by Laura Wiess
The bell rings as he stands to brush himself off, so we quickly gather the garbage and then he reaches down, offering me a hand up. I take it, skin tingling as his fingers close around mine, and then I’m standing beside him so close I can smell the sun on his skin, so close the breeze nudges a strand of his sleek, silky hair across my cheek.
“Oh yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze searching my face. “She is gonna beat his ass for a week once she gets a look at you.” He releases my hand, fingers lingering, and ambles back a few steps. “So would you have gone? To the prom with me, I mean?”
“As a friend?” I tease, sauntering after him.
“Hell no,” he says, flicking back his hair and giving me a slow, dangerous, pirate smile.
Oh God, my heart. “Well, what do you think?” It comes out husky, almost a whisper.
He studies my face a moment and his smile widens. “I think I should have asked.”
The warning bell rings and the moment is over but the glow lasts all day.
| | |
Later at work, I tell Eva about the prom and ask if I can leave early Saturday afternoon.
“You’re leaving me in the lurch, you know,” she grumbles, looking pointedly at all the bundles of clothes stuffed under the counter waiting to be pinned. Her allergies are finally easing; her eyes are huge and bright again behind her glasses, and her drippy nose has thankfully dried up. Is it a coincidence that the less gross she gets, the more business comes in? “And on our busiest day.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say cheerfully, grabbing and unrolling the first bundle. Two suits, no vests. “It’s only this one time and I really appreciate it.” I search the pockets, every last one of them, and come up clean. “Oh, and guess what? My father said he would paint the dining room tomorrow.”
“Really?” she says, and it’s the way she says it, the way her voice lilts and her eyes light up, that tells me she understands exactly how big a move this is, and it makes me want to walk right over and hug her. “That’s wonderful news, Rowan.”
“I know, isn’t it?” I say, beaming and pinning a tag on the waistband of the suit pants. “I guess the antidepressant is really making a difference.”
“That is truly remarkable,” Eva says, smiling back at me. “Which one is he taking, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I tell her and am totally unprepared for the odd expression that crosses her face. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s just that . . . well, I was on the same drug after my husband passed and I distinctly remember the doctor saying that it could take four to six weeks before the medication actually kicked in and I would feel a difference.” She cocks her head. “How long has he been on it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to think. “Maybe like, three weeks? Not more than that.” My good mood fades slightly. “Why?”
“Hmm.” She catches sight of my face and immediately rallies. “Well, no matter. They say it’s different for everyone and whatever the reason, it’s just wonderful that he’s trying to pick himself up and go on. Give him my best regards. Oh, and you know what?” Smiling, she bustles over to my counter, opens the register and pulls out a ten-dollar bill. “I’m in the mood for ice cream. If I buy, will you run over and get it?”
“Sure,” I say, surprised at the sudden switch. “What kind do you want?”
And it isn’t until I’m trotting back from the ice cream depot with two cones, hers mint chocolate chip and mine coconut, that I wonder if this ice cream treat was just a diversion—and if so, from what?
And even stranger, why?
I think about that a minute, then snort at my own wild suspicions, decide I’ve been hanging around cops too long and take a hearty lick of my ice-cream cone.
To new beginnings.
Chapter 18
The weather’s gorgeous so I walk home after work. My spirits are high and even though I try to tone them down some, I’m still in a pretty decent mood over dinner. I talk and laugh a little too much though, I guess, because halfway through my father mumbles, “I’m going into the living room,” and leaves without taking his burrito with him.
“Sorry,” I say, although there’s no denying we can breathe a little easier without the grim weight of his depression hanging over us. It’s a terrible thought, one I feel guilty for having and would rather die than ever admit aloud, but it’s still true.
And we’re right in the middle of splitting the last bit of black bean salsa between us when there’s a knock on the sunporch door. My mother gives me a curious look and says, “Are you expecting somebody?”
“No,” I say, rising and heading for the porch because it could be Nadia, or even better, it could be Eli, although I’ve never actually told him where I live. “Coming.”
I open the door and peer through the screen to find Lieutenant Walters waiting outside and my smile dies. “Oh.”
“Hello, Rowan,” he says, shifting in place. “Is your father here?”
“Uh . . .” I glance over my shoulder, at a loss. What am I supposed to do? He’s here of course, and the lieutenant knows it because his Blazer is sitting there big as life in the driveway, but he’s also slumped in the living room in the dark, wearing sweats, sporting three-day stubble and his grubby old house moccasins. “Well . . .”
“Rowan, who is it?” my mother says, coming up alongside of me. “Oh, hello, Arnold,” she says, giving me a look and moving past me to open the screen door. “Come on in. What brings you here?”
“Thank you, Rachel,” he says, stepping into the porch, which immediately shrinks down to the size of a shoe box and is suddenly way too uncomfortable. “Is Nick here?”
“Yes, he is, but . . .” She hesitates. “Can I ask what it’s about? I’m not trying to interfere, Arnold, honestly, but I don’t know if he can take any more bad news right now.”
And then it hits me. Of course, the internal investigation.
“And I won’t give him any,” he says, and answers her questioning look with a reassuring smile. “May I speak with him?”
My mother searches his face, takes a deep breath and says, “Certainly, follow me. I’ll put on some coffee.”
“Excuse me,” he says because I’m standing right in the way.
“Oh, sorry.” I step to the left at the exact same time he does, then step to the right as he does again and am so embarrassed I can’t even see.
“Stop,” he says, holding out a hand so I don’t move and stepping around me. It might be my imagination but I swear there was a momentary flash of humor in his eyes that totally belied the stern expression on his face.
“Impossible,” I mutter, and, scooping Stripe up off the windowsill, cuddle him close and go back into the kitchen, where my mother is making a fresh pot of coffee. Her expression is fixedly calm but her hands are trembling slightly and I sidle up next to her at the counter. I can hear the low murmur of voices from the living room but not what they’re saying and suddenly I’m really, really scared. “He better not hurt Daddy,” I whisper fiercely, hugging Stripe so tight he squirms free and jumps to the floor. “I’m serious, Mom. We should be in there with him.”
“Arnold isn’t going to hurt him,” she whispers back, but she doesn’t sound as sure as I want her to be and, biting her lip, glances over at the entrance to the shadowy living room.
“You don’t know him like I do,” I whisper darkly, and then shut up fast as he appears in the doorway.
“Almost ready,” my mother says in a high, bright voice that betrays the extent of her nerves. “Do you take cream and sugar, Arnold?”
“Thank you anyway, Rachel, but I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he says, and smiles, although his gaze is grave. “I have to get back to headquarters. I just wanted to deliver the good news in person.” He looks shell-shocked though and more than a little distressed, and for some reason that scares me more than anything.
“What is it?” I say, knees quivering.
He meets my anxious
gaze, clears his throat and says, “Well, I’m sure your father will want to tell you the details but he’s been cleared of any misconduct. The investigation is closed and—”
“Oh, thank God,” my mother breathes, tears in her eyes. “His record?”
“There are no charges being brought, so there’s nothing to tarnish his record. The department will be issuing a formal press release tomorrow announcing the result of the investigation. It will also go out to all the local media outlets.”
It’s all I can do not to cry.
“So, like I told him”—the lieutenant exhales and shifts toward the door—“whenever he’s up to it we’re ready to have him back. The place isn’t the same without him.” He glances toward the silent living room and then back at us, the concern in his gaze plain to see. “Well, if you have any questions or I can help in any way, feel free to give me a call.” He raises his voice. “Bye, Nick.”
“Bye,” my father says dully from the next room after a long moment. “Thanks, Arnie.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” my mother says, and together she and the lieutenant move into the porch and then outside.
Relief hits me like a wave and I break for the living room. “Dad, it’s done! You’re clear! Oh thank you, God. It’s over.” I drop to my knees beside his recliner and beam up into his face. “It’s finally over.”
“Is it?” he says, passing a trembling hand over his damp eyes.
“Well yeah,” I say, and draw back, puzzled. “Tomorrow they’re announcing that you’ve been cleared and he said you’ve been totally reinstated and can go back to work whenever you’re ready. Dad”—I lean in close and touch his arm—“this is good news. Come on.”
He shakes his head, avoiding my gaze, and a tear slips down his cheek.
“What?” I say, tightening my grip on his arm. “Dad, please. What is it? I mean, I thought you’d be happy, I thought that this was why you got depressed in the first place but now it’s over so why . . .” I stop, at a loss. “What is it?”
Another tear slides down his cheek and disappears into the salt-and-pepper stubble along his jaw. “Too much pain,” he finally whispers, turning his face away. “Please, Row, just let me sit here alone for a while. Please.”
I kneel there gazing at him, bitter disappointment clogging my throat, and then in a voice almost as hopeless as his, say, “God, Dad, what’s happening to us?” and he says, “I don’t know, Rowie. I don’t know.” He starts crying in earnest and so do I, and I reach up for him right as he’s reaching out for me and this is how my mother finds us.
Clinging, crying and together.
Chapter 19
I tiptoe past the bedroom and then barrel down the stairs the next morning to find my father up, dressed in jeans and an old work shirt and spreading a drop cloth over half of the dining room floor. All the furniture has been moved to the other side of the room—when did he do that?—and the drapes taken down, flooding the room with light. “Whoa,” I say, wide-eyed. “Hey, Dad.” My heart lifts with hope. “You’re really painting today?”
“Well, I’m going to try,” he says, and although his gaze is still hollow there’s a new air of calm about him, of purpose even, like last night did make a difference, like he’s made up his mind to do it and so he will, just like normal. “First, I have to find a way to keep Stripe out of here or there’ll be little green cat footprints all over the house.”
I nod, smiling, willing to agree with anything he says right about now.
“Oh, and do me a favor: I left a bag with uniform pants and a shirt on the kitchen table. Could you drop them off at the cleaner’s on the way to the bus stop?” He kneels in front of the paint can and starts gently prying the lid up with a screwdriver. “I’d appreciate it.”
“Okay, then I’d better get moving.” I glance at my watch and hesitate, almost afraid to say the words. “Are you going back to work already?”
“No, not yet, so I don’t need them back any time soon. Make them for next week,” he says in a muffled voice, lifting the paint can lid and carefully setting it down on the drop cloth. “I’ll find the rest of them later and send them in with you tomorrow.” He glances back at me. “Thanks, Row.”
“No problem,” I say, and the words are so easy, so casual and exquisitely normal, that they feel almost too good to be true.
I run the bag of uniforms into the cleaner’s and leave them with Helga, the morning clerk, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but there, telling her no rush and to put them for next week, and then jog the last block to the bus stop. The bus lumbers up less than five minutes later; the driver and I studiously ignore each other, the only term in our unspoken truce, and I get a seat in the middle to myself.
Smooth.
Nadia meets me in the courtyard with a huge, bulging Nordstrom’s shopping bag. “I put everything you’re going to need in there for tomorrow.” She burbles out the rest of the plans as the bell rings and we make our way down the hall toward the lockers. “And, Rowie, Brett got us a room in the hotel so—”
I make a face. “I have to be home by midnight.”
“What?” she screeches. “Rowan, it’s the senior prom! Oh my God, the party doesn’t even really start until then!”
“Yeah, well, that’s probably the point,” I say dryly. “But it was the only way they’d say yes, so . . .” I shrug, resigned. “The limo can drop me off or I can call my mother or something.”
She bites her lip, thinking fast. “Okay, well, don’t tell Shane. Hopefully he’ll be so drunk by then that he won’t even notice you’re gone.”
“Why should he care, if we’re just going as friends?” I say as a sneaking suspicion unfurls itself in my mind, and when she flushes and looks away, it’s confirmed. “Oh my God, you told me it was just friends and—”
“It is but he thinks you’re hot, okay?” she says quickly. “He told Brett that he got his own room for uh, you guys afterward.” She catches the look on my face, holds up her hand and grins. “I know, I know, I told Brett to tell him that it wasn’t going to happen but . . .” She shrugs. “You know guys: Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
And that cracks me up. “Yeah, well, thanks for the warning.”
We spend the final moments before the bell rings laughing, joking and trying to stuff the shopping bag full of prom clothes into my locker. It isn’t easy but somehow we make it fit just long enough for me to slam and lock the door.
“Done,” she says, satisfied.
| | |
When I get to work, Eva makes me take the balled-up red prom dress out of the bag so Terence can press it for me.
“You don’t want to look like a ragamuffin,” she says, giving the vivid scarlet material a narrow look. “Hmm, not much to it. Are you sure—”
“It stretches,” I say quickly, hoping it does.
Terence takes it from her, gives me a twinkling look and hangs it carefully by his press. He starts singing Marvin Gaye’s “After the Dance” under his breath.
“I can hear you, you know,” I say, lips twitching. “And you’ve got it all wrong. He’s just a friend.” I like someone else, I add silently. A lot.
“Mmm-hmm,” Terence says, and goes on singing.
Ten minutes later my mother calls, sounding harried, says they’re in the middle of painting and asks if I’d mind walking home after work.
And I don’t mind at all because it’s a gorgeous day and Eva, in a fit of uncharacteristic generosity, lets me go a half hour early so I can get home while it’s still light. I hook my finger in the hanger loop, drape the red dress, beautifully pressed and glowing beneath the plastic dry-cleaning bag, over my shoulder, hoist the shopping bag, and head out.
| | |
I all but skip up the front lawn, excited about tomorrow, excited about the dining room and the simple fact that life is looking up again. Not that I expect miracles, I tell myself, opening the porch door and slipping inside. But every step forward is a good one.
I can hear music playing softly inside and smell the fresh paint. Feeling very merry, I hang the dress, pry off my shoes, set down the Nordstrom bag and pad in, wanting to surprise them.
I peek into the dining room. Two walls are painted, two are not, and the can, paint tray and brushes are still set on newspaper.
He must be taking a break.
I hear murmuring coming from the living room and peek around the doorway. See my father curled up on his side on the couch, his head on my mother’s lap. She’s stroking his forehead, his hair, his temple; her iPod is docked and their wedding song—Aaron Neville’s “You Send Me”—is playing softly from the speakers.
My first thought is an embarrassed Oh God, what did I walk in on? because they’ve always been affectionate and I’ve come around corners and found them kissing before but then the scene registers and—
“It’s going to be all right, Nicky,” my mother says softly, gazing down at him. “You’re not a failure. Don’t even think like that. I’ll finish painting after supper. It’ll be fine.” She leans over and kisses his temple. “I know you feel like the medication’s taking forever to work but you did have energy this morning and that’s a great first step. It’ll happen, I promise. We’ll make it through. This isn’t going to last forever. It’s just for now.”
“How do you know?” my father says dully. “What if it does last, Rachel? What if the medication never works and I’m like this forever, and you have to do everything because I’m useless?”
A chill ripples through me.
“Honey, it’s only two walls,” my mother says helplessly. “I don’t mind finishing.”
“You weren’t supposed to have to do any of it. You’re carrying a big enough load as it is,” my father says, turning his face away from her. “But now I just put another burden on you.” He covers his eyes, voice cracking. “I’m dragging you down. I’m no good anymore. You can’t count on me. You should leave me and go find somebody who can—”