Art stared at the bathtub for several minutes, his hands shaking, his stomach churning. His head felt like it had caught fire, his mouth like he'd eaten sand. He slowly closed the shower curtain and walked into the living room. Twenty minutes later, Angie arrived, knocked on the door. He showed her in.
"Okay, Art, what's so urgent? You have me really scared," she said, her worried face boring a hole in his eyes.
"It's David."
Angie sighed, rolled her eyes. "David again. Art, when are you going to realize that she's--"
"—It's different this time," he cut her off. "She's, well, there's something I have to show you."
"Where is she?" Angie looked around the apartment.
"She's in bed, sleeping, passed out, I'm not sure. She's been ill."
Angie let out an annoyed sigh. "What's going on?"
"Look at this."
Angie cocked her head, raised her eyebrow. Art handed her the studio portrait of Brixton Jones. She studied it in her hands for several silent moments before asking, "Who is this?"
"It's David."
"Really?" She considered the image some more, very closely taking in all of the features. "Where did you get this? Did she give this to you?"
Art shook his head. "A week ago, someone came looking for her. A private detective. She said her family's looking for her. She went missing back in March."
"What?"
Art groaned. "Angie, I lied."
"You lied?"
"I lied to you. About David. We lied to everyone about her."
"What do you mean?" Angie looked at him sideways, almost like she was frightened.
"We didn't know each other as kids. She wasn't in the group home with me. I just met her for the first time in March."
"So what?" Angie said suspiciously. "Why would you lie about that?"
"I didn't want anyone to know....the circumstances....how we met." He lowered his eyes, ashamed.
Angie's eyes widened, "Is she a...did you...oh, ew. Is she your," she grimaced, "escort?"
"Oh god no!" Art exclaimed immediately. "Nothing like that. Nothing at all like that."
"Then what was it? Codependents Anonymous?"
Art stared her down.
"I'm sorry," Angie said quickly. "You're freaking me out. What was it?"
Art broke, hung his head, breathed out a long sigh. "Oh, Angie, it feels like a lifetime ago, but I was so lost, so alone, so miserable, I hate to talk about it."
"It's okay," she said softly, pulling Art into her arms. "You can tell me. I love you."
Art looked deep into her eyes and confessed that cold, dark night, the night he met David. He told her everything. Almost everything. When he was finished, they held each other for long, silent minutes.
Angie spoke. "So, a detective came looking for her last week? Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"I was in denial," Art admitted. "You're right. I have an unhealthy symbiotic relationship with her."
"But, why say something now?"
Art pulled David's journal out of his back pocket. "I want you to take a look at this."
"What is it?"
"Just open it."
Angie opened the journal to the first page. She scanned it, turned the page, scanned the next page and the next. She shrugged her shoulders. "What about it?"
Art looked at her incredulously. "Don't you find that alarming?" he asked.
"It's weird, for sure, but I wouldn't necessarily say it's alarming."
Art would have pulled on his hair had he any left. His eyes bugged, he opened his mouth. "Are you serious?" he cried. "She's written an entire journal in some bizarre, alien language! You don't find that alarming?"
Angie snorted, then laughed out loud. "Alien? That's shorthand, you idiot," she teased.
"Shorthand? What? Let me see that." He took the journal back and flipped hurriedly through the pages.
Angie nodded. "My mom was a secretary. She wrote notes all over the house in shorthand. She tried to teach it to me when I was younger, but I've forgotten most of it."
"Shorthand, huh. Can you read any of it?"
"Let me see." She studied the page. "Something about a coat and problems, and... I don't know." She handed the book back to Art. "So, you're going to turn her in to the authorities because she writes in shorthand?" She stared him down.
Art rolled his eyes. "Well, then there's this."
Angie followed Art into the bathroom. He opened the shower curtain and pointed to the tub. Angie looked in the bottom and gasped, hand to her mouth. "What is that?"
"David claimed it was art."
Angie peered closer to the tub. "It looks like a pile of body hair. Ugh, is that yours?"
Art shrugged sheepishly
She grimaced. "Did she spell something out of it? Oh, this so weird and so disturbing."
"Yeah," said Art. "That's what I was trying to tell you. It says I Love You. She showed it to me like it was her greatest art piece."
"You mean Art piece," Angie emphasized.
"Not funny. What do you think?"
"I told you before, I'm not into the whole modern art thing,"
"Oh my god, stop joking," Art said, urgently. "You know what I mean."
"I think you're right," Angie said. "I'm sorry, but you need to call that detective. This is wrong. There's something wrong with her."
"I promised I'd protect her, though," Art started to argue.
"Now you have to protect yourself. And me."
"I just don't know how I'm going to be able do it, Angie. She's been a part of my life now, and after all we've been through together."
Angie placed her hand gently on Art's back. "I know, but this is the right thing to do, for you and for her."
"I don't know. She trusts me."
"Exactly," assured Angie. "She trusts you to do what's best for her, and I think right now, what's best is that she goes back to her doctor. She's not well, Art."
Art sighed. His whole body heaved under the pressure.
"Listen, it's not only this, this weird body hair thing," Angie explained. "She's not well physically. She never eats and is simply wasting away before our eyes. Her hair's coming out, she's so sallow, malnourished. She needs medical attention. It's the best thing we can do for her. I admit, I'm a little frightened of her now that I know all of this, background. But I also know that you love her. And if you love her, you need to do this for her."
Art slowly pulled the detective's business card from his pocket. "You're right. I know you're right." He pushed the numbers on his phone. He blinked tears from his eyes, looked to the ceiling, whispering under his breath, "David, please forgive me for what I'm about to do."
***
They came almost immediately, Detective Schwab and two police officers. No, she wasn't under arrest, the detective wanted them there for her protection, but once she saw Brixton in the flesh, she realized there would be no need. She stood like a skeleton, her brittle hair on end, gray hollows under her eyes, her cheeks sunken, eyes yellowed. She looked at Arthur, her face bewildered.
"Brixton Jones," Detective Schwab said. "I'm going to need you to come with me."
She didn't run. She didn't resist. She simply collapsed, fell to the floor, covered her face with her hands and sobbed, "I told you they'd send me back. I told you." She looked up at Art, her face striped wet and pink. She shook her head, "Please, Arthur. No."
Arthur did not move. He grabbed for Angie's hand and held it tight. They both watched as the two police officers took a hold of Brixton's arms and pulled her upright. The officers moved slowly but deliberately to the door. Brixton's feet glided along the floor like she was weightless. She looked back at Arthur as her body was shuffled out the open door.
"I'm sorry," Arthur mouthed the words.
Sixty days.