Infinity + One

  I was feeling sad too. Scared. I’d never spent a single night away from Minnie. Not in all our fifteen years. “Can’t you come with me?” I’d asked. I knew the answer. We’d been over it.

  “You know there’s only enough money for you and Gran to go.” And she’d been too sick to go. She’d been too sick for me to leave her too.

  “Can’t you stay?” Katy’s voice. Not Minnie’s. Katy was trying to sit up, and I crouched down beside her bed.

  “Where would I sleep?” I tried to smile. “I can’t fit in your bed. And what about Finn? I don’t think Riley wants to give up her crib.”

  Katy snickered at the thought of Finn in Riley’s crib.

  “You and Finn must be as tired as we are,” Shayna said from the doorway, and Katy and I looked up at her.

  “Look, Mommy. Bonnie Rae signed all my posters.” Katy pointed at the walls.

  “Uh, yeah.” Shayna had that same dazed look she’d gotten when I told Katy who I was. “What . . . I mean . . . how, I mean, I know it’s not my business. But, what are you . . . doing?”

  “I figured I should make them valuable in case you wanted to hawk them.” I felt a little stupid, suggesting my signature was something special, but Katy seemed pleased.

  “No! I don’t mean the posters. What are you and Finn doing tonight? You should stay here. The couch in the family room folds out into a bed.”

  “Yeah! Yeah! You and I can sleep in the family room and have a sleepover!” Katy’s eyes were huge, and she no longer looked the slightest bit drowsy. She was up and out of bed immediately.

  “Slow down, Katy. You know you get lightheaded,” Shayna said.

  I thought I heard Finn come in the front door. He was probably standing there, just inside the entry feeling awkward and not daring to venture any further.

  “And I don’t think Finn, Bonnie, and you can all fit in the fold-out bed. A little crowded, sis, don’t you think?” Shayna was trying to discourage the group sleepover, and Katy wasn’t hearing any of it.

  “I have to pee! Don’t leave, Bonnie, okay?”

  I stood and headed for the door, wanting to reassure Finn. Wanting to make sure he didn’t leave without me.

  “I saw something about you and Finn on Entertainment Buzz or one of those shows at the hospital,” Shayna blurted out as I moved to walk past her. “I was just flipping through channels. I stopped when I saw they were talking about you, thinking that Katy would want to watch, but she’d fallen asleep. They said you’d been taken, or something. They tried to sound serious, but mostly they all just sounded really excited. I felt really sad for you, and I was glad Katy was asleep. It would have upset her to think you were missing.”

  “Leave it to E-Buzz to get it all wrong,” I said and forced a laugh. “Finn didn’t take me, obviously. I think you can see that I’m fine. And he’s a good guy.”

  “So you’re . . . okay?”

  “Tell me this, Shayna. Do I seem like I’m in trouble? Does Finn seem like the kind of guy who steals pop stars for ransom?”

  “No,” she said with a smirk. “Actually, if I had to guess, I would say you’d kidnapped him.”

  “Shayna, you’re a smart woman,” I said, patting her shoulder. And she laughed.

  “Why did you help us?” Her laughter faded, and her eyes were suddenly bright, like she wanted to cry.

  “Because you needed help.” I shrugged. “And my sister had leukemia too.” Damn it all. I felt emotion rise in my eyes too.

  “Finn?” Katy ran out of the bathroom and shot past us in the hallway, in search of Finn, and I followed her gratefully, not wanting to continue the sensitive conversation with her mother.

  “Finn?” Katy shouted again, and ran to the front door. Finn sat on the front stoop. I’d guessed wrong. He hadn’t even come inside, though Shayna had left the door propped wide open, welcoming him.

  “Finn! Bonnie and I are sleeping on the fold-out bed. We’re having a sleepover. You’re sleeping in my bed.”

  And that was that. We were staying. You didn’t say no to a kid like Katy. Finn just closed his eyes briefly and avoided my gaze, but he seemed resigned to the fact that it made as much sense as anything else, and when Shayna thanked him profusely and produced a pair of army boots that were almost new, claiming they were too big for her husband, he accepted them with quiet dignity. I too had noticed his boots were worn out and his feet kept getting wet, and I had made my own plans to replace them when I could. Maybe it was better this way. Finn didn’t seem to like it when I paid for him.

  Shayna started dinner—spaghetti—and Finn left for a while, claiming he needed to get some exercise. I resisted the urge to tag along as much as I longed to stretch my legs and match my stride to his. I was pathetic and needy, and we both knew it, and I didn’t like that I felt that way where he was concerned. Plus, I really thought Finn might explode if I asked to go with him. He threw on a pair of basketball shorts, a T-shirt, and some worn running shoes and was out the door, his hair pulled off his face, his expression stony.

  He was gone for an hour, but when he finally came through the door, dripping with sweat, he looked a little less explosive than he had before. Still, even sweaty and ornery, he was impressive to look at. Shayna tried not to stare as she informed him of the clean towels in the bathroom and invited him to help himself to the shower. It had been a while since there had been a man in the house, obviously, and Shayna looked at me apologetically, as if she were having lascivious thoughts and felt guilty about them. She bit her lip and turned away, and I felt bad for her once again. Shayna Harris was juggling a lot of crap. And shit is incredibly difficult to juggle. No matter how hard you try, it still falls apart and slips through your fingers, and even when you’re managing to keep it aloft, it still stinks.

  After dinner, with Finn’s permission, I lightly sanded his old guitar, and Katy and I drew little flowers all over it, intertwining the blossoms with curling long green vines. We painted the blossoms in different shades of pink, using some of the little tole paints on Katy’s dresser. When we were done, Katy and I both signed our names on the back, and Shayna applied a clear overcoat to seal our efforts. I could tell she was one of those crafty ladies that was good at making tin cans and weeds look pretty.

  Finn told Katy she could keep it, that it would be a collector’s item someday. I don’t think Katy knew what he meant, but I hoped Shayna did, and told her if she needed the money she shouldn’t be afraid to sell it. I would send Katy a new one to replace it. I also left three thousand dollars in her cookie jar. I was frustrated that I couldn’t leave more because I had so much more. I just couldn’t access more at the moment, and I needed to make sure I still had some cash to get myself and Finn to Vegas.

  I didn’t know why I needed to get to Vegas so badly. There was nothing there for me. But I was focused on it like it was the ribbon strung across a finish line, as if the journey itself held the answers to my questions. And I believed if I could just have until Vegas—just a few days is all—I would figure out how to live again.

  COULD YOU FALL in love with a voice? Finn shut his eyes and listened from the little room, lying in the little bed, covered in a little pink spread, surrounded by life-size pictures of Bonnie Rae Shelby wearing skimpy outfits and long, blonde curls, making love to a microphone. Katy was requesting one song after another, and Bonnie Rae was giving the sweet ten-year-old a private concert . . . in her pajamas. Talk about Make-A-Wish.

  You would think he would stare at those pictures while he listened to her sing. But Finn didn’t stare at the images. He didn’t need to. The real thing was a room away. So he had turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and now lay with his eyes closed, just listening.

  He heard giggles—childish and adult—and he wondered how Bonnie was still going strong at ten o’clock at night. He was exhausted, and she hadn’t had any more sleep than he had in the last twenty-four hours. And she still hadn’t showered or had a minute to herself. He wondered if this time with Kat
y was good for her, healing maybe. It was the only reason he hadn’t insisted they leave. He’d wanted to get on the road. He’d needed to press his foot to the gas and leave Portsmouth behind, to get back on track.

  What had happened to his road trip, the road trip he’d been so eager to make that he hadn’t even waited until morning to leave home as originally planned? He hadn’t been able to sleep that last night in Boston, the night he’d found Bonnie on the bridge. He’d gone to bed and lain there for an hour and then thought, “Why wait?” So he’d folded up his bedding—the only thing left in his basement apartment—and pulled on his clothes. Then he’d headed out. His mom worked the swing shift at the hospital, so she would be getting home about midnight too. He planned to catch her right as she got home, say goodbye, and be on his way. That was the plan. That was Saturday. And that plan, and every other one since then, had been shot to hell.

  Now it was Tuesday. Only three nights later. And he was in a strange house, in a child’s bed, in southern Ohio.

  He almost laughed then, so damn bewildered and incredulous that laughing was all he really could do. He rubbed his face, too tired to give in to the urge to howl, and just sighed instead, noting wearily that Bonnie Rae had closed her concert and was saying goodnight to Katy, promising she’d be back after she showered, telling the little girl to try to go to sleep.

  Bonnie Rae had called Katy Minnie. It had happened only once, but he’d seen the stricken look on Bonnie’s face before she’d corrected herself and patted Katy’s cheek. It was the same look she’d worn when she’d been watching them in the convenience store, before she’d befriended them.

  The bathroom was right next to Katy’s bedroom. He saw the light pool in the hallway as Bonnie entered, and then watched it narrow to a long thin line as she closed the door, and the light seeped out beneath. The shower came on next, the sound soothing the way rushing water always was. Someone had told him in prison that God’s voice sounded like rushing water. That’s why babies love to be shushed. That’s why the sound lulls people to sleep. He wondered how anyone would know what God’s voice sounded like. Especially someone convicted of homicide.

  He felt himself drifting off when he heard Bonnie crying. He was pretty sure that this time it had nothing to do with short hair and a resemblance to her homely brother, Hank. She cried like she’d been holding it in all day. Maybe she had. Maybe spending time with Katy had been a very bad idea. He sat up immediately, wondering if they should go, if he needed to get her out of here.

  Then he swore, loud and foul, pulled at his hair, and lay back down. It wasn’t his job to save her! He couldn’t save her! Hadn’t he told her, just today, not to try and save him? It was all bullshit. And it was her fault they were here in the first place! He pulled the pillow over his head so he couldn’t hear her. There. That was better. God’s voice didn’t sound like rushing water, it sounded like silence.

  Finn commanded himself to sleep, keeping the pillow smashed into his face. But the light curled around the edges of the pillow when Bonnie left the bathroom, and the hallway went black when she flipped it off. He moved the pillow off his face and bunched it under his head, telling himself he still wasn’t listening. And he wasn’t listening, he was straining. With every muscle, he was straining to hear.

  “Finn? Are you awake?” He could hear her feeling along the walls, trying to make her way to the bed where he lay. When she reached it, she sat gingerly on the end.

  “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. She sat for a minute, not saying anything, and he didn’t demand a reason for her presence.

  “Do you still miss Fisher?” she finally whispered.

  He could say no. Maybe she needed to be reassured that the pain would go away eventually.

  “Yeah,” he said. So much for reassurance. “I still talk to him sometimes. Fish and I were identical too. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I imagine it’s him. I talk to my reflection. Stupid. But yeah.”

  “I can’t stand looking at myself for that reason. All I see is her.”

  “You should look. Let yourself look. If it makes you feel better, let yourself pretend.”

  He heard her sniffle in the dark.

  “It’s better than seeing Hank. Right?” he was trying to make her laugh, but he didn’t know if it worked. It was too dark and she was too still.

  “Do you ever feel like you’ve forgotten something, only to realize it’s not something, it’s someone . . . it’s Fisher? I feel like that all the time. Like I’ve overlooked something important—and I’ll check to make sure I haven’t left my phone, or my keys, or my purse. Then I realize it’s Minnie. I’ve lost Minnie.”

  “My mom used to say Fish and I were two sides of the same coin. Fish said he was heads, and I was the ass. Not tails, the ass. But if that’s true, I guess he won’t ever be lost—as long as I exist, so does he. You can’t lose the other side of a coin, right?”

  “Were you alike?”

  “We looked alike, but that was all. He was right handed, I’m left. He was random, I’m sequential. He was loud, I’ve always been a little shy.”

  “Sounds like me and Minnie,” Bonnie said. “Only I’m like Fisher and she was more like you.” Finn smirked in the dark. Yeah. He’d figured that one out all by himself.

  “Finn? I’m a twin. You’re a twin. But our twins are gone. So what does that make us? Are we halves?”

  Finn waited, not sure how to respond. Bonnie sighed when he didn’t speak. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he stared at her shadowy form, perched beside his feet on the little bed. Then she curled up like a kitten, laying her head on his legs like she had no intention of leaving.

  “When Fish was alive, I tried to keep the numbers in my head from spilling out into everything we did together. Sometimes he would get jealous. It made him feel left out that Dad and I loved mathematics, and he was clueless. He was very, very competitive. And I’m not.” Finn shrugged in the darkness, trying to shrug off the weight of the memories.

  “I just wanted him to be happy. I wanted my family to stay together. And from the time I was just a little kid, there was the Finn who loved numbers, the Finn who happily read about Euclid and Cantor and Kant. And then there was the Finn who everybody called Clyde, the Finn who played ball and hung out with Fish and a bunch guys from the neighborhood. Guys who were always up to no good, smoking pot, drinking too much, and chasing girls that I didn’t particularly want to catch. I did it for Fish. Always for Fish. I never told him no. In that way, I’ve always been split in two.”

  “I never felt that way. Minnie never acted like she minded the attention I got. I hope she didn’t. I hope she wasn’t just good at hiding it. It’s possible. She hid other things from me.” Bonnie sounded sad and bitter, and Finn guessed there was a part of her that was angry with Minnie, the way he’d been angry with Fish for a long time. Maybe it was sick and wrong to be pissed off, but the heart doesn’t understand logic. Never had. Never would. Evidence of that truth was curled around his feet at the end of the bed.

  “She didn’t tell me how bad off she was, how sick she was,” Bonnie continued. “Every time we talked she would tell me she was feeling better. She didn’t warn me. She knew I would have come home right away. I never told Minnie no either. I would have done anything for her.”

  “Maybe that’s why she didn’t call you, Bonnie.”

  He felt her shaking her head against his legs, rejecting his suggestion. “But she left me without a word, Finn!”

  “Fish left without a word, too. Bonnie. One minute he was looking up at me as I tried to stop the blood pumping out of his gut. And the next minute, he was gone. Without a word.”

  “What word would you have wanted, Finn?” Bonnie asked, and he could tell she was trying not to cry. “If you got one word, what would you have wanted him to say?”

  It was Finn’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t know, Bonnie. No matter how many words we get, there’s always going to be the last one, and one word is never enoug
h.”

  “I would have told her I loved her,” Bonnie whispered. “And I would have told her to save me a mansion next to hers.”

  “A mansion?” Finn asked gently.

  “There’s a song we always sang in church. “My Father’s House has Many Mansions.” Ever heard it?”

  “No.”

  “My Father’s house has many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you,” she sang the line softly.

  “Maybe God lives in the Grand Hotel,” Finn murmured, wanting to sit up and beg her to sing the rest. Instead, he folded his arms beneath his head and pretended that her voice didn’t make him feel things he didn’t want to feel and make him consider things he refused to consider.

  “What’s the Grand Hotel?” she asked.

  “It’s a little paradox about infinity—Hilbert’s paradox of the Grand Hotel.”

  “What’s a paradox?”

  “Something that contradicts our intuition or our common sense. Something that seems to defy logic. My dad loved them. Most of them are very mathematical.”

  “So tell me about the Grand Hotel. Tell me the paradox.” The tears had faded from her voice, and Finn eagerly proceeded, wanting to keep them at bay.

  “Imagine there’s a hotel with a countably infinite number of rooms.”

  “Countably infinite?”

  “Yeah. Meaning I could count the rooms, one by one, even if the counting never ends.”

  “Okay,” she said drawing the word out, like she wasn’t sure she understood, but wanted him to keep talking.

  “And all those rooms are filled,” Finn added.

  “So infinite rooms, and all are full.”

  “Uh-huh. Pretend someone comes along and wants to stay at the Grand Hotel. There’s an infinite number of rooms, so that should be possible, right?”