How to Disappear(26)

When she gets up to leave, I follow her carefully through a leafy neighborhood of big, old wooden houses to a park with a playground. There she sits, reading a book, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun. There I sit on a rock not more than twenty yards behind her, pretending to stare into space.

And it’s not that I’m too self-disciplined to move in precipitously, it’s that I have no idea what I’m going to do next.





26


Cat


An express to El Molino was the first bus out of San Diego. The ticket lady said, “Whole different state up there.”

I nodded like a girl that no one would remember.

But even if she did remember, since LA—with my (sallow) skin, my (stringy) hair, my (unnecessary) glasses, my (penciled-on) eyebrows, my (rapidly increasing) weight, my (lumpy) padding, my (non) style of clothes—nothing about me is the same.

This time, if Piper Carmichael sat down next to me, she wouldn’t even think I looked familiar.

I probably shouldn’t be outside reading anyway. But the point of looking this different is that I’m supposed to be able to walk around in public without being terrified.

I look up to see the little girl fall because she’s screaming.

Not in terror, in joy, as she leaps from the swing and soars over the playground’s sand floor. Until she lands on a bike and a red wagon. The sound of the child hitting the metal, the bicycle crashing against the wagon, isn’t that loud. But it’s deafening.

I’m up before I even think, running toward her.

When I was supposed to be as noticeable as a bush, or a slat in the bench, or one more nanny.

The little girl is silent, not making another sound.

A guy runs past me from out of nowhere, outruns me, crouches over her.

You can hear him swearing.

I yell, “Don’t move her!”

I’ve seen enough cheerleading pyramid falls to know this. But there’s blood. Her pants are torn above the knee. There’s a red stain seeping across the yellow cotton like spilled Hawaiian Punch.

The guy takes off his button-down and uses a sleeve for a tourniquet around her thigh, pressing down on the leg.

In tones of iced rage, he says, “Where’s the mom?”

“I’m not the mom!”

“Call 9-1-1.”

But there are two women behind him already telling 9-1-1 dispatchers the same identical thing in a duet.

The little girl is pale and still, hair almost white, skin whitening by the second. The guy is cooing to her. “Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? I’m right here. What’s your name?” And then, in a raspier voice, “Stay with me, okay?”

I say, “Don’t talk like that! She isn’t dying, all right? I swear, I’ve seen a bunch of kids fall from way higher than this.”

“Thanks, doctor.” Then he goes back to telling the girl to stay with him, like she’s a police detective breathing her last breath after being felled by a bullet on Law & Order.

I’m stroking her arm.

There’s blood on my hand.

The mother is running toward us from the ladies’ bathroom.

I’m shaking so hard, the paramedic puts a blanket over me after he braces the little girl’s head.

The guy who gave up his shirt, now in the wife beater he had on underneath, hands me a half-full water bottle. I take it without even thinking. That’s how freaked out I am. Not just about the blood.

He gives me a hand up.

I take in the design of the armband tattooed around his right arm.

For the first time, I really look at the guy. Cute and in extremely good shape. Extremely cute. Hazel eyes, shaggy hair, tan. Good smile. Nice taste in tats.

He says, “You ought to sit down.”

I ought to run.

“You just stood me on my feet.”

“On a bench.”

I’m actually gripping this guy’s tattoo. I feel him tensing. His biceps don’t need any work.

“You’ve seen a bunch of little kids fall out of the sky onto wagons?” he says. “Remind me not to have you watch my kid.”

“You have a kid?”

“No!” He looks truly taken aback. “You want an ice cream?”

There’s a food truck at the edge of the park with pictures of snow cones on the side of it.

“That’s okay.”

“I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m trying to give you some sugar so you don’t go into shock.”

“I’m not going into shock. Plus, sugar wouldn’t help. Complete old wives’ tale.”

That smile. “Girls often require massive shots of sugar when they first behold me.”

“Behold? Not grandiose or anything.”

“Grandiose? Thanks a lot!” He doesn’t look offended.

“Honors psychology.” God, now I sound like a high school student. “Who knew that years later I’d have insulting diagnoses at my fingertips? Sorry.”

“How come you won’t let me help you out? You’re still shaking.”

He’s so close to me, propelling me toward the bench, I can feel him shift his weight slightly toward me. Feel his bare forearm against mine. Hear him breathing hard.

He says, “Come on, ice cream. We could still call it celebratory ice cream. We just saved that kid from bleeding to death.”