* * *
“I got your flowers,” I said.
The woman on the other end of the line said, “I’m so glad. We were worried about you.” There was no video on the call. An additional restriction was that neither of us knew who else might be listening in.
She said, “I was surprised to hear that you were so far south.”
“Yeah, that kind of surprised me myself.”
“But you’re coming back north soon, I hear.”
“Any day now,” I said. “They say I’m doing much better.”
“I wish I could say the same for others.”
“Is, uh, your hairdresser okay?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t say ‘okay.’ Someday, perhaps, but not anytime soon.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes. Well.”
“The reason I called…”
“I was wondering about that.”
“I feel bad about what happened,” I said. “To the hairdresser, but also … the one who drove your hairdresser.”
“I’ll pass on your condolences to his family.”
“I was hoping to do more than that.”
“Really.”
“The man who is responsible for the driver is the same man who put me here in the hospital.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“He was never on my side. I want you to know that. What happened … out east. That was a third party.”
“What you want me to know, and what I believe, are miles apart.”
“I’m not asking you to take this on faith.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me at all.”
“I’m asking for a chance to make amends.”
“Amends?”
“Amends,” I said.
“What can you possibly offer?”
“A name. And soon, I’ll have more than that.”
“Go on.”
* * *
The morning of my deportation, Baby Chop unchained me and helped me into my new clothes. The hospital—or maybe the police—had provided me with a pair of jeans with an elastic waistband, a floral shirt that must have been popular with the geriatric crowd, and a pair of cheap cotton loafers. The marshals were due any minute. Baby Chop locked me back up just the same.
“You could leave the key,” I told him. He laughed good-naturedly and went to his next patient.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, reading my pen, when the knock came.
“Just a sec,” I said. I typed another sentence and the door started to open. “Jesus, hold on!” I closed the pen, then turned awkwardly to see who’d come in.
Eduard looked years older than he had in Chicago. His suit was just as beautiful, but he was missing his tie, and the top two buttons had come undone. He glanced at me, then looked away, fixing his gaze on other objects in the room: the window, the plastic water jug, the black slab of the unpowered TV screen.
“I thought you might stop by,” I said.
“The police think my lawyers are representing you,” he said. “I told them you were lying.”
“Maybe you should rethink that,” I said.
He looked at me then. His face was haggard, days away from sleep.
“We’re on the same side,” I said. “I didn’t tell the cops that the chemjet was in your office. Or that you’ve got blueprints for making more of those machines.”
“What are you talking about?” He seemed genuinely confused.
“The paintings from Gilbert Kapernicke. They’re instructions. Anybody who looks into it will know he’s talked to you—and that you’ve got the money to manufacture all the NME One-Ten that you want.”
“You’re out of your mind. You think I want more of you people? You think I want anyone to—”
He seemed to realize he was shouting. He glanced at the door, then put his hands on the rail of my bed. “You think I want anyone to be like Sasha? Like you?”
“I believe you,” I said. And I did. Eduard Jr. wasn’t the one who started a new religion to distribute Numinous. And he wasn’t the guy who made a deal with Big Pharm to manufacture it. Eduard, like his father, had been used.
Finally I said, “How is she?”
He said nothing for a time. “She’s fine.” Then he shook his head. “No. That’s not true. She’s a wreck. After what she saw … She loved my father very much.”
“I know you’ll take care of her,” I said.
This seemed to make him angry. “You’ll have nothing to do with her,” he said. “I’ll make sure that Sasha never sees you again.”
“Don’t do that. You shouldn’t punish her like that. If she wants to talk to me, at least let her—”
“You’re poison,” he said. “You brought death to our house.”
That was true. I had led death straight to their door. Straight to Sasha.
“I am unfit,” I said. “I know that. I don’t want to be her parent; I just want to be … I don’t know, there. To answer her questions.”
He shook his head. “You’ll never have the opportunity to hurt her again.”
My bearded and baby-faced nurse entered the room, looking concerned. Eduard said, “I was just leaving.”
“Wait,” I said. “At least do this for her. Keep Esperanza.”
“What?”
“Don’t fire her. Sasha needs her.”
“I’ll decide what she needs and what she doesn’t,” he said. “I’m her father.” He pushed past the nurse and walked out.
I flipped the pen back open. On the screen it said, Is he there?
Just left, I typed. Thanks for the warning.
No prob.
My nurse said, “It’s time to go, Lyda. Do you need any help with your things?”
“I’m good.” I typed, Are you okay? How was the therapist?
Talkety talkety talk.
Was she nice?
I guess. Ed and Suz keep asking me how I’m doing. Weird.
Two cops, a man and a woman, entered the room. I didn’t recognize the uniforms, but I assumed these were the US marshals. I pretended I didn’t see them and kept typing.
Last message for a while. Taking me to airport now.
Then prison?
Yup.
!!!! Aren’t you scared?
I wondered, should I tell her that this wouldn’t be the first time? Surely a ten-year-old didn’t need to know that her mother was a hardened criminal. I’ll be fine, I typed.
TWO YEARS!!!!!
Maybe less. Depends.
One of the marshals said, “Let’s go.”
Tell your angel to watch over you, she typed.
* * *
I was evidently too dangerous to be held by mere leg irons. The marshals manacled both ankles, then circled me with a waist chain. My damaged arm couldn’t be moved to the sling, so they handcuffed my remaining arm to the chain. Then they took my pen and placed it in a bag with the other surviving personal items: a HashCash card; a smartpaper sketch of a pirate bear; my brass wedding ring. I signed a paper that consigned them to the care of the US government.
At least I didn’t have to shuffle through the whole hospital. Baby Chop brought a wheelchair and thoughtfully covered my new hardware with a blanket.
Outside, the sky was a clear, cloudless blue. It was before 10 a.m., but already the day was heating up. The marshals helped me out of the chair and led me to a white van. The male marshal opened the side door and helped me into the bench seat. He even buckled my seat belt for me.
A movement outside caught my attention. Past the marshal, standing at the edge of the parking lot, stood a small person in a big jacket, wearing a baseball cap pulled low. Her hand lifted a second time, at waist height. Her fingers slowly opened.