Annihilate Me (Vol. 3) (The Annihilate Me Series) (3 page)

CHAPTER
FOUR

Somehow, neither of us was seriously
injured.
 
I cut my arm when I
landed in the street, and bruised my hip so that two days after the incident,
it still hurt to walk.
 

Alex got the worst of it.
 

He had abrasions on his face and on his
hands, and he was diagnosed with a severe concussion, the result of his head
striking the pavement.
 
It wasn’t
life threatening—he’d pull through it—but the hospital was keeping
him sedated so he could rest.
 
They
planned to keep him an extra day to make certain that he was fine before they
released him.
 

What I knew with certainty was that I
could have lost him that night if he’d been struck by one of the cars that had
successfully swerved to miss him.
 
He’d been lucky.
 
I’d been
lucky.
 
It all could have been so
much worse.

But did it have to happen
at all?

That’s the question that consumed me
now.
 
At some point in our lives,
all of us face tough, split-second decisions that, in hindsight, we come to
question whether they were sound decisions.
 
If we had the chance to do it all over again, would we?
 
Or in the heat of the moment, would we
have done something differently, if that even were possible?
 

Given the chance, would we have acted in
another way?

When I was young and my father was abusing
me, would I have done something then to stop him from beating me, especially
knowing what I know now as an adult?
 
Would I have gone to a neighbor, a teacher, or perhaps the school
counselor, and told them that, despite the shame I felt for not being the
daughter my father wanted—if, in fact, he ever wanted me at
all—there was an ugly, unwanted truth happening to me at home?
 
And that perhaps a better home for me
then was with a new family that might come to love me?

Knowing what I know now, of course I would
have.
 
But as a child, blind to the
fact that my father’s rages had less to do with me and more to do with him
being a drunk, I remained quiet.
 
I
took his abuse because, for years, that’s all I knew.
 
Being punched and verbally assaulted was so commonplace that
I got used to it.
 
His abuse was
around every corner, and like a guard dog being called, it always came running
with bared teeth.

Before I had grown up enough to know
better, the frequency at which my father lashed out at me seemed
normal—that’s what I thought life was.
 
I was helpless then.
 
Looking back, I could make excuses for my behavior as a child.
 
But now?
 
After spending two days in the hospital watching over
Alex?
 
I wasn’t at all sure if what
I’d done that night was right.

Over and over again, that night played
like a movie through my head.
 
Had
he betrayed me by not telling me that there was a threat against his life?
 
At the time, I thought he had.
 
I’d just received a threat against my
own life, which had fueled my anger and the decisions that followed when we
literally came under fire.
 
Then, I
acted out of fear for myself, fear for him, and anger with him.
 
Then, the unthinkable progressed to where
we were now.

Would he be lying in this
hospital bed now if I hadn’t intervened?

That’s the question that haunted me.
 
That’s the question I couldn’t
answer.
 
Because if I hadn’t tried
to get him away from that burning car, I don’t know what would have become of
him.
 

Would he have lost his life if he’d
remained near the car a moment longer than he had?
 
It was possible.
 
Or without my intervention, would he just be recovering from a
concussion, as he was now?
 
Who
knows?
 
I didn’t, and I never
would.
 
What was worse was that
there always was the chance that if I hadn’t distracted him that night, he
could have walked away from it all and been fine.
 
Maybe he wouldn’t be in this bed now.
 
Maybe he wouldn’t be ailing, but well.

I looked at him, and my heart went out to
him.
 
He was sleeping soundly.
 
The doctors said he would recover.
 
It was only earlier this morning that
he was awake long enough for us to have a brief talk.

“That’s bullshit,” he said when he learned
he had to stay an extra day.
 
He
was groggy from medication and was slurring his words when he spoke, but his
eyes were relatively clear, which was a good sign that I latched on to.

I didn’t engage him because I had sided
with the hospital and wanted him to leave here healthy.
 
I just reached for his hand and
squeezed it.
 
He’d slept most of
the day yesterday, only exchanging a few words with me, most of which I
couldn’t understand because he was so out of it.

“Are we OK?” he had asked me earlier.

“We’re fine.
 
We’re better than fine.”

“I’ve been worried.”

“There’s no need to worry.”

“I thought it was a prank, Jennifer.
 
I swear to God—”

“I know you did.
 
I overreacted.”

“No, you didn’t.
 
I should have told you.
 
I should have taken it seriously before we went to
Maine.
 
I didn’t.
 
I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“If anyone should be apologizing, it’s
me.
 
If I hadn’t gotten out of the
car, none of this would have happened.”

He closed his eyes.
 
“But we don’t know that, do we?”
 
His voice grew softer and I could feel
his exhaustion.
 
“Either way, that
fucker was going to try something else, whether we kept driving or not.”

When he slipped back into sleep, I thought
about what he had said and decided that I didn’t know if it was true.
 
I’d never know if it was true.
 
What happened that night unraveled so
quickly that I wasn’t sure about anything but the guilt that consumed me now,
regardless of whether it was earned.
 
Guilt had been my companion for years, and here it was again, resting on
my shoulder and goading me just as it had when I was a child, when I felt guilt
for not being the daughter my father wanted.

Now, I watched Alex sleep.
 
I looked at the abrasions on his face
and on his hands, and I started to cry again.
 
I cried for Alex, I cried for the mistakes I might have
made, and I cried for all that happened that night, much of which I might never
know despite the fact that the police and the FBI now were investigating it.

It was at that moment, when I was at my
most vulnerable, that Blackwell entered the room.

CHAPTER
FIVE

For a moment, we just looked at each other
before her gaze swept to Alex, who was lightly snoring.
 
She then turned back to me.
 
She held a vase filled with white
peonies in her hands, which she quietly put down on a table already filled with
flowers from Alex’s many friends.

She then came over to me.
 
And without a word, she leaned down and
cupped my face in her hands.
 
Then
she released me to fish a Kleenex from the tiny handbag slung over her
shoulder.
 
With care, she patted
away the tears from my eyes, smoothed the tissue beneath them where my mascara
likely had run, and smiled ever so slightly at me in a way that was oddly
comforting.
 

She lifted my chin with her index finger,
assessed my face with a critical eye, and then dipped her hand back into her
bag.
 
She removed a Chanel compact
and dusted beneath my eyes before attending to the rest of my face.
 
Silently, she pointed to her lips, then
at mine, and then she nodded down at my own handbag, which was at my feet.
 

She held out a hand for it.
 
I reached down and gave it to her.
 
She found a tube of lipstick, held my
chin firmly with one hand, and then reapplied my lipstick with the other.

“Voilà,” she whispered in my ear when she
was finished.

“Thank you,” I whispered back.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you.
 
You haven’t eaten in two days, which is
unacceptable, even to me.
 
So, come
with me,” she said in my ear.
 
“You
and I are going to eat, we’re going to talk, and we’re going to work out at
least some of this.”

*
 
*
 
*
 

We left Alex’s room and entered the
hallway outside where two guards stood just outside the door, a sight that
chilled me.
 
We were at New
York-Presbyterian on East Sixty-Eighth Street.
 
For ten minutes, I followed Blackwell through busy hallways
and corridors, down elevators and across lobbies, and eventually into the
basement of the F Building, where the Garden Café was located.
 

One of the guards followed us.
 
He was in plain clothes and he was
discreet, but his presence nevertheless reminded me of everything I wanted to
forget.

Just focus on Blackwell.
 
Let him do his job.

The café appeared to have everything.
 
There was a hot carving station, a
salad bar, gourmet salads and sandwiches, sushi, and even a world’s fair-themed
exhibition station.
 
To my
surprise, Blackwell didn’t go to the salad bar.
 
Instead, she went straight to the burger and hot dog
counter.

“What would you like?” the man behind the
counter asked.

She glanced up at the menu and made her
decision as decisively as she made all of her decisions.
 
“Double burger with triple cheese, tomato,
bacon, avocado, ketchup and mayo.
 
Heavy on the mayo.
 
Don’t
skimp—I won’t have it.
 
Just
squirt it on until it overflows.
 
And large fries—as in a very large portion.
 
I’ll pay extra if I have to.
 
And make sure they’re hot—I won’t
tolerate anything that’s been dying a slow death for the past hour in a bin
under one of those dreaded heat lights.
 
I want hot fries cooked in hot grease.
 
And a Diet Coke.”
 
She screwed up her face, seemed to catch herself, and then shook her
head.
 
“Forget the last part.
 
Scratch it from your memory.
 
Give me a Coke, and make it large.
 
Not too much ice.
 
Don’t you dare cheat me on the drink.”

Was she ordering for me?
 
This couldn’t be for her.
 
This was a woman who ate ice for
dinner.
 
“Is this for me?” I asked.

“No, Jennifer.
 
It’s for me.
 
Don’t judge.
 
Today, we
indulge at the Garden Café of all places.
 
Would you like the same?”

I couldn’t conceal my surprise.
 
“This from a woman who demands that I
stick to roughage?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I’ll have all of that minus the avocado.”

“Minus the what?”

“Minus the avocado.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I don’t like avocados.”

“What the hell isn’t there to like about
avocados?”

I shrugged.

“Fine.
 
No avocados.
 
What a waste.
 
Do you want a
shake to take its place?
 
Vanilla?
 
Chocolate?
 
Stop looking at me like that.
 
This is your golden pass.
 
I’m handing it to you.”

“I could use a chocolate shake....”

“I thought so.”
 
She turned to the man.
 
“Same thing for this one, only without the avocado—as wrong as
that sounds—and a chocolate shake instead of a Coke.
 
I tip well, even in places like this
where no one tips.
 
So, make our
meals worth our while, OK?”

He looked at her with an amused
smile.
 
“I can make it worth your
while.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s all about the meat,” he said.
 
“It’s always about the meat.”

“Why does that sound vulgar?”

His smile widened.

“Explain.”

“Here, you can go with lean beef, which is
dry and tasteless—something I wouldn’t give my dog.
 
Or you can go with ground turkey, which
is an abomination to the burger.
 
Or you can do the right thing.”

“What’s the right thing?”

“Really good burgers are filled with
fat—as in thirty percent fat.
 
Do you want that kind of fat, ma’am?”

“It’s ‘Ms.’ to you.
 
And, yes, we both want that kind of
fat.”

“I’ll ladle it on.
 
The hospital will thank me in a few
years.”

Blackwell seemed to appreciate that little
exchange and appraised the man with new eyes.
 
“You’re unusual.
 
Why do you work here?”

“I ask myself that every day.
 
I fell into it.”

“Then fall out of it.
 
You’re crafty.
 
I can sense it.”

“That’s what my mother says.”

“Then she’s intuitive.
 
Do you cook?”

“I’m the cook here.”

“So why are you taking orders?”

“Sheila called in sick.”

“Who the hell names their child
‘Sheila’?
 
Jesus.
 
Have you gone to culinary school?”

“Can’t afford it.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled
out her card.
 
“Contact me.
 
The company I work for has a fund that
offers full tuition for those who need it.
 
If you are in need—and I have no idea if you are
because that’s none of my business—but if you’d like to go to culinary
school, contact me at that number.
 
I’ll judge you on your burgers and especially on the fries, and we’ll go
from there.
 
Fair enough?”

“Lady, are you serious?”

“It’s Ms. Blackwell to you.
 
And I am serious.
 
I’m always serious.
 
People say I’m too serious.
 
They might be right.
 
Whatever.”
 
She nodded at him with a half-smile.
 
“We’ll be seated over there.
 
See that table?
 
The round one?
 
Right there.
 
You’ll serve us?”

“Absolutely.”

“Have a nice day.
 
What’s your name?
 
I don’t see a name tag.”

“Charlie.”

“No respected chef is called ‘Charlie.’”

“That’s my name.”

“That
was
your name.
 
So, Charles, I’ll let
you know about the food.
 
Kick it
into high gear.
 
Give it your best
shot and let’s see what you’ve got.
 
Because this woman—”
 
She tapped her finger against her chest.
 
“This woman doesn’t eat like this except for once a year.”

“I’ll do my best, Ms. Blackwell.”

She put a hundred dollar bill on the
counter and started to walk away.
 
“I have no doubt about it, Charles.”

*
 
*
 
*
 

“That was interesting,” I said as we took
our seats.
 

“What was interesting?”

“If he takes you up on your offer, you
might have just changed his life.”

“So?”

“It was kind of you.”

“I’m not a complete bitch, Jennifer.
 
I just come off as one.”

For the first time in two days, I
laughed.
 
“No you’re not.
 
You’re complicated and wonderful and
scary and smart and talented and sometimes even touching.
 
I’ve never met anyone like you, but I’m
grateful that I have.”

She waved her hand in dismissal.
 
“That’s just because I freshened up
your face and reapplied your lipstick a moment ago.”

“You know better than that, so let’s be
serious.
 
I’m glad that you’re
here, in more ways than you know.
 
I’ve come to lean on you and consider you a friend.”

“No one ever considers me their friend.”

She studied me for a moment in such a way
that I knew she was telling me the truth.
 
Maybe she didn’t have many friends.
 
As long as she’d lived in this city of ice and power,
particularly at her level, real friendships might be a challenge to come
by.
 
And probably were.
 

“Well, I do.”

“So be it.”
 
She looked at me almost as a mother would.
 
“You were crying when I entered the
room.
 
Why?”

“You know why.”

“Alex is going to be fine.”

“It’s not about that.”

She lifted her chin.
 
“So it isn’t.
 
Look, Jennifer, I’m just going to lay it out for you.
 
I’m not going to be easy on you.
 
I’m going to be logical and helpful,
but don’t expect anything more than that.
 
My point here today is to get you focused and moving forward.”

“With what?”

“With everything.
 
And yes, that includes your
relationship with Alex, which I’ve come to embrace.
 
I think you’re right for him.
 
And I protect him more than I protect myself, so please
consider that.
 
As I understand the
situation—and correct me if I’m wrong—you had no idea that Alex’s
life had been threatened until the night of the party.
 
Am I correct?”

“You are.”

“And he knew all of this before you went
with him on your romantic journey to Maine.
 
Am I correct?”

“You are.”

“And things happened between the two of
you in Maine that makes you feel betrayed because he kept silent.
 
You feel that he should have told you
what he knew before things... progressed.
 
Am I right?”

I sighed.
 
What didn’t she know?
 
“You are.”

“Then we need to talk.”

“I need to talk with someone.”

“Haven’t you talked with your friend,
Lisa?”

“Just briefly.
 
We’ll talk more later.
 
But two friends are better than one.”

She almost blushed at that.
 
She cleared her throat and seemed to
collect herself.
 
It was as if the
idea that I considered her a friend was unfathomable to her.