In Sight of Stars(7)

When she’s gone, I push the tray back and click on the television. I’m not a big TV watcher, but I don’t have my other stuff for distraction. No laptops or cell phones allowed. Signs everywhere. They make that very clear.

The midday news is on, no sound. A crew is covering a fire in downtown Manhattan. Even without the scroll at the bottom of the screen, anyone can tell it’s the West Village. Flames lick up from the roof of three-story building; thick gray smoke fills the shot. The camera pans in on a reporter holding a cloth to his nose. He points his mic at a fireman, whose mouth moves soundlessly at me.

I pull the lunch tray over, take the top of the bread off and eat it, nearly gagging at the smell of the egg salad.

Antipsychotics. Jesus.

I get up and walk to the bathroom, trying to avoid my reflection in the wonky plastic mirror over the sink. But it can’t be avoided. I look like hell. I don’t look like me. My hair is a matted mess, flat on one side, poking up crazy on the other. My eyes are dull, ringed by a shadowed gray-purple. And the bandage on my ear seeps a weird yellow-brown ointment.

I’m an asshole. I just destroyed my fucking life, but whatever.

“Maybe, maybe not,” the crow says, so at least he’s throwing me a bone.

I take a piss and wash my hands, leaning against the sink to steady myself. I bend in and gulp water from the tap. It’s lukewarm and metallic, and tastes like the smell of Lysol that fills my nose. When I right myself, I catch the reflection of the man in the hat with the red beard. He’s sitting on the floor of the small doorless shower.

“Don’t look, seriously. Just walk out.” Another bone tossed by the crow.

I move back into the room and stare at the television. The fire is gone and a newscaster at a desk is laughing and waving her arms, like the news is some kind of comedy. I want the fire back. I want any old glimpse of Manhattan.

I peel off another triangle of bread and force it down with the rest of the juice, then lie back, helplessly, letting my lids grow heavy and the cyclone take over my brain.

*

My mother is in the kitchen cooking dinner, my first clue it’s only a dream.

The room smells of garlic and onions and sautéed things. I pull out a chair, sit, and watch her. She’s humming some cheerful tune.

A manila envelope rests on the table in front of me. I unwind the red string and open it, letting the papers slide out. It’s some sort of legal document:

Condominium Unit—Contract of Sale

Consult Your Lawyer before Signing.

I turn the page and read the first paragraph:

Contract (the “Contract”) for the sale of the Place you Live (without your goddamned permission), made as of this ________ [insert date] day of this unbelievably terrible year, between the Ice Queen (your Mother as “Seller”) and Someone You Don’t Know and Don’t Give a Crap About (as “Purchaser”).

I shove the document back in and push the envelope away. A small white rectangle has fallen out. A business card for one Judy Manson, licensed real estate broker. Puffy-faced Judy, with her bleached blond hair and blue eye shadow, smiles smugly from a box in the corner. Salivates for her 5 percent commission.

“One point three million,” Judy says, winking. “Not bad at all.” She winks at me from the goddamned card.

I look up. “Judy Manson just winked at me. She’s salivating, Mom.”

My mother whirls at me, hand to forehead, dramatic. “I’ve told you, Klee, I can’t talk about this anymore. I won’t. You’ll just have to believe me. This is the best thing for us. A fresh start. To get away from all this!” She gestures wildly. “You can stay or you can come with me, but I need to get away from here. I hoped you’d understand.”

Her words sting, reverberate.

She pours a glass of water, dumps two aspirin on the counter, and swallows them down, then walks back to the stove in her high-heeled shoes—click, click, click—and dumps the rest of the water on the pan. Steam sizzles and rises. She fans the smoke away.

“So much for dinner,” I say.

She whirls again. “You don’t understand, Klee. I just need to find some grass and trees, and water. Some peace. You don’t know … I’ve been through hell, too. You have no idea the hell I’ve been through.”

“This is hell,” I say. I pull out the contract and toss it on the table, change my mind and rip it into shreds. I toss the pieces in the air and let them rain down, a flutter of expensive confetti.

“I expected more of you,” she says. “And, anyway, that’s only a copy. The original is already signed.”

I don’t say more, but she makes this hurt sound anyway, probably because she knows I’ll feel sorry for her.

“Don’t I deserve to be happy? There’s a house—small, cozy—right on the river. It’ll be healing for you. I never wanted to raise you in the city…”

“I don’t want to heal!” I stand, knocking my chair over, kicking the bits of paper away.

“Jesus, Klee. There are things you’re not privy to … despite what you think … you don’t know everything.” She takes the envelope, waves it twice, and disappears, like Dorothy clicking her ruby shoes.

I stare at the empty space where she was, then walk to the sink to get a drink of water. But when I turn on the tap, the water runs pink, then red, overflowing, filling the whole kitchen with blood.