Chapter 3
574 Words
Samir had his jeans on already and an oversize nightshirt. He hobbled to the john. First thing I woulda done had I been his mom, was to get that boy some physiotherapy after the soldiers broke his legs. Or at least seen a doctor. Guess doctors and physios were scarce back there in the Sudan. Still—I woulda tried.
Now he was twenty-one and they"d have to break his bones again to splint them proper, some bone doctor in Campbell River or maybe off in Vancouver at some fancy clinic.
Samir grunted something in return. I didn"t hear what. A blue butterfly, five feet long, hovered over the bathroom door. It was beautiful. Thank you, visions, and then Mrs. Powolski called again.
The toilet flushed. I could hear African curses from the next room. The cursing grew louder and my voices jittered in reply. I started to count the spots on the wall.
“I tripped on dem damn jeans.”
“Watch where you pull them down then, angel pie.”
“Legs are no freckin" good. I should just kill myself. Good morning.” I could hear the shower start up.
I let the flag curtain drop. “Okay,” I said when he was out of the shower. “So how are you going to kill yourself this time?”
Samir"s smile flashed white-silver quick in his dark face. “Don"t know. I"ll think of something, Annie.”
“Why"d you take a shower this time of the morning? Mostly you wait till after brekky.”
“None of your business, angel pie.” He hugged me.
“You smell so good. You sure you"re all right? You slept like a stone all night.”
I thought I should take my meds then, half of them at least, time to tippy-toe down to the kitchen and quiet the murmur of my voices for a couple of hours.
Samir pulled a shirt over his tall, lean frame. “How do you think I should do it?”
I didn"t answer.
He stooped to tie his muddy Nikes. He looked real good.
“Coming?” I brushed a big piece of lint off my flannel shirt.
“Sure.” He grabbed his cane. “Ready when you are, Tin Pan Annie.” I was afraid he would kill himself some day and I couldn"t stop him. My voices got real quiet. I was thinking they were happy.
If only those darn voices would disappear. My doctor says I"m OCD, too, that"s Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder for those of you not educated in psych talk. It means I ruminate a lot and I count. I count just about everything, on my fingers, under the table if I can.
“Time to go downstairs for breakfast,” I said to Samir, who hobbled after me down the carpeted steps. “Time to meet the day.”
“Oh, s**t,” he mumbled and thumped his cane. “Time to greet the Powolskis and watch them feed their goddarn animals before our muzzles are in the trough.”
“Mrs. Powolski is a good cook.”
“I want to kill myself.”
“This can be arranged.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny, Annie. I mean it this time.”
“You"ve got a hangover, Samir. You"ll get over it.” I started whistling as we went downstairs. He groaned as we reached the bottom step.
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