Mosquitoland(8)

Kathy,

In response to your last letter, the answer is no.

Additionally, please don’t pretend that I won’t beat this. How are things at Mary’s new school? Tell her father I asked.

—Eve

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??

Kathy,

I don’t have a television in my room, which doesn’t seem right. Would you mind checking on that for me? No one around here listens. And yes, I understand that it will get harder before it gets better. I’m the one who’s sick.

—Eve

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??

Kathy,

These damn people won’t listen. Did you call about the TV?

—E

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??

Kathy,

Feeling better. Please talk to Barry about an exit strategy.

—E

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??

Kathy,

Seriously. I’m going to die in here.

Please help.

—E

The sixth and final letter is a haphazard scrawl, without salutation or signature. I read it at least a dozen times.

THINK OF WHATS BEST FOR HER. PLEASE RECONSIDER.

Every ounce of Mim-blood rushes to my head, wraps its tiny little platelets around my brain, and squeezes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I can’t.

Mom has cancer. Of the breast, lung, liver, it doesn’t matter. Or typhoid, maybe. Do people still get that? I’m not sure. She could easily have contracted some deadly bird flu. I mean, they’re effing birds. They can get to anybody. But no, that’s silly. Or maybe not silly, but newsworthy. I’d know about it at least. No, cancer is the most likely suspect. People get cancer all the time. But why ask Kathy, of all people, for help?

My right hand, almost without my knowledge, squeezes into a fist, crumpling the first five letters into a tight snowball. I stand and raise the plastic lid. The love letter has sunk to the bottom, a metaphor worth its weight in gold. I toss the epistolary snowball in after it and push the handle to flush. Turning to the mirror, I wipe away the grime and stare at my reflection. It’s anemic. Like a stick figure.

Fucking Kathy.

Before Mom’s line had been disconnected, I used to call once a day. Kathy said maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. She said I should give my mother some space, like we were talking about a cute boy or something.

In my hand, the last letter feels like a bullet, and suddenly, a new idea occurs to me. What if these aren’t the only letters Kathy’s been hiding? Mom left three months ago; for the first two months plus, I received a letter a week. Then, three weeks ago, the letters stopped. But what if they didn’t? Kathy had made it abundantly clear she didn’t want me calling Mom, so why would she be okay with letters? Was there another hidden coffee can somewhere with three weeks’ worth of correspondence from Mom?

I open my fist, reread the bullet.

Think of whats best for her. Please reconsider.

Mom is talking about me. And what’s best for me is to be with her. But Kathy doesn’t want me to call Mom. And she doesn’t want me to write Mom. Of course she wouldn’t want me to see Mom.

A new hate is stirring low, a chasmic, fiery loathing. I stuff the sixth letter in my pocket, pull out my war paint. Normally, this is a sacred process, requiring no small amount of finesse. But right now, my finesse level is hovering somewhere around “Velociraptor.” I am finesse-less. I have no finesse.

Just before the lipstick meets the sallow skin of my cheek, the toilet behind me gives a low belch. Somewhere below my feet, there’s a rumbling gurgle, and for the first time, I see the sign under the mirror.

USE TRASH CAN FOR PAPER TOWELS AND FEMININE PRODUCTS

DO NOT FLUSH

Suck a duck.

The sound of rushing fluids comes from somewhere behind the toilet, and I know what’s next.

First things first: my shoes. I tuck away the lipstick, and hop up onto the sink just as rusty-looking fluids begin to trickle over the plastic rim of the toilet. From my improbable nest, I watch in horror as the fluids spread across the floor. Having never given two thoughts to the inner workings of a bus’s sewage system, I’m left to imagine some giant stomach-like tank in the bowels of the vehicle boiling to its fill, an impending eruption triggered by the crumpled letters. One thing’s for sure: it’s starting to stink like, whoa. I scan the tiny cabin for something to fix this, anything to put a stopper on the seeping toilet: an emergency anti-flood lever, or a hydraulic vacuum, or some sort of ejection button to catapult me from the bus. But there are no levers, vacuums, or ejection buttons.

There is only retreat.

From the safety of my sink-seat, I reach across the room and slide the lock to UNOCCUPIED. By swinging my legs side to side, I’m able to gain enough momentum to get a decent hop off the sink, through the doorway, and into the aisle. It’s not a pretty landing, but my shoes remain unsoiled, and that’s something. I throw on my best who, me? smile, close the door, and make my way back to my row.

“Everything come out all right, dearie?” asks Arlene.

I smile like, who, me?, slide across her legs, and drop into my seat. Less than thirty seconds later, a loud commotion emerges from the back of the bus. Peering over my seat back, I see people wrinkling noses and waving hands in front of faces. A few are laughing, but it’s shock-and-awe laughter, not ha-ha how funny laughter.