Push (20 page)

I work my index finger under the lip of the envelope and tear it open. Inside is a written letter. A note, really. My heart stops.

Em—

Michael is in the hospital.
He might not make it.
I
thought you should know.

R.

241-445-7878

And folded up with the note is a newspaper clipping.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Anna

I am standing on this bridge, and I know that he is watching. He is always watching. First it was from his bedroom window, the one across the courtyard from mine. But then, after David got him evicted, he started watching me from his car, from the sidewalk, from the coffee shop adjacent to the restaurant where I work. Hell, he watches me from wherever he can. I hate him, and the more he watches me, the more I want him to die. The more
I
want to die.

David keeps trying to tell me that it isn’t true. That Thomas isn’t watching me. That it’s all in my head, and I’m just being paranoid. I hate that word. Paranoid. How the hell is it paranoia when I see the motherfucker standing there watching me?
That
is not paranoia. That is the
truth
. I know that David is only trying to help, but, really, the only way he can help me is to make Thomas and his video camera go away. Even when I take my meds, he’s there. He is real. I swear it.

David is standing next to me on the bridge, holding my hand. He made me take a walk with him tonight. He said he wanted to help me clear my head and to show me that Thomas is not following me. Not following us. But Thomas
is
here. I can feel him. I don’t mention it to David, though, because he won’t believe me. He never does. Even the girls at work don’t believe me. Only Thomas knows it’s the truth.

David is a good guy. A really good guy. His structure and order has turned out to be the perfect counterpoint to my mental disarray. We have been living together for almost two months now. He moved in right after my last hospital stay. It was such a fucking joke that time. I didn’t take those pills to kill myself; I took them to prove to David—and everyone else—that Thomas
was
watching me, because he would call an ambulance if he saw me do it. It failed, though, because they told David that
I
was the one who made the call even before I took the pills. Which is impossible, of course. Thomas must have had some woman call in for him. He knew he’d be busted. I didn’t think he was that smart.

When David moved in, I taped cardboard over all the windows to shut Thomas out of our lives. It worked for a little while, but then one day, David saw him, too. He saw the video camera set up in Thomas’s window, aimed right at our window. He went straight to the police and managed to get Thomas evicted. The police found videos of me—before I put up the cardboard—in Thomas’s house, so don’t tell me he isn’t still watching me. He’s a fucking pervert. I should have gotten a restraining order or pressed charges when I had the chance. I regret that I didn’t.

David says that Thomas isn’t even in New Orleans anymore and that he wants me to relax about the whole thing. But I can’t. I know David is just saying those things because he wants to protect me. He has always wanted to protect me, from Thomas and from myself. He was that way right from the beginning. David was refurbishing Dr. Schreiber’s office, and we just started talking in the waiting room before my appointment. I gave him my number when I left. I never do that kind of stuff, but I’m glad that I did. He called me a few days later to ask me how I was. We talked on the phone five or six times before I agreed to have coffee with him. I told him right out the gate that I am wack—that I have “issues.” He said he figured as much, seeing as how we met at my therapist’s office. But it turns out that he has issues of his own. He didn’t tell me about them at first, but after we were dating for a while, he told me that when he was finished with the remodel, he started seeing Dr. Schreiber, too. David has a messed-up, disheveled past, and his last girlfriend, Jenny, took shit to a whole new level and messed him up pretty bad.

Jenny was a junkie. When she died, she was in it pretty deep with her dealer. Like for tens of thousands of dollars. She started selling for him to pay off her debt—and as a way to score her next fix. She never caught up, though, and tried to drag David into it, as well. She wound up dealing out of the tattoo parlor where she worked, selling pills and dope and shit to anyone who would buy. And then she got some bad stuff and sold it to some crackhead who went crazy and pounded her with a rock or something. He dumped her body in the river. Jenny and David had broken up weeks before that, he told me, over the fact that he refused to help her deal with the mess. And because he was tired of her always being strung out.

David says he talks to Dr. Schreiber about how he feels responsible for Jenny’s death because he refused to help her. When the police came to him after Jenny’s body was found, David was the one who had to tell Jenny’s family that she was a user, and he had to tell the cops about everything. About her habit, about her arrangement with the dealer, about how she was selling from the tattoo shop, and about how he had refused to help her out of the situation.

The trail of shit Jenny left in her wake was pretty incredible. The owners of the tattoo parlor had to shut it down, even though they hadn’t known what was going on. And, worse still, the district attorney didn’t have enough evidence to press charges against the crackhead, so he walked, denying it up and down the entire time. Yes, he bought drugs from Jenny, he said. But he didn’t kill her.

So David has been stuck with Jenny on his conscience, and Dr. Schreiber has been helping him sort it all out. I think things are better for David now, though I know he worries about me. I wish he didn’t have to. I wish I could prove to him that I am not being paranoid.

David squeezes my hand, and we stand together looking out over the water. The traffic is whizzing by, and even though it is dark, I can feel Thomas watching us. I don’t say anything to David, though, because I am supposed to be clearing my head. I am supposed to
not
be thinking about Thomas.

We are both quiet for a long time, but then David takes a deep breath and tells me he knows how to make Thomas go away. He knows how to fix this. He sounds sad as he says it, but the conviction in his voice makes it sound like a pledge. As if he’s promising something that he is sure he can deliver. I tell him there is no way he can make this better because he doesn’t even believe me. He doesn’t even think Thomas is real anymore. I let go of David’s hand because right now, despite his vow to fix this, I don’t want him to be here. David thinks he understands, or rather he thinks he’s
trying
to understand, but how could he? How could he know what it feels like to have someone watching your every move, every hour of every day? How could he even begin to understand what this feels like? How does he think he is going to fix things for me?

David tells me it is difficult for him to believe that Thomas is still watching me when he doesn’t see him. Ever. He looks for Thomas, he says. All the time. But he never sees him. I tell him that there are a lot of people who believe in ghosts and aliens—and God, for that matter—even though they have never seen them. Just because he doesn’t see Thomas doesn’t make me a liar.

I am mad. So mad. How can he make Thomas stop when he doesn’t even believe he’s there in the first place? When I ask him that exact question, my voice is full of sarcasm and attitude.

David swipes a hand across the back of his neck, as if he is rubbing out a kink in one of his muscles. “By making him believe that there is no more you.”

I don’t understand.

David asks me if I think Thomas is watching us right now. It is a baited question, and I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he want the truth? Or does he want me to lie? As I consider my answer, I look down toward the end of the bridge. There is a man standing there, looking out over the water and talking on a cell phone. He’s the only person around who isn’t zipping past in a car. And I know that it is Thomas. I don’t look at David when I say yes.

David sighs. He grabs my hand again and tells me that if Thomas is watching us right now, he will see us jump off this bridge together, and he will think that I am gone. That
we
are gone. Then he’ll leave me alone. He won’t come back. David promises me. He promises me that Thomas will leave...me...alone. That it will be over. He promises. And I believe him. I believe him because he has never broken a promise to me before. Ever.

David knows that I cannot swim. I once refused to go boating with him at Lake Pontchartrain because of it, and he thought it was odd that I never learned.

He must see my trepidation, because a second later, he is calming my unspoken fears with talk of how we will jump together. He says that once we hit the water, he will pull me back up and drag me to the shore. I don’t have to swim. I only have to hold my breath. I can do that, I tell him. I can hold my breath.

I tell David that, yes, I will do this because I think he is right. I think this will work. I wrap my arms around David’s neck and he wraps his arms around my waist and I say thank you to him. I say thank you for making this better. For fixing this. He lets go of my waist and looks at me. He is only holding my hand now, and he tells me that on the count of three we will jump together. I know that Thomas is watching us now, and I am excited. I am thrilled that he will see us. For the first time ever, I am happy that he is here.

David counts. But when he says three, instead of jumping, he whips his hand out of mine and steps back away from the edge of the bridge. I snap my head around to David and ask him what the hell just happened. He is smiling at me. A big smile. A look of excited contentment flashes on to his face. He looks so strong. So sure. So very controlled. I know now that he isn’t going to jump. He never intended to jump.

My feet are still at the edge of the bridge. Frozen. When I turn my eyes toward the end of the bridge to look for Thomas, I see that he is gone. That no one is there. We are alone, David and I. I look down over my toes. At the water beneath the bridge. Someone is in the water. Thomas is in the water. Thomas is waiting for me. I begin to think that maybe this is how it should be. Maybe David is right. Maybe this is the way to make it better. Maybe I should just jump. Maybe I should be with Thomas.

Before I can lift my feet up off the bridge, David’s hands are on me, his palms pressing into my spine and his fingers splayed out, the tips curving slightly around my waist. And then they push me forward. They push me toward Thomas. To where I know I am supposed to be.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Emma—Present Day

I take the letter and the piece of newspaper into my apartment and sit down on the sofa to read it. David lingers nearby for a while, then disappears into the kitchen. The article, dated from this past Thursday, describes how international businessman Michael Groff was attacked the previous day, during daylight hours, by an unknown assailant. He was beaten with a baseball bat and left for dead. Complicating the attack is the fact that apparently Michael’s business, which is among the world’s top three international lumber dealers, has been implicated in the unlawful harvest and importation of exotic hardwoods, and he is awaiting trial. TruTimber Imports buys and sells wood—teak, African mahogany, macassar, East Indian rosewood, bubinga—and after a thorough undercover investigation of their international harvesting practices and import permitting procedures, the U.S. Department of Agriculture is pursuing charges against the company for various illegal actions.

The attack on Michael took place in a parking garage, and there are no known witnesses. Police are unsure as to whether the attack is related to the criminal charges pending against him.

Damn. I stand up and walk into the kitchen. David is by the sink, looking lost. I hand the letter to him. He reads it and looks up at me in question. Then I pass him the newspaper article. He leans his back against the counter, crosses his ankles and reads the article from beginning to end. When he finishes, he puts both papers down on the counter and sighs.

“Wow,” he says softly. “That’s insane.”

“I know. I can’t believe it.” My head is churning. I’m not quite sure how I am supposed to feel about this
.
Should I be sad? He was my mother’s husband after all, my stepfather.

Fuck that. Fuck the way I am
supposed
to feel. Fuck him. I feel
glad
, that’s how I feel.

“I’m glad,” I say out loud. David’s brow raises and his mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’m relieved,” I add. “I hope the fucker dies a rotten death. Shit, let’s be honest, I’d like to shake the hand of the man that swung the bat.” My hand flies up to my mouth and covers it as soon as the words come out. As if I am holding in all the other things that want to come out. All the other words I’d like to say about Michael. And then I start to laugh hysterically. Belly-cramping, side-splitting laughter spills out of me until tears are rolling out of my eyes.

David is staring at me as if I am certifiable. It’s clear that he is choosing his words carefully. “Can I be glad, too?” he asks.

“Fuck, yeah,” I say emphatically, trying to rein in my psychotic laughter. “If he dies, I am free from everything. All the bullshit. All the doubt.” I am quiet for a moment because I’m not sure if I should say what is really on my mind. Fuck it. “Is it wrong that I want him to die, David?”

He shakes his head quietly and wraps his arms around my shoulders, hugging me tight.

“Are you going to call your brother?” he asks a minute later. The thought stops me in my tracks.

“I don’t know.” Truthfully, I hadn’t even considered it. I’m not sure talking with Ricky is going to be worth anything. I can probably get more information from the hospital. “I’m not going to do anything tonight but hang out with you,” I say, realizing that if Michael is out of the picture, I lose a little bit of protective David. “That is, if you still want to stay, now that I guess you don’t have to.”

David lets go of me and steps back. He cocks his head to the side and squints his eyes at me quizzically. “I want to stay. Shit, Emma, I always want to stay.”

“Good,” I say. “Let me make us some dinner.”

While we are eating, I tease David about what good timing all this is for him. About how lucky he is that he doesn’t have to take his girlfriend to poker with him again tomorrow night. He gets a rise out of my comment, and then tells me that I can still come if I want to. He liked having me there, he says, except for the “fall-down drunk” part—but even that was kind of entertaining. I give him my best sideways snivel and tell him emphatically to fuck off. I know he likes it because the current is there. Again.

After a minute or two of weighted silence, I tell David that Ricky’s note was postmarked on Thursday which means that, by now, Michael could be dead. I tell David that I will call the hospital tomorrow morning to find out what is going on. To find out if Michael is still alive. David says he thinks that is a good idea. It would make him feel better, he says, knowing that there was no chance of Michael showing up while he is at poker.

When we finish eating, I wash the dishes, and David dries. I look at him with a secret sideways glance, watching his arms move, watching the birds bend and flex. I put down the dishrag and quickly swipe my wet hands against my jeans. I turn toward him and grasp his arm, the one holding the towel. My palms and fingers rub against his skin, up and down his arm, feeling the birds. Feeling David.

He remains still as I push his sleeve up over the top of his shoulder, exposing his bicep. On the round of his shoulder is a brilliant, parrot-like bird. Its head is turned to the side, and one dark eye is looking out over its outstretched wing. Nestled under the wing is a tiny, purple hummingbird with an iridescent green head. The hummingbird looks small and lost. It is resting on a crooked twig that the parrot is holding with its foot. I notice now that, unlike all the larger birds with their outstretched wings and confident posture, the hummingbird seems unsure of itself. Unsure of whether or not it will slide off the end of the twig and drop. Unsure if it is able to fly.

I put my index finger on the hummingbird, pressing myself into this tiny thing. This tiny, vulnerable thing. The one bird that seems like a glitch. An anomaly in David’s confidence.

“Who did this?” I ask, raising my eyes to his. “Who put these on you?”

“An artist. In New Orleans,” he says, looking down at me. I expect him to look surprised, but he doesn’t. He looks calm and light.

“What does this one mean? This tiny hummingbird.” My voice is so quiet. And yet I can hear my own awe. “What do
all
of them mean?”

I am awash with emotion, and I’m not sure if it is because of Ricky’s letter or because I told David I love him or because of the hummingbird. Maybe it is everything. All of it.

David is silent for a long time. My hands move to his other arm. They grasp him by the wrist, and my fingers trail up along the inside of his elbow to the crest of his arm. I move up to his neck, then to his chin. I am holding his face like a child’s, rubbing my thumbs against his jaw and looking at his open eyes.

“They’re for my mother,” he says quietly. “She called me her bright little bird.”

I know that David’s mother died when he was young. He told me the night I came home to find my new kitchen. He said he was eight.

My fingers move back to the hummingbird. Tracing it. “Is this one you?” I ask.

He grins at me and shakes his head. “No. It isn’t me.”

“Then who is it?” I ask. He looks as if he doesn’t want to answer.

“That one belongs to the artist.”

“Oh,” I say, rubbing my finger against its folded wings. “Did you ask him to put it there?”

“No,” he says cautiously. “She put it there on her own.” She. He said, “she.” Why would a woman put herself, in bird form, on a stranger’s arm? She wouldn’t. She would only put herself on the arm of a man she cared for.

“Did you love her?” I don’t know why I ask, but I do. I can’t take it back.

David pauses for a moment before he answers. “I didn’t love her, no. But she loved me. Or at least she said she did.” Oh. Another woman loved him. Another woman said those words and didn’t hear them back. David must sense that I am sinking inside because he keeps talking, trying to pull me back up. “She was messed up, Emma. She was a junkie. How could she have loved me when half the time she didn’t even know if it was Tuesday?” His hands are on my shoulders now, and I feel as if he is trying to hold me up. Trying to help me find my balance.

“Where is she now?”

“She died. Years ago.”

Anna Spaight’s obituary didn’t say that she was a tattoo artist, nor did any of the other articles about her death. But, in the picture, the one where David is standing behind her, his tattoos are there. Wrapped around her. Is he talking about Anna, or is he talking about someone else? Being on medication for depression and paranoid schizophrenia doesn’t make you a junkie, does it? I want to ask him if it is Anna—but I won’t, because my question will tell him that I know about her. To have two women in your life die would break a man—even a man like David. It must be Anna he is talking about.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to cry. I want to cry for Anna. And for David. And for me.

“It’s okay,” David says. “Really. She was messed up, and it was over between us long before she died. I only stayed for as long as I did because I was trying to help her.”

“Oh.” It
must
be Anna. In my mind, I am picturing David and Anna together, imagining him holding her up by the shoulders the same way he is holding me right now. Trying to help her find her balance.

“You already know that I am the raven, Emma. We both are.” He lets me go and lifts up his arm to show me the dark, thick bird. The one above his right underarm. The one I found the night he took me to the bridge. The clever and self-assured and peculiar raven. How could I have thought that he would see himself as a frail hummingbird? The ridiculousness of my earlier question tugs at me. Anna was the frail one. And David didn’t love her because ravens don’t love the weak.

With that thought, I straighten myself. I don’t need David to hold me up. I am centered now, and I put my lips against the raven. I kiss its beak and run my tongue across its body. David tastes of salt, of skin. His hands move to the back of my head, and he lifts my face up to his, kissing my mouth, lapping his tongue against mine. I can feel how much he wants this. How much he wants me. When we finally separate, it’s clear that David has something on his mind.

“I know Saz told you about Lucia the other night. I’m sorry you had to hear about that from him.” His voice sounds uncomfortable. As if he is embarrassed and ashamed.

“It’s okay,” I say, hoping to quell his feelings.

“I should have told you about her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I guess because you never asked. You’re different than anyone else I have ever been with. You don’t ask a lot of questions about where I’ve been and who I’ve been with.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not that I’m not interested, because, trust me, I am. But I figure you’ll tell me what I need to know, whenever the time is right.” I shrug and add, “Your past is really none of my business.”

“But it
is
your business,” he says sharply. He is looking down at me, and I give him a what-the-fuck-is-that-supposed-to-mean look. “It’s your business because the women I have been with are a part of who I am. They matter to me because they
all
became a small part of me in some way. A small part of who I am today.”

I’m not sure if this is my cue to start asking him questions, but right now, I am too fucking tired to go there.

We walk down the hallway together and lie down on my bed. I shift down into the crook of his arm and close my eyes. What if he tells me a bunch of shit I don’t want to know? What if whatever he has to say about his past changes things between us? It won’t, I tell myself. Because whatever it is—when you love someone—it doesn’t matter.