Instead, Joey tried to smile, to reassure Mrs. Finch that she was fine, that it was just a silly accident, no big deal. If she could have actually said those words, she would have, but her brain was too fuzzy to form a coherent sentence. At least she didn’t have the wind knocked out of her this time. While she knew now that a punch to the gut could trigger a spasm in her diaphragm that felt terrible but wouldn’t kill her （don’t be ridiculous, you’re always so fucking dramatic）， not being able to breathe for a few seconds always made her feel like she might die.
“Is she all right?” Mrs. Finch blurted. “Your daughter?”
Ruby’s body turned rigid, and while Joey couldn’t see her mother’s face, she could imagine it. When Ruby answered, her voice was cool. “She’s fine. She tripped.”
The neighbor backed up another step, and now Joey couldn’t see the woman at all. “She … she doesn’t look well,” she heard Mrs. Finch stammer from the hallway. “You should help her.”
“Are you telling me how to parent my daughter, Mrs. Finch?” Ruby’s voice dropped to a low growl.
Not a good sign. Mrs. Finch needed to leave. Right away.
“Just … keep it down, please,” the neighbor said. It sounded like a weak imitation of someone trying to sound authoritative. But she did not sound authoritative. She sounded nervous, and scared. “I could hear screaming from the hallway.”
“That was the TV,” Ruby said. “And I would suggest you mind your own damn business. How many cats do you and your loser son have in your apartment now, Mrs. Finch? Is it three? Or four? From what I remember when I signed the lease, we’re only allowed one pet. Be a shame if you got evicted.”
No response.
“See?” Ruby sounded warmer now, almost cheerful, her voice back to its regular volume. “Isn’t it annoying when people butt into what you’re doing inside your own home?”
The door slammed shut. And then Ruby turned around, put her hands on her hips, and appraised her daughter.
Joey forced herself to sit up. Slowly, she leaned back against the sofa, clutching her stomach. It ached like she had just done a thousand sit-ups. Her head was pounding, and she could feel her lips swelling.
Ruby crouched down and cupped her chin so they were looking directly at each other. “Anything broken?”
Joey shook her head.
“Feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“No.” The word came out a squeak.
“That’s my girl.” Ruby patted her on the shoulder, one of the few places on Joey’s body that didn’t hurt. “Let’s not fight anymore, okay? I’m exhausted. Charles was a beast last night.”
Yes. He was.
“You must be hungry. I’ll heat up last night’s pizza.”
Her mother pulled her up. She kissed the top of Joey’s head, then wrinkled her nose.
“You smell like cologne. Go take a shower.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Drew has read five of the six diaries, and he’s not sure how much of Joey’s words will make it into the podcast. It’s a fine line between talking about the horror of a mother Ruby was, and revealing Joey’s personal pain for the world to see. It may not be possible to do one without the other, but ultimately, he owes it to her to tell the truth as best he can.
Back in the old neighborhood once again, he looks up at the black-painted exterior of the Golden Cherry, where the pink neon GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign used to be. All they’ve kept are the gold neon cherries above the same gaudy brass doors, but it’s enough to hint at the nightclub’s history. Drew could have stopped in after his lunch with Deborah Jackson the other day, but he wasn’t ready then.
He’s not sure he’s ready now. But if he wants to learn about the last year of Joey’s life, which was the year he was in Vancouver, then the former strip club is probably the best place to start. He called earlier, and whoever answered the phone had told him to stop in before the club opened.
He tugs on the door and it opens easily. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness, but when they do, he can see quite well. There are light sconces on all the walls, and the pendant lights above the bar are turned on.
“Hello?” Drew calls out. “Anyone here?”
Without bodies to fill the space, his voice echoes. The room is cavernous. The main level, which used to be filled with tables and chairs, is now one large, empty dance floor. Still, there are reminders everywhere of the Cherry it used to be. The old sign from outside that read GENTLEMEN’S CLUB has been relocated above the bar, which spans the length of the side wall. The original stage has been converted into a raised VIP area with tables and loveseats, but the three stripper poles are where they’ve always been. Mounted on the wall behind the stage is a neon sign that reads CHAMPAGNE ROOM. And directly across the dance floor, just above the projection screen that’s two stories high, is the original GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign. Everything is turned off, and the projection screen is blank, but he can imagine how cool it must all look when the nightclub is in full swing.