9.
The next few days went by in a rush. Work was busy, since we were entering the Thanksgiving-Christmas shopping month of doom, and all hands had to be on deck. I didn't really have time to think about anything but jewelry, perfume and skin care products. In our department, we called them the big JPSCs, because they were always our biggest sales of the season. The JPSCs also came pre-packaged in ornamental yuletide bags at a fair discount. Who could resist?
Staffers usually got a JPSC bag too, a Christmas gift on behalf of our employer, although most people usually resold theirs. I used to ship it home to mom until she called me and said she wanted cash instead.
This year, I decided to give it to Mrs. Patrick. I felt that, what with recent events, maybe she deserved some cheer in her life. It had been nice of her to suggest flowers and chocolates to Jack.
Speak of the devil, I ran into him on the stairs as I made my way up from Mrs. Patrick. He was going down to pay the rent.
"Give her a minute or two, she's very emotional," I warned him in advance. She'd been so delighted with my gift she'd hugged me three times and immediately proceeded to call her sister to tell her about it.
Jack nodded, stopping on the same stair as me, but I pretended to look elsewhere. I was ridiculously aware of the fact that a few nights ago he had almost pinned me against a wall and I had been all aflutter, like a schoolgirl with a crush. Which was not going to happen. I firmly rejected the notion. In fact, I was going to eliminate this weird bout of attraction from my system. I mean liking him as a friend was fine, but romanticizing our lukewarm relationship? No. He was a man struggling with mental illness, and I wasn't going to be the young ingénue who saves him from himself and shows him how beautiful the world can be. Because that's not how it works. It would be insulting for the both of us.
I just had to play it cool, be normal. Be a casual friend.
"Want to come over for dinner? I'm making strudel."
I was so wrapped up in my own head I didn't even register his invitation. "Who owns a poodle?"
He hummed in amusement. "Dinner. Strudel."
"Oh. Okay."
I kicked myself later for not saying no. But I didn't really want to say no.
Walking into his apartment again felt like stepping inside the cage of a lion. I stood in the doorway for a good minute before I finally entered properly. Jack didn't seem to mind. In fact, he'd made some changes to accommodate me.
"We're eating on the floor," he announced airily as he ambled towards the kitchen.
I noticed that he had cleared up the coffee table from the living room and pushed the couch against the wall, leaving a large, clear space in the middle. There, on the washed-out carpet I saw a chequered table cloth, red and white, like the kind you use for picnics, and on it, plates and cutlery and paper napkins.
"It's the best way to eat," he assured me casually as he returned with the steaming casserole. "Those Japs, uh, they know what they're doing."
I nodded halfheartedly. We both knew the real reason for his eccentric relocation. Nevertheless, I went and sat down on my spot on the floor. I had to take off my shoes in order to sit cross-legged comfortably. Jack was wearing a pair of comfy slippers. It was all kind of hilarious, but I didn't laugh.
I'd never been a fan of yoga, I'd never meditated or done the lotus position, so this new seating took some getting used to. I kept moving my butt back and forth in a very unladylike fashion.
"You, uh, comfortable?" he asked, crouching down to sit opposite me at the edge of the table cloth.
"I'll just go wash my hands," I said, for an answer. I'd already washed them downstairs, but I just wanted to get up and be alone for a moment.
It was a bit overwhelming, the whole thing.
Jack didn't say anything, although his scars drooped down, as if he understood.
I got up quickly and scurried down the hall. The bathroom was familiar to me by now with its clean, friendly appliances and fluffy mat. I shut the door behind me and lay on the toilet seat for a few moments, twiddling my thumbs.
I was annoyed that I couldn't seem to control the situation I was in. I'd accepted Jack's company again and I was in his apartment and I didn't want to leave. But I also did. How do you reconcile two warring instincts?
I rose and stood in front of the plastic mirror. My reflection seemed like a shadow without contour. I wasn't pretty, I wasn't ugly, I was just there, living somehow.
What was he doing in the living room right now? Tapping his foot? Waiting for me? Thinking I was going to bail on him? Would he care if I did?
I rubbed at some leftover mascara under my left eye. What drives us human beings? Guilt? Shame? Loneliness?
My stomach rumbled unpleasantly.
Oh, yeah. Hunger.
"Listen, I know I talk too much, as you've been nice to point out, but I gotta ask you something. It's important. So please be honest with me."
I'd settled back on my haunches after devouring half of an amazing cheese and ham strudel. I knew maybe I should've let sleeping dogs lie, but something was bugging me about this whole thing. Something about his invitation on the stairs had rung false. And looking back on it, all his invitations had been kind of strange. Even now, as he sat opposite me and shoveled food in his uneven mouth, he seemed devoid of comfort and ease. As if he'd much rather eat alone. And yet he didn't.
I didn't think I'd have the energy to ask him about it after I finished the strudel.
Jack put down his fork and leveled me with a look that did not bode well, but I lumbered on, regardless.
"I get that cooking is therapeutic for you. But why do you keep asking me to dinner? Why do you want to have me over? The first few times I was broke and you took pity on me. But then…why did you still do it? I'm not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you don't seem comfortable with this arrangement. Even when we watched movies together...you were far away most of the time."
Jack took a long time parsing through my rather complicated question, or rather, questions. I could hear the kitchen tap leaking from across the corridor, drip, drip, drip. The quiet made my toes curl inside my socks.
"I didn't take pity on you," he said at length, staring at one of his slippers which had glided off his foot.
"Then why?" I insisted, determined to get something out of him. I wasn't fishing for compliments. I wasn't hoping for a "you make my day better" kind of spiel. I was confused about the mixed signals he was sending me. I wanted to draw a line and see where we stood. Yeah, I could readily admit I liked Jack, but I didn't want to be friends with someone who felt I was a burden.
"I'm not, uh, comfortable around anyone these days," he managed, after a while, noticing my unyielding stare.
"Okay, so don't force yourself to be."
"I'm not." He frowned, turning his head sideways. "Why do you need to have everything explained?"
"Because I'm slow that way," I deadpanned.
His short chuckle tapered in the silence.
"Well?" I tried again.
Jack got up clumsily and shambled towards the kitchen. I was left there, kneeling on the floor, mouth slightly ajar, wondering if he'd come back with a knife or something and tell me to get lost. Underwhelmingly, he returned with two cans of beer.
He loomed over me, holding out a can.
"No, I'm good."
His stare bore into my very skull, compelling me to take it. So I took the damn can. It was cold to the touch, made my fingers tingle.
He settled back down on the table cloth, legs crossed.
"Last time," he began after taking a strong gulp, "it wasn't good, living alone."
I took a tentative sip. "Last time?"
He nodded. "Back at my old place, I, uh, kept to myself, didn't talk to anyone. Avoided the neighbors. This was a year ago."
I waited patiently, watching his face with rapt attention.
"One night, I had an…incident. I dislocated my shoulder and almost choked on my own vomit."
My eyebrows shot up in shock. How did one achieve something like that?
"There was, uh, no one to help me," he continued, gripping his can, oblivious to my reaction. "I could handle the physical pain. I set my shoulder back on my own. Took a bunch pain killers. But it was a long night. I kept…I kept wanting to hurt myself."
I stood very still, afraid that any movement on my part might break his flow. This was the most he'd ever spoken succinctly.
"I told myself I wouldn't relive that night again. Told myself it was gonna be different at the new place. But I was still, uh, not talking to anyone. Boxing myself in, as they say. Until that night when I…you know…"
I knew. He'd broken the mirror.
"That's when you, uh, dropped by," he continued with a wry smile. "And I had something to do for a change."
"You mean stitch a foot?" I asked, unable to help myself.
His smile stretched slovenly. "Pretty much."
His expression folded in on itself, turning serious again. "But it's not the action itself. It's doing it for someone else that counts. Suddenly, it uh, has a purpose. So you came by with the mirror, and I cooked for you. And it felt, uh – well, it felt calm. I was calm. So I cooked for you again and it helped. It became like a regimen... something I could control. Beats pills, anyway."
I shook my head, still midway to grasping what he meant.
"So what you're telling me is I'm your medication," I said eventually.
He shrugged. "Don't believe you can ever be cured, but, uh, sure. You're a good placebo."
"I'm…flattered?" I trailed off, feeling incredibly stupid. How was I supposed to take this, as a compliment, as a great responsibility, as a joke?
"You see now I didn't take pity on you," he continued, driving home a point. "I used you. Still am using you."
I looked down at my half-eaten strudel. "That makes two of us, I guess."
"How's that?"
"Well, I replace your pills, and you replace my fridge… and microwave and cash… and need to feed myself."
I chuckled at my own wording and he joined me momentarily, as if we were sharing a laugh about some funny thing we'd read in the paper.
And that's when I felt it. As my eyes lifted to meet his, I felt a jolt like a string from a trap, a piece of wire wrapping around my fingers and stretching forward to wrap around his, connecting us somehow, tugging us forward. An understanding.
I think that might've been one of those crucial moments, where your next move decides everything. Your whole future. If I had said something clumsy and maudlin and clichéd, like "I don't know what happened to you in the past, but it wasn't your fault", he would've probably shut me out eventually, and all this would be meaningless.
I mean, the guy had just candidly admitted he had felt compelled to hurt himself. I could have told him "I'm here for you, I don't want you to hurt yourself again, people care about you." But that would have been false. I didn't know any other people who cared for him. I had no idea what fucked up shit he'd done in the Army. And while I'd feel bad if he hurt himself, I couldn't exactly stop him.
So instead, I said, "Chess."
"Huh?"
"You said you never learned how to play chess."
He didn't need me to specify further, his eyes glinted with remembrance. Our first dinner, when I brought the mirror.
"Well, we probably won't be watching movies again," I continued tentatively. "So…we could do that instead."
His scars did a funny somersault. "You can't play chess and hold a fork."
"I meant after dinner. You know, play a game or two. Keep your hands busy."
"Hm. Am I the charity case now?"
"No way," I replied with a nervous laugh. "I've booked that spot for the next month solid."
He smiled, or at least I think he did. It was always a game of make-belief with his face.
"What do you say? Want to beat me at chess?" I asked playfully, ignoring my churning stomach, ignoring the feeling I got that Jack wouldn't be able to outlast his own destructive instincts, in the end.
Something in my tone made him pause. I hadn't meant for it to sound provocative, but I realized suddenly that we were both leaning forward across the table cloth. Like we were sharing a secret. Oh, God, was I flirting?
"I'd love to beat you at chess," he replied with precision, his eyes scouring me with their fixed intensity. Like he could see the very marrow on my bones.
I felt a knot in my throat. I swallowed it down and smiled.
A/N: so it's currently almost 5 AM where I live, which is an ungodly hour for me, but I just felt the urge to finish the chapter sooner rather than later. I'm so incredibly grateful for your reviews, thank you so much for reading, and I hope this chapter didn't weird you out too much. Let me know how you feel about it!
