The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [27]
Albeit inadvertently, I had already done the hard part. Ashley was dead. Why should I die, too? It seemed gratuitous. Besides, I knew myself. I don’t always think things through before I do them. Especially when I write letters. That letter could have been composed at a time when I was at an extreme, when I concluded the best course of action was suicide. I could see myself deciding that some past version would have to be the one with the balls to actually off myself.
I had to be rational and reasonable. Ashley could no longer be the mother of opposition. I had to face it; she was the wildcard. She was hot and would have no trouble procreating. I, on the other hand, never had any trouble keeping the ladies at bay. It was probably just some alteration of the past that future me had done that made her attracted to me in the first place.
And what if future me was just reacting to a broken heart? That sort of thing made people do crazy shit. What if I went to all the trouble of going into the past to get Ashley to like me, then, in twenty years, she dumps me for some reason. Could that push me over the edge?
I suddenly found myself wishing I knew more about gender relations. What are the roots of manhood? Why are women still treated poorly? How should men and women behave? What differences should be preserved? If I continued on my destined path, I’d eventually learn the answers to these questions, and I’d be able to change things. The confidence that provided carried a lot of weight.
I could avoid anything that might get in the way of my purpose. Again, I wouldn’t have children. And I already knew about the book that would get my mental gears turning. I could probably pick it up at the library.
Killing myself no longer seemed the wise option. Maybe that version of me knew what he was talking about, but I had to choose my own path. One guided by the future, not dictated by it. I just needed to hide out until all the details came together in my head.
In the elevator, I pressed the three-button. It started to descend. When the elevator stopped, I got off, walked to 312 and knocked on the door.
No response.
I knocked again. And again and again. I started to pound out a continuous beat, knowing my persistence would pay off.
And, eventually, it did.
A frail, weathered-looking woman answered the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Manny, Mom. It’s Manny. Let me in.”
She squinted at me. “Manny? Manny who?”
“Your son. Open up.” I put a hand on the door and eased it open.
“My son? Okay.” She looked confused, but let me into the apartment. Leaving the door ajar, she walked back to the living room and sat down in her recliner. She picked up a glass and took a drink of something. Her television blared loudly. I closed the door.
So far as I could tell, my mother never left the living room. All this space was wasted, really, but her monthly fixed income was more than enough to pay for both her apartment and mine. It sounds bad, an incapacitated woman unknowingly paying her adult son’s rent. But she wasn’t a very good mother. And she didn’t do anything to earn the money; it came from her ex-husband’s pension. Though I had never wanted to, I had to stay near her. There was no one else. She and I may have had problems, but I still felt an obligation to her. And if I was tethered by that sense of responsibility, she could pay my fucking rent, thank you very much.
I wandered down the hall, headed for the empty room farthest from the blaring television. The noise was too much. The old women spent all of her time with the TV on, just sitting and staring at it. Watching her waste what was left of her brain was something I no longer cared to witness.
All I wanted to do was sleep. I made it to the room and heard murmuring from the other side of the door.
I turned the doorknob with great care, gaining access to the room silently. I peeked my head in to see