command, getting mad at myself for thinking she’d be any better at this than me.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You jam a knife in a lock and it’s nothing? What are you stealing?”
“Fuck!” I remark, frustrated with the drawer. “Nothing that concerns you.”
She tries to help me again, but in the end we have to give up because it’s too risky with staff around.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I warn her. It comes out as a threat.
“Obviously,” Rachel snaps back.
We head back downstairs.
“What did you take?” she asks, following close behind me. “The petty cash?”
“No. A piece of paper.”
“Paper? What kind of paper? Why would you steal a piece of paper?”
I want to tell her about Michael. If she knew I only wanted a telephone number, I wouldn’t look like such a criminal. But I’ve been a little wary of Rachel lately. In fact, I’ve been suspicious of a lot of people at work. I know people can tell I smoke weed sometimes on my breaks. I can tell by the whispers. And they’re not talking to me so much anymore. Even one of the veterinarians hinted I should get some perfume when I walked by her after smoking a blunt on a break.
“Just forget it. And don’t tell anyone,” I warn her.
Thirty-One
I sit on my bed and look at the script I’ve written out. I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous.
I cut class this morning so I could call Michael’s mom from my room. My idea is to tell her I’m calling from the clinic. I’ll say Accounting realized they owe him one more cheque and they have some questions to ask him before they process it. Then I’ll get his number.
A woman answers the phone. “Hello?” It’s strange to hear her voice. She sounds old. I imagine this anorexic lady with long brownish hair framing Michael’s face.
I try to make my voice professional.“Yes. Hello. This is Becky Jarvis? I’m calling from Willow Animal Clinic, where Michael was employed? Accounting has noticed that they might owe him one more cheque? We are wondering if you could give us his number, so we could ask him some questions?”
“Oh,” she says, pausing a moment. “Well. Michael isn’t in town. He’s away for a bit. I don’t really have a number for him. But if I take your number, I can have him call you.”
“Where is he?” I blurt out.
“He’s in Chicago.”
“Why is he there?” I ask.
“Pardon me?”
“I mean, he left so quickly. No one expected it …”
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
Breathe. “Becky. From Accounting.”
Her tone changes. “Becky. Let me take your number and he’ll call you.”
“Forget it,” I say abruptly, and hang up.
Thoughts race through my mind. I was hoping he was in a coma somewhere. Or locked up in a mental institution. In jail, or maybe even dead. But Chicago is just a phone call away. Chicago is so close.
A thought occurs to me. They call it an epiphany, “a sudden intuitive leap of understanding.” And just like the definition says, my epiphany truly is sudden. It’s stark and sharp and takes my breath away. It is a leap, a plunge into a black reality ending with a skull-breaking smack against hard concrete when I land.
He’s not coming back to me.
I sit on the floor, my back against the bed, cradle the phone in my lap, and curl over to bury my head in my arms. I feel my face contort and pull and squeeze. I don’t know what I’m doing, something between a scream and a cry. My mouth is open, there are tears, but it’s silent. And then … a huge gasp of air and I let it all go. It seems impossible to shed so much water from a seemingly dry body.
I feel like I’ve broken more than my heart. A rib? A lung? A muscle in my jaw? A tear duct?
I’m more sad than I was the day I found out Michael left me. Because that day there was uncertainty. And that meant there was hope. A possibility of misunderstanding or misinterpretation or misinformation.
But now there is a clear answer.
After some time, I get up off my bedroom floor and wander aimlessly around the room. I don’t know what to do. I walk over to my bed, then turn and walk over to my desk, then turn and walk over to my closet and then over to the window. I’m in a daze. My face feels numb and puffy.
Even though it’s a crappy, grey, cold day, I