Nicola Griffith - Stay

“So the cat had to jump.” I threw him the razor and walked away.

The world jerked, like a badly edited film, and I was lying down with something taped to my face. I blinked. Tammy rose from one of the recliners.

“Hey,” she said.

My knee seemed to be clamped between two blocks. I tried to move the cover to look, but Tammy leaned forward and lifted it for me.

“I iced it, then bandaged it and stuck a bag of ice on each side. I gave you some Vicodin for the pain, but you should really take ibuprofen or something too. Shouldn’t you?”

I reached up and touched my face. Gauze.

“I cleaned it.”

“Peroxide,” I said, remembering. I hoped she hadn’t used it on my neck. “Ice. Move the ice. And put some—”

The airport felt larger than it should but perhaps it was just because it was so late and there were fewer people. The black turtleneck was sodden with blood but it hid my throat. My scheduled flight was long gone. There was one more plane flying to North Carolina, to Charlotte, just before midnight.

“They’ll be starting preboarding about now,” the counter clerk said, trying not to be obvious about glancing from side to side to see if there was anyone within calling distance.

I started to walk. Nothing sounded right. I kept clutching for bags that weren’t there. The concourse was hard hard hard beneath my feet. I was alive. I was alive because the damaged child who had wanted to kill me hadn’t had the physical strength to hold a blade at my throat for three minutes. My pulse fluttered fast and light and sweat filmed my forehead.

I barely made it to the bathroom.

I vomited several times, resting in between with my head against the steel pedestal. It was warm against my skin and I longed for porcelain, white and cold. The whole airport was too warm; my feet sweltered in two pairs of socks. I retched again, and blood trickled over my collarbone.

Another bad edit, and Tammy stood in front of me, holding out pills and water. My arms would hardly move. She sighed, put the glass down, helped me sit up, and with one arm still around my shoulders handed me the pills, then held the water to my mouth. I spilled half of it down my front, which was more or less clean.

“Yeah, I sponged you down. Mud and blood. How come you were naked? What did you do with his—with the clothes?”

“She wanted to know that, too.”

“Who did?”

But I was remembering the blood pouring down the drain of Karp’s shower.

“Aud? Are you going to puke again? Aud? Jesus, I’ve just about fucking had it—” She was crying.

“Down.”

She lowered me back down. “Don’t fucking puke, just don’t you dare.”

If you button the jacket so all they see of the filthy sweater is an inch of turtleneck beneath obviously high-quality clothes, if your haircut is expensive and your teeth white and even, if you keep your voice pleasant, and if they find your money to be good and your ID valid, they will doubt the evidence of their senses. Smell is hard to document: impossible to photograph, difficult to describe. Move with assurance, act as though there is absolutely nothing wrong and—if the plane is half empty and you’re flying first class—they will make no comment about your smell as they take your ticket; they will process your car rental in Charlotte without demur. Act as though there is nothing wrong and you can make it true, for a while.

Late afternoon. I hurt all over. The blocks were gone from around my knee. Tammy was reading at the table. I managed to sit up, but it left me panting. Tammy looked up; her eyes were red. “You look a little better.”

“Yes.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

I touched the bandage around my neck.

“You should see a doctor.”

“I’ll be fine.” My mouth felt as though it belonged to someone else. “What pills?”

“Vicodin—”

Vicodin. Funny word. After a moment I realized she was still talking, repeating something. “What?”

“What did you mean, earlier, when I asked you about his—the clothes. You said, ‘She wanted to know that, too.’ Was there someone else in the woods?”

“Yes. No. Sort of.”

“Well, that’s clear. Is there someone or not? I mean, should I be worried about some crazy running around in the woods?”

“No.” I felt myself drifting again.

“Okay. So where did your clothes go? Stolen by the wood ghost?”

I shut my eyes to the tears, but they leaked out. Who did he remind you of? Is that how she really saw me?

It’s how you wanted me to see you , she said from beside me. I tried to turn without twisting my neck too much. “But you loved me anyway.”

“Aud?”

She’ll think you’re crazy .

“Aren’t I?”

Julia smiled, blew me a kiss, mouthed, I’m glad you’re safe , and disappeared.

“Aud? Do you think there’s someone there?”

“Not anymore.” My eyes leaked again.

“But—”

“I’m tired.”

“Jesus,” she said in an after-all-I’ve-done-for-you tone, but when I didn’t respond she changed tack. “You should eat before you go back to sleep. Unless you think you’ll get sick again?”

I tried to say, I never get sick, but what came out of my mouth didn’t make sense even to me.

She thumped about in the kitchen while I lay there, eyes still closed. Then she was carrying a tray with two bowls of soup and some bread. “You’ll have to sit up. Here. There’s no point hassling with a napkin, I’m going to have to wash the sheets anyhow—I was more worried about getting your cuts clean than the rest of you, so there’s probably still a bunch of mud and leaves in the bed. You should see a doctor.” I said nothing. “Well, it’s your body. Here. Just say something if you think you’re going to throw up, okay?”

Campbell’s split pea soup. I only managed a few spoonfuls, then I slept.

The trailer lights were off, and firelight danced on the wall opposite the window. A stink. Burning plastic. I sat up with an effort, swang my legs slowly over the side of the bed, and panted against the pain. The wrapping on my knee was a big ball of bandage and tape. I tried to pick at the tape, but I was too weak and my right wrist and knuckles hurt. I flexed them. Hitting bone with bone. Stupid.

The door opened and Tammy and more of that stink wafted in with the breeze. She looked different: taller, denser, more substantial. “Don’t like my bandaging?”

“Too tight.”

“Here, lie back, I’ll do it.”

No, I thought, I was the one who was supposed to cope, the one people asked for help. But my eyes were stinging and I found myself lying down while she loosened the bandage.

“Jesus. It’s black.”

I managed to lift my head: puffy, puce mottled with blue-black. I flexed it, very slightly, and hissed.

“Jesus, don’t do that.”

I panted again for a minute, then did it again, just to be sure. “S’okay.” The kneecap wasn’t detached.

“I still think you should get it looked at, not that you ever listen to me.” She stood up. “More painkillers will help. It’s been a few hours.” She brought me Vicodin and ibuprofen, which I swallowed obediently. “So. How did you do it—your leg?”

“I don’t know.”

“While running around with the clothes-stealing ghost?”

“Don’t. Please.”

“Jesus, just asking.”

She went into the bathroom for a while, then fussed with something in the kitchen. The fire outside still burned, and I watched the changing light on the ceiling while the Vicodin eased molecule by molecule into my bloodstream.

“Look,” Tammy said awkwardly, suddenly by my side again. “You know what you said to me a few days ago, about New York? About how I could talk about it if I wanted? Well, you could. If you wanted. I mean, you listened to me.”