Author's Note: Parts of this were also used in a contest on speedrent. It won third place.
Chapter 6--Ghosts
"Fuckin' holidays," muttered Rusty as churchbells from the nearby cathedral woke them before noon one morning. The ground was still cold, and the few blades of grass that were struggling up a sickly yellow-green, but the air was warmer than usual, and a pale sun was attempting to burn its way through the haze.
"Don't they make you happy?" asked Mimi, sitting up and attempting to smile at him. They'd been fighting on and off for nearly a month, but she found strangely that it only motivated her to be more agreeable. Sometimes she wondered if this was what people meant by losing themselves on the street.
"'Buncha God bullshit? Hell no." He coughed roughly and stood up, swaying a little unsteadily on his feet. Rusty had started smoking again, claiming that it eased the pain in his lungs though his cough grew only steadily worse.
"Where you goin'?" The rest of the ragged group was still asleep; she could see them sprawled out near the far end of the fence.
Police action had started to pick up with the first major thaw of the year toward the end of March, and by Memorial Day the area was no longer safely inhabitable. The abandoned house was discovered at last; a government crew showed up and posted a large red "Condemned" sticker in the front window. A few days later, a truck filled with construction equipment was brought to the scene and demolition begun without hesitation.
They wandered for a long while, from street corner to abandoned car, dodging the increasing neighborhood vigilance and searching for a place to make a semi-permanent dwelling. By the time the coldsnaps stopped, they had wandered all the way to the outskirts of the city, finally settling in the East Village. It wasn't much, but the lot was a good compromise in a group that was already beginning to fragment. A little shelter, enough space to avoid territory wars.
"Out," said Rusty noncommittally. He'd never been much for words, but vagueness had become deception lately, though how much any of the others valued honesty, Mimi could never really tell.
"Out where? It's early, babe. Come lay down." She was begging and she knew it. More and more, she hated the girl she was becoming. She stretched back out on her stomach, ignoring the shock of the cold ground against her skin. She ran one hand through her hair and raised an eyebrow at him, like she'd learned to do for the men who passed her on the street. "You'll enjoy it."
"Out out," repeated Rusty. "Can't fuckin' stand this place."
"Close on Roger," narrates Mark, "who's been sitting on that window sill for days now, with a look on his face which I have become quite accustomed to."
"Fuck you," says Roger, his face turned out to the street. Mark cannot remember the last time they have had a civil conversation. "And get that damn thing out of my face before I throw it off the fire escape." The hard edge to his voice tells Mark he isn't kidding. It hurts, coming from Roger. He's usually the only one who understands.
"There a reason why you haven't been by the hospital yet?" asks Mark, switching off the camera and putting it carefully on top of the book shelf.
"I haven't seen you going there either," retorts Roger, still not turning around.
"She's not my girlfriend," says Mark, though he knows he isn't exactly blameless either. Still, it makes him crazy seeing Roger skulking around the loft instead of facing the reality that Mimi doesn't have much time left.
"Fuck that." Roger climbs off the windowsill with a clunk as his booted feet hit the concrete floor. He turns around and sweeps everything off of the aluminum folding table with an arm. Mark cringes at the sound of glass breaking. Roger lets out a little puff of air, then kicks the table over on top of the mess he has just created. He looks like he might cry.
"Look, Roger…" Mark waits until he looks up. "I just don't want to see you waste what time you have left."
"Wake up."
"What?" Mimi jumped, surprised by the voice from behind her. She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, but the sun was fully up outside now, and the others were beginning to stir.
"Said wake up, bitch." It was Perox, smirking that slinky look of hers. "He hates you, whore. You ain't never gonna change that."
"Fuck you." Mimi turned and walked away.
"I brought presents," says Collins, brandishing a very large shopping bag. He looks thinner than before, and older somehow too. Mimi notices for the first time how much older he seems than the rest of the group, though it's never struck her as anything notable before.
"You're the first," says Mimi, hating the sound of her voice. She tries to sit up, but manages only to dislodge a couple of the pillows so that they fall to the floor. Collins swoops to help, and she smiles weakly. She has only been aware of her surroundings for two days, but in that time no one else has come to visit. Typical Roger, she thinks, terrified of hospitals, angered by the prospect of death. Still, she has a hard time biting back the bitterness.
"Here." Collins rearranges the pillows and helps her lean against them. She smiles as he sits down, thinking that he should be the last person coming to visit her. It isn't fair to him, not after everything he's been through in the past year. Ironic, really. He is the one person she could forgive for not coming, and yet he is the one person who has not disappointed.
"How are you?" asks Mimi, as Collins pulls a chair over from the opposite side of the room and sits in it.
"Can't complain," he says, and she knows that he must want to. "Trying to figure out what I want to…you know, do with myself now. I figure I got a good two, three years still. Might as well not let that go to waste." He sounds every bit as drained as Mimi feels.
"Will you teach again?" The IV line in her forearm itches. She scratches around the edges of the tape, not caring that she is making it burn worse. The pain from the needle in her arm is significantly less than the pain everywhere else. It gives her something to focus on.
"Ah, I dunno. I want something that's…I don't even know." He twists the handles of the shopping bag around, looking at his hands. An uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty, coming from Tom Collins.
"Worthwhile?" asks Mimi. Collins looks up quickly, surprised. He smiles at her, the lines in his face lessening ever so slightly.
"Yes." Collins shakes his head. "You ever think it'd be possible to make a difference? I did once. Then I tried teaching. Learned that you might as well fuck yourself for trying to change the world. It just don't work like that."
Mimi smiles sadly and smoothes out a wrinkle in the white hospital sheets. She's thought about it a lot lately. Thought that there has to be a better way to live than the ones she's tried so far. "Yeah. But hey, kinda late for me now, isn't it?"
They are silent for a moment. Silence is a side effect of sickness, she has discovered over the past few months. The sight of pill bottles and hospital monitors steals breath and seals lips. Lies come along with the package too. And tears.
"You said something about presents?" Mimi gestures to the shopping bag, suddenly desperate to change the subject.
"Right." Collins spreads the contents of the shopping bag on the side of the bed. Several pumpkin spice scented candles, a can of spray glitter, and most of Angel's extensive makeup collection. "She wanted you to have this," says Collins, as Mimi eyes the gaudy eye shadow palette.
"Collins." Her throat feels tight suddenly, and not because of the meds. The memory of Angel lying in a hospital bed identical to this one, with all of the others sitting around in a protective circle, is suddenly too much. "You don't have to do this, you know. I'd understand if you wanted to…stay away."
"Fuck that, Mimi. You're family. There's no excuses there." Collins moves the things over to the bedside table, and lights one of the candles. Instantly, the smell begins to drown out some of the hospital antiseptic scent, though she is sure the nurses will be less than thrilled.
"Thank you," she says quietly. Collins nods, kisses her hand, and starts to get to his feet. "Wait," says Mimi, when he reaches the door.
"Yeah?" Collins turns back, his eyes looking unnaturally large in the odd fluorescent light.
"Have you heard anything from the others? I was just thinking I don't know why Roger's not—"
"I'm sure he's coming, Mimi." Collins' voice is too loud. Too certain. Suddenly Mimi is sure he's not coming at all. Something is very wrong in their little family, and Collins knows it.
"He should be here," she says softly, not bothering to hide the hurt in her voice anymore. Collins nods once more, then turns and walks away very quickly. "He should be here," Mimi repeats. "He's not here and I'm…I'm dying." The candle on her bedside table flickers a bit, as if in agreement. "I'm dying," she says to the candle, trying out the words on her tongue. "I'm fucking dying and he should be here."
The church was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. She knew she'd probably get herself killed if she ever admitted it to the rest of the group, but for the moment she couldn't tear her eyes away. All the pretty little girls in white and pink frilly dresses, sitting on the laps of parents and friends. The carving of the angel above the pulpit.
She went as close to the door as she dared, barely able to breathe. She wasn't sure why she was afraid of being in a place that claimed to welcome everyone, but deep down she was quite sure that they didn't intend the sign out front to apply to people like her. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, letting herself be lost in the priest's words of comfort and reassurance. She tried over and over to tell herself that they didn't apply to her, but there was strength in something familiar nonetheless.
"Miss?" Mimi jumped, realizing that the service had let out. The church now stood empty, save for a few people lingering on the stone steps out front.
"What?" She stood straight up with a start. It was the priest, standing over her with a look she couldn't read on his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll go." Without leaving him time to say another word, she turned and fled.
"Take a lick," says Maureen, holding out the lollipop she's been nursing for the past half hour. "How many you think it'll take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Roll pop?"
"Maureen…" Joanne sighs, and shakes her head, pushing the lollipop back at Maureen. She knows that silliness is Maureen's defense mechanism, that they've all been more than a little bit stressed lately, but she cannot help getting annoyed. They are in the middle of two very earth-shattering situations, and all Maureen can talk about is her candy. Typical. Just fucking typical. "We need to talk."
"We always need to talk, Pookie." Maureen flips over onto her back on the couch, and holds the lollipop above her mouth, sticking her tongue up to lick it. "You know, eating a lollipop is like peeling an onion."
"Maureen." Joanne gives her a look, then snatches the candy out of her hand and puts it on a coaster on the end table. Maureen bounds up and grabs it back, pouting like a small child. Joanne has to bite her lip to keep from blowing up. "Please, Maureen. Please, for five minutes sit up and wipe your mouth and act like a grownup. We need to talk about this. It's important."
"About what?" asks Maureen, obeying with a grudging look. She is capable of being serious, after all. Sometimes. "How we're all falling apart? How in three months we'll all be in different places and only Mark will remember that we ever spent a year together? Oh, yes, Pookie, let's discuss that in detail." Suddenly all traces of mirth are gone, and Maureen is all bitterness.
"That's not what I meant," says Joanne softly. "That's not what I meant at all."
"Your job offer then?" Maureen's voice is quiet now. Utterly uncharacteristic. "Okay, so even if Mimi doesn't…we'll still end up away. All of us. Joanne, why do you really want this job? More money? We're doing fine as it is. Right here. Look what we have. Do you really think there's anything better than this anywhere else?"
"I…" Joanne is about to tell her that she has always dreamed of a job like this. The chance to make a difference. That that is the entire reason she went to Harvard, yet has already delayed three years. That this is the reason she puts up with all the bullshit every day at the office. With the pains of being a black lesbian corporate lawyer. But something makes her choke on her words. Suddenly she sees Collins, weeping over Angel's coffin. Roger pacing in the waiting room. Mark, looking helplessly on, filming it all because he cannot bear to see the world unguarded.
Maureen wraps Joanne in a hug as they both begin to cry.
"Roger?" Mark's voice echoes off the thin loft walls. The sound of the door sliding shut is like thunder. Roger gets up off the bed and swings his guitar case over one shoulder. He walks quickly out into the main room, feeling a stab of guilt at the sight of the overturned table and the mess on the floor. Mark is attempting to sweep it up with a broom he has apparently brought home from work.
"Hi," he says, as Roger enters the room.
"Hi." Roger puts the guitar case down, and picks up the duffel bag that's waiting for him on the couch. He puts the guitar case over his other shoulder, then turns in a slow circle, surveying the loft. Something about it unsettles him today, though he is sure it's just the guilt in the pit of his stomach.
"What are you doing?" asks Mark, looking up again from his cleaning.
"I'm moving out," says Roger, and pulls the door open.
Walking back to the park, trying to catch her breath in the cold, Mimi nearly ran into the man standing on the corner. She'd seen him nearly every day, and had always made a point to steer clear. Even after five months on the street, his kind still scared her. He was a perfect fit to the stereotype, scruffy, dark-glassed, and quietly threatening. He didn't raise a fuss most of the time, but when he did, there was hell to pay.
"Oh, my honey." He put a hand on her shoulder as she stumbled. "Looks like you're having an awfully bad morning." The sound of his voice sent a chill down her spine.
"I'm fine," she said brusquely, and attempted to pull out of his grasp. His hand tightened.
"Now, now. Don't lie to me. I can help." He smiled, revealing a gleaming gold tooth. Like something out of a bad movie, she thought. Only this was real. Still smiling, he pressed a small packet of something into her hand, then let go. "First time's on me."
Walking outside the hospital, Collins thinks he sees a ghost. Not the one he's been watching in his dreams night after night, but a new vision come to haunt him. Then he gets a few feet closer, and realizes that he isn't really seeing things at all.
Somehow, he thinks that something inside of him has finally been crushed by the sight of Roger Davis, bags packed, sitting on a bench with a needle in his hand.
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