So Much It Hurts (17 page)

I phone Mick. We texted each other earlier and he said he'd pick me up at 11:15. But that's not for nearly two hours. I really need to talk to him, to tell him what happened and ask him to come get me right away. He'll say I was right to quit; he'll laugh when I tell him how I dumped the gray tub on that guy who snapped his fingers. But Mick's not picking up his phone. I try texting him again: Emrgcy. Whr r u?

He must've turned off his phone again. Or let it run out of juice. What's the use of a cell phone if it's off half the time or you forget to keep it charged?

There's no way I'm waiting downtown. Not in this getup, that's for sure. At least I'll never have to wear it again after tonight. I'm going to burn these nurse's shoes. Picturing the shoes on fire cheers me up a little.

Where is Mick anyway? He said he'd be spending the night at the loft, that he had script notes to review. He's probably there now, working, too distracted to pick up his phone. Halfway down the block, I see the yellow light of a vacant cab coming my way. I rush to the curb and flag it down.

When I open the cab door, I'm nearly knocked over by a wave of lemony aftershave. Someone needs to tell this guy too much aftershave is bad for business. The change in my apron jingles when I take a deep breath and hop in. I give the cabbie Mick's address and try not to inhale. He looks at me in the rearview mirror but doesn't say a word. He can probably tell I've had a hard night.

When my arms get a little itchy, I don't think anything of it at first. I scratch the skin around my elbows, figuring the itchy feeling will pass.

Only it doesn't. I'm getting itchier. My legs, especially behind my knees, are getting crazy itchy, and so is my chest. I bet I'm having an allergic reaction to this guy's aftershave. I lower my window and take a deep gulp of the night air. But I'm still itching like crazy. I scratch my legs so hard, I'm afraid I'll leave nail marks. I itch everywhere—even the soles of my feet are itchy.

“I think I'm allergic to your aftershave,” I tell the cabbie.

He opens the other windows. “I'm sorry for the aftershave,” he says when we're finally at Mick's building and I'm reaching into my apron for the cab fare.

I turn to look at the cabbie when he says that. It feels like it's been forever since anyone apologized to me.

I hit the buzzer downstairs, but I don't wait for Mick to buzz me in. I need to get out of this uniform NOW. And I need Mick to hold me tight the way he does and tell me everything will be all right. Now and forever. Thank God for Mick. He knows how to make everything better.

It's only when I'm in the elevator, under fluorescent lighting, that I notice the welts. Raised pinkish spots the size of mosquito bites, only more swollen and angry-looking. No wonder I'm so itchy. What are these things?

I fly down the hallway to Mick's apartment. “Mick!” I cry out, banging on the door. “Let me in!” I'm too stressed out to bother with the key. “Mick!”

There's no answer.

When I let myself in, it's obvious that except for William Shakespeare meowing by the door, no one's home.

That's weird. Mick said he'd be here.

I check my cell phone. Still no text message from Mick. But his phone's not charging at the wall by the couch the way I thought it might be. No, he has his phone with him.

I'm getting itchier.

It can't be the cabbie's lemon-scented aftershave. I look at my arms. There are even more pink welts than before. Hives. That's what these things must be. I've broken out in hives.

I need a hot bath NOW. With bubbles.

While the water's running, I do a quick search online about hives. The pictures on the screen confirm my diagnosis. Hives can be triggered by food allergies and sometimes by stress. Hot baths are not a good idea. Lukewarm ones are recommended. No bubbles. Oatmeal.
Oatmeal
?

An antihistamine can help.

I add cold water to the tub, swishing the water until it's lukewarm, then rummage through the kitchen cabinets until I find a packet of oatmeal. I hope the instant micro-waveable kind counts.

I lower myself into the tub and stretch out so that every part of me except my face is underwater. The oatmeal flakes float to the surface.

My cell phone is on the bathmat by the tub so I can see it. But Mick doesn't call or text. Where can he be?

I close my eyes and try to relax. But when I do, I picture that guy at Scoops and hear the sound of his fingers snapping. When I open my eyes, I see the hives on my belly. They don't seem to be getting any smaller, but at least I'm not so itchy now. I scratch my belly, but this time I'm careful to use just my fingertips, not my nails.

I make myself stay in the tub for fifteen minutes. Mick still hasn't phoned. I hope he won't go all the way downtown to pick me up and then not find me there. When he does phone, I'll ask him if he minds stopping at the pharmacy and getting me some antihistamines.

I dry myself carefully, dabbing at my skin instead of toweling myself dry the way I usually do.
Poor you
, I think.
You've had a rough night.

I put on Mick's softest T-shirt—it's 100 percent cotton. He likes it when I wear pretty camis, but right now I couldn't bear anything lacy on my skin. I'm still itchy, but I'm trying not to scratch. I think the oatmeal has helped, even if it was the instant kind.

I'm sitting on the couch, rereading
Hamlet
(or trying to), when I hear Mick opening the door to the loft. “Joey!” he says too loudly. “You here?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer in a small voice. I don't have the energy to get up from the couch. “I tried your cell. Did you go pick me up? I tried to tell you not to bother. I'm sorry if you did.”

Mick is standing in front of me now. I smell wine on his breath. Why has he been out drinking when he told me he'd be here reviewing scripts? And who was he with? I can't read the look in his dark eyes. He's either concerned—or angry. Please don't be angry now, I think, willing him to read my mind. I can't take any more anger—especially not tonight.

“Damn cell phone's out of juice,” he says, pulling the phone out of his jeans pocket and showing it to me as if I don't know what he means. “I was there at eleven fifteen sharp at the corner. When you weren't out at eleven thirty, I went in to see what was going on. That other waitress—what's her name again? Joyce?—she told me you got into some trouble. So I came right home, figuring you'd come here.”

When Mick opens his arms, spreading them wide, I know he's not angry. No, he wants to comfort me. So I stand up and let myself fall into his arms. “I quit,” I tell him. “Some guy was super rude to me and I lost it.”

Mick presses me close and strokes my back. Ah, this feels so good, so right—like heaven, if there's a heaven. He cradles me and whispers into my ear, “You did the right thing, Joey. It was a lousy job anyway. It was beneath you.”

I can practically feel the hives starting to go back to wherever they came from. I don't say anything about Mick's wine breath—or ask him where he's been and who he was with. And I don't mention the restraining order or the poem either. Now's not the time.

In the morning, I'm awake before Mick. There's no sign of the hives—not even any scratch marks on my skin. Outside, the sky is still rosy and everything feels possible. Mick's right—that job was beneath me. I was right to quit.

I put the kettle on for tea and give William Shakespeare his breakfast. I'm careful not to make too much noise, because I don't want to wake Mick. In a little while, I'll go next door to feed Sunshine.

I bring my cup of tea over to the couch. Mick's cell phone is on the coffee table. He's forgotten to recharge it. When I pick it up to plug it in, the screen lights up. I check the battery level. The phone's not out of juice at all.

CHAPTER 23

“Then is doomsday near.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 2, SCENE 2

W
hen I go next door, I'm startled to find Mrs. Karpman sitting in her velvet chair. Because she isn't wearing pantyhose, I can see the deep-purple veins in her legs. She's rubbing her forehead. Maybe she has a sinus infection. She's mentioned that she gets them sometimes. That would also explain why she's home a day early from Toronto.

“Is something wrong?” I call out as I slip off my shoes (Mrs. Karpman is particular about her floors). “I thought you weren't getting home till tomorrow.” When she realizes I'm there, she looks confused, almost as if she doesn't know who I am. “It's me, Iris,” I say. “I came to feed Sunshine.”

“Oh, Iris,” she says. “Of course.” I don't usually notice the lines on Mrs. Karpman's face, but this morning I do. Maybe it's because of the way the sun is shining in through her windows. Or maybe it's because she hasn't put on the shimmery face powder she usually wears.

“Oh, Iris,” she says again, shaking her head this time. “I cut my trip short because I had the oddest feeling that I needed to come home—and I was right. Something terrible has happened.”

I bring my hand to my mouth. “It's not Sunshine, is it?” I know how much she loves her bird.

Sunshine chirps when I say his name. Phew. I'd have felt awful if he had gotten sick—or died—while I was looking after him.

“What's wrong?” I hope no one in Mrs. Karpman's family is sick.

At first, Mrs. Karpman doesn't say anything. I wish she'd stop shaking her head like that. It's making me nervous. When she finally speaks, her voice sounds exhausted—as if she hasn't slept in days. “The apartment's been robbed. All my jewelry's gone.” Now I notice the rims of her eyes are red, like Sunshine's. She's probably been crying. “Every piece was a gift from my Nelson,” she says softly.

My heart is breaking open. I go over and give her the biggest hug I can. Her shoulders are bony, and she feels like a small bird in my arms. “How could it have happened?” I ask. “I was here yesterday morning and everything was fine. I double-checked the door when I left, the way I always do.” Though I haven't done anything wrong, I still feel guilty. I was responsible for Mrs. Karpman's apartment while she was away.

“The apartment looked fine to me, too, when I came home last night,” she says, and I can tell she's making an effort to collect herself. “At least, at first. I only noticed something was wrong when I was getting ready for bed. Whoever robbed me went straight to my bedroom—and to the jewelry box on my dresser. I think he knew what he was looking for. That's what the police think too. I suppose it could have been worse. Imagine if I'd walked in on him!” Mrs. Karpman shuts her eyes. “I'd have had a heart attack!”

“But how did a burglar get in here? The lock wasn't broken, was it?”

“Probably with a credit card. According to the police, that's what burglars use nowadays. I phoned the police as soon as I noticed someone had emptied my jewelry box. I tried knocking on your door, but you two were out. The police say this sort of thing happens a lot in apartment buildings. Especially ones with old people in them.” Mrs. Karpman sighs. “They told me I need to compile a list. For the insurance company. But I can't think straight, Iris. I just can't get over the idea that someone was in here— prowling and going through my personal things.” Mrs. Karpman shudders.

“I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be silly, Iris. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Does Mrs. Karpman give me a funny look when she says that? I hope she doesn't think I'm responsible! But when I look at her again, the funny look is gone. I must have imagined it. “By the way, dear, I nearly forgot to thank you—for looking after Sunshine.”

Sunshine chirps again when Mrs. Karpman says his name. That makes us both laugh a little. I'm glad to see Mrs. Karpman's face relax. “I can stay and help you with the list. If you think that would help.”

“That would be wonderful. You're a darling girl. Let me put on some tea.”

I watch Mrs. Karpman as she shuffles into her kitchen and plugs in the kettle. “How would you like to use this teacup?” she asks, showing me a blue-and-white cup with a windmill on it. “We bought it when we were in Delft. In Holland.” As we wait for the water to boil, Mrs. Karpman looks into Sunshine's cage. “It's a shame you don't speak English,” I hear her tell the bird. “If you did, you could tell us who took my jewelry.”

Mrs. Karpman keeps remembering more pieces of jewelry. Her pearl necklace (she tears up a little when she mentions it; Nelson bought it for her when they were on a river cruise in China), several gold brooches, a diamond tennis bracelet (“I should have worn it to Toronto and then I'd still have it,” she says), a pearl ring (“I wanted to give it to Sarah, my eldest granddaughter, when she turned sixteen”), her good watch. “Write down that it was eighteen-karat gold, a Longines,” she says, watching over my shoulder to see that I'm following her instructions.