Emily
I open my eyes, a sleepy smile on my face.
I was dreaming of Jude, of the sex we had last night. But other things, too, mad things which are blue-sky in the extreme. I dreamt that I woke up one morning, but I wasn’t here or in Patrick’s apartment. I was in our house. I woke up and Jude was standing over me in a bathrobe, hair wet, looking sexy and stern. He walked over to the bed and knelt down next to me. “Ready for the barbeque today?” he asked me. “Barbeque?” I responded. He nodded. “Yes, Jimmy’s looking forward to it.” I was about to ask who’s Jimmy when a little boy, red-haired and looking every bit like a miniature Jude, charged into the room and sprung up on the bed.
Silly, I think, sitting up and massaging the sleep from my eyes. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. There’s no doubt about that. Jude and I are—what? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Not even that? Perhaps we’re just people who are having sex. Fuck buddies is the phrase, I think. But I don’t think it’s that, either. It must be somewhere in between.
My first instinct upon waking is to get ready for work, but I texted Mrs. M last night and she shot a text back almost instantly, telling me it was fine if I took a little time off. She’s too understanding for her own good, but then, she knows my home life is less than perfect.
I sit in bed for a long time, paralyzed by this unexpected stretch of free time. My life, always, is one long course of activity. I wake up, I go to work, and then I return home and Patrick whisks me up like a mad tornado and drags me to a fight, a deal, some other dark dingy place I have no business being. I can’t think of another time in my life where I’ve been able to just sit with no consequences.
But sitting up in bed can only be done for so long. I get up and get dressed, and then go into the kitchen. The kitchen. It’s still a wreck, glass and shards. Some of the glass has been crushed into the kitchen floor, telling me that Jude has been in here with his boots on this morning. So you’re Sherlock Holmes now? A voice taunts, sounding annoyingly like my brother. I push it away and let myself smile. I put on my sneakers and return to the kitchen, looking over the chaos, evidence of our fierce argument, an argument which brought us closer together. We’ve shown the monsters inside of us, and neither of us has run. Strange.
“Right,” I mutter, looking from destroyed cupboard to exploded oven, “I think I’ve found my project for the morning.”
I drink a coffee and eat a cereal bar, and then set to work. I gather up trash bags, a broom, and a dustpan and brush.
I work from ten o’clock until around eleven-thirty. When I’m done, the place looks bare and empty—cupboards are still missing, stray pieces of glass cling to the oven—but at least it’s safe. Must get a vacuum, I think, and then laugh at myself. It’s not even my place. But it’s not like Jude’s going to buy one. Just the idea of Jude prancing around in the apartment with a vacuum cleaner is enough to make me giggle.
I pile up the trash bags next to the door and then drop onto the couch. Let’s hope he doesn’t go crazy every time we have an argument, I think. We’re going to have to either get a new oven or pay someone to put some more glass in. New cupboards. New mugs. If he goes like that every time, we’ll be replacing it all every month.
Part of me knows I should leave this apartment. I shouldn’t stay with a violent man. But Jude’s violence is different from Patrick’s. Jude, not once, made a move toward me as if to hit me. It didn’t even cross his mind to direct his rage at me—at my face, at my belly, at my tender flesh. It never once occurred to him to bring his fist down on me, like Patrick has done innumerable times. Jude was just angry; he broke things. That was all. Anyway, I reflect, bringing my fingers to the soft, puffy flesh around my eyes, Jude would never do this to me. Heck, Jude wants to kill the man who did this to me.
That makes me shiver. Patrick the monster, Patrick the psychopath, Patrick the junkie, Patrick the man who deserves all the bad things Jude could do to him . . .
And yet he’s still my brother.
Don’t get into that again!
I switch on the TV, turning to the nature channel, and lean back on the couch. The documentary is about penguins, the one with Morgan Freeman, about how they mate for life and go on journeys together, about how the couples’ calls are tailored to be able to find each other in crowds of thousands. I wonder if people ever get that close. I wonder if it’s possible. I wonder if love can really be like that.
The documentary’s almost over when the apartment buzzer rings.
My chest seizes at the noise, carving through the quiet apartment like a machete. I swallow, mouth dry, and walk on shaky legs to the intercom. Has Patrick found out where Jude lives? I swallow again and this time my throat’s so dry it’s like there’s something lodged in there.
With a hand that won’t stop trembling, I press the answer button.
“Emily?” a woman barks, voice high-pitched and authoritative.
“Um, yes?”
“It’s Moira, Jude’s sister. Are you going to let me up or what?”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Sure.”
I press the button to open the door, thinking: Jude’s sent me a babysitter.