Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) (88 page)

MONICA

O
n my way out, a song hit me. I ran into the cafeteria to write it down. I texted Lil and asked her to meet me out front in fifteen minutes, and I got myself tea.

I’d been in that fucking hospital forever. What had looked sparkling clean the first day looked dingy, dirty, and worthless on day four. I spotted the black scratches on the pink cafeteria tabletops instantly and the little dust bombs sticking to the legs of the chairs. I hated the tea. It was too hot, the Styrofoam made the liquid acerbic, and Jonathan was sick. I hated the greasy eggs and potatoes. I hated the stink of vinegar that seemed to be on everything. I hated being kicked out of Jonathan’s room because too many people were in it.

But on the day of the surgery, the cafeteria sparkled again. The Christmas lights were the most cheerful shades, the tinsel and garland was festive and joyous, and the fake tree in the corner, with toys for sick kids under it, made my heart swell with pride for human generosity.

My god, what do you get a man like Jonathan for Christmas?

I got into the chair I always sat in, and I took out my little notebook and clicky pencil. Everything about the hospital had sucked, but I was writing. A lot. I didn’t even know if half of them were songs or opera or part of something so much bigger, but I couldn’t stop the verses or the tapping of my foot as I laid them down. In the days I’d been at the hospital, waiting for the hours I could see Jonathan, my tea usually went cold before I gulped it down.

I moved the Notice of Public Auction to the front of my notebook so it wouldn’t be in my way, and I wrote. Another Styrofoam cup appeared at my side when I was still neck deep in a song about an imaginary ass-fuck that was disguised as a poem about something else entirely. I looked up at a six foot four man who had hit his sixties in a movie-star kind of way.

He smiled at me. “We meet again.”

“I’m sorry?”

He held out his hand, and I knew that even though I didn’t know him, I did. “My daughter told me my son’s girlfriend was often down here. I thought it might be you.”

J. Declan. Shit. Jonathan wouldn’t like me being with him. And just when I was getting used to that hateful table. I shook his hand briefly then stood. “Yeah. I was just going.”

He sat down. “Looks like you were in the middle of something. Can you just ignore me? There are no other seats.”

I looked around. Every other table was full. I was a single person taking up a four-seater. In the middle of writing, I hadn’t even noticed. “I’ll make room for the rest of the family.”

He laughed to himself. A silent chuckle. No more than a breath.

“What?” I asked.

“If my boy is the sun, I’m Pluto. Smallest. Farthest. Still in orbit, however. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“How does he seem?”

“The same.”

“And his mood?”

“Hard to tell through the wisecracks.”

He nodded, looking around the cafeteria. Kids screamed. Mothers yelled. A mop slapped against the edge of a yellow bucket. To our right, a man wept while a much younger woman comforted him. I glanced at Declan. He looked far away, and I felt sorry for him.

“You should talk to him,” I said. I hadn’t seen the outside world in too many hours, and Lil would be outside in a red zone in four minutes.

“I should,” he said in a way that implied that he would if it were an option. I wanted to say more, but I remembered what Jonathan had told me and what Margie had said about his shitty hobbies. I excused myself to go home to try to manage my life.

MONICA

I
t was night by the time the Bentley made its way slowly down my hill. I’d called Debbie to let her know Jonathan was okay, and I told her if any shifts opened up, I’d fill in. Then I left a message with Darren, who had offered me the moon and stars, the food in his kitchen, the gas in his car, and the surface area of his shoulder should I need it. But unless I asked for something specific or called during an unpredictable sliver of time, he was unavailable. I had no idea what he was doing. When I did catch him long enough to ask after him, his “fines” and “greats” seemed sincere. So I left him alone.

“What time are you going in tomorrow, miss?” asked Lil as she opened the back door for me.

“I’m hoping for an afternoon shift,” I said. “Can I call you?”

She stepped aside as I got out. “I expect you to. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s my job to drive. I don’t want to hear about you taking the bus again.” She slammed the door.

“I’m a poor girl. It’s not a big deal to take the bus.”

“To me it is. No more.” She wagged her finger once and walked around to her side. When she opened her door, she waved, dismissing me.

I fingered the extra bus token in my pocket, went through my gate, and ascended my porch steps. There was no notice on the door, which reminded me I hadn’t heard from Mom. I checked my phone. Nope. Nothing.

“Hey, Monica,” Dr. Thorensen called over the fence.

“Hi.”

“You all right?” He blooped his car. The lights flashed.

“Sure.”

“Because you’re standing on your porch staring at your phone. Is your boyfriend all right? Did the surgery go okay?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t move. He just looked at me under my shitty porch light, which would be auctioned off with the rest of my house. Except my stuff. The bank couldn’t auction what was mine. I’d take the light bulbs, the furniture, the fixtures, and anything that could be unscrewed, unbolted, or pulled off.

“Dad’s tangerine tree,” I said out loud. I didn’t mean to do that.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Thorensen asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” I snapped my keys out of their little pocket.

“Have you eaten?”

I hadn’t expected an actual question, so I answered honestly. “No.”

“I have some pad thai from last night. It reheats like a solid brick, and I don’t want to suffer alone.”

I wanted to slip in during the dead after hours and fall asleep next to Jonathan again, but if there was one night I should let him rest, that was probably it. A twisting disappointment pinched my chest when I realized I wouldn’t go see him. I’d have to sleep alone in my stupid shit bed. But though I could be lonely and depressed and worried, I didn’t have to be hungry. “How are you reheating it?”

“I put the cardboard box in the microwave. It ain’t open heart surgery.”

“You have to heat it covered with a little water.” I put my keys back in my bag, glad to be of use to someone. “A glass container is best. Let me show you.”

MONICA

“M
agic” was too mild a word for
City of Dis
as Dr. Brad Thorensen played it. Extreme might be better. Intense. Powerful.

The idea was the player was in hell. Not just a block character of pixels. Not some person the player made up from die rolls and categories, but...
you.

Meaning, the player created a character based on himself. Plenty of people created characters whole cloth, but the point was to create their own personal self and send it through hell. The player struggled to exit each circle, but he knew the next one would be worse, the stakes would be higher, and his missions would be harder. That being the case, when he stopped, he found his sin. His flaw. He discovered what would send him into the inferno.

Dr. Thorensen taught me how to use the controllers then went to reheat the pad thai as I instructed. The game started with a fifteen-minute questionnaire. Except it should have been a two-hour questionnaire. It should have required thought and rumination. The basics—gender, age, education, family structure—came slowly. Then deeply personal questions had to be answered so quickly I didn’t have a second to think twice. Multiple choice. Choose the closest answer. Rapid fire.

—do you cook your own dinner how long does it take you to eat it how long do you chat with friends after dinner do you have a mirror in your room do you wear makeup every day is your nose big are you fat do you have enough money how much does a pound of feathers weigh where was your car made price of the most expensive bag you ever bought if you found a wallet what would you do someone hits your car on the freeway what do you do how often do you shop do you reconcile your checkbook does your thumb hurt right now how many cups of coffee or tea do you drink a day how many moving violations have you gotten what color is the red hat when was your last felony arrest did your parents spank you are you worthless what is your political affiliation do you believe in legal abortion are you on birth control how many sexual partners have you had this month how much is too much are you hungry right now do you own a firearm are people generally bad or generally good what time do you eat dinner what time do you go to bed do you dream—

PLEASE BE PATIENT WHILE WE CREATE YOUR AVATAR

“It’ll take a few minutes,” Dr. Thorensen said.

“I need a nap after that.”

“You walked in here looking like you needed a nap.” He put down two plates of moist, delicious pad thai that had been reheated to perfection. I felt a mentally overwhelming need to eat it. I sat at the kitchen bar and placed a napkin over my knee. When was the last time I’d eaten a hot meal? Days ago? I would take those noodles slow. I would make love to each one as if it was the first time.

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” I said. He offered chopsticks and a fork. I could use chopsticks, but my hands had started shaking, so I took the fork.

“I see a lot of people who don’t take care of themselves when a loved one is sick.” He said it in a doctor voice, as if it was a professional opinion, and thus something that could not cause offense.

I wondered what it would be like to date a doctor and deal with that voice all the time. Did he use it when he wanted to tell a woman she needed to pay attention to his feelings, or she shouldn’t rehearse on Tuesday nights? Was he a professional when complaining about the in-laws?

“Yeah, well,” I said, spooling a single noodle onto my fork, “he’s going to be out soon. Then I’m going to be fat and happy.”

“I peeked in on his surgery. Everything seemed to be going fine. He’s young. You guys will be tooling around in your new Jaguar in no time.”

I think I turned a little red. “I just want to get back to work. They feed us. Nothing like a free lunch.”

“He doesn’t take care of you?”

I must have burned black, smoking holes in his face because he pursed his lips shut and looked at his plate as if he’d just stepped in my personal daisy patch. “I will allow you to take that back,” I said. “A show of gratitude for the thai.”

He laughed, and it didn’t sound professional. Thank god. “I’m sorry. I take it back. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Got that right, doctor.”

“Brad.”

“Fine.”

A singsong bell rang from the stereo speakers. Naturally, an audio monolith had been connected to the system to make
City of Dis
a three-dimensional aural experience.

“Your avatar’s ready,” Brad said. “I’m dying of curiosity.”

I swallowed the last noodle and bean sprout and went to find out who the game thought I was.

MONICA

I
 pulled a last-minute brunch shift, which was such a relief I think I giggled all the way through it. I’d played
City of Dis
with Brad until midnight, so I was tired which made me punchier. The game was all-encompassing. He’d started me on the eighth circle, where he was, and we cycled around to see if I’d get caught in the trap of my invisible sins. We solved puzzles, interacted with hellions, ate virtual food, and imbibed radioactive-colored drinks that made the screens blurry and shaky. The game was alternately frightening, sweet, intense, dramatic, and funny. I actually forgot about Jonathan for seconds at a time.

The call from Debbie that morning was like the clouds opening up to heavenly light. I’d texted Margie that I wouldn’t be in to see Jonathan until after my shift. She responded right away.

—He looks better. Already demanding your presence. I told him to hold his horses.—

—Do NOT tell him I need the money you’ll give him another heart attack—

At break time, I rummaged through my bag for my phone and found my mother had called me. Funny how I’d forgotten all about that. Not ha-ha funny, but you-are-a-pussy funny. I had ten minutes left of my break, so I had a time limit to how long the pain could last. I stood in front of my locker and dialed my mother’s number. Eight minutes of break left.

“Hello?”

It was amazing how her voice could sound so familiar and so strange at the same time. “Hi, mom. It’s me. I’ve been calling.”

“Are you all right?” She broadcast panic, and the rawness of her emotion sent a welling in my chest and brought moisture to my eyes.

I hadn’t shed a tear of stress or worry over Jonathan because I wanted to be strong. I didn’t want to show weakness in front of his family. They were all so freaking stoic. But with my mother’s tone telling me that
Hi, mom.
It’s me
was enough to panic her, I almost lost my shit. I remembered my mom then. I remembered the things that put me over the edge, the drama, the constant emotional storms. One such storm had led her to fling names at Kevin and me, sending me out the door permanently, my viola forgotten in his trunk.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I missed the rent twice.” Silence. “Mom?” Sigh. “I got an auction notice on the door.”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to call you.” I heard the rustle of sheets, and I looked at my watch. It was noon, and to all indications, she was still in bed. Fuck. “It wasn’t just that. There were other things. I talked to the bank. They don’t care about your problems. All they care about is money.”

“They’re banks, mom.” I rubbed my eyes. “How long has it been since you paid the mortgage?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I should ask how
you
are.”

“It’s complicated. I have only a minute left. What should I do about the auction? Should I move?”

“If you want.”

“Okay, then. I’d better get going.”

“Can you come up some time? I’d like to see you.”