Time Bomb Page 8

  Carlos crosses his eyes at me. We’ve reached a corner, and we wait, I think because there’s a glowing red hand on the other side of the street. Sure enough, when it changes to a glowing white person shape, Carlos steps off the curb, so I follow. “Yeah, so, ODP happened to be on the fire escape above us when I was getting my ass handed to me, and he jumped those bastards right back and made them sorry they’d ever laid eyes on me. I’ve had a soft spot for him ever since.”

  Carlos veers off the sidewalk and into a driveway that leads to a large one-story building with the word ‘Goodwill’ written across it in letters multiple feet high. “Let’s go around back,” Carlos says. “I know a guy.”

  The guy Carlos knows has sallow skin, is several inches shorter than him, and very skinny. He smiles nervously, but I don’t get the sense that he’s worried. I think that’s just his natural look. “Hey, man,” he says, slapping hands with Carlos.

  “Hey, Kevin,” Carlos replies.

  “Who’s your friend?” Kevin asks, eyeing me up and down.

  “Dude, it’s Lita. You know, Jimmy Squint’s girl?”

  Kevin’s eyes widen and he takes a half step back. “That ain’t Lita.”

  Full as it is, my stomach seems to get even heavier, and I feel it drop several inches.

  Carlos looks at me sidelong, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Well, that’s the name she answers to.”

  “Some other Lita maybe.” Kevin narrows his eyes appraisingly. “This chick’s hair is darker. And she’s a few inches too short to be Jimmy’s Lita.” He turns to me. “I wouldn’t go around pretending to be somebody you’re not. Especially that somebody.”

  I wrap my arms around my stomach, which is really starting to hurt. The name Lita had sounded so familiar when Carlos and Dez called me that. Why couldn’t it be my name? I wasn’t trying to be somebody else. I wasn’t even sure who I was, so how could I pretend to be some other person?

  I look at Carlos, and maybe it’s panic in my eyes or the pain from the knot in my stomach, but he sees something in my face that he takes pity on, and he slings his arm around my shoulder. “Well, this Lita is an amazing little lockpicker, and I kinda hope I don’t have to give her back to Jimmy Squint because I might want to keep her around.” He squeezes me to his side briefly before releasing me. “Her clothes are trashed, though. She crashed into our tent the other night soaking wet and covered in seaweed.”

  I hadn’t heard about the seaweed part. I’d shown up with food all over me? Then how could have I have been so hungry this morning? Nothing made sense, and a stabbing pain in my neck joined the ache in my belly.

  “She needs new clothes,” Carlos says. “Can you help a brother out?”

  Kevin shrugs and angles his head at a row of huge metal boxes. “I got two containers full of donations I ain’t logged in yet. Go through ’em and take whatever you want.”

  Carlos smiles. “Thanks, man. I won’t forget it.”

  Kevin darts his nervous grin back. “It’s cool.”

  Carlos and I cross over to a couple of huge cardboard boxes. He roots around and pulls out a few things but tosses them back in.

  A flash of red catches my eye, and I reach in and draw out a filmy red dress. I hold it up to myself. It’s completely impractical. I know the fabric would snag and get caught on anything I tried to climb, but I rub the slippery material between my fingers and unexpected tears spring to my eyes. “I want this one.”

  I dab at the tears with the hem of the skirt, and either Carlos doesn’t notice I’m crying or he pretends not to see. “Good. Nice and light for hot weather. Let’s see if we can find you some jeans too. And God!” He looks at my feet. “I forgot you had nothing on but those freaking paper slippers. Damn, you need some shoes.”

  He thrusts his hands back into the box, rummaging around, sorting, glancing at me, and discarding options. “What size shoes to you wear, anyway?”

  Before I have a chance to tell him I don’t know, he thrusts a pair of sneakers at me. “Try these.”

  I sit down, slip off my booties, and tug on the shoes. They’re like boats on each foot. “They might work.”

  “Are you kidding me? You need something you can run in. Give ’em back.”

  I hand them over and he peels back the tongue and peers at it. “Dang, these are a kids’ size four. Unbelievable.” He keeps digging around in the box and I let him.

  Kevin lets me go inside the back door of the building, and I use the bathroom inside and change my clothes. I take off my jacket. When I remove my vest, a three-inch-long flap of dirty beige tape comes with it, revealing some sort of device implanted in my skin. I don’t know what it is, but I know instinctively that it’s not normal. I crowd close to the scratched and dented mirror in the tiny bathroom. Fluid leaks from around the device, and it’s a hub for red lines that radiate into my skin from around it. I snatch the T-shirt Carlos selected for me off the floor and pull it over my head, grateful to cover up that awful-looking thing. I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is messy. I squeeze a lock and it feels crispy, like it might break off in my fingertips. My eyes look yellowish and my skin is pale, with just a bit of pink blotchiness in my cheeks. I place both palms on the mirror and lean forward until my nose is almost touching the pane. “What happened to you?” I whisper. “Who are you?”

  I emerge from the bathroom in a pair of black jeans that are a little too big. Carlos says unless they make a size negative one, they’ll have to do. I wear a bright green T-shirt and a pair of black sneakers that close with Velcro. The dress that made me cry is tied around my waist, because even though I’m not wearing it right now, I’m keeping it. Carlos shakes his head in bemusement but doesn’t try to stop me. I thread the vest I’ve been wearing through one of my belt loops and let it dangle like a tattered flag. The rest of my old clothes get thrown into a black plastic bag with drawstrings like the one that held the Thai food. Carlos says ‘they’re not even good enough for homeless people, and that’s saying something’…whatever that means.

  Carlos says he’s hungry again, so we walk a couple of blocks until we find another one of the metal bins and I quickly manipulate the lock and pop it open. Everything smells exotic, but not as wonderful as before, probably because I still have a stomachache, which is getting worse. Carlos grabs a container that I know the name for. The word ‘Styrofoam’ pops right into my brain when I see the slightly spongy white clamshell.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Carlos asks.

  “No, food doesn’t sound good right now.”

  “You’re a strange one, Lita. I always eat when I get the chance. Of course, with your skills” – Carlos twirls an imaginary dial – “I guess you don’t have as much to worry about.”

  I smile queasily.

  The walk back to the tent in some ways seems to take forever but also passes in the blink of an eye. My head is pounding and I pay little attention to my surroundings. Carlos whistles an off-key melody as we approach the tent that must be a signal. Dez pokes his head out.

  “What took you so long?” His eyes fall on me, and his brow furrows. “Jeez, Lita, you don’t look so good.”

  I sway a little and welcome the need to drop to my hands and knees to crawl into the tent. I pull myself over to a pile of clothing and blankets and burrow in. My eyes are open bare slits; the light hurts all the way to the back of my skull. Dez crawls in the tent, followed closely by Carlos.

  “Is she okay?” I hear Carlos ask Dez.

  “I dunno. I think so,” he replies. “We’re gonna be in for a world of hurt if she gets sicker on our watch. I don’t want to be around when Jimmy comes for her.”

  “Yeah,” Carlos agrees. “About that…”

  Dez cuts him off. “Lita. Hey, Lita?”

  I want to answer with words, but I croak an unintelligible response instead.

  I sense movement next to me, and I feel a hand on my forehead. “She’s burning up,” Carlos says worriedly.

 
“Crap.” Dez’s voice is more scared than concerned. “Did you make sure she drank a bunch of water? She’s coming down off some serious shit.”

  “She’s acting sick, not dopesick.”

  My heart feels like it’s pounding twice as fast as normal when Carlos presses a bottle of water into my hand. “Drink this. You’ll feel a lot better. You need to change into cooler clothes too. It’s too hot out for jeans when you have a fever. I guess that dress you grabbed was a good idea. Put it on. Come on, Dez. Let’s give her some privacy for a couple minutes.”

  Oh, god. How am I going to do this? My arms and legs feel like lead, but I wriggle out of my jeans, force myself to a sitting position, and drag my green T-shirt over my head. Next, I try to slip into the silky read dress. Somehow, my head and right arm go through the correct holes, but my left arm can’t find its way. I’ve used up all my energy; I have nothing remaining in the tank to care. I flop back down on the blanket pile.

  “You ready?” Carlos says.

  I whimper loud enough for him to hear me.

  He comes back into the tent, takes one look at me, and his mouth drops open. “Oh, damn, Lita, you are sick, aren’t you?”

  My eyes drift closed, and his voice grows more urgent. “Dez, you’ve gotta help me get her to the hospital.”

  “She’s just jonesin’,” Dez says. “No way.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Carlos says.

  I feel his gentle touch on my shoulder, and his finger drifts to my collarbone, hovering near the weeping device in my chest. “Lita? Do you have cancer?”

  Just like most of the things he’s asked me about myself, I have no answer, so it’s almost a good thing that I choose that moment to faint.

  Whenever I try to open my eyes, the light burns. Words and phrases filter into my brain, mostly female voices.

  “Temp is 104.9.”

  “My god, will you look at that thing? That has to come out.”

  “She’s septic. We’re admitting her.”

  “Sir, if you’re going to be in the room, please stay out of our way.”

  Carlos’s voice. “I think she might have cancer.”

  “Run a CBC. And get me a toxicology. We need to know what she’s on.”

  Carlos again. “I don’t think she’s on anything.”

  “Of course she’s not.” Even in the depths of my delirium, I can hear the sarcasm thick in that voice.

  “What did you take, sweetie? I need to know so I can help you. Do you speak English?”

  Carlos’s voice is sharp. “Yes, she speaks English. Jesus.”

  The female ignores him. “Where are you from, honey?”

  Disjointed thoughts float in my brain like soap bubbles, and one of them pops. “Columbia,” I rasp deliriously.

  “Colombia?” Carlos asks. “Did she say Colombia?”

  “Sir, I told you to stay out of our way. There’s a chair in the corner.”

  Somebody grabs my hand but I don’t think it’s Carlos because they’re not being gentle. My arm twists and a needle pokes into me. I almost manage to open my eyes to see what’s going on, but then a rushing feeling floods through my body, and my brain turns itself off.

  Chapter Eight

  June 23, 2018

  A light clattering and the rustling sounds of movement awakens me, but I don’t open my eyes.

  “You’re lucky she’s not ‘nothing by mouth,’” a woman’s voice says in a light teasing tone. “Where would you be without room service?”

  “You guys keep bringing her food even though she’s asleep. What do you expect me to do?” Carlos asks, but he doesn’t sound mad.

  “If you’re staying the night again, I can page housekeeping and see if we’ve freed up an extra cot yet.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  I wait until I hear the soft click of a door before I crack open one eye. Carlos is sitting in a corner of the room, his feet up, staring up at a television mounted on the wall and spooning food off a tray.

  “Hey.” My voice has obviously gone unused for a while. The word comes out in a whisper.

  Carlos drops his plastic spoon and his feet swing to the floor. “You’re awake.” He gives me a giant smile. “Oh, crap, your food. Here.” He thrusts the spoon in my direction. “This is yours.”

  I chuff out a tired little laugh. “No, go ahead. I’m not hungry.”

  Carlos smiles, shyer this time. Setting the tray on a window ledge, he pulls his chair over next to my bed and leans his forearms on the mattress but doesn’t touch me.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks. “I mean, besides not hungry.”

  I take quick stock, along with a deep breath. My lungs are clear, and it’s weird because I hadn’t realized how heavy and liquidy my chest had felt until the sensation was gone. “Breathing doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say.

  “Yeah, they said you had a lot of fluid in your lungs. Like, so much you almost dry-land drowned.” Carlos points at one of the tubes that ends in a needle in my hand. “They’re giving you IV antibiotics.”

  “Did they say what was wrong with me?”

  “You had a really bad infection around your port. You got blood poisoning and the infection spread to other parts of your body. Your temperature was to the stratosphere and your kidneys were about to shut down. It was pretty bad.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, but look at you, two days of sleep and antibiotics and you kicked it. You’re tough as nails, Lita.”

  It’s the first time he’s said my name since I woke up, and the smile slides off my face. Lita isn’t my name. I’m sure of it. But the trouble is, I still have no idea who I am. “Carlos?”

  He knows I’m upset, and his hand reaches tentatively toward mine and rests lightly on top of my fingers. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t think I’m who you think I am.”

  Carlos nods. “I don’t think you are, either. You’re way too sweet.”

  I feel a blush rise up my cheeks. That is not what I expected him to say. I’d thought he’d drop my hand, wish me all the best, and walk out the door. Instead he scoots an inch closer in his chair and squeezes two of my fingers lightly. “So, who are you?” he asks.

  “That’s the trouble,” I whisper. “I honestly can’t remember.”

  “A couple of nights ago, when you were in the ER, you told one of the nurses you were from Colombia.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I feel the truth of that statement. “Yeah,” I say. “I am.” A shudder passes through my body and I look compulsively out the window. All I see is a pane spattered with droplets of water and beyond, a cloudy sky. “Where are we? What floor are we on?” I ask urgently.

  Carlos tilts his head, confused, which makes two of us, because I don’t know what I’m so worried about. “Harborview Medical Center. Eighth floor.”

  I rake my fingers through my hair. “I think that’s okay.” I fall quiet for a moment and stare out the windowpane. “Did I say anything else when I was sick?”

  “You asked for your dad a bunch of times.”

  “So I have a family.”

  “Sounds like it. At least a dad. Maybe he’s back in Colombia?”

  I nod, but my forehead wrinkles. “I feel like maybe, but there’s something… I guess I don’t know for sure.”

  Carlos takes his hand off mine and laces his fingers together on top of the thin bedspread. “They wouldn’t tell me much about you, about what was going on. I mean, I overheard them talking about the infection and the blood poisoning and stuff because I’ve been in the room, and when you started responding to the antibiotics, they told me you were going to be okay, but they know I’m not your family, so they wouldn’t give me much detail about anything.”

  “How do they know who my family is or isn’t? I don’t even know.” The reality of that statement hits me, and I lean back on my pillow and stare out the window. A smattering of raindrops hit the glass and I flinch.

  “I was so wo
rried you were going to die on me, I wasn’t thinking straight. I told the ER nurse your name was Lita, but that I didn’t know your last name. I should have just made something up. But I didn’t. That might have sailed right over a doctor’s head, but nurses are pretty sharp.” Carlos rubs the bedspread nervously between his thumb and index finger. “When you changed into that dress and I saw your port, I knew you were really sick. I recognized it from when my mom had cancer. It made me wonder” – Carlos ducks his head and his voice drops – “if you do too.”

  I sit up and hug my knees to my chest. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Carlos stares firmly at the ground.

  “I didn’t remember that port, and I don’t know how it got there. I saw it for the first time when I changed my clothes in the bathroom at that store, what was it called?”

  “Goodwill.”

  “Right. I saw the port in the mirror there. I didn’t know what it was for, but it looked really gross.”

  Carlos sniffs, rubs his eyes, and looks up at me again. “My mom had one. It’s how she got her chemo for the last year before she died. It never looked like yours, though.”

  I unwrap my arms from around my legs and take Carlos’s hand. “I’m so sorry about your mom. How old were you?”

  “Eleven.”

  My throat clogs with emotion. “I lost someone I loved when I was eleven.” My eyes pop wide open, and I wrack my brain, trying to pull on that thread, but there’s nothing there. The little wisp of memory has fizzled out and coiled back down into my brain stem.

  “Who was it?” Carlos asks.

  I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t remember.”

  There’s a tap on the door and a redhead with glasses pokes her head in. “Time for vitals… How about that! You’re awake.” She scowls at Carlos. “You should have hit the call light.” She strides into the room. “Excuse me,” she says to Carlos. There’s a bit of an edge to her voice, and I can’t tell if she’s irritated with him specifically, or just stressed.