Lily and the Octopus(46)

“I can’t imagine losing Weezie.”

“Don’t think about that now.” I’ll be there for him when he does.

“You called wanting to know if I think you’re crazy?”

“Yeah.” That, and to escape debilitating loneliness.

“I think you need to do something big. I think you need to grab life and shake things up. Turn the whole world on its head. Stop playing the octopus’s game.” It’s the Ferris Bueller in him talking. Over the years Ferris has become somewhat muted; I like when he bubbles to the surface. “You want to know what I think? I think maybe you’re not crazy enough.”

When we hang up I stare at the phone for a while, in that strange way you do when you stop taking technology for granted and suddenly you can’t imagine how there was just a voice in there, talking to you, even if that voice couldn’t fully understand you and what’s happening in your world. I feel perhaps even more alone than before I called. Although I’m not alone. Not anymore. I can see the anger gestating inside me, growing exponentially, as surely as if I were holding a sonogram printout. It’s about to erupt in unimaginable ways.

I lift Lily gently from her sleep and grab a blanket from the linen cabinet and we head outside. I lay the blanket out for us on the grass as best I can with one hand. There is no meteor shower to see tonight, so I turn on the strings of antique lightbulbs that hang decoratively over the yard, the ones I usually only turn on for barbecues and parties, the ones that make my backyard look like a festive catalogue page where plastic people live carefree lives. We lie on the blanket and look up at them.

“What are we doing?” Lily yawns and nuzzles into me again. The night air is warm and still.

“We’re creating a memory.”

“Why?”

I don’t tell her why. The answer is I need it. I need this memory to hold on to if my plan fails and she is no longer there.

“Because sometimes it’s nice to have memories. Don’t you have any favorite memories?”

Lily thinks about this. “All of my memories are my favorite memories.”

I’m amazed by this. “Even the bad ones?”

“Dogs don’t remember bad memories.” Envious, I scratch her on the velvet part of her chest. What an incredible way to live.

“We did this once when you were a puppy. We got out of bed and brought our blanket outside and we lay on the grass looking at stars.”

“Are those stars?” Lily looks up at the shimmering lightbulbs, and even though she can’t see, I wonder if she can make out just enough light to imagine them.

“Yes,” I lie. “Those are stars. Their light has traveled for billions of years. Aren’t they magnificent?”

Lily agrees, because she is small and she’s a dog and to her even little things, even things she can’t see, seem magnificent.

“We can go back inside in a bit.”

Lily thinks about this. “No, this is nice.”

“I’m glad you like the stars; we’re going to be spending a lot more time underneath them.” I pause before telling her my plan, or at least that the time for my plan has come. Trent has confirmed it for me. “We’re leaving here soon, and I don’t know if we’re coming back.”

“We’re leaving here soon? Where are we going?”

I squeeze her tight in the way I do when I’m asking her to trust me, to follow me as we leave the only home she probably ever remembers.

Maybe you’re not crazy enough.

“We’re going on an awfully big adventure.”

Death. Death is the awfully big adventure. But not this time. Not this adventure. The greatest adventure, our adventure, is the fight to live.

I place my hand over the clear plastic bandage that covers my tattoo. I was only supposed to wear it for a few hours, but I figured a few hours more wouldn’t hurt. I peek underneath and see the tips of eight arms dangling to breathe.

I am done waiting. I am done being walked all over by a spineless intruder. I’m tired of fighting the fight on his terms. Trent was right. I haven’t been crazy enough.

Haven’t. Been.

That all stops now. I can feel the change surging inside me—in my nerves, in my organs, in my veins.

My transformation is almost complete.





8.


I’m able to navigate the streets of Chinatown with relative ease, relying on memory, even though I haven’t been here since they closed the Empress Pavilion, a place I used to frequent for dim sum and celebrity sightings. I cruise the streets, trying to distinguish the fish markets from the groceries. I creep along slowly in the outside lane, but no one honks. There are a number of mom-and-pop stores along both Broadway and North Spring, but since the awnings are in Chinese (except for one, which may be a bodega), it’s hard to tell which is what, so I nab a metered spot on Spring to continue my investigative errand on foot.

The Chinatown in Los Angeles is not nearly as chaotic (nor as Chinese) as the Chinatowns in New York and San Francisco. On a weekday afternoon it’s easy to stroll in and out of stores, taking in their exotic contents. The fish market I come to first has nothing more exotic than Maine lobster and Dungeness crab. I think of asking if they have hidden inventory in back, but I’m afraid that they might sell some sort of illegal catch, like endangered sea urchin or poisonous puffer fish, and I don’t want anything like that. I’m not that crazy.