“It feels like that sometimes. But the isolation is what I like about it.” He brushes a thick lock of dark-brown hair away from his gray eyes. “Wait until we get to my place. It’ll just be us. Total privacy.” When he smiles, his eyes warm.
“I like it when you look at me like that,” I say.
He rises, stands so close I must crane my neck to meet his gaze. “And how do I look at you?”
“Like I’m the only person in the world.”
He kisses me gently on the lips. “Right now, you are.”
Voices from the hospital hallway reach through the curtain and pull me away from the memory. My eyes flutter open. I roll my head to the left and glance at the digital clock: 9:30 p.m. I sit up, suddenly alert. I’ve fallen asleep for almost two hours. Shit. I must get out of here.
Where are you, Shelly? Without my phone, wallet, pills, or clothes, I’m dead in the water. I can’t Uber my way home without a phone or walk out with a bad hip. And ticking clocks in a hospital mean dollars leaking from my paltry bank account.
There’s a knock on my doorframe. I run a hand over my short hair. “Yes?”
The curtains rustle, and a pale face peeks in the room. It’s my neighbor, Shelly. She’s a midfifties woman who likes her tattoos, bourbon, and her three cats—Wink, Blink, and Nod. We’ve lived in the dilapidated building in the Ghent district for a couple of years. We’re not close, but we did exchange numbers and keys in case one of us gets locked out or disappears. Nice having someone who’ll notice if I vanish.
Shelly’s sweatshirt swallows her thin frame, and faded bell-bottom jeans graze blue flip-flops. My neighbor doesn’t wear socks, or really shoes, no matter how cold it is outside, and most days her bare feet are splashed with the green, yellow, and blue acrylics she uses in her paintings. She’s a starving artist.
“Lane.” Shelly twirls a gray strand between her fingers. She has a cigarette tucked behind her ear.
I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. Tears pool in my eyes, and it takes effort to keep them from spilling. “Shelly, thanks for coming. I was afraid you wouldn’t get the message.”
Shelly clutches a paper grocery bag. “What happened?”
“Long story. I just want to get out of here.” I realize one of the nurses has removed my IV, so I swing my legs around and ease off the bed. The nerves in my left leg scream only a little. Not perfect. But manageable. Slow and steady.
Shelly approaches, smelling of cigarettes and turpentine. I’ve warned her about the combination, but she tells me not to worry. I have five smoke detectors in my apartment now. “Funny, I never play back messages.”
I smooth my hands over the gown’s thin cotton. “Maybe you felt my desperation.”
“No, I didn’t feel anything. I accidentally hit ‘Play’ instead of ‘Delete.’” Shelly is literal. Sarcasm and expressions of speech go over her head.
Accepting the grocery bag, I peer inside and see my clothes. I did laundry before my big weekend, so at least the garments are clean. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t know what to get, so I grabbed a few tops and a couple of pairs of jeans. There’s just one pair of shoes.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Do you need help getting dressed?” Shelly hovers, but she looks ready to bolt. She’s a recovering addict who has enjoyed moderate success with sobriety. From what she told me last week, she’s been clean an entire month. Baby steps. I’ve worked with enough addicts to know the struggle is intense.
“No, I think I can manage,” I say.
“Okay, good. I’ll meet you in the lobby. You could use some privacy.”
“You’ll wait, right? I can’t get home without my wallet and phone. They’re still at the beach cottage.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll wait right outside the front entrance.” She pulls the cigarette from behind her ear, rolls it between her fingers before vanishing.
I test my hip with a little weight. It aches, but the pain is more manageable. I shrug off the hospital gown and glance at the bruises already darkening my entire left side.
Fishing panties from the paper bag, I try to lift my left leg, but it complains bitterly. I back up, regroup, and refocus. As I gingerly pull on the panties, I catch my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Deep blues and purples skid down my left side. Carefully, I touch some of the darkest spots near my hip.
A memory sputters and tries to fire. I close my eyes, coaxing it forward. Unexpectedly, I feel the floor go out from under my feet. I’m facing Kyle. He’s gripping my arms as he falls backward, pulling me with him. There’s anger in his eyes. And then we’re flying. Whack!
My stomach twists. I shrug on the flannel shirt and then carefully work on the jeans. Shoes are slip-ons. No jacket, but I don’t plan on spending a lot of time outside.
As I cross the room, I concentrate on each small step. It burns like hell, but my ability to absorb hardship and pain makes me a good candidate for a PhD in psychology. The plan is to eventually counsel broken, lost girls who live in society’s cracks.
Kyle had wondered why I didn’t want to work with clients with money. I’d tried to explain that that world is not mine. I thrive in the forgotten places. Who knows, maybe I can teach a few of the misplaced that there’s life beyond now.
I smile at the nurse when she arrives, sign hospital papers that commit me to massive debt, and promise to call if I need anything else. Hospital protocol means leaving in a wheelchair, so with my grocery bag clutched in my arms, a nurse pushes me across the lobby to the hospital’s main front door. Outside, the cold, dark air chills my overheated skin, now damp with sweat.
Shelly is standing under a light smoking, inhaling deeply. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” Carefully, I rise, and we cross the lot toward the parked cars. The cold, salty wind off the waterfront is brisk and quickly robs me of the heat I banked in the hospital.
Shelly’s car is a fifteen-year-old Toyota Corolla. Rust rings the front door and the back wheel well. The hinges on the front passenger door squeak when I open it. I brush the fast-food wrappers onto the floor and ignore Blink’s white cat hairs clinging to the seat. Cigarette smoke mingles with the smells of something that desperately needs to be tossed.
“I should’ve cleaned the car up.” Shelly slides behind the wheel, takes a last drag on her cigarette, and tosses the butt into the lot.
“It’s fine.” A fading Christmas tree air freshener dangles from the rearview mirror, fighting the good fight but losing.
“I’m surprised you called me,” Shelly says. “No one ever calls me.”
I click my seat belt. “I thought we were our own support team.” Shifting, I struggle to get my left hip comfortable.
“I’m not exactly reliable.”
The chill outside leaks into the car. “You’re here now. That counts for a lot.” My backup bench is so shallow. I’d thought maybe Kyle would join Team Lane. He was rigid, but so is steel, and it’s dependable.
Shelly tucks a gray strand behind her ear. “I thought you were a telemarketer at first. They always call around dinnertime when I’ve just heated up pizza in the microwave.”