NOLA: Found a Peanut, pt 3

Part One | Part Two

Mags rearranges some of the things so there's more in the dresser and I load the trunk. She takes the tags off Peanut's bear-cat thing now that it's paid for, and makes a few more disparaging remarks in Romany about the bigoted cashier.

“[Did she actually ask you if you were stealing us?]”

“[No, she asked if you were my sisters.]”

“Okay, that's something,” she says, closing the trunk, “[Gonna report her anyway. The bitch. What was her name?]”

“Bev, I think.”

“It'll be on the receipt,” she says, “You didn't toss it, did you?”

I pull the crumpled paper out of my pocket and hand it to her, and she puts it in her bag.

“Alright, back to the apartment!” she says, as though we're off to battle.

“Can—can I sit up front?” Peanut asks, hesitantly.

“Of course,” Mags says, unlocking the doors.

I open the passenger side and let her in. She studies the belt for a moment and then buckles herself in, and I climb in the back and stretch out. Mags coughs at me and I rearrange so I can buckle in and then shift my way back to actually being comfortable stretched out again as we drive out of the parking lot. I can hear Peanut excitedly asking questions about things as we travel but I let Mags answer them all and just try to push off the crappy feelings that are creeping across my forehead, keeping one arm across my face, feeling the turns as we go.

I sit up as we pull in, tangling myself in the belt, and having to carefully extract myself.

Peanut turns round concerned, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “This is why I don't like to wear seatbelts.”

“Well, if you sat in the car like a normal person,” Mags retorts as I let myself out of the car and she pops the trunk. I go and unlock the door to the stair case, as Peanut lets herself out of the car, cat-bear still clutched tightly in one hand.

“Do you think you can unlock the rest of the doors?” I ask her, “This one is for the gate, and this one is for the main apartment. Mags and I will start bringing things upstairs.”

“I can carry things,” she says.

“Okay,” Mags says, “Here, you take this bag of clothes along with you and unlock the doors too, does that work? Given you have your plushie there to carry as well,” she holds out one of the bags, and puts the handles over Peanut's wrist and then I put the first key in her hand, and verify again the other key for the inner door, and she heads off up the stair case.

I loop several bags on each wrist and then pick up the dresser.

“We can make more than one trip,” Mags says, “or I can call my--”

“Why?” I ask her, “When we can get it in one?”

Mags closes the gate and the door behind her and puts her bags on the couch seeing the ones I dumped there and then moves around to start opening things, “Come on, Peanut,” she says, “Let's make sure it's only clothes in your dresser. Why don't you put the food away?” she suggests to me, “You know where you want it.”

Mrrr...fine. That shouldn't take too long. It's not like we got a ton of things, but then Peanut has left the keys on the kitchen counter, which is good, because when I'm shoving empty bags into the trash can I remember it needs to go out because it's got the meat in there that's gone bad, and if I don't do it now. I tell them I'll be right back and traipse back downstairs and through the doors next to my stair well past the laundry facilities and out the back to the dumpsters. The fucking clanging that makes is the worst, but it has to be done. Still, I leave it open when I come back through and up the stairs again, to carefully shake out another trash bag, hopefully without seeing spots, and put the can back together because again. It won't happen if I don't do it now.

“--good for it?” I catch from Mags.

“What?”

“The dresser,” she says, “Where's a good spot for it? No one needs to be tripping over it in the middle of the night or something, yeah?”

“Right,” I lean my arms down on the kitchen counter, “I don't know...corner by the window then?” I wave, carefully, in that direction, “Move the book pile on to the...I'll put it in my room.”

“We should have gotten you a shelf,” Mags points out.

“I didn't think about it.”

“No shit,” she says.

“It's half a dozen books, doesn't need a whole shelf.”

“And how many more do you have in there? Isn't there another box around here somewhere?”

“Does it really matter? Just hand them over,” I wave at her as she's moving Peanut's dresser around, and she gives me the eye, but passes the books over, “I'll sort something out. You guys can finish things out here, yeah? And find your way around the kitchen to do whatever you were going to make?”

“Stir fry,” she says.

“Yeah, that,” I tell her, “Put your things wherever in the bathroom,” I tell Peanut, “and there's a closet thing right there,” I wave to the little attempt at a hallway alcove thing carefully so as not to drop any of the books, “for the extra towels and you can put your blanket there when you're not using it,” and I take my haul into my room and push the door closed with my foot before dumping the books on to one end of my bed, and then locking the door. Fucking finally.  
 

 

“Kieran?” there's a gentle tapping that accompanies it. For a moment I don't recognize the voice, and then, oh, right, found a Peanut last night, I roll over on the bed as I snicker into the pillow I've balled up under my head, “Kieran?” she asks, again, worried.

“Yeah,” I answer, still laughing slightly, “Yeah, I'm...what's going on?”

“Mags asked me to check on you. She said, 'tell the lazy ass that food will be ready soon and he needs to get his butt back out here.' if you can wake him up so I am.”

Yeesh.

“Alright,” I tell her, rolling on to my back, “I'll be out in a minute.”

“I...” she says, “I'm supposed to wait and make sure? Is that...?”

I get the feeling she's toying with something, fidgeting.

“Alright. Alright,” I pull myself up off the bed, and find the sweater I was wearing before and shrug it back on. Then unlock the door, dragging a hand through my hair a few times so that it has some semblance of being tamed and come out of my room. Peanut is standing to the side of the door and I was right she's fidgeting with the cat-bear thing. She looks relieved though now that I've reappeared. The food smells coming across the apartment is a good one and I can hear the sizzling of vegetables and meat. When we come into the main apartment Mags is at the stove stirring things in the wok and there's a sauce pan bubbling next to her.

Right. Right.

“Anything I can do?” I ask.

She turns and looks as though she was about to say something other than what she actually does say which is, “Well, we need some place to eat, maybe the table over by the couch?”

“I'll clean it off,” I answer.

Peanut looks about for a moment, “I could help?”

I glance at the table and it's piled up things, and try to think of things that were going on with me and it before Peanut arrived, and hmmm, “Why don't you...in the kitchen...Mags can show you were silverware and things are that we'll need to eat with and you can count that out ready for when I've got things cleaned off and then bring that over.”

“Okay,” she nods, and carefully sets her bear-cat down next to her pillow on the couch and goes into the kitchen area.  

I start sliding papers and mail together, some of it is junk mail I haven't bothered to properly throw away, and there are some half-read magazines but there are some books buried in here, and yeah...there, a burned spoon, some...I look at them cautiously keeping my body between the kitchen and them, yeah...empty packets and a needle, that's what I was afraid of Peanut finding if she helped, because, not exactly used to visitors until recently, and feh.

I scrape those things in with the junk mail and fold everything over and dump it in the trash can quickly, and then put the magazines and books into a stack and put them over by the window before getting a damp rag and some cleaning spray to wash the table off with. Once things are settled Peanut brings over the forks and spoons Mags had her pick out of the drawer and I have her place them around the table, and I go into the kitchen to get the bowls out so that we can have somewhere to put the food.

Mags is draining the noodles over the sink and soon we're sitting on couch cushions laid out on the floor around the table with bowls full of stir fry and glasses of juice.

“It's good,” I tell Mags after a few bites, “Thank you.”

She nods, “I can cook,” she laughs, taking a drink of her juice.

Peanut seems unsure though, and is moving things around in her bowl uneasily now that she's eaten some.

“What's wrong?” Mags asks her, as Peanut puts a strip of beef in her mouth looking for all the world like it might jump off the fork and bite her, and chews it up, “Don't you like it?”

Peanut doesn't say anything for a while, focusing on eating what's in her mouth and swallowing it. She shoves something else into her mouth wary, and uncomfortable, and makes a sort of squeaking sound while she's still shaking her head. She's definitely nervous—probably that she's going to get into trouble and we'll kick her out after everything that's happened.

I look at Mags and she's looking at me I think her expression is saying the same thing.

“It's okay if you don't like it,” I tell Peanut.

“Yes,” Mags echoes, “It's fine.”

“You don't remember a lot of things,” I continue, “So, you don't remember what things are so, of course, you're not going to know what you don't like and what you do. Just put what you don't like...on the table and we'll clean it up later.”

She looks over at me with those big eyes for a moment, and I wonder if I was speaking in Romany and not English, and then she makes another uncomfortable noise and goes back to the bowl, and doesn't look at either Mags or I while she shunts the beef around in the bowl but doesn't take it out but does start just eating the vegetables and noodles. So, it is the beef that she doesn't like. I look over at Mags wondering if, but she probably has noticed this too, she's not an idiot. She nods at me without actually saying anything as we finish up our own food, and there's just minor small talk confirming that I have work tomorrow, and that we'll be working at least part of the shift together, though chances are she'll be asked to stay on the evening and stupid bitch will be sent home, Mags points out in Romany, and there'll be much rejoicing. It won't be the first time it's happened, either.

 “That's what happens when you actually do the work,” I point out.

“And your--” Mags starts.

“And aren't related to the owners,” I add before she can make some joke about me sleeping in the back stock room at times. I push off from the table to take my bowl into the kitchen now that it's empty and start clearing away things. There are some leftovers, and I find something to put them in the fridge in. Seeing as Peanut didn't seem to like the beef but was weird about taking it out I put it into a separate bowl when I put things away leaving the veggies and noodles together and they all go into the fridge next to the box of leftover pastries.

I rinse out the pans and utensils and put them in the dishwasher so that it's done, and realize that Peanut is watching me from the edge of the counter, holding hers and Mags' bowls in her hands as Mags is wiping down the table again.

“Thank you,” I take them from her, and take one of the strips of meat out of her bowl and eat it while throwing the rest into the trash, and then rinse her bowl out too and put it in the dishwasher. Not really enough to warrant running things just yet, even once the glasses are in there. It'll run tomorrow though, if I remember.

Mags stretches when she stands up and looks to Peanut and I in the kitchen before crossing the short distance to where we are, “I'm going to have to love you and leave you,” she says, “If I don't get the car back to my cousin soon he'll start charging me late fees.”

“Do you need to give him gas money or anything?” I ask her, “I can give you money towards that.”

She shakes her head, “No, it's fine. He owes me a lot more than a car trip. I just need to remind him of that. I can check in with you guys tomorrow before work,” she pats me in the shoulder, “Hey, you'll be on time for once!”

“Oh, don't start that,” I tell her, “Aunt Susan will get ideas...”

She shakes her head, “Well, I'm not being late,” she turns to the zana girl, “It's been very nice to meet you, Peanut,” she says, “I hope you have a good night and I'll see you again soon.”

Peanut nods, “Thank you for the food,” she says.

“No problem,” Mags answers, and lets herself out the door. I go to lock it behind her but Peanut is already there and doing so. She learns quickly.

I sit down on the couch and put some music on on my phone, checking what the time is, around eight-thirty, and then set the phone on the table. Peanut sits down on the couch at the opposite end, cross-legged, picking up the cat-bear again and toying with one of it's ears. I try to think if the book I'd been reading was in the pile I threw across my bedroom earlier but there's Peanut here, probably having a million questions about things and perhaps not sure of if or how to ask them.

I'm about to ask her if there's anything she wants to know or alternately if she wants some more juice when the music gives way to, “Work Bitch calling. Work Bitch calling,” I answer the phone quickly, though I get the feeling that Peanut probably has no idea what that might mean.

“Jo?” I ask, standing up and moving towards the kitchen bar.

“Kennick,” she says, sternly, “Are you home?”

“Where else would I be?” I lean on the bar itself, “I'm not working.”

“Forgive me,” she says, drawing it out, “for wanting to make sure you were there before sending the courier up with your pay packet. It's not as if we can just leave it in the hall.”

My hand is at my chest and towards my neck before I really think about it, “No, of course, not.”

“So, we can send someone up?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I say, “Thank you.”

“Follow protocol.”

“No shit.”

She disconnects. The music comes back on.  

“Was that the one that went to work?” Peanut asks, from the couch.

“What?” I ask her.

“Mags,” she says, “One of her went to work. Was that the one?”

“Oh, no,” I answer, “That was someone from my other job. I did a...thing for them a few days ago and they're bringing my pay now.”

“...do you like doing things for them?” she asks, fiddling with the cat-bear's ear, but not looking at me.

Oh, fun questions, “It is what it is,” that seems safe. Please don't ask what my job is. I don't know if I can think of some sort of way to put that right now.

“Why do you do the job if you don't like it?” she asks me.

Oh, good question, Peanut. I find myself giving a slight snort, and toying with the edge of the counter where the edging is peeling, “Well, sometimes, there are--” the buzzer outside goes off and Peanut jumps. I go and unlock the inner door and open it and stand in the little entryway there. On the other side of the iron bars is Courier Number Two. I can see the lines of the manila envelope folded in his pocket, but first things first and he pulls the expected mini iPad out of his inner jacket, unfolding the fancy case, presses on it and then swipes and types here and there, glancing up at me as I try not to tap my foot impatiently or drum my fingers on the bars next to his head.

He coughs and then clears his throat more decisively, pulling a stylus from part of the case and then swallows, “This is to acknowledge your services to the Watch on the fifth of this month...” he trails off looking down at his screen, “Yeah, fifth.”

“Yes.”

“This is the statement you--”

I wave my hand at him, and he passes the iPad and stylus through the bars. I scroll through the paperwork there, “Yes, this is my statement. Initials,” fuck, clear, GK. GK, “Yes, there was no undue damage. Initial. Yes, everything went as described. Initial. No, there were no unforeseen complications. Initial. Yes, fuck...” I lean against the wall and scroll through the cleaner's statement of the scene, “Yes, I agree,” Remember to sign the correct name now idiot, “Sign.” I hand the pad back to him, “You could learn from Number Three he's a lot faster at this.”

“Three?”

I hold a hand against the bars, “This much taller than you, lighter hair, slight limp on the left side.”

“Oh, Barry.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He signs something on there himself, and then reaches in his pocket for the package, scans the bar code on it with the iPad's camera, and hands it to me. I open the top and look inside, scanning to check that everything is in there, “Now, just sign again for receipt of the envelope and we're all done,” he shifts everything around carefully so I can sign with the stylus and after I've done that and clicked save he folds all that back up inside his jacket. I back into the apartment, close the door and lock everything again before going to the kitchen counter by the sink to properly go through the envelope, as usual.

I tip the bag up at an angle and shake everything out the needles, bags of packets and vials fall out first, and I slide them across the counter, as the money bundles more heavily follow. There's another bag of packets at the bottom and a rubber tie. Four money bundles. Three bundles of heroin. I move them around on the counter, sort of checking the packets inside one bag without actually opening anything just yet. When I look up doing the mental count my eyes catch Peanut still sitting on the couch.

Peanut.

Shit. Right. Shit.

This is not a normal whatever day afternoon—evening. It's evening.

I slip things back into the envelope. Fuck.

Well, at least I was on this side of the bar and I can go put things away and then sort out and keep her company for a bit. She's a kid. She'll go to sleep soon enough. Right?

“Hey,” I tell her, sheepish.

“Hey,” there's a little pause before she finishes saying, “...is it good?”

What's she wondering about? Did she see something? What's she talking about? Don't let that breath out outside, “Is what good?” hopefully that didn't sound too weird. Will she actually notice?

She waves a hand towards me, mostly in the direction of the envelope though, “The...pay? It's...what it should be?”

“OH! Y-yes,” huge relief but don't let that out to much either, “It's good. It's all there. I should...go, put everything...away though,” and I need to do other things, “I'll be back in a little while.”

The money goes in my safe, and two of the bags go in there as well, on the top shelf. I do have some left, but this is new. I can't help but have to try it.

When I come back out into the main room and flop down on the couch Peanut is toying with one of the jigsaw puzzle boxes turning it around and around in her hands.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she says, “I just don't know how to get into it.”

“No trouble,” I pull the knife out of my pocket, and flip it open, “Pass it here,” I make the motion with my other hand, and she puts the puzzle box in my hand. I slip the blade in between the box and the lid and spin it around to cut them free, and then I take the jigsaw puzzle with both hands knife carefully held between two fingers and shake it so that the bottom comes off showing the jigsaw pieces in their plastic pouch. I take the pouch and stab it with the knife and slice along so that it's open, then flip the knife back closed and slip it back in my pocket.

Peanut is staring at me like I just pulled a rabbit out of thin air.

“You ready?”

She nods.

“Alright,” I tell her, “Let's get this on the table and I'll show you how jigsaw's work.”

I take the box lid and she takes the packet and carefully tips them out on the table and starts turning them over and looking at the colored pieces.

“That's good,” I tell her, slipping off the couch onto the floor so that it's easier to access the table, she follows my lead moving the already face up pieces to one side and turning the other ones over with both hands, “Make sure all of them are face up, with the picture side on them,” I start turning the other pieces over.

“Like this?” she clarifies even though she's clearly been doing fine.

“Yeah,” I tell her, “and look for pieces that have one or more straight edges like this,” I show her one of the border pieces, “and put those separately. Those are the outside edge of the puzzle,” I point to the rim of the box and circle it with my finger, “and once we put that together it's easier to do the rest of the puzzle.”

“Okay,” she nods, pushing one piece with an edge so that it's next to where I've put mine down, and then examining the pieces she's already turned over to pull the edge pieces out of that as I finish flipping other pieces over and pulling the edge pieces out, “These ones are the same,” she says, holding up two that are both the same shade of orange, and do have opposing ends.

“Well, see if they fit then,” I say, “Put them down on the table, and,” I find two other pieces I've eyed before as matches and push them together to show her what to do. Sure enough both sets lock together.

Soon enough it's mostly chains of things, and the occasional frustration when things don't quite match, and her delight when large sections click together is magnificent, as she hums along with music that my phone is playing tapping her feet. I'm getting to the point I can't ignore the itchiness much longer though and the edges are pretty well done. She puts in the last couple of pieces and I make the move.

“It's probably a good time to get you ready for bed, Peanut,” I tell her, “It's pretty late, and the edges are done. You can work on the rest tomorrow while I'm at work.”

She nods and then hesitates but then looks intrigued and excited, “How does getting ready happen?”

“Well...first, where did you put the night clothes? The pajamas?” she points to the dresser, and then goes and gets them out.

Mags apparently pulled tags off them when she was putting things away, so I direct Peanut to the bathroom to change into the clothes, but tell her to come back out once she's ready for the next step and go into my own bedroom to change because I have a feeling I'm going to have to show her how to brush her teeth, and I don't know if there'll be “are you going to sleep in your clothes? Are you not ready for bed?” or whatever questions, so I may as well be.

I get out of the clothes I was wearing and put on pajama pants and a tank top and come back out to look for her. She's leaning against the back of the couch dancing the cat-bear back and forth in her hands.

“Alright,” I tell her, “Where did you put your toothbrush and paste?”

She points into the bathroom, “I put them where yours are.”

Well, that's easy enough. I open the cabinets and get the paste out, and open her box and put it in the trash can. The multipack of brushes she had has been opened an they're all sitting around my electric toothbrush in the cup on the counter like a strange flower bouquet. I show her how to rinse the toothbrush a little bit and then put the toothpaste on.

“And now, yours isn't going to do this because it's not electric but,” I turn mine on and she jumps back a little bit. Yeah, we made the right choice getting her a basic toothbrush, “you brush things the same way.”

She watches me for a moment and then copies what I'm doing. I lean down to spit and she follows suit and then says, “What's that?”

“What's what?” I ask, turning my toothbrush off in my mouth, realizing when I look in the mirror as I'm standing up from spitting again that I didn't put on a long sleeved shirt, or robe or—do I even have a robe? But she's pointing to my back with her toothbrush.

“That,” she cautiously touches my shoulder area with her finger now, thankfully and not the toothbrush.

“Oh, the br—tattoo,” yeah, lets not get into all of that right now.

“Tattoo?”

“Yeah,” I nod, “People get—it's sort of a permanent picture on your body, there's a lot of people with a ton more than me. They get ones they get pictures that they think look neat, or pictures that mean something to them, to commemorate people...things like that,” she's gonna ask about yours now isn't she?...tradition? Family thing? Fuck. So, not getting into this brand just appeared on me after I killed my father because of that job I do that I just got paid for.

“I want a tattoo some day,” she says with what appears to be all the conviction in her being and then goes back to brushing her teeth.

Well, then, never mind. I finish up my own teeth, and show her the last steps, and then we find where she put her pillow and blanket and get her settled.

“Remember I'm just through there,” I tell her. Remember, she's just out here, I tell myself. No attacking the small child if she comes into your room or makes noise out here. It's not invaders. It's just Peanut.

She nods.

“Alright. Good night,” I say, and she echoes the same, and I head to my room and don't lock the door, but I do make triply sure I throw everything away after I set myself up for the night, and I put the music on at half the volume I normally do in case I need to hear something.  

 

I hear a tapping as of someone gently rapping...

Knocking someone's knocking and a cautious voice, calling my name.

“Peanut?” my voice is awkward from sleep.

“Kieran—I--I think...” there's a pause. I'm already rolling out of bed and making my way to the door, “I think the stir fry is fighting back.”

Shit.

“Okay,” I open the door, “Let's get you to the bathroom,” well, at least I'm used to puke. I lift the toilet lid and seat, and carefully wrap her hair around my hand so that it's out of the way.

She's breathing hard, gulping and whimpering for a few moments before everything comes up. Once it seems like things have calmed down. I get the rinse cup from the sink and have her swish her mouth around like she did after cleaning her teeth and spit it out before we flush everything, and let her sit on top of the closed toilet to calm down and wipe her face with a damp cloth.

I try to remember if there was anything Mom used to do when people had been puking and there wasn't Pepto or anything in the house. Tea...don't have any of that, ginger ale, don't have any of that either. I top up the drink cup and have her sip on it a little bit, at least there'll be something in her stomach if she starts puking again.

“I'm going to see if I have anything in the kitchen that might help settle your stomach a bit,” I tell her, “Do you want to stay there or sit on the couch?”

“Couch,” she says.

“Alright,” I help her up, open the toilet again, and walk her to the couch and sit her down, “If you start to feel bad again. You know where to run.”

“Yes,” she says, nodding ever so slightly holding the cup in one hand and the bear-cat in the other.

The kitchen area doesn't have much to offer except more water, the cereal or bread. She threw up the eggs yesterday, but she kept down the pastries. She didn't seem to like the taste of the beef, but she was forcing herself to eat it until we told her it was okay not to. Was her body rejecting the beef? Eggs, beef...how's she going to do with cheese? Or the lunch meat? Fuck. Well, at least I separated the veggies and the noodles, maybe she'll be okay with just those?

At least we got the granola bars.

Granola bars.

I grab one of the chocolatier ones.

Hopefully that won't be too harsh on her stomach, and she seems to do really well with the chocolate, maybe that's bad, but she did fall asleep a bit after eating the chocolate pastry and getting loopy, and she does need to rest. It's like giving her Benadryl—maybe? Let's not over think this. I'm not giving her dope.

When I come back to the couch I realize Peanut is crying. I sit down next to her carefully.

“Are you feeling any better?” I ask her, taking the cup from her as she doesn't seem to be drinking any more, and I put it on the table.

“I...think so?” she says, “I just...I wasn't stronger than the stir fry,” she sniffles, “I should just eat the cereal. I can beat that. I can't beat the other things. I'm too weak, everything beats me and—and--” she makes a motion with her hand which is a little hard to decipher but I think is trying to be throwing up, “It all keeps fighting me and I can't do it like you can.”

“Like I can, what?”

“You beat the stir fry. You haven't thrown it up,” she says, miserably.

Oh, “Well, I don't—I think it's the meat your body doesn't like, or things from animals, more likely, maybe? And because you can't remember things you didn't remember you can't eat that stuff exactly. You didn't like the taste of the beef, maybe you didn't realize you didn't like the taste of the eggs because you were just so, so very hungry at the time, and that's why it fought your body and got pushed out. You were fine with the cereal, and you were fine with the pastries too, and they're made with all sorts of different things from plants, and water,” I hand her the granola bar, after opening the top of it so she can get at the actual bar, “Here, for when you're feeling up to eating something. It'll be good to have something in your stomach. Plus it's chocolate.”

“What animal is beef from?” she asks.

“Beef is from a cow,” I realize my phone is in my room, but then also after the debacle with the chicken picture it's probably best to not show her pictures of the cow right now anyway.

“It's okay to not eat meat?”

“Lots of people don't eat meat and they do it for different reasons.”

“Hm,” she nibbles on the granola bar a little bit, and then chews on it more thoroughly, probably recognizing the taste of chocolate and how good it is, “You still make rainbows,” she murmurs before she slides against my shoulder, mumbling a few more things I can't quite make out. I wait a few minutes longer until I'm sure her breathing is soft and regular before I slide around and lift her into a better position on the couch but laying sideways just in case and cover her back with the blanket before going back to my room.

I read some more of the horror anthology I've been working my way through until I get too fidgetitchy to concentrate and then dose again and float my own way back to dreamland.  

 

The clanging of the dumpster jars me awake, and when I look at the time, just after 9 a.m I see several texts marked urgent on Siri's screen which are basically reminding me to look at the notifications from the joint calendar. I don't know why they can't update certain logs, but apparently it has to come from my side of the drive or something. I'm already irritated and definitely awake so I may as well knock this crap out of the way, especially as I already got paid; but this stuff has to be completed by the end of the week, and there are other things they want to make sure I've read because it's apparently been sitting there or something. I don't even know.

Then I delete any of the crap and save other things to different folders in case I get asked if I still have something and need to check on things and be all “here it is” and there's the database file that they want me to double check and verify all the info from “previous cases” because that makes it sound better. By the time I'm finished I'm so fucking done anyway but it's not like I don't have ways to mellow me out.

I'm putting everything into the trash or back into the cabinet when Siri tells me Mags is calling and I put her on speaker.

“What's up?”

“You're awake?”

“You're surprised.”

“What in the past months of knowing you would mean I shouldn't be?” she says, “It's barely ten.”

“Hrm,” I answer, “Anyway, trash collection woke me, and anyway. Why were you calling?”

“We talked yesterday about me coming over?” she says, “Is it okay for me to come over now?”

“Sure. I'll get dressed and wake Peanut.”

“Alright. I'll just be a few minutes then. See you soon,” she hangs up.

I find pants and a sweater, and pull off the pants and start to put on the other ones and have to brace against the wall because I start to feel dizzy and sick. Lovely. I breath in and out slowly. I don't want to throw up and freak out Peanut. I go to pull off the tank top, don't bend, don't bend. Just breathe. Breathe. Fuck it. Sweater over the top it—nope, bathroom it is.

“Peanut. Are you okay?” I hear Mags in the main room, as I take a breath hoping it's stopped.

“Ye-as?”

“Oh—it's not you,” the door's locking again, “I wasn't--” another brief moment, and then thankfully it's done enough to rinse things clear and brush my teeth a bit. I should have had her do that again. Should I? She ate the granola bar anyway so it wouldn't have done much good.

I give myself a 30 count after I pull the sweater over my head before I open the door to the bathroom and wait for a moment leaning against the door frame.

“It's okay to not fight the cow?” Peanut is staring at me with big pleading eyes.

It takes me a second to register she is just talking about herself, that it was a question and she wasn't giving me advice, “You don't have to eat the cow at all.”

Mags is looking at me slightly confused, but I just give her a sort of wait for explanation in a bit wave.

“I don't want to fight the cow. Or the chicken,” she says, firmly.

“That's fine,” I tell her.

She looks extremely relieved now, and settles down on the couch with much less tension than she had before.

“What about you?” Mags asks, “Do you need some soda water or anything?”

“No,” I tell her, “I'm good.”

“Okay,” she mumbles something I don't really catch but then spreads her arms against the kitchen counter, “Do you think you can eat something?”

“In a little while, maybe? But Peanut? Are you hungry? You want to pick out clothes to wear first?”

Her eyes light up at the mention of clothes and she gets up and goes to the dresser to look at things that are in there. Outfit picked out she goes into the bathroom to get dressed and I go into the kitchen area where Mags is.
“[What's the cow thing about?]”

“[Oh, yeah...some time in the night she threw up the stir fry...I think it might be the beef considering the way--.]

“[How she didn't like the beef? And the thing with the eggs?]

“Yeah,” I nod.
“Do you have any leftover pastries?” she asked, “She kept those down.”

“We should, unless she got up in the night and ate them, but I doubt it somehow. [It is chocolate though],” I point out, “Remember how that went yesterday?”

“[That was the first time she'd ever had chocolate...possibly?]” Mags says.

“Good point,” I say as the door opens and Peanut comes out.

“What do I do with all the other clothes?” she asks, “There are the ones from...yesterday? And the pajamas.”

“The pajamas you can wear again if you want,” I tell her, “I usually wear mine a couple of days if I don't get them dirty somehow, but the clothes—there's a hamper,” I show her in the bathroom, “when it's full I take the laundry to the washers downstairs and clean everything. I do pajamas and stuff then too, to be honest.”

She nods and puts yesterday's clothes in the hamper, and her pajamas back in the dresser. Mags has folded up her blanket and I put it back in the closet.

“So,” Mags says, “Food? I had a little bit of a snack earlier but I could eat again and I imagine neither of you has eaten.”

“No,” I tell her.

“I don't want to eat eggs either,” Peanut says, equally as firmly as she said chicken and beef.

“You don't have to,” I assure her again, “There should still be a pastry.”

Her face lights up and she almost teleports to the fridge she runs so fast and hasn't properly stopped before she yanks it open. To my surprise she picks out the bowl of beef that I put in there last night.

“Ha ha, you can't beat me! I'm not gonna eat you! So there!” she tells the bowl before pushing it back into the fridge, leaving Mags and I exchanged amused looks at each other. She then takes out the pastry box and the bag of grapes, and goes to the couch.

“Well, that's her taken care of,” Mags remarks, “What about us? What do you feel like?”

I shrug, “I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Do you like French toast?” she asks.

“Sure.”

Then she hesitates, “You don't have any spices here, do you?”

I pull a guilty face, “I don't really cook much so...I have salt, pepper?”

There's an almost explosion of citrus blossoms and ozone from the other side of the room that knocks me into the counter. Peanut.

Mags reaches for me, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just...” I wave my hand at her, “Weird for a moment.”

“Maybe we shouldn't give you dairy?” she says.

I feel something odd, tickling at me, but yet not tickling at me. My ear is sort of itching as though the blocker against people's mind reading is suddenly sort of picking up a radio station but the brand—the brand on my back is going nuts, like a compass too close to a magnet.

“No, it's fine. I'll be fine. It's easing up already. I might still have some oregano I stole from the kitchen at the bar to put in eggs...but that's not really a French toast thing.”

“Uh, no. At least you know that,” Mags laughs, “Well, we have time. I can run back home and get the spices and do you have honey or maple syrup.”

I shake my head, laughing a little because what would make her think I would have that considering the lack of everything else that I have. Peanut is giggling on the couch, laying back on it slightly propped up on one of the arms, muddling through something sort of song-like with fruit and color names she's heard over the past few names and munching grapes here and there.

“Yeah, I figured but I had to ask,” Mags gives me a tentative hug, “Alright I'll be back in a little bit,” and I follow as she lets herself out of the door so that I can lock them both behind her. I lean against the door watching Peanut for a little while as she bobs her head, waving her hands slightly.

“Peanut?”

She sits up more and turns to me.

“Are you poking at my head?”

“...no? Maybe?” she looks, confused, but her eyes aren't as glassy as they were when she had the chocolate the other—that was yesterday, only yesterday—shit, “I don't know, am I? I'm poking the thing that makes all the colors...?”

“Yeah...” I run my hand down my face, so that's what that power is, “That explains...” so much, “I knew something different was going on and there was a sort of power spike from you...” she said the thing making colors, and yesterday when she was making the hand motions it was towards the blocker, “but, wait, colors?” is she even going to have the words?

“Colors. Power spike?”

Hm, how to go into this whole mess without going into that other whole mess, “I can...kinda tell when people with powers have their powers turn on, and there was a big jump or, well, spike,” I make a hand motion which hopefully just demonstrates that raise in level and doesn't look like—well, she's not going to know what that other thing is anyway is she? “in power level from your direction, and I've never heard of anything around me making colors from anyone, but then most people with powers don't really...” yeah, we don't really have extended conversations, do we now? And the Watch's mind assholes aren't going to tell me how it works, “...anyway, do the colors come from...?” I wave my hand at the spot around my ear where the blocker is.

“I have powers?”

Now I feel sheepish because is she going to be worried that's the only reason she's here, “Yeah...that was kinda how I found you. I sm—sensed you,” let's not get into the smelling thing that's not going to sound creepy at all, “and...well, I'd never sensed someone like that and I was worried at first I was in danger, but it was you instead.”

She looks thoughtful now but also a little...worried or maybe it's a little more than that, “I'm glad you found me,” is what she says though.

Yeah. I'm glad I found you too, for so many reasons, “It's good,” is what comes out of my mouth though as I move back to the couch and sit down near her feet, patting them to make sure she's paying attention, though she is looking in my direction, “You see colors here?” I point to my ear where the blocker is clipped. It's mostly behind the visible part of the ear itself just a little bit through the ear that comes off like an earring up there, “Do...you see anything else?”

She nods, “Colors come out of there. I see...”

I think she's making a sign like a big ball around my head, or maybe just signing my head itself, “Hm,” I say.

“It's full of...” she makes swirly motions, “...like the eggs in the bowl, kind of.”

Before or after I mixed them I wonder, “I'm not sure I understand but that's okay...” it's not your fault. It's gotta be tricky when you have a limited understanding of the universe because probably half your vocabulary got eaten by something.

“It's not as pretty as the colors,” she says, “How come you have the colors but Mags doesn't?” she's getting a little mumbly-slur, which could well be the after effects of the chocolate, fortunately I'm well-versed in stoner-speak, “She has the bowl of eggs, but not the colors.”

Oh. OH! The bowl of eggs is how she's seeing people's brain patterns, maybe? And the colors are clearly coming from the blocker.

“Well...the colors, I think that's from--” I'm going to have to explain mind blocker technicalities if I use that term aren't I? “I have this...” no that's not going to work either, “my other job gave me the thing to mess with people who try to read your mind—the job that paid me last night.”

“It turns things into colors.”

“I guess that would do it. Screw up a mind reader if words were suddenly colors.”

“Words are the squiggles on boxes?”

Boxes? I thought we were on eggs—oh, idiot, she's probably talking about the boxes we got at the store yesterday. I look around to see what I can find to show her that has words on it. Oh, the pastry box.

“Here, these are words. There's only a few on here, but words are the written down versions of things that we say. This just says 'Cafe DuMonde' but, yeah...”

She doesn't look all that impressed, “There's no squiggles or sound. Just colors,” there's another moment and then she says, “Oh! They expect words to come out of the bowl of eggs, but the things makes it into pretty colors.”

“...I guess so? I can't do mind reading,” haven't killed one of those yet, have you? I shudder, “so I don't know.”

“Mags didn't have any squiggles coming out of her eggs. I didn't hear anything come out, but I was looking at the colors,” her eyes drift back towards my ear again.

“I see...” I tell her, hearing Mags on the stairs.  

I unlock the inner door and open it to let her in. Peanut turns around on the couch so she's kneeling up and facing towards the kitchen as Mags puts down the basket she was carrying on the kitchen counter, and pulls a cloth off the top and starts taking out small bottles of colored powder as well as a larger bottle full of amber liquid.

“Alright,” she says, “On with the recipe,” she glances over at Peanut who is staring at us both and takes in the odd expression on the younger girl's face, “Are you okay?”

“I'm listening for squiggles,” she answers.

Mags looks at me, all I can do is laugh though because of the seriousness with which Peanut said it.

“She's just looking for squiggles in your eggs,” I can't resist adding completely unhelpfully.

“What did you give her?” Mags asks, and then looks horrified that came out of her mouth.

“Oh, sure, blame me. The pastries came from the shop under your apartment,” I remind her.

“I like chocolate,” Peanut murmurs as I get eggs and milk out of the fridge.

“She...has some sort of mind power, but the visual process is...either weird or she just doesn't have the words for it or both. If I'm understanding her correctly our brains look like a bunch of eggs in a bowl eggs yolks together maybe...before it was mixed up? Not 100% still on the description.”

“Hm,” Mags says, “If only there was something she could draw on,” but she says it in those tones which suggest she already has an answer to that.

She goes over to her purse, pulls out her laptop and flips the thing around to put it into tablet mode before logging in, and then fiddles around in her bag for a while before she finds a stylus, and then brings it over to the coffee table. Peanut is watching me at this point, her eyes darting back and forth, but her focus switches to Mags head until Mags has come over and sat down next to her. I stand behind the couch leaning on it to see what's going on.

“This is a drawing app,” she tells Peanut, “It's like drawing on paper, but it's on the computer screen. You can tap on the different colors here to change the crayon,” she sketches with it black, and then taps the red and scribbles across it but then changes it to purple and draws a simple flower and fills the middle of it in in yellow, “and then this,” she taps another button is the eraser, “and she scrubs out some of the black and red, “and you can clear an entire action using this,” she pushes a button and everything she erased comes back, “Okay? So, maybe you can draw for us what you're seeing when you talk about the eggs we have around our heads?”

Peanut nods.

Mags pushes something to give her a completely blank page, “If you have any questions about something to do with the tablet,” she points to the device, “I'm right in the kitchen area making food.”

“Okay,” Peanut says, picking up the stylus and scribbling with it a little bit and then pressing 'clear', and then changing the color and scribbling with it again and pressing 'clear'.

Peanut works quietly and industriously while I help Mags finish up the French toast.

“Mind powers, huh?” she asks.

“I told you I found a zana.” I tell her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, with a very mild raspberry, “I'd soak the bread, but it's just regular bread, it's probably safer to put the bread in the frying pan and pour the mix over it...”

“Whatever you think is best,” I tell her, “You've made this before I haven't.”

“I'm finished,” Peanut says.

I go over to her as Mags pours nutmeggy cinnamonny egg mixture over the bread in the frying pan. There's an outline of someone's face as though viewed head on given there's the vague shape of ears but inside the outline is a pattern of swirls, varying shades of white, cream and yellow, almost glittery, which is remarkable. I'd thought she meant the eggs when they were being mixed in the bowl at first and then wondered if she'd meant the eggs right after they'd been cracked into the bowl before they'd been mixed, orbs floating in a void somehow but it turns out the first thought was closer at least. This is the problem of her not having enough words, but how would I be doing if I'd lost most of my memory and had only made two-ish days of it back?

“I'm going to take it to show Mags, okay?”

Peanut nods and follows me over but stays on the other side of the breakfast bar as I go into the main area of the kitchen and hold the picture up for Mags to look at. She finishes checking the toast's underneath and looks it over with a thoughtful expression.

“So, eggs...” Mags remarks, and then presses something and I realize after a moment she's saving the picture, “I can see why you described it as eggs,” she tells Peanut, “It does look a lot like when you mix eggs in a bowl.”

Peanut nods, wisely.

“Though prettier,” Mags adds, “It's an amazing drawing, Peanut. Do we all look like this?”

“Kieran has colors.”

“Colors?”

“Can I?” she motions with her hands towards the tablet.

“Absolutely.”