have to live inside for the rest of his life, then to grow accustomed to a dirty room in a big house, then to adjust to a clean apartment, and now he was stuck with something in between. Once, he was free to sprawl out in his kingdom, then he had to make room for one more—until he grew used to an extra body, until that body left. Until he was left with me.

When I was gone, I imagined he might have circled around the apartment a few times, searching; slept in my bed—there was evidence of his shedding; lay his head on the pillow and dreamt, his paws batting at my image. He might have imagined that he’d have to fend for himself.

He mewed until he saw I had no answers, and then he recoiled into the closet.

I followed him, picked him up, and squeezed him until he squirmed from my arms.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

As we sat in the dark, I contemplated hibernation. It made a lot of sense actually, to shut away the world for months at a time—no thoughts, only sleep, only self. I could be a bear.

If only I could sleep. I missed Nate. And Dad. And Mom. If I didn’t have Nate, maybe I could have them back—in spirit at least. The two parents could come together and form a protective circle around me, shielding me from every harm. Ghostrents. I took out my sketchbook and began to draw.

_________

I HAD MOMENTARILY FORGOTTEN about the headache I’d woken up with, but now it was an 8 on a scale from 1 to 10, and I rarely slid past 6. The slightest move intensified the pressure, like someone was sitting inside my face, playing the drums against my temples and nasal passages, against the back of my head, adding more weight and tension with each beat. 

I tried imagining myself in the pool with Gus, or in Mexico with Nate, but I kept ending up back where I started, on the couch, spinning around the center of the room, floating around the fringes, alone.

If I was going to be alone, I had to take care of myself. That was what Enid had said, and Byron. So I could take care of my pills. I could find things in my home. This was my home now.

I began rustling around the cabinets, and sure enough, after going through each drawer, I found my refills. I swallowed the pills dry, and then I noticed another baggie full of other pills I didn’t immediately recognize.

Up close, I could see what they were: Ritalin and Dexedrine. I used to take those, for greater focus, and metabolism, but they had to keep upping the dosage until it was too high, and then my doctor weaned me off. There was still a bottle of that stuff somewhere. I hadn’t thrown it away. I guessed I had wanted it just in case—

It dawned on me all at once.

Nate.

Those were the pills he had been popping. Those were the refills he was getting for himself. Just a couple at first, to keep himself going, and then . . .

I threw the bag at the trash. Of course I missed. They scattered everywhere. Asshole!

How could this have happened? Sure, he smoked a little pot, drank a little too much. But this? Who did this? Who was he?

I envisioned him in a hotel room then, a terrycloth robe, with piles of my old pills encircling him. He was hollow in his cheeks, sickly, and he had constructed a wall of capsules around him to block out human touch, to repel telepathic energy.

I had never imagined the day when Nate was as messed up as I was.

Was it my fault? Probably. I wished I could push him back in time, to his life before my invasion of it. It wasn’t fair that this was who he was now.

What if he was getting worse out there? I wished I could call him to check in.

I looked to Harry for consolation and found him at the window. I sat with him for a while and looked for my pigeon. Every day that pigeon had parked itself and waited, predictably, beautifully almost. I could count on that.

But now the pigeon was gone.

Almost as soon as I realized it, Frank called.

“Hi,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to him. I was distraught about the pigeon, and about Nate and his drugs. But I’d already missed his earlier call.

“I wanted to see how you were feeling,” he said. “Do you need anything? I tried calling you earlier from the drugstore, but I guess you didn’t hear.”

“Oh, yeah. I had a really bad headache.”

He didn’t say anything. I could hear him rustling some papers.

“I took my pills, though, so I’m sure I’ll be fine soon.”

“Good,” he said. “Should I get the wedding spreadsheet?”

“Now?”

“We need to talk about the wedding.”

“Frank—”

It was a great idea, in theory, to pour myself into an event that could turn all of the darkness and doubts into sugar and Champagne. Poofy dresses and makeup to hide the flaws, slow songs to conceal shuffling feet.

Maybe the ceremony could stop time for a night, and halt all the hoping and waiting and holding of my breath. Maybe brides could be declared invincible.

Maybe. But even if I’d somehow made it through the aisle and the first dances and cake unstained, what would happen when the party ended? It would just be Frank and me and Harry, alone. Maybe that was all I needed. But what if it wasn’t?

I didn’t want to think about it then, or talk about it. I wanted to go back to sleep.

“I’m a little preoccupied right now.”

“Well, we can’t move forward until you tell us what you’d like,” he said. “That’s what Mom says.”

“Frank, what does that even mean?”

“You should know,” he said.

“Well, I don’t!” It was too loud. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Frank?”

He hung up without saying goodbye.