Barry Manilow didn’t really write the song, “I Write the Songs.”
Snails can sleep for three years.
Elephants can’t jump.
It’s not a bad plan, spending my time trying to remember more of the useless information I’ve stored away in my little brain. I may not know how to kill a man with only my hands or solve complex math without a calculator or even where South Dakota is on a map of the US. But I do know that there isn’t a single state in the US with the letter Q in it.
And that Q is the only letter that holds true for.
Think about it, even X found a spot.
If I ever get out of here, I’m going to do something interesting with all the useless facts. Like maybe Daria would let me decorate coasters with random factoids for the bar. Or I could put together a bathroom book.
Do people even read bathroom books any longer? Now that we all have smartphones to look at?
I close my eyes to try to staunch the barrage of worthless information and questions coursing through my brain. Willing it to turn off and let me sleep for a little while. It’s the easiest, most effective way to pass the time. And all I really want to do lately is force time to pass swiftly as I can.
I pull the threadbare blanket tighter around me and try to think of warm thoughts. Fires, jackets, Reed’s arms, heaters, down comforters, sunburns, jacuzzis—
Until I hear the doorknob jiggle once again.
20
Daria
The hospital keeps me longer than I’d hoped, but I’m finally released after another couple days. I’m still in pain, but at least it’s not more than I can handle with the smallest doses of pain pills. I’d rather dull any pain with a bottle of vodka anyway. I’m not surprised Mack is by my side to drive me home, but I am surprised to see my father waiting in his limousine, engine idling, in my driveway.
“Who’s the douche?” Mack nods toward the limo. I can see where he’d say that. I probably even agree with him. Now that I know better, I realize such rides are for high school dances, weddings, and awards shows. Not everyday transportation. But to my father, a limousine with tinted windows and a uniformed driver is the epitome of wealth and grace in America, so that is how he travels.
In Russia he uses SUVs with bulletproof exteriors, I guess he’s not as afraid of being shot at here, which is foolish of him. There are times since he’s been here that even I’ve been tempted to shoot at him.
Mack pulls his truck alongside the limo. “Stay here,” he advises, holding his arm out in front of me.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s my father.”
“Your father?”
“Yep.”
“How do you know?
“He’s the only person who would sit in front of my house in a limousine.”
“Wow, so I get to meet the folks, huh?” Mack smiles big. Of course, he sees the positive in such a thing before considering anything else.
“This is a big step for us, beautiful. I don’t know if I’m ready.” The look on his face tells me he’s joking, even though the words he uses ring true with me. Itisa big step, and I don’t know ifI’mready for it.
“Just . . . stay silent and let me talk.”
Mack scoffs but doesn’t protest. He gets out of the truck and comes to my side to open the door and help me out. My legs are working fine, I’m just weak and sore. And my equilibrium is still off from having my bell rung, as Mack would say. Literally.
Instead of going toward the limo, Mack leads me toward my front door. I’m not sure that’s how I would have played it were I not injured, but I can see why he does it. He gets me into my house, on my turf, where I’m more comfortable and in my element. Then my father has to come to me. It’s subtle, but it’s still a power shift. And right now, I’ll take whatever I can get to fuel myself against my father.
Mack moves to put my things away for me as I get myself situated on the couch with a pillow behind my back and under my wrist. The stability behind me helps me to breathe better, which I appreciate. Even though we have my ribs wrapped as tightly as possible to help with both healing and pain.
Barely a minute goes by before my father is in my house and standing before me in my living room. Two of his men flank him on either side, both as large if not larger than Mack.
“Father,” I greet him, waving my hand toward one of the club chairs across the room from where I’m sitting. He chooses instead to sit on the coffee table directly in front of me. His pristine suit and shoes looking out of place amongst the dust that has settled since I’ve been gone. I’m sure he didn’t see it before he chose to sit there. If he had, he would have picked the chair.
