Page 117 of Bend
“There’s a mirror right over there,” I suggested.
“No, I got it.” She took her hair down.
Seeing her hair against her face and her forearms up, I realized how thin she was. Jesus, I must have been stoned on scrips yesterday. She fiddled with her fork and glanced at Mark, the orderly who moonlit as a nose-ring-wearing punk. I noticed from that he had a tattoo creeping onto his neck from under his collar. He looked at her and spun his finger as if telling her to get to it. She picked up her fork. I knew from the way she handled it that no food was landing in her mouth. I’d seen that particular twirl before.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make Amanda’s funeral,” she said. “There was so much going on. My sister was there. Tanya. She went. Said it rained. Like a movie.” She rolled her eyes.
“It’s all right. Nothing really happened. You know. Closed casket from the accident. She didn’t zombie.” I raised my arm and curled it at the wrist, making an ugly zombie face, because what better way to pretend I didn’t give a shit?
“I heard about the party after,” Karen said.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Wow. Days. It was the best sendoff I could have given her.” I felt bad scooping food into my face in front of someone who was obviously anorexic, but I was hungry. “We had a line of limos up the hill. Man, there was so much flake.”
I stopped chewing and pushed my tray away. The flake had been the problem. At that point, Deacon didn’t care that I’d had multiple partners. He cared that he didn’t know them. He cared that there had been drugs on Maundy Street, where he wanted things quiet and unimpeachable, and he cared that I’d taken them. He wouldn’t knot me until it was out of my system and then some. That week had been torture. Amanda’s death had weighed on me fully, and Deacon withheld every coping mechanism I had.
“I spent a week in the corner drooling after that,” I said as if it was a joke.
But it hadn’t been. I’d felt like the bottom was going to fall out of me until Deacon picked me up and knotted me from the ceiling. Things had changed after Amanda died. It was as if we needed each other, he and I. As if it pained him to see me take such poor care of myself. It wasn’t too long after that we decided to own each other.
“Hey,” Warren said, sitting across from me. “Rain just stopped. Creek’s flooding up to the bench.”
“There’s a creek?”
Warren and Karen glanced at each other.
She pushed her tray forward and shot a look at Mark before standing. “Let’s give Fiona a tour. Our tour.”
Warren looked me up and down, as if seeing my body through the light blue cotton uniform. “Can I trust you?”
“You can take your tour and stick it.”
“You want this tour,” Karen said. “It’s worth it. Almost as good as freedom.”
“I don’t need to prove I’m trustworthy. I ate you out in Ojai, and you”—I turned to Warren—“licked flake off my tits. That was my coke, and you never gave me shit in return but numb nipples.”
“Point taken,” Warren said as he guided me out the door.
The outside had been designed, manicured, and planted to the teeth. The verdant garden was dotted with wood benches—places to reflect on your mental sickness, eat yourself with regret, and chew on your shortcomings. Jack crouched over a bed of wildflowers, rubbing the yellow petals.
“Hey, Jack,” Warren said as he slapped the not totally unfuckable nerd so hard on the ass he nearly fell over.
“Ow!”
“Not cool, Warren,” I said, helping Jack up. “You all right?”
“I’m fine.” He glared at Warren.
I brushed Jack’s shoulders even though there was nothing there.
“Sorry, man.” Warren made a fist as if to punch Jack in the arm.
Jack flinched. I liked Warren less and less with each passing second.
“We’re checking out the holes. You coming?” Warren asked.
“Nah. I’m good.”
“Can we go?” Karen asked, walking backward toward the gardens. “I have a session in fifteen minutes.” She indicated the clock on the highest part of the common building.
