Naked (6 page)

“Russian,” Mrs. Moss repeated. “You and Olga were just speaking Russian.”

Gaia looked up at Olga in surprise. Olga flashed a warm smile.
Whoa,
Gaia thought. She really
was
out of it. They were speaking Russian, and she hadn't even noticed.

“Do you speak any other languages?” Paul asked.

“A few,” Gaia said casually.

Then Mrs. Moss said something to Gaia in Dutch. Gaia shrugged and smiled as if Mrs. Moss had stumped her. Of course she knew exactly what was said; she was just too embarrassed to respond to it.

We're so happy to have you here.

“We're so happy to have you here!” Paul stated triumphantly.

Gaia lowered her eyes. Her face felt hot. She was blushing. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so bewildered and happy at the same time, as if she were five years old. But she didn't want to fight the emotion.
She wanted to drink it in, thirstily, like wine.


“Chill, bro,” Brendan joked. “Save it for the bonus round.” He glanced at Gaia. “You'll have to excuse my brother, Gaia. He doesn't get out much.”

“Real funny,” Paul replied with a smile.

An awkward beat passed.

Gaia looked up and saw that Mr. and Mrs. Moss weren't smiling at all. Maybe there was a little too
much truth to that statement. Mrs. Moss had said that Paul was living at home instead of at his Columbia dorm and that she could hear him crying at night behind his closed door. And when Gaia turned to Paul again, there was still a smile on his face—but there was undoubtedly something else behind it.
A sadness in his eyes.
Somebody would have to look closely to see it, but Gaia had done just that. And seeing that unbearable emptiness just beyond his functional surface was very much like having a mirror on the other side of the dining table.

“Well, I'm going out
tonight,
” Paul muttered after a moment.

“Oh, yeah, that's right,” Brendan said. “Gaia, there's a Fearless show at CBGB's tonight. You've got to come with us.”

“Sure,” she agreed absently, her mind drifting into the past. “God, I haven't been to a Fearless show since Mary and I—”

She cut herself off instantly. Mary's name had not been mentioned once. Sitting in the sudden awkward silence, Gaia wondered if she'd just made a massive error—perhaps the biggest error a person could make in the Moss household.

“Gaia,” Mrs. Moss said gently, as if reading her mind, “we talk about her all the time. We talk about her as often as possible, and you should feel free to do
the same. I know you loved her as much as we did. As much as we
do.
”

Gaia nodded and swallowed, then allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
Talking about Mary was something Gaia would have never allowed herself to do alone.
But in a way, that was what Mary's gift had always been to her: the chance to do something she never would have done alone—whether it was going to a Fearless show, wearing a tight red dress, playing a game of truth or dare, or just listening to someone else's problems instead of dwelling on her own.

“I did,” Gaia said, just barely holding off another wave of emotion. “I mean, I do. But my point is this,” she announced, squelching every ounce of her sadness. She replaced her wimpy self-pitying tone with something bold and absurdly declamatory. “Tonight. . . I must
rock.
”

Everybody stared at her.

Then Paul laughed. So did Brendan. Mrs. Moss cracked a puzzled smile.

It was an unquestionably stupid thing to say, but somehow Gaia knew that Paul would think it was funny. And that was precisely why she had said it. If she could make a member of the Moss family laugh, then she knew she was doing something worthwhile.

From:
[email protected]


To:
[email protected]


Time:
6:48
P.M.


Re:
The truth


Gaia,


I hated what happened this morning. It hurt more than you can imagine. But I know it's my fault. Because you don't trust me. And why should you? I've been lying to you, and I know you can tell. But I've only been lying to protect you. You have to believe that.


I'm in real trouble, Gaia. And I think you may be, too


Gaia,


I have to see you tonight. I know you think I'm a liar, but there's so much you don't know. I want to tell you everything. I need to tell you. I'm being blackmailed, and I'm not even sure who is doing it. Josh is working for them, and now I'm working for him. I don't even know if I'm going to come out of this


Gaia,


I have to put an end to all of this, and I have to tell you everything. You have to meet me tonight. But if I have to leave, it's only because they can't see us together. If they see us together, you could be


From:
[email protected]


To:
[email protected]


Time:
7:03
P.M.


Re:
Tonight


Gaia,


I'm sorry about this morning. I shouldn't have surprised you like that. It was the wrong choice. Please agree to see me tonight. Say you will, even if you don't want to. It's urgent. And I wouldn't say that if it weren't true. I need to see you. Please write back as soon as you get this. I've tried calling you, and there's no answer. I don't know where you are, and I worry about you.


I love you.


Sam


For the first time in weeks, he felt he could safely unload the enormous guilt he'd been carrying with him. He'd drop it like a sack of bricks.

“DELIVERY!”

Calculated Risk

Josh Kendall now barged into Sam's room at will. Sam jumped slightly but managed to click on the send command before Josh had a chance to see what he was doing. Not that it particularly mattered if Sam were caught. Whatever Josh missed, somebody else was sure to see.
Sam now operated on the principle of “calculated risk.”
It was something he'd learned from chess.

At least there was an upside to the whole situation: he was able to put his long-standing paranoia to rest. He no longer had to wonder if “they” were watching his every move. He knew now that they were. He accepted it as just another part of his life—like homework, or labs, or classes. That was half the reason he'd been careful not to mention any specifics in his e-mail to Gaia. The other half was that he didn't want to worry her until he could explain everything face-to-face.

Josh exhaled with a grin. He dropped yet another brown paper package on Sam's clothing-covered bed.

“Shit,” he said. “This has got to be delivered by six-thirty, Sammy, so you better get going now.”

Sam turned to Josh, his jaw tightly set.
He made no attempt to mask his hatred.
There was no point.

Josh clapped in front of Sam's nose like some psychotic inspirational football coach.

“Come on, Sammy, let's move,
move.
“

Sam shot out of his chair, knocking his shoulder into Josh's chin as he stood up. Another calculated risk—and well worth it. Josh's head snapped back, and his features contorted as he winced with pain.

“Hey, are you all right?” Sam asked, locking eyes with him. “You should be more careful around me. I can be really clumsy.”

Josh massaged his jaw and shook his head slowly. He met Sam's gaze with that Teflon smile still pasted back onto his perfect, handsome, evil face.

“Sam,” he said, oozing with condescension, “the thing you
don't
want to do now is get cocky. That would be astronomically stupid.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Sam replied as he picked up the package.

“We're almost there, Sam,” Josh said. “We're so close. So what I strongly suggest you do. . . is
behave.
”

Sam was already standing at the doorway of his room. “Josh,” he said, holding up the package, “I've got a
delivery,
man. You're going to make me
late.
” Then he turned away and slammed the door behind him.

ED STARED AT THE PHONE AS IF
it had radioactive properties. As if it might burn through his hand if he actually picked up the receiver. He considered some of the things he'd rather do than call Heather and arrange a dinner for the sole purpose of letting her bawl him out.

Kinder, Gentler Heather

Would I rather be pelted with hot coals?

Check.

Would I rather have earphones taped to my head that would play nothing but Barry Manilow and Yanni twenty-four hours a day?

Check.

Would I rather be repeatedly hit on the head with a tire iron?

Actually, that would hurt. Good. Finally he had found something worse than calling Heather. So now he could do it. Besides, he knew that a dinner meeting—alone, face-to-face but in a public setting so as to avoid any violence or major freak-outs—was the only possible way to move past all the lies. To move past the miscommunication.
And most important, to move past the money.
There was no way to mend their relationship without calling.

Ed glanced around his empty kitchen. For a second he thought about pulling out his wheelchair just so he
could sit and gather his strength. Nah. Better just to stand, to savor every painful moment. He leaned against the wall on his crutches, then placed the phone to his ear and slowly dialed her number.

After two rings somebody picked up.

“Hello?”

Heather's voice was much warmer than Ed had expected. It was more than warm; it was almost. . .
sprightly.

“Hey,” he said. “It's me.”

“I'm sorry, who is this? Is this Ed?”

Shit.
It wasn't Heather. It was her mom. Why did they have to sound so much alike on the phone? Ed drew in a deep breath. “Yes, it is,” he said, adding as much polite good cheer as he could muster. “How are you, Mrs. Gannis?”

“Well, Ed, I'm doing great. We're all doing
great.
”

Ed knew that Mrs. Gannis had the tendency to accentuate the positive when in public—in other words, to be a complete phony. They were not doing great. They were doing terribly. But pretensions of flawlessness probably went back for generations in the Gannis family.
It was a little sad to think of centuries of bullshit smiles and fake laughter.


“Well, I'm glad to hear it,” Ed said, humoring her (and postponing the inevitable). “I was worried about you guys.”

“Oh, Ed, there's no need to worry,” she assured him. “Phoebe's back home from the center, and she's doing great. And Mr. Gannis just landed a fantastic new job!”

Ed blinked. Wow. Apparently Mrs. Gannis wasn't just pouring on the joy for Ed's sake. Heather certainly hadn't mentioned anything about her dad's getting a new job. But this was fantastic news. If Mr. Gannis was making money of his own again, then Heather wouldn't need the cash from Ed's settlement so badly. That would mean that Ed hadn't destroyed Heather's life by taking those steps in public. And that would mean maybe, just maybe, that Heather wouldn't have to hate Ed's guts. Could he see a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel?

“Uh. . . that's great news, Mrs. Gannis!” he said. “I had no idea.”

“Yes, well. We certainly needed some good news in this house.”

“Yeah,” Ed agreed. “Is Heather home?”

“She sure is, Ed. Hold on one second.”

Ed sat back in his bed. His heart rate finally began to slow, and his chest began to expand more comfortably. For the first time in weeks he felt he could safely unload the enormous guilt he'd been carrying with him.
He'd dropit like a sack of bricks.
The state of Heather's family no longer depended entirely on his settlement. His walking was no longer perversely tied to
Heather's survival. He was neither the hero nor the goat. He was just Ed again—plain old Ed. Maybe now he and Heather could just concentrate on salvaging their critically damaged relationship. Maybe this phone call wasn't going to be such a nightmare after all.

“Hello?” Heather asked.

“Hey!” Ed blurted out. “Why didn't you tell me about your dad and Phoebe?”

There was dead silence on the phone.

“Could you have waited any longer to call me?” she mumbled after a few seconds.

Ed scowled.
So much for a kinder, gentler Heather.
Apparently Heather's mood from the afternoon had stayed fully intact. Or gotten worse. He didn't understand it. Maybe she was suffering from an unspecified illness.

“I just. . . finished my physical therapy,” Ed lied. “But I—”

“Where are we going to dinner?” Heather snapped.

Ed's pulse returned to high speed. “I. . . thought I'd pick you up.”

“Fine.”

“I'm. . . on my way.”

“Fine.” One small click and the line was dead.

Ed dropped the phone on the hook. He was too confused to do anything but stand there and stare into space. But suddenly being repeatedly hit on the head with a tire iron didn't seem so bad.

MEMO


To:
L


From:
J