Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (29 page)

T
hey say I’ve been here two days.

I ask if I’ve been asleep that long and they don’t answer. They shift their eyes away from mine and say, “Your parents were here. They went home to shower and change clothes, but they’ll be back.” I want to ask them, Where
is
here? but I’m so tired. I’m tired like old bones. Like blowing sand.

I think I’ve been asleep, but it’s not like any sleep I’ve known before. I remember things, like from a dream. And sounds. Especially sounds. A girl. I want to ask them, Who was that girl screaming? Tell them, because they really should know that some girl was screaming. Awful, sad screaming and sobs. I think I cried, too, when I heard it, because sadness like that is just contagious, you know? It makes me sad to hear her, and while I’m sorry for her, I want to tell them to take her away because I can’t handle those cries right now.

I try to lift my hand, and it’s so heavy. A little plastic tube, like a whisper, traces across the top of my hand and brushes
my arm. It’s stuck by papery white tape. It trails up and over and behind me, and I force my eyes to follow where it leads until I see a plastic bag full of liquid, swaying from this tall metal holder. Something trails across my face: from my nose and over my cheek. I want to brush it away, but I’m too tired to move my hand. Too tired to talk. To tell them about that girl.

There’s this cloudiness over everything right now, and I close my eyes. Is this sleeping? If I’m sleeping, I wouldn’t be able to wonder if I’m sleeping, right? So what is this? It’s floating. And cool. Where the tape touches my hand I feel something cool, and it spreads throughout my body. Except for my chest, which feels sore. Bruised.

I remember a car, driving fast, and one hot thought stabs through the cloudiness, that I was maybe in an accident? I want to force my eyes open, lift my head just a little and look at my body. Check for bandages. Casts. Missing parts. But it’s swirling from cloudy to dim now, and yes, this is sleep coming. Later. I’ll figure this all out later.

Dim goes to dark, but just before I disappear into it I realize where I’ve heard those screams before. Those familiar, awful screams.

I own them. They own me. They’re the background noise that’s been playing at low volume inside my head for so long now I couldn’t even tell you when it began. Once upon a time. Way back when I was someone named Eva Smith, who had a doll named Samantha and loved to dance. Soft at first, then
louder, more insistent, a steady background screaming in my head.

All out now. Floating in the dim, darkening air above some bed I’m in. My wailing sobs. My screams. And it’s okay. Because my head is finally, blessedly empty. Still.

Chapter Thirty-One

S
omewhere outside Dillon, South Carolina, David begins to disintegrate. We’ve been driving close to ten hours. He’s looking for a McDonald’s.

This from a guy who never lets trans fats or caffeine pass his lips. He’s a walking, talking sports-nutrition textbook who gives me grief because I always, absolutely, have to eat salty chips with my sandwiches. And now he’s craving a pseudo-chocolate shake and a coffee?

“You’re hitting the wall, aren’t you?” I say quietly.

“Actually, I hit the wall in Savannah. Right now I’m climbing the wall.” He says this without a trace of humor.

“I can drive, you know,” I say. He sighs. It’s the fourth time I’ve offered.

“No, you can’t,” he says. “You only have a permit. It’s not your car. How many times do we have to go over this?” I don’t answer. We don’t speak as he turns off the exit ramp and follows the signs with the golden arches.

“Thank you for doing this for me,” I say quietly. Also, not
the first time I’ve said this. He reaches over with his right hand and gently massages the back of my neck.

The pimply-faced teenager who works the cash register at McDonald’s looks really put out that we’ve come in ten minutes before closing, but he manages to sell us two coffees and a tall chocolate shake. David and I find a booth at a far corner of the restaurant. We’re the only customers.

He starts with the coffee. He makes a terrible face.

“This is shit,” he says, and pushes it away. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him swear before. I take a sip of mine. He’s right.

“Maybe there’s caffeine in the shake,” I suggest. He takes a long draw from the straw.

“That might be the only naturally occurring substance in it,” he comments. He stares out the window, into the darkness.

“I’m going to need a break at some point. I can’t do twenty hours straight through,” he says to the glass.

“Okay,” I say. I wonder what he means by “break.”

“Let’s see how far we get,” he explains. “Maybe I can last a couple more hours.” We don’t speak, both of us lost in our thoughts, as he sucks down the shake. The pimply kid is turning out the lights when we leave.

We make it as far as Smithfield. David simply exits; he doesn’t explain why.

“Is this, like, the ham place?” I wonder aloud.

“That’s Smithfield, Virginia,” he says.

“Really?” I say. “How do you know that?”

“My mind is a dumping ground for useless information,” he says. “Result of too much homeschooling.” I laugh.

“This Smithfield is, however, the birthplace of the actress Ava Gardner,” he continues.

“Wow. I don’t know who she is. But now I’m really impressed.”

“Don’t be. I read it off that sign we just passed.”

He pulls into the first motel we see. A Quality Inn. He parks the Cayenne in an empty spot near the entrance.

“Wait here,” he says.

I watch him walk stiffly toward the double glass doors. I glance at my watch. One o’clock. We’ve been on the road more than twelve hours. I crack the window. Instantly the humid North Carolina air seeps in, mixing damply with the car’s air-conditioning. I sneeze. I pop the glove compartment in search of Kleenex travel packs and dig through the papers stuffed inside. I pull out the stack and my glance falls on the top, yellow sheet. It’s the car registration.

In the dim light I read that the Cayenne belongs to Paul Ross, Denver, Colorado. David’s father.

I hear a riotous symphony of crickets. Distant highway traffic. Eva’s voice in my head: “And why would a major, high-end car manufacturer do something so ridiculous?”

You are so clueless, Henry
.

The sound of the trunk opening startles me.

“We’re all set,” David says shortly, shouldering his black bag and my backpack. I shove the papers back and snap the glove compartment closed.

I follow him through the glass doors, through the lobby, to an elevator. One lone woman sits at the reception desk. She
doesn’t look much older than us. She doesn’t look up as we pass.

The room has a nonsmoking sign on the outside. David inserts the plastic key card, the electronic light blinks green, he pushes the door open. Cool air greets us, a sharp contrast to the close, warm air in the corridor. I go in first, flip the light switch.

One double bed.

David walks past me into the room, tosses both bags on the floor in front of the dresser and enters the bathroom. He closes the door behind him. I hear him pee into the toilet. He flushes. I hear the taps open, hear water splash into the sink. Rattle of paper as he unwraps the soap. When he comes out, I’m working the zipper on my pack, searching for my toiletries kit. My toothbrush. The big T-shirt I usually sleep in. With the tomatoes. My hands shake.

“Next,” David says.

I look green in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. My hair hangs limp in my face. I feel greasy. I pick up the wet soap, lather my hands, massage it into my forehead, the creases along the sides of my nose. I rinse, and rinse again. I rub my face dry. I peel off my shirt. My bra. I step out of my shorts. I pull the tomatoes over my head. The tee falls just to the tops of my thighs.

When I come out, the room is dark. Before I hit the bathroom lights, I see the outline of his body in the bed, beneath the covers. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, then I make my way slowly to the bed, hands outstretched. I pull the
blankets back, slip between the cool sheets. I lie absolutely motionless, listening for the sound of his breathing. Just as the thought crosses my mind that he’s already asleep, he speaks.

“I set the alarm for six,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” I say back. He doesn’t move.

“Good night,” I say softly. Too softly for him to hear, I think. But he hears me. The bed moves. The sheets whisper as he slides to the middle. I turn to him and his arms are around me. My hands are on his bare back and for one panicked moment I think he’s naked. Then I feel the soft cotton of his shorts against my leg.

I try to say his name, but his mouth covers mine. Our knees knock. He pulls me close, presses his hips into mine. My heart bangs against my ribs. He must feel it. He must feel this wild drumming. I cling to him, my mind in a whirl, and both of us, dog-tired, far from home, not thinking straight, sink into the darkness of a motel room in Smithfield, North Carolina.

At some point, sleep comes.

Chapter Thirty-Two

S
he sits in the chair alongside my bed. She fills the chair. She reads from something in her lap, her legs crossed, one ankle resting atop one knee. Her skin is coppery, her hair lightened by the sun. I watch her for a while. Wait to see if this is another one of the dreams.

She flips a page.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

She startles, looks up. Her sapphire eyes are wide. She leans forward, eagerly.

“Hey back,” she replies softly. She reaches between the metal bars running along the side of the bed and places one hand over mine. I feel its weight, its warmth.

“You’re real,” I tell her. She laughs. Her teeth look so white.

“Of course I’m real,” she says. I sigh. Close my eyes briefly.

“Lately it’s been hard to tell. What’s real,” I explain. She nods her head solemnly, as if she understands.

“You look good,” I tell her. You look huge, I don’t say. You look like a taller, wider version of my friend Henry.

“How’re you feeling?” she says.

“Dopey. They’re giving me drugs. I feel thick all over.”

“Ugh. Bet that sucks,” she says sympathetically. I try to raise my hands. They move an inch, then stop.

“They’ve tied me, Henry,” I tell her. I tug, to no avail. My wrists are secured to the bars on either side of the bed. She looks at me sadly.

“I know,” she whispers. Her eyes fill.

“I hate it,” I tell her. She doesn’t reply. Her eyes spill over, tears running in two straight lines down her cheeks.

“Eva, I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything.” She smiles through her tears.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t know how sick you’d gotten.”

I turn my head away from her. When I do, I feel it. Brushing against my cheek. A thin plastic tube protrudes from my left nostril, runs the length of my face, over my shoulder, then snakes up and out of the bed until it disappears into this machine. The pump, they call it.

You’re disgusting. You look so disgusting, with this thing hanging out of your nose
.

A thought occurs to me. I turn my face to her again.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m here to see you,” she says.

“You’re supposed to be in Florida,” I say. A summer camp. Henry is supposed to be away for the whole long summer.

“Is camp over?” I ask, panic rising in me. How long have I been here?

How long has this damn machine been pumping fat into me?

“There’s two weeks left,” Henry says. “I took a break to come see you.”

“Oh. Okay,” I reply. Deep breath. My chest rises, falls. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought for a second that the summer was over. Time has gotten really weird for me.”

“Do you know how long you’ve been here?” she asks. I pause. It feels like a trick question.

“How long?” I ask.

“Three days.” I don’t reply. I’m trying to remember what three days feels like. Right now, it feels like a few minutes. And an eternity. That’s how long I’ve been tied to this bed.