It was an average night.
Rita and Louie Booker also called in. They were their usual selves, filling the doorway with their barely clothed bodies, hands gripping each other tightly, like neither of them would even be able to stand upright without the other. Rita had a cast on her left arm from a biking accident, a story she told hilariously. “And so that’s the last time I ever try to do anything fucking healthy. The environment can suck a dick—I’m driving my F-150 to work again.” They touched and cooed at my stomach, and it didn’t bother me as much as when other people did it. I signed my name and a smiley face on Rita’s cast.
I was driving back from their place, the radio was on low, the song just peaceful murmuring. One of the only bonuses of the night shift—the roads were empty. Empty roads in Los Angeles were a rarity. There were always people and they were always trying to get somewhere. Driving in traffic could send the kindest souls into yelling, spitting rage. I once saw an old woman who looked like she made the best apple pie, and remembered all her grandkids’ birthdays, lean her head out the window of her minivan and spit at a Camaro that cut her off. “Your parents must be blind, or cousins, both!”
By midnight, everyone seemed to be where they needed to be. I could drive at speeds greater than ten mph, didn’t have to slam on the brakes every other second, weaved from lane to lane just because I could. There was just a half-hour left in my shift and I was feeling okay. Then I looked down at my hands on the steering wheel.
Dad and I had the same hands. Small for our height, wide palms, thick knuckles, we both bit our nails until they bled. I’d spent many nights staying up late googling “plastic surgery for hands,” going deep—not just page 1, 2, 3 results, clicking and scrolling, trying to keep my breathing clean and even, in out, in out, in out, 35, 36, 37, I made it once to page 78. One night, I came across an ad for a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills who made a promise so grand and stupid it couldn’t be real, but what if it was?—“Let Me Fix Your Pain for Good.”
I sent him an e-mail—“Hi, please help me”—and he replied quick, a little too quick, paragraphs about rejuvenation procedures, cuts, and injections, promising to make me look young again. I never replied, didn’t know how to tell him I was eighteen, my hands were still smooth, it wasn’t about looking young. I had my father’s hands, and in my dark, honest moments at 3:00 a.m. googling, I worried they weren’t the only things of his that I had.
It could happen anytime, anyplace, instantly—typing a text, reading a book, cracking my knuckles, scratching my nose, turning on the lights, turning off the lights, grabbing a box off a high shelf, hanging with friends, sweating at parties, passing Mom an orange, holding Billy’s face, working, so much at work—I’d be happy, laughing, breathing, and then I’d look down at my hands and I’d be sure he had those moments too.
I felt it strongly in the car. Dad was always going for drives late at night. I stared hard at my hands, our hands, gripping the steering wheel. He didn’t just go for drives late at night, he went for those drives in the very car I was sitting in. I nearly ran into a lamppost.
* * *
—
BEFORE I EVEN WENT to work that night, Mom made sure that my cell phone was fully charged. “No excuses, you call us when you’re off.” I had called her when my shift ended at 2:30 a.m., said a quick “I love you,” to both her and Billy, and was driving home when I decided there was just one place I wanted to stop first.
No lights were on in Jenny’s house. No lights were on in any house on the block, just streetlamps and porch lights. I parked in front of the house across from hers and watched, willing a room to light up, even a lamp to flicker. I didn’t believe she was sleeping. I knew she must have trouble going to bed, like me. Those bags under her eyes. Her constantly rumpled and stained clothes. I could hear it in the way she talked, someone who had been awake and thinking for too long.
I only planned on stopping for a minute or two, possibly just driving by if I could get a good glimpse of her through the window. It wasn’t until I got near-simultaneous texts from Billy and Mom—“Where are you?” “Did something happen?”—that I realized over fifteen minutes had passed. I put the key in the ignition and was about to turn the radio up when, like magic, fate, force of my own will, the kitchen light flipped on and, a beat later, Jenny walked into my view.
The kitchen windows were big and I could see her clearly from my car. She was wearing a baggy long-sleeve shirt and even baggier flannel pajama pants. She looked small and comfy. I watched as she walked slowly around the kitchen, touching the counter, cabinets, sink, the knobs on all the drawers. After her fifth lap, she stopped at the fridge and opened it, stood in its glow for a minute before she grabbed a carton of milk and started drinking straight from it. She chugged until milk started dribbling down the sides of her mouth. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and she started pulling things from the fridge—eggs, sticks of butter, onions, lemons, a head of broccoli, a handful of wilting asparagus, a pack of hot dogs, something that might have been raw chicken, another carton of milk, a tray with a sheet of foil over it, takeout boxes, lots of takeout boxes—everything, until it was splayed on the counter behind her.
I wondered what she was going to make, what she could create out of the mess in front of her. She just stared at everything for a moment, and then, one by one, started putting everything back in the fridge.
She took her time, putting things in different spots than they were before. I wanted to rap on the window, tell her that raw chicken needed to be stored on the bottom shelf of the fridge or the juices could drip down and coat everything in bacteria, but I also didn’t want to interrupt her process. She looked calm. When she finished she took another two slow laps around the kitchen and then started taking everything out again. I could’ve watched her all night.
My phone lit up again and I knew it was time to go. I was okay now anyway, looking at my hands didn’t make me sick. I’d seen her, and in four days it would be Wednesday and I would see her again.
I started driving home, rehearsing a story in my head to quiet Billy and Mom: Hey, I’m sorry I’m late, I left something really important behind at work and just couldn’t bear to let it stay there overnight, and I was craving something salty and sweet, potato chips and Kit Kat bars, that damn song from that damn commercial was stuck in my head, but all the gas stations were closed, and then I hit a pothole and got a flat tire and I had to fix it myself, I didn’t want to bother you guys.
* * *
—
BILLY’S BEST FRIEND at work was a large man in his forties who went by “Semi.”
Semi had recently gotten engaged to a Nice Girl, a second-grade teacher he met after rear-ending her Prius with his Hummer on the highway. His insurance paid for the accident, and he paid for several meals and drinks before she agreed to be his girlfriend. She went by “Lisa” and was considerably younger and smaller than him. I’d met Semi twice and he liked to make jokes about Lisa involving balls and chains, ninety-nine problems, all of them bitches. Every time I got up, I could feel his eyes on my ass. On Sunday, Billy told me Semi was throwing a party that night, one last blowout before his life was over and he became a married man. I fake-yawned, told Billy I was a little tired, he could go to the party by himself.