“Well, I called the hospital and they told me that there was no record of me with an outstanding balance. So, I told them that couldn’t be right, so they said they’d look into it and they just called me back and said, this afternoon, some guy called Xavier came in on behalf of Mr. K and paid the bill in full… and get this… in CASH.”
“Whoaaaaa,” Harriet says, mirroring my own reaction.
“Yeah. See? Curiouser and curiouser!”
“Dude. You’ve got to find him!”
“It doesn’t sound like he wants to be found.”
“You’re a genealogist. It’s your job to find DEAD people!”
“But…”
“He saved your life, Jade.”
I make a face at her. Truth is, I can’t get my mind off him, not just because he saved me and I want to thank him from the bottom of my heart, but something about him keeps permeating my dreams.
I need a face to go with the voice that comforted me in my worst moment.
***
The next morning, sitting at my office desk, I note down every detail I can remember about him. It isn’t much.
Tall, about 6″2, strong, muscle-y build (he carried me for lord knows how many blocks), deep voice. Ruby isn’t much help, all she can add is, “always wore a damned hoodie, you’d have thought he was the thug.” She also said she never even really saw his eyes.
Isn’t that weird? We don’t even know his eye color. He really is a mystery man.
I think about posting something on my Facebook, I imagine it will sound something like, “Looking for tall guy wearing a hoody who was in the lower west side around 8 p. m. last Monday.” It is about as vague and lame as a desperate personals ad.
“Help meeee,” I beg Harriet, who is still unhappy that she lost the coin toss that won me a ride to work.
“I know less about him than you do!” she huffs.
“Well, at least tell me where to start looking.”
“You’re sitting in one of the biggest genealogy departments IN THE WORLD.”
“But, I have NO idea where to start looking. At least dead people have birthdates or third cousins or something to go on.”
“Have you tried searching for ‘hoodie addicts anonymous?'” She guffaws at her own joke.
“Ha ha… but I’m getting about that desperate, yes.” I sigh as I lay my head down on the desk. I am getting a bit tired, not that I want to admit it to Harriet, and my injuries are starting to ache.
The phone rings, interrupting my begging, and I welcome the distraction. “Hello, Jade Sinclair speaking.”
“Ms. Sinclair, it’s Kerri Anne from Channel 17 news, how are you?”
“Um… I’m okay.” I answer warily.
“Oh, wonderful. We’re just calling because we were wondering if we could do a short interview with you about your attack.”
“How do you..?”
“We’ve been doing a series of shows on personal security and safety, and we’d love to have you on to tell your story, alert women to the dangers on the streets. We’ve had a few other mugging victims on in the last few days, and now that you’re back on your feet, if you could come in to talk to us for about a 10 minute segment, it would really help our campaign.”
“Uh…” Well, this is out of nowhere. “Um, what kind of things would I have to talk about? I’m kinda shy.” I hear Harriet snicker behind me.
“Oh, don’t worry about a thing, our hosts will make you feel comfortable and you’d just have to answer a few questions: what happened, how did you feel, how have you dealt with the attack since, talk about how you survived, for example. The reason we want real victims on, is because you’re more relatable than some hulky defence instructor coming on and yelling at our viewers to be prepared.”
“Oh. Um… okay.” I don’t really know if I am ready, but it sounds like a good reason to talk about it.
“So, yeah, oh! And you can talk about the guy who saved you, people love a good hero story.”
And in that moment, I know how I am going to find him.
***
HIM
I am wrong. Extreme fatigue does NOT bring on sleep. It just makes you bone tired and cranky. I climb out of bed for thesixth morning in a row, awake before the alarm, more tired than the day before. This hasn’t happened for a while, but it’s not entirely new. Sleep is the first of my essentials to go out the window when my mind is preoccupied by something I can’t solve. And this week, I have any number of problems for my mind to take its pick from to obsess over.
The head of departments’ meeting turned up a complete bust. No one has any concrete clue who ‘J’ is, what he wants (other than the obvious, to ruin our company/money), and why he has started this vendetta. And that’s what it is. This isn’t a cold, calculated business strategy. He wants this to hurt me personally.
Contemplating the day ahead, I decide it won’t hurt to start early. It’s 5:32 a. m. to be precise, my clock tells me. Even I’m not heartless enough to wake Henry, my driver, this early. Turning on the light as I enter my dressing room, I pull the switch to rotate my wardrobe to my track pants and sweaters. I quickly dress in a matching charcoal grey pants and hoodie set, tie the laces of my new shoes, and leave the apartment.
Nodding to the doorman on my way out, I realize that it’s still dark out, the city is waking, yawning and stretching into the new day, the sidewalks still carryings the dirty evidence of last night’s charades, and the streets are scattered with the wandering homeless and those hiding from their homes. I start my jog at a brisk pace, my warm breath already exhaling little white clouds of steam against the dark sky. It shouldn’t take more than about 20 minutes to get to the office, I calculate, just enough time for me to organize my thoughts for the day.
I glance at my Rolex as I turn the corner the block before my building. 6:00 a. m. on the dot, just as I’d predicted. The time flew by as I focused on work, hardly noticing my body dripping with sweat, my lungs begging for air. Despite the fatigue, old and new, I can’t help but smile when I see my building. It may be the home of my business, but it has been built from the very first brick up, by my blood, sweat, and yes, even though I hate to admit it, tears. And there are times I’ve spent more time here than my actual home.