DESPITE THE CONSTANT DRIP OF RAIN, thunder in Seattle is as rare as the sun in winter. When it rumbles, shaking the windowpanes in my apartment, I run for the window to see what’s happening. Judah, fresh from his bath, is reading a book in the living room. He laughs at me when I trip over a pillow and crawl the rest of the way to the window to look out.
“It’s thunder,” I say incredulously, still on my knees.
“Yes,” he says. I turn and sit with my back against the wall. Because my bathroom is not equipped with the hoist that Judah needs to lift himself in and out of the bath, I helped him instead, surprised at his upper body strength and how little he actually needed me. I think on this now, as I sit staring at the maleness of his beauty—the wet hair, the broad expanse of chest. It was shocking to see his legs. It looked as if two pieces that did not belong to him were hastily placed on his body. Frail and thin, free of hair, I averted my eyes when I helped him out of the bath, and then I felt ashamed. What right did I have to avert my eyes from his body when I was naught but a monster underneath my skin?
“How come you’re so good at being in a wheelchair?” I say softly. Judah sets his book aside, folding his hands on his lap.
“I decided very early on that I wanted as little help as possible,” he says. “There wasn’t always going to be someone around to do things for me, so I taught myself to do them.”
“And Delaney?”
“She was tough … loving, but tough. She didn’t do anything for me unless she had to.”
I think about the day he called to me from the window, how I crept into his house in the dark and held his hands while he sobbed. It was the only time Judah showed weakness, and I wonder now if it’s still there, his feelings of ineptitude buried under the bravado of capability. The tarnished silver.
“But you don’t complain. You never look burdened by it.”
“I’m not,” he says. “Other people are though, when they have to wheel me off the airplane, or bend down at the Starbucks counter to hand me my change. When someone has to hold a door open for me, or pack my wheelchair into their trunk. That’s when I become a burden.”
I think about what it would be like to have to depend on others for all of the little things, and I instantly know I’d never be like Judah.
“I’d be angry and bitter,” I announce.
He laughs. “You’re the most hopeful person I’ve ever met, Margo. That’s untrue.”
I jump up and run to him, pressing my lips against his, holding his face in my palms. Just because I can.
We stay inside for most of the day, ordering Chinese and watching movies like we used to. This time I have a long list of things I want him to see.
“Well, that was depressing,” he says. I eject the movie from the DVD player and slip my finger through the hole in its center while I look for the box. The Stoning of Sorayah M is one of those films that leave you in a funk for days.
“How did you go from sappy chicks flicks like The Wedding Date to something like that?”
“It’s meaningful,” I say. “I want to fill myself with images that mean something, not ones that placate my fears.”
“How did The Wedding Date placate your fears?”
I sit on my heels in front of the TV and stare at him. “I’ve always been afraid that love isn’t real. So I watched movies that assured me that there can be happy endings and shit.”
“And shit,” he says. And then, “Okay … okay … I get it. What else you got for me? Let’s see how far we can slump into depression.”
I pick up the next movie I have lined up and wave it around. “The House of Sand and Fog,” I say.
“Bring it,” says Judah. “I’m super in touch with my feelings right now.” He rubs a palm over his chest.
The following day I drive Judah back to the Bone. I can barely keep my hands from shaking as they grip the steering wheel in a death vice. I haven’t been back—not since I left. Too afraid to go; too afraid to stay. Now I am sick at the thought of seeing the eating house, and Sandy, and Delaney. I curse myself for agreeing to this and wonder if Judah has some ulterior motive in wanting me to go with him. What steadies me is Little Mo. Maybe Mo will let me have him for a little while. He’ll be so much bigger by now. Walking. I cheer at the thought and find my foot pressing a little harder on the accelerator. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll concentrate on Mo, and maybe I’ll have a little time to pop by Nevaeh’s grave. I heard that the city paid for a large angel statue to be placed next to her gravestone. It was a nice thing to do. I glance at Judah, suddenly feeling much better, and find him staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You should have seen your face. This entire time I thought I was watching a silent film.”
“Oh, shut it,” I say. But I can already feel the blush creeping up my neck. Way to act like a psycho, Margo.
“You were chewing on your lip and hunched over the steering wheel one minute, the next you were smiling to yourself, and then all of a sudden you’re frowning and rocking back and forth like a mad woman.”
“Nonsense,” I tell him. “But seriously, it’s like you just woke up after all this time and realized I’m not normal.”
“I guess I’ve been gone too long. But that’ll be different now that I’m coming back.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he thinks I’ll be driving back to the damn Bone every week to see him. Fat chance. I stick a slab of chocolate in my mouth to keep from bursting his bubble.
“My therapist told me you aren’t real,” I tell him.
He grins at me. “I’ve always been too good to be true, Margo.”
It’s the same as it’s always been. I keep my eyes fixated ahead, trying not to look at all the things that haven’t changed. I don’t see the wet paper cups lying in the gutters, or the smoke from the food trucks curling into the sky. I definitely don’t see the high school girls wearing mini skirts and hanging all over boys who will get them pregnant and leave shortly thereafter. Judah chats cheerfully next to me, but I don’t hear him. I turn down Wessex and pull into Delaney’s driveway. It takes all of five minutes for me to drop his bags off at the front door and help him into his chair.
“Come inside with me, Margo,” he says. “My mom would love to see you.”
I shake my head. “I have to head back,” I lie. Before he can say anything else, I’m back in the Jeep and backing out of his driveway. I don’t go to the eating house, even though I can feel it calling to me. I pull into Mo’s driveway. He must have been standing near the window, because as soon as he sees my car, he comes outside, his eyes narrowed. When he sees it’s me, his shoulders lose some of their tension.
“Well, well … look who’s back,” he says. He’s not smiling. My stomach does a little turn as I slam the door and walk up the drive.
“Hey Mo.”
“What you want, girl? You never been the drug type.”
I grin. “I came to see Little Mo, actually.”
He looks surprised. “Yeah, he’s in his cage. You can go in. Want to watch him for a bit. I have some business to take care of.”
“Sure,” I say. He doesn’t even go back inside the house. I watch from the open doorway as he drives off in his Lincoln. Mo has never invited me into his house. I suppose he’s desperate enough to let his former neighbor play babysitter to his motherless son. Little Mo is playing with a set of plastic keys as he sits in a stained pack-and-play in the living room. His face is smeared with chocolate, but other than that, he looks fine. When he sees me, he smiles. I can’t control the utter happiness I feel. We spend the afternoon together, and when he naps, I walk around the house and look in Mo’s drawers. I find tiny baggies of cocaine under the bed he shared with that child-beating whore, Vola. I empty them out one by one into the toilet, then I re-fill each bag with flour and replace them. When I drive out of the Bone, long after the sun has gone down, for once I feel refreshed. I haven’t thought about Leroy in hours. My mind is a clear sky.