Providence Station
100 Gaspee Street
Providence, Rhode Island
Friday, June 12
8:09 AM
The scorching train platform was overflowing with assholes. Most of them hipster assholes—the ones who wear embarrassingly tight pants, stupid old-man shoes, and slouchy hats that look as if they have been run over by a logging truck. The logger had likely pulled over, climbed out of the cab, and said, Hey, I'm not using this beard. You seem like the creative type who brews coffee for a living and owns an obscure breed of dog. I'm thinking of shaving. Do you want my beard? To which the annoying hipster replied, I own a purebred Irish wolfhound and work at Starfuck-You-Very-Much, and yes, I would love your beard—as long the product you've used to keep it supple is certified organic.
The flow of people would not stop. It was becoming claustrophobic. A woman whose fat ass stretched out her patterned pants, which resembled a southwestern throw blanket, talked loudly on her phone. She slammed into me as she shifted her over-sized bag that looked suspiciously like a dead cat.
"Don't shove me, bitch," I muttered. The overabundance of hipsters, the blinding heat, the unbearable pounding in my temples was pushing me beyond reasonable thought.
"I'm sorry," said the southwestern cat-killer in front of me, the woman I was now imagining as a heap of goo on the floor. "Did you say something?"
I just stared at her, making sure I held her gaze just long enough to be marginally uncomfortable. She looked away first, continuing her inane conversation.
"I know, right? I was shocked when I got out of college and there was no demand for a bio-philosophy major. I mean, I double minored in education and web design. I thought I covered my bases."
I rolled my eyes and tried to bend my elbow. The sea of bodies was oppressive, limiting my movement and my ability to find a goddamn diet bar in my bag. That and an aspirin. I had nothing to wash it down with, but I didn't care. I would dry swallow it. Hell, I would dry swallow a pumpkin filled with nails if it would stop the fucking pounding in my head.
The air changed. A whoosh of stale stench and an even hotter breeze, much hotter than the already-hot-enough-to-melt-your-tits-off wind whizzing by my over-heated head, swooped in from the train tunnel. The screech of brakes echoed off the stone walls, and the giant purple commuter rail train roared to a stop.
"Providence!" yelled someone official-sounding over a scratchy loudspeaker. The doors squealed open, releasing even more assholes onto the platform where I stood, helpless, drowning in a sea of sweaty, Boston-bound idiots. We pushed past one another, reversing the flow of commuters, those disembarking, those boarding, those embarking on a journey to save the neck of an ungrateful, long-lost brother.
That would be me. Evie McFagan, sister of said ungrateful, long-lost brother known as Richard Musäus. Go ahead and laugh at my maiden name. For your information, it sounds like moosehouse, and why don't you try growing up as a size extra large with a last name that refers to one of the most non-dainty animals in North America? Then talk to me, after a hellish adolescence, about how "well adjusted" you feel.
Yeah. Think on that, Freud fans.
Elbowing my way onto the narrow train, I found a seat on the upper level of a double-decker car. A twenty-something boy in a tweed jacket was about to sit next to me but changed his mind at the last moment.
By the way, who the hell wears tweed in a heat wave? Stupid hipsters. That's who.
I nestled in and stared out a dirty window covered in scratchy-looking graffiti with the lovely addition of something unsavory smeared all over it. There wasn't much to see in the tunnel, except for dark, stone walls. The air conditioning was either broken or just completely incapable of keeping up with the heat, and I could feel the sweat trickling into my cleavage, collecting in all the places where skin met skin.
After what felt like an eternity, the engine roared to life and, with a lurch, pulled forward. We exploded out of the tunnel as the train gained speed. Rain greeted us with a sudden shower that would probably only add to the humidity and not clear it. The drops slashed at the windows, smearing my view of the scenery beyond the milky glass.
I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to drift through the events of the previous few days. What a shit show. I sighed and pulled out my cell phone. No messages. The welcome screen featured my two favorite people in the whole world. There they were, my darling husband, Paddy, and my beautiful baby girl, Savannah, now four and no longer a baby, though she would forever remain one in my heart. I wondered if I was still married or if I would see either of them ever again.
What had I done? I'm so stupid. I really am.
"But he's my brother," I had whined. It was hard to explain why I cared. I barely understood it myself.
"If you leave now, love," said Paddy, his clear, piercing eyes sending a message straight to my soul, "you will not be welcome here when you return."
"What the hell, Paddy? That's a bit extreme, don't you think?" I squeaked, trying to be brave, trying to hold my ground. I'm a big girl who can make big girl decisions, I told myself.
"I'm not going through another epic ordeal. Not ever again. And how dare you even entertain the thought of wanting to put us in harm's way?"
"You can deny the facts all you want, mister, but the truth is ... the bitch is back. Your stupid, aqua family dropped the bloody ball and let Miss Terror of the Sea go. Now she's here, and she will kill my brother. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Paddy sat down on the bed. It was late. After receiving the email from my brother, I had plugged Savannah in, handing her a tablet and headphones, pointing to the couch. She had shrugged and gladly plopped down. The four of us—me, Paddy, his aunt Catherine, and our friend and Catherine's new paramour, Tony—had all sat down at Catherine's kitchen table and examined the email from my brother.
Recently, my business has sent me to Boston. I'm not far from you, and I believe enough time has passed. I had been waiting for the right time, the right way to contact you, but circumstances never felt right. But all that has changed. All because of one special individual. Under the urgings of this new friend (well, actually, we are more than friends. Our relationship has moved to the next level and I could not be happier), I have felt the confidence to contact you. It really is such a small world. My friend says she knows you and has urged me to rekindle our relationship, dear sister. Her name is ... Nomia.
The three of them agreed that I should ignore the email.
I was not in favor. An argument of epic proportion ensued, followed by me storming out and heading home. After I poured myself a nice tall drink, I sat on the couch and clinked the ice back in forth in the glass. What did I know? Well, Richard was in Boston. And so was Nomia. Richard was blind to the fishy nature of his new girlfriend, who was most likely using my brother as bait.
This left me with two options. One, go rescue my brother, because I am so good at being a hero. I reached up and rubbed the scar on my shoulder, remembering exactly how it felt to be impaled. Yes, being a hero rocks.
That left the second option, ignore the whole situation. Don't take the bait. Let my brother die and risk the possibility that the man-eating bitch will make quick work of him and then come after us. It had been months since we had heard from Ronan. It took time to contact him. I didn't have time. Richard, that dick, didn't have time either. I pulled out my phone and read the email again. It had been sent that morning, which meant he was probably still alive. Probably.
I got up, set my glass on the coffee table, and headed for the attic. When I returned to our bedroom, suitcase in hand, Paddy was there waiting for me.
"Where's Savannah?" I asked.
"She's staying with Aunt Catherine tonight."
"I see," I said.
"No, love," he answered. "You don't. You don't see. 'Cause if you did, you wouldn't have that suitcase in your hands."
I just didn't know how to make him understand. I couldn't tell him the things I had kept from him. I had told him the basics but left a lot out. It wasn't fun for me to discuss my shitty family. When I met Paddy, the orphan thing had been a bonding connection. Our isolation in the world, once revealed, was like a crappy present we gave to one another, something Paddy and I could share and compare, then screw around together to forget. When your pain is reflected in someone else, it becomes a narcissistic attraction. Quite fucked up if you think about it.
At the time, he didn't need to know about my brother. I didn't even know about my brother. I hadn't heard from him in years. Richard was five years older than I was. When I started high school, he was starting college. We were never in the same school. Once he left home, he left home. That was that.
I had never desired to discuss the way I had been raised, the relationship my brother and I had forged out of need. Yes, we had been given everything we needed as children. We wanted for nothing—nothing like food, shelter, or college money. But things such as emotional attention, love, kindness—those were radically missing. In essence, we had raised ourselves. Our parents had been selfish and ignored us. They had never bothered to get to know us. I never wanted to discuss want Richard and I shared—our bond of emotional neglect.
Once Mom and Dad died, Richard was all I had left. He was the last link to my roots, my last tie to my grandparents, also dead, in Tarrytown, New York. Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent at their home, and I shared those times with Richard. It was during those visits that we had fostered our connection—weekends in Tarrytown and all those summers spent with Oma and Opa, playing in the woods surrounding their country home way up in the Catskills, far away from civilization and even farther away from my parents. We spent endless hours walking in the woods, Richard and I, building forts, making paths with old rakes, paths that curved in circles around trees so old, we could barely see their tops. I spent time in the kitchen with Oma, and Richard out in the woods with Opa, doing whatever it was they did out there.
When I realized during my drunken, college haze that years, not just months and days, had passed since I had heard from my older brother, I was angry. Abandoned yet again. I wrote him off. He was dead to me, too.
Paddy discovered he had a brother-in-law when Savannah was born. Classy, I know, but you have to understand, when starting a relationship, women are all like, Tell me about your family. What was it like for you? Reveal your inner pain to me. Blah, blah, blah. Paddy wasn't like that. I'm not, nor have I ever been, like that. Paddy never asked if I had any siblings, and I never told him—until I was forced into it.
Savannah was born on a Tuesday. On the first Saturday of her life, a bouquet of flowers arrived addressed to her. It was the craziest thing. She hadn't even lived in the house for a full week, and the kid was getting flowers and mail. That blew my mind. Anyway, the outside of the card read, For my niece, Savannah.
Paddy had flipped out. It was a total Lucy/Ricardo moment with me, the dumb one, doing all the 'splaining.
Why hadn't I told Paddy about Richard? I don't know. I guess I had wanted to keep that part of me to myself. Forever.
And now I was on a train, leaving one family for another. Why? Good fucking question.
Numb from the greenery rushing by my chalky window, I stared out at the suburban worlds of Mansfield, Sharon, and Avon as they tore past my swollen, tired face. Along with all the other travelers whose clothes clung to their sweaty backs, I was spewed out onto the sticky, foul-smelling platform in Back Bay. Richard's email had a signature at the bottom that included a phone number. Thanks to the wonders of Google, I was able to track down what I thought was a home address in Boston.
Pulling my wheeled carry-on behind me, I made my way up the obnoxiously long escalator and then out into city. The heat smacked me in the face. It was similar to being smothered with a wool blanket—so humid I couldn't breathe. Nothing smells worse than a city during a heat wave. Boston is especially bad. Being a harbor city, it has the added benefit of low tide. Things that are meant to be beneath the sea now lay exposed, allowed to decay in the summer sun and release their noxious gases into air previously perfumed with street garbage and car fumes.
Other than the smell, it's a scenic city. Old, I mean really fucking old shit, mingles with the new. Take, for example, the Hancock buildings. Yes, there are two. One small and squat, like a happy, old, fat teapot, and right next to it stands its young offspring. The brilliant blue monolith towers above its parent, dominating the Boston skyline. To me, that's Boston. The new attempting to dwarf the old, to outshine it, while we, the tourists, marvel at the resulting warring dichotomy that somehow works.
I navigated down the city streets, passing Asian women in their wide-brimmed hats, college students in their flimsy clothes, young mothers in Converse sneakers pushing retro-looking prams. I passed vendors hawking hot dogs, the foul smell of sauerkraut burning my nose hairs as I inhaled. Others offered t-shirts emblazoned with phrases like Green Monstah and Yankees Suck. Using the navigation on my phone—a left here, a right there—I moved slowly until I finally arrived at the brownstone row home matching the address I had found on the web.
My stomach squelched with acid, and although the heat had not subsided, my hands felt cold and clammy. This was it. The number matched. I walked up the marble stairs to the landing and looked at the names scrawled next to the buzzer buttons. Apt 1-Fisher, Apt 2-Atwood, Apt 3-Leary, and at the top, Apt 4-Musäus.
I steeled myself and pressed the button. Nothing happened. Now what? In my haste to get to my brother, it had not occurred to think past this very moment. I cursed under my breath at my stupidity. I should just go. I should reverse this whole asinine journey and get back to the people who mattered. I should ...
The door opened. A man held the door for me. Not my brother. Just a man I didn't know. He smiled and said, "Hot enough for ya?"
I nodded and walked into the lobby, mumbling my thanks as I stepped past him.
"Have a good one," he called over his shoulder and headed down the steps as the door clicked shut behind him.
I was in.
There was no elevator. Of course there wasn't. It was nine hundred degrees outside. I was, as always, grossly out of shape, and I was carrying luggage up four flights of stairs. Why would there be a goddamn elevator? As I huffed and puffed my way up the steps, I constructed a plan. I would wait outside his door until he got home. When he arrived, I would ambush him and make him understand that his new girlfriend had no intention of dating him, but instead planned to tear him apart, literally. And then she would do the same to me. If he had any sense at all, he would end the relationship, and, and ... I would figure out the rest when I saw him.
I turned and faced the last flight of stairs. Richard's apartment was at the top of the building on its own landing. The blood was pounding in my temples, and I could feel the burning heat in my flushed cheeks. God, I needed to sit down. Almost there.
I walked to the door and knocked. As my knuckles hit the wooden door, it swung open slightly.
Through the cracked door, I called, "Richard?" I was sure to use a soft voice, not wanting to startle him, or her. "Anyone home?"
I waited for a response but none came. Taking a deep breath, I considered my options. I could wander in and see what I could see, or go home—just turn right around, close the door behind me, close the door on my past, and leave my older brother to his fate.
Guess which choice I made? If you went with option number one, you win an oversized t-shirt with Evie makes bad choices for my entertainment emblazoned across the front. Wear it with pride. It looks good on you.
The room temperature was a good ten degrees cooler than the stairwell. I relished the relief as a cool wave of air from the air conditioner made its way to face. I let out my breath in one long, relaxing groan. Then I entered Richard's apartment. A large leather sectional couch faced me, its back against an exposed brick wall. To my right three long windows lined up in a row. The windows did not have curtains, and I could see the neighboring building close by. The branches of trees that must have grown up from a courtyard, far below, obscured my view into the other apartments across the way.
I was in the living/dining room. To my left, I saw bar stools, indicating a breakfast bar. I stepped in farther and turned to close the door behind me. That's when I saw her. I gasped, somehow managing not to scream, and grabbed my chest.
In unison, the intruder grabbed her chest. There was a mirror behind the door.
"Goddamn it," I cursed under my breath. I looked at my own reflection and realized how rumpled and tired I looked, how exhausted and stressed I really was. I attempted to smooth my hair into some semblance of order but gave up. It was useless. My hair had its own existence and will. I had never been able to wrangle it into any sort of look.
Glancing around the room again, I noted how sparsely decorated it was. It had the feel of a real estate showing. Everything looked staged, arranged just so, as if it had all been recently bought at a discount home store. There was even a fake potted amaryllis next to the leather couch, but it was covered in dust.
I took a few more steps, making my way towards the kitchen area on the left. That looked staged, too, with a bowl of plastic lemons on the counter. Something crunched as I stepped from the living area into the small passageway leading to the bedrooms, I assumed. Looking down, I saw broken glass everywhere.
I figured it was from smashed wine glasses. I could make out the stem of one glass and, possibly, part of the goblet of another. The floor was dark and sticky, and I was hoping it was red wine. Please let it be red wine. It smelled like red wine. But the hallway had two types of stains sprayed across the pale walls. One was a cranberry color; the other was brighter. Things were looking grim.
I peered down the hall and tracked bloody footprints retreating into the far bedroom. I tried not to step on them as I followed their trail. The bedroom was destroyed and the window was an explosion of broken glass. It was everywhere, sparkling in the daylight, sending tiny prisms onto the walls. An elegant black and white photograph of a tree—the trunk enormous, thick, and imposing—hung at a disquieting angle, perilously close to crashing to the floor. The closet appeared to have blown up. Clothes were everywhere. Ties, shoes, men's underwear, and a few lacy lady things were scattered all around, the bulk of them in front of the walk-in closet. A bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze from the open window, where hot air floated in, caressing my face as it passed.
Richard, what happened here? Where are you?
There was a bloody handprint next to the open window. The fingerprints were slender and long, not outlines of the thick, strong fingers of my brother. They had to belong to that bitch, Nomia. I would bet my life on it. Fury raced through my body, making me shudder at the memory of the upheaval she had created in my life. I hated her more now than ever.
Something in the closet shifted. I spun, ready to beat the living daylights out of anything that dared jump out at me. My foot landed with a loud crunch. Something made of glass crackled beneath my foot, but my focus was on the closet.
A sweater tumbled out. And I let out my breath in a long whoosh.
Just a stupid sweater. Relax, Evie.
It must have been knocked loose when the place was ransacked. I tried to shake it off, rotating my head in a circle and stretching my neck. That's when I saw the photo on the floor.
I leaned down and picked up the shattered picture frame, gently shaking off the broken glass. My brother stared up at me. His eyes more wrinkled, his skin more leathery from his years outdoors, doing whatever he does, but still him. My brother.
And her.
What the fuck was she doing all snuggly with my brother in a goddamn photo?
Look. At. That. Bitch.
All of a sudden I felt like a squirrel was trying to gnaw its way out of my gut. I mean, I knew she was involved. But this. This. This photo. The proof of her existence on this continent. With my brother.
I felt the anger boil my face even hotter than it already was in the wretched, blistering heat. I shook my head, trying to create a breeze to cool me down. It didn't work. I was seething.
This is what I knew. Richard and Nomia were not here, but they were a thing. There had been a struggle. Nomia had been involved. And Nomia had been searching for something.
Why else would there be crap strewn all over the place? What was she looking for?
Well, if I knew anything, anything at all, and if my brother was trying to keep something hidden, I knew exactly where he would hide it. There's something to be said for growing up with another person. You know their dirty, little secrets.
I went back down the hall into the bathroom and switched on the light. It was a standard small apartment bathroom in an old building. There was a clawfoot tub against the wall facing the door and a sink on the right, with a toilet sandwiched between the tub and sink. Everything was white. The tile, the shower curtain, the towels. And it was a mess. The bathroom had been equally ransacked. The contents of the medicine cabinet were now in the sink. Shaving gear, prescription bottles, toothpaste, Q-tips. It all swam in the white bowl. The door to the medicine cabinet above hung wide open, revealing emptiness. I wasn't interested in the medicine cabinet.
I stood in front of the toilet and lifted the lid off the tank.
Bingo.
Some things never change. My brother had always kept a stash of porn in a ziplock bag, safe inside the back of the toilet. And sure enough, peering at me from inside the back of the tank I spied, not porn, but something else, something smaller.
I reached into the cool water and drew out the bag. It had been folded many times, concealing the contents within. Shaking off the water, I opened the bag and pulled out what looked like a skeleton key. An ordinary red tassel hung from the ornate hole on the end, but the other end was strange. There was something different about it. It didn't have the typical teeth-like appendages with which to turn lock tumblers. This looked like a computer chip. I held it up to the light as the realization dawned on me. It was a flash drive.
I heard a noise in the living room and quickly shoved the key into my back pocket. I looked around for a weapon, but all I could find was a plunger. It would have to do.
I grabbed the wooden stick and held the ridiculous rubber bulb high in the air. Creeping back into the glass-filled hall, I moved as quietly as I could, listening for any additional sound from the living room. A new layer of sweat coated my already soaked body as fear filled my every cell.
I really was not built for this shit.
The shuffle of footsteps echoed in the mostly empty room as I drew closer. Almost there. There was no way I was going to drop out the window like Nomia had most likely done. She was way more agile than I was. It was fight. Flight was not an option.
I took a deep breath, let out my loudest battle cry, and flew—plunger held high—into the living room and ...
I scared the living shit out of a small, elderly woman in a classy red suit. She screamed back and clutched her heart.
"My dear God!" yelled the red-clad old lady.
"I am so sorry! Here sit down. You are not who I thought you were," I wheezed, exhausted from my battle cry.
"Who on earth did you think I was?"
"Um," I stammered. "Would you like to sit down?"
"No," she said. "I would not. Where is Richard, and what are you doing here? Did you make this mess? Is that blood?"
"Whoa, too many questions. I am Evie McFagan, well Evie Musäus McFagan, actually. Richard is my brother. Pleased to meet you." Here is where I offered my hand, which was received with a curt look of disgust.
I withdrew my hand.
"Do you have any identification, before I call the police, Ms. McFagan? The neighbors had complained about loud noises, and I came to investigate. Richard is an excellent tenant. I find it hard to believe that you are his sister." There was a sniff and an upturned nose following this statement. I kid you not. The old bag turned up her nose at me. It was my childhood all over again.
With my own sigh of disgust, I pulled out my wallet and was about to hand her my license when I suddenly thought better of it. I dashed past her, grabbing my roller luggage on the way, and fled down the stairs.
I did not need to explain any of this shit to the police, and that was where the story was headed. She would need to call the police. Hell, I would call the police if I were her. The place was wrecked. There were bloody prints everywhere. It looked as if theft was involved, possibly murder. And a goddamn mermaid.
I was not about to explain a goddamn mermaid. I booked it down the stairs and out onto the street, regretting that I had given the landlady or super or whoever the hell she was my name.
I had found out as much as I could. Both Richard and Nomia were not in that apartment. Something had happened. Most likely, Nomia had killed my brother.
Oh my God. My brother was dead!
I stopped on the street, and a woman with a stroller slammed into me from behind. "Watch it, lady! What the hell are you doing?"
I didn't even answer. I just stood there, in the heat, with my stupid luggage. I was alone in the world now. Completely alone.
But wait a second.
Where was Richard's body? It's not like she could eat him all by herself. And that would have left an even bigger mess. What was the likelihood of her dragging him out on her own? I knew she had superhuman strength, but Richard is a pretty big guy. The neighbors had complained about the noises. Surely they would have also complained about a crazy woman dragging a six-foot man down the hall or past their windows in the courtyard. Right?
He couldn't be dead. Could he? Or was she dead?
I had come to Boston to warn my brother. I had failed. Something had already gone down, and I knew less than I did when I had arrived.
Now what?
I needed to get the hell out of Boston, that's what. So I headed back the way I had come as quickly as I could.
Once I arrived at the Back Bay station, I grabbed a diet Coke and parked it on a stone bench next to a wino. I felt that I was in good company.
Pulling out my phone, I saw that I still did not have any messages. Damn you, Paddy.
I pulled up my favorites and pushed his fat face in my contact list. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, it went to his voice mail.
You have reached Patrick McFagan. I am unable to get your call right now, but do leave a message. Unless, of course, you are Evelyn. Then don't leave a message and do not come home. Thank you, and have a glorious day.
Cheeky bastard.
Where the hell was I supposed to go now? I sat there with my soda and stared up at the giant ceiling. Pigeons swirled around the glass dome, swooping down to pick up stray bits of bagel dropped by passing travelers.
I could hear the whir of the subway somewhere to my left, down below the escalator that flashed stair after stair.
Think, Evie. What should I do? Think!
Should I just go home? Should I call someone else? Who? I have no friends. Wait. There was one ... but, no. I couldn't call Rachael. She hates me. I scrolled through my contacts and found her name. But I didn't have the courage to hit send. I just sat there, staring at the phone, wondering what to do. Then it rang.
I pushed the accept call button and said, "Hello?"
"Hello. This. Is. Not a. Service call. Your. Home could. Be at. Risk for ..."
I started sobbing into the phone. The wino perked up and stared at me, then handed me a ratty napkin.
"Thank you," I blubbered and kept crying, loudly.
The robot voice kept yammering away in stunted sentences, and all I could do was cry. Then, out of anger, frustration, the need to vent, I started to talk to the robot.
"Yes," I sobbed. "Hi there. I think my brother's dead, and my husband, Paddy, just kicked me out, and they only had diet Coke in the machine, and I think I just caught some disease from this nice man in rags!"
"If you. Act. Now. You can secure. Your home ..."
"But I'm in Boston," I wailed. Then sniffed loudly. The man next to me made a face of disgust. "You know what? I'm a grown woman. I can just take the train back to Providence and go home. Screw Paddy."
"This offer. Will not. Be around for ..."
"Thank you, robot." I hit the end call button and immediately felt calmer. I needed time to process all that had just transpired. Plus, I had bought a round trip ticket. Who am I to waste a round trip ticket?
The wino was staring at me.
"You okay?" he asked.
I smiled at him. Here was a man without a pot to piss in, and he was asking me if I was okay. I almost started crying again because of the sheer kindness of his words.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"Starving."
"Come on. There's a Dunkin' over there calling our names. Let me get you a coffee and a donut."
"I would love an egg sandwich, and I take my coffee black."
"Done. Watch my bag."
Two hours later, I was on my way back to Providence. During my wait for the train, I had passed the time with my new friend, Larry, the homeless guy. The distraction was just what I needed.
As the world south of Boston melted away, I thought about my situation.
How on earth do I always find myself in these predicaments?
I swear, I am Calamity Evie. If something is going to go wrong, it's going to happen to me. It had been happening my whole life. Maybe I cause it, maybe I don't, but it constantly feels like the universe is trying to set my toes on fire.
As things stood, my brother was missing. Nomia, the bitch from the watery depths of hell, was back in my life, and Paddy no longer wanted me in his. I was temporarily barred from seeing my baby girl, and had I just had coffee with a homeless guy named Larry. Wow. I could really fuck up my life in five easy steps.
I needed to find my brother. Once I found him and made him realize how dangerous things were ... what was I thinking? Of course he knew how dangerous things were. He was missing, for Christ's sake. His house had broken glass and blood in it.
"Richard," I said to the milky window of the train. "Where are you?"
After a stinky cab ride back to my house, I found a note from Paddy taped to the liquor cabinet door. The irony of the placement was not lost on me. It read:
Dear Evelyn,
If you are reading this, then you are home after I have asked you not to come home. Fortunately, we have not had any clients lined up, so I took the liberty of closing the funeral parlor for a few days.
God, I could hear the snooty lilt in my head.
Savannah and I are elsewhere. That is all you need know. I suggest you get your things and do the same until I am ready to speak with you about your priorities, i.e., this family.
Signed,
Your Husband
I thought about setting the note on fire, but then thought better of it. Instead, I opened the liquor cabinet and found my friend Bourbon.
Bourbon doesn't judge me, unlike some people I know. I poured myself a tall glass and relished every sip as the nerves in my neck popped one by one, like strings breaking on a violin.
I kicked off my shoes and headed up the stairs, glass in hand. I found myself in my daughter's room.
We had painted it pink the previous summer. Aunt Catherine had a student whose mom did murals. We had hired her to paint flowers and butterflies on one wall of Savannah's room.
Her bed was neatly made, and I could see that her favorite stuffed hippo, Hippy, (children are just so original when it comes to naming their stuffies) and his best friend, Zorky the rat, were missing. So was the quilt Aunt Catherine had made for her when she was born.
That meant they were gone. For real. There was no way Savannah would sleep without those three items.
I inhaled sharply through my nostrils and took a long swig, cherishing the smoky flavor. Then I shook my head.
I'm such a fuck-up.
I walked down the hall to the master bedroom and saw that Paddy had taken his overnight kit from on top of his wardrobe. Further proof that I was all alone.
I flopped down on the bed and nursed my drink. When I emptied the glass, I trudged downstairs and got the bottle.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
The world eventually faded away with the daylight.
I woke up around eight the next morning—surprisingly early for me—and cursed the lack of shades in our bedroom. Everything was too bright. My head, too heavy. My mouth, too fuzzy.
I padded down the stairs and considered my options. I could not stay here alone. I was too self-destructive. I was in desperate need of a friend. No, she was not a great friend. Most likely, she would enable me to drink more, but at the very least, I would be supervised. And that was better than my current situation.
Rachael Bass.
I scrolled through my contacts, found her name, and hit send.
"Evie," Her voice was smooth and confident. As always. "It's been a long time, you saucy hag."
"Hello, Rachael. I ..." I couldn't finish. For the second time in two days, I started sobbing into my phone.
"Evie! Evie? Are you there? What's wrong?" All the sugar and sultriness disappeared from her voice.
"Yes," I sobbed. "I'm here. I think my brother's dead, and Paddy sort of kicked me out, and I have a raging drinking problem, and I ... I ... I don't want to be alone! I need a place to stay!"
"Dear Lord. Where are you? Let me come and get you."
"I'm home," I mumbled.
"Stay there. I'll come and get you."
"Uh, okay. Are you sure it's okay for me to come to your house?"
There was a long pause. Then Rachael said, "It's been a long time, but when it comes to friends, I mate for life. Get your shit together. I'm coming, Evelyn."
She hung up. I took a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. The pain in my head snapped me into action. I gathered up my things, changed my clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. I grabbed an aspirin and a glass of water and headed out the door.
I sat in the driveway on my roller bag and waited for salvation.