I bolt out into the street and into the oncoming lane. I run a jagged pattern around the few cars coming at me, honking their horns, and stopping in the street as one of the police vehicles tries to turn around and pursue me.
When I glance over my shoulder, I see four police cruisers closing in behind me, lights and sirens at full blast. I’m moving at full speed, which is pretty fast but not fast enough to outrun a car. There’s no hope for me if I don’t find a place to hide.
I need some help. My eyes search frantically as I keep running.
Then I see it.
Up ahead, a huge construction project runs the length of a city block. Thanks to the scaffolding over the sidewalk and the tall plywood walls to keep pedestrians back, it will be my salvation. I’m up the scaffolding and onto the roof of the overhang before I have a second to dwell on it. I’m not sure if my Velocius abilities are helping me or if it’s pure reflex from the old days, but I know if I scoot to the far side of the scaffolding roof and just lie flat, no one will be able to see me from the street.
Just in time. I hear the police cruiser come by and give a squawk as it slides past. The car goes around the corner. I peek over the top of the wall just long enough to catch the eye of the middle-aged street vendor standing a few feet from where I climbed up.
I know he must have seen me but he turns away nonchalantly. He refills the napkin dispenser and straightens a few displays of chips and gum as another police car slowly inches by. It comes to a stop. I think my heart has moved into my throat. I’m nearly choking on it.
They’re asking him if he saw me.
They describe what I look like.
I wait.
“Nope, officer, ’fraid I didn’t see a thing,” he says.
I don’t know who you are but I love you!
I lie still, trying to silently catch my breath. Staring up into the sky, I can just make out the very top of Claymore Tower, reaching up into the milky blue morning sky like a sword.
“Sarah, are you ready to talk?”
No. Not today.
I’m not my usual self.
Larry’s question irritates me, because I was enjoying the feeling of floating along like a twig in a stream and he interrupted that. But I can’t ignore him or he’ll think there’s something wrong. So I clear my dry throat and force my lips to move. I have to think very hard to get the words to travel from my brain to my mouth. The effort is exhausting.
“Yes. I’m ready. What are we talking about today?”
“Fears.”
“Fears?”
“It’s a vocabulary test. I’m going to give you the name of a phobia and you’re going to break the word down into its constituent parts and figure out what it means.”
Last night, while I was trying to prepare myself for my latest injection procedure, I was thinking a lot about fears. Like the fear of someone drilling into your skull. If there isn’t a word for that, there should be. They could name it after me in my honor.
Usually the odd topics Larry brings up during the surgeries help calm me. This particular topic, not so much.
“Easy one to start: hemophobia.”
“This is an easy one? For who?”
“Like I said, break the word down. Think about it.”
“Well, I hear you guys talking about hematocrit levels all the time and I know that has something to do with blood. So I’ll say hemophobia is the fear of blood?”
“Correct. Next one: nostophobia.”
It’s so hard to think when I’m pinned in this halo, with my mind trying to flow away on a beautiful bubbling brook.
“Can I ask a question?” I say.
“Sorry. No.”
“Then can you use it in a sentence?”
“This isn’t a spelling bee.”
“I’m in the middle of brain surgery here. You can spot me one question,” I say.
When Larry replies, I hear a smile in his voice. “Okay. Here’s your sentence: ‘Sarah should not have nostophobia.’ ”
“Are you kidding? That’s not helpful at all.”
“You asked for a sentence, I gave you one.”
I puff my cheeks up with air and then let it out slowly. “Fine, then I’ll figure it out on my own. I’ll say, nosto- sounds like, I don’t know, nostalgia maybe?”
“You’re supposed to say warmer when I’m getting close to the right answer.”
“Then you’re getting warmer.”
“Okay. Then I’m going to guess that nostophobia is the fear of the past, or remembering the past, or something like that?”
“Correct.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Larry sounds proud of me right now. But I realize something.
“Wait. But you said I shouldn’t have nostophobia?”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I’m here,” I say.
I mean, the entire point of being here is that I should be afraid of remembering the past.
Larry doesn’t respond. I hear the sounds of metal instruments being dropped onto a metal tray and the quiet whirring of gears as the robotic arm takes up a new position, possibly readying itself to plunge into the next drill site. I brace myself and listen, but the room remains quiet except for my breathing and the dozen blipping machines monitoring my life signs.
“Last one, Sarah. You should get this one, easy.”
Emphasis on you. Meaning it’s something personal?
“Acrophobia.”
Well, he was wrong about this word. I got nothing. “Fear of acrobats?”
“Seriously? Who’s afraid of acrobats?” he asks.
“I’ll bet someone is.”
“Possibly, but no, try again,” he says. His voice suddenly sounds like he’s determined for me. He wants to make sure I get this last one correct. “You can figure this out. What do acrobats do?”
“I don’t know. I’m not allowed to go to the circus this week on account of my skull is full of holes and I’d scare the clowns.”
“Come on, Sarah. Reason it out.”
“I don’t know. Acrobats do flips and stuff.”
“Where?”
“At the circus. I just said that.”
“No, I mean, where at the circus? Here’s the only hint I’m going to give you.”
The robotic arm suddenly swings around the side of my head and positions itself directly in front of my face. The drill attachment on the end moves like a finger until it’s pointing toward the ceiling.
“Up? On a high wire maybe?”
“Good. So you couldn’t be an acrobat if you were afraid of what?”
“Heights?”
“Bingo.”
“Why was that supposed to be an easy one?”
“No reason. I doubt you suffer from acrophobia, that’s all.”
I think about my times at the gym, climbing to the highest point I could reach, not even sure why but knowing that I just had to get to the top. It was like all the answers, the peace I craved, the something I needed . . . it was always at the top. No, I definitely don’t have acrophobia. Acrophilia, maybe.
“So I do not have acrophobia and I should not have nostophobia,” I say.
“You’re getting warmer.”
Warmer? Does he mean I’m getting closer to the right answer? But wait. What was the question again?
I’m lying on the scaffolding, looking up at the sky above New York City, and I realize that even back then, Larry was trying to tell me something.
And right now Claymore Tower is like the needle of a compass pointing me in the right direction.