Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“You distance yourself, asshole, those were goddamn fingers.”
He puts a hand on my knee, staring into my eyes. “Renata, you’re panicking.”
“No shit I’m panicking. This is the first reasonable reaction I’ve had to all this insanity so far.” I jump to my feet, pacing again. I feel cooped up, trapped by these walls. “We delivered a box of human fingers to a man’s house. We watched him open it, watched him drop them on the ground. They scattered around on his stoop like freaking carrots. How are you not losing it?”
“I’ve been on both ends of this transaction before,” he says with absurd calm.
I stop and stare. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He waves me away. I try not to think about him chopping off fingers—or worse, receiving some in the mail. “You can’t think straight if you’re panicking. The worst thing you can do in a situation like this is lose your mind. Come sit back down.” He walks to me, but I back away.
“I’m starting to rethink this whole situation,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”
“What is it about the fingers, in particular, that has you losing it?”
I open my mouth to answer, to tell him that panic is a perfectly normal reaction to seeing a man dump severed fingers on the ground, but something sticks with what Lanzo said.
What is it about the fingers, in particular?
I’m shaking when he leads me to the couch, lowers me down, and sits with my feet in his lap.
There’s a memory nagging at my brain. An old memory, one of my oldest. It’s a pair of hands tickling me. Long, white fingers. I’m laughing, laughing, laughing. I’m lying in bed and I feel so safe with the hands. I feel so happy, like there’s nothing that could go wrong in the world, so long as I’m near those hands.
Then the hands are gone. The fingers are gone. I’m looking for them, crying. They don’t come back.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, tone gentle now. He’s rubbing my feet, kneading the heel. It feels shockingly good. I concentrate on that for a few minutes.
I jam a finger into bridge of my nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Are you a therapist now or something?” I ask, my tone softening.
“In my line of work, you have to pick up a lot of skills. You’re not the first person I’ve walked back from the ledge. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not suicidal,” I say through my teeth. “Just having a tough time.”
“I know that. Maybe walk back from the ledge was a poor choice of words.” He pauses rubbing. I wish he’d keep going. “You probably don’t think so but saying it out loud will help. I promise.”
I take a deep breath then slowly release it. “It’s a memory. I’m pretty sure it’s my mother tickling me while I’m lying in bed. I think it’s the last time I ever saw her. I just remember her hands, her fingers. I don’t remember her face or anything else about her. I guess hands and fingers have this outsized importance to me because of that memory, and when I saw those fingers fall out of that box—” I have to stop. The panic’s pressing against me again and it takes all my strength to hold it at bay.
He starts rubbing again. Good man. “I can see why that might be hard.”
I open my eyes, narrowing them. “You know what’s messed up? I miss my mom, even though she abandoned me. When I was younger, I used to ask about her, and it would break Grandpop’s heart every time. I used to ask him to let me visit her for my birthday every year until I was ten. Eventually, I figured out how much it upset him, and I stopped. Sometimes I hate myself for it.”
“You don’t have to feel that way.” He rubs slower, kneading. “All this stress you’re carrying? All this tension. This self-blame. You can let it go.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me or something?”
“We can try hypnosis if you think that would help.”
“I’m afraid you’d turn me into your obedient sex slave or something.”
He smiles. “I don’t need hypnosis for that.”
I kick his hand away. “I know it isn’t rational, okay? Feelings aren’t always rational. Memories don’t always make sense. But I’m holding on to this one for some reason.”
“You’re right, they aren’t, but we don’t have to let them control us.”
“Now you’re talking like a Buddhist priest or something. Should I try meditation?”
“Can’t hurt.” He grabs my foot again. This time, he works on the sole. “I do sometimes.”
“Really?”
“Believe it or not, I can sit still for a half hour with nothing but the screaming voices in my brain to keep me company.”
My mouth opens. Screaming in his brain? I knew he was a little crazy, but suddenly I’m wondering if he’s dangerous too.