The Orchard by Charles L. Grant Read Free Book Online Page B

days.
    You just can’t.
    Another stare at the window, another look at my stomach, and I started to run. I was scared. A million names of real and fake diseases tumbled over each other in their attempts to explain, and a million other reasons sounded just as bad.
    You can’t lose fifty pounds in three days.
    You just can’t, and expect to live.
    When I got home, everyone was gone, there was no note, and I could smell a full turkey dinner cooking and baking in the kitchen. I didn’t go in. I ran upstairs to the bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the door.
    “God,” I said. “God, Jesus, what …”
    Not only wasn’t I fat like I used to be, there wasn’t even any sagging. My skin was normal, no folds where the weight used to be, no wattles on my neck, no creases … no nothing.
    “Oh, god. Oh, Jesus.”
    I sat on the floor, trying to get a breath and stop the tears that were there suddenly, then grabbing onto my arms, my legs, to keep them from shaking themselves right out of their sockets.
    I felt the cold, but I was used to it.
    And I heard the buzzing in my ears, the murmuring of a thousand voices so low I couldn’t understand them.
    And I looked at myself again and something heaved in my stomach; I crawled over to the toilet, threw up the lid, and leaned over the bowl. But nothing came out because there was nothing inside, and the retching went on so long I started to whimper at the pain, at the burning, at the tiny flecks of black I saw floating in the water.
    I don’t think I’ve cried so much since I was a baby.
    I could smell turkey and bread dressing and hot rolls and fresh butter.
    The light dimmed before I was able to move again, and the first thing I did was put my clothes back on, not caring how I looked, only wondering who I could go to, who I could find who would tell me what was wrong.
    The second thing I did was smash the mirror with everything I could pull from the medicine cabinet.
    The house was dark.
    I could smell pumpkin pie and ice cream and whipped cream and fresh cider.
    I stumbled into the living room and stared at the phone.
    I couldn’t call Mike, I couldn’t call Rich, I couldn’t call Amy because she would only want to talk about how her life was over.
    Mary wasn’t home.
    Stick was.
    “What do you want,” he said flatly.
    “Stick, I’m in trouble, man, real trouble.”
    He didn’t say anything, and it didn’t hit me right away that he was still pissed about my leaving the hospital without talking to Mike’s folks.
    “Stick, honest to god, I think I’m in big trouble.”
    “No shit,” he said, his voice oddly slurred. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, friend, some of us other guys got troubles, too. You just don’t seem to care anymore.”
    If he had been in the room, I would have knocked out his teeth. “Stick, you don’t get it, man. I—”
    “I ain’t got the time,” he said then. “I just slashed my wrists.”
    “Jesus, that isn’t funny, Stick.” There was no response. “Stick? Stick, goddamnit, I said that isn’t—” The receiver dropped on his end and I could hear it swinging back and forth, slamming against something, hollow and loud. “Stick! Jesus, Stick!”
    If the front door hadn’t opened right away, I think I would have smashed right through it.
    Two blocks, two long and hard blocks, and I jumped the stairs to Reese’s porch and started pounding on the door. No one answered. I yelled, I rang the doorbell, I ran to the windows that looked in on the front room, cursing because the curtains were drawn, finally finding a crack wide enough to look through.
    He was there. I could see his feet poking out of the foyer, I could see the receiver swinging from its cord and hitting the wall, and I could see on one knee what looked like blood.
    I know what I should have done. I know I should have busted a window and called the police, or gone to a neighbor’s and begged for help. But I ran instead,