Fantine steadied herself against the elevator wall. It was sticky, almost sweaty, against her shoulder. She pulled away from it with a grimace. “Gross,” she muttered. Fantine closed her eyes and took a long breath. The car was small and slathered in thick, green paint—chock full of lead, without a doubt. She slipped a deadbolt lock she kept in her pocket and a lock pick from the other. She enjoyed timing herself against the elevator. This was a new one she picked up the other night. It came with bells and whistles, the packaging proclaiming that it was “top of the line” and “rugged.” Nothing about being incapable of being picked, though. A bell pinged as the elevator lazily reached each floor. By the time it sounded off four times, the deadbolt was opened.
“Junk,” she said.
The elevator doors slid open and to her left, Douglas Stratford—the 6th floor’s wheelchair orphan. She only knew his name because it was written in permanent marker on the back of his chair on legal paper. Fantine smiled. She slipped behind Douglas and pushed him to his room. Turned the TV on for him. She made sure to stop at the nurse’s desk to get the word out that Douglas was left alone in the halls—again. The nurses gave her the side eye and curt nod. One of them impressed with her French tips while the other dug her nose a little deeper into a tabloid magazine.
This didn’t bother Fantine, she was used to it. Places like this made everyone numb after a while. Even the staff was worn down to the damn nub. It was a miracle anything survived here when it all laid static and in danger of falling to dust at the slightest provocation.
Fantine found her father, Jae, cursing at the other nurse on duty in terrible Korean—the only Korean he knew.
“Cut it out, Dad,” Fantine said while smiling to the nurse, “I can take care of him now, Sandy.”
Sandy answered with a tired frown and left the room.
“Mee-cheen-nyun,” Jae called to Sandy’s back. He turned to Fantine. “I don’t trust her.”
Fantine slipped her bag from her shoulder and tossed it onto a chair. “You’re just an old racist pretending he can say more than six words in Korean.”
“Well, I am Korean.” He lifted a thin finger and waved at it her. “So are you. Be proud of your heritage.”
“Get off it, Dad. You’re second generation. We’ve never left the country.”
Jae muttered something under his breath and snatched his TV remote from the nightstand near his bed. He turned on “The Price is Right.” Someone was struggling to turn that oversized wheel while the host smiled as a conditioned response. Stockholm Syndrome on daytime television. “Why aren’t you at work?” Jae looked down at the remote as he jammed a finger against the channel select button. He cracked the heel of his palm against it. “These TVs are all broken.”
Fantine sat down at the edge of Jae’s bed. “Took a half day.” She reached over and snatched the remote away. Opened the battery compartment, flipped the AAs to the correct position, and handed the remote back to her father. “Here.” Fantine then reached into her pocket and dug a folded paper out. She unfolded it three times and held it out to Jae. “Guess who’s officially been rehabilitated?”
Jae took the remote. Pressed the offending button again—it worked. He snickered. “You forged that signature?”
Fantine frowned. “Fuck, Dad, no. My parole officer signed me off. I’m done. No more bullshit. No more felon status.”
“You’ll always be my little felon.” Jae turned to her with a smile. “Well, you have a job, at least. Not like they knew about this, or about what else you can do.” Jae shook his head. “She says she’s rehabilitated, but she works for a security company. You tell them you can probably crack whatever they can throw at you?” It wasn’t until the past few years that he spoke positively about Fantine’s skills. Before her mother died, it was the last thing he ever wanted to talk about. Now, it was the only time he seemed to be generally enthusiastic, so Fantine let it slide. She’d been obsessed with her mother’s double life from the moment she found out about it, much to her mother’s dismay. It took time, but Fantine chipped away at the resistance and convinced her mother to teach her everything she knew about lock picking and safe breaking. It was exciting, and better yet, came natural to Fantine. It was bizarre that now she and her father stood on separate sides after everything that happened.
She slapped her father’s leg. “I like my job more than being a crook. The less they know about…that, the less chance of me ending up back in the bad place.” She may have done her time, but it didn’t mean she was dead. Fantine had to fudge facts to get a job and take care of her father after she served her minimum of two years—her mother’s old lawyer was a goddamn miracle worker. Three years of parole left her having to take a part time job as a late night dispatcher for a cab company. Thankfully, it was a quiet gig and her PO was cool with it. This freed Fantine up to getting a real job in the city that paid enough to take care of her father. The risks were the same, but the motive was noble—she could live with that.
Fantine stood up and fetched Jae’s wheelchair from the corner of the room. She unfolded it and locked everything into place. “Come on. You need some fresh air before you start blending in with the bed sheets.”
Jae grumbled again. He slid his legs over and off the bed. Slowly straightened himself up. He moved like a stop-motion puppet. “Not too long. There’s a show I wanna watch.”
“A soap opera?” Fantine smiled as she secured a cushion on the wheelchair.
“No.”
“Living the good life, Dad, you lie down all day; stare at pretty white girls on TV.” She rolled the chair beside Jae and helped him onto it. “Comfortable?”
Jae slid into the wheelchair and nodded. “I don’t like the white girls.” He leaned in and grinned. “I prefer the little Latina ones.”
“Ugh, gross. I don’t need to know about your creepy old man fetishes.”
“Bah, you talked about it first. I’m allowed to look either way. Old man like me has few joys anymore.”
“I have no interest in things you want to look at, Dad. I don’t even acknowledge you and mom had me naturally.” The subject matter could have been less repellent, but Fantine was glad to bicker with her father for a change. He seemed to be in a good mood. She made a mental note to check to see if his medications were changed.
Jae cackled. “So what, you were a virgin birth?”
“In my mind, absolutely.” Fantine slipped the shoulder straps of her bag onto the back of the wheelchair. She stretched her arms out to either side and let her wrists go limp. “I think I’d look good immortalized in wood or marble.”
Jae shook his head. “My little anti-Christ.”
“Ha-fucking-ha.” Fantine rolled Jae out the door of his room and down the hall. “Downstairs or the patio?”
“Downstairs. That little weirdo keeps trying to talk to me on the patio. She smokes terrible cigarettes.” He held his nose and frowned. “Besides, she’s fat.”
“Misses Rafe is very nice.”
“She smells.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Dad.”