“Less than sixteen hours. Luke’s here somewhere, too. But I ditched him on the sidewalk. He was slowing me down.” I take another pull from the beer bottle. It’s a hoppy beer, tangy and pleasant.
“Of course, he was. That’s all they do is slow you down.” She motions toward a small table next to a window. There are only two chairs. We both take a seat. “If Samson and Delilah’s roles had been reversed, that story never would have made it into the Bible.”
We don’t have time for the Doris-isms.
“What should I do?” I ask. This is what it has come to. Me seeking help from my mentor who is also the closest thing to the devil I’ve ever seen. “I mean, is there any way for you to return just long enough to keep Greg and Luke from going to the Shadow and then come back to your new life?”
Doris looks out the small window for a beat and turns back to me.
“I tried to tell you what to do before. You didn’t listen. You had everything set up. You would’ve had your choice of new bodies and a new future. And now look at you.” She points at me without smiling or smirking. “You’re old before your time, sad and wrinkly. You’re dying, you know that, right?” Doris tilts her beer bottle back and I watch her Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“I didn’t know that. I knew I felt like shit, but I thought it was because I’m old.”
Suddenly I’m very tired. Exhausted. It could be from travel fatigue or a psychosomatic symptom from the news of my impending doom.
“You look tired, sweetie.” Doris grins at me through Dylan’s face.
“Did you do this to me?” Fucking Doris. “But I saw you open the beer.”
“I had it waiting just in case Ernesto sent you after me. There’s another one in there in case Luke or Ernesto came with you. I knew you would come for me. You’re a tenacious little bitch.”
I sit up straight, fighting to rest my head on the table. I stand up, then stumble over to the sink and stick my fingers down my throat, trying to throw up whatever she gave me. Maybe it’s not too late to save myself. But instead I fall to the kitchen floor. Pain shoots up my hip, but everything goes numb shortly after. My last thoughts before everything goes black is how incredibly stupid I am, and how spotless the linoleum is.
“Rochelle?” I ask into the phone.
“Ohmygod, Andy! Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Her voice is young and sharp, but shaky like she’s about to cry. Her tears are my fault. Andy’s fault.
I don’t know exactly what to say. I just know that I have to say something. To right Andy’s wrongs. To right my wrongs. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been in Connecticut. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone from the outside world. How are you?”
“How do you think I am?” she says in a whisper. She’s crying now. Tears form in my eyes even though I don’t even know this girl.
“Can I see you? Please?” I’ll figure out some sort of explanation. Maybe I can set up an account for the baby while I’m still Andy. Something to make this better before I leave. How much can I do in sixteen hours?
Rochelle pauses for about ten seconds. It feels like an hour. “Are you in the city?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Okay. Come over.”
“Can we meet somewhere?” How can I tell her that I don’t know where she lives?
“No, Andy. We can’t. I don’t want my picture to end up in Star Magazine again. My mom didn’t speak to me for a week after the last time.”
“Okay. I understand. Can you give me your address, please?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her tears have given way to anger. It’s kind of a relief. It’s taken away my urge to cry.
“I’m sorry. I’ve just had some memory problems lately. I don’t know if it’s the stress of the show or what. Maybe it’s too much pot or a brain tumor. Who the fuck knows? Just, please.” My voice has started rising in anger. The frustration has become overwhelming, but I can’t take it out on Rochelle.
“A brain tumor would explain why you’ve been such a massive asshole these past couple of months.” Rochelle’s voice has a teasing lilt to it. Somehow, I’m making some progress. “I’ll text you the address. If you’re not here in thirty minutes don’t bother coming at all.” She hangs up without saying goodbye.
The phone chimes and her name appears on the screen. I push the screen and see her address. It’s underlined. I tap the underlined portion and a map pops up.
What a time to be alive.
I tap the picture of a person walking. According to the directions, I’m twenty minutes from her apartment. I start walking, almost running. Every few minutes a stranger will recognize me and try to stop me for an autograph. I keep pushing forward, ignoring their requests. Someone calls me an asshole and I don’t disagree. I just keep moving.
It takes me three near-death experiences involving aggressive cab drivers, at least a dozen disappointed young ladies who wanted a picture with Andy, and fifteen minutes to get to her apartment.
I push the buzzer for apartment seven and try to prepare myself to meet the mother of my unborn child. Andy’s child. Not mine. I have to stop thinking that way. But how?
“Come up,” she says through the speaker and the door buzzes.
I pull it open and sprint up the first flight of stairs. She said “up,” so I know it’s at least on the second floor. But there are only three doors on this floor. Four, five, and six. I sprint up the next flight of wooden stairs, thankful that Andy is in such great shape.
Door seven is just to the left at the top of the stairs. I’ve run all this way but hesitate when I reach it. I ball up my fist to knock, but I can’t. Something is stopping me. Fear? Anxiety? Shame?
But I don’t have to knock.
Rochelle opens the door. She looks at me with wide brown eyes. Her long brunette hair drapes over her shoulders, falling just below her breasts. My eyes stop at her belly, just round enough to know there’s a life growing there. I want to touch it so badly, but I don’t know this woman. But what do I have to lose?
I reach out slowly, giving her time to swat my hand away if she wants. But she doesn’t. I rub the small mound gently, even though it’s surprisingly firm and could probably take more force.
Rochelle grabs my extended hand and pulls me into the tiny apartment. She closes the door behind me and says, “What do you want, Andy?” There are dark circles under eyes and her mouth is turned down at the sides.
“I, uh, I don’t know.” I wrap my arms around her and press myself against her. Her body stiffens at my touch but relaxes quickly. She wraps her arms around me and melts into my embrace. My shirt is suddenly wet from her crying against my chest.
“What are you doing here?” she asks through choking sobs.
“I needed to see you. And to tell you that I’m sorry,” I say with my lips at the top of her head. Her hair smells like strawberries.
Rochelle pulls away from me and wipes her eyes. “You abandoned me.”
“I know. I was a selfish piece of shit.”
“Yeah.” She walks across the room to a tiny countertop that serves as a kitchen. She picks up a glass and fills it with tap water and takes a long drink.
I have no plan from this point. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Rochelle puts down the glass and looks at me, waiting for me to do something. But what?
Then the simplicity of the situation occurs to me. I should just ask.
“What do you want to do, Rochelle? What do you want me to do?” I walk two paces forward, reducing the gap between us.
She sighs and clenches her jaw. Her face is freckled and has no wrinkles. She’s not a teenager, but probably only twenty-one or twenty-two.
“I want you to take responsibility for this like you said you would.” She points to her belly. “I want you to stop running away and living your life like nothing is different.” She steps forward. She’s inches from my face. I can smell her lip gloss: coconut. “I want you to stop acting like what we had wasn’t real. Like you didn’t love me. Like this was just some stupid meaningless fling because we both know better.”