The Scab Collector (2/5)

Cody knows I'm telepathic. In fact, he was the one who pointed it out to me. Well, the second one. My brother Jody used to joke about it since as far back as I can remember. It never occurred to me that he could have been serious. I thought everyone heard that inescapable muttering sound in their head at all times. Then, only about a week after he'd met Jody, Cody pointed out how I always knew what Jody would do next. We experimented. I could read Cody's thoughts, too, when I tried.

The more I learn about Vivian Moran, the more I worry how he'll react if I tell him. The longer I live with him, the more reasons I find for him to be alarmed that I know what goes on in his head. I probably shouldn't take his dreams too literally. He might just be working through whatever happened with him and Leah. They were really close, but last year, Leah moved to a new apartment without him. And now they hardly speak to each other—

Cody grabs my hand and presses it just above his crotch. He's awake, then. “Tell me about my dreams,” he murmurs.

“You know what you dreamed,” I say.

“Tell me about them anyway.”

He thinks it's hot when I do that. I suppose I should be glad he doesn't get freaked out instead. I plant a wet kiss on his neck and tell him, “Go back to sleep.”

Somehow, Viv doesn't wake up, not even when I disentangle myself from him and Cody. Or maybe he's only pretending to be asleep. When I'm awake, I tend to project my expectations of what people are thinking onto them in my head and block whatever insight I might have if I could shut my own thoughts up.

I forget most of what I saw while I brush my teeth. Other people's dreams fade away as easily as my own. I remember it had something to do with the scars on Viv's wrists, and that it spread into Cody's dreams. It's probably harmless. Viv just has fucked up dreams. We all do, sometimes. Not a problem.

In the kitchen, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone, even though I can see that I am. Maybe I'm dreaming. It's almost like—

It's almost like when my brother used to wait for me to make breakfast. I always slept in, made a late breakfast, then went busking right after. It was like Jody's lunch, except he never liked breakfast much. He always cleaned up after I left. If Cody was staying with us, he'd have chamomile tea ready for us when we came back.

I asked why he bothered, once. It wasn't just herbal tea. It was loose. He must have gotten it from some health food store. Jody said the flowers reminded him of Cody. He used to justify all kinds of weird purchases by saying they reminded him of people. Usually ex-lovers, but not always.

Jody's not here any more.

And Cody and I don't busk. You can't, in Chicago. Technically, you can't in London anymore, either. Not without a permit. Two permits, in our case. One per person. A hundred dollars each. Every time I think about how it would be stupid for them to actually enforce that law, I think of how many buskers I see on the subway platforms. Or anywhere else in the city with a built-in audience.

The answer is none. Or almost none. Maybe they're all in the loop. I don't go there very often.

I shouldn't risk it. The fine's too steep.

There's no one here to distract me, so I check my e-mail while I eat. The only new messages are spam, but it could be worse. All you have to do is delete them. I scroll through the old messages to see if there's anything I've forgotten about. There isn't. My papers are all in order. When not stretched thin navigating excessive immigration bureaucracy, I'm pretty good at remembering everything I need to.

I hit the e-mails from last spring. I should stop, but I don't, and then I see the last of my sister's e-mails. She hung on for a long while, pretending we were keeping in touch like normal people. I haven't said a word to her or my parents since my plane landed last January. It's been almost a year. I'll only be able to say that for another eleven—no, ten. Ten days. Feels like a proper countdown, now.

This is a terrible way to start my day. Maybe I should leave my phone at home. Cody won't like it if he has some bright last-minute idea during the middle of my shift and I accidentally stand him up, though. I shove the phone in my pocket and finish my toast.

I get to the charity shop before Leah. It's a good thing she and Viv didn't have their falling out until well after I got here. He and Leah formed the connection that got me this job.

Twenty minutes until it's time to open the doors. I check housewares for gaps in the shelves. If I find space, I get to go all the way to the back room to look for something to fill it. Sometimes it takes two trips because I'll grab something too big by accident. I don't see any gaps too big to fix by moving what's already there around this time. I straighten up the toy section next. Unnecessary, but Frank—the owner—likes when he sees me doing it. It doesn't take up much time, so to him it just looks like I'm paying attention to detail. Leah knows me better, but I still have plausible deniability.

She's still not here. Time to alphabetize the books. Leah comes in while I'm scanning through the A's. I act like I didn't hear her. I can feel her staring at me and shaking her head, but she doesn't say anything. By the time I finish checking the book shelf, she's unlocking the front door. I've successfully avoided the clothes racks.

When I was younger, straightening the clothing would have been my favorite part of this job. Maybe the only thing that would keep me coming back. But every once in awhile, I find things that remind me of my brother. He had eclectic taste, and a trunk full of scarves and shirts and even socks he'd collected from practically everyone he'd ever slept with. And now that trunk comes back to haunt me if I look too closely at the clothing section.

I find Leah watching her phone at the check-out counter. She doesn't bother putting it away when a woman in a ratty parka walks in. We watch her head for the housewares section.

“Right on time,” Leah mutters.

I'm ninety-nine percent certain she's homeless. Every third day we're open, she turns up right at opening. Heads straight for the housewares section like she thinks she's fooling us. Left to her own devices, she'll circle around the store several times, examining every other item with care. It takes her hours. When he's here, Frank usually chases her out after she's circled the store twice, unless it's freezing outside. Leah pretends to ignore her. I actively avoid her after the time she cornered me and insisted on telling me all about the summer her aunt spent in France in the fifties. I may not sound American, but I definitely don't sound French, so I don't know why she thought it had anything to do with me.

I want to ask Leah about Viv. I've wanted to for a while, but I can never figure out what to say. They had their falling out last summer, so it seemed too soon to bring it up last fall. That excuse is wearing thin, though. Plus now that Viv's dreams are mixing into Cody's, I feel like I need to do whatever I can to find out whether he's in danger.

"Do you ever worry about Viv?" I try just after she's polished off her lunch (half a leftover chicken salad wrap, by the smell of it).

"All the damn time," she says, after throwing the foil from her wrap emphatically in the trash. "Why?"

"Those are some nasty scars he's got on his wrists," I say.

She snorts. "God. That was fucked up. Like, the first time he tried to—you know—like, that was understandable. Not reasonable, but understandable. He was going through some rough shit. They pumped his stomach. It was fine. The second time? Like, we'd just gone to see one of our favorite bands the day before. I got him a ticket as a birthday present. I even roped this boy he had a crush on into it. He was as happy as I've ever seen him. Probably happier. Or at least, that was how he acted. Then the next day, I call his mom when he doesn't answer his phone or show up to school? And he's in the fucking hospital. Because—well. You know the rest."

Oh god. That's all alarmingly familiar. "He did that to himself?"

Leah frowns at me. "I mean, yeah? Why would someone else cut his wrists like that?"

I stammer out some bullshit about how trying to slash your own wrists is actually a terrible idea no matter how you look at it because of how likely you are to cut through the muscles you need in the first hand to cut the second one. The artery is under a bunch of other stuff, it's actually a bit difficult to get to. I know this in detail because some of Jody's friends were gossipy bitches and one of them went on a drunken rant once about how someone else they all knew hadn't actually attempted suicide and only wanted attention.

"Yeah, okay, great, point taken. Proves my point. It was fucked up of him and I'd really rather not talk about it any more." Then a customer comes in and she heads for the register.

So. Everything in the dream up until Leah left was basically true. It's probably better to know that than not, but it doesn't make me feel any better. But I can't ask her for any more information. I doubt she even has more to give me.

That leaves Viv. I'm not sure I have any other choice. Except to pretend none of this is happening, of course. But pretending Jody was invincible and definitely not drinking to excess ever and not really that reckless at all since he never got in any major trouble—until he stumbled off his friend's roof during a party and snapped his neck—didn't turn out well. I don't think I could have done anything to prevent it, but I can't be sure of that. And I don't want anything like it to happen again. A little awkwardness won't kill any of us. So I decide to pick him up from the diner he works at.

He looks surprised to see me. Almost startled. I wave when he makes eye contact across several tables. I can see he's busy, though. In fact, I'm surprised I didn't have to ask for him, given how full it is here.

“Can I get you a table?” asks another server. Pink hair, bright blonde roots.

I'd rather she didn't. I already wasted enough money killing time at a coffee shop after my shift ended. “I'm just here for Viv. Uh, if his shift ends soon?” Why am I phrasing that like a question? How should this person know? Hell, even if they did, why should they tell me? It's only dawning on me now that I probably look highly suspect, turning up out of the blue like this.

The server quirks an eyebrow at me. “All right, then.” She thinks I'm a stalker. It's 5:43. Maybe I should order something while I wait. Or go somewhere else.

Viv hurries over, this time without the tray he was carrying before.

“You get off at six, right?” I ask before he can say anything.

He blinks. “Uh—yeah.” He doesn't wear eyeliner to work. It can't be against the dress code, the lady with the pink hair had loads of it. Maybe not wearing it helps him pass? Or maybe his short dyed-black hair is goth enough by itself, and he can't be bothered to put eyeliner on when he's half asleep. “Something up?”

“I—um—thought I'd pick you up. Unless you had plans after work?”

“Oh. Okay. The last table I'm waiting on should be done soon. You wanna wait up here until then?”

I wish I'd never bothered coming here. Viv comes back with his jacket on after about twenty minutes. Black with pockets on the chest. It's a little big in the shoulders, but not enough to make him look smaller than he is.

Everything gets even more awkward once we're outside. I've stepped outside the usual patterns of our relationship with no warning or reason. And now I have to face a—what, forty-minute commute home? Including the walking and the wait for the L at the platform, it takes me about a half hour to get to the charity shop. And the nearest L station to the diner is three stops further than that, and it's a longer walk to the station. Forty minutes of awkward silence with Vivian. Why did I do this to myself?

"Are you all right?" I finally ask, once the station entrance is in sight.

"Uh—yeah? Why do you ask?"

God. I've dug myself into a hole already. "Just wondering?"

"But I haven't done anything—" Viv bumps into the turnstile and winces. We scan our cards and head up the stairs to the platform.

"I haven't done anything," he says again, while we wait for the train. "Like, I'm not sleeping all day. I'm not not sleeping. I'm getting through work just fine and paying all my expenses without falling behind. Honestly, I think I'm doing pretty well. You've seen me way worse." It's true. When he and Leah were fighting last summer, he came over to the house Cody and I were living in and crawled into our bed and wouldn't get out all day. That was when I first noticed Cyril. I was awake, but Viv might not have been. "So why are you asking now?"

The train comes just in time to save me from having to answer his question. We don't talk once we're on it. There's too many people for either of us to even find a seat. I don't say anything when we get off the train, either. We reach our building.

"Seriously," Viv says, once we're inside. "Why were you asking?"

I've hit a nerve. He doesn't seem angry. Not yet. But he won't let it go, either. Do I tell him? Maybe I can focus on having lived with him for a few months now. “Hey, after observing you for a year, I've just now noticed: you've got problems!” No. Absolutely not. We head up the stairwell.

"Look," I say, after we get to our door, "It's just a hunch, all right? It's not like you've—" I hear a tea kettle whistling. We don't own a whistling kettle. "D'you hear that?"

"It must be someone else's," Viv says, hesitantly. He hears what I hear. It sounds like it's coming from our kitchen. But of course, it isn't. Even if we had one, Cody isn't home yet.

"That's so spooky." Maybe I'm on to something. "It's like when I still lived with my brother. He used to make Cody tea after we went out busking. We'd walk into his flat and hear his tea kettle whistle, just like that."

"It's only a coincidence," Viv tells me, like it's supposed to help.

"D'you ever see things you can't explain?" I ask.

That was too casual. Viv looks suspicious again. "What do you mean?"

"I'm being vague on purpose."

"Give me an example."

I think I can work with that. "Like, last summer, when you had that argument with Leah and took a depression nap all day at our house afterwards? I thought I saw someone with you on the foldout couch. But it wasn't Cody. Or any of our housemates. And when I tried laying down where I saw the person, they were gone. I didn't look away long enough for them to leave."

"That was last summer. Why are you bringing it up now?"

He's questioning my motives, not the anecdote itself. "Cody had a dream last night with someone who looked very similar in it."

"Did Cody see the person on the couch, too?"

"Don't know."

Viv stares thoughtfully at the wall for a few seconds, then scowls. "Wait. He would have had to have told you about that this morning. That would have woken me up."

"You seemed pretty soundly asleep."

"I would have noticed," he insists. "You saw, what, a shape on the couch? For how long? How much did you see? It'd have to be a pretty specific description for you to make the connection. If you'd spoken that long about anything this morning, I would have noticed." His freckles blend into his reddening face as he speaks.

Shit. "Look. Like I said, it's just a hunch. I'm probably overreacting—"

"Overreacting to what? Did something happen? Did you see anything unusual recently?"

I can't think like this. If I can't think it through, it's better to keep the secret until I can. "Did you?"

Viv presses his lips into a tight line. "No. You tell me what you saw first. You're the one who brought this up. I need to know why."

"What exactly are you so worried about, here?"

"I can't tell you unless you tell me why first!"

Checkmate. "So there is something to worry about."

Viv growls and pulls his own hair. "Fuck off, okay? I'm fine. Everything's fine. There. Happy?"

"You don't sound fine." That was the last thing I should have said, but my brain only just now caught up to my mouth.

"Because you're driving me insane!"

"All I asked was whether you were all right!"

"Well, don't ask again, unless you have a specific reason and you're willing to actually talk about it."

I take to the kitchen. Viv takes a seat on the futon, as far as I can tell. Need to cook something to get my mind back on track. We have shredded cheddar in the fridge that's about to go bad, so I decide on mac and cheese. Except we don't have macaroni, we have rotini. Good enough.

I keep losing track of the ingredients. I could've sworn I took the milk out of the fridge, but that's where it is. Now the Worcestershire sauce and mustard are gone. Now I've found them, but the burner's off for some reason. I know I turned it on.

I try to ignore the implications of where I find the condiments. The Worcestershire sauce rolling around on its side in the produce drawer in the fridge. Mustard at the back of the top cupboard shelf. None of us would put them in those places. And I'm pretty sure I put both of them on the counter after I started cooking the pasta.

I only think of adding hot sauce as I'm stirring the cheese sauce into the rotini. We usually get the cheapest brand, and it's really not that hot unless you drown your food in it.

It's not in the cupboard.

I look to my left without thinking. It's like someone else turned my head in that direction. The hot sauce is sitting on the counter by the stove. Right where I thought I'd left the mustard and Worcestershire sauce. Well, at least I didn't have to spend five minutes tearing the kitchen apart for it. I fill two bowls with the rotini, then head for the living room and leave one at Viv's feet. He stares at his phone like he doesn't notice me, but I know he has. And I'm reasonably certain that his weakness for junk food and tendency to eat more than he needs when he's upset exceed his pettiness, together if not separately. As long as I can't see him, he'll probably eat the food I made while it's hot. I take my bowl into Cody's and my room.