“Mother, I’m begging you…don’t do this. I have been….” I couldn’t finish. I sat on the bottom step and covered my face with my hands.
Cynthia descended the remaining steps and sat next to me. “I know you think you understand, Darling, but you don’t. Whatever you think you know…you couldn’t truly grasp what it was that you were choosing. I’m glad that Jared loves you enough to let you go.”
I glared at her. “Do you even hear yourself? He loves me, Mom. He loves me and you….” I shook my head and walked to the door. “Do you even care how I feel?” I asked, standing with my back to her.
She didn’t answer.
I returned to my car, choking back a frustrated cry. There was only one way I could talk to him, now.
Chapter Eight
Purgatory
I searched under the desks, running my fingers along each of the twisted wires underneath. Jared would listen to me whether he liked it or not, and in my determination, I left nothing to chance. I meticulously inspected the edges of the mirror, the back of the microwave, the mini-fridge, under both beds and under the dorm’s standard-issue cord phone.
An hour had passed, and I found nothing. Jared was a professional. Of course I wouldn’t find the mic he’d planted. I tried to recall any spy movies I’d watched when revelation hit. My eyes slowly followed the wall up to the ceiling, and focused on a rectangular vent in the center.
I rolled Beth’s desk chair directly underneath. There were two screws, and I had no tools. I rushed to the residential advisor’s room and tried to catch my breath while rapping on the door. She opened it with a bored look on her face.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Dara. Listen, I’m having some trouble with the vent in my room….”
“I’ll call maintenance in the morning,” she deadpanned, closing the door.
I pushed it open. “I was wondering if you had a screwdriver. One of those cross-ones that I could use?”
“A Phillips?” she asked, bored with the conversation.
My eyes lit up. “Yes! Do you have one?”
“What size do you need?” she asked, turning her back to me.
“I…don’t know.” I peered up at her vent, and she did the same.
“You need a small one, here.” She handed me a tiny screwdriver, and I thanked her before rushing back to my room.
The screwdriver was smaller than I needed, so I had to press on one side to get the screw to rotate at all. Once the first screw became loose enough to use my thumb and finger to make more progress, it didn’t take long for it to drop into my hand. I began working on the other screw, and after two laborious turns my right hand slipped. Trying to catch myself, my palm grated against the edge of the vent, and the ragged edge of metal sliced through my skin.
I pulled my hand back with a gasp, watching the blood ooze from the cut and drip down my forearm toward my elbow in a thick, red line.
“Ow! Sssshhhhoooot!” I cried, bending at the waist.
I climbed down to grab a wad of tissue and held it tightly in my hand, unwilling to give up.
Tissues in hand, I tried to fit the screwdriver into the tiny slot at the best angle possible for traction. When I pressed against the side of the screw, I leaned into the movement and the wheels of the chair shifted. Before I could right myself, the chair jerked from under me and I tumbled down, smacking my elbow on the floor.
It took a moment for the pain to register, and once the sharp stabbing sensation shot up my arm, I closed my eyes. “Ow,” I whimpered. Once I could think about something other than the pain, I hobbled back onto the chair.
Tugging the vent loose, I inched up on my tip toes to peer inside. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a tiny black object nestled in the decades of dust. I reached inside the vent and pinched the small piece of plastic, tugging on it once before it gave way. I pulled it toward me and brought it into view; Jared’s miniature microphone.
Overwhelmed by the undeniable truth I held in my hand, I pulled the mic down with me as I slumped to the chair. Jared could hear me and was aware of what I had done. Coupled with the pain in my arm, the fact that he was just on the other side of this device made my eyes well over with tears.
“Jared?” I breathed, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “I know you can hear me.” I sighed, closing my eyes. “I don’t know what she said to you. I don’t care, I just…,” I trailed off as my voice broke, “I miss you,” I whispered. “What are you doing? All that talk about growing old together and being honest? And now you’re going to listen to her and walk away?
“Will you please just....” I struggled to form the words. “Will you please just talk to me? Please?”