Alone (4 page)

TATIANA WHEELED AROUND, HER
heart pounding. Who was in here with her? She heard something knock in the next room. What was she supposed to do? If she kept silent, the intruder might take whatever he wanted and leave without knowing she was there. But if he found her—it was too horrible. She should start screaming now, and maybe someone would hear her before he found her. . . .

A weapon. She needed a weapon. Glad that she'd kicked off her shoes the minute she walked into the apartment, Tatiana slunk toward the kitchen, petrified that a
creaking floorboard
would give her away. Once there, she silently drew the chopping knife out of the block and wondered what to do next.

Am I really supposed to stab somebody?
she wondered.
What if he gets the knife from me?

She hastily replaced the cold steel blade on the counter and jumped as she heard footsteps coming toward the back of the apartment. She slipped out of the room, flattening herself into the alcove that led to the back door, wondering if she could get it unlocked and open without tipping off the intruder. Then she heard the footsteps thumping away again. Tatiana
peeked out and saw a box of Fig Newtons open on the counter.

Hungry robbers? Maybe they were doing so many drugs, they had the crunchies, or whatever Americans call those marijuana-induced cravings, and needed to eat before emptying the house of electronics?

Tatiana knew she had to get out of the apartment, but there was so much crap in front of the back door—endless pairs of her mother's boots, cardboard boxes full of her files—that there was no way she was going to get out this way. She slipped silently into the hallway, checking to make sure it was empty, and darted into the bathroom, getting that much closer to the front door.

She would run out and start screaming immediately. She would bang on all the doors, and someone would have to hear her. If not, she would take the stairs down and yell for the doorman. Anything was better than remaining in here with the
unknown quantity from hell.

She stood, taut with tension, waiting to see if another noise would let her know where the intruder was. What she heard sent a chill through her gut: the stereo in the living room being switched off with a loud click.

In the silence, she knew any footfall would be heard immediately. But she had to take a chance. Every nerve screaming, Tatiana made a break for the door.

Her face met flesh as she ran smack into a human form, bouncing backward at the sheer shock of it. All her tension erupted, and
she let out a full-throated roar of terror that surprised even her.

“Chill out, Tatiana. It's just me.”

Gaia. Gaia?

“Gaia!” Tatiana breathed, barely able to get the name out over the pounding of her heart. “What in the world are you doing? Did you come in through the window?”

“Yeah. So?” Gaia shrugged as if she hadn't just scared the living daylights out of her roommate.

“Why?” Tatiana asked, following Gaia's nonchalant form back into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and started making a cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwich.

“I didn't feel like running into you,” Gaia said. “I knew you'd start in with a million nagging questions. I was just trying to have a little privacy.”

“And you do this by coming in like a cat stealer?” Tatiana asked.

“I think you mean a cat burglar,” Gaia said, rolling her eyes.

That was all Tatiana needed. Rage exploded through her body, and she took the sandwich out of Gaia's hands and threw it on the floor.

“Don't you dare correct me!” she screamed, slamming
a hand on the counter. “You frightened me terribly, and you can't even say you're sorry. You're rude, and you're inconsiderate, and I wish you did not live in my house!”

Gaia stared at her, mouth open in disbelief.

“Would you chill out?” she said.

“It's no big deal.” “It
is
a big deal,” Tatiana told her. “If my mother were here, I would tell her that I want you to leave.”

“Your mother.” Gaia moaned, rolling her eyes again. “Yeah, there's an authority figure I'd be comfortable with.”

“What do you mean?” Tatiana snapped. “You are going to insult my mother?”

Gaia seemed to be about to speak, but she stopped. “No. I wasn't going to say anything.”

“Good. Because if I had to have you permanently in my life, I'd. . .”

Now it was Tatiana's turn to hold back. She wasn't going to give Gaia any ammunition to hurt her with. If Gaia didn't know their parents were romantically involved, Tatiana wasn't going to tell her.

“I have to live with you, I suppose,” Tatiana said. “So until my mother returns from her trip, why don't you move into the living room? You and I can avoid each other more easily that way. We don't even have to meet in the kitchen if we stick to a schedule.”

“Fine. I hate sharing a room,” Gaia said. “I don't need you all up in my business.” She picked up her
sandwich from the floor, brushed it off, and took a bite, dribbling crumbs on the tiled floor. Then she strolled out of the kitchen and toward their bedroom, grabbing her duffel bag out of the front-hall closet on her way.

“I don't want to be inside of your business, anyway!” Tatiana called after her. “Damn!” she said, then
let loose a torrent of curses in Russian.
Gaia spoke about a bazillion languages. She'd probably get the gist.

I'm
not going to sit here and moan about my life. I made a choice as a young man, and I knew my existence would never truly be my own after that. But when I step back and look at it, I have to be impressed with the chaos I've survived.

At least I've survived. I can't say the same for a lot of people I loved.

When Katia told me Gaia was coming, I wasn't fully prepared to be a father. I was wrapped up in my wife and didn't want to share her with anyone. But once Gaia was born, I was struck to the core. My God, this soft little creature looked to me and Katia for everything. We became a culture of three, a little tribe that stood outside the regular world and created our own society.

I had twelve years of near bliss. Isn't that more than most people get?

And then it was taken away. And I don't know if Albert
Tennyson was right when he said that it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Because the absence of that warmth has been torture.

Natasha has touched me in a way that no one has been able to since Katia's death. Natasha's giving me a taste of that bliss and, dare I think it, promising me the potential to live that way again. I fought her. I'll admit it. I didn't want to fall in love again. But this hitch in our plans—this day of complete idleness in the middle of an operation—is sealing the deal on my feelings for her.

For a full twenty-four hours I have nothing to do but drink her in.

I'm not a great believer in fate, but whatever the cause of our delay, it has had the result of pushing us together, when we'd never have found the time otherwise. And it seems like it's just meant to be.

Listen to me. I sound like a stupid kid. If I were my superior, I'd fire me in a second.

Hello,
Ed! Are you out there? If I yell out my window, will you be standing downstairs like some kind of twenty-first century Romeo? Or will I just attract a collection of curious New Yorkers who will glare at me and then tell me to “shaddap”?

How about if I call to you with my mind? I'll close my eyes and think,
Ed Fargo, Ed Fargo, Ed Fargo,
and that will open up a metaphysical channel to your heart. I'll make a mental QuickTime movie of our kiss and e-mail it to your brain. Then perhaps you will remember the Russian girl you spent so much time with.

All right, Tatiana. Get ahold of yourself. It has only been one day since the kiss—not even a full twenty-four hours. The boy has not called you, but he might be busy and distracted. Or maybe he is waiting on purpose so he doesn't seem too overeager.

Oh, but I hate this waiting on purpose.

I know I'm overanxious because Gaia has put me in a state of extreme tension, but I also really like this boy, Ed. I've been horribly lonely since I came here from Russia, and he was the first person to show me around and introduce me to this strange, dirty city. I mean, pepperoni pizza—who knew there was such a thing?

I really like Ed. I want him to call me.

Just my luck I have to share a home with the girl he loves. Who hates me for no reason, who uses up the good intentions that my mother has for her, and who comes in the window at all hours when there is a perfectly good door for her to use. Gaia. Gaia the infinitely infuriating.

Okay. If he doesn't call in one half hour, I will send him an e-mail. Just a friendly e-mail. An electronic message from my heart to his, disguised as an innocent hello. Of course, how to make this sound so innocent is
difficult. If only I could write to him in Russian! I'd know just how to do it so that I didn't sound anxious or needy. Too bad Ed Fargo is about as Russian as a Chicken McNugget.

A cute, friendly, heartbreaking Chicken McNugget.

So this is what kissing is like in America! I have to admit, it was as delicious as the pizza you introduced me to. So what happens next?

I do not expect you to have an answer for me. I know you are feeling conflicted. You still have feelings for Gaia.

You have to work this out for yourself, but I just want to say this: I am not conflicted, and I would never be cold to you the way she is. If you sit back and think about this, I know you'll eventually see the truth.

Just don't make me wait too long.

Tatiana

[DELETED]

ED WENT STRAIGHT HOME TO TEST
out Lydia's five-step plan. First period would just have to wait.

He was out of the hospital,
away from the geezers,
in the place where he felt most comfortable. In fact, in the very apartment where he'd learned to walk in the first place. He was alone, too. And there was nothing here to impede his progress across the floor. Except his own stupid brain.

He sat on his bed, the crutches tucked neatly underneath so he couldn't see them and feel tempted to use them. His armpits felt sort of cold and lonely without them. But they were going to have to get used to that—at least, he hoped they would.

Across the room, tacked to the wall with Scotch tape, was a vintage Kiss poster, from the early days of their reign as the most dangerous band on the planet—back when they still had some credibility. Paul Stanley gazed at the camera with a tight-lipped pout, the black star over his left eye betraying a hint of shine. At his right stood Gene Simmons, the cheesiest rocker on the planet, his extra-long tongue stuck out so far, it touched his chin.

Ed wasn't really a member of the Kiss army. He was more like, say, a member of the Kiss National Guard or maybe the Kiss ROTC. Their music was
stupid, but something about its kitsch factor made him happy. Plus they made his sister break out in hives at their grossness. That was a bonus.

Hence the poster on his wall. He hadn't even noticed it in months, really, but right now, it was the most obvious object for him to use as a focal point.

But where should he concentrate his attention?

He decided on Gene's tongue rather than Paul's star,
just because Paul was such a favorite of the ladies, which made him way less cool in Ed's eyes.

So here he was in his room, with nothing to grab onto between his bed and Gene's tongue. Now all he had to do was stand up, visualize his legs moving, and take a leap of faith.

This was going to be easy. He tried a mental practice run before he stood up. Pictured his legs, skinnier now than they used to be but with a good amount of muscle built up from the physical therapy. On his feet were thick white socks and his oldest, comfiest pair of blue Chuck Taylor high-tops. He saw them stand and, without hesitation, walk across the room. Step after step, they covered the eight feet in no time flat. At first his imaginary movie looked kind of jerky, like it was shot from a flip book. After he tried it a few more times, the playback appeared in brightly saturated Technicolor. A little more practice and it took on the
hiccupping cast of streaming video; an ounce more concentration and Ed was watching, in the amphitheater of his mind, the clear, definitive, ultimate-edition, director's-cut DVD of himself walking across the room, complete with alternate sound track and commentary.
He was truly Xbox ready.

He stood, rewound the mental movie to the starting-point, zeroed in on Gene's tongue, and took a leap of faith.

He saw the tongue; he felt his legs move; he took a step and. . .

Flopped like a flounder on the floor.

For a moment he was totally stunned. He actually thought he had made it across the room and was nose to nose with Ace Frehley. Slowly he realized he was actually face-to-face with a particularly rank patch of carpet.

First he became aware of a burning ache across his face. Then he felt a much more painful ache in his heart. He hadn't realized how much he had bought into Lydia's plan. He'd thought he prepared himself for failure, but he was devastated.

Five-step plan, my ass,
he thought, wondering if his nose was broken. This wasn't as easy as it had sounded. Possibly Lydia was not only a bitch, she was a lunatic as well, all wrapped up in the body of Anna Kournikova.

He hadn't made it across the room. He didn't know
if he ever would. At that moment he only knew one thing.

If he ever met Gene Simmons, he was going to kick his glam-rocking, tongue-wagging, makeup-wearing ass.