Emily Winslow - The Whole World

And then she told me. I was stunned, of course, and sickened. She was matter-of-fact about it, having, I assume, gone over it so many times. She didn’t cry. She didn’t claim any part of the trauma for herself. I genuinely think she was telling me for Polly’s sake, misguided as that may have been.

“I’m so sorry,” I said automatically. Manners are a good fallback during times of stress. “That’s awful.”

In the lift, Polly had put her arms around my neck. I’m sure she did. But had she really wanted to? Or had she forced herself, trying to conquer her trauma by will? Were there signals I’d ignored? I’d stopped when she wanted me to.

Hadn’t I?

In my office, I’d only touched her shirt a second time because…

Because I wanted to. Because everything else about her acted like she wanted me to. There was just the hand, brushing my hand away. One hand, versus everything else about her: the way she was breathing and her open mouth.

And what I wanted.

“Polly’s a good girl.” Polly’s mother brought me back. “She’s a good girl, and she cares for you, and she’s been punished for caring for someone before.” I noticed that she’d not once said the name of the boy. “So you can understand,” she concluded, “why it would be a hurdle for Polly to let herself go again.”

I did understand. But, “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She doesn’t want anyone here to know.”

Miranda looked very like Polly. Obviously older, but with much the same face. It gave the illusion of a future Polly time-travelling back to now to share this important information. But this wasn’t future-Polly. This was Miranda and she had no right. “If that’s so, then you shouldn’t have told me.”

“You need to know…”

“Polly will decide what I need to know. Polly will tell me when she’s ready to tell me. She’s brave, and she tried with me, and it’s no one’s place-not mine and not yours-to rush her into anything she’s not ready for.” I wanted to tell Polly that. I wanted to promise her patience. I wanted her to know that the lead was hers to take.

Miranda looked away from my indignation, staring at her purse held tight in both hands. “She’s lucky to have you,” she finally said.

Liv had said something like that last night, at the party. Just before the porter came, she’d said, “I’m lucky to have run into you tonight.”

Lucky.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “No, she’s not.”

Miranda took a deep breath. She wasn’t done with me yet. “If you’d just go to see her…”

I cringed. No. Polly would have talked to Liv already. She’d be done with me. “I don’t think so.”

Miranda was offended, actually offended. She gasped. How dare I.

“Truly, Mrs. Bailey, I’m sorry. I just…”

“You just what? You just care about her, except for the part of her that hurts? That part of her that’s vulnerable? Is that ‘just’ it?” She looked so much like Polly in that moment, yet so angry. I don’t think I’ve seen Polly angry in that way. Then Miranda deflated. “I’m sorry. It’s only-she cares for you. I think you’re good for her.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m much good for anyone at the moment.” Not Polly, not Liv. Not even Gretchen, on whom I’d forced an unnecessary truth.

Miranda reached for me and I stepped back.

She reached again, and I stepped back again, almost tripping backwards over the low fence that lined the path.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

I turned and headed toward the Grafton. Miranda didn’t follow me at first. I got almost as far as the compass rose embedded into the pavement where Fitzroy and Burleigh Streets meet. I heard her footsteps growing louder and I turned.

She ran for me, charged at me, really. When she reached me, she begged. “Polly will think it’s her fault. And it’s not. You’ve got to let her…” It ran down into incoherence, and then, at last, apology. “This is madness. I’m sorry. I know you’ll do what you feel is right.”

That was a laugh. So I laughed, a ridiculous, strangled giggle. I’m sure Miranda could smell the drink in me. This was the nice man Polly wrote her about?

I turned down Burleigh Street to end the conversation. I hunched up my shoulders to discourage her. “Leave me alone, Mrs. Bailey!” I said loudly.

But we’d already diverged. I saw over my shoulder that she was headed the other direction down East Road, toward her hotel. At the pedestrian light I finally felt far enough away from her to unclench my hands. I didn’t pay attention to the stranger next to me.

This person also crossed the street. He stayed just a step behind and beside me. At the mini-roundabout just off the main road, he grabbed me by the collar of my coat and shoved me up against the wooden fence. He wrenched my backpack off my shoulder. I got twisted around, and for a moment the strap caught on my wrist. He pulled, hard, and the bag jerked free. He ran, pounding his steps into the pavement.

My arm quivered. Ridiculous. He was just a teenager. There wasn’t any danger. He didn’t want to hurt me; he just wanted my backpack.

And the laptop that was in it.

My thesis. Shit.

That was my excuse. I took off after him. He was faster than me, but it felt good to run.

In my mind, I caught up with him. I slammed him up against a fence, like he’d slammed me. I wrenched the backpack off his shoulder. It was only fair. But my imagination had momentum; it didn’t stop there. I took out the laptop and raised it over my head. I slammed it down onto him. The plastic casing cracked, creating sharp edges. I beat him with it. I beat him bloody.

It never happened. He outran me through the park and I stopped and caught my breath.

I sank down onto the kerb, my shoes nestled in broken glass. Nothing desperate had been lost. A little money, a few cards in the front pocket, two books. My phone and computer could be replaced. I had backups of all but my latest work.

Thank God he’d got away. I couldn’t even hear his steps anymore. Thank God.

I waited for the adrenaline to subside. I didn’t want to bring rage inside the Chanders’ house.

I no longer had my keys. I didn’t want to chat in answer to the doorbell. It was late for them anyway-they go to bed by nine, usually. The front window was partly open, as usual; the house thermostat against all reason goes by the temperature of the unheated entry hall and so never stops pumping heat into the lounge. I pushed it up the rest of the way and climbed in. I still had on the gloves that Liv had returned to me.

On the next floor up, the girls were in bed. I stepped carefully and slowly, to dull the inevitable creaking of the floor. Their parents were making love, quietly, tactfully, so that the girls wouldn’t know. The door was closed and their sounds were discreet but definite as I went past.

Up another flight. In my room, on my desk, Mrs. Chander had left me a note: Miranda Bailey had phoned this afternoon. It was probably she who had been hung up on by Alexandra as well. She’d probably been behind the unidentified calls I’d got on my mobile earlier. I’d thought they were Liv. I’d made a lot of assumptions today.

I threw a shirt and socks into a bag. I needed only one more thing.

I pulled open the Russian inlaid-wood box Alexandra had given me Christmases ago-but there were only some francs and lire inside, my pre-Euro collection. Where was it? I always kept it in there.

I rifled through my wardrobe drawers, the contents of which were never well folded to begin with because I do my own laundry. I checked the top shelf of the cupboard-knocking down two shoe boxes that then spilled out shoeshine tools and a mini-humidifier. It wasn’t there.