Repeat(47)

I pop in my earbuds and put on some music while, inch by inch, I reclaim Iris’s shop windows from the vandal’s work. Because fuck them. Whoever they might be and for whatever reason they might be doing this. I’m not running or going into hiding. Sure, flight might have been my first response. No way, however, will I give them the satisfaction. I’m building a life here. One hopefully including Ed. And that’s worth fighting for. Though I should probably start hitting up the relationship section of the shop once we’ve got the glass sorted. Oh God, the drama of having a love life. I’m not sure my heart can take it. Organizing an existence with other people in it, especially a romantic interest, is so much harder than just hanging out with Frances and ordering pizza. Those were the days.

Also, if whoever is doing this is trying to scare me into doing some stupid, then taking off on my own probably definitely falls under that category, now that I stop and think about it. Ed was right. Of course Ed was right. He’s a smart guy. Truth is, the man is worth any amount of emotional mayhem and occasional commotion.

Soon my life is consumed by the shop window, the awful smell of enamel paint, and the fine sounds of my playlist. It’s the main song list that previous me made. I’ve listened to it a few times now and it’s good. Just like her favorite movies, some of her music is from the eighties too. I guess that’s what Mom grew up listening to. Songs like “When Doves Cry” by Prince, “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order, and “Love is a Battlefield” by Pat Benatar top the list. Maybe I’ll never know my mother in the way that I used to. Actually, it’s a definite, given she’s dead. But I can still get a feeling for her through the photos and stories, the movies and songs. We don’t have to be total strangers. Next the music moves onto more recent decades with songs like “The Scientist” by Cold Play, “Dancing on My Own” by Robyn, “Do I Wanna Know” by Arctic Monkeys, “Wasted on Each Other” by James Bay, and “River” by Bishop Briggs. A brief wrap-up of the last twenty or so years. But mostly, whether recent or ancient, it’s all pretty new to me.

I wonder if I used to like dancing or if I’d ever learned to play an instrument. It would be cool to just sit down at a piano and know what to do. Though Frances probably would have mentioned something if I was a secret virtuoso. Every kid usually has a couple of hobbies, however. I’ll have to ask. There had been a photo of me in a middle school play portraying a tree. But what with me not being particularly graceful, I doubt ballet or something cool like that would have been high on my list of after-school activities. Some sports, maybe? Gordy likes the way I throw a ball. Though even with the doggy slobber, he’s still a way better catch than me.

At any rate, slowly but surely the worst of my worry is pushed back as the music and contemplating the past takes over. But it always lingers just a little. Fear of so many things, both the known and unknown, casting a shadow over my world. Maybe I’ll never know what it’s like to live without the anxiety. Maybe there’ll always be things to be unsure of. Then again, maybe that’s just a part of life.

Finally, the work is done. My arms ache, and the skin on my hands is splotched an ugly white and red, but I have erased the stain on Iris’s life that had been put there because of me.

I make my way inside. It’s time to attend to the real business of the morning. “I want to see the video, please.”

Iris’s lips tighten, but I can tell she’s been expecting this request. “I told you everything that was in it. You can’t see anything more.”

“I know. But I have to see it anyway.” My voice stays quiet and calm, not giving her any reason to deny me. “Is it here, or did the police take it?”

“It’s still here.” She sighs. “The police just copied it onto a flash drive.”

Soon enough, I’m sitting in the back room, fast-forwarding through grainy black-and-white footage to get to 1:46 a.m. And then there it is: a figure walking past the entrance. All you can really see is the hoodie, with the hood up covering everything, and what looks like jeans or sneakers. For all my squinting into the screen, it’s hard to make out much else. The figure looks kind of slim and tall, but with the weird camera angle, looking downwards at them, it’s hard to tell with any certainty. So that’s just great. I’ve narrowed down my list of suspects to everyone in the world with two arms and two legs. Good thing it was my sister who went into the police force and not me.

The figure has the can of paint already out, held by the handle. It’s heavy, obviously. A big 20-liter one—but I knew that even without seeing the video, courtesy of having to bust my ass cleaning it all up.

Our friendly neighborhood vandal does a pretty good job of splashing the paint onto the window. Maybe this isn’t their first rodeo. Then it goes up to the front door and tries to kick it in twice. No luck there. One hand disappears inside the big jacket, as if reaching for something, but then the head jerks hard left, as if the figure heard something. And then it’s gone, picking up the empty paint can and slipping away into the night.

Iris told me I wouldn’t be able to see anything more, and she was right. I rewind the tape and slo-mo through the moment where the figure hears the sound, and the hoodie twists as the head turns. I try and convince myself there’s something visible there, perhaps a flash of chin or nose. But it’s really just a couple of pale pixels in a sea of fuzzy gray.