I switch the channel. There’s a panel on this one, and they’re talking about the Crossbow legacy. Massio has two sons. They’re twins in their twenties, from the woman he hanged from the bridge. I wonder whatever became of them. They were small when their mother died.
I was fourteen when mine disappeared. I remember everything. Days before my mother went on a cruise, she locked herself in her bedroom and wouldn’t let me or Dad inside. Well, maybe she let my dad inside. I don’t know. I never asked. My therapist said when I’m ready, I’ll ask. I doubt I’ll ever be ready because nobody knows that Mom unlocked the door the night before she left for the cruise and invited me in for a hug. She was crying.
I thought she was leaving us for good, but I didn’t know for sure, and so I said nothing. It might kill my dad to know the truth. If that is, in fact, the truth.
I remember being excited when the door to her bedroom finally opened. Then I was confused about why she was so sad about leaving on the vacation she’d been talking about for months.
It’s ironic how I forget what I was saying or come to the kitchen and stop midway, wondering what I went there for, but I can remember what happened over two decades ago.
Once, my dad asked what I thought happened with Mom, and I told him I thought she fell off the cruise ship and drowned. Perhaps I didn’t want to deal with the fact that she chose some other life over us.
I drop the coffee cup in the sink and dress in my yoga pants. Outside again, I practice yoga for an hour, then shower and throw on a comfortable cotton dress.
It’s almost noon, so I start to prepare lunch, wondering if the man has left. I didn’t check on him. Peering inside his private quarters would be too weird, but if he doesn’t show up by one (inan hour), I’ll knock on his door. His bag isn’t in the living room, but that doesn’t mean he left. He could’ve brought it into the room with him.
I make my favorite soup-and-salad combo for lunch, which is enough for two. Since he’s not coming out and it’s almost one, I go to him. “Sorry to bother you,” I say at his door, “I made lunch, if you’re hungry.”
No answer, but I hear a noise coming from inside. I press my ear against the door. Retching. I think he’s sick. I listen for a while, and now I’m sure he’s throwing up in there.
I knock again. “Hey, are you okay?”
No answer, then, “No.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Can I get you a nice cold towel to put behind your neck?”
“No.”
Even though I worry about him, I respect his privacy and get on with my day.
In the evening, I check on him again. He refuses to let me in, and even though it’s my house, I respect his privacy and his will. He paid me well to stay out of his way.
But I worry because I hit him with my car. The impact could’ve caused internal damage we can’t see. I’m no expert, and he won’t go to the hospital.
He also needs a new ice bag for his leg, but at least he took all the ice from the freezer and likely put it in the small cooler unit in the room. I heard him use the bathroom once, but he’s been quiet since, and while our dinner cools on the bar, I bite my lip. At this rate, I’ll make my lip bleed.
Fuck it.
I walk into the guest bathroom, which Chi-chi can enter from her bedroom too, and knock. “I’m really worried about you.” I press my ear against the door and hear him groan.
“No,” he says with less vigor than he had that morning.
“I’m coming in.” I open the door slowly, and the smell of puke makes me wrinkle my nose. He’s on the bed with his leg propped up on his big bag, which he stacked pillows on. His ankle is wrapped in ice. The man hugs the plastic trash can from the bathroom with one arm. His other forearm covers his eyes, giving me the impression that he’s embarrassed.
“You’re sick,” I state the obvious.
“It’ll pass.”
“What will?”
“It’s just a concussion.”
I sit beside him on a chair. “That is not good. I can call an ambulance.”
He moves his arm and lifts his head, piercing me with a death glare. “I said no ambulance. No people. Nobody can know that I’m here.”
