what's under your nose: that was the best response to fear, always. And the most difficult.
Mr. Clean had gotten himself wedged halfway under Roberta's ancient Naugahyde recliner. He jerked his legs spasmodically, trying to get free. With each spasm, Meredith whimpered. Well. Everyone knew she was bot-phobic; she certainly had cause. She must not have noticed the sponge bots in the dark hallway downstairs. Or maybe she had, and that was part of why she'd been screaming. "It's okay," Roberta said with a sigh. "Don't worry, I'll turn the bot off" She bent, retrieved Mr. Clean, and flicked his off switch. "There. No more bot. Bot all gone. It's sleeping now, and I'm going to put it in this drawer, okay? It won't hurt you."
Once Mr. Clean was hidden, Meredith's whimpering subsided. Roberta closed her eyes for a moment and felt the room spin. She had to get some rest before she passed out. She'd deal with all of this tomorrow. "Listen, I have to go to sleep now. I'm leaving you the water pitcher and the aspirin. Bathroom to your left, kitchen straight ahead, help yourself to what you need. Okay? Anything else?"
The stranger nodded and used her index finger to pantomime writing. Roberta, too exhausted even to fetch a pad and pencil, considered saying, "You've already screamed, into my telephone, so what are you worried about?" It occurred to her, with a deepening of doom, that if Sergei hadn't been listening to every single thing that happened in her apartment before, he certainly would be now. He might get suspicious if he didn't hear Roberta asking a lot of questions, and he was suspicious enough already. "We'll talk tomorrow, when we're both less tired," Roberta said loudly, and held a finger to her lips. Meredith pantomimed writing again.
Right. Paper and pad it was. Roberta reeled across the room, her legs wobbling beneath her, and fetched the tools. She scrawled, Are you Meredith? and passed the pad to her guest, who printed her response in neat block letters.
YES. I'M SORRY. I KEEP MESSING UP YOUR LIFE.
Sorry? Sorry didn't even come close. Fighting a rush of rage, Roberta snatched the pad back and scribbled, Where did you go? Why did you come back? Why did you come here?
LONG STORIES.
Do you know where Nicholas is?
NO. DO YOU?
Of course not. You think they tell ME anything? Do you know where Fred is?
NEVER KNEW THAT. NEVER KNEW ANYTHING. I'M SORRY.
Fat chance. You always knew more than you ever let on, bitch. What happened to your face?
LONG STORY. BREAKDOWN. PENANCE MAYBE? Roberta, craning to read the words as Meredith wrote them, choked and almost spoke aloud, but bit back the words. Penance? It would take a lot more than a bunch of keloid scars, no matter how hideous, to make up for what Meredith had done.
I should have chewed her out in the hospital the last time I saw her. I should have let her know just how much damage she'd done. I would have, if Nicholas hadn't been there. I copped out. I bought the woundedmommy line and let myself feel sorry for her. Talk about inappropriate compassion!
Meredith was still writing, the pencil moving jaggedly across the paper. STORIES TOMORROW. TIRED NOW. WORRIED ABOUT K. SHOULDN'T HAVE CALLED HIM. GOT SCARED. GUESS I'M A FUCKUP.
Robertajust nodded. Yes, Merry, you are a fuckup. Meredith, to her astonishment and disgust, managed a wan smile and continued scribbling, the neat letters growing progressively sloppier. TRUE FACT. G'NIGHT. THX CARRYING ME UPSTAIRS.
You're not welcome, Roberta thought. She didn't bother to write anything, just nodded curtly and then turned and dragged herself into the bedroom, her muscles screaming. It seemed to take forever to reach her bed, forever to fall face forward onto it. No: She was still cold. She was still wearing wet clothing. She had to get up; she had to change into something dry. She couldn't
Mr. Clean had gotten himself wedged halfway under Roberta's ancient Naugahyde recliner. He jerked his legs spasmodically, trying to get free. With each spasm, Meredith whimpered. Well. Everyone knew she was bot-phobic; she certainly had cause. She must not have noticed the sponge bots in the dark hallway downstairs. Or maybe she had, and that was part of why she'd been screaming. "It's okay," Roberta said with a sigh. "Don't worry, I'll turn the bot off" She bent, retrieved Mr. Clean, and flicked his off switch. "There. No more bot. Bot all gone. It's sleeping now, and I'm going to put it in this drawer, okay? It won't hurt you."
Once Mr. Clean was hidden, Meredith's whimpering subsided. Roberta closed her eyes for a moment and felt the room spin. She had to get some rest before she passed out. She'd deal with all of this tomorrow. "Listen, I have to go to sleep now. I'm leaving you the water pitcher and the aspirin. Bathroom to your left, kitchen straight ahead, help yourself to what you need. Okay? Anything else?"
The stranger nodded and used her index finger to pantomime writing. Roberta, too exhausted even to fetch a pad and pencil, considered saying, "You've already screamed, into my telephone, so what are you worried about?" It occurred to her, with a deepening of doom, that if Sergei hadn't been listening to every single thing that happened in her apartment before, he certainly would be now. He might get suspicious if he didn't hear Roberta asking a lot of questions, and he was suspicious enough already. "We'll talk tomorrow, when we're both less tired," Roberta said loudly, and held a finger to her lips. Meredith pantomimed writing again.
Right. Paper and pad it was. Roberta reeled across the room, her legs wobbling beneath her, and fetched the tools. She scrawled, Are you Meredith? and passed the pad to her guest, who printed her response in neat block letters.
YES. I'M SORRY. I KEEP MESSING UP YOUR LIFE.
Sorry? Sorry didn't even come close. Fighting a rush of rage, Roberta snatched the pad back and scribbled, Where did you go? Why did you come back? Why did you come here?
LONG STORIES.
Do you know where Nicholas is?
NO. DO YOU?
Of course not. You think they tell ME anything? Do you know where Fred is?
NEVER KNEW THAT. NEVER KNEW ANYTHING. I'M SORRY.
Fat chance. You always knew more than you ever let on, bitch. What happened to your face?
LONG STORY. BREAKDOWN. PENANCE MAYBE? Roberta, craning to read the words as Meredith wrote them, choked and almost spoke aloud, but bit back the words. Penance? It would take a lot more than a bunch of keloid scars, no matter how hideous, to make up for what Meredith had done.
I should have chewed her out in the hospital the last time I saw her. I should have let her know just how much damage she'd done. I would have, if Nicholas hadn't been there. I copped out. I bought the woundedmommy line and let myself feel sorry for her. Talk about inappropriate compassion!
Meredith was still writing, the pencil moving jaggedly across the paper. STORIES TOMORROW. TIRED NOW. WORRIED ABOUT K. SHOULDN'T HAVE CALLED HIM. GOT SCARED. GUESS I'M A FUCKUP.
Robertajust nodded. Yes, Merry, you are a fuckup. Meredith, to her astonishment and disgust, managed a wan smile and continued scribbling, the neat letters growing progressively sloppier. TRUE FACT. G'NIGHT. THX CARRYING ME UPSTAIRS.
You're not welcome, Roberta thought. She didn't bother to write anything, just nodded curtly and then turned and dragged herself into the bedroom, her muscles screaming. It seemed to take forever to reach her bed, forever to fall face forward onto it. No: She was still cold. She was still wearing wet clothing. She had to get up; she had to change into something dry. She couldn't
Similar Books
