“My mom drinks a lot. It’s not her fault. She was raped or something. I’m not sure exactly what happened. She only talked about it in vague terms. Like if she was specific it would happen again.”
“That’s sad,” I say. Sad. What a dumb, petty word to describe such a deep, gut-rotting emotion.
“Everything’s sad,” she says.
“Do you want to try again? Or are you over the idea of living?”
I’m not going to try to talk her into sacrificing herself. I just need to know where her head’s at.
Louisa shrugs. But a shrug from a teenager doesn’t reveal much.
A tall, scrawny man enters the room. He’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a dirty T-shirt.
“Is that him?”
“Yep.” She looks at him and looks away.
“How did you make your mom cry?”
“I don’t really know. I think she was just still grieving and I caught her at the right time.”
“You can emit your scent. It’s the easiest way.”
“How?”
“Just think about it really hard,” I say.
The scent of clove cigarettes and lavender fills the air. I guess I can only smell soul scents these days. I couldn’t smell Jamie’s baby’s vomit (thank God), I couldn’t smell my mom’s vanilla candles, and I couldn’t smell Daisy’s mangy dog.
Louisa’s dad plops down on the couch. We move in front of him.
Her scent hits his nose. His eyebrows jump up and his eyes dart around. His hand moves to his face and he belches.
“That’s gross,” I say.
“You have no idea how gross he is. He should be the one who’s dead. Not me.”
“If you want to hold this off until he’s asleep so you can punch him, I’ll support you in that.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that,” she says. “He sleeps really hard because of the beer and pills.” Louisa looks down. She starts to speak again but stops.
“What is it?” I ask.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are green with flecks of amber. She would have grown into a beautiful woman.
“I want to murder my dad.”
But what good is beauty when the soul is rotten? I think an ex-boyfriend said that to me once.
My mind races to comprehend what Louisa suggested. I can feel the pull and know I need to do something. But it’s too late. I’m gone again.
Chapter 16
Another file. Another soul staring at me across the table.
This one is a young man. Probably just a few years older than me.
“Is it over?” he asks. His eyes are that huge brown that look like a child’s in that they’re slightly too big for his face. The type of eyes that reflect innocence or insanity, depending on the point of view.
“Yes. Your grief watch is over.” I smile at him. It’s best to be reassuring, though I don’t know why I’m doing this job.
“But I missed someone. I know I did. My girlfriend. Or something. Whatever she was.” He’s shaking his head.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I don’t want to go until I see Naomi,” he says.
A chill runs through me. I didn’t know I could feel like that anymore. I look down at his file. His name is Greg.
“Naomi?” I hold my hands out to indicate big tits. It’s rude, I know. But I don’t know her last name.
Greg stares at my hands and nods.
“She’s dead. That’s why you didn’t see her.”
“Is she one of us?”
“A suicide soul? Yes.”
“I have to find her.” He looks desperate. It’s sad, but also somewhat enraging.
Naomi. Not my Naomi yet, but I was hoping to get there.
“She was just here,” I say.
“Do you know her?” he asks.
I shrug and say, “Yeah.”
“She comes off as a real bitch, doesn’t she? But she’s really not. She’s sweet,” he says.
“Sweet?” Though I’ve grown fonder of Naomi, I don’t think of her as sweet. She’s several beats removed from sweet.
He nods and a slow smile spreads across his face. “She cooked for me sometimes.”
“No way.” This can’t be the same girl.
“Yeah. She also surprised me at work sometimes just to say ‘hello’ and give me a kiss. Always brightened my day.”
“Then how come you offed yourself?” I ask.
“I’m thinking undiagnosed depression. Probably bipolar. Grief watch gives you a lot of time to figure shit out.”
“True.” I can’t release the feeling that he’s my enemy now. Two males locked in a battle over a female. Only Greg doesn’t know it.
I met Greg in the airport. We were both flying out of Little Rock. It’s a small airport with one bar. At least it was back then.
I was getting one last drink in when I looked to my right. He was sitting two chairs down from me. There was an empty seat between us.
Jamie had just proposed to Laney, and I was headed to Austin to visit some friends and drink enough hipster craft beer to forget about Jamie’s impending nuptials.
Greg looked up at the same time I did. His big brown eyes locked onto mine. It was one of those rare moments when just a glance makes your stomach jump. It was the moment that put me back together. Made me think Jamie-fucking-who?
Greg slid to the seat between us. He smelled like cigarettes and beer, with just a hint of shower gel.
“Hi.” He smiled and held out his hand.
I shook it slowly, deliberately. “Hi.”
“What’s your name?”
“Naomi.” I smiled at him. A smile that said, “Don’t be afraid to flirt.”
“I like that name.” He took a sip of his beer said, “I’m Greg.”
I wanted to tell him that his eyes were beautiful like a baby pony. That I liked his baggy jeans, even though they were a few years out of style.
“Jane’s fan?” He pointed to my chest. To my Jane’s Addiction T-shirt. I had to look down to remember which shirt I was wearing.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. Porno For Pyros, too. I wish they had put out more music.”
I nod. I’m afraid if I agree out loud he’ll just think I’m being affable for the sake of him liking me.
I’m not that girl. Haven’t been since I was eighteen.
But I know that I agree with him. And that’s enough.
“Where are you headed?” I asked.
“Houston. Meeting some friends there for a Green Day show.”
“That sounds awesome.” Awesome. Shit. I could do better than that.
“Should be. How about you?”
“Austin. Visiting some friends.”
Austin is cooler than Houston. Everyone knows it. That was enough to give me the upper hand.
“Do you live in Little Rock?” I punctuated the question with a sip from my mimosa.
“Yeah. Stift Station. You?” Before I can answer he says, “Wait. Let me guess. The Heights?”
“No.” I don’t know what about me said The Heights. The yoga pants and spas and wine bars Heights. “Hillcrest. The cheap end near Stift Station.”
We’d soon learn that we lived about five blocks from each other. Five blocks that felt like 500 miles on the days that our love was at its strongest, and after it turned sour. There were times the distance between us was vast when we were in the same room. His ability to shut me out was amazing. And so fucked up.
But that day in the airport bar, we felt close in only that way two people who know almost nothing about one another can. Maybe it was heightened by the temporary feeling that only exists in an airport bar.
None of this is real. None of this can last more a few hours.