The Collector (17 page)

Choices

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

—William Shakespeare

Chapter Thirty-five

Return

I lie in bed and do everything but sleep. What Valery said replays in my mind like a spinning movie reel. Charlie will change the world. Charlie. The girl sleeping only a few doors down, wrapped in a white comforter, probably snoring, probably drooling on her pillow. And she’s going to change the world.

My penny clenched in my fist, I get up from bed and pace the floor. Then I turn on the TV and flip channels, searching for normalcy. Nothing’s on, and nothing helps.

Charlie shouldn’t be the one in this position. She shouldn’t be the girl in the middle of a heaven versus hell tug-of-war. But she is. And like Valery said, I need to make a decision.

And I have to be sure I make the right one.

In order to do that, there are things I have to take care of. I cross the room and pick up the cream-colored phone near my bed. It rings twice before someone picks up on the other end.

“Concierge. How may I assist you, Mr. Walker?”

“I need to make changes to my airline tickets,” I say into the phone.

“Certainly. I’ll have someone come up for the tickets and take your change requests. Would that be all right?”

I lean my head on a fist. “Yeah. That’ll work. How long?”

“We should have someone up there in ten minutes.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

I hang up the phone and continue my über-helpful pacing. Then I make my bed. Two minutes later, I unmake it. When the hotel staffer knocks on the door, I’m waiting less than six inches away. My muscles jerk at the sound. Then I reach over to let the staffer in. A guy four hundred and eighty years old stands on the other side.

Great. They sent an endangered species to make my airline changes.

“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to stick around,” I say. There’s no way I trust a guy who probably forgot his own name on the elevator ride up. If he handles this, we’ll end up flying coach to Saudi Arabia. “So, uh, you can go back now.”

The guy stares at me with purple-rimmed eyes. His liver spots blend together on his forehead, and I imagine hidden messages spelled out in the patterns. “Is it because I’m old?” he says in a surprisingly high voice.

“What?” I ask, feigning shock. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. What time is it? I need to go to bed. Good night.”

I move to close the door, but he stops it with his old man foot. “Everyone sends me away. No one wants their bags carried. No one needs their bathroom light checked. And you…” He points at me with a finger I’m sure will break off. “Now you don’t want your airline changes.”

Geezer starts to shuffle away down the hallway.

I let out a sigh and roll my eyes. “Hey, wait,” I say. “I’ve decided to go home. So I guess I will need your help.”

The man turns around, but now he’s working the sad eyes. “It’s because of what I said. You feel sorry for me.”

“No, it’s because you freak me out, and I want to be as many miles away from you as I can.” His lips tug upward, and he proudly displays the few teeth he has left. I have a sudden urge to give him an apple. “So you going to help me?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to help you.”

The guy takes my airline tickets and writes down my changes with impressive accuracy. Then he leaves. A half hour later, he calls up to confirm the changes have been made. I have no idea why a place like V Hotel gave this guy a chance, but I guess they knew what they were doing.

“Can you call me a cab?” I ask. I haven’t had a problem finding one yet, but considering it’s three in the morning, things may be different.

“Right away, Mr. Walker.”

“Dante,” I say. “It’s Dante.”

I hang up and walk across the hall. Inside, Charlie and her friends are in Never Never Land, but it’s time to wake them up and pray they’re sober. I knock on each of their doors, since they’re only a few feet apart.

Blue pops his head out first. “Was that you?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Waking you guys up.”

He rubs his face for several seconds, then makes a movement like he’s going to close the door. “Just give me a few more minutes,” he mumbles. He’s disoriented from sleep and liquor, and it’d be funny under different circumstances.

“No. Blue, you gotta wake up. We have a plane to catch.”

He pushes the door all the way back open. “You messing with me?”

On the other side of the hall, I hear another door click open. It’s Annabelle.

“What the bejesus is going on out here?” she asks.

“Dante says we’re going home,” Blue answers.

Annabelle finger-combs her dark, tangled hair. “Right now?”

“Yeah, right now.” I head toward Charlie’s door. “You two get dressed, okay? I’m going to wake up Sleeping Beauty. Oh, and you can keep the clothes and stuff from last night.”

Annabelle squeals, and Blue’s door slams shut.

I knock again on Charlie’s door and wait. When she opens up, I get an incredible urge to pull her toward me. Her hair falls in bed-tossed waves, and her skin still glows. When she sees it’s me, she smiles. And I think to myself that she’s the only person who I can wake at three in the morning and still have smiled at me. But as soon as the smile appears, it’s gone—and I wonder why it died so young.

It’s not strange seeing her now, even knowing the things I know. I thought maybe it would be, but it’s not. To me, she’s still just Charlie—lover of Skittles and bed bouncing and scandalous raccoons.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “It’s time to catch our flight home.”

She puts a hand on my chest like she can’t help touching me. Then she yanks it away and retreats into the black blanket of her room.

Does she remember what she asked from me? Does she know?

I follow her into the room and turn on the nightstand lamp. Charlie looks around like she’s not sure what to do.

“You didn’t bring anything other than your backpack, right?” I ask.

She nods, and I’m wondering why she’s not speaking aloud. It makes my neck feel stiff, and I have to rub it to loosen the muscles.

“Then…are you ready?”

Charlie makes eye contact with me but only holds it for a moment. Then she moves away and heads into the bathroom. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll come out in the hallway.”

She just straight up dismissed my ass, which means…

She remembers.

I let myself out into the hallway and find Annabelle waiting outside her closed door. She looks like she got run over by a semi and probably feels close to the same.

“You got your bag?” I ask.

She turns to show it mounted on her back. Then she says, “What’s Charlie doing?”

Hating my guts for something I did even though it was, like, the first good thing I’ve ever done.

“She’s getting her stuff together,” I say. “She’ll be out in a sec.” My mind snaps back to Charlie, wondering what she’s thinking and how long she’s going to hide in her room. But the sound of Blue scooting into the hallway steals my attention.

“Where’s Charlie?” he asks.

Annabelle and I point to her closed door.

Blue’s curls are poofing out in an afro. He rubs his hands over them, trying to wrangle them into place. “Why are we leaving in the middle of the night? I thought you gave us notes for classes so we could ditch and, you know, sleep.”

“Change of plans. If we leave now, you can make it back by second period,” I answer as Charlie’s door creaks open.

She glances at me, but her eyes pull away and land on her friends. On the people she understands. “Sorry. Didn’t know I was holding everyone up. I was just getting my stuff together.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly, wondering why I needed to say anything at all. I move toward her and try to take her lime-green backpack off her shoulders. She tugs it back.

“I’ve got it,” she says.

I bite my upper lip and head toward the elevator without another word. We ride down in silence, and it feels like every other time I’ve left Las Vegas—with the weight of shame and guilt hitched on my back.

Old Man greets me in the lobby. “Mr. Walker—er, Dante—your cab is waiting for you and your party.” He waves an arm toward the sliding glass doors.

“Thanks for your help,” I say. “Never again will I doubt the power of senior citizens.”

He gives me a gummy smile, and I stuff a wad of bills into his hand. He opens his palm and stares at it for an uncomfortably long time, then glances up at me, his eyes watering.

“Get yourself a classy bag of prunes.” I slap him on the shoulder and head out the doors.

For the next twenty minutes, Blue and Annabelle talk about last night as if it happened three years ago versus three hours. From the things they’re saying, I’m pretty sure they’re still drunk. The twosome try to involve Charlie in their conversation, but she doesn’t add much. When they realize she’s upset, her friends grow quiet.

Then they stare at me with suspicion.

When we pull up outside the airport, I pay the cabbie, and the four of us walk up to the check-in counter. The attendant plasters on a fake smile when it’s my turn.

“Where you headed today?” she asks.

“Birmingham, Alabama.” I jab my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m checking these guys in.”

I motion for Blue, Annabelle, and Charlie to give me their IDs. I hand them to the attendant, who
click-clacks
on the keyboard, managing to display every last tooth in her mouth.

Charlie brushes my arm, and I glance at her. I push her stray hair behind her ear, then snatch my hand back. This compulsion to touch her is getting out of control. I’m like a three-year-old who can’t keep his hands to himself.

“What about you?” she says in a near whisper. “Aren’t you coming?” Her eyes flood with worry as she wraps an arm across her stomach and holds onto her elbow.

“Charlie,” I start.

“It’s fine,” she says, cutting me off. It’s like she’s already imagined the worst. “You don’t have to go back with us.”

Behind her, Blue grabs her belt and tugs her backward. It’s terrible timing, and though I like the kid okay, right now I’d like to bust his lip and break his leg. I glare at him, but he keeps his hand rested on her.

When I speak again, my words come out in a growl. My eyes stay on Blue, though I’m clearly speaking to Charlie. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of. But trust me, I’ll be back.”

“Whatever,” Charlie says. “It doesn’t matter.”

My gaze snaps from Blue to Charlie, and—slap me freakin’ stupid—my heart aches. Actually
aches
at what she just said.

I swallow my pride and try to think rationally. There’s no doubt about it, she’s definitely upset with something I did. Whether it’s from pushing her into a contract, convincing her she needs more beauty, or turning down her offer last night—I’m not sure. But the fact that there’s a list to choose from is concerning. As terrible as this is, I’m somewhat thrilled she’s upset. It shows she cares, right? But it also means she’s pulling away, which is better for her than she’ll ever realize. For me, though, it hurts something awful.

Annabelle takes Charlie’s bag from her as a sign of affection, and in turn, Charlie wraps her arm around her friend’s waist. Blue never lets go of her, either, and together the three of them stare me down. Her friends don’t know what I did wrong. They just know Charlie’s pissed, so they’re pissed by association.

For the second time this morning, my heart throbs.

I’d kill to have friends like that.

“Look,” I say, handing them their boarding passes. “You guys are at gate twelve.” I pretend to speak to the group, but now I’m looking right at Charlie. “I’ll be right behind you. I’ll be back before you know it.” I glance at Annabelle and Blue, then back at her. My stomach clenches, and I say, “I promise.”

Charlie breaths out a heavy sigh and shrugs. Like I don’t even matter. Like between me and a dead horse, she’d grab a glue gun.

Blue leads her toward the security gate, and Charlie doesn’t glance back, even though I stand and watch her so long that people behind me talk smack. But Annabelle—
mad love for ya, girl
—she does turn around. She throws me a small wave and an
I feel kinda bad for you
look. I smile so hard, I think my face may break. Beside me, I hear the airline attendant beating the table with her palm.

I turn toward her.

She breathes out for a full ten seconds and rolls her eyes so many times I assume she’s having a seizure. I contemplate calling for help, then decide to let it play out.

“Sir, puh-leeze. For the third time, there are people waiting behind you.” She pauses and glares at me, waiting for my reaction.

I give her nothing.

She leans toward me. “Did you need to check yourself in?”

I nod and hand her my ID.

She snatches it away, narrows her eyes, and types my information into the computer. Then she glances up. “Chicago?”

The second she says it aloud, a chill races down my spine. What am I doing? What the
hell
am I doing?

Again, I nod.

I’m deaf. I’m mute. I’m losing my mind.

The attendant finishes checking me in and hands me my ID and boarding pass. “Gate seven,” she says.

I push the pass into my back pocket, bite down, and head toward gate seven, where I’ll board my plane.

Fly across the nation.

Land in Chicago.

Take a cab to 344 Rosemarie Street.

And for the first time in two years, finally face my mother.

Chapter Thirty-six

Chicago

During the plane ride to Chicago, I can’t stop thinking about the way Charlie looked at me in the airport. She must think I’m avoiding her after the snubbed kiss incident. But nothing could be further from the truth. Already, I hate being away from her. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I changed.

The world had always been mine for the taking. Nothing mattered but me and my wants. My father never had enough time for me, and my mom never bothered. I thought this granted me the perfect excuse to do whatever I wanted. And then when I died, I had a choice: be stuck in hell 24/7, or become a collector and drag others down with me. I chose the latter, because that’s what I do. I choose me. I choose the ease of sin over hardship.

But now there’s Charlie. After her parents died and she was tossed into foster care, she had every reason to become spiteful and sinful…just like me. But instead, she turned disaster into benevolence.

Charlie gives me something to aspire to, and she sees something in me I never have. And for the first time in my life, I wonder if I can be that person—the one who cares about people outside of themselves, the one who picks the right and honorable path.

Valery is right.

I have a choice to make.

Flying over Lake Michigan, I glance down. Chicago buildings rise from the earth like gray, jagged teeth. Between those teeth, tucked into a brownstone, is my mother. She is the reason for this trip, the only way I can choose and be certain of the decision I’ll make. If I’m even
thinking
about going against Boss Man’s orders—I have to know the stakes.

I need to see exactly what I’ll be giving up. As the plane touches down at O’Hare Airport, my hands find my knees and squeeze. The woman next to me glances over.

“You okay, kid?” she asks.

The
kid
part startles me. I haven’t been anyone’s kid in two years. But as I look outside and spot the runway fast approaching, I realize I’ve never stopped being my mother’s son, no matter how much I try to pretend otherwise. I release my knees and stare ahead. “No, I’m not all right.”

The lady reaches a tentative hand out like she’s thinking about patting my shoulder, but the seatbelt sign
dings
off, and I shoot up.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, though I’m not sure why I bother. I’ll never see her again.

The sun is rising as I make my way outside and hail a cab. I lower my arm as a maroon van pulls toward me and stops. Sliding inside, I pull on the Cubs baseball hat I bought in the airport gift shop. I haven’t been home in a while, but I still remember where my loyalties lie.

A guy with a beard that reaches his belly button watches me in the rearview mirror. “Where you headed?” he asks in a deep, scratchy voice.

I swallow so hard I think I might lose my tongue. “344 Rosemarie.”

The cabbie punches the address into his GPS, which I think is cheating the system. As a cab driver, his job is to know the city’s every nook and cranny. Isn’t that supposed to be some kind of cabbie pride thing? I decide it should be.

As we get closer to my mother’s house, my chest tightens. I have to keep reminding myself to relax so I can breathe. A pain throbs in my hand, and I glance down. Without even realizing, I’d pulled out my penny and had been squeezing the life out of it.

I flip the coin between my fingers and watch Mr. Lincoln change into Mr. Lincoln Memorial. My eyes close, and I wonder what it would take to get my own memorial. I think ole Abe had something to do with freeing slaves after generations of imprisonment and single-handedly holding the country together during the Civil War—which I could totally top.

I hear a crazy banging sound, and my eyes snap open. Bearded Man stares at me, his nostrils flaring with annoyance. He’s obviously just knocked on the plastic slidey thing between us. Pretty sure a
hey, man
would have sufficed.

I point to his nappy beard. “You keep things in there?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Like candies or baby birds?”

His jaw tightens.

“You should think about it.” I dig my wallet out and pay the dude. Then I turn and look at what I’ve been avoiding—home. My heart skips a beat. I draw in a quick breath to kick-start it, then open the cab door and step out onto the sidewalk. Behind me, the cabbie speeds away to find his next customer—where he’ll use his navigator to rob them of an authentic cab experience.

I watch the maroon van turn down a side street, then stare up at the brownstone in front of me. It’s three stories tall, with a small balcony on the top floor and brick stairs climbing toward the first floor. A ceramic pumpkin is seated near the last step. The entire house is covered in creamy white stone and is sandwiched between two others. Although this row of brownstones was built in the early 1900s, they’ve had enough plastic surgery to match the big baller owners inside.

I realize I’m standing in plain sight, where my mother could easily spot me. Turning tail, I haul ass across the street and find a bench several yards down, hidden behind parked cars. Then I glance around, and when I’m sure no one’s watching, I let my shadow swallow me.

Hours go by, and I struggle not to fall asleep. I’ve been watching her door all morning, half wondering what the hell I’m doing here. It feels like I’ve flown halfway across the country to stalk my own mother. I guess I’m hoping when I see her, it’ll somehow help me comprehend my decision. I won’t be able to let her see me; there are strict rules about such things. But I can see her, and right now, that’s all I need.

Valery’s words replay in my mind:
Something’s coming, Dante. And you better be sure you choose the right side.

I haven’t seen my mother in two years. The last time I did, she was cleaning up after dinner. Actually, cleaning is probably the wrong word.
Instructing
our maid is probably more accurate.

She’d done that thing where she kisses the top of my head without seeing me. Not really, anyway. Then she went off to bed while my dad and I stayed up late into the night—long enough for him to get a brownie hankering.

Memories of that night wash over me. The sound of rap music pounding through the speakers of his Beamer. The way he sang out of tune to Jay-Z in an attempt to show me he was
with it
. Later, the screech of tires as the deer stepped out into the road. My head rattling as the car flipped twice and slid to a stop.

And finally, the words he whispered as he slipped away:
I love you
,
D.

I pound my fist against my leg. Then I do it again. And again. The physical pain feels good. Better than the one I’m feeling in my chest, the one that threatens to overtake me. This is the reason I didn’t want to come back here. Too many memories I can’t forget. But I guess in the end, they followed me, anyway. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of the father I died beside and the woman we both left behind.

My mother. She may not be the world’s best, but she’s mine, damn it. And I love her something fierce.

How many times did I contemplate coming back here to watch her, to see her one more time? But why do that when the next day I could be dragged back to hell for who knows how long? That promotion, the one I’ve chased for two years—it means many things. Escaping from the mouth of hell, yes. But even more, seeing my mother every day. Never being afraid that I’ll suddenly be ripped away. I could buy a condo near here, see her whenever I wanted. I’d have my collectors check in at my place. It’d be a headquarters of sorts. And nothing would ever take my family from me again.

I’m staring at the pavement, lost in my thoughts, when a clicking sound grabs my attention. My head pops up. The sudden movement pulls a muscle in my neck. I start to rub it but freeze.

It’s her.

My mother walks out the door and onto the landing step, still pulling on her fur coat.
It’s too warm for fur
, I want to tell her. But of course, I can’t.

Her dark hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and her bangs are swept across the forehead she always complained was too large—which my father retorted was perfect for kissing. I catch a glimpse of her yellow blouse and white pants before they’re buried beneath the mink. Her lips are painted a bright red, but she’s not wearing much makeup otherwise. She seems…she appears…sort of happy, like she might not be having the worst day of her life. It splits my heart in two. I want her to be miserable that I’m gone—but I don’t.

My brain sends a signal to my body, telling it to cower and hide.
Don’t let her see you,
it says. My heart, on the other hand, tells my brain to fuck off. It screams for me to run across the street, waving my arms and yelling,
Mom, look! I’m here! I didn’t leave you!

My mother pulls her trusty green Prada bag over her shoulder, descends the stairs, and walks down the sidewalk like she’s stepping out for an early lunch. I sit stunned for a moment, wondering what she’s doing. She should be calling for a cab. My mother’s never walked anywhere in her life. In fact, I’m quite certain she’s selectively crippled.

I stand up and follow her. She has long legs and moves quickly, but I easily keep up. After ten minutes, she turns onto a street near our home that’s littered with mom-and-pop restaurants, the kind she doesn’t visit, the kind with fewer than five stars.

She crosses the street, and I notice her steps become lighter and hurried, like she can’t wait to get where she’s going. In front of her, a red tarp hanging over a walkway has the word
Cappello’s
written in white italics. She moves beneath it…and that’s when I see him.

A man much taller than my mother pulls her into an embrace. He kisses her on the cheek. It’s not a quick kiss. Quick would imply informality, possibly old friends. But his lips don’t flit—they linger.

And I have a sudden, detailed vision of drop-kicking his imposing ass.