On the Road to the Real Thing (20)

On the Road to the Real Thing
Part 20

Roo

***

"What do you remember?" she asks.

He listens to her low, prickling voice and wonders if the lowness, the prickling is from smoking. It sounds like it. And he wonders if she has stopped smoking, or if she still smokes now. She has probably stopped. Probably.

Anyway, he decides, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, and he knows it, and he knows he is stalling.

But that doesn't matter either. It doesn't matter because it takes a long time to process her words, to gain an understanding of what they mean.

There is a maze in his head, he believes, a long, prickling maze, and sometimes words get lost in it.

"About what?" he asks. He already knows the answer.

"About the accident."

It's getting late, he can see the light dimming outside. He can see it dimming through her office window.

Getting late, but not late enough. He still has forty minutes left.

"I don't really remember much," he answers.

"What do you remember?" she asks again, and it sounds like a new question, a new question meant to fit his response.

He does not like being here. He doesn't like the thought that he needs to be here. He thinks maybe he doesn't need to be here after all, that being here is a mistake, and that he can handle this himself – no, that there is nothing, in fact, to handle. Maybe there isn't. There probably isn't anything to handle.

Sometimes, he makes such a big deal out of things, when really...

He knows there is something to handle. He doesn't bother to look at his leg. He knows this is a big deal.

He takes a breath, is dismayed when it rushes out before he can use it. He decides it doesn't matter. "I remember it was cold," he offers to her.

She nods, and he wonders what that gesture means. Did he say the right thing? He feels a childish hope that he did, that he is doing this right.

"It was very cold," he says. "And I...and I..."

The words escape him, are hidden and lost again.

"How did you feel when it was cold?"

He smiles. He smiles because it is a lame question, as lame as his leg, but what can she do? He has given her nothing else to work with. He has crippled her efforts.

He shrugs. "I was scared," he admits. "I didn't want to be there."

She nods, and again, he wonders what it means.

"I was scared, and I didn't want to be there," he says, and he thinks that what he has told her isn't very much, isn't very much at all. Maybe he should tell her more. "I didn't want to be there. In Michigan, I mean."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he goes on, doesn't let her ask another question.

"Do you know what happened? I mean," he realizes that he needs to clarify the question, sharpen it, "I mean, do you know about the accident? You must know."

"Yes," she says, "I do. It was on the news and in the newspapers." She pauses. "It was for a very long time."

He nods. It was on the news for as long as he was in the hospital. It was more than a long time for him. It was interminable.

He grimaces. "I have to do an interview," he says.

She doesn't seem to mind the non sequitur. "About what?"

"Actually," he amends, "I have to do many interviews."

She waits.

He rubs his hand over his right knee, feels the anger, the annoyance, getting warm, then hot inside him.

"I have to do interviews," he starts, but his voice fades out, halts.

She waits.

He looks around the office, worries the seam at the side of his knee. He looks around the office, sees the window, wonders if it's getting late.

He looks out the window, at the limited view of the street.

It's already late. It's dark outside.

"With Newsweek!" he bursts out. He can't hold it in anymore. "With Life! With The Times, with The New Yorker, with this newspaper, and that journal, and this review, and that magazine, with this weekly, and that daily..." he sputters to a stop. " With the Ladies' Home Journal, for Christ's sake! Can you believe that?"

He asks because he can't believe it, he still can't believe it.

"About what?" she asks again, as if she had not asked before.

The words of her question wind out of the maze, unexpected and sudden.

"I have to talk to them," he says, in a still-too-loud voice that quickly rocks downward, cracks downward, slopes away from his control, "about what it's like to be back at work. They want to put me in their special section on survivors of traumatic events." He feels his nose twist a little, a sneer. "Or whatever."

She nods.

He can't understand what that means, the nodding, and it makes him annoyed again. Does it mean she agrees with him? Does it mean she's heard him? Or does it just mean she has a crick in her neck?

He doesn't understand what that means, and that lack of comprehension, the annoyance, and the dull mesh that he thinks his mind is caught in, make him feel compelled to continue.

"I mean, I didn't survive," he means for his voice to sound calm, and it is, it almost is. Except for the rocking, the cracking, the sloping, it almost is. "I didn't really survive. I was dead. It wasn't like I survived the accident. Because I didn't. I died. I didn't survive. I don't think I survived at all."

He has to swallow, he has to swallow the cracks in his voice, has to swallow the prickling feeling that he has, the prickling feeling that he has all the time now. And he has to try to ignore the burning in his eyes, the weight pressing down in his chest, the sweaty heat.

Her head tilts to the side. "You are alive," she states, not without inflection, but her tone is straight, a straight line.

He shakes his head, feels the prickling in his eyes, in his chest, in his leg. "No," he confesses, and he blinks away the prickling. "No, I'm not."

She doesn't say anything.

He looks at the carpet, he looks at the window, he looks at the door, at her neat suit, at her shoes, at the stillness of her body.

She is waiting. He knows this. She is waiting.

He keeps his eyes on the carpet. "I'm not me anymore," he says, and he hears the rocking, the sloping, the cracks, the prickling, and he hates his voice. "I'm not who I used to be anymore. I'm not who I thought I was. I didn't survive. I didn't survive at all." He looks up, only a glance. "Do you understand? Does that make sense? Do you understand that?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her nod, and he thinks...

He thinks the nod means that she understands. He hopes it means she understands, she sees, she comprehends and recognizes.

"Yes," she says, and he feels a relief so sudden, so sharp that he almost stops breathing. "Yes, I do."

***

"I'm not your friend, Seaborn."

I look at him, look at his eyes, and for a moment, for a second, everything feels simple, everything feels simple and the way it is supposed to feel.

He's right.

"No," I say, and I look at him, at his eyes, and I have to take a breath. It's getting late, and it's cooler now. "No, you're not."

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. He hesitates. "You should see someone, Seaborn," he says to me, and his voice is quiet.

He's right.

I nod. Up and down, once. "Yeah," I agree.

He bounces on his feet a little, and his hand taps on his leg a few times. "Trauma," he says, and his mouth quirks once, twice, "can make us rethink our priorities."

He's right.

"Yes," I agree again, and I have to look down because the sun is starting to set outside. It's in my eyes. "Yes, it can."

He walks around his desk and opens the top drawer. He takes out a piece of paper and a pen, writes something down.

He holds it out to me. I let go of the bottom of the case, grip the handle harder with my other hand to reach.

I take the paper.

"If you call her," he says, "she'll give you the number of someone you can talk to, I think."

I look at the paper, at the black ink, at the words.

"You should call," I hear him say.

I look up, squint at the reflection of the sun in window. "I will," I tell him, and I put the piece of paper in the right pocket of my pants.

He purses his lips for a moment, very quick, then he takes a breath. "It's getting late," he says.

He's right. I can't stay here forever. Toby will be outside, maybe Josh too, and that will be...

It's getting late, and I should go. It's time to go.

"Yeah," I respond, and my fingers are stiff from holding the case so tight. They're stiff, and they ache. I flex my right hand, use it to hold onto the chair as I stand up. I have to hold on; the case overbalances me on one side.

I stand up, I'm on my feet, and I want to nod at him, start to, but I don't finish the motion. It's late. I should go.

I start for the door.

"Seaborn."

I look to my left. He's there, next to me.

He looks down, points a finger.

"If you want," he says, and he's pointing at the laptop, "you can leave that here. If you want."

I look down, feel my gaze sloping downward, down my leg, and...

He's pointing at the laptop. I look at it, look at my hand around the handle, look at it hard.

"It's broken," I tell him.

He shrugs, but I can only see a hint of the motion. I'm still looking down.

"You should get a new one," he suggests.

He's right.

"Yeah," I say, and I watch my arm lift up a little, lift up and out, watch the laptop move away from my body. I watch him take it.

He walks back to his desk, holding it, and he places the case behind his desk, behind it and under it. It's gone.

He's right. It's broken, and I should get a new one, and it's late, and I should go.

The door is a few more steps away, but I hear him again, next to me.

I stop, one step from the door. I look at him. He's taller than me, only by a little, an inch maybe, and I have to look up.

"Thank you," I say.

He nods.

One more step.

The door opens. I can see the dark-clad man, the agent, to the side of the door, holding it open.

I walk through, feel the Vice-President step out behind me.

I look up, I look up because Toby and Josh are going to ask me –

"Sam."

I look up.

"Leo," Hoynes says. He takes another step, another step forward and to the right, in front of me.

Leo doesn't respond. He stands still, and he stares beyond Hoynes. He stares at me. Pale eyes, blue eyes, and –

"Seaborn here just came to tell me about his first day back at work," Hoynes says, and he clasps his hands behind his back. "I hear there was a party. I hear the cake was great. Sorry I couldn't make it, but..." and he waves his right hand a little, in front of me, "work to do and all that."

I nod. Up and down, stay down.

He's right.

Faintest hint of orange.

The carpet is blue, and Leo's shoes are black, shiny. I watch him take a step forward, watch his shoes press into the carpet.

"Sam," he says, and his voice is plain, even. He enunciates clearly, as if he's afraid I won't understand. "Toby's waiting for you in his office. He wants to brief you on farm aid."

I nod. Up and down and up, stay up.

He's right.

I take a step forward. I'm next to the Vice-President now.

He turns his head towards me. "Can you imagine?" he asks. "Leo came all the way over here to get you for a meeting."

He slaps my arm lightly.

"I guess they need you over there, Seaborn."

I nod. Up and down and up and down, and Leo isn't looking at me anymore, he isn't staring at me anymore. He's staring at him, at the Vice-President. "Yes," he says, still with that plain, even voice, "yes, we do."

Hoynes moves to the side, one step to the left. Leo is in front of me, waiting in front of the door to the suite.

Right. And left.

I take a step towards him. "I'm –"

Footsteps, loud and heavy and fast, and the space behind Leo is filled.

"Mr. Vice-President," one of the shapes says, loud voice, strident and clear, "Mr. Vice-President, I'm –"

I look up. Dark suit, blond hair, glasses, and a hand reaches towards me, taking mine and shaking it.

"Sam Seaborn." Senator Gillette smiles, teeth wide and white. "Sam Seaborn, it's good to see you back at work."

He's still shaking my hand, gripping it hard, clapping it with his other hand.

"Thank you, sir," I say to him, and he's taller than me, and I have to look up.

"You're a brave man, Sam," he says, "very brave. I admire you, you know that?"

I try to stretch my lips in a smile. His voice is loud, very loud.

"The way you survived," he continues, letting go of my hand, but standing in front of me, too close, "fought to come back, well...it's just a real example of dedication, Sam, dedication and strength and –"

"You know," the Vice-President says, and I can feel him step forward, next to me, and I can feel another shape behind me, on the other side, "Seaborn here was just leaving."

Hand on my shoulder. Hand on my shoulder, and I have to take a quick step to the left.

"...sort of dedication this country needs..." Gillette is still talking, still speaking.

"...has a meeting to go to..." The hand stays on my shoulder, gentle pressure moving me to the left, to the left, and Leo reaches out, grasps my arm.

The hand lets go of my shoulder. "It's been nice seeing you, Seaborn," the Vice-President says, and his voice is hurried. He hesitates. "You, uh...you know."

He gives me a thumb's up sign, smiles, tight, close-lipped, and fast. Then he takes Gillette's arm, steers him towards the office.

Leo is steering me towards the door, and the pressure on my arm is firm, constant.

I turn my head, try to shift to look at the Vice-President, and I can see Leo doing the same, see him nodding, up and down. Short and quick, and he is nodding at what is behind me, at someone behind me. His hand is on my arm, and I can't turn all the way.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

Fast, and we're almost at the door.

"Sir," I say, and Leo is still pushing, moving us both towards the door. I manage to stop, to turn some more. "Thank you, sir."

The Vice-President looks up, looks away from Gillette. "Yeah," he says, and his eyes shift to the side, to my left, to Leo. He hesitates, seems on the verge of saying something more. "Yeah."

He nods at me, at Leo, short and quick, and he walks into his office.

I watch the door close behind him, feel Leo steering me out the door, one more step, and we're out the door, past the dark-clad men outside the door, and I hear the door close behind us.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

The hand leaves my arm, no more tight grip. I look to my side, I look at Leo.

He's watching me, walking and watching me. "How are you, Sam?" he asks.

"Fine," I say. I take a breath. I almost stumbled when Leo pushed me out the door. "I'm fine."

I want to ask him about Toby, I want to ask him why he's here and why Toby's not, and I want to know why he was there, in Hoynes' office, nodding, and why he dragged me out of there.

We walk to the elevators, wait for one to come. The doors open, and we step inside, alone in the car.

"Are you okay?" he asks again, and his voice is still even, but gravelly, low. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I say. I look down at him, nod. "I'm fine."

"You're a little pale," he says.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer, a little louder now. I don't know what else to tell him.

It's hot in the elevator.

He looks at me, up and down, pauses, then looks up at me. "You forget anything in his office?" he asks. His face is blank, unreadable. "Because I can have someone pick up...whatever. If you forgot something, I can have someone go pick it up."

It's dim in the elevator, and I look at his face, see the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. They're deep, craggy, and he's waiting for me to answer his question.

"No," I say. I swallow. "I didn't forget anything there."

He stares at me for a moment. I wait.

There's a pinging sound, and I look up. Basement level.

The doors open. We step out.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

The tunnel is well lit, but it is close and drab, dark gray.

Leo is silent, walking next to me. His steps are measured and slow.

I wait.

Hand on my shoulder, and I look down.

"How's that laptop of yours working?" he asks, and the question is blatant, undisguised.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

Hand is on my shoulder. Slow footsteps next to me.

I look down at him. "It's broken," I say to him. I shrug. It's hard with his hand on my shoulder, and the movement is stunted. "It doesn't work."

He nods. Up and down and up and down, and it is just as measured as his footsteps. "I thought Toby had fixed it."

I try to shrug again, have to swallow when I can't move my arm out of his grasp. "I don't think he could," I lie, and it's easy to do, "I think it was just...it's just broken." I pause, feel his gaze on me, pale eyes, blue eyes, hard eyes, prickling on my face. "Can't fix everything," I finish lamely.

He's still staring at me.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

"I'll, uh," I start again, and we're almost at the end of the tunnel, almost at the other side, "I'll have to get a new one. I think."

Hand is still on my shoulder. Gentle squeeze, then he nods. Up and down and up and down, faster now. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, that's a good idea."

We walk through the West Entrance, pass the guard. Nod and smile, say hi again, yes, great party, thanks for coming, good to be back, see you later.

"It's getting late," Leo says. "Maybe you want to go home."

His hand drops off my shoulder when we get to the stairs. Slow going up, and I hold onto the banister with my right hand.

"What about the meeting with Toby?" I ask. The banister is wood, old wood, and it creaks as I take each step.

Leo shrugs. He stays next to me, matches my pace. "It can wait until tomorrow."

I look up, concentrate on the steps. They're not so bad. There are just a lot of them.

"It's okay," I tell him. More creaking, and the back of my neck feels hot, sweaty.

"Maybe you're tired," he says. "It's been a long day. Your first day back and all."

I can feel him watching me.

Right. And left. Right. And left. Faster.

"No," I say, and I shake my head, feel the air move against my face. "I'm fine."

We turn a corner, and we start up another flight.

Half-way up, and he's still watching me. "You're sure you're okay?" he asks. "With everything?"

Small shrug, and I suck my lips in, nod. I can feel my eyebrows go all the way up, can feel my eyes widen, waiting for him, waiting for him to...

I don't know.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

Almost at the top.

I turn my head, let out a breath. I look down at him. "Better to get it done," I say. "Better to get it done today."

His eyes have never left my face. "The farm aid thing?" he asks.

I nod. Quick motion. "Yeah," I answer. I don't know what I'm answering, I don't know what he's asking, and I can't tell if I'm doing this right, and he's still staring at me.

We're at the top, at the entrance to the West Wing.

"Okay," he agrees in a loose voice, easy voice. He shrugs, loose movement, easy movement. "Sounds good."

He takes a step, then shifts, turns around.

"You can come to me, you know," he says, and the looseness is gone, the easiness is gone. "About anything. It's okay."

I watch him, wait.

"You know that, right?" he asks.

I shrug, up and down once, awkward and stiff.

Pale eyes, blue eyes. "You got a problem, you come to me, okay?"

I shrug again, try to loosen up. "No problems. I don't have any problems."

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

He watches me, and I watch him, and we wait.

Stale air, long day, and it's warm in here.

He makes a short gesture, points his thumb behind him, "I'm going back to my office, have some work to do." He pauses, hesitates. "Door's open if you want to talk. About anything."

"Okay," I say.

"Okay," he agrees. He doesn't move.

I take a breath, swallow. "I should go."

He nods. "Yeah."

Right. And left. Right. And left.

I move beyond him.

Footsteps behind me, and I ignore them. Right turn, and left, and the Bullpen is crowded, move through the desks, turn here, right, and left, and Toby's door is open, and I can see him at his desk, see him staring at me.

Footsteps behind me.

I knock on the door. "So," I say, and I stay in the doorway. It's warm in his office, warm and the back of my neck still feels hot, and my shirt feels stiff. I pull at it a little, get it away from my skin for a moment. "Farm aid."

Toby looks at me, then looks behind me. He blinks, then I see his eyes shift from the side, from the point over my shoulder, back to me, and he nods.

"Farm aid," he says, and he moves away from his desk, moves to the chair next to the couch, motions for me to sit at the couch.

Right. And left.

I close the door behind me.

***

"Are you mad at them?" she asks.

"At who?" he asks back. He is stalling again.

"At your friends," she clarifies. She lets him stall. Sometimes, she lets him stall.

But he can't do it forever, he knows he can't do it forever, he can't stall forever. So he thinks about what she's asked him, waits for her words to settle into his mind. It's not so bad anymore, it doesn't take so long for her words to wind through the maze in his head, to disentangle themselves from the prickling feeling inside his head.

He's not looking at her. "I think so," he answers. "I think I am."

"Why?" she asks, and there is no pressure to the sound of her voice, no pressure for him to justify his feelings, no pressure in her voice, only sound.

Just a question, he thinks. Just a question, and it's no big deal, he thinks.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know why I'm angry at them."

She doesn't say anything. She waits.

He looks at her feet, at the way her feet are crossed at the ankles. He thinks she knows he is lying. He wonders when he became so obvious, hopes he is not so obvious, so undisguised all the time.

He thinks Hoynes was right, and he is a crap-ass liar, or he has become one since the accident.

Or maybe he was never a good liar, an excellent liar, like he thought he was. Maybe he never was at all.

He sighs.

"They shouldn't have sent me there," he says, keeping his voice just above the stillness of the room. "It was wrong. I didn't want to go, and I said it was the wrong thing to do." He looks up, wants to look at her, almost looks at her. "I told them that," he tells her. "I told them it was the wrong thing to do. They should have listened to me. They shouldn't have sent me there."

"To Michigan?"

"Yes," he says, and he nods, up and down, once, "to Michigan."

She tilts her head, and he moves his gaze away, doesn't let her see his eyes. She lets him do this, and he stares at the window and is grateful for that.

"Do you think they don't listen to you very often?" she asks. Her voice is quiet, in a straight line.

He stares at the window for a minute, waits for the words to make sense, and when they do, he feels his lips move, half-quirk into a smile, a grin. He knows what she is asking, and what she isn't asking.

She's not asking if they listen to him, she is not asking if that is the actual fact of the matter. It isn't the matter, and it doesn't matter. It doesn't make a difference.

She is asking him if he thinks they listen to him.

What he thinks. Not what is. Not what really is. Because he doesn't know, does he?

No, he thinks, he doesn't know at all. He only knows what he sees, what he thinks, the feeling, the sound, the sight of his own reactions. He can't know what really is. He can only know what he thinks.

"I don't know what to think," he says. He pries his gaze away from the window, looks back at her. "I don't know what I think." He swallows, feels the prickling and swallows again. "I can't trust what I think."

"Do you trust them?" she asks, and the straight line curves up at the end.

Does he...

It is an important question, he knows that, and he has to think about it. He has been thinking about it. All the time, he has thought about it.

Think, thinking, thought...

Constant and unremitting, those words skip through the maze, fast and furious, because they are so familiar, so close.

It doesn't matter how close they are, though. They still don't make any sense.

"I don't know," he admits.

The light outside the window is dimming. He thinks it is getting late.

She nods.

He starts to wonder what that means again, what the nodding means, then he dismisses it. Doesn't matter. Whatever it means, it means that she's heard him. And that's good enough. It should be good enough.

"I think," he starts, and he hears the cracking, the rocking and sloping in his voice, but he can't do anything about it, "I think that they don't listen to me sometimes. Sometimes, I think that. And sometimes, I think they lie to me. They've lied to me. Sometimes."

She nods. She's heard him.

"Does that make you angry?" she asks.

He feels his mouth twist down, feels the prickling in his eyes. "Yes," he says, and the cracking is deep. "Yes, it does. It makes me very angry."

"Why do you think they don't listen to you, why do you think they've lied to you sometimes?"

Why does he think...

He has to think. He has been thinking. He has thought.

"Because," he says, "I'm not what I'm supposed to be."

"What are you supposed to be?" she asks, straight line, steady line.

"A politician," he answers. He knows the answer, it is easy. "I am not a politician. Not really."

"What are you?"

"I don't know anymore."

"What were you before?"

"A student. I was good at that. A lawyer. I was good at that too," he lists. There is silence for a moment, heavy. "But mostly...mostly, I thought I was their friend."

"Do you think friends always listen to each other?" she asks.

"I think they should," he says, and his voice is quiet. "I wish they would. But no, I don't think they do."

"Do you think friends should always be honest with each other?" she asks.

He looks up, looks up at her, at her eyes, and he lets out a breath. He doesn't answer. He looks surprised, incredulous.

"I don't know," he says.

***

"Good evening, Mr. Seaborn." The doorman steps forward, holds the door open, and it swings in a wide arc, out of my way.

"Hello," I say to him.

Right. And left.

I step inside, inside my apartment building. The doorman holds the door while I step through, while I step inside.

"Thank you." I nod at him, up and down, short.

"No problem, sir," he replies. "Joshua Lyman is waiting for you, sir. He said it was important, and he's on your permanent guest list, so I let him in."

I stop walking, turn around. "I have a guest list?"

"Yes, sir. All residents do. Family, that sort of thing."

"Oh," I say. "I didn't know that." I pause and think. "When did I make up my guest list? I don't remember making up a guest list."

The guard shifts, nods, and he lowers his eyes, nods, lowers his eyes, looks down. "Yes, sir," he says, "it was made when your apartment was first rented. You weren't here yet, I think."

He's right. I wasn't here yet. I was still in Virginia, I was still...

My parents found an apartment for me, arranged the lease. Toby helped them find a place for me, ground floor, no stairs, close to work, doorman, wide halls, carpeting, cleaning service –

"Uh...Mr. Ziegler, you know," he clears his throat and starts again, and he looks up at my chest, my chin, not my eyes, "Mr. Ziegler made up your guest list for you."

Of course he did. Of course.

"...want to change it?..."

I look up, shake my head. "No," I say, "it's okay. Thanks."

Right. And left. Right. And left.

Josh hears me coming, he hears me as I walk down the hall from the lobby, and he looks up, shoves himself away from the wall next to my door.

"Hey," he greets me. His smile is loose, too loose, and easy, too easy.

He has no tact.

I nod at him. "Hi," I reply. I stick my hands in my pockets, hunt around for my keys. "What are you doing here?"

He reaches into his coat, pulls out a keychain. "I got it," he says, and he keeps the smile plastered on his face. "I'll get it."

He inserts the key in the lock, starts to turn it.

"How did you get a key to my apartment?" I ask him.

He looks up, mid-turn, and his wrist is tilted, slanted. The smile is loose, looser now. "There were a few copies, you know, figured you'd want me to have one," he says. "And hey, don't you have a key to my place? You have a key to my place, I think, right?"

He's right.

"Yeah," I tell him. "I do. I think I do."

He twists the key, and there is a click.

"...always a good idea...exchange keys with..."

He stands to the side, lets me enter first.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

"...someone you trust..."

It's dark in here.

I reach over to turn on the lights. There's a flicker, and then they're on.

Right. And left. Right. And left.

"...a friend or you know..."

I take off my coat, hang it up. I turn around. "What are you doing here, Josh?"

He stops talking, and he holds up his hand, signaling for me to wait. He goes back into the hall, bends down, picks something up, something that crinkles.

He enters again, shoves the door shut behind him. He holds a white plastic bag. "I was down in the mess, uh, today, and I found out they had some leftover cake," he says, and the smile is still there, constant. "You know, from your party this afternoon." The smile grows looser, wider. "Thought we could have some. Celebrate your first day back."

I stare at him. "You came over here to bring me cake?" I ask, and it sounds rude the way I say it, rude and without tact, I think, but it's Josh, and so maybe it doesn't matter, maybe it's no big deal.

I stand near the wall that separates my bedroom from the rest of the apartment. I wish I hadn't thought that, I wish I hadn't thought that about Josh, that I could stop thinking that about him, that I could lose those words, hide them.

The smile holds steady on his face, no reaction to my tone of voice, to my question. He nods, up and down, and up and down, and up and down.

"Yeah," he says, "you know, because I didn't get to go the party, because I was Mary Marsh all day," and he rolls his eyes, shakes his head, shrugs, nods, and his right hand tightens around the bag, gesture after gesture, "and I felt bad about that, I mean, because I wanted to go, I wanted to be there, and –"

"There's plates and stuff in the kitchen," I interrupt him, point across the living room. "Help yourself."

He holds up the bag, holds it up in one hand, and he smiles. "Don't you want any?" he asks. "I hear it's good, I hear it's –"

"It tastes like orange," I tell him. No, those are the wrong words, the wrong ones, I used different words before, and they were...

I don't remember. They're lost. The right words are lost. Stupid.

I rub my hand over my eyes.

"Sam?" There is more crinkling, loud and sudden. "Sam, are you okay?"

I look up.

The white bag is on the coffeetable, and Josh is in front of it, stepping in front of the table, the couch, stepping in front of the television, and he's coming towards me. The smile is gone, erased now.

"I'm fine," I tell him. I tell him so he'll stop moving. He doesn't, and I hold out my hand, wave it. "I'm going to take a shower."

He stops a few feet in front of me.

"Don't you want some cake?" he asks, and the smile is back, smaller now.

I shake my head. "I'm not hungry," I say. "You go ahead."

He shrugs, nods, smiles, too many gestures, and they're hard to follow.

"Okay," he says. He licks his lips, and his jaw twitches. "I'll be in here," his right hand jerks backward, "I'll be in here, just, you know, and maybe you'll want some cake when you get out, you know?"

I start to turn around, start to turn into the door of my bedroom. "Maybe," I respond.

The bedroom is dark. I turn on the lights, close the door behind me. I can hear Josh, small steps outside, short steps, and they're not moving in the direction of the kitchen.

Right. And left.

I stop at the dresser, empty my pockets, put my wallet on the dresser, then I open a drawer, take out a t-shirt and some old sweatpants.

They're moving in the opposite direction, moving towards my room.

Right. And left.

I close the drawer, walk into the bathroom.

There are no more steps, no more sounds outside.

Right. And left.

It's dark in there too, and I turn on the lights, close the door.

He's standing outside my room, outside my door, I think.

Right. And left.

I turn on the shower, make it hot, and I take off my tie.

Probably listening, probably listening to make sure I don't have a problem, like if I fell, a problem like that.

Right. And left.

I step back towards the door, take off the rest of my clothes, and I can hear the door to my bedroom creak open, I can hear Josh open it a little.

Right. And left.

There's steam in the bathroom, and I don't know why he thinks he has to listen, why he thinks I'll have a problem.

Right. And left.

I step towards the shower, open the glass door, and I look at the metal bar that goes around the perimeter of the shower, the metal bar that was installed, so I could use it to balance.

I mean, what kind of a problem could I possibly have now, and he probably thinks I'll fall.

Right. And left.

I put my hand on the wall above the bar, use the wall to balance, not the bar, and I step into the shower, and close the door.

Everyone probably thinks I'm going to fall down, fall right over, they probably think I'll fall, and I'll never, ever get back up, ever again.

I feel the hot water hit my face first, my head, feel my hair pushed back from the water, feel the water run down to my chest, and down, down.

I look down, watch the water, run down my legs, down my leg, down my left leg, watch the water run down the path of the long scar, the long, deep scar on my leg, the scar that goes from the middle of my thigh to my shin, watch the water run into the long, deep crevice made by the scar on my leg.

I look at the bar, silver and shiny, and I think about how it's there to help me balance, how it's there to hold onto.

I look at the white tile above and below the bar, and I think of the last time I had a woman with me in my bathroom, with me in my shower, with me in my bedroom, and the last time was when I was in my old apartment, the old apartment I had a long time ago, an interminable time ago.

I look at my leg, and I think that it'll be hard to have a woman with me in my shower now, because of the bar, and there's not a lot of room for more than one person, and if I have to hold onto the bar, if I'm supposed to hold onto the bar, how will I be able to hold onto anything else, anyone else?

I look at the scar on my leg, and I think it probably won't matter, because who would want be with me anyway, with me, with my scar, with my limp, with me when I walk slowly, with me when I hate that, when I hate everything, when I hate everything about me, and this isn't me, this wasn't supposed to be me, this shouldn't be me.

I look at the water, and I close my eyes, and I feel the water on my face, I feel the water, only the water, and I don't think about the anything else but that, only the water, and it's only water, not anything else on my face, not anything else but water, prickling, burning water in my eyes, only water, nothing else, nothing else, nothing else...

I feel the water on my face, and I rub my face with my left hand, and I feel the grimace on my face, the grimace that means it's not just water on my face, it's tears, and I'm crying, and I hate it, I hate it, I hate this, I hate my leg, I hate the scar, I hate the limp, I hate me, and I don't understand why this happened to me, and...

I keep my left hand on my face, covering it, hiding it, and I have to hold onto the bar with my other hand, my right hand, because I'm crying so hard that I think I'll fall down.

"...Sam?..."

I take my left hand off my face, and I hold onto the bar now with both hands.

"...Sam?..."

I look up, look away from the bar, from my leg.

"...Sam?..."

Josh is knocking on the door, calling my name.

I take a breath, and I swallow, I swallow the prickling, the burning, and I have to take another breath, swallow again before the prickling and the burning are pushed back.

"What?" I call out.

"Uh..." He hesitates now. "I can't find the forks."

I take one hand off the bar, turn off the water.

"They're in the drawer," I call out. "The drawer next to the microwave."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot," he calls in. "You okay?"

I keep my right hand on the bar, holding it, holding onto it.

"Yeah," I call out. "I'm fine."

"Okay," he calls in. "Okay."

I hear steps, footsteps, receding, back through my bedroom, away.

I use the bar to help me step out of the shower. I towel off, dress, watch the steam drip off the mirror above the sink, and I look in it.

My face is red, my neck too.

I wipe the towel over my hair, take a breath, swallow, and I drop the towel into the hamper. Tomorrow, the cleaning service will come by, the cleaning service that my parents arranged for, that Toby helped them find, the cleaning service will come, and they'll do my laundry.

The light switch is next to the door, and I flip the lights off, leave the door open to let the steam evaporate, and I enter my bedroom.

Right. And left.

I'm going to fire the cleaning service tomorrow.

Right. And left.

I walk past the dresser, past my bed, and there's my door, half-way open, and Josh doesn't have any...

Right. And left.

He never did.

Right. And left.

I open the door wider, and I walk through. It doesn't matter.

Right. And left.

Josh looks up at me from the couch. The television is on, but it's muted, no sound.

"Hey," he says. He holds up a plate with a piece of cake on it, holds up a fork. "Found a fork."

I nod, up and down, once. "Good," I say.

All the lights are on, in the living room and in the kitchen, all the lights are on.

"You want some?" he asks. He puts the plate and the fork down, starts to get up. "There's some more left."

I shake my head. "I'm not hungry," I tell him.

His coat is draped over the back of the couch.

He doesn't pay attention, doesn't listen to me, and he stays half-sitting, half-standing. "It's good," he says. "Tastes kind of like orange." He smiles, loose, easy, wide. "You sure don't want some?"

"I'm sure," I say.

I look behind him, glance behind him to the windows in the living room.

"You want something to drink?" he asks. He picks up a mug off the table in front of the couch.

"Not thirsty," I tell him.

They're shut, the windows are shut, and the blinds are down, and the curtains are drawn.

"Talk about a long day," he says. "Mary Marsh is such a bitch."

I can smell coffee, and I look at the mug in his hand, the mug in his right hand.

"...whining about school prayer again, and she says to me..."

He made coffee, and it's late now, and he's drinking coffee, and the windows are shut, and the blinds on the windows are down, and the curtains are closed.

"...and so I tell her...completely unrealistic..."

He thinks I'm going to punch my hand through a window, he thinks I'm going to walk over to a window and punch my right hand through a window, just like him, just like he did last year.

"...got that look on her face...you know...always gets when we argue and..."

That's what he thinks, and so he's here at my apartment, he's eating cake, he's shut the windows, closed the blinds, drawn the curtains, and he's drinking coffee because he's going to try to stay up all night to make sure I don't punch my hand through a window or do something worse.

"...and then she just did that smirking thing...I hate that..."

Well, maybe he's right.

"...kept me there all day...couldn't believe..."

He's still talking, hasn't stopped talking, won't stop talking.

"I'm tired," I say. "I'm going to bed."

The smile loosens, widens, goes round, goes round into a yawn. He sucks in some air. "Man," he says, "I'm tired too. Long day. You mind if I crash here on your couch?"

I shrug. The muscles in my back feel relaxed from the heat of the shower, not stiff like they were before.

"Sure," I tell him. "No big deal."

The smile is frozen. "Thanks," he says. "Thanks."

I nod, up and down. "Good night," I say.

"Good night," he says. "Sleep, you know, well and all that."

He smiles again.

I turn around.

Right. And left.

I walk back into my bedroom, and I shut the door behind me.

Right. And left.

I pull back the covers, the comforter and the sheet, pull them down to the edge of the bed.

Right. And left.

I face my back to the bed, sit down, sit down in that careful way they taught me at the rehab center, that careful way to sit down, so I don't jar my leg.

I sit down on the bed, reach in front of me and turn off the light from the lamp on the stand next to my bed, and I sit there until my eyes adjust to the dark, until the only light I see is from the clock on the bedstand and the streetlights outside the window of my bedroom.

Then I lie down, and I turn on my side, and I stare at the clock.