Page 13 of Lift Me Up

I set the water temperature to scalding. I begin cleaning the dishes in order. Cups formerly filled with milk and juice, a shot glass from a tequila shot I regretted last night. Then cutlery, spoons, forks and knives. Cereal bowls, of which there are four, and last, I do the small and large plates from dinners I microwaved straight from the freezer to plate to stomach. Thank God for my mom’s meal planning obsession.

“How are your hips doing?” Franny asks casually. I turn; she’s hopped up on my countertop and is scrolling through her phone while she waits for me to finish being stubborn.

This is a new question that she’s taken to asking lately. The first couple of times, I didn’t hide it from her. I’d roll down the waistband of my pants, showing her the blooming marks from the aftermath of the elevator. But today I don’t want to be honest with her. If I am honest with her, I’ll have to tell her that they are still littered with bruises that are slowly fading from dark and angry to a gross green-yellow, just like my dignity. It’s hard to believe that everything happened almost two weeks ago, but these splotchy bruises are proof that I didn’t dream it.

The fact that I take the stairs every time now? Not a coincidence.

“Hey,” I say to get her attention as I towel dry my hands. My next plan is to flop back onto my couch and watch Schitt’s Creek until sunrise. Franny looks up at me, waiting for me to continue. “Did you ever find out about the call? Like, how much it cost and all?”

“Oh!” She hops off the counter, a smile on her face. “I must’ve forgotten to tell you. It cost Rivera nothing. The elevator company said it was their employee’s decision to stay on the line without asking, so he will be the one to pay for the call. Thank God. It saves me a lot of paperwork.”

I wish I didn’t have such a physical reaction to this, but my body betrays me and tenses and my breath hitches. He stayed on the line, knowing he would get in trouble, for me. Now he was being made to pay… God knows how much out of pocket or off his paycheck? He hadn’t left my mind, the man on the other end of the phone. He was there in the back corner, hanging out and waving every time I remembered something new about him, our conversation.

I refused to let him become my every thought. I was like that once before and look where it got me. With Brandon, everything was on hyper drive and unrelenting and so, so good. Until it wasn’t. A part of me wondered if the life he left behind was because it was no longer what he wanted or because I was no longer what he wanted. I don’t understand how you can just love someone one minute and the next, you don’t. It never seemed that simple to me. It was his loss, and I am definitely over him, but it still bothers me sometimes.

“You want to watch the episode where Patrick sings to David?” Franny throws herself down into my armchair, and I gracelessly flop onto my couch, onto my stomach and chin pressed into a pillow to support.

“Nah, I’m back on season five again. Let’s watch this one,” I click on Season 5, episode 13. Franny rolls her eyes, but if you know you know.

We settle in and watch the episode as if we don’t watch it every other day.

“So, the elevator company said they were just going to fine the guy… how much?” I chew on the inside of my cheek, eyes and ears watching and listening and taking in the show, but my mind’s a million miles away.

“I don’t know, like… assuming it’s a couple dollars a minute…” Franny tries to do the math but huffs in defeat, throwing her hands in the air. “A lot.”

I try the math myself, but it makes me feel terrible. Even if it was 2 dollars a minute, that means this random stranger who I connected with on quite possibly the worst day of my life to date will be paying $240 of his own money just because he stayed on the line with me. Though that may not be much to some, it could mean everything to someone else. It could mean no groceries on a table. The loss of a job.

“Franny.” Super casually said, and totally not suspicious.

She rolls her head away from the direction of the TV to meet my gaze. “George,” she says back in the same way, but this time it’s dripping with sarcasm.

“What’s… what’s the name of the elevator company?” Innocent. So innocent.

She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I mean, isn’t it a public knowledge thing?”

“But the elevator company is not the same as the company that answers the phones. It’s all very confusing, but I can’t tell you, G. I am sworn to building manager honour. Just let it go, okay? It’s not that big of a deal.”

But I can’t let it go, and it is a big deal to me. I can’t just forget him and what he did for me when he could’ve left me in the dark cold elevator forever. He was kind to me, he was selfless, and he deserves to know my gratitude. He doesn’t deserve to be punished.

Franny refuses to budge on the matter, and I refuse to give this up. There’s only one thing left to do. Investigator Georgie Wright is on the case.

CHAPTER EIGHT

GEORGIE

Trying to search for a company you don't know the name of is like trying to find a penny from a very specific time period in an old piggybank. All of them are rusting, worn out, and some are illegible. Some aren’t even pennies. There’s no guarantee you have the right one. Much like this search for the elevator monitoring company. Everything looks the same, sounds the same, feels the same. It’s impossible to find unless you know what you’re looking for. Which I don’t. I search for hours every day, and Franny continues to watch me struggle, still refusing to tell me. But I am determined to figure this out.

Franny asks me what I plan to do if I ever find the answer, to which I say I will find it, and when I do…. I don’t know. What is my plan here exactly? It’s not unlike me to go at something with only half a plan and figure the rest out as I go along. So, what would I do if I found the company? What then?

I would ask them about N, and I would ask why they’re making him pay for doing his job. I would… Ask if he’s available to talk to, to thank him. And if he wasn’t there? If it was his day off? If he got fired and fined? If—there are way too many ifs. I still don’t know what I’d do. But that's future me’s problem.

“Am I even close?” I whine, flailing my head back to meet Franny’s gaze. I set my computer up to cast to my TV so she can watch the hunt live in action. So far, she’s sniffled at every search, every decision. I take the sniffles as no’s. But if I am remotely warm, she sighs, a long drawn out hmmmmmmm as if she’s unaware that I am aware that that is what she’s doing. She’s protecting herself, I know, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

She sniffles, once, twice. Shit.

“Oh, I give up.” I groan, throwing down the laptop onto the neighbouring cushion. It softly bumps against the dark brown leather, the only sound in the room. Franny presses her lips together. She looks like her emotions are mixed, the wanting to tell and the fear of telling.