The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  “Are you in recovery?”

  “Yes.” So far she was, but the pills in her pocket beckoned.

  “How long?”

  “Twelve of the longest weeks of my miserable life.” She blurted out the rest, how she’d been caught, gone to rehab, returned to work where her sins hung over her like a guillotine blade.

  Dr. Owens didn’t interrupt, didn’t press the “start” button, listening to every single word. Sandy didn’t even know why she was telling it, but couldn’t stop, the whole story spread out in that cold steel elevator. “I can’t keep working here. This place is a black hole. I’ve been sucked in too many times.”

  “That’s an apt description.”

  Sandy eyed the panel of buttons beside the door. “Don’t you think we should get this thing moving?”

  “There are five elevators, Sandy. And they don’t use this one for patients.” She stepped closer. “Why did you give Becca your phone number?”

  She leaned against the wall, cold steel pressing against her spine, remembering Becca’s unsteady voice, how scared she was when she talked about the girl with lanugo. “Because that kid looked so lost. Patients like her—you throw whatever life rings you have and hope she grabs onto one.”

  “She grabbed onto you. You got her talking about her dad’s death which is good. Real good. But next time, tell her to use the emergency number I gave her.”

  “I will.” Sandy decided she liked Dr. Owens. She was smart and didn’t seem to be full of shit like the others at this hospital.

  “Do you like Intensive Care nursing? Maybe it isn’t the best thing for you.”

  “I don’t know what’s the right thing. Guess that’s what I need to figure out.” Except the right thing was in her pocket: little disks of white that would make this pain go away.

  “I hear you. Your recovery has to be priority one. Everything else is yards behind that.”

  Dr. Owens started the elevator again. “Good luck, Sandy. With whatever you decide.”

  Sandy flashed a shell of a smile. She needed a helluva lot more than luck. “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Becca walked through the garden to the sasanqua tree. The pink blooms had browned, though a few hung lush and rosy, nestled between dark green leaves. She picked one and tucked it behind her ear, a stupid thing, the petals would fall off before she made it into the house. Dylan would be here in an hour so they could go running together. There were many ways it could go wrong. One: he could meet her mother. Ugh. Or brother, double ugh. Two: She was so out of shape she might only be able to run a block. She’d be humiliated. Three: When Dylan saw her in her workout clothes, he might be repulsed. Becca slipped a finger under the rubber band encircling her wrist and snapped it. No negative thinking!

  She rounded the yard, her hand skimming the tops of the azaleas and Chinese fringe bushes, the bare sticks where hydrangeas had colored the yard all summer. She’d miss all this when they had to move.

  A van pulled into their driveway, dirty white, with no markings, but vaguely familiar. As she approached, something uncomfortable unfurled in her stomach. Royce Macy climbed out.

  “Hey, Becca.” He waved like they were old friends. He wore a flannel shirt over a turtleneck that looked seriously dorky, his hair tied back in an unraveling pony tail. “Nice flower.”

  She pulled the bloom from her ear as she stopped at the fence. “Mom’s not here.”

  “When will she be back?”

  She didn’t answer. He’d parked in the spot where Dad used to park. She felt a little nauseous.

  “Maybe you can you come and help me with something?” Without waiting for an answer, he circled to the back of the van. She didn’t want to help but maybe she’d be rid of him sooner if she complied. The doors groaned when he jerked them open.

  “This is your mom’s stuff.” He handed her a box full of canvases then pulled out a second box. “She left it at school.”

  “When?” Becca asked. Had Mom returned to classes? Had she deceived Becca once again?

  “A year and a half ago.” He plopped his box on one of the back steps leading to the kitchen. “I hope she’ll get back to painting. Might help if she has this stuff.”

  Bringing the supplies had just been an excuse to come over. How dare he?

  He pulled out a canvas and handed it to her. Colors swirled: reds, blues, purples. “She’s got talent. Have to give her that.”

  That picture didn’t look like proof of talent. She preferred the pictures of flowers and trees that Mom used to paint, or the one of Spats that hung in her bedroom. As she dropped the painting back in the box, she noticed another canvas: a picture of a woman with long brown hair sitting by a fire. Her long, elegant fingers interlocked on her knees; a half smile played on her lips. Under the figure, in small, cursive letters, was written “Future Becca.”

  Seriously? There was some resemblance, the shape of the jaw maybe, but this person was older and prettier and no way it could be Becca. Why had Mom painted it?

  “Your mom coming home soon?”

  She shoved the picture to the side inside the box and lifted it, hoping he’d get the hint and leave.

  “Maybe I could wait for her?” He was not entitled to this conversation. He had never been a step-parent. He’d never been anything to her.

  “I think you’d better leave.”

  His smile flattened. The other box rested at his feet, its contents a jumble as though tossed inside with little care. “Is she doing okay?”

  “Actually, she’s none of your business.”

  “Ouch.” He wrinkled his nose as though stung and took a step towards the van. “Okay. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  With that, Royce strode over to his van and drove away.

  AN HOUR LATER, BECCA slid on her red jog bra, then swapped it for the blue one, and finally, the black one. Black was slimming. Her running capris were also black, but she donned bright green anklet socks for color before rooting around in her closet for her Nikes. Once she unearthed them, she stood, finding herself eye to eye with The Box.

  She’d opened it once since Dad died, and that was for restocking. The Oreos package, still sealed. The two Snickers bars and quarter pound of M&Ms. The tube of Pringles—not her favorite chip, but they fit in the narrow cardboard space. All these treasures awaited her, yet she hadn’t touched them.

  When Dr. Owens asked about binging, Becca hadn’t mentioned The Box. Maybe she would, one day, but then she’d have to give it up. Not yet. Maybe never. She replaced the lid and placed it inside an old gym bag.

  Back in her room, she smoothed her hair back and secured it in a scrunchy, wishing it matched the neon socks. She glanced at the clock: another half hour before Dylan arrived. She decided to drink a half-glass of juice before the run for energy. Her first venture out in weeks, she’d need all the help she could get.

  She was relieved to find the kitchen empty. Maybe she’d escape without twenty-thousand questions about her new running partner.

  “Hey, squirt.” Elliott entered so quietly she wondered if he was a ninja.

  “Hey.” She poured the juice, a little more than half a glass.

  “That’s not all you’re having for breakfast.”

  She closed her eyes, fighting off a strong drive to bellow “Leave me the hell alone!” because saying that would confirm Elliott’s—and everyone else’s—belief she was off her rocker. But Christ, why did everyone have to interrogate her about what she put in her mouth?

  “I had breakfast a while ago. I didn’t just wake up.” She smirked at his pajama bottoms. He’d been on his cell phone when she went to bed, and she’d heard his muted laughter as she drifted off to sleep.

  “Touché.” He stumbled to the cabinet for a bowl, then another for the cereal, which he doused with milk. He seemed too old for Cheerios, but Mom bought the box for him, as though she didn’t remember he was no longer eight years old.

  He sat at the table, plunging his spoon into the bowl.
She sat across from him, positioning herself to look out the window for Dylan. She shouldn’t have agreed to this run with him, she was too out of shape, but he’d been persistent. What if she didn’t even make it to the park? She’d be humiliated.

  “You’re finally going to be rid of me,” Elliott said.

  “You’re going back to New York?”

  “Yep. Tomorrow. Should be back in time for a gig.” He slurped from the spoon.

  “Does Mom know?”

  “She’s the one who made me get the ticket. I don’t feel right about leaving y’all, though.”

  She was pretty sure this was the first time he’d used the word “y’all” since arriving. New York had erased southern-speak from his vocabulary, but some was sneaking back in.

  “We’ll be okay,” she said. Still, it would be strange not to hear him clattering around in the kitchen, or strumming his guitar, or chatting on the cell phone behind a closed door.

  He pushed the cereal bowl away, propping his elbows on the table. “Are you sure?”

  “Would people please stop asking me that?” She tried to sound more annoyed than she felt.

  “I know you’re tired of us worrying.” He reached over and coiled his fingers around her hand. “I know you think I meddle too much. But you’re my baby sister and I love you. Sorry, but I can’t help being scared that something’s going to happen to you.”

  “I . . . don’t want you to be scared about me.” She didn’t pull her hand away. She studied his perfectly trimmed nails, felt the calluses on his fingertips, wanted to hold him here, in the kitchen, so he wouldn’t fly back to New York to a life that she wasn’t a part of, even if he was a huge pain in her ass. When Elliott left, it wouldn’t be long before Abby’d go, too. Then it would just be her and Mom and a whole lot of house.

  Elliott lifted their joined hands and kissed hers. “My friend Chloe—the woman who’s an anorexic—she wasn’t as brave as you are about getting help, not until she was really sick. Dad would be proud of you.”

  She swallowed a lump the size of a volleyball that rose in her throat. “I wish he was here,” she said.

  “Me, too.” Elliott unwound his hand from hers to wipe his eyes. “Anyway, I loaded Skype on the desktop so we can talk more often. Plus I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Yeah, right.” She rolled her eyes, but there was this little tug of relief to think she could see him on the computer.

  Keys clattered against the back door. Not Dylan. Sims shoved himself into the kitchen, dropped the Bronco fob onto the counter, waved a vague hello before heading straight for the coffee pot. “What’s with the boxes?” Sims pointed to the stuff Royce had brought.

  “Someone dropped them off for Mom,” she said. “They’re from when she was in school.” She had taken the portrait from the box and stashed it in her room, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe she’d shove it in the closet beside The Box. Then again, maybe she’d hang it on the wall beside Spats.

  Sims shrugged, sipped his coffee, and looked at his brother. “You’re still in pajamas.” Sims had on golf clothes: ugly plaid pants, a red shirt, uglier shoes.

  “Always the sharp eye,” Elliott replied, returning to his cereal. Becca winced at the soggy mess in his bowl.

  “I talked to Mom. She said Bill Tanner’s coming over,” Sims said.

  “Mom summoned the priest?” Elliott asked. “Something we should know?”

  “Aunt Abby got some troubling news about the adoption thing. Bill’s trying to help. He knows somebody who knows somebody who handles that kind of stuff. Or something like that.”

  “Good,” Becca said. Reverend Bill could maybe help her aunt. Let them all fuss over someone other than Becca for a change.

  “Coffee tastes like crap.” Sims drifted over to the sink and dumped it. “You’re heading back to New York?”

  “Yep. Mom insisted. She thought the idea of me helping with the realty firm was as ridiculous as you did.”

  “She didn’t think that. Neither did I.” Sims spoke quietly.

  Elliott narrowed his eyes like he half-expected Sims to burst out laughing. Sims didn’t. “That’s . . . weird for you to say,” Elliott commented.

  “Mom wants you to stick with music. I think she feels like she never gave her art a real shot so she’s living vicariously through you.”

  “Great. No pressure or anything.” Elliott leaned back against the counter beside his brother. “What do you think?”

  Sims offered a one-shouldered shrug. “I’d like it if you stuck around, but you should do what makes you happy. That’s what Dad would want.”

  Silence stretched like a blanket over them. Becca eyed the door.

  “I’ve got a conference in New York this spring,” Sims said.

  “Maybe you can stay with me.”

  “Maybe I’ll stay in a hotel that doesn’t have roaches,” Sims said.

  “Maybe I’ll bunk with you,” Elliott added, and they both laughed. Becca didn’t understand how her brothers had come to this point of peace after days of conflict, but it was always like this with them. They goaded, harassed, and insulted each other, and a day later they were side by side in the kitchen, like two fingers on the same hand.

  A gentle rap at the door had her springing from the chair to answer it.

  “Ready?” Dylan asked. He wore running shorts with a blue sweatshirt that brought out his eyes. Two new pimples dotted his forehead, but his long curls made them easy to overlook.

  “Sure.” Becca grabbed her running jacket as she tried to sidle out the door but Elliott grabbed the knob.

  “Who are you?” Elliott asked.

  “I’m Dylan Dreher, sir,” Dylan said.

  “Sir?” Elliott elbowed Sims, who joined him in the doorway. “He called me sir.”

  “Welcome to adulthood.” Sims extended a hand to a puzzled-looking Dylan. Becca wanted to pull her friend away before the brothers began their interrogation.

  “I’m Sims, this is Elliott,” Sims said.

  “They’re my brothers,” Becca added. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Nice meeting you.” Dylan eyed Becca, looking as nervous as Spats when they took him to the vet.

  “You’re a friend of Becca’s?” Elliott crossed his arms.

  Becca grabbed Dylan’s arm and tugged him down the steps. “We’re going running. Bye.”

  She half-dragged him to the side of the house, away from the door and kitchen window. “Sorry. They’re a pain.”

  “At least they give a shit. I could have a crack dealer come to our back door and my brother would show him to my room.”

  So Dylan’s father loved porn and his big brother didn’t give a shit. Becca couldn’t imagine that kind of indifference in her house. Maybe indifference was better than constant meddling, but she doubted it.

  By the dogwood, she began her stretches, legs apart, hands wrapped around each ankle to loosen her hamstrings. She became excruciatingly aware of Dylan’s gaze on her. Had he noticed her bulbous ass when she bent over? The bulge under her ribs since Dr. Owens had her eating like a starved pig?

  He looked away. “Sorry. You’re smart to do that.”

  “Don’t you stretch before you run?”

  “Not like that,” he said. “But I think I got a good warm-up on the bike getting here.”

  “Then let’s start. I usually head towards the school.” She began at a jog, Dylan right beside her, his long legs moving with surprising grace. Becca matched her breathing to the rhythm of her feet hitting the sidewalk. Inhale four steps, exhale four steps. The sky had brightened to a vivid blue, clouds like dollops of cake frosting high above them. A breeze cooled her skin, yet she could feel sweat seeping from her pores and slithering down her arms and face.

  When they took the right turn, the bulldog behind the yellow house greeted them with a low bark. Dylan jumped to the side.

  “He can’t climb the fence. Besides, he’s a big baby,” Becca answered, pausing to scratch his ear between p
ickets.

  The bulldog gave her hand a lick.

  “There’s a Doberman in the next block,” she warned, “but he’s behind a six-foot enclosure.”

  “Good to know,” Dylan said.

  Becca picked up speed, five steps to each intake of breath. She was flying, Dylan matching her pace, his hands balled chest level, his back lean and straight. He saw her looking and winked. He didn’t pant like she did. Dylan wasn’t perspiring, even though water dribbled off her chin. Her feet began to ache, the sidewalk harder than it used to be. Her heart pounded in her chest like it wanted to break out, but she kept going. Flying. Dylan right beside her.

  Until she reached the middle school, when a cramp squeezed her right side like pliers. She slowed, pressing her hand under her ribs.

  “You okay?” Dylan asked.

  “Stupid cramp.”

  “Let’s take a break,” he said, slowing to a fast walk.

  She swallowed her embarrassment, digging her hand deeper into her flesh. “I’m out of shape,” she confessed. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You have to ease back into running.”

  “I just want to be normal again.” She said it without thinking.

  “You’re the most normal person I know,” he said.

  “Shows what you know. I am not normal.” Becca spotted a bench under a gigantic live oak tree. Maybe if she sat for a moment, the cramp might release. Dropping onto the worn wooden seat reminded her of another bench, the cramp that twisted her insides, her panic that she might die. Waking up in a hospital room with a new diagnosis. She wiped the sweat from her face. Strands of her stupid brown hair were plastered against her forehead.

  “Why do you do that?” His words went upwards, towards the tree limbs. “I say something nice and you say I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “If you don’t want me around, just say so.” Dylan’s face had reddened like a stoplight.

  “I do.” She sounded needy. Pathetic. He’d be smart to flee. “Sorry. I’m— I’m pretty screwed up these days.”

  “You are good at saying shitty things about yourself.”