“Hopefully you don’t have a concussion. Now let’s get some ice for that eye.”
“Thank you.” The words a strangled whisper.
Oona followed her to the living room, which was dominated by an overstuffed sofa covered in a quilt patterned with orange and green triangles.
“You lie down right there,” Cyn instructed, firm but not unkind.
The quilt wasn’t enough to subdue Oona’s shivering, so Cyn brought her a pair of wool socks and a second blanket, followed by a bag of frozen peas and a mug of hot chocolate.
Cyn took an armchair beside the sofa and held out a plastic baggie. “Jenny said to give you this. Vicodin. You in any pain?”
“Tons.” Oona popped one of the pills. The hot chocolate soothed her ragged throat.
“I’ll let you get some rest…”
Resting quietly would’ve been safer, posed less risk for slipups. But Oona craved a real connection with another person. “Can you stay and talk to me for a bit?”
Cyn crossed her legs and entwined her fingers over her knee. “What, you want me to bore you to sleep in case the Vicodin doesn’t work?”
“Something like that.” She offered a weak smile. “It’s just nice to be with a friend.” This elicited an appraising glance from Cyn. “What?”
“You’re real different from how I thought you were when we met.”
Uh-oh. “Different how?”
Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure how much I liked you the first time Desi introduced us. And even in the weeks after … I couldn’t help thinking there was something phony about you.”
The Vicodin was painting everything over with a soft-focus brush, but this made Oona sit up straighter. “Really? Like what?”
“Well, there was the way you dressed. It seemed too polished, you know? Not your own style as much as someone dressing you. But now I get it, you’re trying things out, and that’s okay. It wasn’t fair for me to judge.”
“Was that it? The way I dressed?”
“Well…” Cyn scratched the back of her head. “Okay, there was also the way you talked. Some things you said sounded made up. Like, you have all this money and claim to be a financial advisor, but you don’t look like anybody I seen on Wall Street and change the subject any time I ask you about it. But I thought, Hey, she doesn’t want to talk about where her money comes from, that’s her business, leave her be. But that made me question other things you’d say. Like, did your mom really work for Pan Am as a teenager in the early sixties?”
“She did.”
“Oh.” In a more subdued tone, she asked, “And did your dad really drown in a boating accident?”
“Yeah.” In an instant, Oona was back on the boat, which reeked of fish and the cigars the men smoked while they waited for a tug on their lines. The combined odor was foul, but she’d take extra-long breaths of it, perched on a bench with a Nancy Drew book. A few feet away from her father, who’d been leaning over the railing when the boat jolted. He toppled over like a cartoon character, and she’d laughed at first, because his bewildered face was so goofy. But the hollers that followed eclipsed her giggles.
“The stuff about my dad is true. And I am a financial advisor of sorts, but I also kind of inherited the money, and I don’t like to talk about it. Not to be rude, it’s just something I’m private about.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me, girl. We’re friends now, right? When I was growing up, Mama used to say what you dislike in other people is really what you dislike in yourself. That had me wondering if I’m phony—I mean, parts of me are, obviously”—she pointed to her chest—“and we all adopt club personas. But we’re all just trying to figure it out. And once I talked to you more, I knew you were a sweetie. We’ve been having a blast partying together ever since. Not counting tonight’s beatdown.”
There was a pressure on Oona’s head, an invisible heavy hat. “I bet we have so much fun.”
“You were there, honey … or do you get more fucked up than you let on?” A playful wink.
Another slipup; she had to be more mindful. “I mean, I hope we’ll have more fun when this”—she waved a hand over her face—“is back to normal. It was great to get out of my head tonight. I could use more parties.” Eyes at half-mast, so tough to keep them open.
“We got a whole heap of parties coming up.” Cyn’s grin was fleeting. “But you know you can only stay out of your head for so long, right?”
The words came at Oona from a distance. Her chin dropped to her chest as she fought to stay awake. “I know.”
Cyn shook off her faraway gaze. “Girl, I need to let you rest.”
Permission to relax granted: Oona’s spine softened. “No, it’s okay. I like talking to you.” Sentences took more effort to form. Random thoughts swam through her head and popped up like feisty fish. “I should really call my mom.”
“I’ve got a cordless you can use. Though maybe you shouldn’t wake her up?”
“It’s okay, she’s”—Oona inhaled a giant yawn like a vacuum—“at some craft festival in New Paltz. I’ll get the machine. I just want to hear her voice.”
“Of course you do, sugar. Hang on, I think it’s … here you go. There’s some water and a bottle of juice on the end table. Give a holler if you need anything else.”
“Thank you.”
Cyn nodded and left the room.
The phone felt heavy when she picked it up to dial Madeleine’s number.
“Hi, Mom. Looks like we keep missing each other.” Such an effort to keep her voice steady, the tightrope between slurred and choked up. “I’ll call again when I can. Love you.” It would be a few days before her mother returned, but Oona wouldn’t tell her about the incident, wouldn’t tell her much at all, and wouldn’t see her until long after her face healed. Was shame making her punish herself, denying her mother’s consolation? Was the avoidance an emerging defiance? Maybe both.
A slump, a sigh, and she pulled the covers tighter around herself. When she closed her eyes, she saw the dirty warehouse advertising frozen oxtails, felt the air being squeezed out of her by an angry fist. What had driven her to such a confrontation? Could be she’d been testing the limits of her known future by putting herself in harm’s way. The attack should’ve served as a warning—her life was like tissue paper, easily crumpled up and tossed aside. It should’ve sent her scurrying to her sensible roots. But surviving it had the opposite effect. It made her feel ironclad, invincible.
In the dark, she brought a hand up to her tender face.
I’m still here.
I have time.
* * *
Cyn wasn’t wrong about that heap of parties. The months that followed were full of excess, fun, and superficiality.
After the attack, all Oona wanted was to recapture the high-wire exhilaration of her outings to Pandora’s Box and Antenna. This would require an elixir of alcohol, drugs, and a smattering of danger, but time travel would be her safety net.