Pull (Push #2) (6 page)

Chapter 11

David—Present Day

I twist the key into Emma’s door, and it clicks open. It’s dark, but the clock on her microwave tells me it’s nearly two thirty in the morning. I need to sleep. Exhaustion is setting in, and if I don’t shut myself down, I’m going to suffer tomorrow.

I walk into Emma’s room and see her sleeping on the bed. She’s turned over onto her other side, but there’s no indication she woke up. Nothing that tells me she knows I even left. Her naked body is spread down the length of the bed, one leg tossed over the other and her red hair spilling across the pillowcase.

Looking at her, I see possibilities. I see some kind of future. I see a grown-up version of me. He’s taking a miniscule step out of the shadows and into real life. I smile a little at the thought as I undress and slip into bed next to her. My arms fold around her as I push the front of my body up against her back. She stirs a little and snuggles back into me. I brush my face into her hair and go to sleep.

                            ---------------------------------------------------------------------

Before I know it, Emma’s alarm clock blurts out the arrival of Friday morning. Despite its deafening volume, she’s perfectly still. I lose it for a second, thinking maybe the delayed pulmonary edema they mentioned at the hospital had settled in overnight. Maybe the x-rays were wrong. Maybe there was water in her lungs after all. I quickly raise my hand and press it flat against her back, feeling her lungs fill and empty, confirming she’s still here with me. I rub her back softly. A few minutes pass before she lifts her arm and smacks at the clock, shutting it off and groaning lightly.

“Good morning,” I say as she rolls her body over to face mine. “How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy, but good,” she says with a sexy little stretch. “Where did you go last night?”

Oh. She did wake up.

“Sorry. I hope I didn’t freak you out by leaving. I didn’t want to wake you, but I also knew that if you knew where I was going, you wouldn’t let me go.”

She twists her head to the side just a little bit and narrows her eyes at me in question. “Why? Where did you go?”

“I went to see Matt,” I say as I brush her cheek. “I needed to talk to him before you saw him at work today. I didn’t want you to have to lie to him. This whole thing is my responsibility, and I wanted to be the one to explain it all to him.”

“Oh,” she says. “And here I just thought you went up to your place to take a shower.”

“Nope. I still smell like a fish. Sorry.”

“So, what exactly did you tell him?”

I tell her everything. I tell her that Matt now knows the truth about how her brother Evan killed Michael, a fact he could easily confirm by reading a newspaper if he felt so inclined. And then I assure her that that particular piece of information is the
only
true thing I told Matt. I didn’t tell him about how getting rid of Michael was my idea and how I tried to pay her brother Ricky to do it. I didn’t tell him that Ricky, in turn, manipulated Evan into swinging the bat and then blackmailed me into paying for his silence. Nor did I tell him about what I threatened to do to Ricky if he’s ever stupid enough to tell the cops about my initial offer. And I sure as shit didn’t tell him the real reason we were up on that bridge.

Instead, I told Matt a bunch of lies. I tell Emma how I lied to him about fake paperwork from a lawyer, and about her brother paying me to get rid of her, and about how the whole thing was staged so Ricky would think she was dead. I tell her every single little detail about the string of lies I told Matt, so that if he does ever bring it up, she’ll know precisely what to say.

As I’m talking, she’s watching me closely.

“That’s good,” she says when I finish talking. “That’s really good.”

“I also asked him not to bring it up too much with you. I told him that you just needed to put the whole thing behind you.”

Her expression hardens a bit, then she rolls over and sits up on the edge of her bed. She’s turned away from me so I can’t see her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re a very good liar,” she says quietly, just as she’s turning her head to look down at me. “I mean, you’re good at inventing lies like that. And that’s a little scary for me. You know how much I hate lies. I told you before that lies are the only thing that could ever end us, and I meant it. Promise me the story you told Matt will be the last piece of the old you I’ll ever see.”

“I had to lie to Matt. I didn’t have a choice.” I sit up and put my hands on her shoulders, needing her to see that it’s the truth. “If he knew why you were really up on that bridge…”

“I know,” she says. “I know this lie was
for
me and not
to
me, but still…it isn’t easy for me to swallow.”

“I lied to protect you. To protect
us
.” She must see that.

“I know why you did it,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She gets up out of bed, and I watch her walk out of the room. She is halfway out the doorway when she turns to me and adds, “But thank you for taking care of Matt. And of me.”

                            ------------------------------------------------------------------

After I walk Emma to the bus stop and watch her take a seat on the 61C, I call myself a cab. I need to go to the city impound to pick up my car. Everything had better still be in it. I know the dickheads who work there steal all kinds of crap from people’s cars.

If even one single fucking thing is missing from my car…

The cabbie drops me off, and I walk inside. For some reason, I thought the lot would be filled with easy-to-jack grandma cars, but instead, there are perfect rows of pimped-up sports cars, spotless SUVs, pick-up trucks, and assorted expensive sedans. All proof that having a fancy-ass car does not make you immune to parking fines, drug busts, property seizures, and DUIs. Except for my old red BMW at the end of one of the rows and a few smashed-up cars waiting for a tow to the body shop, the place looks like Douchebag Central.

The guy working the desk is, in fact, a dickhead. When I try to lighten things up by cracking a joke about how they should base their release fee on how expensive the car is, he barely nods in my direction. I pay the two hundred seventeen dollars and sign a few papers. He asks if I’ve got a key or if he needs to call me a tow truck. I put my hand in my pocket, hook my spare key ring around my middle finger, and pull it out. I raise my key-laden middle finger to him and thank him for his friendly assistance. If he didn’t steal anything out of my car, I bet now he wishes he had.

I walk to my car, and when I get there, I silently thank the dickheads for putting up all the windows. Or maybe it was Officer Warren who did it. Either way, I’m grateful that they’re closed. I have to use the spare to unlock the door, even though my key ring is sitting in the middle of the front seat. Before I can even open the door, my eyes scan the car, looking for what I left behind. I see Emma’s purse sitting on the floor of the front seat. I see my phone propped in one of the cup holders. And behind the driver’s seat, on the floor, I see an upside-down backpack.

I open the driver’s side door and pop all the locks. I reach over the console and grab my phone, shoving it into my front pocket. Then I open the back door and flip over the backpack. Fuck. What kind of a stupid asshat uses a monogrammed backpack? I reach into my pocket and pull out my Leatherman, flipping it open quickly. I use the blade to cut a square of canvas from the backpack. As I strike my lighter against the dismembered block of fabric initials, I catch a glimpse of what’s inside. It makes my chest tighten.

After the fabric has completely burned, I toss it onto the pavement and grind the stub into the asphalt. I slide into the front seat, start the car, and drive back home.

                            ------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s half past noon when I walk into my apartment. As soon as I’m in the door, I toss the backpack into my bedroom closet and pull out my phone. The yellow, folded-over square of duct tape from Emma’s apartment key is now stuck to the front. I lift it off carefully and slip it back into my pocket. I plug my phone into the kitchen outlet and power it up, touching the phone icon and then Emma’s name. I’ve never called her at work before, but I know that her cell is still in her purse.

She answers her desk phone on the first ring.

“Emma Searfoss speaking. May I help you?”

“Hi,” I say in return.

“Hi back.” She sounds girlish. And very pleased.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be at lunch.”

“Nope. Already came back.”

“Cool. I wanted to let you know I got my car back this morning.”

“Oh, good,” she says with a touch of excited energy in her voice. “Is everything still in it?”

“Yep.”

“Excellent.”

“Hey, can I pick you up after work today?”

“Of course,” she says sweetly.

“
Do you wanna go somewhere?”

“Just home,” she replies. “With you.”

“Sounds good to me.”

A moment of silence passes between us, and then I remember that perhaps she’s been facing some kind of uncomfortable inquisition from Matt. Maybe he’s with her right now.

“Has Matt said anything?”

“No,” she says. “Nothing.”

“Good,” I reply with genuine relief. Another silent minute passes before she talks again.

“I’m looking forward to six o’clock already.”

I almost leave it at that. I almost say “me, too” and then give her a simple goodbye. But Emma deserves more than that. A lot more. A long second passes before I think of the right thing to say.

“Not as much as I am.”

“And why is that?” she asks.

“Because I want to thank you properly.” And I do.

“And how, exactly, are you going to do that?”

“You’ll see.” It’s all I can say because I don’t have a clue what the hell I’m going to do.

“You should stop teasing me and get to work, you know.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

“Yeah. I’m sure Carl’s shitting a brick over me being MIA for the past few days. I’d better give him a call.”

“Have fun with that,” she says sassily. “See you at six.”

“Later.”

“Bye.”

I press the
End
icon and stare at the phone. I need to think about what I’m going to do with her tonight. I want to do something to show her a part of me. I want to show her something that matters. Something she won’t forget. Ever.

But first I need to call Carl.

When I do, the moronic bastard spends the first ten minutes of our conversation berating me for leaving him hanging. I apologize like I mean it and write down a list of the shit he claims he needs me to do ASAP. No one’s water heater has sprouted a leak. No one’s toilet is overflowing. No one’s roof has collapsed. Mr. Wiggin’s garbage disposal is hardly a life-and-death situation, but I assure Carl I’ll get to it today. ASAP. I also vow to visit Lainey Elliot in apartment 17B to have a look at her dishwasher; and Mark and Vivian Wilson in the Highland Building to fix their sticky front door; and the Scotts on Lake Avenue to repair the dripping faucet in their kitchen. All it needs is a fucking silicone washer. What the hell kind of man can’t replace a washer in his own kitchen faucet? It costs fifty cents and five minutes, for Christ’s sake.

I head back to the bathroom for a quick shower. On my way down the hallway, I reach into my pocket and pull out the piece of folded-over, yellow duct tape that is Emma. I look around the room for a place to put her. Somewhere that reminds me of how she makes me feel. Somewhere she won’t get lost. Or forgotten. Or accidentally thrown away. I tuck my little square Emma into my pillowcase. I slide her deep into it. To a place that’s soft and comfortable and secret. To where I will lay my head, and hers, and maybe dream about the grown-up me.

As I pull my empty hand out of my pillowcase, an idea pops into my head. An idea about tonight. It’s perfect. I decide I’ll iron out the details as the day progresses. A half hour later, I’m staring into the dark space beneath Lainey Elliot’s dishwasher and thinking about tonight.

Chapter 12

David—Age 9

Today is my ninth birthday. September 18th. I wonder if my daddy will remember? Momma always remembered. Even when she was sad. Last year, on my eighth birthday, she ordered a birthday pizza and stuck three candles in it. She sang me the birthday song, too. There was no cake, and there were no gifts. But that was okay with me, because she smiled at me that day and I got to hear her sing. She sounded happy. For a little while, anyway. And that was better than any dumb old cake.

Third grade is great so far. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Keene, and today, the whole class sang happy birthday to me. It was cool. I got to wear a birthday badge and be the leader all day long. Mine was the first class birthday of the year. I really like Mrs. Keene. She dresses nice, and she smells like a flower. I think it’s going to be a good year. At least at school.

Daddy’s business must be doing real good because he’s pretty much never at home, except in the morning. He’s usually sleeping when I leave for school so I try really hard not to wake him up. All summer long I hardly ever saw him. Mostly I hung out with Jimmy Paxton in his blow-up pool. Every afternoon, his mom would bring us popsicles and spray us with more sunscreen. Then, whenever his mom called him inside for dinner, I would go home and eat soup and clean up the house and watch television until ten o’clock. Some nights I’d hear Daddy come home. Some nights I wouldn’t. He leaves money on the table for me every Friday so I can go to the grocery store downstairs and get us some food.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ve got Science Club after school. But today is Wednesday, so I’m headed straight home. I ride bus number 31, and when I get off and start walking down the street, I stick my hand in my pocket and pull out the five-dollar bill I’ve had in there all day. As I walk, I smooth it out between my hands, trying my best to get rid of all the wrinkles. Before I go upstairs to our apartment, I walk into McMillan’s Grocery and head straight for the bakery counter. I pick out two cupcakes. Vanilla with chocolate buttercream frosting. My favorite. I also buy a box of tiny pastel-colored candles.

When I get upstairs, I put the cupcakes on two separate plates, putting a candle into each one and leaving them on the kitchen table. Then I do my homework and put some of Daddy’s laundry into the washing machine. I make myself a box of macaroni and cheese for dinner, putting plastic wrap over the leftovers and sticking them in the fridge for Daddy to eat later. If he doesn’t want them, I’ll just eat them for breakfast.

I’m watching
Spongebob Squarepants
when Daddy walks in. I look at the clock on the television. It’s only eight thirty. Daddy never comes home at eight thirty. He closes the door behind him just as I turn around to look at him. I see his eyes move from the cupcakes on the kitchen table over to me.

“Happy birthday, David,” he says to me after a small pause. He remembered. “How about we celebrate?” He lifts up the brown paper bag he’s holding in his left hand before he sets it down on the table. I wonder what it is. If it’s a gift, it will be the first birthday present I’ve gotten in three years.

“Okay.” I make my way over to the table. He pulls a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and lights the candles on the cupcakes.

“I see you planned ahead,” he says. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, but it doesn’t matter. Because he is here with me. On my birthday.

“I didn’t know if you would be done with work before McMillan’s closed,” I say, slightly embarrassed to have set up my own party. “So I thought I would get them for you.”

“Good thinking.” He puts his hand on top of my head and tousles my hair. I freeze. He’s never done that before. I think it’s a good thing, though, because he’s wearing a small smile when he does it. I smile back and drop my eyes to the floor. He tells me to take a seat at the table and then he sings the birthday song to me. His voice isn’t very loud, but the whole song comes out. Every word. I am bursting inside.

When he is finished singing, I close my eyes to blow out the candles. My wish is that he’s changed. That the daddy I’m seeing tonight is the one that will stay forever. I open my eyes and blow both the candles out.

After we eat the cupcakes, Daddy picks up the brown paper bag. But instead of handing it to me, he opens it up himself and reaches inside. I really hope that he got me a remote-control car. One like Jimmy has. But there’s no way that that’s what’s in the bag. It’s too small. When his hand emerges, it’s holding a six-pack of beer. Coors Light.

Oh.

He tears a can out of its plastic ring, cracks open the top, and puts it down in front of me. He does the same with another, taking a sip out of it and smacking his lips afterward.

“Drink up,” he says to me, motioning with his empty hand. “It’s about time you had your first beer.”

“I’m not old enough to drink beer,” I say quietly, wishing instead for a glass of milk.

“You are now.” He sits forward in his chair and takes another sip. “Happy birthday, kid.” He picks up my can and holds it out in front of me until I take it. I lift it to my lips and drink a small sip. It’s bubbly and bitter. Not a bit as good as I thought it would be. I want to sour-up my face, but I know that if I do, he’ll think I’m being a sissy. He sits back in his chair and watches me as I take another sip.

We drink our beers in silence, looking at each other across the table and thinking our own thoughts. Mine are racing about how I’m going to finish this whole can. I don’t want to disappoint him. I don’t want to change the way he is right now. I don’t want to upset him and turn him back into who he was before tonight. Before my birthday wish.

A minute later his eyes leave mine, and he stands up and walks over to the sofa, bringing the rest of the six-pack with him. I follow. We sit there together, drinking beer and watching
Spongebob Squarepants
. He finishes three in the time it takes me to finish one. But I do it. I drink the whole thing.