An idea came to mind. One that frightened me. Possibly illegal. But it might work. It might help her.
You’re too much of a coward to do this.
I gritted my teeth. The voice couldn’t win now. This wasn’t about me giving up and accepting a B or C instead of an A. This was about Wanda Elmwood and making sure her children were safe, not starving. And it was a hell of a lot easier to tell the voice to shut up when it was for someone else.
With quaking hands, I started creating a new resume for her, filling in an online template with the information I’d found. To fill in the most recent gap in her employment history, I wrote, Stay-at-home mom. It was unprofessional, I knew it was, but I was pretty sure that job recruiters would understand a break in employment if she was a mom. Based on her background, I clicked on every admin job opening I could find. My parents told me never to have shame, to do whatever it took to survive. Maybe it wouldn’t be a perfect job, but surely I could find her something . . . right?
As I filled in each field, my heart started pounding. Doubt crept in. What if I somehow made this woman’s life even worse by doing this? No. She was desperate. She needed money. She needed a way to feed her kids without having to resort to stealing. If that wasn’t rock bottom, I didn’t know what was.
I hit a mid-range salary default, then changed another setting so her resume would be circulated through more job recruiters.
Now or never. I uploaded the resume.
Everything became quiet until I inhaled sharply, still shaky. I needed to keep busy. This could have been a terrible mistake.
I closed the window, almost knocking my seat over when a tab with my personal email popped up. I was signed out. Hovering the cursor over the log-in made my chest ache. I knew what was waiting there.
Danger.
I shut my computer down, vowing I wouldn’t turn it back on for the night.
FROM: Robin, Lee
TO: Yagoda, A.
SUBJECT: Hey
Hey Alexis,
It’s me, Lee. I tried emailing you from my other account, but it bounced back. So I tried this one. Did you block me? I guess I’ll find out soon. I don’t blame you if you did, but I hope you change your mind.
I just wanted to say I miss you. I went to a con this weekend and your friends said they had no clue where you were.
I’m worried. We’re all worried. We’ll make it up to you. Cosplay any characters you want. Didn’t you say you missed our Synthetica group? I promise I won’t bitch about you being Jay . . . as long as I can be your Godby or Swatson! LOL. ;)
Seriously, send me something short so I know you’re okay.
Love,
Lee
—
I looked and saw a sea
roofed over with rainbows,
In the midst of each
two lovers met and departed;
Then the sky was full of faces
with gold glories behind them.
—Ezra Pound
4 Alexis
Ever since I was little, I always had trouble sleeping. Even when I was too young to understand it, there was constant noise in my head. Thoughts about anything, everything, all the time. Unanswerable questions, like what sort of life is out in space? Are there parallel universes? Time paradoxes? Would we be swallowed up by the sun? Would we remember? Because I swore things like this had happened before. Crying in Times Square when I was five because a balloon flew away after I was told to hang on tightly. I lost so many things, wasted so much money, wasted so much space. I was the worst. I was too old. I wanted to be little again, to redo every mistake I made. There was shame. So much shame.
But last night, miraculously, I’d slept. No NyQuil. No Xanax. No small bit of bourbon I’d mix into a glass of hot cocoa, a trick my parents taught me with the absolute promise that I wouldn’t abuse it no matter what. Last night I crawled in bed, prepared for the voice to start telling me how much of a waste of space I was. But instead, I only heard one thing:
You did good.
I waited for the insult, the inevitable follow-up. But nothing came. Just those three words:
You did good.
And everything became quiet,
quiet,
quiet . . .
Sheer bliss.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember dreaming about anything either. Since I was little, nightmares had haunted me. A fire down the road. Me with my red plastic pail standing in a yard, wanting to bring water to help the firefighters while knowing I was completely helpless. An incident at a concert, people I cared about getting killed, me getting killed while an NRA lobbyist offered up thoughts and prayers. In my subconscious mind I got hurt, humiliated, by everyone, anyone. Mentally. Physically. Sometimes I didn’t know if punishment got me off or horrified me or both.
So a peaceful night meant everything. Silence was the biggest gift I could receive, followed closely by sleep I hadn’t known I needed.
When I finally got up and checked the sleep monitor app on my phone, it showed that my sleep was restful. It also showed I was under for thirteen hours. What the hell? I’d hardly ever even made eight hours, except when I was super sick. This must have made up for years of exhaustion. Endless fatigue.
I actually took the time to look in the mirror. The bags under my eyes were a little less dark. I was in a good enough mood to go to the sink, scrub up my face with a slew of beauty products, do my hair, and put on a little makeup. Something fun, just for me. You should do it too. You’re worth it.
I waited for the voice to berate me, to tell me how ugly I was. It stayed blissfully silent. I turned my head from side to side, studying my reflection in the mirror. I felt . . . pretty.
I pulled on skinny jean capris and a nice sleeveless top. The clothes were snugger than they used to be. I sucked in a breath. Curves. They were just curves. I wasn’t Aleks, and I wasn’t going to dress like Aleks when I next became him. I didn’t need to work out to the point of exhaustion, counting all my calories just to make sure that there was no evidence of softness. After deliberating, I yanked out the strappy heels at the top of my shoe divider. Why not?
I headed to the kitchen, a little wobbly since I hadn’t worn heels in a while. Aunt Anne Marie had left a note on the fridge: Getting groceries. There was a ten-dollar bill with it, clearly meant for me.
Not a sound. I was alone. It was kind of weird that I still hadn’t seen my uncle face-to-face, that the closest I’d come so far was hearing his voice through the vents as he absolved people of their sins. I pocketed the cash and looked in the fridge just in case. It was half-filled with condiments, but nothing really to go with them. There was one string cheese in there that I ate, but it wasn’t enough. I was seriously starving.
I left the rectory and padded down the steps to the street, slowing by the front of the church. A couple of long tables were set up in the grass, with some people I assumed were parishioners clustered around one side of them. Behind the tables stood five nuns in blue robes and white veils—huh, I’d always assumed nuns only wore black habits. There was a guy with them too. A priest, judging by the white collar at the neck of his black shirt.
I squinted in the bright sun. The priest definitely wasn’t my uncle. He didn’t look too much older than me. Kind of weird. Where exactly was Uncle Bryan? If it wasn’t for the confessions I’d overheard, I’d half-wonder if he actually existed.