My father stood in the corner of the room, looking rakish and thin.
“We both started smoking in the sixth grade,” he said. “Stupid.”
I didn’t answer him.
“I could say we didn’t know,” he went on. “But we did know. Everyone knows that smoking will kill you. We just didn’t care, or really believe it. Your mom used to get so mad when she caught me smoking behind the barn.”
He was not really there, and I knew this. My shrink and I have discussed it at length. He thinks it’s a way I have of parenting myself, something related to the trauma of losing them so violently. Part of my mind can’t accept their passing, so it confabulates for me. Crazy, sure. But harmless, according to my doctor, as long as I don’t start believing he’s really there.
“What do the doctors say?” my not-dad asked.
“His lung function has dropped below fifty percent,” I whispered, looking around to see if anyone could hear me. I wanted him to be there. I wanted not to be alone.
“How much time?”
“They don’t know.” My throat is tight, and I feel like there is a weight on my chest. But I won’t cry again.
“What happened?” My dad moved over to the bed, looked down at Paul.
“It looks like he walked away from his oxygen tank and couldn’t make it back.”
“Why would he do that?”
I’d been giving this some thought. He must have walked to the kitchen with the tank to make coffee, but then something caused him to walk back to the bedroom without it.
“Maybe the phone rang,” said my dad.
There’s only one extension in the apartment and it’s by his bed where he is most of the time. I can’t imagine him rushing for a phone call, though, since it’s usually just telemarketers. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.
“Whatever that phone call was—it must have upset him,” said my father.
I looked up toward him, but he’d gone.
? ? ?
LATER, WHEN THE DOCTOR ASSURED me that Paul would rest comfortably for the rest of the night, I left and went back to Paul’s apartment.
The building was quiet, my footfalls loud on the stairs. At the landing, I saw right away that the door was ajar. I probably left it open, but I would have thought Mr. Rodriquez would have come up to close it behind us. He’s like that, careful, always looking out for his tenants.
I stood and listened—maybe Mr. Rodriquez was inside or maybe the nurse came. But I didn’t hear anything, and finally I pushed the door. It drifted inward with a low squeak. The long hallway was clear, so I stepped in, closing the door behind me.
The kitchen was as we left it, the oxygen tank still near the chair where Paul might normally sit and have his coffee and toast. The coffee beans were out, the grinder lid open. Yes, that was it. He came to make the coffee, then went back to the room to answer the phone. I took a paring knife from the block by the window and slipped it into my pocket, then moved out of the kitchen and down the hall.
It took a second to register that the living room had been tossed—cushions thrown off the couch, books knocked from the shelves in piles on the floor. The area rug has been pulled up; the television knocked over. Adrenaline started to pulse, my heart thumping. I took three deep breaths to push back the throb of fear, of anger.
Who was here? What were they looking for? Some junkie taking the opportunity of an open door to look for money? Kids from the building disrespecting a sick old man who never did anything but help people all his life? They wouldn’t find anything. Paul had saved some money, enough to be comfortable, but he owned next to nothing. An antimaterialist in a hyper-materialistic world. Even the television was ancient. He still used a VCR, rewatching old tapes from twenty years ago.
They’re coming for it, Zoey. Be careful.
Or something more? Something else? Was there someone still here?
The bedroom door was open and the air-conditioning unit, left on from this morning, hummed. I stood to the side and waited, listening. Nothing. Finally, I moved inside. The space was empty but trashed like the living room—covers torn from the bed, drawers spilled open, closet ransacked. Boxes pulled from the shelves and contents spilled on the floor—reams of papers, folders, videotapes, old case files.
“They were looking for something.”
My dad sat in the chair over by the window.
“What?” I asked. “What could they be looking for? He doesn’t have anything.”
My dad lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head.
I picked my way through the mess and reached for the phone beside Paul’s bed. I dialed his voicemail and listened, deleting as I scrolled through the slew of spam from telemarketers, campaign ads, messages from banks, credit cards, his insurance company. Finally, I get to a message left last night.
It took me a long time to figure it out, old man. But I finally did. Time for you to give it up.
Cold moved through my body. I was having trouble connecting the dots, my mind reeling. I hung up and clicked through the caller ID until I found an unfamiliar number with an exchange I knew. I struggled for breath, all my training, all my calm leaving me. I called it back, but it went straight to a generic voicemail, a robot voice repeating the number back. I hung up. Suddenly I was fourteen again. Helpless. Afraid.
That’s when I heard it, the sound of movement toward the front of the apartment.
I took the knife from my pocket and moved soundlessly into the hall.
A creak of weight on the wood floor, the sound of someone moving slowly, quietly. I pressed myself against the wall. Other than the front door, there was no other exit from the apartment except the windows that led to the fire escape. The window in Paul’s room was blocked by the air conditioner—an acknowledged hazard that we never got around to dealing with.
I would have no choice but to fight my way out. I could wait for whoever it is to turn the corner, but instead I decided to rush forward and use surprise to my advantage. I took a deep breath and sprinted.
I saw him in flashes—dark hair, tall, and broad shouldered—as I tackled him and took him to the ground hard. A surprised shout, a whoosh of air as the wind left him when my shoulder connected hard with his abdomen. And then I was on him, straddling his center, the paring knife to his throat. It happened quickly, fluidly.
“No, please.” Panic. Fear. “Miss Zoey.”
That’s when I saw, with alarm, that it was Mr. Rodriquez, the super.
He was looking at me with pure terror in his eyes, gasping hard for air as I sat heavy on his lungs. I slumped with relief, blowing out a breath, removing the knife from his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I said, struggling for air myself.
“Dios,” he gasped. I climbed off of him, offering my hand. I helped him get to his feet. “Miss Zoey.”
He doubled over, coughing. I hurried to the kitchen to get him some water.