Page 30 of Grace

“But how much?” I snap.

“Seriously, Cyrus. How much time do I need to be whole? To be normal? While the whole world keeps reminding me that I’m a weirdo?” I snort, irritated.

“Everyone around you treats me like this. I’ve heard it many times that we don’t match—from your mom, your friends, your colleagues… even old Jack, the car mechanic, told me once. Not only because of what happened, but because I have the face of a ‘noble lady,’” I emphasize the last words, hoping the irony will land.

“That my face is too delicate for someone like you. I hate to hear this, because you aren’t less than me. Just because you’re a… a wild man, both inside and out, doesn’t mean you’re worth less than I am. I know this isn’t why your friends keep bringing it up—but because they’re worried about you getting hurt in this relationship.”

“And they are… right to do so,” I sigh.

“That’s why I’m not mad at them. I don’t trust myself… It’s only natural they don’t either.”

Still, I like his friends more than his mom, Greta Phoenix, who treats her huge bear of a son as if he were still five. Whenever we visit her, she makes him his favorite dishes and pastries—and pinches his face the way annoying aunts usually do.

She is a piece of work. A bad piece at that.

Her hair is rock-hard from all the hairspray, her makeup is too much for her age, and she smokes nonstop, exhaling smoke right under our noses. The only good thing is that we only visit her in Tulsa once every two months.

“What do I always say about others and their opinions?”

“That they can kiss your hairy white ass.”

“You are important to me, Grace.” He links our fingers and kisses my hand.

This kindness is what causes physical pain in my chest. If he were mad at me, shouting at me… maybe my psyche would come to its senses and be capable of opening up to him. But while he keeps telling me, emphatically, that it’s all okay, that I’m okay… I don’t say a word. I push down all the anger, frustration, and sadness and just keep nodding.

So many things changed while I was locked in an underground room. Even though I’ve been free for four years now, the changes still surprise me. The town where I grew up. The streets I used to walk… They’re nothing like I remember—nothing has remained the same. The storefronts, the bars, the malls, the school, the park… Everything has undergone huge changes. Huge and painful ones.

The worst was the missing bench—the bench that had held the memory of my parents’ love for decades. Now my parents are dead, their memories faded, worn away by time—and not even those carvings could bring them back to life for a short moment any more. All that’s left of them is that cold, dark tombstone.

Many buildings have been renovated or repainted, and many businesses have closed, only to reopen as restaurants or cafés—in modern, supposedly unique buildings that lack the charm of the older, more classical ones they replaced. Office blocks have turned into uniformly gray walls, all sharp edges and rough, boastful lines.

People dress differently now, wear their hair differently—bolder, more colorful. Discmans have been replaced by MP3 players, videotapes by DVDs. The internet took the world by storm, burning down the quiet, peaceful years of the past in its wake.

Dad always said the internet would be both our future and our destruction. The world is digital now—human connections fall apart, while you can send an email to someone on the other side of the world with a single click. And the internet is now full of lies, misinformation, and scams—and criminals, who no longer have to set foot outside their homes to swindle their victims out of their money.

Like flies caught in a sticky spiderweb, we know there’s no way out. The spider is coming to eat us alive. We’ve become slaves to our own tools.

Maybe I still haven’t gotten over the technological advancements of the past few years—or how fast our lives have become.

We usually do our shopping together, but sometimes Cyrus stops by the grocery store alone after work. Neither of us is a kitchen whiz, so we often just order pizza or something Chinese and eat it straight from the box. Or we go through the drive-through at McDonald's and get a Big Mac meal.

The last time we visited Cyrus’s mom, Greta, in Tulsa, she gave us so much food that it could have fed an army. She can be a bit difficult, but she’s an amazing cook. And her pastries are out of this world. Since she retired, she’s been taking baking and cooking courses—Cyrus says she mostly goes for the company, because she’s always been a good cook.

Whenever we visit her, we have to listen to her never-ending stories about her bridge parties—or about how we should get on with producing a grandchild for her. When that happens, Cyrus kisses her on the forehead and tactfully tells her to stop pushing.

It still makes me sad and fearful. In those moments, I try to turn invisible and not take her nasty remarks personally. I keep my eyes on her huge, well-maintained garden, thinking how nice it would be if a child were running across the bright green lawn, chasing soap bubbles.

But these are just dreams. They remind me of my past—the happy moments and the sad ones alike. Before all those horrors happened to me, I wanted to be a mom. Since then, though… that dream feels too good to be true now, too far away. Unattainable. Because the girl who had those dreams is lost in a maze—and I’m afraid she’s never going to make it out.

I inch along in the slow traffic on West Main Street behind Cyrus’s acid-green Pontiac muscle car, smiling as I watch his fingers drum against the freshly polished door, sunlight glinting off his watch. Even from here, I can hear Californication—which happens to be one of his favorite songs—blasting from the speakers.

He once said that when he closes this new case, we’ll go to California—walk under palm trees, swim in the ocean, and then, on the sand, or in our hotel bed… Here, he stopped short. And I felt horrible again. Still, I think about those days and nights: crossing New Mexico and Arizona in his car, listening to our favorite songs, the wind blowing our hair into our faces—and, for a short time, forgetting who I’ve become.

Cyrus turns on the signal, and we take a left by Stella Nova Café, then keep going until we reach the end of the small street. A dead end, where plenty of muscle cars already glint in the sunlight. In front of his strip club. At first, I found it strange that a cop would run such an… indecent place. But the two aren’t mutually exclusive, and it helps him go undercover and gain other people’s trust.

They don’t really need me here—I know the bar already has enough staff. I know they only give me odd jobs, mostly just to keep my mind occupied—and because I can’t be around strangers ever since Bo and his gang assaulted me. I’m so afraid of people that I don’t even get on a bus or take a walk alone. I get anxiety attacks—my heart races, and I end up in the bathroom more often than necessary, because panic grabs my stomach and doesn’t let go until I vomit up every morsel of food I’ve eaten.

Everything scares me. That’s why Cyrus gave me this car from before the flood, barely running on its last wheels. In my car, everything that can break down will break down—the brakes, the transmission, the battery… Or maybe it just doesn’t like me. Whenever Cyrus opens the hood and touches a cable or two, the tricky old bastard rumbles to life, as if it were a well-fed cat expecting belly rubs after its meal.