He leans in close and squints at it. “What is this?”
“I got it from you,” I tell him. “Yesterday morning, you upped my dose.”
He takes it between two fingers and holds it up to the light. “This is not Retronim.”
The record playing in my head scratches. “Then what have I been taking, Doc?”
He cracks the pill in half and touches a piece to his tongue. “Sugar pill.”
“Why did you give me sugar pills?”
“I know you have a low opinion of just about everyone here, but I do take my job pretty seriously,” he says, placing the pill half on the desk. “So the only thing I can think is that someone switched out your prescription. Which begs the question, how have you been feeling since yesterday?”
Since yesterday.
Not good. More slips than normal, and different kinds, too.
Except when I had my breakdown and slipped back to Germany before hopping around on my own timeline. Tamworth gave me a pill and I felt better after that, for a little while at least.
“The dose you gave me, in the afternoon, that was from your stash, not mine,” I say.
He nods as gravity pulls me deeper into the floor.
“Then shit, yeah, I think someone switched out my prescription.”
He gets up and goes out of the office, where I am left to wonder why a ghost wanted to fuck with my medication. Tamworth returns and puts another pill bottle on the table. I take it, crack it open, and down one.
“Keep this one safe,” he says.
“Will do. Thanks, Doc.”
He laughs.
“What?”
“Funny to hear you say thanks for anything.”
“Am I that much of an ass?”
He doesn’t laugh this time. “Yeah, January, you are.”
“Okay.” I lean back in the chair. “So what’s on the agenda today? When do I get dragged out kicking and screaming?”
Tamworth sighs. “Who knows. Cameo had wanted to organize some kind of group session or service for Reg this morning, and then it got bumped for that summit meeting, so…”
“Allyn canceled the summit last night,” I say.
Tamworth shakes his head. “The senator says it’s back on. Apparently last night was calm. After the dinosaurs, of course.”
I tap my forehead, gesturing to his bandage. “If it was calm what the hell is this?”
He seems to forget, and then shakes his head. “I got up in the middle of the night. I had to, you know…relieve myself. And I tripped. It felt like a piece of luggage, but when I turned around nothing was there. I don’t know what it was.”
“Why did you think it was a piece of luggage?”
“I don’t know. Just, felt and sounded like a roller suitcase.” He folds his hands together and stares into them. “I thought I saw it, but when I looked up…I don’t know. Maybe I was hallucinating.”
“No, Doc. I don’t think you were.” I get up, leave the office, and head to the railing, where I see a group of staffers standing around Cameo. There’s a funereal feel to it, and from the downcast eyes and hands on their hearts, I realize they’re taking a brief moment for Reg.
So of course Drucker, nightmare bitch that she is, stomps over snapping her fingers, telling them to get back to work. Lucky for her, by the time I get down to the lobby, she’s gone, or else that would have ended badly. For her immediately, for me in the long run.
Outside the front doors, a plow is pushing a large pile of snow around the front loop. The lines at the concierge desk are long, the staff back to struggling to keep up. I don’t know if people are trying to stay or leave or see about their trips being rebooked. Everything on the board still reads canceled. I don’t really care right now.
No one pays me any mind. This time I’m the ghost.
It’s like they’ve all finally agreed to just give up on me and move on.
That January, can’t be saved.
Which, rightfully, I have earned. But now that it’s finally here it feels like there’s a little piece missing from my inside.
Whatever. Now is not the time for a case of the sads. There are bigger issues to tackle.
The biggest being: the early sunset, the aging dinosaurs, the oven timers, and now Tamworth tripping over a piece of luggage that wasn’t there. Maybe it was a piece that was there before, or will be there.
The sunset, that was something everyone saw. It could well have been an optical illusion, which is what most of my slips are. Except this, he was able to interact with. It had weight. It existed in that moment.
Are physical objects now moving through time and space at random?
It’s a question I wonder if I should pose to Popa.
But then I remember someone else who might be able to help. Someone I’m really due a conversation with anyway.
* * *
—
Brandon is pushing a luggage cart across the lobby, laden with designer suitcases, as an old couple trails behind him, berating him to keep steady. I catch up with him and he stops.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
“Excuse me,” the old man says. “We need to get to the terminal because apparently our driver can’t make it up here with all the snow and…”
I point a finger at him. “Shut up.” Then I see a TEA agent nearby. Young guy, shaved head, built like a fridge. I wave him over and tell him to handle the old couple. He’s not happy about it, but he recognizes me, and apparently hasn’t heard that I shouldn’t be giving anyone orders right now. He hustles off with the couple as they mutter about the service.
“How’s the arm?” I ask Brandon.
He gently rubs the fresh bandaging. “You care?”
“I care,” I tell him.
“Funny way of showing it.”
“Brandon, look…I’m not going to sit here and give you some kind of song and dance routine and make excuses. I’ll just say I’m sorry. I am.”
He nods, drops his arm to his side. “Tamworth offered me painkillers but I had some stuff in my own stash that was a little better, so I went with that. Feeling okay at the moment.”
“I fucked up. I know.”
He nods. More like he’s agreeing and less that he’s accepting the apology, but that can be enough for right now. He glances around the lobby, like he’s looking for an excuse to go. And part of me now feels like the apology was not good enough, like I need to try a little harder, but there’s a task at hand too, so I tell him, “I need your help on something.”
I wave him over to the coffee urn, which is, for once, actually full, and I nearly want to do a dance, then dip my head under it and pour coffee directly into my throat. Instead I take a mug, fill it, and I’m about to walk away from it when I realize, no, let’s try this whole being-nice thing. I offer him the mug and he accepts it, then fills it with creamer and sugar. Wuss, I want to say, but I don’t. I take my mug, black, the way it’s supposed to be, and lead him over to a little circle of leather chairs and couches that are currently free from people.