“Pull it down farther. It’ll only take an extra moment.”
“It’s good enough!”
“It’ll start to slip down when it gets full.”
“Well, when that happens, someone can fix it.”
Tova turns to him, arms folded. “Didn’t you mother teach you to do things right the first time?”
Cameron stares at her. “I never had a mother.”
Tova’s color drains.
“She was . . . I mean, she struggled. With addiction. I haven’t seen her since I was nine.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry, Cameron.”
“It’s okay,” he grumbles while yanking the liner all the way on, hating the fact that it did only take an extra moment. When he looks up, Tova is wiping fervently at some nonexistent spot on the glass, refusing to meet his eye.
“Really, it’s okay,” Cameron insists. “How would you have known?”
“It is certainly not okay. I ought to be more careful with my words.”
“No, I shouldn’t have chomped your head off about it. I’m just tired.” Cameron lets out a puffy breath. “Terry asked for extra cod for the sharks today, and Mackenzie was out, sick, so I covered the desk between loads, and the phone kept ringing, and . . . it’s just been a long day.”
“You’re working very hard here.”
“I guess I am.” The words seep through him, slow and warm like hot chicken broth on a cold day. It might be the nicest compliment anyone has ever given him.
“Indeed.” Tova smiles at him, gives a tiny approving nod before resuming her wiping down of the glass tank.
“The truth is, I didn’t have a mom, but I had an aunt Jeanne,” he says tentatively. He picks up the mop and starts to run it along the baseboard. “She’s the one who raised me after my mom took off.”
Tova looks up. “I’d love to hear about her.”
“She’s one of the most amazing people on the planet, but you might not like her.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t I like her?”
A conspiratorial grin spreads across Cameron’s face. “Pretty sure she’s never had a clue about the proper way to put in trash can liners.”
Tova’s laugh echoes down the empty hallway.
Day 1,349 of My Captivity
THEY DO NOT SEE IT.
For weeks, they have worked together. How do they not see it?
I have searched my Collection many times over, considering whether any of these objects might point them in the right direction. A useless endeavor. And now my Collection is a mess. It spills out of my den, sloppy and disorganized. Dangerous. My Collection shall be exposed next time my tank is cleaned, if I am not more careful. Although I fear I may no longer be around next time my tank is cleaned.
I must persevere, for their sake. I cannot bear to leave this story unfinished, as it is now. As I fear it will always be, if I do not intervene to help them realize.
Human gestation is approximately two hundred and eighty days. Conception must have occurred very close to the night of the boy’s accident. But the mother does not realize she is carrying an embryo until weeks later. Months, sometimes, in such cases where producing offspring was not planned. I have seen this scenario play out countless times over the course of my captivity, while observing the patrons that come and go.
If Tova knew his date of birth. His last name. Would that be enough? I must try.
Why do I so deeply care that she knows? I am not entirely certain. But my own end nears, along with her time here. If they do not figure it out soon, everyone involved will be left with a . . . hole.
As a general rule, I like holes. A hole at the top of my tank gives me freedom.
But I do not like the hole in her heart. She only has one, not three, like me.
Tova’s heart.
I will do everything I can to help her fill it.
Some Trees
The tower of tea towels threatens to topple as Tova adds another to the top. Stacks of this sort cover the floorboards of her attic. Above, the polished beams are bathed, cathedral-like, in the afternoon light streaming through the large picture window. Tova’s disposition, however, is less sunny. She cannot stand piles.
Will was a notorious maker of piles. Receipts, stale mail advertisements, magazines he’d already read twice, scraps of paper upon which he’d jotted some note or another that even he couldn’t decipher. In Will’s view these things needed to be kept. When Tova would nag him about the clutter, he’d simply collect the detritus into a stack, square off the corners, and plop it on the edge of some counter or credenza, with a satisfied remark. See? Nice and tidy.