Nanowrimo 10

I wake up the next morning. Froid hasn’t changed at all. Her eyes are still pried open, unwillingly, looking at the ceiling like a mandate.

            “Ambrosia Froid, let’s get up.”

            She complies, sitting up in bed and mechanically moving around to the door. She opens it to find Callahan half on the couch, half on the carpet, socks shimmied halfway off his feet, hair lying flat and upright, mouth wide open in raucous snore, drool pouring out of his mouth with determination.

            “Callahan!”

            He snorts as he wakes up and looks at me, looks at the pool leading from his mouth, and gasps.

            “I’m so sorry! Really. I don’t drool, ever. It’s not something I do, I promise.”

            I flex my wrist and flop my hand down like it’s not a big deal. I’m going to give him diarrhea again today though. If he weren’t such an easy manipulation I would want nothing to do with such an unattractive person.

            “Well, you two are on your own completely today,” I announce to them. “I’ve got a full day of surgeries starting from eleven until the evening, so knock yourselves out for food and whatever. Go to the park. Go hiking.” I look at Froid. She will not go anywhere or eat anything willingly.

            But Callahan will.

            “Of course! I know we won’t see all of Seattle today but we can try to hit some parts. Let’s go back to Chinatown for lunch! I want to explore a little bit more.”

            Unsurprisingly, Callahan’s enthusiasm and optimism radiated obnoxiously during the day and steadily waned to the night. I know by the end of the day he will be so disenchanted with Froid he’ll be begging me for suggestions or try to escape or something.

            I nearly push the two of them out the door, and Callahan welds himself to Froid. She says nothing.

            The two walked down the hall in minimal camaraderie. I blame Froid for that. Callahan constantly tried asking her trite questions, or even annoying ones like how she slept and if I bothered her at all, but she derecognized all existence of him or the questions. The day had barely begun, and Callahan had felt the first pangs of discouragement.

            He would feel them throughout the day in relentless fashion. Callahan would go into a store or buy a hot chocolate and she would sit on a bench outside. Callahan told her he was feeling hungry, and she told him to go eat as she wandered off. Callahan then had to tug her in tow by the edge of her jacket and force her to eat. It all seems so familiar to me. Only with Callahan it’s funny.

            The two sat down at a dumpling house nearby where they had eaten yesterday. Callahan ogled the pork dumplings while Froid looked around to see if anyone was watching them. She looked at me. I have Callahan smile. She didn’t respond.

            Callahan ordered for Froid, figuring that in the likely event that she didn’t eat or even so much as move at the table he could just eat that as well.

            Froid caressed the fork at the table. I have Callahan look at her hands in detail, eating wonton strips while he was at it. Her fingers were short but thin; her nails were cut short so that the skin on the tips grew over to protect them. Her veins made momentary appearances when she wrote or squeezed her hand. She did neither of those things now. For Callahan to see purple would be a sign of her acceptance, that she felt comfortable enough.

            I have never seen her do either of those things. Froid hasn’t even picked up a piece of paper since coming to Seattle. I don’t think she’s ever going to write anything again.

            Callahan ate everything on the table. After gesturing repeatedly to Froid to at least try one of the dumplings, he gave up. She kept looking outside, her hands on the table, so pale that Callahan couldn’t see a single vein.

            Callahan extended his hand to the waiter when the bill came, but he dropped the booklet when he saw Froid ball up her hands. She had moved. Her veins were prominent around her knuckles connecting to her wrists. She kept looking outside, but the scenery was the same. Callahan bent over and reached under the table to retrieve the bill.

            When he sat up again, Froid was gone.

            He bolted upright, nearly toppling the table over, and ran out of the restaurant. He didn’t get very far, because a thug at the front of the door blocked his exit. Callahan gave him a fifty-dollar bill and squeezed out. The thug would have pursued him but I have him let Callahan go. I can’t lose track of Froid like this.

        Callahan ran around Chinatown, pushing people out the way dramatically and getting yelled at in English, Mandarin, some Cantonese and many expletives. He was glad he didn’t speak any other language aside from English.

        This didn’t come in handy when trying to communicate with a taxi driver and attempting to drive around Chinatown with him, telling him to turn into this alley, stop here, wait, repeat.

            The cab driver demanded a down payment, or so Callahan thought. Callahan reluctantly gave him twenty dollars and the driver sped off. Callahan was stranded in the middle of Chinatown, with no cabs around, and completely Froid-less.

            That was when he saw her. She was standing on the curb on the other side of the busy intersection. He didn’t think of the busy intersection, even though I kept warning him about it. He only saw her. As he ran, his entire existence moving at a glacial pace, he began writing a poem.

I see you standing there

And you look like you want to smoke.

But I’m telling you no. You can’t smoke

Because I love you

But I can’t be around you if you’re smoking like that.

It’s gross, and I don’t want lung cancer.

I can’t wait to take back your hand

Cold, like your last name,

And your cold eyes

And your cold face

And your cold smile

That you never share.

You’re all cold, Froid.

Maybe that’s why you smoke.

To heat yourself up from the inside.

God, I hate Callahan’s poetry. It’s like the monologue of a self-righteous third grader. I try not listening to his poem, but suddenly everything cuts off.

The last moment I remember Callahan is running towards Froid amid enveloping honks and Doppler effects. I don’t see anything from him now. I try to look at Froid. Nothing. Nothing from Samuel. All I have is my own sight, my own mind, my own frustration.

I’m not taking this very well.

After stepping on some of the shards of Froid’s disintegrated phone I scream. I scream and pummel the phone to the ground again, making it even more sporadic as it sits all over my kitchen floor. I punch a carton of milk and it explodes. I nearly tear my refrigerator door off its hinge and the contents slide over indignantly, dangling at the mercy of gravity.

I storm into my bedroom and rip open my shelves. Froid’s stuff. All of it, taking up my space in my shelves. I grab her socks, shirts, pants, clothes I bought her, and throw them all in a pile in the middle of the floor. I take a kitchen knife to them and tear them all up into shreds, the pieces of cloth fluttering gracefully as I butcher everything I’ve ever cared about. She can’t accept gifts, can’t she? She can’t accept anything I’ve ever given her. Well, if she won’t be grateful for all I’ve done for her, then I’m going to make sure she’s never grateful again. Because she’ll have nothing to be grateful for. No more lavish clothes. No more phone. No more paper, pens, poetry, writing. She’ll have none of that. If ever I get into her mind again I’ll make sure she has nothing. This is what she gets for betraying me like this. If I can’t have her, no one can. And even if I can have her, I’ll be sure that she never knows anyone else, ever.

             A bridge. It’s a tall bridge, drifting over the sea. Ballard Bridge? I can’t tell from the angle, because I’m looking down towards the water. In my fury I realize that this is not me. It’s someone else, but who? The wind is calm, like today, and sunny. The weather is beautiful for this time of year in Seattle. Warm. The hands touch. Cold.

            The person’s eyes close, and a single face flashes before them.

            Samuel.

            Eyes open, and the person jumps, the water approaching fearlessly. Once submerged the water drags her down as she doesn’t even try. She doesn’t try to kick, to swim, to live, to anything. In her last moments I see Callahan’s face, in a contortion like I had never seen it before, and everything dilutes into the dark.

            Froid. Oh God, Jesus, Froid, what have I done?

I crumble onto the pile of clothes, my hands bloody from nicking them with the knife. I cry for the first time in a while, soiled, and truly alone.

            A few hours later Callahan comes home, mildly bruised but sopping wet. He limps his way across my carpet, drenching it with saltwater and flops onto the Ottoman. We hardly acknowledge each other; we’re both too exhausted. I’ll inquire about his current state, but first I try to look into his mind.

            He flashes back to when he was almost hit by a cab trying to run to Froid. The cab driver honked so loud that Callahan was discombobulated for a minute before dashing into the driver’s seat. Froid had disappeared again, and he drove out of Chinatown.

            After about a half hour he had come to the Ballard Bridge and saw someone jump off. He didn’t know whom, but in his valorous adrenaline rush he swam into the water to save a life.

            My vision is interrupted by something else. Samuel is in a dinky motel in Chinatown, screaming his guts out like I had been hours before. He spins around his room, destroying his poetry, ripping up his paper and breaking his charcoal in half. He sits, as I had, in a crumpled mess of black and paper, paper cuts on his hands from where he writhed too close to corners.

            What’s going on? I’ve never seen my brother like this.

            And then he starts screaming words.

            “FROID! FROID! FROID!” He just screams her name over and over again. He doesn’t call her Ambrosia like he normally does; he calls her Froid, like I do in my mind, like everyone else does. Then, with his hands black with charcoal, he staggers out of his room towards a hospital.

            Now I jump out of my room and nearly tackle Callahan.

            “What happened? Where’s Froid? Why are you ruining my carpet?”

            Callahan blushes and scoots over to the tile of the kitchen, gingerly stepping over the extra pieces of Froid’s phone that weren’t there when they had left.

            “She… jumped.”

            “What?!” I try to sound as surprised as possible. It seems to be working with Callahan.

            “I lost track of her at lunch, and when I finally caught up to her, she… jumped off a bridge.”

            I pick Callahan up by the collar of his shirt, bringing him so close to me that I can smell his sweat mixing with the saltwater.

            “How?! How did this happen? How could you lose sight of her like that?”

            “She disappeared in seconds!” He protests. I know he’s telling the truth, but I need to keep being upset.

            I push him back on to the ground. He winces as he hits a bruise that was made maybe an hour ago. We sit in the silence for a moment.

            “When did she jump?” I ask.

            Callahan looks at his watch. “Not two hours ago,” he replies.

            “Then where have you been since then?”

            “The… hospital.”

            Aside from his bruises, he clearly had some more serious injuries. I see gauze on his elbows under his shirt, bandages bulging under his jeans where he probably scraped up his knees.

            “You… jumped in after her?” I ask incredulously.

            Callahan looks irritated. “Of course I did! What, you think I can’t swim or something?”

            He’s so offended by my disbelief that I have to take his word for it. I nod. “I understand. That’s probably how you got so beat up.”

            Callahan half-grins sheepishly. “My diving formation was off. I basically flipped a time and a half and landed on my knees.”

            The replay of it happens in Callahan’s head. I laugh at it.

            “Which hospital is she at?”

            “The University’s Medical Center. There’s… inpatient treatment there too for her. It seems that since this was a suicide attempt that she’s going to be there for a bit.”

            I understand. She’ll be away from me, but I’ll still be able to visit her. And she won’t be going anywhere.

            Callahan looks like he’s in much worse condition than Froid. She hardly seems touched, sitting upright on the hospital bed, scowling that she’s still alive. Callahan holds her hand but she looks at him in annoyance.

            “Thanks for nothing,” she growls.

            Callahan says nothing and pats her hand.

            I had tried hugging her when we first saw her, but she had been combative. She didn’t want me to even hug her. There was a different fire in her now. What was once apathy had been consumed with anger and regret.

            It’s unclear whether she regretted her life in general or regretted not dying. I think it’s both. I feel acquiesced to know that as much as she seemingly hates me right now, she hates Callahan even more.

            A nurse comes in and tells me, her legal-ish guardian, treatment plans available for her. Given the circumstances, inpatient treatment was almost necessary; the only question was for how long. Even at the shortest plan, she would still be missing the first couple weeks of the winter quarter. I assure the nurse that I will be in close proximity for as long as she needs me. I forcefully hold Froid’s hand. She hates it. With Callahan holding one hand and me the other, she feels trapped. It isn’t long before she pulls both of her hands out from under our grasps and tucks them akimbo on her hospital gown.

            As if her air doesn’t need any more animosity, an even more unwelcome figure comes trudging into the room.

            Samuel. Well, some pathetic self-reproaching son of a bitch masquerading as Samuel.

            I’ve never seen my brother like this, but I can’t say I dislike it. He’s finally showing regret for everything he’s ever done or felt. He’s regretting everything from Froid at once. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated in mania, magnifying Froid in his vision so that she is the only thing he sees. His vision is blurry because he doesn’t blink, but then his eyes water and everything is double: two Froids, two Callahans, two me’s, as is all he’s currently feeling.

            And then Samuel starts crying and ripping out chunks of hair. I can’t believe it. I don’t know whether to kick him while he’s down or pity him. Callahan is as bewildered as I am and lets go of Froid’s hand to pat Samuel’s shoulder. In wild, animalistic reaction Samuel recoils at Callahan’s empathetic touch.

            “What… are you doing?” he blubbers.

            Callahan picks Samuel up off the floor and looks into his eyes. Samuel won’t look at him though. He keeps looking over at Froid, glaring into space, hating it for simply existing.

            And then Samuel snaps again. He collapses to the ground, taking Callahan with him and writhes his way over to Froid. Froid looks at him in disgust, but for the first time since my arrival she looks scared, like she has something to lose. Her contempt begins to crack, and slowly she dissolves into a similar vein of hysteria as Samuel.

            And so, I watch as my stoic, inhuman brother and the lovely gentle girl that he made like himself both descend into incapacitation. They’re making Callahan look composed and godlike. Callahan looks at me. In a stroke of something resembling compassion I call for a nurse. One comes by a few moments later, sees that she now has two patients, and calls for some backup.

            A large, burly man picks Samuel up by the armpits. Samuel doesn’t fight him. He goes limp as soon as he doesn’t have to support his own weight.

            “Do you know this man?” the nurse asks Callahan and me, shaking Samuel’s carcass-like body in front of us.

            We both nod as he sets Samuel down on a chair and takes his blood pressure and pulse. Not surprisingly the former is low and the latter his dangerously high.

            “He’s my brother,” I reply as Samuel twitches at the touch of the nurse ripping the band off of his arm. “He’s been in Seattle for a couple of days but has been very stressed out. He did a poetry reading at the University-”

            “Wait, is he Samuel Taylor Coldridge? The Samuel Taylor Coldridge?” The nurse is suddenly much less professional as she ogles at her impromptu patient.

            “Oh, Mr. Coldridge! It’s such an honor to meet you… Though not like this. I’m sorry I couldn’t go to the-”

            “I say a messy tress of less

            Supports rapport of brazen

            Raisins in the days…”

            I’ve never heard this poem of Samuel’s, but I can imagine why. He sounds like a lunatic. He’s probably making it up on the spot.

            The nurse stares at him in wonderment like she’s receiving some gospel. Callahan is a mixture of concerned and enamored with the verse. Froid bites at her hangnails systematically. I just can’t take my brother seriously at this point. He’s not making art. He’s hardly cognizant. His blood pressure clearly drops again and he slumps over on the adjoining chairs.

            “Do you think you can move him to a separate room?” I ask the nurses.

            They are more than happy to comply for the sake of him. Another nurse brings in a wheelchair and they set him down in it and take him out of sight.

        The three of us are left in silence again. Froid closes her eyes, trying to remove herself from the scene. Callahan has taken her hand again in cynical avarice. I talk to a nurse when she returns about the condition of my brother. Samuel has suffered some sort of nervous breakdown at the sight of Froid in the hospital. I can’t imagine why, though. Taken out of the context, Froid looks unscathed whereas Callahan looks like he fell off a building. I suppose the context is everything.

        I stand up and walk over to Froid. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I tell Froid since seeing her.

        She closes her eyes. “Go away.”

        I grab her hand and bring it up to my face.

        “Drop it.”

        Callahan and I look at each other. Who is she talking to?

        “I want to be alone.” She opens her eyes and glares at both of us. “Want me to feel better? Leave.”

            Callahan takes it better than I do. He nods and passively leaves, while I’m stuck standing there, trying to reason anything that has happened today. I’m still holding Froid’s hand and she’s still glaring at me.

            “Leave,” she repeated.

            I keep my hand over hers. I’m not going to give up on her. Callahan left, Samuel’s been dragged off, but I haven’t. I hold her hand against my cheek. Cold. But it stops feeling cold after a while. I touch her hand with my other one. Still cold.

            “Leave.”

            She keeps saying the word as if it will make me move.

            “Make me,” I whisper. I admit that it’s childish and that it probably will not work.

            But then, I see something. She closes her eyes and I see my face from a few minutes ago, as I was looking at her, my determination. She opens her eyes again.

            “Luke,” she whispers.

            I come closer to her and move her hand to my lips.

            “Help me.”

            Her eyes glisten with sincerity. She floods my mind with hers, everything that’s happened to her since Seattle. Watching Samuel collapse in front of her, waking up in my apartment, eating curry, burning the letter that Samuel gave her, jumping off the bridge, waking up in the hospital.

            I smile warmly at her. “Of course.”

            She smiles back at me and rests her palm on my cheek. It’s warmer now. Froid. You’re not so cold now. 

nanowrimo 9

Chapter 4

            Froid sat up as soon as she heard Luke lock the door. She stood at the window, waiting for him and Callahan to walk out of the entrance and down the street. She did not know where they were going, or when they were coming back, but she knew she was meeting Samuel.

            Tap, tap-tap-tap. “First, go to sleep.” This was one of their stock messages. It was the one Samuel used the most with her, even though neither of them were ever inclined to sleep. They stretched the semantics of each word to such lengths that anything could symbolize “first,” “go,” or “sleep.”

            She assumed that the first meant “First Street.” She walked over to the street and saw a Bath and Body Works on the corner. She entered it and made her way to the aromatherapy section.

            Samuel was there, smelling one of the lotions that was advertised to calm the mind. He sniffed it, not expecting anything. He looked up to see Froid.

            The two of them stood and said nothing for a while, but Samuel patted his hands together, distributing the scent, and walked out of the store again. Froid followed him. He led her to a teahouse and they went inside and sat at a table in the back. Samuel ordered a pot of a chamomile herbal blend. Froid looked at her watch, wondering when Luke and Callahan would return.

            Samuel covered her watch with his hand.

            “You know what he is.”

            Froid was confused. She showed it on her face.

            “I…. don’t understand.”

            Samuel lifted up a pamphlet he got from the art gallery and stared at the picture. He forced himself to smile, and almost moved himself to tears.

            The vision was transmitted to Luke, who was sitting with Callahan over a bowl of limoncello gelato. He smiled at Samuel’s point of view. Callahan caught the smile but said nothing of it.

            Samuel stopped smiling and set down the pamphlet.

            “As I suspected,” he muttered.

            “What?”

            “First person narration. Omniscience, omnipotence.”

            “Luke?”

            “Yes. I have found his limits though. He cannot manipulate without emotion.”

            “Only humans?”

            Samuel cringed at the adverb but continued. “No, he can do the same to cognizant animals.”

            “How do you know this? I mean, your brother is manipulative but how could he…”

            “He thinks himself God. And he is not.”

            “But just because he thinks he’s God doesn’t mean-”

            “He is the narrator though. He can think and write and do whatever he wants.”

            “The… narrator?”

            “He knew you had come to see me.”

            Froid nodded.

            “He knew when you would arrive in Seattle.”

            She nodded again.

            “After you met me, you have noticed a change in his behavior.”

            She stopped nodding. It was tiring.

            “He brought Callahan here as soon as we met.”

            “But how do you know all of this?”

            “Because I know his presence. And when I wept in front of you the other day I felt him.”

            “And it wasn’t you just feeling…”

            “I never have felt him in my mind like that.”

            Froid still needed convincing.

            “I’m afraid that I still don’t believe you. Why would you tell me this?”

            “Why would I tell you this?”

            It was then that Froid realized that Samuel had no incentive to lie to her. He had no incentive to tell the truth either, but if the issue concerned him as well he would not harm himself just so he could validate a lie.

            Froid folded her hands in her lap.

            “You already knew that he could get in your head,” Samuel said.

            Froid nodded. That was why she had broadcast her nightmares in her thoughts when she had run away. Luke had been too sensitive to them. He thought he had appeared soothing. He had aroused suspicion in the back of Froid’s mind.

            Samuel stroked his ring finger across the table. The smooth surfaced seemed to ripple under his touch.

            “Do you have a plan?” Froid asked.

            Samuel nodded.

            “Can you tell me it?”

            “Not yet. I have something for you.”

            He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter to her, folded in quarters, and unraveled it. He showed it to her for a moment before crumbling it back in his pocket. It was too quick for her to read any of it.

            “This is a letter I wrote to you. My brother thinks you have read it and destroyed it. He knows what it says. You do not.”

            “What was the point of that?”

            “Say when you get home you saw me and I gave you the letter. He will comfort you right away. It will be suspicious.”

            Froid nodded. Samuel was giving her definitive proof.

            “You’re only helping me because this affects you, right?”

            Samuel did not respond. He did not hear Froid. He was thinking of how they met.

            The reception was mandatory for Samuel to attend. It was the publication of the first volume of y(not)ou, and while he had not partaken in any of the process, he was the poet. Quentin the publisher had to push him out of his apartment and to the Murkvein English Department. The professors relished in the early critical acclaim the work had produced, and Samuel had already been nominated for three young poet awards. He would go on to win all of them.

            A photographer made his away around the room, capturing jovial scenes of professors gushing over Brie and champagne; students exalting the opening poem, “man.I.a.trieval;” and even furtive outlines of Samuel walking around in an attempt to have the trailing Quentin the publisher lose sight of him. He led Quentin the publisher around the chair of the department, the chair of the publication company, a wall of velvet-lined chairs filled with poets from the area. Quentin would eventually succumb to his own idea of prestige and leave Samuel on his own.   

            Schmoozing bogged down Quentin the publisher with immediate effect. Samuel walked towards the exit.

            She was wearing blue. Her blonde hair lay unadorned on her shoulders. The world was in her green eyes.

            She approached Samuel. Samuel walked in the other direction.

            “I hate these sort of things,” she said.

            Samuel turned around. Her look dissociated herself from her speech. She wanted to be here. Samuel kept walking as if he hadn’t heard her.

            When he left the room he looked back. She was standing right behind him.

            “I’ll occupy Quentin the publisher,” she said. “You owe him nothing. You shouldn’t have even come.”

            Samuel hurried his pace. She did not cross his mind for the rest of the night.

            “Samuel, I should get going,” Froid said, standing up from the table. “I don’t want Luke to go out and start looking for me.

            “You owe him nothing. You should not have even come.”

            Any other would be offended at these words with no context. But Froid remembered them well. She smiled with ease.

            “I hate these sort of things,” she echoed as she left the store.

            As she walked home she remembered the day Samuel started as the TA in her writing class. She hugged her arms, remembering the poem she had written then.

           

           

Chapter 5

            Callahan is about as engrossing as a dead frog.

            We keep restarting the conversation with each other over our cups of gelato. I ordered limoncello, Callahan ordered something he couldn’t pronounce, though I could. “Formaggio di Capra.” I know he did it to impress me, but all he’s doing is wasting my money because he’s discovered the hard way that he does not like goat cheese. He keeps trying to eat it, but I know eventually the overwhelming urge to give him diarrhea will be too much. I decide to wait until after he says something interesting.

            That time doesn’t come, though. We talk about his creative process in writing. His creative process is so mundane it’s not even creative. No wonder his poetry is so awful. He plans them out in a literal brainstorm, strings some phrases he likes together, and calls it a poem. I try to be supportive. All I do is give him the overwhelming urge to use the bathroom.

            His face turns red and he breaks into a sweat as he excuses himself. He rushes out without looking back at me, and I look outside at the people. One of them looks familiar and I rush outside.

            “What are you doing outside, Ambrosia?” I ask, tugging her into the gelato shop.

            Her eyes are wide, her walking truncated by a shock that I didn’t know about.

            “A letter,” she releases from her mouth.

            I have her sit down at our table and put my jacket around her. She engulfs herself in it and all I can see is her face. Callahan is still in the bathroom. I put my arms around her.

            “A letter, you say?” I remember what I saw in Samuel’s mind.

            She nods from underneath my coat, flopping the sleeves with hands like broken wings.

            I can’t see what she’s thinking, but it’s reflected clearly on her face.

            “He’s leaving for Murkvein tonight, isn’t he?”

            She nods.

            “He told you he’s not going to see you again.”

            She nods again.

            “He says it’s for the best.”

            She nods one final time.

            I smile encouragingly. “You can be free of him now. You can be Ambrosia, do what you want, be happy, sleep, laugh, love.”

            She stares at me. I can’t read her eyes. They’re empty.

            Callahan returns from the bathroom and looks at Froid.

            “When did you get here?” he asks.

            “Like ten minutes ago,” I reply for her. He’s embarrassed for being gone so long.

             Froid covers her face with my jacket. It looks like I’m hugging a leather rock. In terms of showing emotion, I might as well be.

            The three of us walk back to the apartment together, saying nothing. I have to drag Froid along by the sleeves of my jacket. Callahan keeps trying to talk but I hold his tongue. I don't want to hear him talk anymore. I want him to go away, but he has nowhere to go. I indignantly have him sleep on my couch, though I offer him to put him in a hotel. He refuses. He wants to be by Froid, no matter how hopeless that may be. Either way would be fine with me. If he’s at my apartment I can have him watch Froid at all times without any oddity. If he’s at a hotel I’m free from his insatiable awkwardness.

            Callahan thanks me excessively for my hospitality, and I’m a mind slip away for thanking him for having such a hospitable mind.

            With Callahan around I decide that I can forgo superstition; I have the luxury not to with my hidden asset. I pick Froid’s demolished phone off of the tile, sweeping it away into the trash. Callahan will always be around her, and therefore I will. She won’t need a phone. That phone was only a symbol of my protection anyway. Callahan is a much subtler and maybe even appealing token.

            When I decide to go to sleep I see that Froid is still awake. She stares at the ceiling. I thought she would have gone right to sleep, but her fear of Samuel has superseded any necessity of sleeping. She hardly moves when I plop into bed. She just keeps looking up.

            “Ambrosia,” I murmur to her. “Try to get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

            She doesn’t respond, doesn’t acknowledge in any way.

            “Froid.” I call her in a different way.

            “I am,” she says, clutching the covers in her fingers.

            “But you don’t have to be. You can be Ambrosia.”

            She shakes her head. “I am Froid. It is inherent. I’m nothing like Ambrosia.”

            “Ambrosia Froid.”

            She tenses now, her teeth chattering. She’s dreaming with her eyes open.            

            “Is this a nightmare to you?” I ask.

            Now she turns and looks at me. “Who is it you think I’m afraid of?”

Nanowrimo 8

Callahan hated coffee, but he wanted to seem like he didn't. He got something he couldn’t pronounce. He also said “large” instead of “venti,” which elicited a glare from the barista. Callahan felt more self-conscious than he usually did.

            Froid had no self-conscience anymore. She ordered a venti quintuple Americano and left Callahan to pay for it so she could go next door to the CVS and probably buy some cigarettes. I frown. I can’t get rid of them until she’s around me again. I also can’t see her at all except through Callahan.

            She returned a few minutes later with a plastic bag. I can’t see what’s in it because Callahan can’t. I try to get him to ask, but he beat me to it.

            “What did you buy?”

            She shrugged her shoulders. “Just some stuff I need.”

            “Cigarettes?” Callahan blurted out at my insistence.

            Froid glared at him.

            I think about the poem that Callahan wrote about Froid and how it was really more about her smoking habits than actually about her. I remind him about it gently.

            “I… wrote a poem about you.”

            She looks up at him.

            “Well, actually, about your smoking,” he modifies. Froid drinks her Americano with urgency but says nothing.

            Callahan takes the first drink of what he ordered. To his surprise, it was delicious.

            “Wow, this coffee is amazing! I can barely taste the-”

            That’s because you got a Pekoe misto. There’s no coffee in it. Just tea.”

            She drinks more of her Americano. It’s very strong, and Callahan sees her wince a little as the bitterness flows into her mouth, but she overrides it.

            “Oh… well that explains a lot!” He chucked nervously and tried to slow his breathing but to no avail. His face was bright red and hot and not just from the heat.

            I nearly cackle as I hear him and pour myself a cup of the rooibos brewed.

            The silence was unbearable for Callahan. Froid didn’t mind it, but the lack of conversation exacerbated Callahan’s meddling low self-esteem. It didn’t help that Froid seemed to be going out of her way to keep the conversation minimal. She didn’t even make eye contact with Callahan or anything in the room. Her eyes had glazed over long ago, as soon as she had seen him. She had re-hibernated, artlessly retreating into the solitude that she found more appealing than Callahan. It was offensive, but Callahan was too nice to object to it. However, the sight of Froid was beginning to lose its luster as it reflected the emptiness of their relationship. Callahan meant nothing to Froid, never had, and it pained him.

            “How long have you been in Seattle?” Callahan asked after a few minutes, determined to get Froid to talk, even if it meant supplying her with easy answers.

            “Since I left campus,” replied Froid. Her downward intonation indicated that she was finished with her answers. The last syllable landed with a thud on Callahan’s heart.

            “Wow, so you really just didn’t go somewhere else at all. You went straight for here?”

            Froid nodded. Callahan couldn’t tell whether it was at him or the Americano. Probably the Americano.

            “Why? Why didn’t you go home at all? What’s so urgent out here?”

            Froid shrugged her shoulders. She was bypassing words to communicate with the most insultingly minimal gestures.

            Callahan had to think of better questions, and so he paused his endeavor to think some up. It took a while, because he realized he would have to ask very specific questions. He assembled them together and prepared to fire them rapidly at her.

            “When does school start here again?”

            “January.”

            “Where will you be living?”

            Shrug.

            “Will you go home for Christmas?”

            Shrug.

            “What will you be studying?”

            “Physics.”

            “Why are you living with Luke right now?”

            Shrug.

            “Why don’t you know why?”

            Shrug.

            “If you don’t know why, why are you still there? Do you want to be by someone like Samuel so much that you’ll go for his brother?”

            That got a reaction. Froid crushed the empty cup in one squeeze. She looked up at Callahan. It was the first time anyone had mentioned Samuel since she had got here.

            “What is it to you?” she asked.

            Shrug.

            They sat in silence again, Froid clearly uncomfortable now, and Callahan frustrated.

            “I heard Samuel came here, for a poetry reading. You went, didn’t you?”

            Froid’s lack of response was a response in of itself. She was trying to retain her composure. Callahan knew exactly what that meant.

            “I’m right, aren’t I? Of course you had to go, even if you didn’t want to. You needed to see him again.”

            Froid remained completely still. She even held her breath.

            Now they were having a conversation. Callahan was putting the pieces together, and the more Froid remained still, the more Callahan knew his words were getting through to her.

            “I heard he only recited one poem.”

            Froid exhaled as quietly as possible. She didn’t inhale immediately, though.

            “Higher Wisdom. His most popular poem. His best poem. The only poem he’s ever written that’s not about himself.”

            Froid still didn’t inhale.

            “In a split second I fear,” began Callahan. “Fear. That’s not a word Samuel ever uses. He’s a monolith. He has no cracks.”

            Froid slowly inhaled. Her shoulders didn’t lift, and her stomach didn’t expand. It wasn’t much of a breath.

            “You, in repetition, blue, yes like oceans. At the edge of my shore, a God like I.”

            It was Callahan’s favorite poem for almost one sole reason: it was about Froid.

            Froid breathed out, her teeth shivering. She was scared of someone. Callahan didn’t know of whom.

            And I don’t know whom either. If I still knew her I would, though. But ever since my brother has come to Seattle Froid is about as unreadable as he, and maybe even worse.

            Someone smiles in an art gallery. The person is looking at a copy of a Balke painting, titled “Lighthouse on the Norwegian Coast.” It’s a beautiful painting, with a solitary manmade structure withstanding the torrential sickly green waves beating against the barren shore. It’s one of my favorite paintings. It’s also one of Samuel’s.

            The person is nearly moved to tears. Their hands are folded in their lap. I know those hands.

            The person takes out a piece of homemade paper and some beleaguered charcoal.

            No. It can’t be.

            Samuel starts writing on the paper, but he’s not writing a poem.

            He’s writing a note. To Froid.

ambrosia-

I have to go back to murkvein tomorrow to attend my publisher’s funeral. I wish I could have stayed longer. I understand that you will not return to murkvein. it is perhaps for the best for you. burn this letter as soon as you receive it. I will not bother you anymore.

stc

His script is long and lean and severely slanted. It looks like a different, linear orthography. Very few people can actually read it without a transcription. One of them is Froid.

Samuel suddenly disappears from my mind, but I’ve seen enough. I sigh in relief. With Samuel gone, I can rebuild Froid without interference. For once in my life it seems like my brother is on my side.

Callahan and Froid slowly but surely finished their drinks at Starbucks, though the total of the words uttered between them was about the length of one of Samuel’s poems. As soon as Callahan finished his cup I text him, saying that they’re on their own for dinner because I got a call to go to the office.

Of course it’s not true. If I don’t want to do a surgery a certain day I’ll make it so I don’t have to. I’ll have the office delay paperwork or make the patient just not show up. And since Froid has been in Seattle, I’ve been minimizing the time I’ve spent at work merely by making myself unnecessary at the office. I’ve had the interns undergo intensive training camps, the surgeons below me capitalize on my absence, and patients simply wait on surgeries until after the holidays, when Froid would presumably begin classes and live in a dorm away from me. I still plan on seeing her constantly whether she’d like me to or not. I know I’ll win her over eventually. She’ll be mine again just as she was before.

            Callahan didn’t even bother asking where Froid wanted to eat. He knew he wouldn’t get any response. He got up and walked out of the Starbucks, assuming that he was on his own to eat.

            He walked a couple blocks until he get to the edge of Chinatown. His stomach growled. Peking duck sounded good, and he walked in to explore his options.

            My vantage point changes. Someone is coming up behind Callahan.

            “Callahan,” Froid says quietly.

            Callahan turns around. My vantage point changes again to see Callahan looking at Froid. It changes back and forth between them, and the motion makes me feel a little sick as I jump back and forth between looking at Froid and looking at Callahan.

            Froid says, “Let’s eat together.”

            “Really? Anything you have in mind?”

            “Peking duck.”

            Both Callahan and I are surprised. Did Froid read Callahan’s mind?

            “Well, alright! Let’s go.” Callahan walked next to Froid, and she disappears again from my mind. I’m actually somewhat relieved. Managing multiple vantage points at the same time in the same place was exhausting. I pour myself a glass of water.

            A waiter brought Callahan and Froid some water. Callahan immediately ordered Peking duck in lieu of Froid doing anything since they sat down.

            Their meeting was hampered with silence again, though this time Callahan didn’t even try to supply the conversation. The two sat silently, and Callahan texted Caracolle that he was with Froid at the moment.

            Caracolle immediately called, but Callahan sent her straight to voicemail.

            Caracolle texted him.

            “omg u dick y r u ignoring me?!?!”

            Callahan texted her back. “We’re at a restaurant… can’t really talk.”

            “show her this text: ambrosia ur the most selfish person i know. even if mom && dad don't seem to care i do. come back home soon 4 my sake if not 4 mom && dad.”

            Callahan put his screen in front of Froid’s face. She looked at it and her expression didn’t change.

            “Tell her I’m busy.”

            Callahan texted Caracolle back. Caracolle retaliated with another text.

            “OMG A Y R U BEING SUCH A BITCH??!!?!?”

            Callahan showed Froid the text. Froid told Callahan that she had no intention of going home any time soon.

            Callahan wrote back to Caracolle, who sent another text.

            “ughhhhhhh fine. if u don't want 2 act like an adult then i won’t even waste my time.”

            Callahan showed Froid the text. Froid said nothing and looked back down at her water.

            Callahan put his phone in his pocket, but Caracolle still insisted on sending messages to Froid through Callahan.

            Callahan finally texted her back: “Look, if you want to talk to her then just text her directly. I’m not your messenger boy.”

            “i don’t have her new # dumbass”

            Nor did Callahan. Froid didn’t even have her phone with her. It didn’t even work. It was still sitting on the kitchen floor. I look over at it as I sit on the sofa, unwilling to cave in and throw it away. Froid will eventually pick it up and take responsibility for it.

            Froid was of no particular interest, so Callahan began looking around to the other patrons. They were one of the few non-Asians there, and the two of them sitting around an enormous Lazy Susan looked awkward. Other tables were filled with people having boisterous conversation, enjoying each other’s company. The two of them sat together in the middle of the restaurant, not talking, not enjoying themselves, a foiling fixture for almost everyone else there.

            “Steamed bok choy,” said a waiter to a customer in the corner. Callahan took a sip of water.

            Alone. He nodded to the waiter. Samuel.

            Callahan spit his water out. Most of it sprayed onto Froid, whose expression reflected her surprise for the first time since Callahan saw her.

            To Callahan’s horror, everyone in the restaurant stared at them and giggled at the sopping Froid.

            Callahan jumped up, taking his napkin with him, and tried wiping Froid dry.

            Someone handed Callahan another napkin.

            “For the performance, Athlete.”

            Callahan turned around. Samuel stood eye to eye with him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look at Froid. He wasn’t even looking at Callahan. He was looking at me again.

            I incite enough anger in Callahan to almost get him to punch Samuel right there on the spot, but Samuel walked back to his table before Callahan could lift his fist.

            Callahan sighed as he continued helping Froid dry herself. She thanked him quietly, but he didn’t hear it because she didn’t say it in his direction.

            She watched as Samuel dragged his chair over to their table, with his bowl of bok choy under his arm.

            “No,” Callahan growled. “You can’t sit here. Go back to your own table.”

            Samuel acted as though no one else was at the table. It didn’t surprise either of them, but that didn’t stop Callahan from getting angrier. I don’t even need to help him at this point. Callahan loved Samuel’s poetry, and even worshipped Samuel as a person for a few years. But now all that was left with him was the adoration of the poem and abhorrence of the poet.

            Callahan stood and faced Samuel, pointing at the corner. “Leave. Now.” His stature was his best asset. Towering over anyone was intimidating.

            Except for Samuel. With terrifying apathy Samuel stood up, squared his shoulders to Callahan, and sat right back down.

            “Callahan, please sit,” whispered Froid. This didn’t calm Callahan down any. It only made him angrier.

            “Why are you defending him? After all he’s done to you, after all that’s happened, you’re telling me to sit down? You’re not going tell him to go away? You’re not going to do anything?”

            Froid looked at Callahan. “Do you think he cares?”

            Samuel slurped his bok choy like they were noodles. The waiter brought over the Peking duck, and Callahan took the thigh immediately. The thigh was huge, significantly larger than that of a chicken, and it was tasty enough to distract Callahan from Samuel’s presence. Froid nibbled on some breast meat in silence. Samuel finished his bok choy in minutes.

            Callahan assumed that as soon as Samuel was finished he would get up and leave, forcing them, and therefore Callahan, to pay for his meal. But he didn’t. He stayed there, eyeing his empty bowl like there were still bok choy in it.  He didn’t look at the Peking duck at all, to Callahan’s mild relief. He didn’t want to give him any.

            However, Samuel’s continued presence remained as a slow irritation on Samuel’s mind. The most annoying part was that Samuel was so inhuman that nothing that either he or Froid did would compel him to leave. He would only leave on his own accord.

            Samuel looked insufferably bored, but he didn’t write a poem or try to entertain himself.

            A waiter returned with both checks, and before he even set them down on the table Samuel pulled out a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket.

            “For both. No change.”

            The waiter stared at the bill, trying to do the mental math of exactly how much of a tip that was. It was well over a hundred percent. Samuel’s meal was not even five dollars. The Peking duck was not that expensive either.

            Callahan was even more surprised than the waiter.

            “Think of it as a parting gift, Athlete,” said Samuel as he stood up. Callahan felt buoyant. Not only was Samuel leaving, he also picked up the check.

            Callahan engrossed himself in his thigh, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Samuel tap Froid’s shoulder in a rhythmic pattern as he passed her. He had seen this before.

            So have I. Callahan wasn’t looking directly at Samuel, so I couldn’t tell which pattern it was. But it was definitely a message in their own little code.

            That was why Samuel sat down with him. He has something to tell Froid.

            Froid and Callahan return immediately to the apartment. I ask them how their dinner was, and Callahan responds that it was nice but uneventful. He doesn’t mention Samuel at all. Froid walks straight over to my room and closes the door. Probably going to sleep. I don’t blame her. Seeing Samuel twice in two days would be exhausting for her. I don’t plan on disturbing her at all. She needs her rest.

            I offer Callahan some herbal tea and thank him for spending the day with Froid in the wake of me being so busy.

            “You know, with all the things going on the office and trying to get stuff done before the holidays, it was really nice to have a whole day to just catch up on everything.”

            “No problem,” Callahan replies.

            “Did she seem any better?”

            Callahan grimaces. “I think she said about twenty words to me total. It was really frustrating.”

            I nod sympathetically. “I know what you mean. She took a few days to relax and open up. Just give her time. I think the more you’re around her, the faster she heals. Not sure why. Maybe she just needs exposure to support.”

            Callahan likes the sound of that, but I know deep down he is feeling discouraged at how stingy Froid was with him.

            “Tell you what, let’s get out of here, you and me. I know a great gelato place down the way!”

            Callahan is still full from the Peking duck. He doesn’t want to eat anymore, but I override his stomach, and he agrees politely.

            Before we head out the door I break my promise to myself and look in to check on Froid. She’s sleeping already, motionlessly almost at the edge of the bed. I smile and turn off the light as I close the door.

Nanowrimo 7

So many words!

Chapter 2

The Suzzallo Reading Room at the University of Washington was shaped like a church nave. Samuel Tyler Coldridge looked at it with disinterest. He paid more attention to it than he did the speaker though, whose bombastic tone resonated through the literary chapel with a hollow clamor. Samuel was, to this speaker, the equivalent of God, and while Samuel showed no inclination to accept this position, the speaker went on, convinced that this verbal groveling was a way to become Samuel’s hallowed disciple.

However, Samuel had no interest in the responsibility of having disciples. The only ones that mattered to him were those he could create.

“Samuel Tyler Coldridge, a visionary of syntax and grammar in poetry…”

The speech continued. Samuel noted the frequent use of adverbs derived from adjectives in each sentence. “Single-handedly.” “Bravely.” “Wonderfully.” “Creatively.”

Samuel hated adverbs that ended in –ly. They were the weakest words, derivations of derivations that did nothing to enhance speech. They were weak and useless. They were like people. He called many people “adverbs.”

“… Let us not forget the reasons in which Mr. Coldridge has made himself known in the spectacularly…”

Another adverb. Samuel’s sole enemy was superfluity. If it served no function, it should not exist. He sat at the front of the auditorium, and everything else with him was superfluous. The one that wasn’t was the poem in his mind. Everyone else asserted themselves on reality. They coughed, whispered to each other, tapped their feet. They all tried to exert their existence in some menial ways. But they had it all wrong. With poetry, Samuel did not need to prove himself to reality. Reality had to prove itself to him.

Cogito, ergo sum. I verse, therefore I am. And where I am, I am God.

Samuel memorized all of his poetry. He was supposed to recite three today. He wasn’t sure yet which three, but once he stood at the front he knew he would pick the perfect three.

“…His presence here today is a privilege that we all must remember! This is the first time he has ever given a public performance of his poetry…”

Samuel had never made a public appearance. He created poetry for himself and never strove it to share it with anyone. For Samuel poetry was not an important means. It was just a means to create.  Reality held no interest to him. The world he could create was perfect to him. Why conform to one that was not?

And why had he decided to come and do this poetry recital this time? He had just felt like it. And why had he felt like it? Because in a stroke of childishness he wanted to take some food from Luke.

The speaker had finished, and Samuel wondered why he had felt a need to irritate Luke. It was impulsive, and now he was here, doing something he had hoped he would never do.

Never again.

Samuel made his way up to the pulpit and looked at the audience. Seniors, professors, enthusiasts, everyone was ready to receive the sermon. Samuel was reluctant to give it. So much so that he contemplated walking out of the room and walking straight back to Murkvein. It would not be hard. It would take no convincing. Samuel did not care about any opinions. He only cared about his poetry. He began to gravitate away from the pulpit. But then something familiar caught his eyes.

Green eyes.

            Ambrosia Froid did not look at him. He felt her watching his poem floating in preparation in his mind. She waited because she knew she was the only person in the world entitled to hear this poem. And she was right. He knew she was right. She needed to hear this poem, if no one else. The poem needed to return to its nexus. That was God’s mandate. He would read this poem and decline the other two.

            Often Samuel closed his eyes when he recited his poetry, but instead he looked straight into hers.

            “Higher wisdom,” he began. His voice suggested no origin: perfect, standard English, no slang, a sociolinguist’s nightmare. Just words.

He looked at the opening lines in his mind. The word “fear” had never been used in his poetry before. He did fear her. He feared her because, unlike colons and nouns and orthography and any other part of human language, he could not control her.

            For the first time in his life, he hesitated.

            “In a split second I fear

            Blue, yes, like oceans…”

            A year ago he and Froid went to the beach to write poetry on the stagnant algae on the water. It was his idea, of course. All of them were. The sand was too coarse and cliché; the algae could make their poetry three-dimensional in the water, and they meandered through the lilies like quiet ducks, letting their fingers graze the flowers when it seemed right to do so. Froid had come across a dead painted turtle bobbing in the water like a hollow rock, its shell split with the precision of a stanza. She wrote a poem about it right away, holding it in her fingers and holding Samuel’s waist in her others. Samuel could not think of anything to say about a dead turtle floating among the weeds. He could only look at its glazed blue eyes like they knew who he was. He had told her that he did not feel like writing a poem then and there. He could write endless poetry about himself. But this was not himself. This was a dead turtle.

            “Fragrance the shore,

Break everything…”

Samuel closed his eyes and imagined Froid skipping through the water again, how the water fanned out behind her like she were a duck, the buoyancy in the lilies in her hand and how she weighed them, palms up, like an offering to him. He could smell the lilies and the dead turtle and the algae. None of them feared her. She saw the beauty in flowers, in death, in lowly vegetation.

“…I do not will you two,

Your cycle in repetition…”

Blue, yes, like oceans. They had found a dead frog on the path after leaving the water. Froid didn’t pick it up but instead stared at its flattened torso and commented on the “Tapestry… Soft gravel for a nest. Blue reflections, like water-death. The whole world is on this squished frog’s back!”

She turned back to Samuel expecting a scowl, a condescension that would force her to impress him further. His eyes were glossy in the sunlight.

Froid and her poetry. The two things that defied his predictions.

“At the edge of my shore,

A god like I.”

 Was she also God? In the context of exerting her world onto his, then yes. And to him, that was all that mattered.

            “Samuel,” she had asked a few minutes later, twirling her index fingers on his palm as they walked on a bike path, “Could you ever write a poem about me?”

            Samuel looked at her. She had not seen him on the verge of tears.

            “No,” he whispered.

            Froid looked him, denial furling her eyebrows. “Come on, you can write a poem about anything! I mean, ‘wet.rock’ was about that one time your brother caught you—”

            “Poetry is what I control. It is my world that I create.”

            “But, look at me! Clearly I am part of your world now, aren’t I? Don’t I deserve even the tiniest vignette?”
            Samuel couldn’t bear to look at her. Clearly. An adverb ending in –ly. Weak. Useless. He let go of her hand.

“Clearly. You know how much I love that word, Adverb? Do you know how much I wish to grammaticide all of those words from our language?”

Froid froze at the word “adverb.” Samuel had never used it with her.

“You’re beautiful, Ambrosia, but your beauty is redundant with my verse. I cannot make you beautiful. You just are. You are not my poetry.”

Any other person in the world would have seen that as a compliment. Froid knew better.

Samuel walked away from her, closing his eyes.

Samuel opened his eyes and he was in the Suzzallo Reading Room.

As soon as he finished the poem he sat back down. The speaker’s eyes were alight in terror, motioning that Samuel go right back up to the front and continue with the other two poems. Samuel shook his head. He wanted to see Froid.

            With the unplanned truncation of the program, there was extra time for the reception. Students threw themselves in Samuel’s path, hoping their martyrdom would enable them to ask some trite question about Samuel’s choice of orthography or why he always ended his poems with the letter “I,” but Samuel was in no mood for pilgrims. He wanted to see the one person he now could never convert.

            He wove around questions with as much precision as he could give himself. He made eye contact with every eye in the room but did not see the ones he was looking for.

            Green eyes. He felt them. He turned around and saw Froid facing him but walking out the door. He followed her outside. The two stood face to face at the entry.

            The color of Samuel’s eyes was shallow when he saw Froid’s. The lifelessness in her irises. The deep-set shadows. The gray lips from smoking. The pallid flaky skin. The nightmares, all of them, in her shaking hands, her stiff neck, her grinding teeth, her ripped fingernails, her ears numb from the times she heard herself screaming.

            She may not have been part of his world, but he was part of hers. And if he was in her world, was she also in his?

            Froid turned and started to run away. Samuel grabbed her wrist and turned her back to him. It was the reverse motion of the last time they had touched. Samuel could even smell algae nearby in a manmade pond.

            Froid’s eyes now were Samuel’s then, full of disgust and disappointment. Samuel could say nothing to her. He could only think.

            Higher Wisdom. The poem about you, Ambrosia. The poem I never wanted to create. The poem I could never create again.

            Samuel’s eyes moistened. For the first time in his life he held on to something that was not a poem. It was a human who was a poem.

            Samuel crumbled to the ground like a marble tower, kneeling at Froid’s feet. Samuel’s tears wetted the earth for the first time.

Chapter 3

            I drive frantically towards the University of Washington. Suzzallo Reading Room. It’s in the library somewhere. My driving halts when I arrive on campus and have to pause for students crossing the street in all the wrong places, the throngs of lectures releasing themselves outside in a heap of urgency. In exasperation I pull over on the side and park my car. I slam the door as I get out of my car and run towards the library.

            I stop and close my eyes, but I get nothing but silence from Froid’s mind. I sigh, not expecting anything different, and begin to run again.

            But then, I see her. Her eyes are angry, bright with rage, fighting the grasp of someone holding on to her. She’s holding on to me? No. I’m looking at her through the eyes of someone else.

            My vantage point falls to the ground in tears.

            Higher Wisdom. The poem about you, Ambrosia. The poem I never wanted to create. The poem I could never create again.

            This could be only one person.

            I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that Froid went to him. I can’t believe that I’m watching my brother cry for the first time in his life. But what I can’t believe the most is that I can get into Samuel’s mind at all. When he acts like a human being his mind is like everyone else’s.

            I turn my car around and go home. I can practice acting enraged for Froid. I’m not enraged right now at all. I’m euphoric almost.

            I enter my apartment and wait for Froid to return. I know she will come back.

            And sure enough, within the hour, she’s back. I don’t even need to force myself to act furious. Froid’s improved appearance has me gaunt with rage.

            “Was it fun? Was it fun going back to the likes of him? Do you like it? Do you like getting hurt?”

            Froid says nothing as she crosses the living room. Her calm makes me even angrier.

            “Oh, so now you’re just gonna be like him? You’re going to become like him because you can’t beat him? That’s a great strategy there, Froid. If you can’t beat the abuse, become it!”

            Froid opens the fridge, sees that I still haven’t bought guava juice, and closes it again.

            “You… ungrateful…”

            “How did you know where I was?” she asks me.

            “I assumed. I can’t trust you. After all I’ve done for you and I still can’t trust you. Why? Do you not trust me?” I grab her shoulders. She slips out of my grasp like she had anticipated it.

            “You don’t trust me?” she asks me.

            I stammer. I don’t know whether I mean it or not. I don’t know whether I said it just to scare her or if it’s actually true. I don’t know anything. When did this happen?

            She closes the door to my bedroom. I march up behind her and swing it back open. She tries closing it again. I wedge my foot in between and grab her wrist. I force her to look at me.

            But somehow, she doesn’t. “Let me go, Mr. Coldridge. I don’t feel comfortable staying here anymore.”

            I drop my hand in disgust.

            “Where are you going to go then? Where is safer than me? Where? Are you just going to go back to Samuel and sleep on that filthy mattress again?”

            Froid releases herself from my grasp. “I don’t need your help, Mr. Coldridge. I can get by on my own.” She kicks my foot out of the doorway and closes the door and locks it. I hear her packing her stuff. I see nothing of what she’s planning, where she’s going.

            Before I can wallow in my despair I get a notification that Callahan’s plane has landed in the airport. I text him a greeting as I head out the door. If I can’t get to Froid directly, maybe Callahan can.

            Callahan Grossherz has lost weight, somehow. I think he hasn’t been eating all that much out of stress and frustration. Maybe my jabs at his physique also did something. Callahan is as tall as Samuel, and taller than me, but literally twice Samuel’s weight, much of it on his face. He’s wearing jeans and the most interesting t-shirt he owns. It’s a screen print of some movers changing out the scenery in the background, paintbrushes dripping out of the pants and onto the ground. It’s an interesting shirt. I spill some coffee on it as he walks towards the exit, causing him to put a jacket on as he does a pain dance from the liquid scalding his skin.

            I honk as I pull over to the curb and Callahan peers into the car. I smile at him as friendly as I can, and I force him to smile back. Callahan doesn’t fight my command, and I don’t even have to force him to get into the car. As soon as he sits down I take off so quickly that the force pushes him back into his seat.

            “Callahan Grossherz. It’s so nice to meet you.”

            Callahan nodded as he looked at me. “Your name was….”

            “Luke. Luke Coldridge.”

            “And you’re related to…”

            “Samuel. I am Samuel’s older brother by twelve years.”

            Callahan hesitates. I lock the doors to the car to make sure he doesn’t make a run for it.

            “Don’t worry. I can’t stand my brother. I’m not working with him. However, I am concerned about a friend of yours.”

            “Ambrosia?”

            “Yes. She’s been catatonic ever since Samuel came to Seattle a couple days ago. It’s been very hard for me. I care so much about her, and we made so much progress. I was almost able to get her over Samuel, get her readjusted to her new life here in Seattle before the holidays. You wouldn’t believe it was her. She was so… happy.”

            Callahan looked at me incredulously. I wasn’t lying. Nothing that I had said was a lie, but my attempt to convey it appeared to have backfired.

            “Callahan, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. I’d never do anything to harm Ambrosia. I feel like I’m atoning for my brother’s sins against her, and taking the blame for all he’s done has been hard.”

            A few of those statements were lies, but they resonated more with Callahan. His suspicion dissipated as he nodded in concord.

            “I’m so glad you came out here to support her, Callahan. You’re such a good friend to her. Even if she doesn’t appreciate you as much as she should. Just know someday your loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

            Callahan smiles. I’ve said everything he’d ever want to hear in one concise utterance. We drive in silence for a while.

            “So, what do you do, Luke?”

            “Me? I’m a neurosurgeon at a hospital. My hours were crazy but they’ve winded down a bit before the holidays. No one wants to be recovering over Christmas. It’s nice. I’ve been able to spend a lot of time with Ambrosia. And you, Callahan? Are you studying creative writing as well? I’ve heard that that’s where you met Ambrosia and Samuel for the first time.”

            Callahan nods and tries to smile, even as I help him. But he can’t. He can only think about how he had met Froid and my brother. It isn’t a pleasant memory. He grips his fingers tightly he interlocks them. I slip his hands apart with sweat, but he puts them right back into position. We don’t talk for the rest of the drive.

            When we arrive at the apartment my bedroom door is closed.

            “Has Ambrosia been staying with you?” Callahan asks as he looks around.

            I nod. “It maximizes my time around her. It’s been nice to try to help her constantly. Give her some normalcy.”

            Callahan looks at my bedroom door in envy.

            I excuse myself to wash my face in my bathroom, but the door to the room is still locked. To my annoyance Callahan watches me as I try to break into my own room, and I have to play it off like it’s jammed.

            I unlock the door when he looks at the tile.            
            “Ah! There we go. The hinge must be a little dry.” I walk into my room.

            Froid is still there. She’s asleep on my bed as if our previous conversation never happened. Her things are still in closets and drawers. She isn’t dreaming because she’s not moving, and I can’t see anything.

            I try waking her up.

            Ambrosia, there’s someone here. Someone here to help you. Someone who cares very much about you. I’m not sure whom I’m referring to, but I definitely know whom I’m not referring to.

            Ambrosia doesn’t respond to my thought at all. It’s as if she hadn’t heard it. She lies there motionlessly, and I have to nudge her like a regular human. It bothers me.

            “Ambrosia, wake up! There’s someone here to see you.”

            Froid opens her eyes slowly, her irises slowly revealing themselves to me. I smile and put my hand on her cheek, but she doesn’t respond to my touch at all. It’s as if she hadn’t felt it.

            “Who’s here?” she asks with minimal effort. She doesn’t really care.

            But Callahan does.

            He bursts into my room with vigor and nearly throws himself onto Froid.

            “Ambrosia!” he exclaims, hugging her so hard I’m afraid she’ll crack. She doesn’t respond to his touch either, and that makes me feel a little better. At least she’s being consistent about it.

            “Hello, Callahan.”

            “How have you been? I haven’t seen you seen you since last May!”

            “I came to campus.”

            “Yeah, but that was for like a day, and we didn’t even get to spend that much time together, and you just left! I even went looking for you.”

            Froid doesn’t believe him. She looks at me and I nod as if to affirm what he’s said. It is true, though neither of them understand how exactly I know this.

            “Seriously! I went to your house even! Met your sister, your parents… We were all worried sick!” Literally, Callahan adds in his mind as he thinks of kelp and yeast and seaweed.

            Froid knows the last statement is not true.

            “My parents don’t care where I am, as long as I’m creating art.”

            Callahan’s enthusiasm dissipates. He should have known better.

            “I’ll make some tea,” I pipe up and leave them alone to talk.

            Callahan has some reservations of accepting food from strangers, but the very sight of Froid makes him happy enough to not mind. He and Froid walk out of the room after me and sit at the kitchen table. I make some rooibos. Callahan smells it and cringes. He is instantly transported back to the Froid house and dislikes the coincidence that both they and I would serve rooibos to him. I’m only doing it because they did. His newfound trauma from the Froid’s food choices was even funnier to witness firsthand.

            We all sit down at the table when I decide that I want to gain back Froid’s trust.  Neither of them are looking at me nor at each other but rather the wood grain on the table. I close my eyes. Dark.

            I open them. Still dark. The entire apartment is pitch black. I’ve turned off power in the entire building. Callahan is surprised but Froid doesn’t care, which doesn’t surprise him or me.

            “Ah, what a shame!” I exclaim from behind a few mugs. To make my shock more realistic I drop one of them on the ground.

            “Why don’t you two go out and catch up while I figure out what’s going on?” I encourage them. “There’s a Starbucks like a block away. It’ll be nice for you two to be out of the apartment and have each other’s company.”

            Now Froid is surprised. Callahan is as well but much more excited about it. Froid is even suspicious. I can feel her eyes in the darkness looking for my ulterior motive. She won’t find it. I know exactly what she’s doing.

            “That’s a great idea!” Callahan replies and stands up in the dark, nearly hitting his head on the overhead light. I swing it a little so that he actually does. He grunts as it smacks his forehead.

            Froid stands up as well, slowly because she’s still trying to figure out why I’m doing this.

            I draw the drapes and some feeble, cloud-diffused sunlight drips into the apartment. It’s not much, but it’s enough for them to find the door and enough for me to not have to procure a flashlight. I don’t have one. I don’t need one. If I don’t want to run into things I won’t. This is my story, after all.

            Froid walks out in front of Callahan. Callahan follows her until I stop him.

            “Look out for her, please. She’s angry at me at the moment, never mind why, but I’d really like it if you took my place in her life. Hang out with her, try to make her smile. Treat her like she’s the only good thing on earth.”

            Callahan beams at my request. He would have taken on this task even if I had not explicitly asked him, and not just because I willed it.

            Once the two are out of the building and out of sight of my window, I turn the power back on in the apartment. I grin as I picture Callahan’s face. Thank you, Callahan. Thank you for being everything that I could ever want for Froid.