This Book Does Not Exist (9 page)

He pauses, giving me room to let this sink in. “Say, for example, you were to use this rifle to shoot her… Then all of this would be over. No more incidents. No more visits to
the Door
. You’d absolutely, positively, one hundred percent be able to move on with your life. You’d have no other choice.

“Obviously, there’s something to be said for that.”

He goes silent, hands me the rifle and walks out of the room.

I want to speak before he’s gone, but I can’t find the words. Instead I swallow saliva that feels like concrete. I breathe in oxygen, filling my lungs; I still think I’m drowning. The rifle weighs heavier in my hands, both literally and metaphorically, than the only other gun I’ve fired in my life – and I used that one to shoot
BB’s
at aluminum cans.

I could never hurt Naomi. Geppetto seems to know everything else. He has to realize this, as well. Why would he even suggest it?

Thinking back to the first incident, the only element that carried over to the real world was the psychological impact it had on me.
I wonder if Geppetto is hinting at a similar effect here. Perhaps Naomi won’t die if I shoot her within this other world. Perhaps only my concerns about finding her will. Maybe she’ll be wiped from my memory…

Then I remember the cuts on my arm.

Geppetto’s
words – “…the possibility she may not want to be with you” – come back to me. They are unshakeable.

Assailed by doubt, I force the butt of the rifle into my shoulder and extend my hand down the barrel. I close my left eye and aim towards the car, just to see how it feels, I tell myself. As the motorcade rolls forward in slow motion, my angle on it modifies until I end up with the clearest vantage point yet.

One second I’m certain the woman in the car is Naomi. The next second her neck tilts, and I’m dissuaded. Seeing her up close is the only way I’ll know for sure. But Geppetto said the instant I leave this room the world will return to normal speed, and I will lose her.

Do I trust him?

I don’t think it matters.

I can’t shoot the woman. I never could. Forgetting Naomi would be tragic. She means too much to me.

I cannot give up until I find her.

This is the most sobering realization I’ve had yet.

I drop the rifle.

The rifle ricochets off the windowsill and flips over the edge outside. I don’t wait to see where it lands because the motorcade has abruptly revved back up to regular speed.

I dash out of the room and down the stairwell and I’m in the lobby now and there is no one here to stop me from getting outside.

I race after the President’s car – which is farther away from the book depository than I anticipated – wanting nothing more than to confirm the woman inside really is Naomi, when a gunshot comes from the grassy knoll and Kennedy’s skull bursts apart.

The Secret Service swarms the car. Once the people along the parade route comprehend what has occurred, they attempt to scatter – but the size of the crowd is so large that men and women and children converge and within seconds the scene becomes a riot. Bodies bang into me. I dig in, hold my ground,
press
to get a glimpse of the woman in the car. A gap in the crowd opens. I see her struggling to cradle Kennedy’s body in her arms. It’s all happening like what I remember from the
Zapruder
film and then the chaos plugs the gap and I lose sight of her.

I push through the
mosh
pit, seeking another clearing. Everyone around me flails and screams. My anger spikes. I knock someone down. I get an opening. I see the face of the woman in the car for half a second before she’s gone again, and the only images I can balance against what I was able to see are from my memory of the found footage in
JFK
.

They match.

I believe the woman is Jackie Onassis.

Someone strikes me.

I drop underneath the stampede. I cover my head as a boot shoves my face into the concrete. People kick me as they run. Shoes stomp on my spine. A body collapses on top of me. I am pummeled, battered endlessly. It gets so loud I can no longer distinguish one noise from another. Four walls of sound close in on me like an audio trash compactor. Pain travels to every part of my being and it hits my sternum as my heart tries to tear its way out of my chest, and I wait to learn what it feels like to be beaten to a pulp.

That moment never arrives.

The
colossal enclosure of noise evaporates, and an unnatural sense of calm envelops my surroundings
.

I feel nothing beyond the bruises from the beating.

So scarred am I that it is all but impossible for me to lift my hands off my head and open my eyes and look up to see what the world has become. It’s not that I am physically incapable – it’s that I don’t want to know what comes next.

I hear feet tapping on the pavement.

What
I think is a hand rests on my shoulder. Out of blind hope or delusion I wonder if it might be Naomi, but the fingertips are too coarse. They likely belong to a man, not a woman.

When I finally open my eyes I see Geppetto.

Everyone else is gone. The parade route is clear. Geppetto and I are the only inhabitants left in Dallas, which has become a picturesque ghost town.

He takes his keys out of his pocket, picks one and inserts it into the invisible lock in the invisible door in the middle of thin air and opens
the Door
. He lifts me to my feet and directs me to the exit. As I wrap my arms around my chest, hopelessly wanting to shroud myself from every unseen threat, Geppetto says, “That was Naomi after all. Sorry.”

Before I can argue, he nudges me forward. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, delivering a push, and that’s all it takes, I have left this world.

I don’t think that was Naomi. I need to talk to Geppetto more, but
the Door
is already closed. I yank on the handle. I throw my shoulder into it over and over. But no matter what I do I can’t get it open, adding credence to the idea that Geppetto alone can determine when it is and isn’t unlocked.

I can try talking to him through
Facebook
. Since I had a bar of service near my car earlier, I go outside, sit in the driver’s seat and wait to regain it. When I do, I message Geppetto, contradicting what he said about Naomi.

I wait for what ends up being hours. I take most of the
Vivarin
leftover from my drive across country to stay awake. The morning comes.

He doesn’t reply.

I start the car and begin to turn around. Flakes of bright light ping pong around the entrance to
Geppetto’s
, distracting me for a moment. I stop mid-turn. The rising sun must be reflecting off of something shiny, probably a piece of scrap metal, suffering from nostalgia for what it once was or dreaming of what it might become again if salvaged.

I check my phone again.

Nothing.

I drive away.

I stop at a gas station to buy something to eat. I pull five different types of
Nutri
-Grain bars off the rack and add them to a carton of orange juice from the fridge. When I get to the counter, the sales clerk won’t meet my eyes. I presume my appearance is deteriorating as much as my mental state.

Outside, I sink to the curb and eat all of the
Nutri
-Grain bars. I down the orange juice next. Then I leave.

At some point, I pull off the side of the highway and fall asleep.

My phone is ringing. I stare at the screen. My parents are calling. I pick up the last possible moment before it goes to voicemail.

Both my mom and my dad are on the line.
They heard from my brother. Why am I not in LA? Isn’t Naomi there? My dad mentions that Tim hasn’t been able to get in touch with her either. They want to know where
we
are, what
we’re
doing, and if
we’re
okay. I only tell them I’m alone.

I’m pretty sure they can sense something is wrong. Consequently, they ask if I’m in Ohio. I guess Tim told them, or maybe they know home is the only place to go when you’re lost and damaged. I reveal I’m just outside of Cleveland. I confess “strange things” have been going on, an understatement for the ages. I leave it at that. I tell them I’ll come and visit. Before they can ask any more questions, I hang up.
I have no idea how to talk to them, or anyone, about
the Door
.

The puzzle pieces of last night space out in front of me as I continue to creep away from the lingering haze of slumber. Slowly, they fit together, and my brain reconstructs the state of play.

I pull Naomi’s number up on my phone.
Now that I’m awake, so too are all my anxieties about what Geppetto said.
What if she is falling out of love with me? Can I catch her before she’s gone?

I tap her number with my thumb.

Rather than the sound of a ring, I get an automated message from a non-descript voice saying the number is no longer in service.

I try again.
The same thing.

I contemplate if this could have anything to do with me not reaching the motorcade in time. I start biting my nails, another bad habit that gives my fingers the look of a carpenter or factory worker, someone who does manual labor for a living.

I drive to a rest stop.

I fiddle with my phone while I’m walking from my car, belaboring what I could/should write on Twitter, when a new notification comes in from
Facebook
.

It’s a friend request from “Kirsten,” the girl I met at Joe’s birthday party in LA.

I’m inside the rest stop, leaning over a table near a Starbucks, attempting to snag a Wi-Fi connection for my phone, which has voice coverage but no data.
The floor is cluttered with empty cups and soiled napkins and crinkled pieces of wax paper, like New York City on a windy day. Someone should be sweeping, but no one seems to care. Eventually, I connect to a network labeled “
bloodonthetracks
,” which I doubt is being generated by Starbucks – unless one of the
trio
of workers behind the counter went rogue. I suppose anything is possible since all three are wearing paper crowns from the Burger King next door.

I open the
Facebook
app and accept Kirsten’s friend request. Her display name is her real name – without abbreviation or omission – meaning she hasn’t taken any steps to prevent people from finding her online. Her profile picture shows her posing underneath a banner that says “Happy Birthday Joe!” Her hands are folded together in the shape of a pistol. I can’t remember that banner being at Joe’s birthday party, but the dark skinny jeans and white wife beater she’s wearing are familiar. I think they’re what she had on the night we met. I forgot how attractive she was.

I’m about to back out of the app when I notice a dialogue box specifying that Kirsten and I have one mutual friend. I figure it’s probably Joe, or maybe even Tim if she happened to find him first, but I tap on it anyway just to check.

Our mutual friend is neither Joe nor Tim.

It’s Geppetto. And he’s changed his profile picture to one that shows him alone in a cavernous office space, standing at an inkjet printer, waiting for something to finish printing out.

Last Status: This is the end, my only friend.

Network: Los Angeles, CA

Sex: Female

Birthday: May 26

Hometown: Washington, DC

Relationship Status: Single

Interested In: Men

Activities: Reading, Being Cool, Quitting Smoking, Having Conversations with Intellectual Pretensions, Getting Over It

Interests: Music, Dancing, Film, Writing,
Taking
Risks, Failing Now To Win Later

Favorite Music: Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths, Joy Division, New Order,
Ke$ha