CHAPTER THREE: JUST CALL ME 'HANDY'
In a vain attempt to get my mind off the winged thing at the church, I decide to go home and sort laundry. I've been neglecting it since Mom's been gone and it's starting to crawl up the walls. If I don't get it done, I might find myself smothered in my sleep by jeans and t-shirts. Oh, and I've got to wrap my wrist in an Ace bandage; the sucker is really starting to ache and it's already begun turning colors, which is fairly alarming. I try to pull open the door to my apartment building, but my palm is covered still covered in sweat. I wipe my hands down the front of my jeans.
"Hey, Isis, how're things going?"
I smile. The voice belongs to Sam Allen, my lab partner in high school who just happens to be the hottest guy around. If you're into Vikings, and probably even if you're not. Seriously, the guy looks like he could bench press a semi. Oh, and he lives in my building. Lucky me. "Hi yourself, Sam. What's going on?"
He shrugs awkwardly. "Just delivering for Bruno's...he told me you came in and bought raw brains. What's up with that?"
Crap. "I...uhhh...just an experiment," I lie. "You know how my mom is."
"Your mom's awesome. Kind of weird, but awesome."
That pretty much sums up how I feel about her, too. I fidget from one foot to the next, not sure how to continue the conversation. "So, got any cool plans for the summer?" Gah, that sounds so cheesy, but I can't exactly take it back.
"Just working," he says. "My car insurance is killin' me. What about you? Still dating that Andrew guy?"
I shake my head. "Not anymore. We just had different...goals in life." Like he wants me dead and I want me alive.
He nods like he totally understands. Maybe he does. I don't doubt he's had more girlfriends than anyone else in our graduating class. He's just one of those guys: not a 'player', but not a monk, either. Popular.
"Did he do that to you?" Sam points at my wrist.
"Indirectly, yeah. But it's okay," I say. "It's just a sprain."
"What a jerk. Good thing you dumped him."
"I think so, too."
"I'd better get to delivering these." He juggles the small box of meats with one hand, and reaches for the door handle with the other. "Here, let me get that for you."
"Thanks," I say, and walk inside ahead of him.
"Hey, some of us are getting together tomorrow at The Coffee Jar. Want to come?"
I'd be crazy to say no. I've wanted him to ask me out, in any regard, since I was a freshman. "Absolutely. Just call me and let me know what time."
He nods. "Will do. See ya later."
I actually hum my way to the elevator. The day is definitely looking up and even the prospect of mountains of dirty clothes doesn't bother me.
#
The next morning doesn't start out so badly. I check my wrist by wiggling it slightly, having wrapped it the night before. It feels wonky, but a visit to the doctor after I get control of the laundry should fix that. But first, I crack two eggs into a bowl; scramble them with two tablespoons of milk, then pour the concoction into a frying pan. It's not until I put a forkful of the delicious, perfectly scrambled eggs into my mouth that my stomach goes 'Nopefish!' and clenches into a knot. I don't even get a chance to truly enjoy the fluffy goodness before I'm racing for the bathroom.
It sucks, but I'm determined to eat something that's not raw meat. I've never liked steak tartar, and I'm not about to make it part of my regular diet. Not if I can help it. The pig brains were bad enough. I manage to keep three minuscule bites of a banana down by sheer strength of will. It's stupid, but it totally makes me feel like a winner. I grab the full laundry basket and head to the elevator. There are definitely days I wish my mom had paid for an apartment with washer/dryer hookups. Today is one of them. I don't want to deal with people, and my building is full of nosy little old ladies. I push the down button, and wait a few minutes. It doesn't take long for the doors to woosh open.
A tiny old woman smiles at me, showing off a set of beautiful pink gums. "Why hello, Isis. What a nice surprise! Doing your laundry?"
What else would I be doing with a basket of dirty clothes? "Hi, Mrs. Castemar. How are you?"
"I'm peachy, dear, just peachy." She peers at me over her bifocals. Yeah, she's pretty much a stereotypical little old lady. "You look peaky. Have you been sleeping all right?"
"I've been restless lately," I admit. "I've got a lot on my mind."
"But school is over." She reaches out to pat my arm, but stops midway. "Oh, dear, what happened to your wrist? Did you break it? Shouldn't it be in a cast?"
I shake my head, even though I really have no idea. "It's just bruised really badly."
"Oh, dear." She fumbles around in her purse. "I have some ointment my daughter sent me. It's miraculous, actually. Makes bruises disappear almost instantly."
I seriously doubt that, but it can't hurt, right? I start to unwind the bandage. I haven't looked at my wrist since yesterday, so I'm expecting that kind of weird 'dead' skin. What I don't expect is for my hand to fall off. I instantly go numb.
Mrs. Castemar blinks for a moment. I wait for her to scream; heck, I wait for me to scream, but neither of us does. She just bends over, picks it up, and turns it over in her palm. "It looks so real."
That's when I notice no blood is pooling onto the floor. I open my mouth and the lie just rolls off my tongue. "It's a prosthetic wrist. I had an accident when I was young. I'm so sorry!" I hold out my other hand for my errant limb. She hands it back to me. I put it on the top of the laundry, not entirely convinced what's happening is actually happening.
"Well, you need to be careful with it, dear. Whatever you're using to hold it on, it's not working well."
It's called muscles and veins. And yeah, they're not doing their job well. Or at all. I don't have a clue what's happening, but I suspect it has to do with Andrew and the weirdness under the pier and my newfound appetite. Or lack thereof.
The elevator dings and the door slides open at the ground floor. Mrs. Castemar smiles as she steps out of the elevator. "It was wonderful seeing you, dear. Don't lose your hand."
If weirder parting words were ever said, I sure don't know them. "Thanks," I say as the doors slide shut again. I'd like to say the idea of continuing on to the basement is out, but the amounts of laundry I have to do are truly staggering. I stare at my wrist, shrug, and toss the hand onto the pile of dirty clothes and wait while the elevator continues its journey down. Laundry'll be so fun to do one-handed. I can't wait. The door slides open and I'm there; the machines staring at me through the doorway; lined up in two neat rows with the dryers pushed back against the far wall.
Luckily for me, the basement is completely empty, so I don't have to explain the hand. I reach into the basket and put it on the edge of the washing machine for safe keeping. It's not until after I start the load of laundry, though, that I hear the telltale thump thump thump. My eyes flick up to the top of the machine and yup. The hand's gone. I close my eyes and sigh. Well, that's one way of washing myself, though not the one I would have picked. Call me super lazy, but I'm not going to fish around searching for it. I'll call it a tennis shoe if anyone comes in and wait until they do their laundry before I transfer mine to the dryer.
The washer stops its spin cycle. I hope my hand's in one piece. I mean, regardless of what I said to Mrs. Castemar, it's kind of irreplaceable. I reach in and start pulling the laundry out and back into the basket. My left hand is sitting at the bottom of the washer, intact. I fish it out and put it on top of the wet clothing, then transfer the whole mess into the dryer. I figure as long as the dryer's on the lowest setting, my hand should be fine.
The thump of the hand kind of lulls me to sleep. I wake with a start when the dryer buzzes. Hoisting everything back into the basket, I haul it back to the elevator, ride it upstairs and, finally, close the apartment door behind me. Then I slide to the floor and cry. Or rather, I try to. My shoulders heave, my throat tightens up, I start to sob, but that's it. I have no tears. My eyes are bone dry. I wasn't a biology geek in school, but I'm beginning to suspect that Andrew has a lot more to answer for than I originally thought. And yeah, while the idea of a doctor flits across my mind, I discard it almost as quickly. I'm pretty sure whatever is going on, a doctor isn't going to be able to fix it. I'd rather not be turned into a research paper for some medical journal. And telling Mom is pretty much out of the question. I love her and she's awesome, but I don't think even her open mind is open enough for a daughter who eats brains. As much as I don't really want to, I think it's time to go to church and talk to Lydia and the flying rock.
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