Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 77.3: 1968, Georgina

Chapter 77.3: 1968, Georgina

The sun was coming up, the morning glow.

The front window of Paulie's apartment was lighting up in an ethereal orange, like burning stargazer lilies through the patterned curtain. The speckles of rain were catching behind it, glittering through and looking heavenly, though there was no heaven here.

I was alone, though I wasn't really alone. Ganya was outside that window, down below, five storeys down in his car. Keeping watch still. Sasha had gone, he was in the club with everyone else, making fake smiles and downing strong alcohol I had no doubt. 

I was in my wheelchair in the living room off the kitchen, sat in front of the couch doing nothing and watching the light. It was growing brighter.

I'd been here since 9pm when Sasha left. What time was it now? It didn't matter.

Antony Caselotti was free, so nothing mattered. Not really. 

Beyond the window, I heard the sound of a rattling car five storeys down. Blurry in my mind, I recognized that sound. But I can't say I cared. Slumped over in my chair, staring straight ahead with eyes too dry from not blinking too much, there was nothing going through my mind and yet everything at the same time was in my heart. Rolling and rumbling on.

I didn't jump when I heard five familiar knocks in quick succession, didn't move when a key bit into the lock. Didn't shift when the door swung open.

"Hey, Georgina! I brought you some spaghetti. I ordered it for you. We went out after work, thought it would be nice. But we were thinking about you the whole time, so I ordered you some dinner...or should I say breakfast. Its morning. Good morning!" Paulie was beaming at me, incredibly. He closed the door and set the white paper bag on the table. It sounded substantial. 

I felt an obligation to this, though I didn't want to move. "Good morning," I said without much breath. My head turned to him and he was giving me a questioning smile, his head cocked to the side a little bit. 

My eyes narrowed, staring him over. Looking at his face, studying. There was a long pause, and he looked as if he were about to speak again when I decided to wheel my chair over there. For sure I'd been studying his face for any sign of drink or drug, but he just seemed normal happy. Unbothered. It was incredible to me, because I was so bothered.

"Here, I'll set it up. Did you eat? Did Sasha make you something? ...Oh wait, right. He can't cook. What did you eat?" He was carrying on like nothing at all was the matter. How could he?

"I had a sandwich," I offered, not much more I could say. He was quickly unloading the white bag with loud sounds, the spaghetti was revealed to be wrapped in a tin bowl with aluminum foil. 

"Oh shoot, ouch. Still hot," he tisked at the bowl, setting it down with a thump on the table. "That's a good sign, though. If I heated it up again it would lose flavor."

"Mm-hm."

I was staring at the bowl as he unwrapped it carefully despite the heat. Staring and staring. I didn't realize how odd this would seem until he spoke again. His hands stopped their work, and I noticed his nails were painted purple, as he always liked.

"How you doin'?" he asked, a mid-western drawl coming out. I knew he didn't mean to. He was taking a plastic fork out of the bag quickly, napkins. 

"I'm not okay," I admitted. My hands in my lap started to twist the mid-length skirt I was wearing. 

"No? Why not? ...Oh shoot, did you get to take your pain medication? They said you could take another pill every eight hours. Did you get one?" He was staring at me now, concern all over his brow. I noticed there was a new wrinkle there. When had that come about? He wasn't even that old, last time I checked.