#12
           
There are 3 ways I can see this night ending:

1. A burglar breaks in and swipes whatever valuables he can find. Basically, that means the Playstation and the pyramid of HBO box sets in the corner.  He ends up assaulting me for wasting his time.

2.  I get attacked by the ghost of Mario Martinez, the man who was murdered here 30 years ago.  The murderer shot him for less than a mound of DVDs.  Just one paycheck.  And the killer was never caught.  The only reason I know all this is because my roommate’s aunt is a policewoman and she looked into it for him.  Because he begged.  Gordon’s morbid that way.

3.  Someone rings the doorbell and wants to talk.

I think I’d prefer 2, but 3 it is.

Tonight it’s Nadia.

I’m not surprised.  I’m also not looking forward to this one.

“Can we talk?” she says, and steps through the threshold, arms crossed.

“I actually have a date,” I say.  “If I don’t leave now, I’m gonna be late.”  I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.  I feel stupid already.
           
“This is important,” she says, on my couch.  She’s talking to the spot where she wants me to sit.  Like I’m already there.
           
“Couldn’t we do this on the phone?  Tomorrow?”
           
“This is too important for the phone.”
           
I sigh.  “I see.”
           
“I drove all the way out here to talk to you.  Thirty minutes.  The least you can do is give me a minute of your time.”
           
The least I can do is scramble out the door, the building, and hide behind a garbage bin until she goes away.  But that hasn’t worked for me yet.
           
“Fine,” I say.
           
Since I don’t join her on the couch where I obviously belong, she approaches me.  She’s more than my sister right now, even if she doesn’t know it.  She’s my past catching up to me. 

She’s #12.

“Look,” she says, and when Nadia says, “Look,” what she means is, “I know how to fix all your problems if you just shut up and listen to me for once.”

“This morning, Greg and I were sitting on the couch,” she says.  “We were watching Svetlana play with a little toy xylophone.  Me and Greg, you know we’ve been married for seven years.  Out of the blue, on that couch, he held my hand.  That little thing, combined with every other wonderful little thing in my life, flooded into me like … well, I don’t know what it was like.  It was like nothing else.  I was this close to pure joy.”  And she holds her index fingers side by side, in front of her nose.

“Congratulations,” I say.  She probably thinks I’m being sarcastic.  Maybe I even sound sarcastic.  But I’m happy for her.

“The point is,” she says.  “I couldn’t reach that pure joy, because of you.”

 And that little thing, combined with every other little thing she’s ever said to me, almost floods out of me in tears.  Instead, I say, I crackle, “Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”  She puts a hand on my shoulder.  A move I’m sure she learned from Full House or some other TV show back in the 80s.  “I just … I mean, I think you should go to church.”

“I thought we save this conversation for Christmas.  It’s only June.”

“This is different.”  She crosses her arms again, blocking her heart.  “I realized, during that moment on the couch with Greg, that I’ll never be able to feel completely happy.  Not now.  Not ever.  Not even in heaven.”

I take this moment to glance at the mole on my left wrist.  Sure enough, it’s still there.

“How are we supposed to enjoy ourselves up there?” she says.  “Knowing that you’re below us, trapped for eternity, going through god-knows-what?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage somehow.”

“I’m serious, Nicholas.  This isn’t only your life that you’re messing with.  We’re connected.  We’re all connected.”  She interlaces her fingers, in front of my nose.

I can’t think of anything else to say but, “I’ll be fine.”

At that, her fingers disconnect in an instant, and she slaps me.  She slaps me hard.  But it’s not really me she’s attacking.  She’s fighting her own fears and doubts, and that’s what I tell myself when I touch my throbbing cheek.

 “Oh,” she says.  She looks at me with those I-don’t-know-what-got-into-me eyes.  And I want to tell her exactly what it is.