Tears (18 page)

And happy and safe at last, Gaia would be ready for the next step. Ready to be shaped for her destiny.

Beloved Gaia.
Loki toasted her silently, raising his glass in the darkness.
I have big plans for you.

It's
amazing how stupid you can be when you want something bad enough. Take me, thinking I could have happiness for longer than a minute. Who was I kidding?

Myself. I was kidding myself. Because when all of this happiness stuff began, I truly believed I could hold on to it. Long term. But anything long term is just not built into my life plan.


After all that's happened, a couple of truths have become abundantly clear: Trusting in love is a liability I can no longer afford. Not now, not ever. Trust, period, is becoming a liability. The only people who never let me down—my mother and Mary—are both dead. Maybe that's
why
they never let me down. Maybe they just didn't have the chance.


Morbid thought, but hey, might as well be honest.


Camus said it, and I'm inclined to agree. Life really is a solitary mission—an absurd,
random search without meaning—one that each person ultimately undertakes alone. Looking at it any other way is just buying into an illusion meant to make you feel safe when you're not. Like religion. Or love.


So I'm changing my goals and philosophies to reflect my actual life, not my fantasy life. I won't have to be careful what I wish for anymore. Because the time for wishing is over.


I
remember the day Gaia first learned to walk. When her little legs took their first wobbly steps, Katia and I were thrilled, like any parents would be. But we were also concerned. Gaia was only seven months old
.

That was only the beginning, of course. The first clue.


As Gaia's mental and physical abilities grew in leaps and bounds, I became conflicted. Though I encouraged my daughter, I was also afraid for her because she was clearly exceptional. And exceptional people court danger. They cannot live a truly free life. I know this firsthand. Exceptional people can use their powers to help others. Or else they are themselves a danger to others, like Loki.


Loki.


I was right not to underestimate him. Even when George tried to placate me, I knew the story wasn't over. I knew that Oliver was far from safely incarcerated.
And now my brother and I are headed for a battle of wills that has barely even begun. Worst of all, far worse than any fear or pain is that I know Gaia must hate me right now.


How could she not? She has her emotions to contend with, memories of my abandonment of her. And she also doesn't understand the challenges that lie ahead for me, challenges I cannot avoid because of who I am. If she knew the facts, perhaps she would hate me less. I like to think so. But she cannot know.


All I can do is send her silent messages, willing her to think the best of me because I love her. That love is the force that guides me always, for better or for worse. Sitting on this plane, I keep scrolling through all the choices I've made in my life—every one of them leading me to this moment. I wonder if I could have made any of them differently in order to be the sort
of father my daughter craves.


But in my heart of hearts I know I am powerless to change what was already written into the story long before my daughter was even born.


Gaia, I know you just wanted a normal life, as did I, but we are not normal people, and apparently it was not to be. And I beg of you, whatever you think, please find a way to believe in me. I'm going to need your faith for the road ahead. Because if I've learned anything in my life, it's that the best man doesn't always win; good doesn't always triumph over evil. Life isn't fair.


A
funny thing happened to me the other day. (Was it yesterday?) I woke up, showered, scarfed down two bowls of Froot Loops, and went to school. For some reason, though, the doors were locked and the building was empty
.

And then I remembered. It was Saturday.


Ha ha ha. Hysterical, right?


Guess you had to be there.


I can't seem to keep track of time anymore. For example, I know my father left a few days ago. I'm just not sure how many days it was. Four? Five? Six? Not that it matters. He'll probably be gone for another five years, or ten, or forever. And I suspect that if I had some adult supervision—if I weren't just living in solitude in a big, two-bedroom sublet on Mercer Street—I probably would have a better idea of where I should be, or where I'd been, and when.


But I don't. Have any adult supervision, that is.


Yes, that's right. For the first time in my life, I am completely responsible for myself. What freedom. I am free to stuff my face full of doughnuts at any time. I am free to watch mindless TV for hours on end. I am free to cry whenever I want. In fact, crying is the activity that seems to take up most of my time. Unfortunately, it also makes me feel like a loser: pathetic, lame, and weak. And ironically, when I experience these emotions, I just want to cry some more.


So that's precisely what I do. No wonder I've always fanta-sized about living on my own. It's nonstop fun!


George Niven wants me to move back in with him, back into the brownstone on Perry Street. He checks up on me every single night. Of course, I'd rather spend an eternity in hell than move back into that house, but I keep that to myself. I just make up excuses about how I'm too busy to pack,
et-cetera. (That's another disturbing trend I've noticed: I've started to tell little lies all the time.) I feel too sorry for him to tell him the truth. I empathize with him. I know what he's going through. He's all alone. In fact, just thinking about him makes me want to cry again.


It's all very humorous on some level. I mean, I can be calm in a hostage situation. Put me up against some knife-wielding skin-heads, and I'll be cool as a proverbial cucumber. But day to day. . . trying to fall asleep in this apartment, trying to walk to Gray's Papaya, trying to make it through a single class at school. . . I never know what I'm going to get. Tears? Rage? The sudden and desperate need to leave the room? Anything's possible.


What I wouldn't give for the days when I used to feel nothing— back when I had all my emotions folded up and packed away in a nice big steel trunk in my head.
Back when I could go through
months
without crying. Hell, there were probably two years there where I didn't feel much of anything at all. Those were the days.


But now, thanks to the many men in my life (my father, Sam, my uncle Oliver, Ed), I have no control over my feelings anymore. These men tricked me. That's what it basically comes down to. They snuck up on me, tempted me with happiness (as if such a thing actually exists), and then collectively broke my heart. It's as if they all took a secret meeting at some big hunting lodge—you know, the ones with the red walls and those huge antlers and disgusting mounted deer heads—and conspired to screw with my head: to pick the lock on my steel trunk, to drag out every single emotion I've ever had and hang it on display for the general public.


But enough about them.


Have you ever tried a doughnut shake? Neither had I until the
other day. (Or was that earlier today?) Anyway, I was standing at my disgusting kitchen counter with a box of one dozen assorted Krispy Kreme doughnuts in one hand and a half gallon of milk in the other. Lunch. (Or was it dinner?) And then I saw the blender.


Three seconds later I was stuffing doughnuts down into the large Pyrex blender cup—cinnamon, jelly, chocolate glazed, Boston cream, powdered—as many as I could. Then I poured in as much milk as I could, secured the rubber lid, and slammed down every button on that blender— mix, chop, puree,
congeal,
whatever. . . I watched as all those doughnuts turned into a thick and lumpy vomit-colored sludge, and then I hurled off the lid, lifted the entire concoction to my mouth, and took a “sip.”


Needless to say, it was the most horrifying dose of concentrated sugar I'd ever tasted. It was like sinking your teeth into a solid sugar cube the size of
your head. But as I spat the sludge out into the sink full of dishes. . . I realized. . .


That doughnut shake was a perfect metaphor for what is clearly the true chaos of human existence. I'm sure you see what I mean.


It's like that book we've been reading in MacGregor's English class. Camus's
The Stranger
. Everything Camus wrote is dead-on. There's no
order
to anything. There's no
reason
for anything. It's all just one long list of absurd events with no payoff whatsoever. Feel what you want; it doesn't matter. Do what you want; it doesn't matter.


I can't believe how much time I've wasted thinking my life was leading somewhere in particular, thinking there was some kind of master plan for me—as if there was ever a “right” or a “wrong” thing for me to do. There's no meaning to any of it. We're all just a bunch of random doughnuts, crammed into this giant blender
for no apparent reason, chopped at, spun around, and blended together into a repulsive and utterly meaningless
mud.


So from now on, as far as I'm concerned, the more absurd, the better. I'll just do and feel nothing and everything at the same time, in giant swirls and spins and stops and starts. No control over a stitch of it. I'll cry and then I'll be numb, and then I'll feel so unbelievably pissed off, I'll want to rip my door off its hinges and break every breakable item in this empty apartment. One hundred percent pure emotional free fall— total chaos in my brain. Thank you all so very much.


Control
. Isn't it ridiculous? People are always trying to take control of themselves or else they're trying to control someone else. They're all so deluded. When are they going to learn? There's simply no such thing as control. None at all.


Sure, they weren't brutal rapists. But they had other faults going for them. Unreliability. Dishonesty. Cruelty.

THE SUN WAS THREATENING TO SHOW
itself.

Scum Exodus

Gaia kept praying the night would last just a little longer. Somehow the days were worse than the nights. People usually complained that the opposite was true; after all, there must have been a thousand sad, lame, cheesy songs about “lonely nights.” But Gaia found the sunny days
so much more depressing.
All those kids screaming and laughing in the playgrounds. What the hell made them so happy that they had to scream? Was it the melting black sludge that lined the side-walks—the last remnants of snow? Or the litter? The torn coffee cups and discarded syringes? The filth that seemed to ooze from every stinking corner of this city?

That was the problem with the days: You could see every miserable detail so clearly. Yet somehow the real garbage—the
human
garbage—managed to stay indoors.

Night was different, though. At night the scum of New York scurried out of their little holes and crevices and wrought havoc. Just like cockroaches. Turn out the lights, and they all came out to party. Turn the lights back on, and they all vanished. Judging from the deep blue of the predawn sky, Gaia had only another half hour or so
before the sun came out and the scum exodus began.
She still hadn't cracked any heads.

As long as there were psychos and sickos to pummel, Gaia had a hobby to occupy the meaningless and seemingly endless hours of solitude. Sleep had become a nonissue. Sleep was for the weak. Actually, she had simply been incapable of sleeping for the last few nights (four, five, six?). Which was why she was roaming Avenue D and Ninth Street at five-thirty in the morning again. Looking to kick the asses of the bad guys.

Alphabet City, as this particular area of the East Village was called, seemed to be mapped out specifically for crime. The farther down the alphabet you went, the more crime you found. Avenue B was worse than Avenue A, Avenue C was worse than Avenue B, and so on. And after midnight. . . forget about it.You might as well wear a sign saying, “Sell me drugs or mug me, please.” Perfect for Gaia.
Question: What do you call a young blond girl, alone on Avenue D after midnight? Answer: Bait.

There had already been one attempt to mug her. One very lame attempt. A guy had pushed her into a dark alley, hoping to do God knows what. Gaia hadn't even had to engage the poor idiot in combat, though; after she'd disarmed him—kicking the knife from his hands with a left jump kick—he'd taken off into the shadows. But there was usually more action—

“Get back in the car, bitch!”

Gaia swung her head around.

Not twenty feet behind her a pudgy, balding guy in one of those
neo-mafia-style jogging suits
had forced a woman in a tight red dress against the hood of a beat-up car. A flicker of adrenaline leaped through Gaia's body.
Finally,
she thought, unable to keep from smiling. It was about time.

“I don't think the date's over until I say it's over,” the guy hissed.

“Stop it,” the woman cried, desperately struggling to wriggle away from him. “You're drunk!”

Gaia could hear the plaintive note of fear in the woman's voice, wondering even as she broke into a sprint what it must be like to feel
afraid
. . . afraid of this ridiculously overbuffed oaf. Energy surged through her veins as she rocketed toward them. Now the guy was forcing himself on the woman, leaning into her and slobbering all over her with sloppy kisses.