738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  Suddenly it seems very possible that my parents orchestrated this. I feel sick.

  “Amanda?” Chase asks hesitantly.

  I turn.

  “I’m sorry,” he says with regret in his voice, “but I’m going to be late if I don’t…” He gestures toward the elevator.

  “Oh, yeah, no, you should go.” I nod so rapidly I feel like my head might pop off and roll across the floor. I hate that he’s witnessing this, yet more of my family’s dysfunction, from the front row, in full Technicolor and surround sound.

  Trying to ignore the humiliation burrowing its way beneath my skin, I take a breath and strive for calm. “I’ll catch up with you upstairs,” I say to Chase.

  I have the distinct feeling that if I go along with this bid to control my actions, by letting Mia into my room, it’ll be that much harder for me to send her home or deny my parents’ wishes to bring her there.

  But Chase doesn’t move, his gaze shifting from me to Mia and then back in obvious discomfort.

  “I, uh, just brought the one key card,” he says quietly.

  Before I can say anything, I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Mia bolts upright in her chair, her face the dictionary definition of stunned, the balled-up chip bag rolling out of her limp grasp.

  “Holy shit, you guys are really sleeping together?” she asks at full Mia-volume, which is like ten times that of a normal human being. It actually echoes in the high-ceilinged space.

  Chase winces.

  The rest of the lobby falls silent. Anyone who wasn’t watching us before is watching us now. I hear the distinct hiss-click of cell phone cameras taking photos.

  Damnit, Mia. I snag her arm and pull. “Up, now. Let’s go,” I say through my teeth. My face is hot enough to start a forest fire in rainy season.

  Mia grabs her purse from the floor as she stumbles to her feet under my force. “What? What’s wrong?” she asks as the three of us hastily make our way toward the elevator. “You know that’s what everyone’s talking about anyway.” Then she, in typical brazen Mia fashion, waves at the people who are staring. “It’s why Mom and Dad are losing their shit.”

  Thankfully the elevator doors open right away when Chase pushes the call button, and we have the car to ourselves.

  “Not that I have a problem with it,” Mia says, yanking her arm free from me once we’re inside. “It’s good; you’re finally moving on. You deserve a little fun.” She pats my shoulder in the manner of someone comforting a wounded puppy.

  If it were possible to make the elevator plummet to the basement and kill us all, I might have taken that option. Unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of power. And we’re on the first floor.

  “Shut up, Mia, please,” I mutter.

  Chase leans closer, his jacket brushing against my shoulder, and I have a vivid memory of sliding my arms beneath it to wrap around his warm body. Well, that’s probably history.

  But then he murmurs, “At least somebody in your family doesn’t hate me.” Amusement curls the edges of his words.

  I look up at him sharply. “Not funny.”

  But Mia laughs. “True!” she says to him. Then she tilts her head, eyeing him with a considering look. “But I’m not the only one. Liza still has a raging crush on you.”

  “Mia!” I snap.

  “What? It’s not like it’s not completely obvious,” she says with an offended huff.

  Then she turns that calculating gaze on me. “And seems like Liza might not be the only one,” she says in a singsong voice, pointing at me with both fingers in succession, like she’s jabbing buttons on a vending machine.

  I want to die, even though it’s nothing Chase doesn’t know already. It’s just how she’s saying it. Mia is an expert at manipulating volume and dramatic gestures for maximum attention and effect.

  Chase, though, doesn’t apparently feel the same way.

  He gives a smothered laugh, and I glare at him. “Don’t encourage her, please.”

  Mia ignores me. “That means you’ve got three-fifths of the Grace clan on your side,” she says to Chase with a shrug. “Not bad. We’re a tough crowd. Especially this one.” She elbows me. “She’s got trust issues,” she says in a loud stage whisper.

  I shut my eyes, praying for the doors to just please open.

  When they do, Mia is blissfully quiet for a few moments, preoccupied by taking in her surroundings.

  “No penthouse?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

  I cringe. Saying her name in a scolding voice hasn’t had any effect so far, and I’m betting that’s not about to change, so I don’t waste the breath.

  “Not this time,” Chase says, seemingly undisturbed as he leads the way to our rooms.

  “Huh,” she says with that calculating look I’ve learned to dread.

  “Mia—” I begin.

  “So, is your agent here?” she asks Chase, ignoring me.

  “Stop,” I hiss at her. “It’s not a talk show. You can’t just pelt people with questions that are none of your business.”

  “More like a job interview than a talk show, I think,” Chase says to me dryly. “And no, he’s not,” he says in answer to Mia. “He and I haven’t exactly been on great terms lately.” His mouth tightens.

  Mia makes a speculative noise.

  “But you can do better than him, anyway,” Chase says, startling me.

  That’s what she’s after? Wait, never mind. Of course that’s what she wants—an agent, connections to the Hollywood life she feels is inevitably in her future.

  Mia raises her eyebrows, surprised. “Really?”

  Chase grins at her. “He didn’t even get me the penthouse this time.”

  She nods thoughtfully, then gives him a finger-gun gesture. “Good point.”

  He opens the door to his room and steps in to hold it for us.

  Mia starts forward, but I push past her to go first and drag her along behind me, straight to my room.

  Left unattended for half a second, she’d probably be rummaging through Chase’s suitcase, asking him about his underwear or commenting on his brand of toothpaste.

  Once I get her into my room—“Oh, you’re not sharing with him? I’m disappointed in you, Amma.”—I glance back at Chase, who is shrugging out of his jacket.

  “I’m sorry about everything,” I say, with a wince. That word seems to encapsulate not only Mia’s surprise arrival but also every word out of her mouth since.

  Chase shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m just going to hit the shower quick.” He starts to turn away, his hands pulling at the collar of his T-shirt.

  I hesitate then follow, taking an extra step to touch his arm. “Thank you for this morning. It was perfect.” Somehow I feel more self-conscious now. It’s like Mia’s arrival has reminded me of who I was before, and every action now feels new and absurd.

  A slow smile spreads across Chase’s face, one of genuine pleasure, and a spark of that energy returns. “Yeah?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He’s pleased at having pleased me.

  “Yeah.” I grin back at him like an idiot, feeling the perpetual tightness in my chest ease in the glow.

  He tilts his chin up in mock consideration. “Even though it was, what did you call it, oh-God-thirty?”

  “You brought caffeine and put up with my grumpiness until it kicked in. You pass,” I say. “Also, you brought bagels. Bagels make everything better. Even ridiculously early mornings.”

  “Good to know,” he says. “I’ll keep it in mind for future reference.” His gaze is warm on me and I think he’s maybe imagining other early mornings, and suddenly, I really, really want one of those. Even though I know it’ll probably never happen, just the thought of waking up beside him makes me want to hug him because it tells me that this is working—the crazy plan that everyone was against is actually making a difference.

  “I won’t be able to answer my phone, but I’m going to leave the cast and crew directory here.” Chase poin
ts to a sheaf of bent and slightly crumpled pages on the coffee table, propped up on the tissue box. “Call Emily if you want a ride to set later.”

  “Oh, she’ll love that,” I mutter.

  “Probably,” he agrees with no lack of cheer. “But I hope you’ll do it anyway.” He offers me an uncertain smile. “I’d rather have you there.”

  It dawns on me then that this is the first time we’ve been apart since leaving my house on Sunday, other than sleeping, and even then it’s just been a door and twenty feet of empty space separating us.

  And I don’t like it, this impending separation. Not because I’m afraid of being alone or being away from him, but just because … I like it better when he’s around. So much of my life for the last two years has been spent trying to adjust my behavior to other people’s expectations or concerns, trying to keep up a happy, stable front or prove that I’m okay. It’s exhausting. But the last two days have shown me that Chase isn’t like that. He doesn’t require that of me.

  With him, I can just be myself. And because of that, I like me better when he’s around.

  The realization stops me short. What does that even mean? Worse yet, what does it mean after all of this is over? There’s no question that this is—that we are—temporary, only happening while we’re here. No strings—that’s what I said.

  But I just nod. It doesn’t matter. This, right now, is enough. It has to be. I won’t think about anything else. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.

  Chase leans in and, with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting, he tucks my hair behind my ear, touching my cheek with his thumb. Then he kisses me, light and soft, his mouth warm and lingering until I’m clutching hard at his shoulders.

  Then he steps back, taking a deep breath just like the one I’m struggling to catch. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, like the promise I want it to be.

  He exhales with another of those bright, real smiles.

  As I start to turn for my room, he says quietly, “It’s none of my business, Amanda, but I think she”—he tips his head toward my door and Mia waiting beyond—“is maybe having a hard time.”

  My mouth turns down. “Yeah, I know.” Guilt pulls at me like weights wrapped around my ankles.

  “Not your fault,” he reminds me.

  Technically, that’s true, but if I’m the proximate cause, doesn’t that basically amount to the same thing? I’m afraid it does.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I say instead, and close the door after me.

  * * *

  In my room, I find Mia lounging upside down on my bed, channel surfing, her long red hair just inches from brushing the floor, and her ankles crossed on one of my pillows.

  I don’t know what to say to her. Uneasiness flares in my gut. The wrong thing might send her running in the wrong direction.

  She grins at me. “You like him.”

  I sigh. “Not up for discussion,” I say. “And get your shoes off my bed, please.” She’s lucky I’m not a germ freak like Liza. Liza would be stripping the bed already.

  “Guess you don’t like him that much if this is still where you’re sleeping,” she says. “Poor Chase.” She pulls an exaggerated sad face, which, upside down as she is, is extra comical.

  But I hold firm. That is, and always has been, the only tack to take with Mia if you want any kind of a serious conversation.

  With an exasperated sigh, she rights herself into a sitting position, swiveling to put her feet on the floor. “Oh, come on. He’s obviously into you. I’m just having some fun.”

  Now that it’s just the two of us—her audience cut in half and limited to someone used to her tactics—she’s calmer. An eight on a scale of ten instead of twenty.

  “What’s really going on, Mia?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. “Why are you here?”

  Her expression grows wary, her lower lip jutting out mutinously. “You know. Mom and Dad—”

  “Oh, please, like they would have dropped you off and missed the chance to yell at me some more.”

  The way she avoids my eyes tells me that my belated deduction is on target.

  “That’s true. Everything is definitely still all about you,” she says under her breath, kicking her boots against the short carpeting.

  Her words strike with the accuracy of a whip, and I wince. “Meez, I’m sorry—”

  “I thought it would be better, you know? With you … here.” The word “gone” hangs in the air between us, a mid-thought correction. “But it wasn’t.” Her frown shows lines on either side of her mouth that have no business forming on someone her age. She shouldn’t be under that kind of stress. And yet I know she is.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Mia looks up at me sharply. “You mean after Dad freaked out because you sent the cops away?”

  “I’m here because I want to be,” I say evenly. “And I’m an adult—”

  “Or how about when your picture, looking half terrified and ready to faint, shows up on every local news station, Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight, and all those other shows?” She cocks her head at me. “Mom loved that.”

  The image of my mother watching TV, her hand clamped to her mouth to keep from crying, immediately springs to mind. “I’m fine. I’m doing what I need to do, what’s right for me,” I say, feeling like the lowest form of life on the planet. Who is this selfish? Me—that’s who.

  “I know that, Amanda!” Mia shouts. “But someone needs to convince them. Get it? They can’t see anyone else or anything else except saving you, even if you don’t need it.” She flops back on my bed with a sullen expression and stares at the ceiling.

  Dread fills me. “They don’t know you’re here, do they?” I ask, sitting on the other bed.

  “They were talking about it last night, what to do,” she says without looking at me.

  “After the phone call,” I say, more a statement than question.

  She nods, rolling her eyes.

  “Liza said that if you wouldn’t come home, they should bring me here. Because maybe that would convince you.” Her tone is angry and bitter, but worse than that, I can hear the wobble of impending tears in her voice. And unlike most Mia-weeping situations, where she’s a one-woman opera of despair, she appears to be trying hard not to cry. Which only makes me feel worse.

  Convince me? More like emotionally blackmail me into doing what they want. I might be willing to take risks with myself but not with her and they know that. And how shitty for Mia to hear her family—our family—talking about her that way, like she’s a chess piece to be moved to achieve another objective.

  My emotional meter swings wildly between rage and guilt, the one burning through me with the fire of a thousand suns, the other threatening to pull me down until I can’t breathe beneath its weight.

  “So I just brought myself to save them the trouble,” she says with a bright, false smile at the ceiling.

  “If Liza thinks it’s such a great idea, then why didn’t she come herself?” I snap.

  Mia pops her head up, bracing herself on her elbows, and gives me an incredulous look. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I wave my hand in dismissal. “Law school, classes, incredibly difficult, yeah, yeah.” I’ve heard it plenty already from Liza herself, who seems to need everyone else to acknowledge the difficulty before she can unclench even a little.

  Mia snorts. “No, because then she’d have to talk to you.”

  I stop, my mouth hanging open. This is the first time anyone has ever acknowledged the tension aloud. I knew it wasn’t my imagination, but the way Mia is talking, it’s something the rest of my family has discussed.

  “I thought you would have figured it out by now,” Mia says, flicking her fingers against the bedspread, removing crumbs that she was responsible for putting there in the first place.

  “Someone would have to talk to me,” I point out. “And since Dad and Liza avoid me, and Mom is pretending everything is awe
some, that leaves you.”

  She seems momentarily nonplussed. “Oh, right.” Then she shakes her head. “Okay, well … it’s just a few years ago, Liza was being Liza…” She hesitates. “You know how she is, all logic and next steps. Emotion chip deactivated or whatever.”

  I nod.

  “And I guess she was doing some research.” Mia pokes at the comforter again instead of looking at me. “And she found out that you can’t declare someone dead for, like, a bunch of years, I guess.”

  Suddenly I have a terrible feeling I know where this is going.

  “So, that summer, right before you were found, Liza was pushing for a memorial service for you. For ‘closure.’” Mia lifts her hands to make air quotes, but her shoulders are sagging, as if bent under the burden of holding and then sharing this knowledge. “She was leaning hard on Mom and Dad to make it happen. Then the police called, saying they found you.”

  The words hit harder than I expected. When I was in the basement, I knew that my family probably thought I was dead. I was gone for so long. But all anyone ever said when I came back was how they’d never given up hope.

  Hearing now that that might not have truly been the case makes me feel like I clawed my way to freedom only to find everyone completely uninterested in my return.

  Which is obviously not true. But it’s a flash-burn of betrayal that’s hard to ignore.

  “It’s not her fault,” Mia says with obvious reluctance. “Mom and Dad were messed up, like really messed up. I think she was trying to help in her Liza way.”

  She’s right. Liza would break the situation down rationally. The best solution would be for me to come home. If that couldn’t happen, then the next best would be to move on as neatly and cleanly as possible, which would require some kind of resolution or closure. And a memorial service would be the only kind of resolution or closure that could be controlled.

  It just sucks as the one who was intended to be memorialized while I was still alive.

  “When you came home, Liza pretended she never even brought it up, and Mom and Dad told me not to say anything to you because of your ‘mental state.’” Mia makes a face.

  So, instead, my older sister either ignores me or speaks to me without quite meeting my gaze. Liza might lean toward logic, but she’s not a freaking robot. In her mind, she wrote me off as dead and then she turned out to be wrong. That must really be messing with her mind. Liza doesn’t handle being wrong very well at all, even on little stuff. And this time, it’s probably not just being wrong, but the guilt of it, too.