‘Help,’ Miriam ordered as she prodded Barbra’s waist. ‘Help me.’
I was confused for a second. Miriam had started wedging one hand under Barbra’s waist and one under her left shoulder to try to roll her over. Miriam needed me to do the vomit-caked side. I stepped in her puddle. We tried to coordinate the flip.
‘You don’t be stupid no more,’ Miriam said. ‘From him, I expect.’
With my back propped up by the wall and my hand under Barbra’s right shoulder, the two of us got Barbra on to her back. I would not be stupid. Her lips looked like seaweed. Miriam pulled a bunch of pillows from the couch and propped Barbra up diagonally.
‘Go get a hot towel, man. Clean this smear face.’
Miriam cradled Barbra while she drilled an elbow into her stomach. I heard something gurgle, then rip.
‘Go!’ Miriam yelled at me.
She knew I was watching. I promised not to be stupid. Thank God, Barbra started coughing, then crying. She rubbed her mouth back and forth with her fist. I saw Barbra try to settle into Miriam’s flowered armpit. Thank God, I prayed.
Buruk New, Ameyn.
§
‘Why’d you come back here?’ I asked her.
‘I wanted to say sorry.’
I shook my head. My neck felt like a crooked stack of books.
‘Bruh, why don’t you believe me? I’m back to make amends.’
I’d joined her in the L-joint of the couch. I’d slithered over to her slowly. I knew she was impressed by my curated piles of books. I knew that she was looking for her book in there. Jim’s store had closed years ago but I’d gone back one more time. I evacuated his Jewish Studies stock. He wouldn’t even look at me. I wouldn’t look at him either. Ariane and Barbra had somehow finished kissing. Stacks of books and piles of books. The shyster had pumped them full of his drugs. Ariane was now sleeping, her head near the shyster. I did not want to hurt her. I thought I had already betrayed her. Without my consent, this was happening again.
‘Look, I’m telling you,’ Barbra whispered. ‘And I needed to do it in person. I am sorry for what I did.’
Seven years sloughed off from a part of my brain.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, just scare you,’ Barbra explained.
I felt myself growing into some kind of fungus beside her. She was the main tree; I was mushrooming.
‘If you forgive me,’ Barbra whispered, ‘we’ll start up again.’
Seven years ago, I had to remove that book from my room as if it were a tumour from her body in my mind.
‘Come on,’ Barbra said. ‘I’m not the same person.’
I’d climbed over the gate of the concrete lot of the building for victims of domestic abuse. The place had been slated for demolition.
I burned her sacred, stupid book with a whole pack of matches.
‘It means something, bruh, if you say that you forgive me.’
I thought about my future. I thought about my mother. I thought about my hours of therapy undone.
My neck pulsed just like I always remembered it pulsing.
‘Tell me your real name.’
Barbra leaned toward me, lips parted. She whispered a twisting, red invocation.
Then the ceiling cracked open.