Monster in His Eyes(32)

It's a peculiar sight, one that makes me pause to appreciate.

His jacket lies on the counter behind him, his sleeves rolled up to the  elbows, his hands submerged in the hot, soapy suds. He scrubs a glass  with an intensity that is almost unparalleled, like someone ridding a  brick wall of graffiti.

I'm surprised it doesn't shatter in his hands.

The smell of chemicals clings to the kitchen, a strange mixture of  bleach and noxious lemon. The floor glistens, everything within eyesight  scoured.

I haven't ventured any further in the house, but something tells me the other rooms are just as spotless.

Seeing how Naz doesn't do much cooking, he doesn't have many dishes to  wash. He finishes up the glasses before moving on to a knife, washing it  so hard with a rag I worry he's going to cut himself. He tosses them  all into a dishwasher when he finishes, turning it on to wash them yet  again, before turning to me. "Good afternoon."

My expression falls. "Afternoon?"

"Yes," he says, glancing on the counter beside him at where his watch lay. "It's a quarter after twelve."

My eyes widen. "I need to hurry or I'm going to miss my bus!"

"Your bus?"

"My bus home! You know, for Easter? I told you I was going home for the weekend. I'm supposed to catch the bus at 1:30."

He pulls the plug on the water in the sink as he turns to me. "I forgot or I would've woken you."

"I should've reminded you," I say, frowning. It slipped my mind last night to ask him to make sure I was awake.

"I can just drive you," he says as he grabs a towel to dry his hands. "No need to worry about any bus."

"That's crazy," I say, shaking my head. "It would take you all day to get there and back."

"It's only four hours to Syracuse."

"We don't live in Syracuse," I say. "We live about an hour outside of it."

"Not a problem," he says.

"But I just …  I can't ask you to do that," I say. "And my mother, she  wouldn't like it. She doesn't really like being around people, and I  haven't exactly told her …  I mean, she doesn't know … "

"She doesn't know you're seeing someone," he guesses, fixing his sleeves.

"Yes," I say. "I'm going to tell her, I am. It's just that … "

"She won't understand," he guesses again.

"Yes," I say. "I appreciate the offer, though. Really. And I'll tell  her, but just not right now. If I get back to the city soon, I can make  it to the bus."

He grabs his coat and slips it on, fixing the collar. "Get dressed, then, and I'll get you there."

Just as he says, he gets me back to Manhattan on time, even having a  spare minute to grab a coffee on the way through. I kiss him, offering a  timid smile before kissing him again.

And again.

And again.

"I'll miss you this weekend," I admit, whispering the words against his lips.

"I'll be here when you get back," he says. "Go, before you miss your chance."

I kiss him once more before begrudgingly climbing out of the car,  watching as he drives away, heaviness in my chest that I can't explain.

He's my breath of fresh air, and I feel like I can't breathe anymore when he's not around.





My mother is a crazy cat lady, just without all of the cats.

She has a dog instead.

Killer is small mutt she picked up from the side of the road when I was  sixteen, the day we moved to Watertown. I don't know what he's mixed  with, his fur a tangled mix of gold and dingy white, his ears floppy and  eyes unnaturally big. He's as passive as a dog gets-slobbery and  loving, downright lazy when it comes down to it. His name is ironic,  considering he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Literally. Won't even hurt flies.

Despite the lack of cats, my mother shows all the classic symptoms of a  slightly neurotic woman, lacking friends and drowning in paranoia, a  quirky hermit pulled right off the pages of something Tim Burton dreamed  up. Her hair is a tangled, untamed wave that she lets hang loose, her  brown eyes shielded by a pair of glasses with thick black frames.                       
       
           



       

Her flower shop is not far from the bus station in Watertown, about a  mile trek near sundown. I drag my bag behind me as I walk, wanting to  surprise her. The shop is a little white barn shaped building with a  hand painted sign above it simply reading 'flowers'.

She never even gave the place a name.

I don't know how she gets any business. It astounds me that she makes enough money to pay the bills.

A bell above the door chimes when I step inside, everything brightly lit  and sweet smelling. Arrangements of flowers are set up all around, the  old cash register on the counter right in front of me with nobody  manning it. Killer is curled up on the floor with a chewed up tennis  ball. He lifts his head the same time a pair of eyes peeks out from the  back room.

"Kissimmee!" My mother bounds out, sprinting right for me, and damn near  trips over the dog. She wraps her arms around me as Killer jumps up and  down around us, barking excitedly.

"Hey, Mom," I say, hugging her back, before leaning down and rubbing Killer's head. "Hey, buddy."

Killer licks my hand in greeting.

"Did you walk here?" Mom asks, prying my bag from my hand and setting it  aside as she assesses me, smoothing my hair and fixing my clothes and  downright fussing over me until I push her hands away. "You should've  told me. I would've picked you up!"

"It's fine," I say. "It's not that far."

"Still, honey, it's getting late, so you shouldn't be walking alone. You never know what-"

"Mom," I say pointedly, cutting her off before she can launch into her  usual lecture on safety. "I'm fine. Really. I've still got all my  fingers and toes, my head's still on my shoulders, and I've got no  broken bones. No harm done."

She gazes at me skeptically, her expression softening as she smiles. She  pulls me back into a hug. "I've missed you. How long are you here for?"

"Just the weekend," I say. "I have to be back for class on Tuesday, but I'm all yours until then."

"Great, great." She pulls away and starts flitting around the shop,  putting things away. "As soon as I clean up, we'll get out of here."

Killer runs over and grabs his ball, bringing it to me. He nudges my  hand, staring up at me. I yank the ball from his mouth as I back up to  the door. "We'll wait outside."

She starts to object but I ignore her, opening the door for the dog to  run outside. Patches of grass surround the shop, so I lead Killer around  the side of the building, tossing the ball toward the back of the lot  for him to retrieve. He barks enthusiastically, bringing it back to me  over and over again.

It only takes my mother a few minutes to step out, locking the door as she lugs my bag with her. "Come on, guys!"

She drives a beat up Jeep Grand Wagoneer, the only car I've ever known  her to own. It's older than me, large and rumbly, a beast of a vehicle  filled to the brim with memories. My things have been boxed up and  crammed into the back at least a dozen times, routinely taking me to a  new life, a fresh start, in another city, so much I'm surprised I even  know who I am.

Mom tosses my bag in the backseat, and Killer jumps in with it, as we  climb up front. She lives ten minutes from Watertown, outside the city  limits, in a small place called Dexter. The house is tucked in among  some trees in the middle of nowhere, along a river, the land overrun  with flowers and plants.

I was just here a few months ago for Christmas, but it feels different  now-smaller, more secluded, not as cheerful as I remember it being. The  paint is chipping, white flakes coating the front porch.

She has more locks on the front door now, so many it takes her a good  minute of fumbling to get it unlocked. Concern stirs up inside of me as I  wait for her to open the door, but I don't say anything.

I think it, though. She's getting bad again. The signs are there, signs I  remember from when I was younger. Heavily locked doors and barred  windows, nights with no sleep as she paces around, listening to the howl  of the wind and thinking it's out to get her. She'd be fine for weeks  or months, sometimes even a year, before she started acting like the  walls were closing in on her, the world pressing upon her.

I hoped she finally found a place where she felt at peace, where she  felt at home, but all of those locks make me uneasy. Locks are supposed  to keep you safe. Locks, with her, are a sign of vulnerability.

My old room is just how I left it, smaller than even the dorm. It's  suffocating. I drop my bag right inside the room before venturing into  the kitchen as my mother starts making dinner. I pause by the window and  gaze out into the vast overgrown backyard, watching as Killer runs  through the trees in the distance.

He won't go far. He never does. I think that's why my mother treasures  him so much. He never leaves her, never wanders from her side for too  long.