He shut off the vacuum and stopped before a prescription bottle that had rolled into a corner.Tobramycin and dexamethasone ophthalmic suspension. Instill 2 drops to the affected eye(s) three times a day.
The shit had been necessary to stave off an infection in his injured eye, but it made his eye weep and created halos around lights, so it had been impossible to draw or paint. When he’d complained to his brother, Everett, he told Micah he shouldn’t be trying to draw after what happened anyway. Said he needed to relax, maybe watch TV instead. But artwashow he relaxed, and he didn’t even own a TV.
He lobbed the bottle of eye drops down the hall. It sailed into the garbage can with a satisfyingthunk.
A knock came at the door. He stiffened, then tried to calm his racing heart. It was okay. It was Ximena certainly. She wasn’t going to push her way in, and she would have told anyone with her that they couldn’t step foot into Micah’s place while he was inside.
He shook out his hands and stared at the knob, prepared to snatch it like a poisonous snake. The doorbell chimed and he gasped.
“Stop working yourself up. Just open the damn door.” After unlocking the deadbolts, he tugged open the door as much as the slide chain would allow. A Latina woman with steely gray hair – Ximena – stood on the balcony in black heels and a polka dot blouse that looked a little too thin for the weather. Two maintenance people stood beside her, and a large panel swaddled in bubble wrap and plastic leaned against the railing.
“Hey.” Micah pointed through the gap in the door to the wrapped panel. “Replacement mirror already? Don’t tell me you want to install some cheap generic thing in my bathroom.” With a shaky grin, he added, “It’ll throw off the aesthetic. My delicate creative genius can’t function under those conditions.”
Ximena recoiled, and the tote bag she held slapped against her leg. “Generic? Don’t insult me, mijo. I had an extra laying around from the last time this happened.”
“The last time?” The building was old, and maybe whatever adhesive was used to affix the mirrors to the cabinet doors was losing its hold after so long. That was bad news for everyone else.
Micah glanced at his sweatpants and sandals. “Um, give me a few minutes to dress and I’ll head out.” The aquarium was only five minutes away. But the parking was probably atrocious, and what if there were screaming, hyperactive kids there on a field trip?
It was too early for a movie, and besides, there likely wasn’t anything good playing. Plus, buying anything at the concession stand would require selling both his kidneys.
“How long do you think this will take? An hour?” He’d just nap in his car in the parking lot. Lord, he was still so tired.
“No, no. Fifteen minutes. Promise.” She beckoned. “Come stand out here with me. It’s a nice morning.”
Her smile was warm, bunching her round cheeks, and all of the patience in it made Micah want to slam the door and lock it. How ridiculous he must look, afraid to let innocent maintenance people into his bathroom.
After shutting the door and pulling away the slide chain, he stepped outside and nodded to the men as they carried the mirror into the studio. The light stabbed at his left eye, and he shielded it, squinting.
A cool breeze rustled his hair, and a dove made a softcoofrom a nearby tree. His place was on the second floor by the stairs that wrapped around the outside of the complex, and it gave him a lovely view of the city. In the distance, the tops of buildings scratched the bellies of fat clouds, sunlight turning windows and peaked roofs into the brilliant facets of gems. He inhaled, and a little of the tightness in his chest eased. It really was nice out this morning.
“The silicone won’t be cured in fifteen minutes,” Ximena said, “but they’re going to put tape around the edges of the mirror to hold it to the cabinet door. Leave it for, like, three days, just to be certain, okay? I hope you didn’t clean up the mess last night. Sweeping at night is bad luck.”
“So is breaking a mirror. And I’ve fulfilled my quota of bad luck for the last year already.”
She patted his arm. “Yes, you have.” Her gaze hung on him, and he imagined how she must see him, with his blown pupil andthe scars snaking over his cheekbone and through his eyebrow. They had waned from their deep mauve, but they were still far pinker after nine months than the doctor had promised. Micah’s face would never be the same again no matter what, but the scars’ stubborn refusal to fade to white felt like an additional sign to others that he was not okay. Evident by Ximena looking at him like this fragile, damaged thing that needed to be coddled. Or maybe she was remembering how he looked after returning from the hospital, swollen and stitched and covered in gauze.
Holding out the tote bag, she said, “I brought you chicharrónes con pico de gallo.”
Micah sighed.
“You don’t like it? Or you don’t know?” she asked. “I can’t remember if I brought you some before.”
“You have, and it’s delicious. But you don’t need to bring me food anymore.” After he came home from surgery, she’d ordered delivery every night and had the driver leave it at his door, until he called to tell her that though the gesture was lovely, he couldn’t stomach any more greasy burgers and congealed mac and cheese. She’d replied apologetically,I don’t really know what white people eat.
After that, it had stopped being delivery and instead handmade tamales, pozole, and thick sheets of chicharrón with salsa. He hadn’t had the energy to protest then, since he spent most of the time lying in bed, hoping that if he didn’t move, he’d be absorbed into the mattress. But needing to give her the dishes back had motivated him to get up and wash them, sometimes tidying the kitchen a little while he was at it.
But he wasn’t trying to assimilate into the furniture anymore, and he didn’t need incentive to clean, do laundry, or shower.
Ximena pushed the tote bag at him. “It’s no trouble.”
“Stop feeling sorry for me. It’s been almost nine months.”
Lines bracketed her mouth. “What did you eat for dinner last night? Did you cook? Did you go out to a restaurant?” She shook her head and waved her hand as though erasing her last question. “You didn’t go anywhere.”
“You’re worse than my grandma used to be.”
“And I’m sure she’d be thanking me for saving you another day of eating microwave ramen from the back of your cabinet. You love my food. I love that you love it. I don’t have to feel sorry for you to bring you some.”
