I barely notice the photos anymore. There’s one of my parents at a podium, my mom in a shimmering green evening gown, my dad in a tux. They’re accepting an award, flashing smiles. And there’s one of me and my mom reading a book together. We’re in some kind of waiting room, sitting on orange vinyl chairs. I don’t remember where it was, or why we were there.
But then, I don’t remember much of anything.
Next to the mini kitchen is a small bathroom. That’s where I strip down, soap up, and shower off.
That’s where I start thinking about the girl.
Like I don’t know her name: the girl. Please, Solo. I know her name. Evening. E.V. to her friends.
Eve.
There’s a problem with that name, Eve. You say “Eve” and you think Garden of Eden, and then you think of Eve and Adam, naked but tastefully concealed by strategic shrubbery.
Except at this particular moment, my brain is not generating shrubbery.
So, basically, that’s despicable. The girl had her leg chopped off. She just got out of surgery. So I add shrubbery.
And yet the shrubbery doesn’t stay put. It’s moving shrubbery. It’s disappearing shrubbery.
Which is deeply wrong of me. I step back under the twin showerheads and blast myself with hot water. Maybe I should make it cold water. But I don’t want to.
“That’s the problem with you, dude,” I say, speaking to myself. “You suck at doing things you don’t want to do.”
I don’t feel bad speaking to myself.
Who else have I got?
Solo isn’t just a name, it’s a description. I have no actual friends. I have some online ones, but that’s not quite the same.
I’ve never had a girlfriend.
When I touched Eve, she was the first girl I’d touched since coming here to live six years ago. Unless you count women scientists and techs and office workers I’ve accidentally brushed in the hallways.
Sometimes I do count those. It’s a normal human behavior to count whatever you have to count.
“Back up, man,” I tell myself softly. “She’s a Spiker. She’s one of the enemy.”
The microphones won’t pick up what I say with the shower running. I know these things. Even though I’m not supposed to. For six years I’ve lived and breathed this place. I know it. I know it all.
And I know what I’m going to do with it.
As soon as Eve is gone.
– 9 –
Three little days, but oh my God, can they be long.
Time is relative. An hour spent watching paint dry is much longer than an hour getting a massage.
Which is exactly what I’m doing. Getting a massage from Luna, the massage therapist.
Luna doesn’t touch The Leg.
In my head, The Leg is capitalized because The Leg is what my whole life seems to be about now. Every single person I’ve seen in the past few days asks me about The Leg.
How is it?
How’s The Leg?
The Leg is attached. Thanks for asking. There’s The Leg right there. It’s on display, always outside of the sheets and blanket, although the whole thing is still so wrapped up it looks like I borrowed The Leg from some ancient Egyptian mummy.
How’s The Leg?
It seems a bit mummyish, thanks.
I had a dream where The Leg was no longer attached. Not a happy dream, that. It scared me. I try to be glib and tough and all SEAL Team Six about it, but in all desperate seriousness: I was scared.
“I need Aislin,” I say to my mother.
“Aislin is a drunken slut,” she replies, without looking up from her laptop.
This is diplomatic for her.
I decide to change the subject. “What are you working on?”
With effort, she pulls her gaze from the screen. “Fluff. A vanity project for one of the biochems.”
“Fluff?”
“Educational software. Project 88715.”
“Catchy. The kids’ll eat that up.”
“Mm-hmm.” She returns to her screen.
“Aislin is not a slut,” I say. I don’t deny the drunken part. “She’s been in a steady relationship for months. Anyway, she’s my friend. I miss her.”
“Talk to the masseuse,” my mother says. She glares at Luna. “Who are you? Talk to my daughter.”
I feel the tremor go through Luna. Luna is probably fifty years old, a very nice Haitian woman. I like Luna. She doesn’t hurt me as much as the various other physical therapists.
Luna has six kids. Two are in college and one is a real estate broker in San Rafael.
Number of things I have in common with Luna? Zero.
“I want my friends,” I say.
“Pfff. Friends, plural?” my mother asks. “Since when do you have friends, plural? You have one friend and she’s a drunken slut.”
“I’m lonely. There aren’t even any other patients. The only one around who’s my age is Solo.”
“You haven’t talked to him, have you?” my mother asks, feigning a casual tone. Casual, like warm and fuzzy, is not part of her emotional repertoire.
“No,” I lie, wondering why she cares.
Actually, I’ve seen him every day since my arrival, passing by my room with studied indifference. He only spoke once, to tell me that he called Aislin and told her not to worry about me.
His eyes are disturbingly blue.
Against my better judgment I ask, “Who is Solo, anyway? And why is he here?”
My mother ignores me. She has different Ignore settings, and this one means she’s hiding something. She thinks she is inscrutable, and maybe she is, to her minions, but I’ve had seventeen years to deconstruct her poker face.