The Good Luck of Right Now(35)

“Because I’m supposed to help people live healthy lives, and yet I let a man physically and psychologically abuse me because he has money, power, and influence.”

“You were just trying to find your flock maybe,” I said, remembering how much she liked talking about that. “Maybe you just fell in with a bad bird.”

“A bad bird,” she repeated, and then laughed. “Why did I do that—even accidentally—Bartholomew? Think about it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s handsome and rich and persuasive? Maybe you were pretending, hiding things from yourself?”

She laughed in this very tiny way through the darkness—which made me feel uneasy.

“I’d have to drop out of school if I left Adam. That’s the hard simple truth. And if I dropped out of school, my future would dim dramatically. It’s statistically proven.”

“Why would you have to drop out of school?”

“He pays my tuition. And provides food and a home and . . . everything I need.”

“Maybe someone else will provide?” I said.

“I don’t think so.”

“You could get a job.”

She laughed again in a way that made me feel I was simultaneously right and wrong.

“We don’t want you to be abused by him,” I said.

“You don’t want anyone to be abused, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And yet people will go on being abused forever and ever. Abuse has always existed since the beginning of time—and it always will exist, whether you care or not. You stay locked up in your mother’s house and the library, so you won’t have to care about everyone or anyone. You don’t even play the game. It must be so easy for you.”

Wendy’s voice was cold now.

“I try to help everyone I know,” I said. “I can’t know everyone. You’re right. I have limitations. But I know you. And I want to help you. I really do.”

There was a long silence.

“Why?” Wendy said.

“Why what?”

“Why do you care about me? Why do you want to help me? Seriously. I want to know. Is it some religious thing?”

“Because you’re a really nice person. You tried to—”

“I’m not a nice person.”

“Sure you are.”

Wendy laughed, and it felt like being hit in the face with an ice ball. “I lied to you about not doing well in school just to get you to see Arnie. I actually have a four-point-oh average. I’m top of my class. It was my plan to transition you to Arnie so I wouldn’t have to work with you anymore.”

Ha! I told you! Moron of the century! the little angry man yelled, and I began to feel sick.

“You lied to me. Why?” I said to Wendy.

“Because I’m not a very nice person.”

The tiny man in my stomach pulled a fold of my innards into his mouth and began to gnaw with his sharp teeth as he dug his clawlike toenails into my intestines.

“Why don’t you want to work with me? Why? I have to know the answer. I want to hear it straight from you.”

Wendy didn’t say anything in response, but the little man in my stomach paused his chewing to say, Because you are an idiot. The lowest of the low. A man only loved by his mother, who is dead. A retard! A collection of atoms that should be recycled into the universe. A fat pile of shit!

I felt her lean in toward me, was warmed by her breath for a fraction of a second, and then her lips were on my left cheek and her hand was on my right.

“You’re a better person than me,” she whispered into my ear. “And I hate you for it.”

She left my room, and I felt the warmth of her hand and lips on my face—her words burned in my ears for hours as I lay on my back and looked up into the darkness.

For some reason, it reminded me of the time when Tara Wilson tricked me and then rescued me from the high school basement, but never talked to me again after that morning. She pretended to be an evil and uninterested stranger whenever we passed in the hallway. Somehow I knew the same thing was going to happen with Wendy. History was repeating itself. There were indeed patterns to the universe.

When the sun came up, I went downstairs, and Wendy was gone.

She had left a note:

I’m going to work things out with Adam. Please

don’t get involved. I hereby resign as Bartholomew’s

grief counselor. Arnie will treat him for free if

Bartholomew wishes to continue with his therapy,

because Arnie has funding and Bartholomew is the

right sort of test subject. I don’t want to see either of

you ever again. Please respect my wishes.

Wendy

Father McNamee read the note and stormed out of the house, not bothering to button up his coat. I followed him; it was hard to keep up, because he was moving so quickly.

I kept wondering what Wendy had meant by “test subject” and why I was the right sort. I didn’t like the way that sounded, but I knew it wasn’t a good time to ask Father McNamee, because his face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, like he does whenever he is extremely agitated.

We stopped at Wendy’s mother’s house, but Wendy hadn’t been there. Father McNamee explained the situation—that we were trying to help Wendy, but she left us in the middle of the night—and Edna began to cry.