I don’t answer her. I can’t spare the energy, because I’m using all of my strength to have an out-of-body experience. I’m trying to figure a way to reach my arm down the phone line and put my fingers around her throat.
“Joe? Are you still there?” she asks, and then she taps the phone against her hand—I can hear it banging once and twice, then a third time, and then it’s back and her lips are against it and I’m still trying to reach her with my hand. “Joe?”
“You read them?” I ask.
“Of course I did.”
“But you’re a slow reader.”
“So?”
I face the concrete wall. I wonder how far I could bury my forehead into it. “So when exactly did my girlfriend give them to you to give to me?”
“When?” she asks, then she goes quiet as she’s figuring it out. I can picture my mom standing in the kitchen on the phone, dishes behind her, cold meat loaf on the counter, using her fingers to count off the days. “Well, it wasn’t last month,” she says.
“So it was this month.”
“Oh Lord no. No, it was, now let me see . . . it was before Christmas, no, no, wait—it was after. Yes, I think it was after. Probably around four months ago, I suppose.”
I tighten my grip on the receiver. The other hand curls into a ball. I can’t hear my mom choking. “Four months?”
“Maybe five.”
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wall. It’s painted-over cinder block, so it’s cold and smooth and easy to wipe blood off.
“Five months,” I say, and somehow my voice stays level.
“No more than six,” she says.
“No more,” I say. “Mom. Listen to me. Very carefully. Now, why the fuck didn’t you bring those books to me straightaway?”
“Joe! How dare you speak to me like that! After all I’ve done for you? After raising you, looking after you, after squeezing you out of my vagina!” she shouts.
And sixteen years later I was being squeezed into my auntie’s one. I figure between them both they owe me some Goddamn consideration.
“Six months!” I shout, and I don’t even make the decision to do it, it just starts happening, my hand starts crashing the receiver against the wall. “Six months!” I scream back into it, only it’s just shattered plastic holding a string of wires and components. I smash it against the wall again. All I have now is a disconnect signal and a blossoming headache. I don’t get to speak into it again because then I’m being tackled. I’m on the ground and my arms are being pulled behind me. I’m being shouted at to stay calm. I shout six months again, and then the guard puts his knee in my back and I’m punched really hard in the kidneys, so hard that I almost throw up.
He rolls me onto my back. He’s been joined by a second guard.
“Let’s go,” he says.
They drag me to my feet. It’s Saturday night. Date night. I’m not taken back to my cell. Instead I’m taken in a different direction, through two more sets of doors that are buzzed open from a control booth somewhere. We’re watched by cameras in the ceilings. I haven’t been in this direction before, but I’m pretty sure I know where it heads. It’s solitary confinement—and my first thought is it has to be better than what I’ve had so far, then my second thought is that this has actually worked out pretty well. Not the part where my mother fucked up, but the part where I fucked up and broke the phone. I’m going to be safe here. Caleb Cole can’t get me here.
The cells are wider apart. All the doors are closed and there’s no sound coming from within any of them. There is no communal area. Everything is darker. Even the cinder-block walls seem to be a different shade of gray. The two guards march me to the end of a corridor and then we wait as a cell door is buzzed open. None of us make conversation along the way. A piece of my soul is still back at the phone, trying to figure out a way to get to my mother. The second guard disappears.
“Sleep it off,” the original guard says, and he shoves me into the cell. He takes the cuffs off. “Don’t forget you owe me two hundred bucks,” he says. Then the door is slammed behind me. There is no light. I have to walk slowly to find the edge of the bed. I lie on my side. My stomach is starting to make noises again. The darkness of the cell is going to make it all very awkward if that rumbling continues.
For the first time since being in jail I start crying. I let my face sink into the pillow and I wonder whether things would be better for me if I just buried my face into it and went to sleep and hoped the Suffocation Fairy will come and take me away.
I wonder what Melissa is doing right now, who she’s doing it to, and—as the pressure in my stomach builds—I wonder if she even thinks of me anymore.
Chapter Forty-Two
It’s cold but dry and Melissa is relieved that the weather seems like it’s going to do its part. It’s Sunday morning. People are sleeping in. Some going to church. Some hungover from the night before. Kids are climbing into bed with their parents, kids are sitting in front of TVs, kids are playing in backyards. Melissa remembers that life. She and her sister on Sunday mornings snuggled in bed with their parents. Her sister’s name was actually Melissa. That’s where she got it from. Her own name was Natalie. Was being the key word. Melissa and Natalie watching cartoons and eating cereal and, on occasion, trying to make breakfast for their parents. Once they set fire to the toaster. It was more her sister’s doing, really—she was the one on toaster duty, whereas Natalie was on cereal and orange-juice duty. Her sister had put jam on the slices before toasting them. Something caught fire. After that their parents made them promise not to try making breakfast for them again, at least not for a few more years, and that’s a promise they would keep.
She misses her sister. They used to call her sister Melly—though Natalie would call her Smelly Melly whenever she was trying to annoy her. Which was reasonably often. Melly was younger. Blond hair in ponytails. Big blue eyes. A sweet smile that became sweeter as she started a journey through her teens she wouldn’t finish. Everybody loved her. One day a stranger loved her. He loved her and killed her and then stuck a gun into his mouth and killed himself. The guy was a cop. They’d never seen him before. Don’t know how his life and Melly’s life shared the same orbit. But they did. For one brief painful afternoon they did. There was no meaning in it. It was—for no better summation—just one of those things.
She struggled with the loss. Eventually that loss killed her father. Life carried on. And life was strange. It was a policeman that had killed her sister, yet it was policemen she started to become fascinated by. Not obsessed—that would happen later—but in the early days it was just a fascination. Her psychiatrist at the time put it in terms she was too young to understand. She didn’t understand how she could like the very thing that had hurt her so much. So her psychiatrist, a Dr. Stanton, had explained it more simply—he had said she wasn’t becoming fascinated with the police because it was a cop that had hurt her sister, but because the police represented justice. She got his point. After all, it was the police she loved, not individuals who raped and murdered young girls.
It was only a handful of years between the events of losing her sister and it becoming her turn to share an orbit with a really bad guy. It felt like her family was cursed. This time the bad guy was a university professor. She was studying psychology. She wanted to know what made people tick. She wanted to be a criminologist. Then came the bad orbit and the curse, and she shared the first half of the same fate Melly had shared. The other half she would have shared too, she was sure of it, but that’s when Melly came to help her. From the dead she could hear her sister’s voice telling her to fight back. And she did. She did all the things Melly wasn’t able to do. She fought back and she’s been fighting ever since. So much in fact that she got to like it. Like it a lot. And it didn’t make sense. She hadn’t studied psychology enough to understand it, and she didn’t think Dr. Stanton would be able to explain it either. Dr. Stanton was at least right about something—she didn’t become fascinated with policemen because it was a cop who killed her sister, because if that had been true then she would have become fascinated with professors too. What did happen is after her own attack her fascination with the police became full-blown obsession. She would hang outside the police station. She would follow some home. She would sneak into their houses. She knew it was crazy. She knew it made her crazy, but there it was. She was fascinated by policemen and by the men they looked for.