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Authors: Jessica Warman
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everything within the restaurant, ornate Chinese lampshang from a stained drop ceiling. Small tables fill the room. An old Asian man shuffles around them. He carries an armful of vases, each one holding a brightly colored flower. He stops at each table to place a vase on the center. His actions are precarious and slow, and when I take a closer look, I see why he’s struggling to do something so simple: he only has one hand. The bottom half of his left arm is completely gone, the empty sleeve flapping uselessly as he works.
The little girl turns her head to follow my gaze. Her lips curl into an amused grin. “That’s Mr. Lee. He’s called Freaky Lee. Know what he does? Has his wife massage his arm that ain’t there. He says it aches all the time. Even though it’s gone.” She pauses, shades her eyes to peer at the sky, and doesn’t say anything else.
It’s like I’ve slipped into some other world, where nothing fully makes sense and the most random things seem significant. Why is this little girl telling me about a one-armed man right now? Her comment spooks me, as I think of my sister and our connection, which throbs with such clarity despite her absence. I’m wasting time. I should go.
Without another word to the girl, I put my window up and drive away, leaving her behind in the cold. After a few blocks, I make the left onto Willow Circle and go down the brick-paved street until I park in front of a small white house. I’m here. Finally.
His door is unlocked. I don’t bother knocking.
Robin sits calmly on his orange sofa, smoking an unfiltered cigarette and watching television. He is hunched overwith his elbows on his knees, wearing his usual jeans and white shirt. His hair is damp, like he’s just taken a shower.
Robin stares at me in his doorway. He puts a hand to his mouth, gazing at me with shock and concern. “What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?” He stands up and hurries toward me.
“What?” I ask, confused, trying not to panic even as a creeping sense of dread spreads through me.
What now?
I think.
“Your face.” He’s so close to me that I can feel his breath warming the air between us. When he touches me, I flinch as his fingers brush my right cheek. I cannot stop myself from closing my eyes. I don’t breathe. It is as though I can sense every groove in his fingertips, which are callused and tough from so many hours spent stretching canvas and gripping paintbrushes. There is usually paint in his hair and on his clothing, but not today. Despite his freshly scrubbed appearance, he smells like the turpentine he uses to clean his brushes.
“What’s wrong with my face?” I ask, my eyes still closed.
He moves his hands to my shoulders and pivots my body to face a small round mirror hanging on the wall beside the door. “Look.”
I don’t know whether to scream or cry or both. I have two black eyes.
As I stare at my reflection, an ache begins to spread across my face. “What happened?” Robin asks again.
I hesitate. I know exactly what’s going on. But if I’mgoing to explain it to him right now, I have to start at the beginning.
“Would you answer me?” he persists. “Who did this to you?”
I don’t answer. Turning around, I stare past him. Above the sofa, a large painting of a female nude, her form depicted in dark sepia tones, hangs from the wall. The girl’s arms are outstretched, her legs folded into a V-shape and pointing to one side. The details are sketchy enough that, at a glance, a person might not even understand what they were looking at.
The painting took several hours. It was done in one sitting, on a dreary Thursday morning last spring, when I should have been in school. Instead, I was here. The girl in the painting is me.
“Robin,” I begin, “nobody hurt me. Not really. That’s why I’m here, though—I need to talk to you. Something bad is happening.” I pause, my thoughts swirling, unsure exactly how to begin, so afraid that he might not
The little girl turns her head to follow my gaze. Her lips curl into an amused grin. “That’s Mr. Lee. He’s called Freaky Lee. Know what he does? Has his wife massage his arm that ain’t there. He says it aches all the time. Even though it’s gone.” She pauses, shades her eyes to peer at the sky, and doesn’t say anything else.
It’s like I’ve slipped into some other world, where nothing fully makes sense and the most random things seem significant. Why is this little girl telling me about a one-armed man right now? Her comment spooks me, as I think of my sister and our connection, which throbs with such clarity despite her absence. I’m wasting time. I should go.
Without another word to the girl, I put my window up and drive away, leaving her behind in the cold. After a few blocks, I make the left onto Willow Circle and go down the brick-paved street until I park in front of a small white house. I’m here. Finally.
His door is unlocked. I don’t bother knocking.
Robin sits calmly on his orange sofa, smoking an unfiltered cigarette and watching television. He is hunched overwith his elbows on his knees, wearing his usual jeans and white shirt. His hair is damp, like he’s just taken a shower.
Robin stares at me in his doorway. He puts a hand to his mouth, gazing at me with shock and concern. “What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?” He stands up and hurries toward me.
“What?” I ask, confused, trying not to panic even as a creeping sense of dread spreads through me.
What now?
I think.
“Your face.” He’s so close to me that I can feel his breath warming the air between us. When he touches me, I flinch as his fingers brush my right cheek. I cannot stop myself from closing my eyes. I don’t breathe. It is as though I can sense every groove in his fingertips, which are callused and tough from so many hours spent stretching canvas and gripping paintbrushes. There is usually paint in his hair and on his clothing, but not today. Despite his freshly scrubbed appearance, he smells like the turpentine he uses to clean his brushes.
“What’s wrong with my face?” I ask, my eyes still closed.
He moves his hands to my shoulders and pivots my body to face a small round mirror hanging on the wall beside the door. “Look.”
I don’t know whether to scream or cry or both. I have two black eyes.
As I stare at my reflection, an ache begins to spread across my face. “What happened?” Robin asks again.
I hesitate. I know exactly what’s going on. But if I’mgoing to explain it to him right now, I have to start at the beginning.
“Would you answer me?” he persists. “Who did this to you?”
I don’t answer. Turning around, I stare past him. Above the sofa, a large painting of a female nude, her form depicted in dark sepia tones, hangs from the wall. The girl’s arms are outstretched, her legs folded into a V-shape and pointing to one side. The details are sketchy enough that, at a glance, a person might not even understand what they were looking at.
The painting took several hours. It was done in one sitting, on a dreary Thursday morning last spring, when I should have been in school. Instead, I was here. The girl in the painting is me.
“Robin,” I begin, “nobody hurt me. Not really. That’s why I’m here, though—I need to talk to you. Something bad is happening.” I pause, my thoughts swirling, unsure exactly how to begin, so afraid that he might not
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