“I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“Why?”
“People get more depressed at night. Almost all my suicide calls are at night. We just want . . . we want you to be okay, Zara.”
I turn the heat off high so the water doesn’t boil out of the pot, down to medium. “Is that why Mom sent me here? Because she thought I was going to kill myself some night?”
Betty’s eyelid twitches. “She was worried about you.”
“I’m a big girl,” I mock. “I’m fine.”
“You miss your dad.”
“Of course I miss my dad!” I point the pasta spoon at her, which feels way too melodramatic. I put it on the counter by the coffee maker. “That doesn’t make me suicidal. That doesn’t mean I have to have some freaking EMT babysitter standing over me all the time.”
Betty’s face crashes down but her thin, wiry body hardens up like she’s made of steel. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No. I’m sorry. That was mean.” I swallow hard, look away from her hurt face, and turn back to the stove. I grab the stupid pasta spoon again and swirl it around in the water, pretending like it’s really important that none of the spaghetti noodles stick together. “I could come with you if you have a call.”
She sighs. “That would work, maybe. But not if it’s something complicated. You couldn’t come into the building. You’d be sitting outside in the ambulance all by yourself. Plus, it’s illegal.”
“Illegal?”
“To have civilians in the ambulance.”
I turn up the heat a little more and face her.
She smiles. “I could call that Nick boy and have him come over.”
“No!”
“What? You don’t like him? I’ve heard tell you and him and Devyn and Issie are running around all over town together. You went to the library today, right?”
“You’re spying on me?”
“No. It’s a small to wn. People talk.”
I shake my head, grab some glasses, and open the fridge. “You are not going to phone Nick.”
She takes some paper napkins from under the sink and flops them on the table. “There probably won’t even be a call.”
Halfway through dinner Betty’s beeper goes off.
“Crap!”
We listen to the scanner. There’s a possible cardiac arrest at the Y.
“Sorry,” she says. “You stay put till I get back. Okay? I’m calling Nick on my way in.”
“No, you aren’t!”
“Yes, I am. And don’t let anyone else in. I’m serious, Zara. Crap.” She kisses me on the top of the head and pushes a bracelet on my wrist, all hectic. “Your mom’s thinking about coming up for a visit.”
I lift up my arm. An iron bracelet dangles there. “What’s this?”
“A little gift.”
She hauls on her jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry about cleaning up.”
“Do not call Nick!” I touch the cold metal of the bracelet.
She ignores me. “Lock the door!”
. . .
I could do the Urgent Action appeals for Amnesty. But I don’t.
I could call Nick and tell him not to come. I don’t do that either.
“This is One. I’m 10-23 at the Y,” Betty’s voice sounds from the radio she has on the counter.
The dispatcher, Josie, comes on. “10-4, Unit One. 10-23 at the Y, 1845 hours.”
In ambulancespeak 10-23 means “on location.” Anyone else would just say they were there. Unit One is Betty; 1845 hours is the time, military-style. It’s all kind of corny.
So Betty is at the Y. It is 6:45 p.m., also known as 1845 hours. How can I know this stuff? There’s a list of ten codes Betty posted on the fridge. I swear I’ve memorized half already. Maine is turning me into such a geek.
I push away from the table, dump our dinner plates into the sink, and start scraping off the spaghetti. Betty hasn’t finished hers because she dashed out, so I change my mind and wrap it up, storing it away in the fridge. She might be hungry later. I keep scraping mine away. It is no fun eating alone.
I stare out the window above the sink at the dark woods. The moon is full and it makes everything glow and look almost pretty. Even the snow looks nice, not so cold. I bet the guy is out there, the pixie guy. And I bet if I go out there he’ll find me, and then maybe I’ll get some answers. And I’m not a boy, so I don’t think I’m in any real danger.
Betty’s voice is back on the radio, “I’ll be 10-6, taking one forty-five-year-old male to Bangor. He’s CH3. 10-4?”
Cardiac issues. Chest pain. Just like my dad.
“10-4,” says Josie at dispatch.
“10-4,” I say to the radio, as if they can hear me. “I’ll be 10-6, going running, looking for a pixie guy. 10-3?”
I rush up the stairs into my room and start pulling out running clothes. I have tights for the cold weather and a layer of Under Armour to wick the sweat away from my skin. It’s the sweat that makes you feel cold. I find a wool hat in Betty’s closet and put it over my hair, which is the worst look imaginable when you have lots of fine hair like I do, but it isn’t like I’m going to a beauty pageant, trying to be Miss Maine or something. I’m going running in the dark, nobody will see me. Until Nick gets here.
That’s right.
I am going running and maybe I’ll find that boy-stealing pixie guy. I pull the hat on and pause for a second without really thinking about it, and look in the mirror at the paler, thinner version of me that I’ve become. Even my eyes are dull. Blue, but not as blue as they used to be. If my dad were here he’d be taking my temperature and trying to feed me French onion soup. But it isn’t my body that’s sick. It’s my insides. My insides are hollow. My insides are hollow because I’ve been too scared of living and going on, which is totally self-indulgent and awful, because think of all those people in prisons for nothing—for blogging, for speaking, for thinking differently. They’d probably give anything to move forward, to go on.
Is there a name for this fear? I’m not sure; I should look it up. There’s tachophobia, which is a fear of speed, of moving too fast.
I shake myself out of my haze and lace up my sneakers. This is the first step in moving forward, the first step in pixie hunting, the first step in taking control of my life, because I can.