Push

chapter Two

Emma—Present Day

I can’t find the picture anywhere, and it is starting to piss me off. What did he do with it? The f*cker probably threw it away just to spite me. I’m disgusted with myself for asking Michael to send me my things, but frankly, it was better than the alternative. The thought of him wrapping and packing all the mementos from my bedroom makes me want to wretch. Yet I know it was far better than going back to that house to get them myself. Far better than having to look at him and his greasy-ass hair.
On top of the last unopened box is a yellow sticky note. It is my tally of the postage amounts from all the boxes. I peel it off the box and put it on my desk. I am sending him a check tomorrow simply because the idea of owing him anything makes me crazy. I open the last box and frantically rummage through it. I am really starting to get annoyed, and I can feel myself losing it. So help me God, if he kept that picture...
In my mind I can see myself buying a bus ticket and breaking down his door to pry the picture from his hairy, disgusting hands. But there’s no need for such aggression after all, because suddenly I can feel a corner of the wooden frame deep down in the box. Even without seeing it, I know exactly what it is. I have touched that frame a million times. I pull it out of the box and wipe the dust from the glass with my palm. There we are. Two freckled redheads. Our arms are wrapped around each other’s neck, and we are smiling. We are gleaming. I know I am happy in the picture because it was before Michael. Before the mess. Before my dad was gone, and before Michael turned my brothers into a*sholes. It is just my mother and me, and for the millionth time, I can’t take my eyes off of us.
* * *

I sit down on the edge of my bed holding the frame with both hands. When my mind eventually settles, I begin to scan the room for somewhere to put it. This place is still so new to me. I have barely settled in, so fully unpacking the boxes from Michael doesn’t make any sense. Frankly, I could throw the whole lot of them into the incinerator. The picture is the only thing in them that matters. I haven’t lived in that house since I was eighteen—nothing else of any real consequence was even there anymore. Still, I am curious about examining the contents just to be sure. Next week maybe. For now I’m going to concentrate on getting the rest of my clothes unpacked. I prop the picture up on my already crowded nightstand. I tap a light kiss on to my fingertips and then transfer it to my mother’s image.
I unzip one of the suitcases and start moving a pile of T-shirts into a drawer. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyeliner is smeared, my hair is gathered into a sloppy bun behind my head, and my constellation of freckles is now backed with a pink flush, no doubt the result of my internal rant over the whereabouts of the picture. I sigh and then remember that it really doesn’t matter how I look because now I live alone. No more brothers, no more Michael, no more college roommates, no more need for someone to share the rent and utility bills. It seems I am a grown-up now. At long, long last. It is both refreshing and humbling.
As I shift another pile of T-shirts to the dresser drawer, I hear the door buzzer. Who the hell is that? Who even knows that I live here? Oh, God. I feel a slight and sudden panic. Michael is the only one who has my address. I had to give it to him so he could mail the boxes to me. But he wouldn’t dare come here, drive all this way, would he? I decide there is no way it is Michael because he is a smart enough man—he knows I will knock him in the balls if he shows up here. F*cker.
I walk down the hall, past the wreck of a kitchen, and into the living room where the door buzzer startles me again by sounding a second time.
“Hold your damn hat on,” I mutter as I press the intercom button. “Yes?” I ask into the small, gray box.
“Hi. Um, is this Emma Searfoss? Apartment seven?” asks a male voice.
“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?” I ask. A rush of thick, syrupy relief courses through my veins. I am beyond grateful that whoever it is, it’s decidedly not Michael.
“This is David. I’m here to fix your kitchen cupboards. The landlord was supposed to call you yesterday to let you know I was coming,” he says. Oh. I haven’t checked my cell phone since yesterday afternoon, so I have no idea if Carl called me or not. For a moment I hesitate, but then I figure the guy must be legit because part of the rental agreement included refurbishing the kitchen cupboards. Right now they are a complete wreck; the doors are either falling off or missing altogether, the paint is peeling, and most of the shelves are cracked and warped. I haven’t even attempted to unpack the kitchen boxes, expecting Carl to come and fix the cupboards as he promised. I’m pleased that he’s decided to do it sooner rather than later. Whoever David is, he’s got his work cut out for him.
“Oh, okay,” I say into the gray box. “Up the stairs. Second door on the left.”
“I know,” he says casually as I press the door release switch. I quickly grab my purse and toss it into the back bedroom, just in case David is some kind of criminal. I almost snatch the pepper spray out of it first, but then I decide that that would be one step too close to crazy.
There is a knock at the front door, and a second later, I open it. I immediately wonder why I didn’t grab the pepper spray when I had the chance.
David does not look like a cupboard fixer. Frankly, he looks a little psycho, and I wonder how stupid I am to let him waltz into my apartment without checking for a message from Carl first. But if I close the door on him now, I’m going to look like the psycho. A stupid cliché pops unwelcome into my head: “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I stuff the words back into my brain, back into the mouth of every Sunday-school teacher I ever had.
The only visual indication that David is actually here for the reason he claims is the belt of tools slung low around his waist. There is a hammer swaying off his left hip and some screwdrivers tucked into little loops on the right. A tape measure sits next to the hammer, and what appears to be a pair of lineman’s pliers is sticking out of a small pocket to the side. There are some other tools there, too, but I don’t recognize them.
He catches my glance at the tool belt, and I realize that I must have some foolish look of relief on my face, because a second later he is wearing a small, lopsided grin. He looks quite pleased with himself, as a matter of fact, and I immediately think he must be a cocky bastard.
Aside from the tool belt, he is wearing a gray T-shirt, a pair of black skinny jeans and a pair of heavy black work boots. His dark, mussed-up hair is cut short, and it looks as if he forgot to shave—for the past several days. On each ear are two small silver hoops, and his arms are covered in tattoos. I can see the swirls of ink beneath his skin, but I can’t tell what the images are—I don’t want to look at them any longer than I already have. I don’t want him to think I am checking him out. Cocky bastards love being checked out, and I refuse to give him the pleasure.
I step aside and let him into the apartment. He looks around quickly and makes a beeline towards the kitchen. I think immediately that he must be familiar with the apartment’s layout because he doesn’t ask where to go, nor does he hesitate.
“Come on in,” I say sarcastically as he breezes past me.
“Thanks,” he says without turning around. I watch him walk around the corner to the kitchen and wonder whether I am supposed to follow him in there.
“Holy hell,” he says quietly. “What a mess.”
“Sorry,” I answer sheepishly from the living room. And, before I know it, I add, “My grandma got stoned here the other night and was desperate for some munchies. She gets a little out of hand sometimes.” The utter idiocy of my own words makes me want to evaporate. I don’t even have a grandma anymore.
In a split second he is out of the kitchen and standing in the hallway, his hand on the door frame. He looks right at me, completely stone-faced. Without a trace of mockery, he says, “I think I might like to meet your grandma someday.” He quickly turns away and slides back into the kitchen. I am silent. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
* * *

Since I can’t come up with a sharp retort, I decide to say nothing. I am not going to encourage this a*shole. I am going to shut him down. In fact, I do not say another word to him for the rest of the morning. Instead I go back to the bedroom and continue unpacking my suitcases. I can hear him banging around in the kitchen, and I briefly consider closing my bedroom door just in case he really is some sort of psycho.
But then I wonder what he will think if he sees that I closed the door. I don’t want to seem paranoid or judgmental...or weak. The fact that I am putting so much thought into whether or not I should close the freaking door bothers the hell out of me. I want to not be bothered by the fact that I am alone with a strange man in my apartment. And for some stupid reason, I want him to see that I am not bothered by the fact that I am alone with a strange man in my apartment. I want to beat myself silly over all my foolish waffling about the goddamned door. I finally decide to shut my brain down before it melts—the door stays open, and I keep unpacking.
As I empty out the last suitcase, I decide that I am hungry. It’s got to be close to lunchtime by now. I turn to my alarm clock to check the time, and as I do, I see his reflection in the dresser mirror. He is walking down the hallway, toward my bedroom. Good. Now he’ll see that I didn’t close my door. I am standing next to my bed, and I try to come up with something to do with my hands so that he doesn’t think I’m just standing in my bedroom doing nothing. My nightstand is right next to me, and I reach down to grab something in advance of him hitting the doorway. Before I know it, I am flipping open my little plastic compact of birth control pills and looking at their circular pattern. Oh, f*ck me. What the hell, Emma?
“Hey,” he says when he gets to the end of the hallway. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to use your head.” I turn to look at him just as he comes into the door frame. He has lost the tool belt, and his thumbs are casually hooked into the back of his waistband. He looks quickly around the bedroom before his eyes settle on my hands. I snap the pack shut quickly, hoping he might not recognize what I am holding—but I’m pretty sure he is the kind of guy who knows precisely what a packet of birth control pills looks like. I am deciding if I would prefer to curl up in a ball and die or evaporate yet again, when my mind registers what he has said.
“Um, for what?” I ask sharply. Should I offer him a calculator or something instead?
“Um, to take a piss,” he says with far too much lilt in his voice.
I stand staring blankly at him, and I have the distinct feeling that I am missing something. What is going on here?
After another moment passes, he says “Well?” And then it hits me. Oh, sweet Jesus, Emma! He is asking to use your head, not your brain.
“Of course. It’s right there,” I say meekly as I point to the bathroom door. I can feel the embarrassment creeping up my neck, across my face and through my scalp. I am sure now that I am blushing, and I look away so that he can’t see my face.
“Thanks,” he says. He turns to go, and once his back is to me, he adds, “Oh, by the way, your grandma’s handiwork is going to take me several days to fix, so you may wanna relax a little.” He keeps walking down the hallway, and I no longer feel like evaporating. Instead I feel like bitch-slapping the conceited jackass.
“F*ck you.”
The words come out of my mouth with a great amount of attitude and far more self-assurance than I am actually feeling. “And your little dog, too,” I add just loud enough for him to hear.
He turns on his heels and faces me again. His eyes look energized. There is a trace of a smile on his lips, and I suspect he wants to laugh at me...but he doesn’t. Instead he just stands there and looks at me as if there is some sort of crazy current running through him. I begin to think he’s trying to rile me up on purpose. Testing me somehow. I see his game now, and I am perfectly prepared to play.
When the moment passes, he turns around again and steps into the bathroom. The door closes, and I walk out to the kitchen to see what he has been doing out there all morning, vowing to myself that I will not lose my composure again. I will play it cool.
When I turn the corner, my view confirms that he is indeed trying to fire me up. He has torn all the cabinets off the wall, ripped up the linoleum flooring, and removed all the countertops. He has destroyed far more than my imaginary baked grandma ever could. Now I’m on the fence regarding the man’s sanity, and I know why he said he was going to be here for several more days. Game on, David. Game on.