Leaving Unknown (16 page)

When I got to the part about the knee, I unconsciously rubbed the scar on my abdomen where my port had been. It was a hard ridge, like I’d been chipped for Darwinian tracking. Only the healthy allowed on ships to repopulate when we relocate from a dying planet. Still, I consoled myself, if you got left behind, you got to keep all the stuff. That’s a lot of Jenga. I kept reading.

When Ruby knocked on my door, I’d read the book three times, and my cheeks were wet. I wasn’t sure what for but the emotion wasn’t unwelcome. I could use the practice. I could also use a tuna sandwich.

“Maeve? Are you joining us for lunch?” My return had not gone unnoticed after all. I wiped my face and opened the door.

“No, thanks Ruby. I’ll grab something at the café. I have to get back to work.”

Ruby put relish in her tuna. Yech.

Noah looked surprised when I walked into the Little Read Book. I was suddenly shy.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said.

“That color looks pretty on you.” I was wearing a ruffled lilac top with a deep-V neckline.

“Thanks.”

We ran out of ideas. Silence stretched. I broke it. “I needed tuna.”

He nodded. “I get that way about spaghetti.”

I laughed. “Better than cheese sandwiches? I love my book.”

“I’m glad.” He walked to a table and held out a chair. I sat. He sat.

Without a word, he reached out and grasped my hand, hard. We looked at each other, his hand crushing mine. I smiled, and his grip relaxed. But he didn’t let go.

“You could have told me.”

“When did I sign up for a reality show?” I tried to tug my hand back.

“Hey,” he said.

I stopped struggling. “You could have told me you own a Fall Out Boy CD,” I retorted. “I would have seriously reconsidered working here.”

“I like to know what the kids are up to.”

A minute passed. I fidgeted. He looked awkward. “A lot of having cancer,” I forced out the word, “is worrying about the people around you. There’s an overwhelming need to take care of the recipient of your bad news. People cry on your shoulder, like you’ve triggered their own death awareness. It’s weird and exhausting.”

He nodded, holding my eyes.

Silence fell again, neither of us knowing what to say.

The door tinkled, and I realized we were still holding hands. Embarrassed, I withdrew. Beth’s arrival made me more flustered, though she always was civil in front of Noah. When she spotted me, she became equally ill at ease.

“Oh. Hello Maeve!” Her volume was for the hard of hearing. “How. Are. You. Doing?” She spoke slowly, and overenunciated. Did she think my illness had rendered me deaf and slow? Noah’s frown matched mine.

“Fine.” I stood. “Getting back to work. Things have piled up.”

“Good! Good!” Beth shouted, as she dug in her purse for her Purell hand sanitizer. “Glad you’re not tired!”

Apparently having cancer took the bull’s-eye off my forehead. Oliver was right. She
was
a twat.

“I just came by to drop these off, honey. You left them on the counter.” She handed Noah his sunglasses. “Gotta run.” She bolted from the store.

I frowned. Noah mistook the cause.

“You’re not going back to work. Let’s get out of here,” he commanded.

“Nogales?” I perked up.

“Wagon Wheel. I’m buying you a beer.” He strode to the front, flipping the sign to
CLOSED
as he held the door for me. Twenty minutes later we were the only patrons at the bar at one in the afternoon on a weekday. Imagine that.

“You from around here?” I teased, with the hackneyed pickup line.

“I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida.”

“Really?” Noah didn’t strike me as a beach volleyball type.

“Yep. First bookstore I worked in had a defibrillator on hand, in case any of the elderly clientele got too excited about the new releases. Of course, just
getting
to the bookstore was a life-threatening challenge because Florida drivers are so bad. I did like the clowns, though.”

“Clowns?”

“It was the winter training ground for the Ringling Brothers Circus. Growing up, we were forbidden to hang around the circus people, so naturally every kid in the neighborhood spent every waking minute watching them practice.”

I was fascinated. “Were they creepy? Do they wear makeup when they practice? How do they all fit in that little car? How come they all carry bicycle horns? Can you juggle?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I stopped following the clowns when I was eleven. I can’t tell you the tricks of the trade.” He winked. “But I
can
juggle.”

“Show me.”

“Hey Vic, throw me a couple of limes,” Noah called. Vic complied, and Noah expertly tossed the fruit.

I applauded when he was done. “All I can juggle is credit-card debt.”

“You’re falling behind.” Noah indicated the full pint stacked
up behind my half-finished one. I drained my glass and clutched the full one.

“Don’t hug the glass!” Noah chided. “It’s the first sign of alcoholism.”

“I have a reputation for abuse.” I laughed. “Half my college dorm thought I was on drugs. I was pale, not eating, losing weight, skipping class, and sleeping all the time. One day, a classmate walked in as I was about to shoot up an injection to help me produce white blood cells. I hid the needle and yanked down my sleeve, but it didn’t look good.”

“You stayed in school when you were sick?” He seemed more comfortable talking in the casual setting. I did too. Or it could’ve been the beer.

“Not long. I was the loser that moved back in with my parents to sleep under my old Michael Jackson posters.”

“Prince Charles lives with his mom. I think he has Burt Bacharach posters, though.”

“The Menendez brothers lived with their folks too. Until they killed them.”

“There’s legal aid for your defense. I looked into it when my sister Lily was thirteen. Thirteen is a trying year.”

“Good thing my parents didn’t know about the legal aid. They put everything on hold to take care of me, and I acted like a petulant teenager.”

He squinted at me. “I’m trying to imagine you whispering in the phone, listening to *NSYNC, and telling your dad to mind his own beeswax.”

“Oh, I can tell you to mind your own beeswax with the best, buster. I’ve perfected fifty inflections of sneer in English
and
Spanish.” I did my best impression of a snotty teenager. “‘Where are you going?’ ‘Out.’ ‘Out where?’ ‘Out
side
.’”

“Scarily accurate.”

“That’s probably why the hospital sent me home.”

“I’ve seen too many movies. I have an image of you, brave and bald in a hospital bed.”

“Unless you’re really sick, they prefer you to go home—it’s cleaner and safer. And the nurses like an empty room to sneak into to watch
General Hospital
. If you ever want to know all the ways that
General Hospital
isn’t realistic, by the way, ask a nurse. Make sure you have a few hours.”

“I’ll remember that if I misplace the hammer I use to bang myself on the head repeatedly,” he said. He signaled the bartender. “Vic! Two more.” I opened my mouth to protest but he hopped up. “Have to hit the men’s room. Be right back.” His triumphant grin indicated awareness that he’d silenced my protest. I closed my eyes to check if my head was spinning. Not bad. Only mild spin. I could still walk.

“I don’t see why I have to wait,” I moaned. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“Hospital rules.” Jean didn’t look up from her
Good Housekeeping
. “You have to ride the wheelchair. He’s on his way.”

I hated being in the hospital. “It’s ridiculous. Leo can be doing other things. Like wheeling around people with broken legs or emerging baby friends. I don’t need him.”

She ignored me. She was so intent on her magazine I hoped it was teaching her how to shellac the shelf that would change the world.

“I’ve been waiting nine thousand hours.” I tried again. The X-ray had only taken six minutes. The waiting area was tiny, and in my desperation I’d already finished the battered
Parents
magazine from 1997. There was no one to talk to. The only other person was a little kid sleeping on a stretcher by the door.

“If only I had a
Good Housekeeping
or something…” I was musing in a very loud voice, when Jean sneezed. Twice. Without covering her mouth. I felt the adrenaline shot. I wheeled
backward as fast as I could without looking like a wild animal. As I got closer to the kid, I smelled something horrendous. The poor little guy was covered in vomit. I opened my mouth to say something, and Jean wiped her hand across her nose. And didn’t use the Purell hand sanitizer placed conveniently everywhere in the hospital. I closed my mouth. I rolled closer to the kid and covered my nose.

“Maeve?” Noah snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry.” I jumped. “That Lucky Spencer from
General Hospital
puts me in a trance every time.

Vic delivered our beers. And two shots. “Upgrade,” he said.

I was dubious.

Noah tossed back his shot. “Chicken?”

Not a chance. “Prost!” I downed mine, and slammed the glass upside down. My enthusiastic gesture tipped me off the stool and onto Noah, pinning his beer between us. “Don’t hug the glass,” I sputtered.

“I’m too busy hugging you.” He didn’t hurry to put me aright. I didn’t rush to pull myself off. When I did, our eyes caught.

Confused, I shoved my face in my beer. “How come you left Florida?”

“I don’t like to talk about it.” He looked away.

I was about to snort at the irony, when I had an idea. I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my favorite rainbow striped knee socks. I straightened and put one on each hand. My sock puppets faced each other, as I used a falsetto voice. “‘Hello! I’m a Visualization Facilitator!’” said the right hand. “‘I’m a Creative Visualization Device!’” said the left hand. I turned them both to face Noah’s laughing face. “‘Maybe we can help!’”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in defeat. “But please don’t make me put my hands in your dirty socks.”

“My socks are
not
dirty,” I said in a haughty tone, thankful I’d put on a fresh pair right before work. But I put my socks back on. My feet were cold.

Noah finished his beer, and waved at Vic. “My dad died in a plane crash. His Cessna went down in the Gulf during a storm. They never found a body. After that, I detested the sight of the ocean. I couldn’t stop thinking my dad was still out there rolling around. As soon as my sister started college, I moved to the desert. That’s why I picked the University of Arizona.”

“When I started having nightmares, my doctor told me cancer patients often suffer posttraumatic stress disorder. They used to think only combat veterans suffered from it, but now they say any traumatic event can cause it. One of the characteristics is wanting to avoid places that remind you of your trauma.”

“Dr. Connelly, did you just diagnose me with PTSD?”

“I have PTSD from working for you.”

“I’d hardly compare my stresses to those of war soldiers.”

I shrugged. “Once I felt guilty about that, but I think Dr. Gerber was right. I was definitely in shock at the way my body treated me.”

“It looks pretty nice to me.” His smile was suggestive.

I rolled my eyes. “How old were you when your dad died?”

“Eleven.”

I thought of something. “Your first book was about a boy who could fly.”

“My sister Lily was only eight when Dad died. Mom was working all the time and Lily started getting in trouble, fights at school. She was sending boys to the school nurse for stitches!” He sounded proud. “I made up stories to keep her in line. She
wouldn’t get to hear the next chapter if she didn’t behave. I wrote about a boy who could fly, because I wanted her to know that just because something bad happened to Dad didn’t mean that it would happen to everyone. It was rotten luck.”

“Now you’re writing about a boy who can survive underwater.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “Just because I occasionally escape into stories doesn’t mean I don’t try to tackle my demons.”

“Just because I run, doesn’t mean I always run away,” I offered. We smiled at each other.

Noah struck a theatric pose, and intoned, “Now is the water of our discontent made glorious desert with this sun above. Friends, Romans, Vic! Send me more beers!”

“Noah!”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Noah and Vic ignored me. More beers arrived. Noah toasted. “Be not afraid of wastedness: some are born wasted, some achieve wastedness and some have wastedness thrust upon them.”

“To pee or not to pee. That is the question.” I hopped off the stool.

“Is that a stagger I see before me?” Noah called after me as I wobbled to the bathroom.

When I got back, I struggled to remember what we’d been talking about.

“Your sister. Where is she now?”

“If you can believe it, Lily flies mail planes in Alaska.”

“Guess your stories worked.”

“She’s the one that sent
The Boy Who Could Fly
to an agent. It never occurred to me.”

“I think it’s great that you do what you love.” I was a little envious.

“What about you? What do you want?” Noah’s smile was naughty.

“All I want is a warm bed, a kind word, unlimited power, and world domination.”

“It’s good to have goals.”

“It’s good to have beers!” I toasted. “And to know you’re capable of lightening up.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.” His tone was lofty. “I’m a party animal.”

I snorted. “More of a party mineral.”

“Right. That’s it. It’s game time. BarOlympics are
on
.”

“BarOlympics?”

“We’re going to play some games.”

“What’s in a game? That which we call rainbow socks by any other name would smell like feet,” I recited.

Half an hour later we were clutching the bar and laughing hysterically.

“One hundred thousand sperm, and
you
were the fastest?” I gasped.