Page 59 of Hunger

The thought arrives whole — fluent suddenly, settled, a sentence in a language learned slowly for years and abruptly understood, the meaning of it whole and clear in my head. I'm leaving Millfield. I'm leaving Mr. Burger. I'm leaving this apartment and the second-floor window and the parking lot lights that have been burned out since I started working here. I'm leaving Lisa and Dee. I'm leaving the country, I think. He didn't say where. I don't need to know.

I'm leaving with him.

I get up.

I shower and dress, then drink a glass of water at the kitchen counter and look out the window at the snow piling against the bottom of the glass.

I cross to the phone.

I dial Mr. Burger. The line rings four times. Tammy picks up.

"Mr. Burger, can I help you."

"Tammy. It's me."

"Jenny. You sound like that again."

"I'm sick."

"Bullshit."

"I'm sick."

"Okay." Her voice has dropped. The voice from Friday morning. "Tell me what you need."

"I'm not coming in today. I don't think I'm coming in tomorrow either."

A pause.

"Honey."

"Tammy."

"Are you safe."

"Yes."

"Are you happy."

The question is the question I haven't had to answer in a long time. I let it sit. I think about the inside of my wrist where his mouth was. The cold of his palm against my cheek in the late afternoon light. The way he held me after the conversation, my cheek against the long scar, his fingers in my hair.

"Yes," I say. "I'm happy, Tammy."

"Good." Her voice has gone soft. The voice she uses with Marcus when he comes home from school excited about something he wants to tell her. "Then I don't need to know anything else."

"Tammy."

"What."

"I just wanted to say. I'm glad you've been kind to me."

The line is quiet for a moment.

"Jenny."

"I'll call you."

"Okay."