Running
Setting: "Waiting to Exhale"
I wake up slowly, to random, indistinct sounds from the TV and the hum of the AC unit. When I turn over to look at the clock, the numbers read a blurry 6:49. Exhaling, I throw the blankets off, roll out of bed, go over to the TV and turn it off.
I didn't really sleep. It was one of the worst nights I've had in weeks. It kept melting together, every time I tried to relax. I had to keep moving my arms around, just to remind myself that they weren't taped together, that I wasn't strapped down.
Rubbing my neck, I open the door to the hall and trudge toward the bathroom. Before closing the door I poke my head into the living room, check to see if Dexter came back last night, but I don't see him or any evidence that he slept here. Shrugging to myself, I leave the door open, head for the toilet.
Something like ten minutes later I move into the kitchen with contacts in and my fingernails newly trimmed. I'm still wiping off my face and the back of my neck with a hand towel, which I end up throwing on the counter before grabbing and filling up my water bottle. Because I have to run. Because I've barely been awake and already the thoughts are pressing in, loud and horrible and completely uncontrollable.
As I toss the bottle into the treadmill, I think vaguely about what my shrink would say if she knew how bad it still is, if she'd rescind her recommendation that I be let back on the force. And then of course I remember yesterday, the morning meeting with the two lieutenants, and that poor asshole at the gym.
Maybe, if I'm honest with myself, I probably shouldn't be back yet. But there's nowhere else I feel safe anymore, where I'm not scared shitless.
I go out into the living room and start digging through the closet I've taken over, try to find something to wear that's not totally sweated through. Finding nothing clean, I just grab what I wore a couple nights ago and start changing on the spot. It's already getting late and I don't fucking care anyway.
My skin seems to be crawling as I practically jog back to the bedroom, pull my sneakers out from where they somehow ended up half under the bed and shove my feet into them. After clambering onto the treadmill I force myself to pause, for just a moment, to try to quell some of the fear building in my chest, to try to remember all that stupid shit Wheeler said to me. That I'm here. That I can smell old sweat from my clothes, hear the refrigerator chugging in the other room, feel my heart tapping in my neck. That I know what's happening to me. That he's dead and ground to nothing, and that he has been for a long time now.
But it doesn't help, and I give up quickly. Scoop the remote up off the bed and turn on the TV again. Climb back onto the treadmill. Because all I can seem to do anymore is run in place.
My legs ache pleasantly as I take a sip of water and crank up the speed. Thankfully, finally, the terror starts to ebb away. I try to imagine it flowing off my back, like water, or like some other equally ineffective metaphor, as I look back at the TV.
It's the infomercial about that bullet blender thing. I've probably seen it ten thousand times at this point, but for some reason I don't change the channel.
"…you ground coffee, and you mixed up two different types of muffin batter in that thing. What the heck is it?"
"It's the Magic Bullet!"
"The personal, versatile, counter-top magician!"
I settle into a nice cruising pace, my attention drifting blissfully between the screen and the sound of my footfalls. For some reason I find myself once again wondering what I would do with one of these bullet things if I had one. It always looks so easy and simplistic. Of course, I hate cooking and I'm way too fucking lazy to try any of this shit anyway.
Still, I enjoy the thought of salsa and chicken salad and tomato sauce and blended drinks, of them being as effortless as advertised. I imagine them being brought to me on a TV tray on a sunny Saturday morning.
The phone rings, cutting through these thoughts. I zone back in to the sound.
"…homemade pesto sauce. Now all you need to do is pour it over your pasta. Look at that."
The phone isn't in the bedroom, and it's not even my phone. If it's work and they're calling for Dexter, I don't really want to answer anyway. I know half the station knows I'm living with my brother, but I don't think LaGuerta and Pascal do, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Soon the ringing stops. I keep on running.
I've just started drifting back into that pleasant place of non-thoughts when something buzzes on the dresser. When I look over there I see my cell is lit up and vibrating against the lamp.
Curiosity piqued, I hit the stop button, jump off and grab the phone. "Hello?" I answer, pressing it to my ear.
"Hi, Deb, it's Rita."
Her voice sounds frazzled. "Hey," I say, unsure why she's calling me. "What's up?"
"I'm looking for Dexter. He was supposed to be here this morning. Is he there?"
"No." I feel something ping in my chest. "I thought he was with you."
Her breath hits the receiver. "Why? When did he leave?"
"Last night." I find myself glancing into the living room, as if to make sure my brother hasn't actually been in there this whole time. He hasn't. "He said he was going bowling and he never came back. I assumed he went to your place." I pause. "You mean he wasn't with you last night?"
"No," her voice sounds even more strained. "No, I haven't seen him since yesterday morning."
I start running through possible places my brother could be. Immediately, insanely, I can't help but imagine that he's dead in his car somewhere.
In my silence, Rita continues, "It's Paul's funeral today. The kids want him there. Honestly, I want him there too."
"Yeah, of course." I start walking out of the bedroom, now wondering if he might've left a note or something that I missed.
"Do you have any idea where he might be?"
None whatsoever. And there's nothing on the fridge or his desk. "I don't know," I say. "Maybe work?"
"Yeah. I'll try calling the station next."
I glance around the empty apartment, at the couch where he should've spent the night. "I'm sorry I don't know where he is."
"Well, if you do see him, tell him the funeral's at 10. Tell him to come to my place before then."
"Yeah, of course."
"Thanks. I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah." It occurs to me that I should say something about Paul, or about the funeral. "Good luck with today," is all I can think of.
There's a very slight pause. "Thanks," she says. And then she hangs up.
I set the phone on the counter, a new fear eating at my stomach.
Where the fuck is he?
I wipe sweat from my forehead, grab my phone again and dial his number. It rings and rings, dumps to his voice mail.
"Hey, Dex, where the fuck are you?" I say after the beep. "Call me."
Clicking off, I try to think of everywhere he could possibly be, come up with nothing besides Rita's place, here, and work. As far as I know, Dexter doesn't have any friends outside of the people at the station, and I can't imagine him crashing on any of their couches. Distantly, I wonder if he could be fucking around, but the thought doesn't make any sense. My brother loves Rita and those kids. He'd never do something like that.
Which leaves the other possibility— that he wrapped around a telephone pole last night, that he's dead or dying in a hospital or something.
I can't stop the surge of anxiety as I dial my phone again, just to make sure I didn't miss a call. But when I reach my own voice mail, there's nothing waiting for me there.
So where is he?
"…and just add a splash of orange juice or, for you party animals, your favorite liqueur."
"Like you."
I head back into the bedroom and turn the TV off. Not really knowing what to do, I pull the bottle out of the treadmill and take a drink, glance at the clock. 7:34. I have to get ready for work.
If he was dead, wouldn't someone from patrol have called me by now?
Am I just being insane?
Even though I probably am, I find myself punching Rita's number into my phone.
It rings twice before she answers, "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Deb again," I say. "You call the station?"
"Yeah," she says. "They said he's not there."
Not that I really expected him to be…
"Should I be worried?" she voices my own question.
"I don't think so," I say, because it's probably the truth.
Sounds of the phone adjusting. "Where do you think he is?"
"I don't know." But before she can say anything else, I add, "But I'm sure he'll turn up soon."
"I hope so." She pauses. "Listen, I've gotta go. When you see him, just have him call me, alright?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"Thanks."
We exchange goodbyes and hang up. For a moment I don't move, stare down at my phone. I debate calling him again. "Hey, fucktard," I'd say to his voice mail. "What the fuck? Call me."
I start dialing, but stop myself halfway through the number. Because he's probably fine, just being an inconsiderate jackass, like usual. And I really don't have time for this.
I go out and connect my phone to the charger, leave it on the kitchen counter. Then I make sure the volume's all the way up, in case he calls me back. It's a full second before I force myself away from it, to head around the counter for the bathroom.
I'm just making myself crazy. He'll probably have called me back by the time I get out of the shower. And even if he doesn't, my desk is like three yards from his office. I'll see him at work.
Doubting my own reassurances, I twist the knob for the shower, then start hunting around for a clean towel.
