Damn. I limp back to my house, left knee burning. Damn, Damn. Damn. Why’d I do it? Why poke at Ruth? Am I a jerk or something worse?
Something worse.
“Be quiet.”
So what if Ruth forgot the anniversary? I wish I could too. But there’s no reason for her to worry. I’m not going to talk. It’s true that in a weak moment I spewed to Carlyn, but it didn’t make me feel any better. Didn’t erase Tina’s voice from my head. I drop onto the living room couch feeling distant and depressed. Flick on the TV and flick it off. Eye the room with growing disgust. Cobwebs droop from the ceiling; spiders hang from their webs. I could get the broom and knock them off, but that would barely make a dent.
How about I start with the hordes of shipping boxes stacked against the pee-yellow walls. They’re an indication of a little problem, but it’s not like I’m mainlining crack. Fishing poles. Gardening tools. Gadgets. You name it. I’m a sucker for useless toys. Maybe get rid of the old magazines piled high on the corner desk. Field & Stream. Outdoor Life. An old Playboy or two. I’m not sure why I save the rags. They’re a haven for the throngs of silverfish that scurry from floor to drawer.
You don’t like change.
“That’s not true.”
It sure is.
“Go away.” Focus. Don’t listen to her. Tomorrow’s a brand new day. I’m going to change my life. Clean up this place. Scrub everything in sight.
Scrubbing won’t make you feel better.
“Shut up.”
There’s only one thing that will.
I knock the side of my head with the flat of my hand, hoping Tina will go dormant again. My dead wife doesn’t bug me as often these days. Only once or twice a week. It was worse when I was living in the bottle. Then she’d visit me every day. But when she does appear, her nagging voice drills holes in my pounding head.
Raking my hands through my thinning hair, I get up and head for the kitchen. There, I inhale my nightly can of beef chili lathered on a half dozen corn tortillas. I leave the unwashed dishes in the sink with the others and try to come up with another task.
You’ve delayed long enough, Tina says, this time in a kinder tone.
“You think?”
I pull up a chair, step up, and reach deep into the kitchen’s topmost cupboard. Out pops the bottle of whiskey I hide from my sponsor and my better self. I fill a tumbler with the golden-brown liquid, then carry the drink through my house of horrors and ease open the hated door.
The streetlight bathes Hunter’s room in watery-blue shadows; a slice of light falls across his miniature bed. The scent of mildew prickles my nose from the roof leak I never got fixed.
This room makes me sad.
“Me too.”
I set my tumbler on the bookcase, a sour taste flooding my mouth. Why? I ask for the millionth time. Why me? I wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t evil. Didn’t long for money, fame, or success. All I wanted was a simple life with my wife and my boy. A nice vacation every now and then. Enough money to put my kid through school. Maybe have a grandchild or two. But no such luck. God wouldn’t have it. And why the hell not?
Think of the multitudes who do so much worse. The unpunished thieves, druggies, child molesters, and murderers. I punch my fist against the doorjamb and feel nothing. I punch until my knuckles bleed.
Time goes by. I must’ve slept. I’m not sure. But when I open my eyes, I’m curled up like a dog on the cold wooden floor. I crawl to the bookcase, flick on the night-light, and pull the photo album from the shelf. The album was Tina’s idea. She thought Hunter should have a collection of photos that told the story of his life. There’s our wedding photo at the courthouse. A picture of us dancing in front of our newly purchased home. Of Tina eight months pregnant. Of me holding our newborn son.
I was pretty back then, Tina says.
“You were beautiful,” I reply.
I pause on a photo of Tina beaming at our fair-haired boy. He’s surrounded by a half dozen laughing toddlers seated around a picnic table at the zoo. His shining eyes are fixed on a colorful cake covered in dinosaurs and topped with the number 2. I close my eyes like I’m watching a movie and smile at what happens next. He doesn’t wait for his mom to cut the cake but snatches a hunk with his tiny hands.
He got in trouble for that.
“I remember.”
My arms ache with a sudden memory of the warmth of Hunter’s body pressed against mine. The way he would whisper Papa in my ear when he was tired and ready for bed. Hard to believe he’d have been twenty-three next month. He’ll always be my little boy. For the millionth time, I wonder what kind of man he would’ve become. I picture him tall, handsome, and smart. A college graduate with plenty of friends. He’d have been a surfer. A kayaker. A fisherman for sure. He would’ve turned out to be an incredible person. And maybe I would’ve too.
It’s sad.
“I know.”
I trace my fingers along the angles of Tina’s pretty face and try to recall how it felt to make love. She liked it long and slow, preferred the afternoons. Her body was smooth and tight. I catch a whiff of her long-ago scent. She was a sucker for the coconut body lotion she discovered on our Hawaiian honeymoon. I smile, and then the other vision slaps me hard. The melted skin, the broken bones, the stench of a fiery death. On the six-month anniversary of Hunter’s death, Tina’s car ran off the steepest cliff atop San Marcos Pass.
“Did you do it on purpose?” I ask yet again.
That’s for me to know and you to worry about.
Which, of course, I do. After returning the album to the bookcase, I wobble to the kitchen and slide my handgun from the silverware drawer. I carry it into the master bathroom and stare deep into the oxidizing mirror. My eyes are puffy and rimmed in red. My once firm jaw has grown slack. I close my eyes, and for the twentieth time since my son died, press the muzzle between my teeth. The metal feels cool against my lips; its bitterness coats my tongue. I sink alone into my darkness and for the briefest of moments feel eternal numbness coat my throat.
No chance, buster, Tina says. No leaving until you tell the truth.
I yank the gun from my mouth. “Damn.”
Staggering back to Hunter’s room, I set the gun next to my near-empty glass. Light a candle and position it next to a photo of Tina holding our newborn son. Then I ease to the ground and sit cross-legged, the pain in my knee roaring up my spine. I slug down the last of my drink and fix my gaze on my family. Tina’s right, of course. I don’t deserve an easy way out. Not until I undo my wrong.
Two
Monday, July 8
The olive-and-black uniform fits a little snug, but it’s really not that bad. I could’ve asked Ruth for a larger size, but I do have my pride. Truth is, it feels good to wear a uniform again. Not like I have any power. I’m lower than a police volunteer. But I feel a tingle when I slip on my work clothes. Like maybe there’s some life in me yet.
“Evening, Zach.”
“Evening, ladies.” I like working at Serenity Acres. Total surprise to me. Thought I’d hate hanging around old people, but they seem to cheer me up.
“Come sit with us,” Kate Harrington drawls. Only two weeks in, and my good feelings have a lot to do with this old bird. Not sure why she’s taken a liking to me, but I’m totally okay with that.
“You know it’s against the rules,” I say, eyeing their bridge game. “Besides, I never learned how to play.”
“Oh, I could teach you how to play.” Mrs. Harrington bats her wide green eyes. “I’m happy to give you a private lesson on your off time. Pay me a visit at villa fifty-four.”
“I doubt Gordon would appreciate that,” one of her friends says.
“Oh, he wouldn’t care.”
The eight women gathered around the tables squawk like a flock of startled birds. But my eyes stay focused on Mrs. Harrington. There’s something about the woman that demands attention. She’s tall and slim, and her weathered face still shows signs of her former beauty. Aquiline nose and
high cheekbones prop up her liver-blotched, sagging skin. Tonight she’s dressed in a flowery pantsuit, her hair towering above her like a bright-red flame. She comes from oil money in Texas, but she’s not some stuck-up bitch. She’s nice to the staff, worshipped by the guests, and always surrounded by a cauldron of friends. I’m betting her entourage is nothing unusual. She’s a gal who’s spent her lifetime as the leader of the pack.
“I might take you up on that visit,” I say with a wink. We share a laugh, knowing it’ll never happen. Management frowns on any attempt by the riff to mix with the raff.
“Onward,” I say. “Good night, ladies.”
“Good night,” they titter.
I head outside into the cool night air to make the first of my evening rounds. I’m required to do this at least two times each shift, but I’ve been trying for three or four. I’m not fond of the interior of the buildings, where scented candles can’t mask the old person funk. I prefer the outdoors, with its hints of sage and eucalyptus wafting from the nearby hills. Makes it seem like I’m out in the backwoods, when I’m only a few miles from downtown.
There’s a half moon rising, and a soft breeze caresses my closely shaved chin and cheeks. The Big Dipper is shimmering through the folds of a silvery cumulus cloud. A dog barks. A coyote yips. A catfight explodes in the dark. Passing by the edge of the golf course, my light scatters a family of wild rabbits feeding on the freshly mown grass.
I continue on to the towering wall that rims the outer boundary of the campus. Razor-sharp stakes embedded atop foot-thick sandstone to keep the guests inside and the rabble out. Can’t imagine what it must’ve cost to build such a barrier. A million dollars? Maybe two? Who has that kind of money? The upper 1 percenters, of course.
While passing by the campus memorial garden, a rhythmic chanting floats through the air. Strange, as the guests should be buttoned down at this time of night. Maybe some local kids sneaked in? Sharing a few beers or some pot? I did that a few times when I was a scruffy teen growing up in Missoula, Montana. Broke into empty vacation cabins with my high school bros in tow. Smoked packs of ciggies and drank whatever crap one of us could pinch. Caught the thrill of a little harmless trespassing to get our teenage fix. Then I’d been popped by the local sheriff—he sent me home with a stern warning. Said the next time he caught me acting like a delinquent, he’d hand me over to my dad. That was all it took to end my dabble in crime. It’s not like my father was a violent man, but he wasn’t above using his fists to rein in a wayward boy.
I step into the confines of the hedge-rimmed garden, and the scent of lemon fills the air. I sweep my light across the pool of darkness, and it lands on a head of closely cropped white hair. “Can I help you?” I ask, thinking it must be a guest resting on the bench. “Are you hurt?”
There’s a rustling, and I spy a human-sized shadow slipping behind the far side of the hedge. “Stop,” I order. I instinctively reach for the nonexistent gun that once sat on my hip. Then I rake my flashlight across the gnarled bushes before refocusing it on the guest. She turns to me, and I’m surprised when my light illuminates the smooth face of a teenage girl.
“Who are you, and why are you here?” I demand. There’s another rustle in the far corner, followed by the sound of footsteps. “Who’s with you?”
The girl offers up a sweet smile. “It’s just me and a skittish cat. I think you’ve scared him away.”
If that shadow was spawned by a cat, then surely I must be a dog. “You’re trespassing,” I say in my firmest voice. “I could turn you in to the police.”
“You have it wrong,” she replies. “I’m the night supervisor in assisted living. I’m taking my evening break.”
“You’re a supervisor?” I’m more than a little surprised.
“Yes. My name’s Ember.”
“Oh. Then . . . sorry. That was stupid of me.” I’m relieved and not a little embarrassed.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Zach. Zach Richards. I’m new here. I don’t know everyone yet.”
“Nice to meet you, Zach.” The slip of a girl gets to her feet and seemingly floats toward me like a ghost. Shining my light full on her face, I catch sight of her melted skin. I grunt and stumble back, my mind flashing on the memory of Tina’s charred corpse. The flashlight slips from my fingers and hits the ground with a solid clunk. The light snaps off, and for a moment, the only sound is my guttural breathing. I crouch and scuttle my hands across the gravel, my heart ricocheting in my chest.
“Let me help you,” Ember says. “My eyes are used to the dark.” She sinks next to me, and I feel crazed. I might puke my guts. The girl fumbles around for a moment, and then her cool fingers close on mine. She slips the flashlight into my hands. “Seems like it’s broken. Do you know your way back to the office? If not, I’ll be happy to walk you there.”
“No.” I jump to my feet. “I mean, no, thank you. I know my way.” I nearly trip over myself backing out of the garden before I turn and begin to jog. Ember calls out, but I only hurry faster, my knee screaming that I should stop.
Memories? Tina asks.
“Go away.”
You shouldn’t have spied on me at the coroner’s.
“Leave me alone!” I hurry back to security and stumble into the light, where it takes several moments for my heartbeat to slow. It will take longer than that to get the memory of my wife’s scorched body out of my freaking head.
Three
Tuesday, July 9
“Who is she?” I ask Ruth the next day in her office when I arrive a little early to work. My night shift runs from seven to five, four rotating days a week. I thought we’d spend more time together, but Ruth is typically gone by the time I start.
“Who?” she asks distractedly, not looking up from some report.
I study Ruth for a moment, thinking how much she’s changed from the girl I met years ago. She’d been a free spirit back then—a hippie with waist-length wavy brown hair laced with streaks of gold. She’d rarely worn makeup, and her body had been curvy; she’d been sexy in an uncaring way.
And that’s what got you into trouble, Tina says.
That and a few too many beers.
Now her hair hangs straight, blunt cut above the shoulders; her makeup is carefully applied. Her body has been thinned from years of power walking; from the back, she looks like a boy. Expensive black suit, collared neck. Perfectly manicured hands. Coldly professional, an ice maiden, tied up in a flawless bow.
“The girl? The one with the burned face.”
Ruth glances up with an irritated look. “You mean woman. Ember’s one of our night supervisors.”
“I know that, but what’s her story? What happened to her?”
“I don’t know.” She stares at me with dazed eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You promise to tell the truth?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve been here a few weeks. Have you heard complaints from the staff?”
“What kind of complaints?”
“About me.” She fingers her Fitbit.
“What would I hear about you?”
“Something bad?”
“Like . . . ?”
“Like I’m overly critical or harsh?”
I shrug. “Nope. Not a thing.” I may have heard a little grumbling, but I don’t plan to be Ruth’s campus spy.
“Anyone say that I’m cold and aloof?”
Tell her the truth. The staff thinks she’s a bitch.
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “I haven’t heard anything at all.”
“Exactly. This is ridiculous. I won’t have it. It’s nothing but a pack of lies. On what planet is staff allowed to rate their supervisor?”
“They rated you?”
She nods. “On something called a 360. Corporate mumbo jumbo at its best.” She holds up her report. “There’s also a comment that says I’m not a team player. That I don’t support senior manag
ement. Me. Me!” She slaps the pages against her desk and glares at me like I wrote the thing. “You have to understand,” she continues. “In the eighteen years I’ve worked here, I’ve only had exemplary reviews. And then that joke of an executive director takes over, and suddenly I’m the problem employee?”
“You’re talking about Kai?”
“Who else would I be talking about?”
See? Tina interjects. She’s a bitch.
My plastic earpiece crackles. “Richards to the Highlife. Code orange.”
“There’s a code orange,” I repeat. There’s a color for every event in this place. I had to memorize them my first day. Code brown, a theft. Code blue, an escapee. Code black, a death. Code orange could mean lots of things, but usually it refers to a disruptive employee, visitor, or guest.
Ruth glances at her phone. “I see it here. I get the alarms on my cell. I only respond to code blue.”
“Why code blue?”
“A wandering guest can become a public relations nightmare. They often make front page news. It’s my job to tamp that down.”
“Well, I haven’t dealt with a code orange before. Want to come along?”
Ruth hesitates and then shakes her head. “No. I’m tired. I’m going home.” She gets up and gathers her things and pushes past me, face flushed. I eye the report on her desk.
360 EVALUATION—RUTH MOSBY—CONFIDENTIAL
I glance behind me and then flip it open to the first page, which lists a summary of Ruth’s skill set. No wonder she’s in a foul mood. Unsatisfactory is stamped in red. My earpiece crackles again.
“Richards! Code orange!”
I hurry from the office to the Highlife, the most casual of the campus’s three dining options. It looks like a fine restaurant, except at mealtime, when a slew of metal walkers crowd the room. There’s a slow stampede when the doors open at four, but it usually clears out by seven. After that, it turns into a staff hangout. I’ve stopped in once or twice.
I arrive to find an enormous man dressed in a pinstripe suit yelling at the top of his lungs. He towers over the campus pastor, who stands with her arms folded, nodding her head. In a nearby booth cowers a crying caretaker, her hands clutching her face. The dining room is almost empty, a few guests scattered here and there. Most of them aren’t paying attention—must be part of the dementia crowd.
What She Never Said Page 6