by Cassia Leo
I rolled my eyes. “I was trying not to startle you and make you saw your finger off.”
He nodded as he set his headphones down on the sheet of plywood he’d been cutting and pulled off his work gloves, then he pushed his goggles up so they rested on the top of his head. “No need to worry about my fingers. It’s not pretty ladies that startle me.”
I fixed him with a very serious expression. “I told you I’m married.”
He nodded again as he set his gloves down on the worktable he’d set up in the backyard. “I do remember you mentioning that.”
I sighed as I wondered if I was being unnecessarily antagonistic. “I saw the stuff you left on my back porch. Do you need me to take that stuff back to the store, or something?”
“Something,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cocky half smile. “Relax. It’s just a gift to get you started. Just my way of trying to pay it forward. Your mom helped me out a lot when I was a newbie to the neighborhood.”
I smiled at this new information. “That sounds like my mom, always sharing her wealth of knowledge with anyone who’ll listen.”
He chuckled. “She was a feisty one, that’s for sure. But she had a soft side. I still remember the one phrase she repeated quite often: You can’t create life without patience. I was an impatient son of a bitch when I first started planting.”
I swallowed the emerging lump in my throat as I realized I’d almost forgotten one of my mother’s favorite catchphrases. “I should get going. I’ll… let you know if I need any help. Thanks for the supplies.”
“Not a problem. And, by the way, I’m not sure if anyone’s told you this, but you might want to keep that fancy car of yours in the garage. My truck’s been broken into a couple of times this year. More than likely just some meth-heads looking for something to pawn. Nothing to be alarmed about, but thought you oughta know.”
My shoulders tensed as I recalled Edna issuing the same warning, which reminded me of the warning I’d given my mother that night.
“Thanks for the info. Problem is my garage is full of boxes. I’d have to put the stuff in storage to fit my car in there.”
He smiled. “I can help you do that. I’ll just throw it in the truck and haul it wherever you want.”
I stared at him for a while, trying to figure out if this guy was for real. “Why are you so nice?”
He considered my question, then he looked me in the eye, a very solemn expression on his tanned, rugged features. “At times, I’ve been lucky in my life. I’d probably be just another homeless vet, or dead, if it weren’t for a few lucky breaks. Sometimes, all someone needs is for one good person to say yes instead of no.”
I bit my lip to keep from getting emotional as his words reminded me of Jack: Just promise me you’ll say yes.
I sighed. “Well, thank you… for your kindness.”
I left on that note, and once I closed the front door of my mother’s house behind me, I leaned against it and smiled. I felt less alone today. And less afraid.
I replayed Isaac’s words — my mom’s words — in my mind: You can’t create life without patience.
I had to create some semblance of a life without Jack while we were apart. I didn’t want to learn to be without him. I didn’t want to learn to stop missing him. I just wanted to feel normal when we were apart, like my world wasn’t coming apart at the seams.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I called Jack and was very relieved when he picked up on the first ring.
“Jack, I’m sorry for hanging up on you,” I blurted out before he had the opportunity to mention it bitterly.
“I’m on my way to the airport,” he replied.
He sounded tired and I wished I could have been there to help him pack and drive him to the airport so he wouldn’t have to do it all alone.
“Can you call me when you land in Japan?” I asked, trying hard to convey a hopeful note in my voice.
“Pixie, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. And I’ll go to the next counseling session if I’m back in time. I promise.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have overreacted. I know you have work to do.”
There was a long pause where I listened to the very faint thump of his tires racing over the smooth highway. One of the best parts about being married was the ability to enjoy moments of silence together.
“Your mom’s birthday’s in three weeks,” he said, his voice tender. “You should schedule that week’s session to coincide with her birthday, so we can visit her together.”
I swallowed the aching lump in my throat. “Thank you for remembering… And thank you for being a beautiful person.”
“Baby, there’s no one with a more beautiful heart than you. Don’t you ever forget that.” He waited a moment before he let out a deep sigh. “Sleep well. I’ll call you when I land.”
I sighed. “I love you more than you can imagine.”
After a long, worrying pause, he replied, “I can’t imagine loving anyone more.”
As I hung up, I felt a lot less hopeful than I had before I called. I felt like it was my first night at summer camp and I was achingly homesick. I thought of Jack alone for hours on a flight to Japan. Alone in a taxi on the way to his hotel. I didn’t like to think of Jack alone. It hurt me more than my own loneliness.
But I couldn’t go on pretending as if everything was okay. No matter how much I wanted to run back to him, I had to resist falling into old habits.
Thinking of the lush garden in Isaac’s backyard, and my mother’s philosophy about creating life, I realized I had a fortuitous opportunity to practice patience. And possibly, I could create something beautiful from the tatters of my tragic life. I would not squander this gift.
Driving the pallet truck around the back of the garden store, with the green sod and potted trees glistening with dew, felt a bit whimsical. Like riding the bumper cars or go-carts as a child. It made me wonder if this was how Jack felt when he went golfing with his buddies.
God, I missed him.
On the drive home from work, I allowed myself to imagine, just for a brief moment, that Jack would be there when I came through the door. He would be sitting at his desk, telecommuting, with Junior asleep in his arms. I would tell him about my productive day at the tech startup I created without Jack’s help. Then, we’d put Junior to bed and make love for hours, worshipping each other until we were raw with exhaustion.
I shook my head as I turned into my mother’s driveway, noticing that Isaac’s truck was parked closer to the front of the house, right on the other side of the cedar fence separating our properties. As I stepped out of the Tesla, I heard 90s grunge music flowing toward me from farther up Isaac’s driveway, closer to the garage he’d been doing construction on.
Climbing the stairs up to the porch, I was steps from the front door when I heard a noise that shattered the thin web of sanity holding my fragile psyche together.
The noise came from the direction of Isaac’s garage.
Gunshots.
Pop. Pop.
My body and my mind were no longer mine to control. A piercing scream escaped my mouth, and my vision began to darken around the edges. As if I were drunk, I stumbled forward, fumbling for the house key on my key ring. The tunnel vision was worsening as each breath came more shallow than the last.
Somehow, I managed to get the key in the lock. I staggered over the threshold and slammed the door behind me, my back sliding down the door as I sunk to the floor and hugged my knees to my chest.
Oh, God. Please don’t let this be happening. Please let this be some kind of auditory hallucination. Please. I don’t want to die.
The doorknob rattled violently, sending my adrenaline skyrocketing. My insides were covered in steel wool, grating against the inner surface of every inch of my body. I wanted to scream, but my voice had left me.
“Hey, are you okay in there?”
It sounded like Isaac’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure. All sounds were muffled by the sav
age pounding of my heart. A violent thud on the door broke through the thrum in my ears.
The force of the banging got worse. I opened my mouth and tried to scream, but I didn’t know whether any sound had actually come out. The pounding finally stopped right before I passed out.
Chapter 16
Isaac
“Fuck!” I cursed aloud as I looked through her living room window and saw the back of Laurel’s head.
Judging by the sudden end to her screams, and the way she appeared to be lying on the floor, she was probably passed out.
Fucking hell. What if Laurel had a heart problem or something? I needed to get in there, but I couldn’t break down the door and risk injuring her.
“Boomer, stop!” I shouted, as he kept jumping on me, trying to get me to pay attention to him. He was trained to sense my anxiety, to smell my fear. And right now I was out of my mind with worry.
I glanced over my shoulder, to make sure none of the other neighbors had heard my Mustang backfiring or Laurel screaming. Not seeing anything but Boomer, I turned back to the window. Without a second thought, I cocked my arm back and sent a solid jab that shattered the first pane. Shit! She had dual-pane windows.
“Fucking mother fuck.” I spat one curse after another as I punched out the rest of the glass, telling myself it was too late to go through the whole charade of taking off my shirt and wrapping my hand. Though I felt no pain, I saw the bright-red blood on my hand as I reached in to flip the latch on the window.
Sliding it open, I hopped through the window, ignoring the crunch of glass beneath my work boots. My heart raced when I saw Laurel lying listless by the door. With Boomer barking up a storm at the broken window, I unlocked the deadbolt and tried to block out thoughts of all the things I’d seen. The things I’d done. The things I could no longer do.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus on the present moment. I was in Laurel’s house, not in some dusty village in the middle of hostile territory.
I’m here. I’m not there. I’m not there.
More deep breaths.
The five senses.
What do I see? I shook my head furiously as the living room scene blinked in and out of focus.
What do I hear? Boomer. Yapping his ass off. I had to hurry up.
Sliding my hand under Laurel’s body, I wrapped one arm around her waist and the other behind her knees.
What do I feel? Laurel. Even as dead weight, she was so fucking light.
I panicked as I realized I didn’t remember standing up. How long had I been standing here? I shook my head as I tried to remember what I was doing.
The five senses. I could see the living room, though my vision was hazy. I could barely hear Boomer over the pounding of my heart.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to feel Laurel in my arms, instead of the blinding pain in my belly.
What do you feel? Laurel. Her skin is cold. My biceps and shoulders burn from the effort of carrying her. How long had I been standing here?
What do I taste? Salty sweat spilling in runnels over my lips as I worried that I’d probably lost time again.
What do I smell? Laurel. It wasn’t strong enough to be perfume, but she definitely smelled like sweet melon and fresh rain.
I let out a deep sigh as my heart rate slowed just enough for my vision to clear.
Okay. I was back.
Holy shit, that could have gone so bad.
I didn’t have time to worry about whether or not I should be in the presence of other humans. That was a debate that raged inside my mind on a constant loop, day in and day out. Right now, I had to get Laurel to a hospital.
If she was having a panic attack or — God forbid — a heart attack, I could only do so much with my training. At least I could see from the shallow rise and fall of her chest that she was still breathing. But experience told me we were too close to the hospital to justify waiting for an ambulance.
I carried her outside, my lips pressed in a hard line from the effort. I’d carried men at least fifty pounds heavier farther distances. It was thirty or forty yards to my truck, which would have been a cakewalk if Boomer wasn’t trying to get in my way.
He sensed my distress and he was trained to try to stop me from moving in occasions like this. One second he would jump on me, the next he would try to cut me off and herd me in the other direction.
Boomer was my lifeline and the only thing I loved in this whole fucking world. But in this moment, I wished I could tell him that I wasn’t anxious for me. I was scared for her.
I finally reached the truck and carefully slid Laurel’s limp body into the cab. I made sure to lay her down on her side, facing forward, so I could look back periodically to make sure she wasn’t turning blue.
Boomer tried to hop in the driver’s seat to stop me from driving, but I managed to get him into the truck bed. Now, I just had to call the hospital to let them know I was bringing in a possible heart attack or severe panic attack. But when I reached into my jeans pocket to get my phone, I flinched at the pain in my hand. I patted the pocket instead, my heart racing as I realized it wasn’t there.
Fuck! It probably fell out of my back pocket when I climbed in through the window.
Double fuck! I just got blood all over my favorite jeans.
Glancing at my bloody hand, I pulled off my T-shirt and wrapped it around the throbbing slash on my palm. I was glad we were on our way to the hospital.
I had only been to Providence Hospital in Portland one time. Despite my efforts to forget that day, I now thanked God I hadn’t. I didn’t have time to go back and get my phone or attempt to search for an address in the shit-tacular GPS in my truck.
Today, I would have to rely on raw memory. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being tested. And I hoped like hell I wasn’t about to fail.
Chapter 17
Laurel
My eyes opened slowly, and the first thing I felt was a pounding in the left side of my head. It took me a moment to realize I was bouncing around in the backseat of a vehicle.
Oh, no. Was I being abducted? Was that why I heard gunshots?
I had been so stupefied by the thought of being killed, I hadn’t stopped to consider the only fate worse than death: a slow death.
I squinted my eyes against the pain in my head as I pushed myself up to get a better look at my captor. Blinking a few times, I wondered if I was hallucinating. It looked like Isaac was behind the wheel, but he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“Where are you taking me?” I demanded, though my voice wasn’t strong enough to project.
He glanced back at me with an unreadable expression. Was it fear or relief? “Oh, Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.”
“What are you doing? Why am I in this truck?”
I looked around for a door handle, but it was one of those doors that swung in the opposite direction. The front door had to be open to reveal the handle for the back door.
“Whoa! Hey, don’t do that!” he said as I tried to reach through the gap between the passenger seat and the door. “What are you doing?”
“Let me out of here! I don’t know what you think you’re going to do to me, but you’re wrong. I will fight you tooth and fucking nail. Do you understand me?”
The force of my anger sent a sharp pain slicing through the left side of my head. I pressed my fingers to my scalp and flinched when I found a large, walnut-sized lump.
“Hey, I don’t know what you think just happened, but one minute I was working on my Mustang and it backfired a couple of times. The next thing I know, you’re screaming your ass off inside your house. You passed out in there and I thought you had a damn heart attack. I’m just trying to get you to the hospital.”
My heart thudded against my chest as I remembered the gunshots clearly in my mind. Pop! Pop! “Your car backfired?” I said, my body slumping against the seat, though I didn’t know if I was more relieved or embarrassed.
He glanced back at me. “Are you okay?�
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“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I mean, I think so. But… so… it wasn’t gunshots?”
He chuckled at this, then his face got serious. “Oh, fuck. I didn’t even consider that you might… Shit. I’m sorry. Now I feel like an idiot for not being more considerate.”
“Considerate of what?” I replied, immediately regretting this question, as it might serve as an opener to a conversation I desperately didn’t want to have.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would set you off. I won’t… I won’t work on the car anymore unless you’re at work.”
“You don’t have to do that for me,” I said, carefully running my fingers over the tender bump on my head. “Can you just take me home? I really don’t want to go to the hospital right now. They’ll make me get a psych eval.”
As soon as I spoke the words aloud, I regretted them. It seemed I couldn’t keep myself from oversharing with Isaac. Must be the head injury.
The silence that followed the words “psych eval” lasted ages. I hated being in the backseat. It made me feel powerless.
“I’m coming up there,” I said, as I climbed over the console between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat. I gasped when I noticed his hand was wrapped in what looked like a gray T-shirt, which probably explained why he was shirtless. “Did you injure your hand?” I asked, trying not to stare at his smooth, tattooed chest.
He glanced at his hand, then turned his attention back to the road. “It’s not too bad. I mean… it will need stitches. We can go home if you know how to stitch up a cut.” He peeked at me to see my wide-eyed response, then he let out a chuckle. “I guess that’s a no. I would do it myself, but I’m right-handed.”
I wanted to ask him to drop me off at the house. I didn’t want to be anywhere near a hospital. But I couldn’t ask him to go back when he was injured, especially when I was the cause.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, turning away to look out the window so he wouldn’t see me getting emotional.