Catch & Release (2 page)

I pick up the messages I'm supposed to deliver. The edges are fringed with the little ragged circles that get left behind when you rip a page out of a spiral notebook. I hate those raggedy bits. I hate things that are unfinished and half-assed. Odd doesn't. Odd's just fine with broken, lumpy, lopsided things.

I miss him.

That's why I'll read this letter, even though it isn't meant for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember you.

“You can see fine out of your left eye. Just drive, you pussy.”

He's got his foot off and he's resting his stump on the dashboard. I ball up my fist and hit him as hard as I can. I don't know where the punch is going to land, because he's in my blind spot. I don't care if I club him in the nuts or what's left of his leg. Either would hurt. Either would be fine. I've been listening to him bitch and moan about phantom pains for days and miles, but the asshole still won't cut me some slack.

“You hit like a girl,” he says.

I clearly didn't hurt him enough. I jerk the gearshift into drive and get my reward: the sound of gravel under the wheels and the loud scrape of car guts on the edge of the pavement as I pull into the right lane.

“Is that like an insult to you? Calling you a pussy? Saying you hit like a girl?” he asks. It isn't an apology. He isn't curious. He's just probing my defenses. I don't answer. I don't need to give him a new way to burrow in, under my skin.

I'm creeping down the blacktop slowly, so slowly, slow as a little old man wearing a hat, and we all know how slow they drive.

Beside me, the passenger seat makes a familiar purring sound and I know he's reclining.

“It's nice to have a little break from driving Miss Crazy,” he says. He probably been working on that one for days, but he finally got to the punch line.

The grey-black of the pavement stretches out and away through a whole lot of nothing until it's no wider than a shoelace. The telephone poles get smaller and smaller as they string out toward the horizon.

“Just look at the telephone poles,” Odd says. “See how they get bigger when you get closer? You don't need depth perception out here.”

Son of a bitch. It's like he reads my mind.

It occurs to me that I can push the gas pedal to the carpet and get all two tons of vintage Cadillac up to deadly speed and crash right into a pole if I want. If I want, I can put us both out of my misery.

If Odd picks up on that thought, he doesn't mention it.

 

A couple things . . .

 

1) I am not a pussy. I prefer the term Vagina American. I am not a pussy.

2) Murder-suicide never used to be my go-to response. I used to see things differently.

 

I miss my eye.

Not as much as I did at first, but I still miss it, especially when it comes to situations like this, when distance and closeness matter. I can't play ping-pong. I can't catch a set of keys if you wing them at me. Those are things that Polly-That-Was could do. Not me. I can't depend on the world, but other than that, I'm doing fine. I'm moving my story down the road. Slowly, slowly, like an old man in a hat, I'm moving my story down the road.

 

I'd rather be home on the couch watching a monstrous shark and monstrous octopus locked in mortal combat. When I say monstrous, I mean really, really big—so big the octopus can slap a fighter jet out of the sky. Fireball! Wreckage plummeting down and disappearing into the waves with a pathetic sizzle. Did I mention the shark is so big it can pull passenger planes out of the sky? Well, it can. And it did. And I don't know how the pathetic humans are ever going to survive.

Seriously, I don't know. That's the question in every monster movie: how will the humans survive? Not
if
. Not “do they deserve it?” Just “how?” When it comes to this particular shark/octopus/human three-way death match, I don't know, because my mom walked in before the stupid movie ended and told me I had company. Then she turned off the television and opened the blinds. And I sat there, blinking in the way-too-bright sunlight, wearing a faded “Walk for the Cure” T-shirt and the U of M flannel boxers Bridger had given me when it was true-love-forever and he was going-to-wait-for-me because two-years-isn't-too-long-to-wait-for-true-love.

“Want to go fishing?” It was Odd Estes.

 

I hadn't seen Odd since he got out of the hospital, but I'd seen him plenty during those recovery weeks. He was, in fact, my first and only visitor other than my parents. My friends would have come. Bridger would have come. I know for sure he would have come because of true love and all of that. It just wasn't allowed. I was quarantined to minimize the risk of contagion. Even my dad, when he came, stayed on the other side of an observation window.

But the quarantine didn't apply to Odd, because he was Case Three. I was Case Six. Cases One, Two, Four, Five, and Seven weren't being very sociable because they were dead.

It killed a lunch lady, a newborn baby, and three varsity football players.

Football was probably why it killed them, the athletes, I mean. They played hard. I'm sure they were always a little banged up. A scrape, a blister, that's all it takes. Every little break in the skin is a welcome mat as far as MRSA is concerned. No pain: no gain. Play hurt. It's just a scratch. They were athletes, members of a team. And since they were members of a team, they hung out together, which made it handy for the infection. By the time they got sick enough to go to get it checked out, it was too late. It was already systemic. The doctors carved the soft, dead meat off those guys like they were boiled Thanksgiving turkeys. The doctors grabbed surgical saws and filled the air with the smell of hot bone during multiple amputations. The doctors poured the best medicine straight into those proud, blue veins. It didn't help. Three guys just rotted and died.

As far as the infection goes, the lunch lady, the little baby, and I hadn't been in the locker room—so we didn't catch it there. The lunch lady had a lot of little nicks and burns on her hands. Maybe she touched a doorknob or stair rail or a pen in the front office after the bacteria had found its way out into the classrooms and hallways. I could never really ask or get an answer about how it got to the baby. At some level, I just don't want to know. As for me, I scratched a zit on my face after I touched a desk or a light switch or the handle on the drinking fountain. That's how it got me. Never scratch a zit, kids; it only makes it worse. Boy howdy. No fucking kidding.

Oh, I'm way lucky. I didn't have an embarrassing acne flare-up. Nope, lucky me, I got flesh-eating bacteria—MRSA, the next-gen superbug. It ate my eye and part of my cheekbone. It left behind a mess of bumpy pink scars that twists the corner of my mouth up on one side like I'm a half-finished Joker. But I'm so lucky, I live. That infection should have gone straight to my brain. I should have died quick. But I didn't. I'm a miracle of modern medicine, only the medicine doesn't get much credit, I notice. People say I'm lucky, or I'm blessed, and then they turn away.

I'm not the only miracle.

There's Odd too.

If anybody ought to have died it was Odd. Not because he deserved to die, although, knowing him as I do, I feel pretty confident saying that most of the world wouldn't miss him. That's not it. He should have died because he was right in that locker room, snapping towels with those other naked asses. And he had a little raw place on his ankle where his shoe rubbed him wrong. MRSA got in him and started eating him up. Then it stopped. It stopped killing him, and it stopped attacking people altogether.

The outbreak was over.

It left behind a sprinkle of new graves in the community cemetery. In fifty years, a historian could walk through and never notice. They will never guess that this was the year MRSA came to town. With nothing but the dates to go on, the future might chalk it up to a couple of rollovers without seat belts, crib death, and a heart attack. As medical disasters go, it doesn't compare to the bad old days, like the winter when diphtheria killed brothers and sisters so fast they buried them together in one casket like a huddle of puppies.