Infinity + One
Page 35
Then he swore, loud and foul, pulled at his hair, and lay back down. It wasn’t his job to save her! He couldn’t save her! Hadn’t he told her, just today, not to try and save him? It was all bullshit. And it was her fault they were here in the first place! He pulled the pillow over his head so he couldn’t hear her. There. That was better. God’s voice didn’t sound like rushing water, it sounded like silence.
Finn commanded himself to sleep, keeping the pillow smashed into his face. But the light curled around the edges of the pillow when Bonnie left the bathroom, and the hallway went black when she flipped it off. He moved the pillow off his face and bunched it under his head, telling himself he still wasn’t listening. And he wasn’t listening, he was straining. With every muscle, he was straining to hear.
“Finn? Are you awake?” He could hear her feeling along the walls, trying to make her way to the bed where he lay. When she reached it, she sat gingerly on the end.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. She sat for a minute, not saying anything, and he didn’t demand a reason for her presence.
“Do you still miss Fisher?” she finally whispered.
He could say no. Maybe she needed to be reassured that the pain would go away eventually.
“Yeah,” he said. So much for reassurance. “I still talk to him sometimes. Fish and I were identical too. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I imagine it’s him. I talk to my reflection. Stupid. But yeah.”
“I can’t stand looking at myself for that reason. All I see is her.”
“You should look. Let yourself look. If it makes you feel better, let yourself pretend.”
He heard her sniffle in the dark.
“It’s better than seeing Hank. Right?” he was trying to make her laugh, but he didn’t know if it worked. It was too dark and she was too still.
“Do you ever feel like you’ve forgotten something, only to realize it’s not something, it’s someone . . . it’s Fisher? I feel like that all the time. Like I’ve overlooked something important—and I’ll check to make sure I haven’t left my phone, or my keys, or my purse. Then I realize it’s Minnie. I’ve lost Minnie.”
“My mom used to say Fish and I were two sides of the same coin. Fish said he was heads, and I was the ass. Not tails, the ass. But if that’s true, I guess he won’t ever be lost—as long as I exist, so does he. You can’t lose the other side of a coin, right?”
“Were you alike?”
“We looked alike, but that was all. He was right handed, I’m left. He was random, I’m sequential. He was loud, I’ve always been a little shy.”
“Sounds like me and Minnie,” Bonnie said. “Only I’m like Fisher and she was more like you.” Finn smirked in the dark. Yeah. He’d figured that one out all by himself.
“Finn? I’m a twin. You’re a twin. But our twins are gone. So what does that make us? Are we halves?”
Finn waited, not sure how to respond. Bonnie sighed when he didn’t speak. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he stared at her shadowy form, perched beside his feet on the little bed. Then she curled up like a kitten, laying her head on his legs like she had no intention of leaving.
“When Fish was alive, I tried to keep the numbers in my head from spilling out into everything we did together. Sometimes he would get jealous. It made him feel left out that Dad and I loved mathematics, and he was clueless. He was very, very competitive. And I’m not.” Finn shrugged in the darkness, trying to shrug off the weight of the memories.
“I just wanted him to be happy. I wanted my family to stay together. And from the time I was just a little kid, there was the Finn who loved numbers, the Finn who happily read about Euclid and Cantor and Kant. And then there was the Finn who everybody called Clyde, the Finn who played ball and hung out with Fish and a bunch guys from the neighborhood. Guys who were always up to no good, smoking pot, drinking too much, and chasing girls that I didn’t particularly want to catch. I did it for Fish. Always for Fish. I never told him no. In that way, I’ve always been split in two.”
“I never felt that way. Minnie never acted like she minded the attention I got. I hope she didn’t. I hope she wasn’t just good at hiding it. It’s possible. She hid other things from me.” Bonnie sounded sad and bitter, and Finn guessed there was a part of her that was angry with Minnie, the way he’d been angry with Fish for a long time. Maybe it was sick and wrong to be pissed off, but the heart doesn’t understand logic. Never had. Never would. Evidence of that truth was curled around his feet at the end of the bed.
“She didn’t tell me how bad off she was, how sick she was,” Bonnie continued. “Every time we talked she would tell me she was feeling better. She didn’t warn me. She knew I would have come home right away. I never told Minnie no either. I would have done anything for her.”
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t call you, Bonnie.”
He felt her shaking her head against his legs, rejecting his suggestion. “But she left me without a word, Finn!”
“Fish left without a word, too. Bonnie. One minute he was looking up at me as I tried to stop the blood pumping out of his gut. And the next minute, he was gone. Without a word.”
“What word would you have wanted, Finn?” Bonnie asked, and he could tell she was trying not to cry. “If you got one word, what would you have wanted him to say?”
Finn commanded himself to sleep, keeping the pillow smashed into his face. But the light curled around the edges of the pillow when Bonnie left the bathroom, and the hallway went black when she flipped it off. He moved the pillow off his face and bunched it under his head, telling himself he still wasn’t listening. And he wasn’t listening, he was straining. With every muscle, he was straining to hear.
“Finn? Are you awake?” He could hear her feeling along the walls, trying to make her way to the bed where he lay. When she reached it, she sat gingerly on the end.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. She sat for a minute, not saying anything, and he didn’t demand a reason for her presence.
“Do you still miss Fisher?” she finally whispered.
He could say no. Maybe she needed to be reassured that the pain would go away eventually.
“Yeah,” he said. So much for reassurance. “I still talk to him sometimes. Fish and I were identical too. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I imagine it’s him. I talk to my reflection. Stupid. But yeah.”
“I can’t stand looking at myself for that reason. All I see is her.”
“You should look. Let yourself look. If it makes you feel better, let yourself pretend.”
He heard her sniffle in the dark.
“It’s better than seeing Hank. Right?” he was trying to make her laugh, but he didn’t know if it worked. It was too dark and she was too still.
“Do you ever feel like you’ve forgotten something, only to realize it’s not something, it’s someone . . . it’s Fisher? I feel like that all the time. Like I’ve overlooked something important—and I’ll check to make sure I haven’t left my phone, or my keys, or my purse. Then I realize it’s Minnie. I’ve lost Minnie.”
“My mom used to say Fish and I were two sides of the same coin. Fish said he was heads, and I was the ass. Not tails, the ass. But if that’s true, I guess he won’t ever be lost—as long as I exist, so does he. You can’t lose the other side of a coin, right?”
“Were you alike?”
“We looked alike, but that was all. He was right handed, I’m left. He was random, I’m sequential. He was loud, I’ve always been a little shy.”
“Sounds like me and Minnie,” Bonnie said. “Only I’m like Fisher and she was more like you.” Finn smirked in the dark. Yeah. He’d figured that one out all by himself.
“Finn? I’m a twin. You’re a twin. But our twins are gone. So what does that make us? Are we halves?”
Finn waited, not sure how to respond. Bonnie sighed when he didn’t speak. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he stared at her shadowy form, perched beside his feet on the little bed. Then she curled up like a kitten, laying her head on his legs like she had no intention of leaving.
“When Fish was alive, I tried to keep the numbers in my head from spilling out into everything we did together. Sometimes he would get jealous. It made him feel left out that Dad and I loved mathematics, and he was clueless. He was very, very competitive. And I’m not.” Finn shrugged in the darkness, trying to shrug off the weight of the memories.
“I just wanted him to be happy. I wanted my family to stay together. And from the time I was just a little kid, there was the Finn who loved numbers, the Finn who happily read about Euclid and Cantor and Kant. And then there was the Finn who everybody called Clyde, the Finn who played ball and hung out with Fish and a bunch guys from the neighborhood. Guys who were always up to no good, smoking pot, drinking too much, and chasing girls that I didn’t particularly want to catch. I did it for Fish. Always for Fish. I never told him no. In that way, I’ve always been split in two.”
“I never felt that way. Minnie never acted like she minded the attention I got. I hope she didn’t. I hope she wasn’t just good at hiding it. It’s possible. She hid other things from me.” Bonnie sounded sad and bitter, and Finn guessed there was a part of her that was angry with Minnie, the way he’d been angry with Fish for a long time. Maybe it was sick and wrong to be pissed off, but the heart doesn’t understand logic. Never had. Never would. Evidence of that truth was curled around his feet at the end of the bed.
“She didn’t tell me how bad off she was, how sick she was,” Bonnie continued. “Every time we talked she would tell me she was feeling better. She didn’t warn me. She knew I would have come home right away. I never told Minnie no either. I would have done anything for her.”
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t call you, Bonnie.”
He felt her shaking her head against his legs, rejecting his suggestion. “But she left me without a word, Finn!”
“Fish left without a word, too. Bonnie. One minute he was looking up at me as I tried to stop the blood pumping out of his gut. And the next minute, he was gone. Without a word.”
“What word would you have wanted, Finn?” Bonnie asked, and he could tell she was trying not to cry. “If you got one word, what would you have wanted him to say?”
