Читать книгу Collide - Меган Харт - Страница 9

I looked like shit. Hair lank, shadows under my eyes, skin blotchy. I’d managed to leave the house with mismatched socks, too, a fact I was hoping nobody would notice unless I pulled up the legs of my trousers to show off the mistake. I’d slept terribly, my night filled with dreams that were nothing like fugues.

I sat at my desk, gripping a mug of cooling coffee and staring at my computer screen without doing much. I had an appointment with my acupuncturist after work and didn’t see much point in pretending to accomplish anything for the next hour. Fortunately, I had nothing too pressing waiting for me. I’d been expecting a lot more work when I took this job at the credit union, but compared to my days as a teller, then assistant bank manager, my new job was as easy as a two-dollar hooker who takes coupons.

I did rustle up enough energy to check my personal email. Among the forwards of stupid jokes and pictures of strange street signs my mom sent, there was a message from Jen. The subject read simply, “Read This.”

So, like Alice being offered a piece of the caterpillar’s mushroom, I did.

It was a link to a blog specializing in reviews of obscure horror movies. It had an entire section devoted to Johnny’s films, even the ones that weren’t horror. I was surprised to see he’d made only fifteen movies, total, as the wealth of information on the internet had made it seem like way more than that. Reading through the descriptions, I realized it was because so many of them had been recut or released under alternate names, or in foreign versions. There was a clickable list for each one, each link leading to a separate page with still pictures, video clips and information about the movie. Also, Buy links. Some of the movies were readily available, if you knew where to look, and at dollar-bin prices. Others …

“Whoa.” I said this with respect and awe.

One hundred and seventy-five dollars for a dubbed DVD of some obscure film I hadn’t ever heard of. Plus shipping. I slid my tongue over my teeth as I contemplated this, and then the triple-digit number (not including the decimals) currently in my checking account.

$175 for a J.D. movie. I texted to Jen.

Can u believe it? She answered almost instantly.

I believe it, bb. Which one?

Night of A Hundred Moons.

Holy shit! Grab that shit up, girl. Nobody ever has a Hundred Moons!

Then, a second later:

(I)

It took me a minute to figure out what that was, but when I did, it made me laugh. It was a moon of the bare butt variety, not the celestial. Nice.

Have u seen it?

I typed.

Never. Not even in bootleg clips.

Do u want to?

R u kidding? YES!!!

One hundred and seventy-five dollars could be a lot or a little bit of money, depending. It wasn’t much for a car repair, for example, though it wasn’t a little, either. It was just about right for a really tiny television set, a bit too much for a pair of shoes and a ridiculously reasonable amount for a week’s vacation at the beach.

It was way too fucking much for a DVD.

I was already clicking on Add to Basket. My heart hung up when the website froze, the small scroll bar at the bottom stuck just an eyelash width from the end. I clicked, clicked again. Nothing happened.

It took me two or three frantic, sweaty moments before I realized I had to click the My Cart link to see that I had, indeed, managed to add the movie. I added the shipping, which was frankly outrageous, as well as some other random handling fee. I couldn’t even look at the total as I typed my credit card number into a definitely unsecured website, risking my entire identity just to get my hands on what would assuredly turn out to be a crappy copy of a bad movie.

I printed out the receipt and made sure a copy of the order had also appeared in my email before I dared to navigate away from the site. Then I sat back in my desk chair, heart still pounding, palms still sweating. I felt like I’d run a mile pursued by dogs. Or zombies. Or worse, zombie dogs. I felt wrung out and anxious and something else, too. Unreasonably excited. I texted Jen.

Bought it.

Get the fuck out!

Yes. Girls’ night when it comes?

It won’t be the only thing coming. Call me when you get it.

I said I would and slipped my phone into my purse so I could head out for my appointment. It took me only ten minutes to get from my office to the alternative medicine center, a trip that had taken me forty-five when I lived with my parents. In another five I was in the quiet room on my back, a soft pillow beneath my head.

I have eclectic musical tastes, but “spa” music usually didn’t do it for me. Yet I couldn’t deny it was relaxing, the soft chimes and woodwind instruments. That was the point, after all. To relax the patients. And I tried, I really did, but the harder I tried to put everything out of my mind, the more I thought.

I knew the treatment would help even if I couldn’t stop the hamster wheel of my brain from spinning. I just didn’t want to be there, stiff and aching, anxious. I wanted to melt into the table and let the needles do their work the way they’d done for the past couple of years … and then I was thinking again, worrying again, that this time the treatment would fail. That I’d be back to suffering through the insult of a brain that made me see, hear, smell and touch things that weren’t there. Or worse, that gave me blank spots in my memory, moments in which anything could’ve happened. I wasn’t sure which was worse, experiencing things that hadn’t happened, or not remembering things that had.

The music changed from the soft tinkle of water and a flute to something low, almost moaning. I’d never noticed vocals in any of the music the office played. Now I couldn’t ignore them.

A cello. A woman’s breathy voice. The plucking of strings.

And then, though I’d always specifically requested no aromatherapy treatments during my acupuncture … the inevitable scent of oranges.

“No,” I muttered, and clung to consciousness with every single brain cell I had.

When the fugues had first started, I hadn’t known how to determine one was on the verge. As the years had passed, I could predict the onset with enough time—sometimes only barely, but usually enough—to prepare for it. I had never yet mastered fending one off. In fact, I’d learned it was better not to try, because they seemed to last longer and be more intense, with a longer recovery time, if I fought them. I couldn’t help it now, though. It was the worst betrayal to go dark here, with the needles in my shin and collarbone, supposedly aligning my qi and keeping me centered in this world. My muscles strained, defeating the purpose of everything I’d come here to do.

There was nothing I could do. The scent of oranges swirled around me. I closed my eyes, tense, and waited for my world to shift and change or simply go black around me. I gripped the table and felt the needles in my side shift and pinch.

Nothing happened.

I pressed my eyes closed tighter, my senses heightened. I heard the squeak-squeak of wheels, the soft click of the door opening. I opened my eyes, turned my head toward the sound. It was Dr. Gupta, who greeted me with a smile and a pat to my shoulder.

“I apologize for being a little late to remove the needles, Emm,” she said. “We had a little accident out in the hallway. Someone came to clean it up, but there’s quite a mess. Be careful when you go out there.”

She plucked needles from my skin as she spoke, slipping them into the red sharps container marked with the biohazard symbol. Then she took hold of my arm and helped me sit. She handed me a paper cup of water.

“How do you feel?”

I didn’t want to tell her about the fugue I may or may not have fended off. I breathed in. The scent of oranges had faded, though not disappeared. My mouth squirted saliva, lips puckering at the memory of the citrus taste. I hadn’t eaten oranges in years, unable to stomach them, but this gustatory illusion was unusual. Mostly I just smelled the oranges, I didn’t taste them.

“Tired,” I said.

“That’s to be expected. Are you dizzy? Drink some water.”

I did, not because I was dizzy but to wash away the lingering taste of citrus. She took the cup from me and tossed it in the trash, then gripped my elbow to help me off the table. I waited half a minute, used to the way the floor sometimes tilted at first when I’d just finished a treatment. It didn’t today, but I rested a moment longer than normal, anyway.

“Emm. You sure you’re all right?” Dr. Gupta is a tiny, dark-haired woman with big dark eyes. She reminds me of that old newspaper cartoon Dondi.

“Sure. Fine.” I gave her my brightest smile to convince her.

Dr. Gupta didn’t look convinced. She drew another cup of water from the cooler and handed it to me. “Drink that. You’re a little pale. I think next time we’ll concentrate on a super Ming Men instead of the Shen Men. We’ll do some energizing in addition to the tranquilizing.”

I’d been having acupuncture treatments for three years now, but that didn’t make me anything like an expert. In fact, I was more of the “I don’t need to know how it works” school of thought. I’d never studied the mechanics of it, or the philosophy.

“Sure,” I told her.

She laughed. “You have no idea what I’m talking about. That’s okay, so long as it works, yes?”

“Yes.” I drank the water, though by this point my back teeth were swimming.

She patted my shoulder again. “I’ll see you in a month, unless you have something you need taken care of before then.”

She left me to rearrange my clothes. Standing in the quiet room with the soft music playing, I should’ve been way more relaxed after a treatment. Instead, I felt electric. Buzzing. Not bad, exactly. And not the way I often felt after having a fugue, sort of fuzzy and disoriented for a few moments.

This feeling was more like an ache in my chest. An anticipation, not quite anxiety. No pain. There was never pain associated with any of this.

When I left the office, the smell of oranges once again assaulted me. I braced myself in the doorway, jaw clenched … until I saw the cleaning cart and the jug of citrus-scented cleaner, cap open, and the floor still gleaming from it. The woman at the cart saw me look and smiled apologetically.

“We spilled almost the whole jug,” she explained, holding up a mop. “But it’s okay, you can go past now.”

She couldn’t have had any idea about why I was laughing, but she laughed, too. I wanted to give her a high five as I passed her, but restrained myself. I couldn’t keep the grin off my face, though, as I stopped at the front desk to make my co-pay and book my next appointment.

“This is what I love about my job,” said Peta, the receptionist.

“Taking my money?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Seeing how people come in here full of pain and leave full of peace.”

I paused with my checkbook still in my hand. “That’s a great way of saying it.”

She dimpled. “Maybe I should put that on an inspirational poster, huh?”

“Maybe. But … it’s true, isn’t it?” I felt more at peace, certainly, once I’d learned the smell hadn’t been the harbinger of a fugue, after all.

“It really is. Take care, Emm, see you next month.”

I waved at her as I went out, my steps more springy and my heart lighter. Behind the wheel of my car I took a few more deep breaths to center myself out of habit. When you’ve had your license taken away because the authorities fear you might spaz out and cause an accident while you’re driving, you tend to better appreciate your ability to drive yourself when you are allowed. But as I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized the buzzing, churning tumble in my chest hadn’t really gone away, just faded.

Bad tacos for last night’s dinner, maybe. Too much coffee on an empty stomach. I gripped the wheel and checked my eyes in the rearview mirror. A little wide, but the pupils weren’t pinned or anything funky like that. My vision wasn’t blurry. I wasn’t smelling anything but my own cologne from where it had rubbed into my scarf.

Nevertheless, I drove slowly. Carefully. Taking no chances at yellow lights or intersections. By the time I got to my street, my fingers ached from gripping the wheel and my back hurt, too, from my too-tense posture.

“Motherfucker,” I muttered when I saw that someone had once again taken my spot. I really needed to get some lawn chairs and set them up when I left, the way my neighbors did.

I drove farther down the street and found an empty spot. The last time the plow had gone through, a thigh-deep pile of snow had been pushed into someone’s shoveled spot. The vehicle that usually parked there, a blue SUV, could no longer fit. I spotted it parked a block farther down and felt no guilt at squeezing my much smaller car into the space. I considered it karma.

The fact I’d once again parked in front of Johnny’s house was a nice little bonus, one that had me humming under my breath with glee and buzzing in an entirely different way. I paused after I’d closed my car door to study his house. When had I ever felt this way before?

The answer was, never. I’d had crushes before, plenty of them. In seventh grade I’d thought I would die unless a sophomore named Steve Houseman liked me back. I hadn’t died. And even then, when I’d gone to sleep every night wishing on every star I could see that he’d look at me like I was a real girl and not some junior high geek, I hadn’t ever felt like this.

The curb was icy, but the sidewalk in front of Johnny’s house was bare and well-salted. Unfortunately, his neighbors weren’t as conscientious. I was so busy trying to peek through his windows without making it obvious I was a pervert, I didn’t pay attention to where I put my feet. I hit a slick patch and slid, arms wheeling. I’d never been a gymnast, but I managed a pretty nice split that had me gasping in gratitude I was wearing a skirt, even though I tore my stockings.

So focused on keeping myself from totally wiping out and doing a face plant into the pile of filthy snow, I didn’t pay attention to the man who’d just crossed the street and stepped up onto the curb in front of me. I caught a flash of a black coat, a striped scarf. I had time to think, Oh, shit, it’s him, before I took another step and slid with that one, too.

We collided hard enough to snap my jaws together. I caught my tongue between my teeth and tasted blood. I looked into Johnny’s face, those green-brown eyes so close I could count his lashes. He had a mole at the corner of one eye I’d never noticed before. He grabbed my upper arms.

I smelled oranges.

I was falling.