done some things, then settled down. Trust me, it’s a good thing Mark is dead, because now you can live.”
I press on. “What’s in the basement, Mom?”
“Nothing,” she says. “We’ve had raccoons.”
“Bullshit. This is the city. We don’t have raccoons.”
Dad wheels around. “Don’t talk to your mother like that!” he screams.
I recoil. One hand—that’s all I’d need to count the number of times he’s snapped at me. He loved Mark. Treated him like a son. This is not my father.
“It’s good that he’s dead!” he shrieks at Jenny. “It’s good.”
He flops on the ground, body shaking like James did. Only James’s body wasn’t a griddle.
“Get ice,” I bark at my mother. She runs in that nightie, hand at her throat clutching the ruffles closed, not to the kitchen like I expect, but to the basement. Jenny sits on the couch, eyes the size of dinner plates. First her husband, now her father. I slap her. Her eyes focus.
“Call 911.”
She hurries for the phone, dials, waits. “They’re not answering.” Not even a tin lady.
“Keep trying.”
Mom rushes in with a plastic bucket, shoves me aside, upends the contents onto Dad’s chest. Ice cubes. Some sizzle on contact, the steam rising off him in a dense, wet cloud. A one-man sauna. She takes the phone from Jenny’s hands, gently places it back in its cradle.
“They won’t come. They never do. They don’t bother answering anymore.”
My father starts to moan. His eyelids flutter. The seizing stops and soon the ice cubes melt no more.
Jenny stares at him in horror. “What’s wrong with him?”
I look at my mother. See her fate in her resignation.
“Has he been sick? Have you?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “You girls have to go. As a mother, that’s the best I can do for you both.” She kisses my sister’s forehead. “I’m sorry about Mark. We loved him very much.”
I can’t leave without knowing. “What’s in the basement?”
Her voice drops so Jenny doesn’t hear. “That’s where we’ll go. When it’s too late. We have a pact with some of the neighbors, to… to help each other.”
I hold her tight, tell her I love her, and repeat the exercise for my father.
To my old room is where I want to run, not out into the cold with my grieving, shell-shocked sister. To my room where the covers have powers to protect me from the bogeyman. To my old room, where my parents are young and whole and my sister is a pain in my ass. To my old room, where
The streets of Athens limp by. I wish the sidewalks were filled with people who’d conceal me with their bodies and banter, and yet I can move more freely with empty streets; I am divided by my loyalties. The scalpel is rooted in my arm, and I can’t remember if I’m supposed to pull a blade or leave it until help comes. But help isn’t coming—only the Swiss. So I tug it free and hide it in my pocket like a dirty little secret. A red carpet rolls the length of my arm. I need a place; I need a place now to stop it unraveling further.
Refuge is a warehouse. Gallon cans of olive oil stacked ten feet high create a shield from the world. And still he finds me like I knew he would.
“I know you are there, America. I see your blood. Is the scalpel still inside you? I believe it is. Are you bleeding faster now? I know how to hurt a person, America. I know how to kill. Can you say the same?” His voice lowers, and I know he has crouched or sat on the other side of the cans. His voice comes from my level. “There was no baby in her. I believed there was, but I was wrong. But I found something. Do you want to know what I found? Maybe it’s inside you, too. Do you want to know? You are a curious person; I sense all your questions. Even now you are burning to know:
Black spots mar my vision like a fungus as I slide the belt from my hips and yank it tight around my arm. They sprawl, contract, disappear, and new replace the old. My eyes are a kaleidoscope through which I can barely see. Is this what dying looks like?
“Talk to me, America. Ask me what I found, what was inside her.”
His voice comes from further away now, but I know he hasn’t moved. It’s me. I’m drifting away.
“I don’t care.”
I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until he laughs.
“Of course you care. All you do is care. Why else bring that stupid girl with you? What is she to you?”
I speak through gritted teeth. “Just a girl.”
“No, I don’t think so. I know people, America. I know people do things for reasons that they do not always understand. She told me how you took her from the farm, away from her family. Why would you do such a thing? Shall I guess?”
“Fuck you.”
“When you are a doctor, you see many different people. The women I saw always had a story for why they were in my office. Some, they wanted medicine for birth control. Some wanted an abortion. Some wanted tests for disease. All wanted me to say, ‘It is okay.’ Validation for their actions. Absolution for their sins. Redemption. Who were you trying to save, America? Not that girl. She was nobody to you. A surrogate.”
I close my eyes, hope the names remain in my head. Reality is shifting out now and something new is moving in furniture. The black spots metastasize—from my eyes to my neural pathways.
“Who were you trying to save, America? A sister, perhaps? Your family. A husband? No. No husband. No ring on your skinny finger.”
Jenny. Nick. My parents. Am I trying to save someone? Is that what I am? Some kind of wannabe hero? I don’t feel like a hero. I just feel scared. For my child. For my future, which looks to be about five minutes long; maybe fewer.
“That stupid English girl killed herself. You helped her.”
“I don’t understand.” My tongue grows thick, my words slide into one another.
“Ask me what I found inside her.”
“I’m tired of your games. Just tell me.”
Skidding, scraping. Metal on concrete. Death touches my leg and I jerk, but already my fingers are reaching for it. I know what it is. I know what it is before my fingers slide along the tight curves that make up the slick, shiny helix. The cold comes for me, arms open wide.
“You know this thing, don’t you, America?”
“Yes.”
“How? Tell me.”
“I gave it to her. So she could protect herself.”
“You provided her with the means to rip out what she believed was inside her. She pushed it through her cervix, as though her womb was a bottle of cheap wine.” Satisfied. Smiling. “Are you shocked?”
“Is that what was inside her?”
“No. She was clutching this thing in her hand as though it was precious to her when I found her. Happy. This is what the foolish girl wanted. If you are shocked, you are as big a fool as she.”
“I couldn’t save her. I can’t even save myself. I’m not a hero.”
“No, you are not.
A chuckle bubbles out of my mouth. “You?”
“I am a hero. You are nothing. What do you try to save? One stupid, blind girl. My goals are much bigger. More important. They will benefit the world. I will kill the monsters man created.”
My eyes close. The here and now is greased rope slipping through my fingers. “Why do you give a shit about me, then? I’m nobody. Just a cleaner.”
“Not just a cleaner. You worked at Pope Pharmaceuticals. Which means you belonged to George Pope.”
