Fix J. Mann (readera ebook reader .txt) 📖

“I’m ‘interesting’?” I repeat, grinning. And I admit, in a pretty goofy way.

He looks at me. “Don’t get all syrupy.”

I grin bigger. I might have tears in my eyes.

“Syrupy, because we’re standing in front of syrup bottles.”

“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand. “I better get you to the gift shop.”

“I love gift shops,” I say. And I do. I love everything right now. Because I’m interesting.

The gift shop is full of glass—of course—although in here we can touch it. It’s weird how much fun it is to touch stuff. Although I don’t pick anything up. Since the surgery, I’ve been noticing that the message from my brain to open and close my fingers doesn’t seem to correspond well with the actual opening and closing of my fingers. Instead, I run my fingertips down the sides of the vases, feel the vast smoothness of the giant bowls and platters, and clutch the chunky pendants in my fist right where they hang. When I find a pool of glass marbles, I plunge both my hands in and let the marbles filter through my fingers like loud, clanking, colorful flour. An electric-blue one catches my eye—the color that winked brightest at me from the glass collage of the saints. I pick it out from the pool and let it roll into the center of my palm.

“Look at this one, Thomas.”

It’s the first time I’ve called him by name. He seems to realize it, too, because he focuses all his attention on the marble. And as if not being able to stop himself from touching the beautiful piece of glass in my hand, he reaches out a finger and moves it gently in a circle around my palm, looking into the very center of it. The movement stops my breath and sends shivers crackling through me. I pull away.

“I’m going to get this one.”

My legs shake as I head to the counter where the same man in glasses who checked us in waits to make the marble sale.

Thomas follows.

“Let me.” He pulls out his wallet. “I get a fifteen percent discount with my membership.”

I laugh, and it ends in a wide yawn. He notices.

“I’ll get you home.”

After he pays eighty-five cents for my marble, we turn to leave. We head out in the rain. It’s almost dark, but the streetlights aren’t on yet. The sky glows an eerie white.

I lumber as fast as possible toward the van and then literally crawl inside. He shuts the door. I sink back into the seat with my backpack in my arms and close my eyes.

Thomas climbs in the van, starts the engine. He’s talking. His words sound sweet.

I want to respond, to say thank you, for the marble, for the museum… but it’s too much work to bring up words from inside me and push them out. I hug my backpack and drift off as the the motion rocks me to sleep.

Mary Fay’s voice reaches out through a fog.

“Homemade fish sticks in five.”

Blinking, I look around. I’m on the couch. Mary Fay is banging about in the kitchen.

She pops her head into the living room. “Orange juice?”

I’m so confused.

“Oh, no. Cranberry, right?” she corrects.

“Yes, please, cranberry. I love cranberry,” I blurt, attempting to hide the fact that I have no idea what is going on, what day it is, what time it is, and whether or not this is really happening. She disappears, and I drop my head back onto the couch.

How did I get here? Where had I been… somewhere.

With him.

Him?

My hand moves to my pocket, where I find it. The cool, hard glass of a marble, and the world lights up in electric blue. Because Thomas Aquino thinks I’m interesting.

Trying

“MORNING, METALLICA,” MARY FAY SAYS THROUGH a half-opened door. “Time to haul out the old saddlebags.”

This woman does not stop. I ignore her and sink back into a gloriously deep sleep.

The light switches on.

I cry out in pain and hear her laugh from down the hall. “It’s just morning, Eve. Not a colonoscopy.”

Music blasts on from the kitchen.

I’m learning the easiest path with Mary Fay is to just do whatever she wants. Which sucks.

I throw back the covers and bring myself into a sitting position using a Nancy-taught technique—allowing gravity to work on the weight of my legs while I propel myself upright in a single motion.

My second motion is to reach for my orange bottle, but a bright blue marble catches my eye. And as my hand closes around the smooth glass, visions of beautiful saints, softly whispered words, and rows and rows of syrup bottles flood my head, and before I know it, I’m carrying a pretty polka-dot sweater and my favorite pair of skinny jeans out to the kitchen.

Mary Fay takes one look at them and sings, “We’re trying, we’re trying.” And I tell her to quit it and just help me get them on, although I’m smiling. Because I am trying.

This time, it’s me, waiting for him. Standing at the bottom of my front steps. I’m sweating a little. It could be my buttoned-up coat on a warm spring morning, or it could be how hot my hands are in my pockets, one hand clutching a blue marble, or it could be that Thomas Aquino thinks I’m interesting. I’m interesting. My stomach flips with… hope.

Shit. It’s true. I’m hoping. I’m hoping Thomas Aquino really does think I’m interesting. Because I like him. I like Thomas Aquino.

These thoughts jump around in my head, affecting my heart, my lungs, my entire body. I’m standing in a weird position—a position I want him to find me in when he pulls up. And as silly as it is, I’m too scared to reposition myself, like somehow he will see me do this. Though he isn’t here.

He isn’t here.

Cars roll by. None of them a gray minivan. Coldness spreads through me and the