Anamnesis: A Novel (9 page)

I settled at the bus stop bench and
waited. The bus wouldn’t be here for an hour. It was a good moment to call my
partner in crime.

Olivia picked up almost instantly. “Olivia
Holloway.”

“It’s Ethan,” I said. I glanced around me
to make sure no one could overhear. “I talked to my supplier about Whiteout. He
gave me some.”

“
What?
Did you ask where he got
it?”

“He wouldn’t say.” I explained my theory
on the supplier not knowing the chain of command. “It points to someone outside
of the game. They just want Whiteout on the streets. They’re probably giving it
to anyone they think can push it.”

There was chatter on the other line.
Olivia rattled off the names of caterers to her assistant, stressing they could
only use local or fair-trade ingredients. Then she was back. “So eventually he
has to get more of it. Or at least report to someone. Can we ask him who that
is?”

I sighed and stared at the ground. A glob
of chewed gum with a dead ant atop looked back up at me. If only it was as easy
as asking. Most buyers and other dealers liked me, but no one who mattered
liked me. I was too into using what I sold for them to take me seriously.

“If I try to squeeze him, he might cut me
off. He’s my sole source of income, Olivia. I’ll pick up what I can, but I
can’t
interrogate
him.”

“Oh. Okay.” I tried to imagine the
expression on her face. What did Olivia think of the squalor I lived in? What
had she thought when she entered my smoke-addled apartment and saw the bottles
everywhere? The overdue stacks of library books? Did she feel bad about how I
lived?

For her sake, I changed the subject. I can
be kind every once in a while. “Have you found out anything new on D.P.?”

“I haven’t had a chance. The mayor gala
and all. It’s an extremely demanding project. But I will tonight. I’ll call you
as soon as I know.”

Everyone had to work. I needed to get rid
of the inventory Donovan gave me. As for the Whiteout, I wasn’t sure. I had
almost a grand worth of it and if I didn’t sell it, Donovan would be pissed.
Morally, I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I could always lie and say no one wanted
it. That would only work for so long. It might not work at all if Donovan sold
his quickly.

Yes, morals. I had them in my own fucked
up way.

“Fine.” I hung up and secured the phone in
my pocket.

Only a moment later I heard the clopping
of high heels approach. I tilted my head and saw a woman in a bulky winter coat
coming towards me. Her legs were clad in hot pink fishnet that stood out
against the plainness of her brown coat. She had the hood up. A brown fringe of
fake fur curled around her face.

“What are you doing here, Trisha?”

She sat down next to me and glanced to her
side in the direction of the club. Outside in the unforgiving sunlight I could
see the damage on her face from too much tanning and smoking. In the club she
looked young, the shadows and colored lights smoothing what was really there.
It amazed me how fast dancers could turn off their acts.

“Donnie’s doing blow off Chastity’s tits.”

I wasn’t sure what my reaction was
supposed to be, so I didn’t say anything. She came to me for a reason. The ball
was in her court.

“Before Donnie called for her, Chastity
told me you’d been asking him about that Whiteout shit.”

“She heard all that?”

Trisha shrugged. “We see and hear
everything. Anyone with a dick forgets that.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. “You have
something you want to say about it?”

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth
and chewed on it for a second. Sparkling pink lip gloss rubbed away, showing
the chapped lips underneath. I was curious now, if not a bit nervous. Donovan
would be enraged if he knew Trisha was talking to me, especially about
something so sensitive.

“It seems like you have questions that
need answers.” She paused, her voice even lower now. “I need something, too.”

What could I possibly give her she
couldn’t get from Donovan? “And what’s that?”

Trisha looked back towards the strip club,
then all around. I don’t think she could’ve looked any more suspicious than she
already did.

“I want out of the scene.”

“Fuck, Trisha. You know how many girls say
that?” I laughed. “Whatever you think you have waiting for you out there, it
doesn’t matter. Take it from me, you can’t escape this life. Maybe a couple
years ago when you still had a chance, but not now. You’ll be back and begging
for scraps before you know it, only you’ll be at the bottom of the food chain.”

The moment I said it, I regretted it. Here
I was, trying to get out, and I put Trisha down. I needed to learn to keep my
mouth shut.

“You’re a real asshole, E, you know that?
You have no idea what it’s like shaking your tits and ass up there every
fucking day while sticky men grab at you and screw you with their eyes.”

I didn’t know. I would never understand
what it was like, but I could look at all the evidence from strippers before
her to know there was little she could do. Then I remembered I needed to play
nice. She implied she knew something about Whiteout. That’s what I needed.

“I’m sorry. I am. Where do you want to go?
Why can’t Donovan help you?”

“He’s part of the problem. You know what
he does to me. He wants me to be a slut on stage just for him and no one else.
Then when I pull some tricks on the side—because God only knows I can’t make
enough money dancing—he goes ballistic. I want to get so far away from him, he
has no choice but to give up.” Trisha wrung her hands together. “That means I
need money.”

Trisha was getting ahead of herself. She
was already outlining her terms like I’d agreed. But I didn’t have a clue what
kind of information she had to offer me.

A thought dawned on me and I felt rage
boiling up inside. “When you were over the other night, what was that? Just
priming me up? Did you really think a quick fuck would make me risk anything
for you?”

By the frown and displeasure on her face,
I knew I was right. She sighed. “Sure. You’re a lonely guy, E. Everyone knows
you don’t have much. I thought showing you a little kindness might make a
difference when I asked for some.”

I hated being manipulated, but I had to be
honest with myself. Trisha showing up like that was weird. If I’d been thinking
with my brain instead of my dick, I would’ve known it was too good to be true.
I hadn’t spent a minute alone with her in almost a year, then she shows up? I
had to let it go. Especially since she might have something I wanted.

“I don’t have stacks of cash laying around
to give to you. Shit, I’m broke almost every day of the week. Before we even
talk your terms, I want to know what information you have.”

“I know a guy who’s supplying Whiteout.
One of the guys I do on the side. I don’t want money from
you
, I want it
from
him
. You help me, you get his name and whatever else you want out
of him.”

Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from the
depths of her jacket and looked at the screen. She stood up a second later.
“I’m on in ten. I’ll call you soon with details, okay? If we work together, E,
we can both get something we want.”

I watched her teeter away on her five inch
heels and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

“I come bearing
gifts.”

Gifts meant white plastic takeout bags
that hung in both of Olivia’s hands. One shoulder was hiked up as she attempted
to stop her large shoulder bag from slipping off. Today she wore a different
jacket than I’d seen before, different boots, and had her auburn hair in a
round bun on the top of her head. I think she owned more clothes than all the
people I knew combined.

I was still a little loopy from the Valium
I took earlier, forgetting Olivia was punctual. When she said she’d be at my
apartment at eight, that meant she’d be knocking on the door precisely then. I intended
to clean up a bit, but once I was lying on my bed feeling good, cleaning didn’t
seem important.

“I hope you like Chinese food.” She looked
past me into the apartment. “Can I come in?”

“Right. Yeah.” I stepped aside and let her
pick her way around the scatter of clothing and shoes on the ground to the
folding table. It, too, was full of junk.

She set her bags on the chair and cleared
away the items on the table. Empty bottles, both glass and the plastic orange
of unlabeled prescription drugs. Makeshift ashtrays. It was strange seeing her
in my apartment again. The first time she was uncomfortable and out of place.
This time she was still out of place, but was making an effort not to stare at
any one thing too long.

“Quite the collection of books you have,”
she said. She stared at a stack of dream analysis books beside the folding
table. “Are you into psychology?”

“A little. Mostly I keep reading through
them because I hope they’ll fix me, or I’ll find answers in them.”

“Get anything yet?”

I laughed. “No. Never do. For all the
books I’ve read, I don’t think I’m better off. I read them, but don’t apply
them. Just criticize myself more effectively through them.”

I sat in my easy chair near the folding
table and continued to watch as she opened and arranged each takeout container.
She’d brought paper plates which she unwrapped and set down, too. The food
meant something. Maybe she thought of it as a handout. A peace offering.

Or maybe it was just fucking food.

“Thanks for the food,” I finally said,
having mulled over the symbolism of it long enough. I leaned over and dished
myself some of everything she’d brought. I caught her staring at the scars
across my hands as I went.

Thin and wire-like, they wrapped around
the tops and undersides of my hands, just under the knuckles. Some were deep
and ragged, others nothing more than shiny white skin. The thin flap between my
thumb and pointer finger was clipped into and misshapen.

“I don’t know how I got them,” I said.
Olivia quickly looked away, suddenly finding her fried rice very interesting.
“Sometimes I have dreams that show me where I got the other scars. Acid burns alongside
my body. Cuts. Never these.”

She gave me a consoling half-smile. “I’m
sorry. It must be very disturbing to see them and not know.”

I accepted the remark and settled back to
eat my food. We were quiet for a moment before I spoke. “I’d offer you
something to drink, but your options are tap water or whatever dredges of hard
alcohol I have left.”

“That’s okay,” she said and reached into
her endless purse again. “I have my water bottle.”

“Of course you do.”

She swallowed a bite of noodle and
frowned. “Why do you have to do that, Ethan?”

“What?”

“It’s like you can only be nice for a
split second, then you have to do something to cancel it out.”

Olivia had a point. There was a split
moment right as I said something and immediately after where I thought, Ethan,
what the fuck did you say that for? Like with Trisha. That’s how my brain
worked. It was going to take years to reverse the habit, which required a profound
desire to fix it to begin with.

I decided to try being honest with Olivia.
After another few bites of sweet and sour pork, I set my plate on my lap and
looked her in the eyes. “This is the way I am because it protects me. If I’m
mean and never let anyone get to me, I’m safe.”

There was something in her perfect facade
that shifted. Her eyes seemed less wide open and her mouth, for once,
completely lost its perpetual uplifted corners. I felt like I was looking at a
different person. A mirage, and if I looked away and back, it wouldn’t be there
any longer. So I kept staring. Waiting.

“You won’t believe me, but I know what you
mean.”

Don’t say something stupid. Don’t be a
jackass.

“How’s that?”

She pushed food around her plate with a
flimsy plastic fork, lost in thought. “You know commercials for anti-depressants?”

I didn’t watch much TV, but I’d seen
enough to truthfully nod.

“When you’re watching them, your brain is
happy. It sees these images of people enjoying their lives, taking control of
their emotions. They’re being creative, laughing, and playing around. Your
brain likes it so much, it basically ignores the dialog over the commercial listing
all the terrible side effects of the drug. If you stop for one second, close
your eyes, and just listen, you realize that drug isn’t the best thing in the
world.”

Olivia leaned back in her chair, shoving
her plate of food forward. She glanced to the windowsill where a box of
cigarettes rested on its side. She picked it up and turned it over in her
hands. “I know it’s cheesy, but my life feels like the images on those
commercials. Yeah, it all looks good. Then when I stop looking and listen, it’s
a sham. You use substances and that asshole attitude to protect yourself. I
protect myself by looking perfect when I’m anything but. This world loves a
perfect girl. It overlooks and forgives a perfect girl. It doesn’t care what it
takes to maintain the facade, as long as it’s there.”

She smiled wide and put her sweetest
expression on. It was a flawless mask.

“What’s your story, then?” I tried to keep
my voice level. Not accusatory. Just mild curiosity. I found that I really did
want to know.

To my surprise and wayward pleasure,
Olivia withdrew a cigarette from the box and put it to her lips. There were a
dozen colored plastic lighters for her to choose from within arm’s reach. She
picked one with a dragon on it and lit the smoke with expert hands. She inhaled
and blew it out through her nose.

I grinned at her before I could stop
myself. This time, she smiled back. A real smile. A conspiratorial smile. This
was our little secret.

“My mom and dad both come from money and
power. Those two things destroy people. Dad never beat me, or my sister or
mother. He did it to his employees instead; the live-in housekeepers,
gardeners, nannies. He paid them huge sums of money to keep quiet and let him
do it. Most of them were illegal immigrants and he threatened them with
deportation if they talked.”

My food was growing cold, but I’d lost
interest in it. Learning about Olivia’s past was like seeing the dark side of
the moon. “Why didn’t you or anyone say anything?”

She took a slow drag off the cigarette. “I
didn’t know until I was older. About sixteen. I knew
something
was
wrong. There was a lot of tension in the house. Verbal fights. My mother had
become addicted to anti-anxiety meds at that point. In a drug induced haze,
after my sister left, she confided in me. Told me about the beatings, the rape.
I suspected he might’ve killed some of them based on their sudden ‘termination’
but didn’t know for sure. I was going to graduate early from high school and go
to college. Escape all of it. I didn’t have proof he was doing anything wrong.
I was never hurt. Like my mom, I just let sleeping monsters lie.”

“Fuck, that’s heavy.”

Startled by my remark, she laughed before
getting serious again. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. All these years I’ve lived with this
guilt that I kept my mouth shut. Much of my success in life is because of his
money, his title. But it’s dirty. Between you and me, what’s been happening to
me, I…It seems like karma. I’m in the same position now that those people were
in. Trapped. I can’t say anything or I’ll lose everything. I feel like I
deserve it.”

There were tears in her eyes. I saw them
now, shining in the dim light of the lamp by the folding table. Just enough to start
smudging her eye makeup. I set my plate on the table and went into the kitchen
where I found a glass, rinsed it with hot water, and poured her a bourbon. I
brought the bottle back for myself and set the glass in front of her. It was
the best I could do. The only thing I
knew
how to do. The amber liquid
was comfort.

“Don’t ever say that, Olivia. Never. You
were wrong not to do something about it, but that in no way means you deserve
what’s happening to you. Life isn’t an eye for an eye, no matter how badly we
want it to be.”

She took the bourbon and tossed it back.
Between that and the cigarettes, I could only guess she had darker parts of her
life that she kept well hidden.

After her drink settled, her words became
bolder. “I want it to be an eye for an eye. I want to destroy whoever is doing
this to me. It goes against my pacifist beliefs, so obviously I’m conflicted.”
She smiled at me. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve never told anyone this, but
you already know my other darkest secret. What’s one more to add?”

“Your dad seems like a monster. I’ll add
that.”

The spurn pleased her. “He’s terrible. I
hate it, but I’m sure my preoccupation with image comes from him. I learned to
look prepped and pretty on the outside while everything was rotten inside. Just
like him. That’s also why this gala for the mayor is so important to me. I
landed this job all on my own. A lot of my work comes from referrals from my
dad. He holds it over me, like somehow I owe him my life for it. But the mayor?
That’s all me.”

“If you know you get it from your dad,
that it isn’t your choice, why do you stay that way?”

“The idea of changing is easy.” Olivia
sighed. “Doing it is another story. It’s a defense mechanism I had to create to
survive my family. Only, my brain decided to keep it up once things were safe
again and I didn’t need it. It’s so ingrained it’s a part of me now. There’s
nothing I can do to change at this point.”

Straight from the fucking self-help books.
I wondered if she’d read the same ones I had or if she simply had a higher
level of human understanding than me. I hoped it was the former.

“Take happiness where you can get it, I
guess. Good for you on the mayor,” I said honestly. “I don’t know shit about
galas, but I’m sure you’ll do great.”

Our conversation naturally died as we
returned to the food. I ate everything on my plate and took more after Olivia
said she was finished. Between the couple shots of booze and food, and the
remnants of the downer, I was feeling good. Olivia described the place she got
the food from. I told her a bit about Donovan and his stripper girlfriend. How
Trisha offered me a deal.

“Can you trust her?” she asked.

“I don’t know. If ‘never trust a stripper’
isn’t a common saying, it should be. I’ve never met one that did right by me.
They’re in it for themselves. Trisha used to be my…well, she was amazing.
Trustworthy. Not anymore.”

“Way to stereotype. I would still pursue
it. When she calls, see where it goes. If she really is sleeping with a man who
is supplying Whiteout, that could end our hunt.”

I still had a bad feeling about it, but I
promised Olivia I’d follow up. The problem was, I was waiting on Trisha. She
might call tonight, but she might not for weeks. We could have our answers
before she ever even made a move.

Once the food was gone and we’d settled,
eventually we turned to D.P.

“What else did you find out?” I asked her.

“D.P., which stands for Draper-Paulinsky
by the way, owned a building in south Seattle. I did a search on it and it’s
been condemned. Looks like after the bank seized it, they couldn’t sell it. The
recession was in full swing at that point.”

She told me the exact address of the
building. “I used to deal in that area. It’s a shithole. Tons of addicts live
around there. Big abandoned industrial areas are the perfect place for people
to squat.”

“We have to go,” Olivia said. “There could
be old paperwork or files on where the drug was manufactured. There must be
something. It could really move us forward on this.”

I’d spent enough time trying to convince
myself. I knew what she was doing. Getting herself pumped up in the face of
something scary. People used words as a way of building armor around them and
numbing their brain. I’d seen teenagers do it more times than I could count.

It usually plays out the same way. One of the
teenagers starts to approach, but aborts and returns to the flock. They huddle
together for a bit. I wait. I know they will find the courage soon enough. They
talk, and finally one of them makes it all the way to me. Once it took over an
hour before one of the kids in a group grew the balls to make the deal. For a
tiny amount of weed. How silly.