Mike Hannigan, sitting on the couch next to her, reached over and placed his hand on top of hers. "Five months," he said with some excitement.
"Yeah." Phoebe smiled, enjoying his anticipation. It would be a wonderful time, a wonderful moment, when she at last gave birth to a child she could keep. And she counted herself lucky to have someone like Mike to share the experience with.
"So... should we start thinking about names? For boys and girls?"
Unbidden came names that were very dear to her. Joey, Ross, Chandler. Rachel, Monica. Phoebe suppressed a sigh, lamenting what had been lost. Joey was in California, Monica and Chandler were in Westchester, Ross and Rachel were hip-deep in wedding preparations. She didn't see any of them very often, which only a couple of years ago would be unthinkable. She used to see them every day.
Mike shifted next to her. "What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, mildly surprised. He was getting better at reading her moods. Phoebe smiled a reassurance. "Nothing big. But I'm terrible with names, you know that. Unless you want a child named Princess Consuela."
"Well, not so much, no." Mike grinned. "But I still want a name that means something to you."
Phoebe again listed off the five names in her head, then just as quickly pushed them aside. They were important and special, but she wasn't quite ready to use them for her children. "Oh, I don't know. We can call the baby Phoebe Junior or Mike Junior."
"C'mon, you can do better than that," Mike gently chided. "Who was the most important person in your life?"
"Ooh, I know!" Phoebe jumped to her feet, ran to the closet. She opened it up and carefully selected a few items. She traipsed back to the couch and put the incense holder on the coffee table. With painstaking care she arranged three sticks of incense, then lit them. She flopped back onto the couch and grinned at Mike. "Okay!"
Mike had watched the entire procedure with puzzled amusement. "Okay what?"
"I'm going to remember." Phoebe swung her legs up onto the couch and rested her head in Mike's lap. She reached up, fondled his lips with her fingers for a moment, then folded her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes.
Mike seemed to be still having problems. "Remember what?"
"Who the most important person in my life was." She opened her eyes, crinkled them. "Besides you."
He smiled back. "And them?"
"Yeah." Again she was struck by how much he really understood about her. Phoebe closed her eyes and took a deep breath, drawing in the scents, allowing them to relax her and open her mind.
She heard Mike also take a breath and tried to shut that away, make it distant, make her be aware of him but not be distracted by him. Her focus was inwards, towards the memory of her life, drawing her down the stream of her existence, highlighting a moment here, a moment there...
...there was too much junk in the back seat. Phoebe sighed and sifted through it - again. She never knew what Cindy - or, more specifically, Cindy's hand - would consider vital and important. All Phoebe knew was that it was very difficult to sleep with the cans and shoeboxes and an old toaster spilling all over the place. And Gremlins weren't the roomiest of cars to begin with anyway.
She picked up an empty can of tomato soup. Phoebe grimaced and chose a McDonald's bag to stuff it in. When it was inside she felt better. It was a step, there was more control, more order. She reached for another can.
Suddenly a fist was thrust in front of her face. It twitched spasmodically as a high-pitched voice came from behind her. "What do you think you're doing?"
Phoebe cringed. "I'm sorry, Cindy." She turned around and looked out the broken window. A tall, almost emaciated man stood there, his face contorted into the parody of an angry expression. She didn't know what his name was, but he called his hand 'Cindy' so that was how she thought of him.
The fist was moved back in front of her face. It twitched again as Cindy spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "I don't want you touching my things! Put them back this instant."
Phoebe sighed. "Yes, Cindy." She emptied the bag and tossed it back onto the seat. When Cindy wandered away again maybe she could stick a few of the cans into the toaster oven and make some room that way.
Cindy's face relaxed and he spoke in a deeper, frightened voice. "I, I'm sorry Phoebe, it's just... Cindy is very protective of me. I can't - I have to do what she says."
"I know." Phoebe brushed her hair back for want of anything better to do. It was best to say as little as possible when Cindy's hand was in control.
She'd hoped he'd go away but Cindy climbed into the front seat. It was his domain and a lot less cluttered than the back seat he allowed her to occupy. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out half a baked potato in a takeout container. "I found this outside the restaurant. It's still warm. Want it?"
"Yes, please." She took it, and it was indeed still warm, a real treat. Phoebe greedily scooped up some of the potato with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth, and it was good. The perpetual hunger lessened a bit as she finished it off. Phoebe licked her fingers, then smiled at Cindy. He was capable of real kindness, and the abandoned car provided shelter from the dreary rain, and she was grateful to him for providing both. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He paused, and Phoebe wondered if she would be invited to the front seat where they'd do things she didn't particularly enjoy but would keep his hand quiet for a while. Instead he stretched himself across the front seats and began muttering to his hand. Phoebe knew he'd be at it for hours.
She was relieved, although the comfort of the front seat would have been welcomed. Positioning herself as best she could, Phoebe closed her eyes and drifted into a world where spirits sang and no one ever died and everything was happiness and light...
"...light."
Mike started slightly. "What?"
Phoebe opened her eyes. "Turn off the light, please. It'll help me relax more."
"Oh. Okay." Mike stood up. "Although you seemed pretty relaxed just now."
Phoebe stilled her features. The memory she'd revisited was not really a pleasant one. Or, more accurately, it was one of the most pleasant memories she'd had of an extremely unpleasant part of her life. And that was just one of a series of unpleasant phases of existence.
Mike turned off the lights and sat back down on the couch. Phoebe settled down on his lap again and relaxed her body and mind and spirit. The aroma guided her, down and back and away, the smoke drifting around her body and feet...
"...off the couch!"
Phoebe opened her eyes and looked up at the angry visage of Monica. "What?"
"I said, get your feet off the couch!" Monica slapped the air where Phoebe's hastily retracted feet used to rest on the arm of the couch. "I just cleaned that yesterday."
And you'll clean it tomorrow, Phoebe didn't say. And the next day after that. She sat up, the pleasant drowsiness of an afternoon nap being driven away by Monica's irritation. Cleaning was a never-ending chore for Monica; to her eyes something was either filthy or well on its way to becoming so.
Monica began fluffing the pillows, moving ominously in Phoebe's direction. Phoebe knew that this was leading to a moment where Monica would attempt to fluff the cushions while Phoebe was still sitting on them. Rather than go through that, Phoebe stood and wandered over to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and stared inside. She was getting accustomed to being able to eat what she wanted whenever she wanted, but every once in a while she'd find herself in awe at the sight of all that food.
"Take a picture, then decide what you want." Monica gently but firmly closed the refrigerator door. "You're wasting all the cold."
Monica turned back towards the living room, which was probably just as well as she missed Phoebe's flat look. Monica should be careful what she said with all those shiny kitchen knives so close at hand.
Phoebe shook herself, hard. She had, fortunately, only had to physically defend herself a few times in her life, and had perfected the art of getting what she wanted through intimidation rather than actual violence. The fact that her roommate was driving her to such thoughts meant something not good. And Phoebe deplored not-good things.
She opened the refrigerator door again and quickly extracted the orange juice and two bananas. Letting the refrigerator door fall closed behind her, she walked over to the kitchen table and put the bananas in front of the chair. As she sat she raised the carton of orange juice to her lips.
"What do you think you're doing!"
Phoebe froze, the carton a few inches from her lips. She looked over at the disgusted expression on Monica's face. Phoebe's arm actually trembled from the physical effort she expended trying not to hurl the carton at Monica's face.
Monica shook her head, then her face and expression softened. "Here." She walked over, took the bananas and carton from Phoebe. She went over to the counter, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured a goodly amount of the orange juice into it. She handed the glass to Phoebe. "Enjoy. Give me just two minutes and I'll make you a nice fruit salad. Okay?"
"O-okay." Phoebe sipped the juice, unsure of what more to say.
Monica opened the refrigerator and pulled out some more items. She went back to the counter and, indeed, began quickly and efficiently to prepare various fruits and condiments into a tasty-looking dish.
Monica set the plate in front of Phoebe, along with a fork and napkin. She smiled, patted Phoebe on the side of her head, and then went back towards the living room to continue cleaning.
Phoebe looked down at her fruit salad, her eyes beginning to water. No one had fixed a meal for her, not since... Phoebe refused to finish the thought, and instead picked up the fork and began to eat. It was good, very good. Monica was a kind and caring woman, and Phoebe loved her dearly for it.
But she just couldn't stand living with her, not any more. Phoebe sighed, and knew she'd have to do something about that soon. But right now, she just ate the salad and it felt good, making her stomach...
...stomach tremble, and Phoebe's eyes flew open. It was much too soon to be able to feel the baby kicking, but there had been something there. Phoebe wasn't sure what it was.
"Well?" Mike was gently stroking Phoebe's hair. "Any progress?"
Phoebe looked at him, then closed her eyes. That had been the wrong moment. She still loved Monica, but she didn't want to name the baby after her, not yet. Maybe she was supposed to name it after her grandmother; that was the apartment she had slowly moved into after deciding to leave Monica's. But that also didn't feel right, the baby didn't feel like Grandma.
Phoebe calmed her emotions. "A little," she said in response to Mike's question. "Let me try one more time. I think I'm getting close."
"All right." He continued stroking her hair, which felt nice, when coupled with the scent of incense...
...incense on her check. Phoebe took another whiff and it smelled exciting and full of promise. She looked up at Deborah and grinned. "Thank you!"
Deborah normally had a world-weary expression on her face, but this time an amused look forced its way to the surface. "You're welcome, kid. You do good work, the customers like you. I hope you keep coming back."
"I will, I will!" Phoebe hopped up and down, then whirled once. This was exciting, she hadn't had a real paying job since that Dairy Queen gig. An actual paycheck, not a collection of fives and tens extracted from someone's purse or wallet.
Legitimate money. Earned money. Money she felt good about, for the first time in forever. This was a prize beyond price.
Phoebe bent down, lifted up her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. She flashed one more smile at Deborah. "Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow, kid." Deborah bent back down to her bookkeeping.
Phoebe headed towards the door. Mentally she ran through the list of possibilities. The library? The police had just rousted it the day before yesterday, so that should be a good place to stay tonight. Plus they had the best bathrooms. Or if it wasn't too cold she could just set up in the park.
"You should clean yourself up better."
Phoebe paused halfway out the door. "What?"
Deborah wasn't even looking at her as she scribbled on one of her ledgers. "You're lucky this is aromatherapy. The incense covers a lot of stuff. But you should really try clean yourself up."
"But I do! I wash every day!" Phoebe burst out. The YWCA was relatively easy to sneak into, and every day or two Phoebe managed a thorough shower. And she could always find a bathroom with a good sink to at least scrub her hands and face. She didn't smell bad, not in the least.
"I don't doubt that," Deborah said. "But your clothes - I think you have, what, three blouses, two skirts, and some overalls? I've seen 'em all, and I'm pretty sure those don't get cleaned too often."
Phoebe blushed. That much was true. Every once in a long while she'd splurge and take her clothes to a laundry place to clean. Mostly she got by with just trying to scrub out stains. "I, I'm sorry."
Deborah looked up. "Don't go all gooey-eyed on me. I'm just saying, you got some money, maybe spend it on some different clothes. Find yourself a nice place to stay. You've got a job now, get off the street and start making a life for yourself."
"Uh, okay." Phoebe smiled shakily, then left. She didn't want Deborah to see her reactions.
Making a life? She already had a life. A good life, with good friends. Okay, not everyone's definition of 'good'. But people she knew and trusted. Sort of trusted. To a certain extent.
But an apartment? A 'normal' life? Ursula had one of those - she'd found a job as a waitress and moved into Larry's apartment - and she was deeply unhappy. Phoebe didn't want that, not at all. She was happy where she was.
Maybe not everyone's definition of 'happy'. But close enough.
Phoebe stalked to a nearby branch of the bank that Deborah used for the payroll checks. They would be happy to cash it for Phoebe - provided she had a driver's license. Phoebe knew how to drive, but lacking a permanent residence didn't have a legitimate ID, and all the fake ones were in other people's names. She ended up at a check-cashing place, which lopped off twenty percent of the paycheck and grudgingly allowed her the rest.
Phoebe found a laundry place nearby and quickly went inside. She opened her duffel bag and stuffed her clothes into a washing machine. After feeding it another portion of her paycheck, it thrummed to life. Phoebe stared at it, trying to keep her mind here, focused. She desperately wanted to drift away, to think of more pleasant times with her mother and sister, when she had a stepfather and a house and a school and a family, and while none of those things had been perfect the sum total had been all right, bearable. Before Ursula had beckoned her into the kitchen to show her what she'd discovered.
Phoebe wrenched her mind away from that. Here, now. A job, being given money to learn how to relax people with incense and massage. So different from anything she had ever done, but so easy, too, she could see where they were murky and make it go away and encourage the light to come out.
All she had to do was find a way for the light to come out in her life, too.
Raising her head, Phoebe glanced around. On one wall was a largish bulletin board. Phoebe walked over to it, her eyes wandering around the various pieces of paper. Her eyes came to rest on one, precisely lettered.
ROOMMATE WANTED
For 2 bedroom Apt in Manhattan
Kitchen, 1 Bath, Spacious Living Room, Balcony
Female, Non-smoker, NO DRUGS, No pets
Must Be Neat
Phoebe considered that for a long time. Living with someone. In a normal apartment. That meant living with someone else's rules. Phoebe had lived by herself for so long, had made her way with no one to answer to. She liked that, she cherished that, no one could hurt her that way.
Except, somehow, they still had found ways to hurt her.
Phoebe drew a deep breath. A 'normal' life. She didn't want that, she hated that, that led to hurt and suffering and kitchen ovens. But she'd also met people who had lived on the street for years, decades. They also didn't look too happy. Still, she'd managed to find a few points of lightness and joy here and there. Perhaps she could out there, too, in the 'normal' world.
If she were willing to make a few changes in herself. That last line in the advertisement sounded ominous. It sounded like losing control. Of her life.
Except her life wasn't really leading her anywhere. Just away from things. She needed time to stop, to rest, to reassess. This wasn't a commitment, it was just... a layover.
Phoebe reached out to take one of the strips that hung from the flyer, with a name and phone number printed on them. And hesitated.
A normal life. Like her sister had. Like all the miserable people she knew had. Like her mother... in her normal house in her normal kitchen with the normal gas-burning stove.
Phoebe flinched, retracted her hand. She trembled, overwhelmed by the enormity of what she was contemplating. Following in her mother's footsteps, maybe reaching the same destiny her mother had. Or, or just maybe, finding her own way, her own destiny. But oh, oh the risk.
Then, with a calm strength, Phoebe reached out and separated one of the strips of paper.
Phoebe turned away, the strips of paper undisturbed, and felt better. Whatever was in that apartment wasn't for her. She had her life, made with her own hands and relying on her own wits, and she'd done just fine.
Phoebe looked around, saw a pay phone in one corner of the room. She still had lots of change in her pocket, and there was no time to wait or she'd never be able to see it through. She walked over, lifted up the receiver, pushed some quarters into the slot.
Phoebe went back to the laundry machine where her clothes were being washed. Let Deborah complain, her customers didn't seem to mind. Perhaps Phoebe could buy some new blouses, placate Deborah for a while.
Phoebe punched in some numbers, then listened as the phone rang. A young woman's voice said pleasantly, "Hello?" Phoebe's throat locked up, unable to find a way to respond.
Phoebe perched herself on the laundry machine, feeling the pleasant vibrations, relieved she had resisted the temptation to call that woman. Neat, indeed. She didn't need that, stuff like that led to ovens. She'd find her own way, and to hell with ovens and neatness and normalcy.
With a calm strength, Phoebe reached out and separated one of the strips of paper.
Phoebe turned away, the strips of paper undisturbed, and felt better.
"I, I, I'm Phoebe, I saw your flyer, I was wondering... uh, are you still looking for a roommate?"
The washing machine spun to a halt. Phoebe jumped down and began unloading it.
Phoebe flinched, retracted her hand.
With a calm strength
Phoebe turned away
her own destiny
A young woman's voice said pleasantly, "Hello?"
Phoebe turned away
turned away
"Phoebe, what's wrong? Phoebe, wake up!"
With a calm strength, Phoebe reached out and separated one of the strips of paper.
"That's far enough. Hand it over, Stretch."
Phoebe turned away, the strips of paper undisturbed, and felt better.
separated
turned away
"Phoebe! Phoebe!"
felt better
with a calm
the strips of paper undisturbed
turned away
Her vision cleared, focused. Phoebe tried to stand up but realized she was already on her feet. She didn't remember doing that, rising. She'd been... grabbing for the flyer? No, resting on Mike's lap. The incense, the dimness, the memories. This was another memory, that was all.
But she didn't remember it. Phoebe finally began processing details. In front of her stood two men. Or, more accurately, they crouched in front of her, staring at her intensely. Phoebe frowned, their stance sending all sorts of danger signals to her brain. Her gaze moved to their hands. Each was holding a knife, ready to slash.
Phoebe tried to recall when she'd last been in a fight like this. Ten years, more. She tried to assume a combat stance herself and found that she was already in one. She risked a quick look at her hands. One was empty. The other held an unfamiliar purse.
"Give it to us, Stretch." This from the man closest to her. "You know the deal."
Phoebe did, in fact, know the deal. The usual petty street crime. Her participation in such endeavors had usually been limited to distracting the mark, although she had done plenty of single takedowns herself.
But this was no memory of meeting up with the gang afterwards to split up the loot. This was the takedown itself. She was the mark. But Phoebe had no memory, ever, of being mugged.
She decided to try calling out. "Mike? Wake me up, Mike."
The first man frowned at her, but the second just snickered. "Nice try, Stretch, but the brainless bimbo routine won't work on us. I've seen you operate before. Today you operated on our turf, and now you'll pay."
Phoebe looked back and forth between the men, unable to recognize either of them, unsure what they were talking about. The last thing she needed right now, though, was to try and provoke them. She desperately hoped this wasn't the long-buried memory of a fight she had lost. Phoebe straightened and tossed the purse to the ground at their feet. "All right. You win."
Slight surprise flickered across both their faces. The fist man reached down without taking his eyes off of her and scooped up the purse. The second man leered at her. "That was too easy, Stretch. What else you got on you?"
"Nothing! I-" Phoebe looked down at herself, blinked. She was wearing what appeared to be a black jogging suit. It had seen better days but was still serviceable. It fit her loosely; there were many places she might have hidden any number of things.
"Yeah right, nothing." The first man's leer was almost a mirror image of the second man's. "Strip off all your clothes and we might almost believe you."
Phoebe looked back and forth between them, then risked a quick look around. She was in an alley somewhere. She could hear traffic in a street somewhere behind her, a fair distance away by the sound of it. Phoebe weighed her options. Fight two armed men. Turn and run and hope she'd reach the street before they caught her - without any guarantee that reaching the street meant any kind of safety.
Neither alternative appealed to her.
Fortunately she knew a third method, one that had helped her in many similar situations. She smiled, a practiced unnatural smile she hadn't used in years. But she knew how it looked - wide and fearsome, equal parts anticipation and madness. The words came naturally to her. "You just try, little boys. Momma's got a surprise here she's just dying to show you." Phoebe reached under her sweatshirt, as if gripping something tucked into the waistband of her sweatpants.
That did, in fact, wipe the smile off of both men. They glanced at each other, and Phoebe could almost read their minds: take what she'd already given them and go. Who knew what the crazy woman would do.
The second man took a step back. "Just remember, Stretch. This is our territory. You stay out of it, hear?" Without waiting for a response he turned and sauntered away in a too-casual manner. The first man blew her a mocking kiss, then followed the second man.
Phoebe took her opening. She immediately turned and walked towards the street. She listened but they didn't come running for her. After a minute she made it to the sidewalk and relaxed marginally.
Wherever she was didn't look familiar. She could be anywhere in any of the boroughs. With a little more care Phoebe searched herself, trying to find what she had on her and whether it could help her out of the memory.
She found a wad of money - about a hundred dollars or so by a quick estimation - and a small switchblade. Phoebe stared at it, befuddled. She was absolutely certain she had never carried a knife like this with her at any time in her life, and yet there it was.
What Phoebe didn't find was any identification. That was a familiar tactic - don't get caught with any ID on you, there's always a chance for an escape and you look like a lot of other people. Everything important would be stashed somewhere for later retrieval. Phoebe had no idea where that stash might be.
With an exaggerated sigh she trooped down the street. This was wrong, this whole memory was wrong, hopefully the incense would soon burn out and Mike would realize that she was asleep and wake her up. Phoebe couldn't wait. Whatever this place was, it certainly wasn't a happy place.
She found a street corner. The street names were unfamiliar to her. The cars, the people, the buildings - none of them felt right. A section of the Times was tantalizingly close in the nearby gutter and Phoebe retrieved it. At least this could help her place where in her head she was.
The section was Sports, not one of her favorites to read. Phoebe glanced at the date, shook her head, read it again. It was today. Today, the day she'd been talking with Mike about names for the baby. Phoebe felt her stomach, confirmed that she wasn't pregnant. But she was supposed to be, if today was today.
Phoebe threw the newspaper to the ground, closed her eyes, and screamed. "Wake up! Wake up!"
After a moment she opened them again. A dreary unfamiliar street corner. Not-pregnant Phoebe standing in the middle of a today that couldn't be. No couch in a cozy apartment. No Mike.
Phoebe wiped her eyes dry and considered her next step. Hopefully Mike could get her out of whatever delusion she had fallen into, but if he couldn't... she'd need to find out where he was in this world. Where they all were. Where anyone was.
Phoebe pulled out her cash and selected a dollar bill. First things first. Make change, dial a number. Everything would go from there.
---
(to be continued)