I turn for a house—any house—and end up in the one where the pretty woman lived with her husband. The cast iron pan and bodies are gone, but I can see it all anyway. The stupid girl who hoped for something better, only to be bitten by the person she loved. A cautionary tale if ever there was one.
Eric strides in, shoving his hair from his face. “Did Paul say something to you?”
I press the power button on the dead TV. I don’t expect it to play
Murder, She Wrote
, but I don’t want to face him. “No.”
“He did. What did he say?”
There’s no way I’ll tell him. The chink that’d leave in my armor would be far too large. “He didn’t say anything. Sometimes people just want to be alone, Eric.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He exhales noisily. “Leo won’t tell him if he saw anything happen to Hannah, but he has nightmares every night. Both of them are having a rough time of it. I’m sorry if—”
“Don’t apologize for him. He’s not sorry. You can’t make people like you. Or maybe you can, but
I
can’t.”
“I just want you and Paul to get along.”
I push down my rising frustration. Paul times his jibes for when Eric isn’t around, so Eric doesn’t know that every time I speak to Paul, which isn’t often, I walk away feeling weak and blinking back tears. “Do you think I don’t? I’m trying. It may not seem like it, but I am. It’s hard for me to back down from a fight.”
“I think I might’ve picked up on that.” He gives me a smile I don’t return. “I know you are. I tried to talk to him, but, believe it or not, you’re more reasonable. He’s been through a lot.”
“You don’t have to keep reminding me of that. I’m not a heartless bitch.” My voice is weary. I’m tired of people thinking they know me, or what I feel or think or anything else. They don’t. Probably because I don’t tell them, which makes it my own damn fault.
“I never for a second thought you were.” He takes my arm. “I know you’re angry, but—”
“I’m not angry.”
I free myself from his grasp. He studies me, fingers in the air as if still curled around my bicep. “No, I guess you’re not. You’re sad.”
I fight the tears that threaten to spring forth at his gentle tone, at the fact that he’s cut to the heart of it. “In case you forgot, Grace is a therapist. I’m covered in that department.”
I look everywhere but at him. This room is full of little pieces of life: Photographs, knickknacks, books, all the things that were theirs, that meant something. I don’t have those anymore, and I’ve never had them with someone. It’s always been mine, never
ours
. I was so happy to have things that were mine that I didn’t miss the shared things enough to change it. But it’s not the things that are important—it’s the people and memories they represent. And now, with all my things gone, I’m lacking in the people and memories department.
“Okay. Got it,” Eric says. “The
saccade
of your eyes made me think you were upset.”
“You have no shame. None.”
Saccade: a small rapid jerky movement of the eye as it jumps from fixation on one point to another. I shake my head in wonderment that he would slip it in now, although I welcome the subject change, which I suspect was deliberate. I should probably thank him.
“C’mon, you can’t blame me,” he says. “It was perfect. When else was I going to have that opportunity? You can have my point.”
“I don’t want your point, jerk.”
He smiles, but it’s swapped for a frown a second later. “I’m done making excuses for Paul. Either he’ll come around or I’ll bring him around.” I open my mouth to object, but he raises a hand. “Yes, I know you don’t need help. Or want help. Or know what the word help means. But sometimes you have to accept help. Do you think I wanted to show up here and have people take care of me? So don’t argue, or I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.”
I burst out laughing, and he asks, “You like that one? There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“How’s the weather on Planet Dorkatron?”
“Sunny, with a zero percent chance of zombies.” Leo calls my name from the yard. Eric takes my arm and leads me outside. “Don’t try to tell me that kid doesn’t like you.”
“Fine, but I don’t know why.”
He glances at me and then away just as swiftly. “I do.”
My heart quickens. Eric lets go when Leo races for me. I have no idea what’s happening between us or what my life will look like past today or if I’m up to the task of pulling off a new life, but I also can’t think of a single thing I want from my old one.
Chapter 72
I enjoy May from the comfort of a chair while I wait for the others. We’re heading off our usual route to collect food Paul and Eric found yesterday but couldn’t bring back in one trip. Apparently, it’s a motley assortment of food products, but I’m used to that by now. I don’t think I’d blink if someone told me we were having crushed tomato pancakes with salad dressing masquerading as syrup for breakfast.
Although I don’t particularly like the idea of going out on the street, we need food. There’ve been no more sightings of men with guns, so while I can’t put it out of my mind, there’s not much to do about it except hope Lexers ate them. The good thing and bad thing about zombies is that they don’t care who they eat, so they might have taken care of that problem for us.
Leo climbs into my lap. I’m never sure what to do; usually I keep my arms on the sides of my chair. “Will you draw with me when you get back?” he asks.
“You don’t want to see me draw. It’s horrible. My people look like horses and my horses look like aliens.”
“Uncle Eric can draw really good.”
“He can?”
“But not as good as his sister. He says that’s the only thing she does better than him.” I snort, and he asks, “Are you going to die?”
“This is an easy trip. We’re gonna zoom there and back.”
Leo soaks that in, nods, and says, “But you could still die.”
How we got from drawing to dying is beyond me, but I won’t lie to him. Kids aren’t stupid. I was lied to for much of my childhood, and even if I didn’t know the absolute truths, I knew enough to recognize a lie. “I hope not. I’m not planning on dying, but I don’t know.”
“I don’t want you to die. Like my mommy did.”
His voice is small and sad. I look around for assistance. I’ve never wanted to see Paul so badly in all my life, but he’s avoided me like the plague since our last encounter. Grace is inside. I think Eric is in the outhouse. Maria is God knows where. I need some people, stat.
“I’m sorry. You must be really sad.” I roll my eyes inwardly.
You must be really sad
is the understatement of the century. Although it’s almost certain she’s dead, no one knows for sure, so I add, “She might be okay.”
“I saw them,” he whispers, and hesitates before he adds, “They ate her.”
Shit. There’s our answer. I can’t tell Paul. I’ll tell Eric.
Tears collect on his bottom lids and pour over. A pat on the head isn’t going to be sufficient. When I was young, all I wanted was to feel safe, and for a little kid that usually means a hug. I wrap my arms around him the way my grandma, Bubbe, would do for me. She died when I was six, but my memories of her are of hugs and laughter and the scent of the rugelach she baked because it was my favorite.
I don’t smell like cinnamon and perfume these days, but I can try for the comfort. “I’m so sorry, squirt. I’m sorry that happened. But your daddy loves you so much, and Uncle Eric, too.”
I stroke his silky hair. His tiny heart beats out a rhythm against my chest. I’m sure parenting is next to impossible, but this part—where I hold him and he’s warm and I can feel him relaxing by the second—isn’t bad. I hug him tighter. I don’t know this pain, but I know loss. And I know it’s better to get it out. If you don’t, you end up like me.
“What’s going on?” Paul asks.
I look up. The sun above leaves his face dark, but he sounds about as happy as I would expect. “Nothing, he was—” Paul snatches him from my arms, which sets Leo sobbing with his arms out for me. I stand to take him, but he’s locked in his dad’s embrace. “Paul, please stop.”
Paul sets Leo down with a grunt, the victim of a flailing foot to the crotch. Leo takes off for the house yelling, “Meanie butt! I hate you!”
I had no idea they yelled that at five. I am
never
having kids.
Paul glares at me, eyes frostier than usual. “What’d you say to him?”
I remind myself I’m a better person now. I’m more
reasonable
. I could wait for Eric, but this isn’t my secret to hold. I wouldn’t want it kept from me.
“Nothing. Paul, he told me about…” I can’t do it with his eyes on me. No matter how much I dislike him, I don’t want to tell him this. “All I did was hug him and tell him that you loved him.”
“What did he tell you?” I open my mouth but no sound emerges. “What did he say?” he screams, face mottled.
“His mom,” I whisper. “He said he saw them…eat her.”
For a split second, I see Paul as he might be: hurting and lonely and horrified his son saw his mother that way. But even with all of that, he doesn’t look surprised. He knew she was gone.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “He came to—”
He cuts me off with a growl. His nostrils flare. “Knowing you, you probably told him that mothers don’t matter anyway.”
It’s a shot in the heart. More than anyone around here, I’m aware of how much they matter. Everyone thinks you get one automatically, but I know that’s not the case. I swallow to keep the tears at bay. This is why I fight—so I don’t cry.
“Apologize,” Eric’s voice comes from behind me, low and menacing. “I’m serious,
bro
. Say you’re sorry. Now.”
Paul scowls over my shoulder and stays silent.
“Forget it,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”
“A-pol-o-gize,” Eric says slowly, as if I haven’t spoken. “I’m giving you one chance.”
I move out of the path of testosterone. Eric steps an arm’s length away from his friend, feet spread and hands clenched at his sides. Paul’s face spasms, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “You’re going to punch me over
her
?”
Eric’s fist comes up so fast and hard that one second Paul is standing and the next he’s bent over, hand to his face. “Yeah, I guess I am,” Eric says. He shakes out his hand and inspects his knuckles.
I edge toward the back door. Eric calls my name, but I’m already inside. Jorge stands at the window. Maria is beside him, Leo in her arms. “What was that about?” Jorge asks.
I shake my head. Paul straightens up. I’m sure he’s going to pummel Eric, but instead he lays a hand on Eric’s shoulder. Eric puts an arm around him. There’s a minute-long huddle where they talk before Eric pulls Paul into a hug. And, in that moment, it becomes apparent that I will never, ever understand men.
Paul sits in a chair and closes his eyes, gingerly poking at the flesh on his cheekbone. Eric comes toward the back door, and we all pretend to be busy. He peers through the screen at where I straighten the single piece of paper on the table. Obviously a very important job.
“Sylvie, can you come here for a second?”
I walk through the door, my stomach in upheaval. Paul opens his eyes when we get close. “Sorry, Sylvie. I shouldn’t have said that.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name to my face. I do an awkward nodding-shrugging thing and turn to make my escape. There’s no surer way of making someone hate you even more than by forcing them to apologize. Now Paul will want me dead.
“Sylvie,” Paul calls, “I mean it. It was a total dick thing to say. I’m sorry I haven’t been very nice. It wasn’t fair.”
“Fine, okay.”
“Hey, you want to punch me?” Paul calls. “I’ll give you one free one.”
I spin around. I would refuse, but the truth is that I do want to punch Paul. A lot.
He raises his chin and opens his arms. “Have at it.”
Paul is so sure of himself. He is in dire need of an ass-kicking. But I’m going to have to do this right. He’s a side of beef and I’m not Rocky Balboa.
“Where do you want it?” he asks. “Face? Stomach?”
I look to Eric, who shrugs but is obviously enjoying this immensely. I think back to what Esmeralda taught me in the months after our fight—because she and I became, if not friends, then people with a genuine respect for each other. Her mom was a crackhead, too, but she had an uncle who boxed.
“Stomach,” I say. “I like my hand bones.”
Paul stands, arms by his sides. He tenses his abs, though not as much as he should, and smirks at the little lady who he thinks will give him the equivalent of a tap. I move my left foot forward and make a fist, hand slightly bent so my first two knuckles lead, and go for just above his bellybutton. I bring every bit of force I can muster, throwing with my torso instead of my arm, and the impact is everything I wanted it to be.
Paul lets out a gust of air and folds over. “Jesus!”
I step back, hoping with all my heart that Esmeralda is still alive so I can thank her one day. Eric watches Paul catch his breath and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. You all right, Paulie?”
Paul looks up, eyes glittering, and I move out of reach. His mouth works before he says, “Nice one. I don’t hit women, but I might make an exception for you. You don’t punch like a girl.” He comes forward, one hand on his stomach and the other out for a shake, which I cautiously give. He towers over me, but it’s different than his usual intimidating way. “We square?”
“Are you done being a dick?” I ask.
He still looks like a brawler, especially with the bruise flowering around his eye, but, with this smile I’ve never seen before, he could be handsome. If you were into brawlers.
“Done.” Paul puts an arm around my shoulders. “Where’d you learn to throw a punch?”
I tell him about Esmeralda, which sets him laughing as if we’re best friends. It’s a little bewildering how quickly this has happened. I’m not sure I can trust it.
“I swear Leo just started talking to me,” I say. “I didn’t ask. We were talking about drawing and then he—”
“He likes you.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Me neither,” he says with just enough lightness to tell it’s a joke. “But if my kid likes someone, I guess I should, too. Admit it, he’s great, isn’t he?”