Damage - A. M. Jenkins [50]
And you can feel Heather staring at you.
“So,” you say carefully, giving her silence a light prod. “I guess you think I’m a little weird, huh?”
She doesn’t answer. You sneak a glance at her; she looks a little shocked. And this time you know the exact missed moment, right as it happens. It happens when says: “Don’t touch me.”
Sure enough, she’s right—your hand was reaching toward hers. You didn’t even know it. You pull it back the seat by your side.
“And don’t look at me like you expect something. Don’t act like you’re surprised at me. You are the one who is not normal.”
She looks away from you and starts collecting her stuff to leave.
“I can’t believe this,” you hear her muttering as bends over to feel for her purse and books. “It’s like, attract suicidal people?” She gets her hands on her books, which have spread out on the floorboard, and starts piling them back into one stack. “Or did you start out regular and something about me makes you want to blow your brains out?” She sits up, not looking at you as she pulls her books into her lap, hauls her purse up by the tangled strap. “I am not going to wallow around in your mental problems.” Her eyes are straight ahead, but her hand trembles when she pulls her purse strap up onto her shoulder.
She opens the door and slides out—but instead shutting the door, she stops. She bends to look right into your face. She’s got one last grenade to lob.
“Let me make this clean and clear. Don’t even think you’re going to walk me to the door. And don’t try to call me later. Don’t try to call me ever. You are sick, and this is over. O-V-E-R.”
She flings the words at you, looking at you from wide, frightened doll’s eyes. Then, slam!—she’s scurrying the sidewalk.
You watch her through the window. At first she hurries as if something’s chasing her, but by the time she gets to the porch steps her back is straight, her shoulders squared. In that instant you want to run after her, you want to crawl after a girl who just made a major point not wanting you.
You keep both hands at your sides. Your head turns, your eyes follow her up onto the porch—but otherwise you don’t move. You do not open your mouth. You just sit there and watch her leave.
She disappears inside; the front door shuts.
It’s o-v-e-r.
You look at the window that is Heather’s bedroom The blinds are closed, but in a moment you see them give a little shudder—you can almost see her, stalking into her room, slamming the door so hard it shakes the blinds. can almost see her at this moment, checking hers in the mirror. Calming herself down by taking out brush, maybe fluffing her hair. Thinking she doesn’t look so bad, for someone who just got so freaked out. Telling herself there’s nothing in that mirror that looks wounded or damaged.
Heather Mackenzie is completely capable of keeping everything shining and perfect around her. And she doesn’t need you.
You start the engine. Put the truck in gear and drive away from her house.
The next thing you know, you’re passing through the middle of town. Already? You don’t remember getting here; time must have stopped keeping pace somehow. It’ like driving through a doll’s town, with little wooden people walking on the streets—this town seems to have been deserted of real people years ago. All the cars moving like robots, the changing of lights from red to green to yellow—it all seems hollow, like a not very good copy of real life.
It isn’t until you’re forced to stop for a red light 171 that you finally see another real live human being. An old guy, wrinkled and windblown in a thin jacket. He’s on the median, selling Tyler roses.
You’ve got some money in your pocket. You could buy flowers, drive back. Surprise Heather with some roses.
You could act like there’s nothing wrong with you at all. Act like there’s nothing wrong with her, either. See if you can get back on the same road the two of you were on before this weekend.
The old guy’s got a thin bundle in his hand; in the unreal glow of the dying daylight you see red roses wrapped in clear cellophane.