But on the day of the surgery, the cafeteria sparkled again. The Christmas lights were the most cheerful shades, the tinsel and garland festive and joyous, and the fake tree in the corner, with toys for sick kids under it, made my heart swell with pride for human generosity.
My god, what do you get a man like Jonathan for Christmas?
I got into the chair I always sat in and took out my little notebook and clicky pencil. Everything about this had sucked, but I was writing. A lot. I didn’t even know if half of them were songs, or opera, or part of something so much bigger, but I couldn’t stop the verses or the tapping of my foot as I laid them down. In the days I’d been at the hospital, waiting for the hours I could see Jonathan, my tea usually went cold before I gulped it down.
I moved the Notice of Public Auction to the front of my notebook, so it wouldn’t be in my way, and began writing. Another Styrofoam cup appeared at my side when I was still neck deep in a song about an imaginary ass-fuck that was disguised as a poem about something else entirely. I looked up at a man, six foot four, sixties in a movie-star kind of way. He smiled at me.
“We meet again.”
“I’m sorry?”
He held out his hand, and I knew that even though I didn’t know him, I did.
“My daughter told me my son’s girlfriend was often down here. I thought it might be you.”
J. Declan. Shit. Jonathan wouldn’t like me here. And just when I was getting used to that hateful table.
I shook his hand briefly, then stood. “Yeah. I was just going.”
He sat down. “Looks like you were in the middle of something. Can you just ignore me? There are no other seats.”
I looked around. Every other table was full. I was a single person taking up a four-seater. In the middle of writing, I hadn’t even noticed.
“I’ll make room for the rest of the family.”
He laughed to himself. A silent chuckle. No more than a breath.
“What?”
“If my boy is the sun, I’m Pluto. Smallest. Farthest. Still in orbit, however. Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“How does he seem?”
“The same.”
“And his mood?”
“Hard to tell through the wisecracks.”
He nodded, looking into the cafeteria. Kids screamed. Mothers yelled. A mop slapped against the edge of a yellow bucket. To our right, a man wept while a much younger woman comforted him. I glanced at Declan. He looked far away, and I felt sorry for him.
“You should talk to him,” I said as I stood up. I hadn’t seen the outside world in too many hours, and Lil would be outside in a red zone in four minutes.
“I should.” He said in such a way as to imply that he would if it were an option. I wanted to say more, but I remembered what Jonathan had told me, and what Margie had said about his shitty hobbies, so I excused myself and went home to try and manage my life.
CHAPTER 10.
MONICA
It was night by the time the Bentley made its way slowly down my hill. I’d called Debbie from the back to let her know Jonathan was okay, and told her if any shifts opened up I’d fill in. Then left a message with Darren, who had offered me the moon and stars, the food in his kitchen, the gas in his car and the surface area of his shoulder, should I need it. But unless I asked for something specific, or called during an unpredictable sliver of time, he was unavailable. I had no idea what he was doing, but when I did catch him long enough to ask after him, his “fines” and “greats” seemed sincere. So I left him alone.
“What time you going in tomorrow, Miss?” asked Lil as she opened the back door for me.
“I’m hoping for an afternoon shift,” I said. “Can I call you?”
“I expect you to.” She stepped aside as I got out. “I mean it. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s my job to drive. I don’t want to hear about you taking the bus again.”
She slammed the door.
“I’m a poor girl. It’s not a big deal to take the bus.”
“To me it is. No more.” She wagged her finger once and walked around to her side. When she opened her door, she waved, dismissing me.
I fingered the extra bus token in my pocket and went through my gate and ascended my porch steps. There was no notice on the door this time, which reminded me that I hadn’t heard from Mom. I checked my phone. Nope. Nothing.
“Hey, Monica.” It was Dr. Thorensen calling over the fence.
“Hi.”
“You all right?” He blooped his car. The lights flashed.
“Sure.”
“Because you’re standing on your porch staring at your phone. Is your boyfriend all right? Did the surgery go okay?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t move, just looked at me for a second under my shitty porch light, which would be auctioned off with the rest of my house. Except my stuff. The bank couldn’t auction what was mine. I’d take the light bulbs, the furniture, the fixtures and anything that could be unscrewed, unbolted or pulled off.
“Dad’s tangerine tree.” I said it out loud. I didn’t mean to do that.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Thorensen asked. He hadn’t gone away.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” I snapped my keys out of their little pocket.
“Have you eaten?”
I didn’t expect an actual question, so I answered honestly. “No.”
“I have some pad thai from last night. It reheats like a solid brick and I don’t want to suffer alone.”
I wanted to slip in during the dead after hours and fall asleep next to Jonathan again, but if there was one night I should let him rest, that was probably it. A twisting disappointment pinched my chest when I realized I wouldn’t go see him, and I’d have to sleep alone in my stupid shit bed.
But though I could be lonely, and depressed and worried, and though I could be broke and uncharacteristically irresponsible, I didn’t have to be hungry.
“How are you reheating it?” I asked.
“I put the cardboard box in the microwave. It ain’t open heart surgery.”
“You have to heat it covered with a little water.” I put my keys back in my bag, glad to be of use to someone. “A glass container is best. Let me show you.”
CHAPTER 11.
MONICA
“Magic” was too mild a word for City of Dis as Dr. Brad Thorensen played it. Extreme might be better. Intense. Powerful.
The idea was, you are in hell. Not just a block character of pixels. Not some person you made up from die rolls and categories, but...you.