Love Me Broken (4 page)

Eventually, I turn off the engine. I can’t stop smiling. No wonder Levi is laughing all the time.

“It’s incredible, man.” I am momentarily disappointed that I lack the vocabulary to express what I am feeling. It’s like electricity and raw energy is bolting through me when I sit on that thing. “Incredible.”

“Wait until you ride it,” Levi says, and I almost melt.

“Can I?”

He nods. “But first we’d better settle up rent and stuff.”

I agree, and I follow him reluctantly inside to the small kitchen. The house feels so dead now, like a mausoleum, compared with being on that motorcycle.

Levi walks to the front of the house and collapses on the couch. He leans forward and starts rummaging through the mess on the coffee table. He finds a pen and a pad of paper. The top sheet’s full of doodles and he rips this off. Then he puts the clean pad on his knee and looks up at me as if he’s going to take dictation.

 “So it’s two-forty for the rent,” he says, and writes it down. “The bike is five, and you’ve already put two hundred down. That leaves three hundred to pay off.” He sets the pad down. “Two-forty plus five hundred minus two hundred is...” He looks at me, and his eyes go distant. I wait a good thirty seconds, but he doesn’t seem any closer to getting it.

“Five-forty,” I say.

He breaks out of his trance. “Yeah! Yeah, man. And if you don’t mind, I kind of need to pay rent on this place, like, yesterday, so if we could go down to the bank and do a transfer...?”

“I don’t do banks,” I say. “I got the cash.” He nods, and I leave the room and walk through the kitchen to my room in the garage. I lean down over my duffel bag, keeping my back to the door, and find my wad of cash in the inner side pocket. The bills are rolled together with a rubber band, and I slide this off and start thumbing through.

It felt like a lot of cash at first, but it’s going quickly. I count out the exact amount I owe, plus an additional two months’ rent, into a pile on the mattress. Then I look back at the few bills that remain. It’s a good thing he got me that job.

I’m just finishing when I hear footsteps behind me, and quickly throw the rest of the money back into my duffel bag and zip it.

“Be right there,” I say, and grab the bills I’ve counted off the mattress. I close the door to the garage and head back to the kitchen.

I push aside an open box of Bisquick on the kitchen table, then dump the money onto the center of the table. Levi’s eyes go wide. He looks like he’s ogling a naked woman.

“I thought I’d just pay the whole summer at once,” I say. “June, July, and August. Is that cool?”

His mouth moves. It’s a moment before he can talk. “Yeah, dude,” he says. “That’s cool.”

Then his clouded expression clears, and there’s this look like when I wouldn’t let him touch my duffel bag. It’s small, but I can feel him thinking, noticing the strangeness of it: my youth, my lack of backstory, and now this cash.

But like before, the look evaporates, and he’s back to his easygoing self.

When he starts picking the money off the table, he doesn’t ask any more questions.

And I think we’re going to get along just fine.

I spend the afternoon hanging around the coffee shop. Nicole is alternately busy helping customers, sweeping floors, cleaning counters—and then not doing anything at all, sometimes for fifteen-minute stretches at a time. I guess coffee shops can be like that: you get a rush, there’s a lull, then you get another rush. Either way, it gives her time to come visit with me, and we chat about New York (she chats; I smile and nod and try not to feel panicked), or she talks about her boyfriend Chad (who I would try to warn her against, if I thought she’d be with him for more than a week), but sometimes she just comes over with two fresh cups of coffee and we just sit quietly and stare out the window together.

The sky, sunny just a few hours ago when we arrived, has grown overcast. Shadows cover the street, and I notice that people seem to be rushing more as they walk by, stopping only to stare up into the clouds. Wind makes the tree branches sway and sends the summer blossoms to the curb in little tornados. I start to wish that it would rain, just so I could watch the world become shiny and fresh, and by the end of the afternoon my wish is granted.

Great sheets of water fall from the sky, and I sit staring at it, not even noticing when Nicole sits down next to me.

“All right,” she says. “Closing time. You wanna wait here while I mop and break down the machine?”

“Sure.”

She hesitates, then adds, “Chad called. He’s on his way over.”

I start to collect my things. I love Nicole; she’s my best friend. But Chad is someone I could do without. The traffic isn’t so bad now anyway, and I don’t have to cross Commercial to get home. “Actually, I should probably make sure my mom found her way inside from the porch.”

Nicole smiles, recognizing my lie. “Mmm-hmm. Go then. But!” she says, holding up a finger, “you are not getting out of my birthday party.”

I cringe. I haven’t been to a party since last summer.

“No excuses,” she continues. “I want you there. It’ll be next Saturday at my house.” Nicole’s house is on the south side of town. While not a bad area or anything, it is generally not as nice as the rest of Astoria. It doesn’t have the sweeping view of the Columbia, or the waterfront shops to keep it busy. Nicole is still looking at me. “You’ll be there? Promise?”

I mumble something incomprehensible and get up to leave. She grabs me by the wrist.

“Erica,” she whines.
“Please.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. I promise.” Even though it’ll mean a long walk for me. I don’t know if she remembers that. “But I’m getting out of here before he shows up.”

This is good enough for her. I turn to leave, see the torrential downpour outside, and realize I’m wearing a tank top and jeans, with no umbrella. All this time staring at the rain and I didn’t even consider that I’d have to walk through it.

I consider asking Nicole if I can borrow an umbrella, but I don’t want to chance running into Chad. So I just walk.

The rain dampens the crown of my head and my back, and splashes onto the hem of my jeans. I don’t mind the feeling as much as the memories the sound of the rain is bringing back. I try to focus instead on moving to New York, of running away from everything familiar here and starting over. It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time.

The water whooshes down in the gutter next to me, and I don’t want to go. Suddenly, passionately, I don’t want to go. Which confuses me, because I don’t want to stay in Astoria either. I know Nicole is my friend, but she’s not enough. She doesn’t
need
me. And no one else even wants me here.

I turn onto my block and see the peaks of my house. It’s on the south side of the block, facing out toward the river. As I near, I see the porch is empty. My mother must have gone inside, which surprises me. She’s stayed out through worse weather than this. Maybe she went in for more wine.

I am walking up my driveway, my eyes still on the porch, when from my left I hear a high-pitched, desperate meow.

I stop and turn toward the sound, eyeing the bushes lining the opposite side of the driveway, but I don’t see anything. I wait, and a moment later I hear it again: a long miserable
me-e-e-e-owww
.

“Hello?” I call. “Kitty?”

From behind the bushes creeps an orange tabby cat, dripping wet. Its white paws and white stomach are gray with dirt, and its green eyes look huge in its face with its fur flattened by rain. A blue collar is visible around its neck. There’s a name on it: PETE. But I don’t see an address or phone number.

Maybe he’s lost. Maybe he needs someone to rescue him.

I crouch down in the middle of the driveway. “Hi there,” I say. “You okay, little guy?”

The cat stares at me. His wide eyes are completely dilated. For a moment I fear he might be feral, the wild way he is looking at me. Then I remember the collar, and put out a hand for him to sniff.

“Are you cold? I bet you are, huh?”

I wait another moment crouched like this, but the cat does not move from his bush. He must be too scared.

Then I have an idea. I walk up to the garage and poke in the combination to the keypad. The old door springs to life and rattles and moans its way up the track. When it’s up, I step into the cover of the space.

My dad’s car is here. I don’t want it touching me, and I feel a sweat breaking out being so close. The one-car garage is crammed with shelves and boxes, but I manage to back in, keeping a body’s width between me and the car.

I turn to the cat.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I beckon. “Here, Pete.”

He stares at me, water dripping from his chin.

“Don’t you want to get where it’s dry?”

I back away a little, in case he is afraid of me. He puts one small wet paw out—and then stops.

Then I have an inspiration. “I’ll be right back,” I tell the cat. I walk to the rear of the garage, where there is a door that leads into the house, and wipe my feet on the mat. Then I go inside and up a few steps to the first floor of the house. I am on my way to the kitchen when I pass my mother in the great room that the kitchen overlooks.

She’s passed out on the couch, her face strained and her arms and legs pulled into herself. It might have been a fetal position, except she looks so uncomfortable. Her breathing is hitched, and I notice that her shoulders are shivering in her sleep.

Before going to the kitchen, I walk back to the hallway and open the linen closet. I pull out a thick afghan and bring it to the living room. Carefully, trying not to wake her, I drape the blanket over her, starting at the feet and slowly dropping it along her body until I get to her neck, where I let the rest of the bunched-up blanket fall. Her eyebrows cringe a little at the touch, but she doesn’t open her eyes. Then I turn and head back to the kitchen.

I flick on a light and open the cupboard next to the stove. It is full of cans and packaged goods. I push aside cans of tomato soup, pinto beans, and jalapenos, and find in the back corner what I am looking for: a small tin of tuna. I pull it toward me and head to the sink. I drain it there, pressing the lid against the contents to hurry the process, and take the tin with me as I walk quickly to the garage. I pass by my mother again on the way and notice that her hand has emerged from the blanket. It is clutching the fabric, holding it close, and her shivers seem to have stopped. For now.

I run down the steps back into the garage, then stop myself right by the door so that I can open it slowly. I peek around the gap and see nothing but the car and the assorted boxes of junk. I step around the side of the car and to the opening of the garage and peer into the bushes. There’s nothing there.

“Petey?” I ask. “I brought you some food.”

At the sound of my voice, a small wet head pokes out from behind the bush, the ears flattened back. The cat stares at me, but doesn’t move any farther.

“Tuna,” I say. “Yum yum.” I hold it out, trying to entice the cat, hoping he’ll smell it. I think he does. Two orange ears perk up ever so slightly.

When he doesn’t emerge after another minute, I set the tin down a few steps inside the garage on the side of the car. Then I back away to the door. And wait.

It’s a good few minutes before the cat comes out to investigate. I feel such pity for him, watching him creep nervously forward in the rain, his body looking so small and frail. Why didn’t someone feed him? Then the cat tiptoes, one carefully placed step at a time, into the garage. He reaches the tin of tuna, looks up at me as if expecting an ambush, and finally drops his head to the tin. He eats ravenously, picking at the meat, and I notice again just how thin he is. Even though there’s a collar and he must have come from somebody’s home, this cat was starving. The ribs are showing behind his coat, and his fur is all dirty. I have the urge to pet the animal, to comfort him, but when I take one step forward, the cat’s head whips up and his body leans back in alarm. I wait a moment, hoping for the cat to relax, but when I don’t back away he hisses at me.

“All right,” I say, and back away to the door again. “Fine. Just eat my food. You don’t have to be such a Prickly Pete about it.” I laugh at my joke, and decide that’s what I should call him: Prickly Pete.