Page 103 of Switch!
“What happened?” she asks.
“Patrick doesn’t want us going in that room,” I explain.
“Never would’ve figured that out on my own,” she murmurs. “How did he take over? Has that ever happened before?”
“No,” I admit. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna try talking to him.”
When I return to the black box, the scene has changed. I’m in the house where Patrick grew up. A Christmas tree glows in one corner of the living room, illuminating the presents beneath.Silent Nightis playing softly in the background, snow flurries blowing against a window dark with night. I’m standing where a dining room bleeds into the living room, the back of a couch ahead of me. Patrick is sitting there. He’s nearly motionless. I hope that means he’s no longer upset. Time passes differently in the black box. He could have had hours to calm down, if that’s what he envisioned for himself.
“It’s me,” I say, not wanting to frighten him.
The snowflakes freeze in place, like someone pausing a video. The music has stopped too.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that,” Patrick says.
“My fault,” I reply, walking around the couch to face him.
Patrick looks away. “Listen,” he says. “You can do whatever you want, but I wouldn’t waste time trying to put my life back together. I don’t want it anymore. I’m fine here. This is as good as death.”
“I don’t want you to feel that way,” I say. “Let me help you.”
He finally looks at me. Square in the eye. “You can help by leaving me alone.”
I find that hard to accept. I prefer to believe in hope, and that everyone will find their happy ending if they try hard enough. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “You need a body, don’t you? Problem solved.”
“But it doesn’t seem right that—”
A squeak attracts my attention. The front door of the house has opened, but not onto a snow dusted walkway. All I see beyond is darkness. He’s asking me to go. I’ll respect his wishes. He’s not willing to accept help at the moment, and I’m not willing to give up on him. We’re at an impasse, so I take the only reasonable option available to me.
I leave.
— — —
Two days pass before we run out of money. We were counting out change at a grocery store and came up three dollars short. If not for the next person in line, who took pity on us, we would’ve had to put items back. We still have food, but it’s not going to last much longer. Trixie doesn’t seem worried. She leads me to the bedroom where she has been keeping her suitcase since she began staying with me. We even share the same bed, which I’m sure would raise a few eyebrows if people knew. They’d be wrong. Nothing sexual has happened between us.
I’m a little surprised we don’t feel at leastsometension, because Patrick isn’t gay. I’ve been noticing women again whenever we go out, but Trixie is either too young or not his type. I’m fine with this. My life is complicated enough. I don’t need another romantic relationship. A friend is infinitely more valuable to me right now. Hanging out with her is like a slumber party that never has to end. Except now it’s time to get down to business.
“Problem solved,” Trixie says, removing a small case with the unmistakable curves of an instrument from her luggage.
I’d nearly forgotten that she plays the violin. I shake my head in response. “No way! I won’t let you sell that. We’ll start with the TV if we really have too.”
“I’d rather starve than sell this!” Trixie exclaims. “It’s my bottomless pot of gold. You’ll see.”
In the early evening, we drive to Old Town Tacoma using Patrick’s giant SUV. He might have needed the spacious interior when loading up his robotic creations, but now the vehicle is a gas guzzler coasting on fumes. The warning light comes on when we’re halfway there. I don’t know if we’ll have enough to get us home again.
We park and stroll down North Thirtieth Street. Trixie is carrying her violin case and seems to be searching for something. Aside from small boutiques, this area boasts restaurants, bars, and an explosion of foliage ahead that indicates a park. I figure she might know of a nightclub where she can play, so I’m puzzled when she stops on a street corner, takes out the violin, and leaves the open case on the ground.
“People in this neighborhood have lots of money,” she explains.
Trixie doesn’t wait. She simply begins playing, and not in the way I would have expected. At first she plucks at the violin like it’s a guitar. Then she places it under her chin and creates a mournful sound by running her bow along the strings, but this is soon interrupted by high-speed fiddling. I’m dumbstruck for the first minute. Then my foot starts tapping, a motion that carries up my legs until I’m fighting the urge to let my whole body move.
The case is already filling with money. A few bills and lots of coins. Most adults don’t stop to watch. They just keep walking, barely even pausing when they make a donation. Kids are different. There aren’t many out at this hour, but a pair grab their mother’s arm so she’s forced to stop and set down her grocery bags. This seems to invigorate Trixie, who shifts into a pop tune that’s familiar to me, even though I can’t place it. Coldplay, maybe. The kids love it. When the song ends, their mother pulls a family-size tub of raisins from a shopping bag. Trixie nods in approval and then appreciation once it’s placed in the case.
“Food!” she says after her miniature fan club wanders away. “Instant result.”
“You’re amazing!” I breathe.
