The Night Shift, page 22
“I need you to be fully on board, Jean. If you refuse to do this, I wouldn’t blame you.” He paused in front of the window and considered her expression closely. “It’s a huge risk, and you are a very young person. I understand if you don’t want to give any of that up.”
“What do you mean?” Jean asked, awkwardly holding her cup around his arm.
Dr. Esposito gently pulled the cup from her hand and placed it on the radiator beside the abandoned bag of doughnuts. He took her hands in his, in an almost uncomfortably romantic gesture—as though he were about to propose. Jean regarded their four hands warily.
“I want to completely undo what we did.”
“Yes, you said that,” Claire said, closing in on their intimate pose with Luke at her heels.
“I want to heal the damage Myra and I inflicted.” He nodded toward the green folder. “I want to seal the rifts our patients made in space and time.”
“Okay,” Jean said slowly, looking at Claire and Luke for reassurance but not long enough to make full eye contact with either of them.
“I need you to go back and show this to Myra.” Dr. Esposito nodded at the folder again.
“You want Jean to take the report to her old boss? But won’t her son be suspicious?” Luke asked.
“No. I want Jean to go back to 1970, when Myra first started all of this.”
“What?” Claire said. “But isn’t that dangerous?”
“It’s extremely dangerous,” Dr. Esposito said. “Which is why if Jean doesn’t want to do it, I would understand.”
“If she doesn’t want to do it, then what?” Luke asked.
“Then I’ll do it myself, though I doubt I’ll be successful.” Dr. Esposito turned to look at Luke as he spoke.
“Wait, wait, wait—why can’t I just do it? Or Claire? Or anybody else who’s used the cuts?” Luke asked.
“Because Jean is the only one who has gone in the wrong way and come back out unharmed,” Dr. Esposito said.
“Of course I’ll do it,” Jean said quickly. “But I’m not the only one who’s gone the wrong way and made it back. I know someone else who has.” Jean dropped Dr. Esposito’s hands.
“And they’re okay, too? I’m confused—I thought it was impossible. Can this person go with you? To help out?” Claire squinted as she spoke, as though working out a complicated math problem.
“No, he’s not okay. Which is why I’d never ask him to come with me. He can tell me, though, exactly where to go.”
* * *
Luke banged his hands against the steering wheel along with every word while driving. “Alan fucking Grudge, Jean!” He turned to face her in the back seat; she clenched her jaw as the car wobbled from his erratic movements.
“If Iggy were here, he’d be dying.” Claire sighed. “The Throwaways are, like, his favorite band.”
“Seriously, are you friends with every notable geezer in New York?” He turned back to face the road and Jean relaxed.
“Alan isn’t that old.”
“Alan!” He turned to Claire. “Are you hearing this? My God.” He turned back to Jean. “Should I be jealous?”
“Ugh,” said Claire with an eye roll. “Please don’t embarrass us in front of Alan Grudge, Lucas.”
“Sorry I’m not as cool and collected as you two.”
“You can just wait in the car,” Jean said.
“So, you’ll bring her but not me?” Luke parallel parked across from the Woof-n-Wag.
“Actually, you both should probably wait in the car. I don’t want him to get worried—he’s a little skittish,” she added quickly. Jean ran across the street before either of them could unbuckle their seatbelts. Alan was ringing up a customer, an older man holding a fluffy white dog.
“Let me know if she likes it. If not, we’ll give you a refund,” Alan said as he packed a row of impossibly small tins of dog food into a paper bag. He nodded at Jean. “I’ll be right with you.”
Jean waited by the door until the man and dog left, lingering, held in place by her indecision over where to begin.
“What’s up, Jean?” Alan asked.
Jean stared at the floor.
“You need something?”
She looked up and met his gaze. Alan’s features were limned with concern, but his expression was open and pleasant. “So, you aren’t going to like this,” she began. “But please just listen.”
“Okay,” he said gently. “Don’t look so worried. You can always come to me if you need something. Unless it’s money.” He made an apologetic face. “There I can’t help you.”
“Well, I don’t technically need anything. It’s more just that I want to get your opinion on something.”
“Just ask me, Jean.”
“Okay.” She clasped her hands like a woman giving a presentation in a TV drama. “It’s about the shortcuts. Please don’t say anything until I’m done.” She held up a hand for his silence. “And please don’t say anything about this to anyone else. I found out this week that my old boss was responsible for opening up the shortcuts to begin with. Partially responsible. Her research partner feels a lot of regret about it all and thinks he found a way to close them up for good. But, it would mean that I have to go through the wrong way, back to 1970, and tell them not to do the experiment. I have to go through the first shortcut, or I guess, technically, the place the first shortcut spits you out. I have to go through the first shortcut the wrong way.”
“What? Why do you need to do it?”
“Because I’ve done it before, and I was okay? And I know everything about her—my old boss. So, when she sees me—that is, if she sees me—I can prove to her that this is real and I’m not some scammer or whatever trying to bullshit her. It’s not really a big deal if you think about it. All I have to do is get in and get out.”
“Jesus, Jean.” Alan shook his head and gave her a hard look.
“I know.” Jean winced.
“What do you want from me?”
“Accuracy. I need to go through the right shortcut—the first one. Well, I mean, the earliest one.”
“What?” Alan’s eyebrows were squeezed tight, like a kid in a spelling bee. “Why don’t you ask your old boss, or her old partner? Don’t they know?”
Jean shook her head. “They don’t. They know about the first one—in Chelsea—but they don’t know where it goes. I think the shortcuts got away from them more quickly than they could have imagined. Alan—” she took a step closer and he met her eyes “—you know more about the shortcuts than anyone I know. You understand what they can do to people, what they can take.”
“Exactly,” he said sharply. “Which is why you shouldn’t get in the middle of whatever this is. Let them find somebody else. You’re a good kid, and you’ve been through enough.”
His pity stung—she hated it. A fresh bolt of angry resolve pushed her forward. “Look, if we do this right, the world is a better place. Isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “I’m going to do it. It’ll be harder if you don’t help me, but I’m going to do it.”
Alan released a disapproving growl and disappeared into the back room. Jean turned to leave, but then, suddenly, he reemerged. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
* * *
Claire, Luke, and Jean huddled around the leash display at the back of the store, waiting for Alan to finish his shift.
“Did you ever have a dog, growing up?” Claire asked.
“I did—Major. He was such a good boy. A black Lab,” Luke said with a sigh. “Did you?” he asked Claire.
Claire shook her head. “We only ever had cats. I’m still a total cat person. What about you, Jean?”
“What? No.” She wished Alan would hurry up and close.
Alan emerged from the back room in his jean jacket, transformed from a guy in an awkward smock to a guy you would notice in a restaurant. “Alright, you three,” he said. Jean felt a jolt of distaste at being lumped in with Claire and Luke like that. It felt like an insult that Alan didn’t see her as someone apart from them.
They filed out of the Woof-n-Wag like obedient schoolchildren on a field trip. It was dark and cold outside of the decorative cheer of the shop. Jean didn’t like to admit it, not even to herself, but she was excited about using a shortcut again. She found herself missing that disheveled thrill, the feeling that her heart had been jumping on a tiny trampoline in her chest. Jean tried to tamp down her anticipation and keep it clinical. She was not doing a great job.
“Mr. Grudge?” Luke asked. “Where are we going?”
“Soho,” Alan replied. They followed him south where the streets grew brighter with holiday cheer. Christmas lights hung in the trees and window displays burst with canned spray snow. The shop windows grew more tasteful the farther south they walked. The canned frost turned to gold leaves and real holly, where shops sold candles and soap that cost almost as much as Jean’s rent.
Alan paused in front of a bustling department store: Bloomingdale’s.
“What, here?” Claire asked.
Alan nodded, looking at Jean as he spoke. “It’s the first wrong way. I’ll show you where it is, but nobody’s going through it right now, okay?” He turned to face Claire and Luke for confirmation.
“Yeah, of course. You don’t need to worry about us, Mr. Grudge,” Luke said, hands raised like a caught thief.
The interior of the store was overly bright after their walk down Houston Street through the dusk. A woman knocked into Alan, her arms filled with clothes clinging to their clear plastic hangers.
He led them to the back of the store, to a row of fitting rooms. “It’s through there.” He pointed at the last cubicle, its door handle marked by a red OCCUPIED sphere. They clustered around the door as a line of women waiting to try on clothes eyed them with open-mouthed indignation.
“I guess some people think they don’t need to wait,” the bottle blonde next in line said pointedly.
“We’re maintenance, ma’am,” Alan said smoothly.
“Well, good. Whoever’s in that one has been in there forever.”
Alan knocked on the closed door. “Just a second,” a voice responded. Alan’s eyes grew wide, legitimately surprised that a person could be inside. Claire tilted her head and knocked again.
“Just a second, I said!” The door rattled open and a dark-skinned girl with impossibly symmetrical bone structure emerged. She wore one of the holiday-colored sweaters on the display mannequins in the store. The affixed name tag read JOYCE.
“Jo?” Claire said, her voice a little too high.
“Yes?” Joyce’s tone shifted to mild with superhuman speed.
“Don’t you remember me? From Denise Cho’s acting class? It’s Claire.”
“Oh right,” she answered, sliding by them coolly and turning her attention to the indignant blond woman in line. She unlocked another fitting room toward the front and ushered her in. “Let me know if you need any other sizes, ma’am.”
“It’s about time,” the woman muttered. Joyce turned and shone a smile at the four of them before she briskly walked away.
Jean and Luke stared at one another, while Alan opened the door to investigate the fitting room Joyce had just vacated. Claire stayed close on the saleswoman’s heels. “Jo,” she said, chasing her through the store. “Joyce!”
“What’s going on?” Luke asked.
“I have no idea.” Jean shook her head.
“What do we do?” Luke said.
“You can bring this to me in a 12,” the blond woman said, popping her head out of the door of the dressing room. She tossed a peacock blue cocktail dress at Luke’s head.
“You got it, lady,” Luke said, winking at her.
Jean took in the rising anger in the growing dressing room line. “Let’s go check on Alan,” she said, pulling Luke back to the last stall.
Alan stood in the middle of what looked like any other dressing room. The tiny cubicle was mirrored and identical lines of hooks were drilled into the other two walls. Alan was so tall his head nearly brushed the drop ceiling. “Close the door,” he said to Luke. “Lock it.” Luke hung the blue dress neatly on the wall and locked the door behind them. Alan popped the center Styrofoam ceiling tile out of place and a welcome blast of cold air flooded the tiny room that was rapidly overheating with the three of their bodies crammed in.
“You think you can get in there, Jean?”
Jean peered inside of the dark cavern overhead. “Yeah. I’ll probably need a ladder or something.”
“Plan ahead, then.” Alan replaced the tile.
“Have you gone through this one?” Luke asked.
“I’ve come out through this one,” Alan said, meaningfully, looking only at Jean.
“I’ll be careful, Alan. I’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.”
A sharp rap on the door interrupted them. “Guys, you should come out here.” Claire and Joyce stood on the other side of the door; Claire was flushed with excitement.
“Everyone,” Claire said. “This is Jo.”
“Hi, Jo.” Luke attempted a handshake, the kind of handshake you had to be born adjacent to a boardroom to reproduce. Jo shook it, suspicious, pulling her meticulously braided hair over one shoulder.
“Jo,” Claire continued, a little menacing, “is an old friend in the business.”
“What business?” Alan asked.
“Show business.” Claire grinned. “Apparently Jo is very familiar with the shortcuts.”
“Can we please talk about this somewhere more private? I don’t want to lose my job.” It was Jo’s turn to be menacing.
“Why don’t you tell them you have terrible diarrhea and have to leave right now?” Claire urged.
“Can you just meet me upstairs by the home goods? It’s usually pretty quiet up there.” Jo looked around nervously and locked the door to the shortcut cubicle.
“Excuse me!” The blond woman stood with her hands on her hips, a gold-sequined minidress at odds with the athletic socks on her feet. “Where is my size 12?”
Twenty
Claire picked up a set of overpriced coasters and examined the geometric pattern etched into their faces. They had been waiting on Jo for a while. “It’s interesting. How there are coaster people and people who don’t have coasters. I bet you were a coaster family.” She pointed at Luke.
He shrugged. “Were you?”
“Of course, but not fancy like these.” Claire waved the pack of coasters like a flag. “What about you, Jean?”
“We were definitely not a coaster family.” Normally, she would have sealed herself up against such a question, deliberately, as though tightly lacing a boot. But now, sharing with the others felt good, like stretching before a long run.
Alan gave her an odd look. “We weren’t either,” he said.
“It’s pretty convenient, that you know someone who can help us out,” Jean said to Claire pointedly.
“I promise you, it’s just a coincidence,” Claire muttered. “I hoped I would never see that girl again. She’s a backstabbing viper.”
“I’ve never really believed in coincidences,” Alan said, studying Claire as though seeing her for the first time.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence—only connections,” Jean agreed.
“Well, the next time your friend from acting class spreads vicious rumors about you to every casting director in the city, we can have a measured debate on equal footing about the existence of coincidence. I promise you, I did not plan this, but if it helps us in the long run, who cares?” Claire crossed her arms over her chest, stung.
“Alright, you all really need to leave.” Jo paced toward them across the empty mezzanine.
“We aren’t leaving until you talk to us.” Claire sat down on the edge of a raised display dais. “This is Luke, Jean, and Alan, and we’re going to need to use that dressing room. Privately.”
Jo looked toward the heavens. “Look, I don’t know what you all are into, and frankly that’s none of my business, but that dressing room is off-limits.”
“Surely you can make an exception,” Luke said good-naturedly, like a person for whom many exceptions had been made.
“You owe me one, Jo.” Claire looked at her, eyebrows raised meaningfully.
“I already apologized!” Jo replied, indignant. “What else do you want me to do?”
“Let us use the dressing room one night next week. Make sure nobody interrupts us. That’s literally it. Okay? Sound good?”
“If you leave right now and I never see any of you again afterward, sure.”
“Sounds good,” Jean said. “Please put your number in.” She handed across her phone.
“I don’t want her calling me,” Jo said, nodding toward Claire, as she prodded her phone number into Jean’s contacts.
“No problem. Thanks, Jo. We’ll be in touch.” Jean forced a polite smile.
“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”
* * *
The next morning, Alan insisted on coming with them to St. Damian’s, and Jean was grateful for his presence in the car.
“So, Alan, Mr. Grudge,” Luke said from the driver’s seat. “What was it like? Being in The Throwaways?”
“Ew, Luke—stop!” Claire smacked his arm and he ran over a pothole, sending all of Jean’s muscles into a painful, collective grip.
Alan noticed and took her hand like a TV nurse. Jean looked at their hands on the burnished leather upholstery of the middle seat and felt a warm kick in her chest. “To be honest, kid, I don’t remember a whole hell of a lot.”
The receptionist at St. Damian’s was markedly less sunny when they arrived. “You’re here to see your uncle again, right?” she said, giving Jean a significant look.
