The Distance Between Stars

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The Distance Between Stars Page 3

by Nicole Conway


  I bit down hard on my lip. Now wasn't the time to get emotional.

  Holding my breath, I slid through the barely-open door. I crept quickly down the hall to the foyer, spotting his heavy beige work coat by the front door. I leaned in to search the pockets, unintentionally catching a whiff of his scent that still hung on the collar. My stomach did a flip. He smelled so good, like sweat and outside places.

  I found the battered notebook in the right pocket. I didn't have much time, so I only read the first few pages. They said odd, random, but useful things.

  Joseph Clancey. That was his name.

  I smiled and flipped to the last few pages. The responses read like bits of conversation. Replies to questions I could nearly guess.

  So I was right. It wasn't that he didn't speak—he couldn't. It was strange because I'd known people who were disabled that way. My school had several students who were deaf, mute, or both. But Joseph wasn’t like them. He didn't try to use sign language. He didn't silently mouth words or use animated expressions and body language to try to get his point across to Rhonda or Ms. Pearce.

  Joseph Clancey was different.

  I rummaged around in his coat pocket again until I found his pen, and then quickly flipped to the first empty page of his notebook. I wanted to leave him a note. Why? I had absolutely no idea. It was just a silly feeling, a desire for him to know that I existed. He might not even notice, or care for that matter. But this notebook was his tether to the rest of the world. And I wanted to be a part of it.

  My hand trembled. I could barely grip the pen. I didn't know what to say. He probably didn't know I was in the house at all. Mrs. Pearce always saw to that. So what should I say? If this was all I ever got to say to him, I had to make it count.

  I heard footsteps coming.

  Oh no. I was out of time. I jotted down one word, quickly placed the notebook back in his coat pocket, and made a mad dash for the stairwell. It was dark there. I was safe.

  Joseph walked past. He was taller than he seemed from the upstairs windows, and so much bigger than I was. His shoulders were thick and broad, and I could see the shapes of muscles beneath his sweater.

  He had a strong man's body.

  I watched him go for his coat. He was leaving.

  Panic made me suck in a breath of alarm. I had to go. I had to get out before he opened that door and the light … so much light …

  I grabbed the knob and twisted slowly, opening the door to the stairwell. I darted through, slamming it behind me and running up the stairs without stopping. It wasn't until I was upstairs, safe in the dark, that I remembered—I hadn't told him my name. I hadn't told him anything at all. Only one word.

  Only hello.

  6

  DEADLINE

  —Joseph—

  The Army had taught me to embrace routine and I couldn’t stand to be without it, now. Routine made everything seem to make sense, even if it didn’t.

  So rather than enduring another “family dinner” with my brother and his wife, every evening after work I went to the same booth in the back of the same café. I ordered the same steakhouse burger with extra bacon, hold the tomato, and drank the same locally brewed oatmeal stout. Some routines were perfect just the way they were.

  Besides, the waitresses knew me by name, which was nice because they didn't need me to tell them what my order was anymore. Sometimes they even had it ready for me by the time I sat down. I was comfortable there.

  Tonight, rather than catching up on the sports headlines playing over the television on the far wall, I had something new to focus on.

  Beverly.

  I studied her note in between bites of food, trying to think about what to say back. My thoughts got jumbled almost as soon as I picked up the pen to write. This whole bizarre situation had me second-guessing everything.

  Why was she even watching me at all? Not like I was anything special.

  But it was a simple question—why wasn't I smiling today?

  I sighed and started to write:

  Family problems. My brother wants me to move out. I'd like my own place, too. Just not sure if I'm ready.

  I stared down at the unabridged honesty of those few, short sentences.

  I did want to move out. I wanted to be away from the domestic war zone that was my brother's marriage. I wanted more than a closet sized room all to myself. I wanted to eat at a kitchen table or sit in a recliner watching my own TV. I wanted the freedom to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom in my underwear without getting screamed at. I didn't want to have to wait until 11 AM on the weekends to do my laundry so Kara Anne wouldn't be disturbed.

  I wanted change.

  But I was terrified to have those things. Terrified of the silence. Of the knowledge that I would be completely and utterly alone. That Jacob wouldn't visit. That Mom and Dad wouldn't, either. When I woke up in the night, there would be nothing but the sound of those memories ringing in my ears. Not to mention any place I could afford was bound to be in a part of town that required bars on the windows.

  I put the pen down slowly.

  Sometimes I forgot about what a labyrinth of horrors my mind had become. I'd been alone in it for so long, I'd gotten used to it somehow. The demons trapped inside with me were becoming familiar old friends. PTSD was my Minotaur, and I'd been outrunning him for years. That's all I had to do, stay one step ahead and hope one of those demons didn't trip me up.

  Right now, I had the labyrinth memorized. The routine kept me safe. Moving out, taking on that much change at once—that was going to jumble everything up again.

  I took a long swig of my beer, letting the rich, somewhat chocolaty flavor slide down my throat. I decided to add a little more. I wanted to ask a question of my own.

  Why are you hiding from me?

  I sat at the cafe, drinking my beer and letting the possible answers to that question sink in, like chasing rabbits through my head. Maybe she really was a ghost and I was writing notes with the spirits of the dead. Handy. If that was the case, there were a few folks I wanted to pass a message on to. Or it could be that she had some kind of disfigurement like the elephant man and couldn't bear to go into public.

  The undead thing sounded way cooler.

  At nearly midnight, when the cafe started closing and I knew I had no other choice than to go home, I paid my tab and left. The fog was thick. The air was unseasonably warm tonight. I rolled the window down and breathed it in.

  When I got to the house, the lights were still on in the kitchen. Damnit. I'd hoped to avoid all contact with them after this morning. But when I got inside to find Jacob, my parents, and Kara Anne all sitting in the living room like they were staging some kind of intervention, I knew that wasn't going to be possible.

  Kara Anne's eyes glittered like a ravenous jackal as I hesitated in the doorway.

  My dad smiled. I hadn't seen him in six months. He looked absolutely awful. His skin was ashen and looked as thin as wet newspaper. Most of his hair was gone. The chemo had him nearly skeletal now.

  My chest tightened and I bit down hard. I couldn't stand to look at him that way.

  "Come on in, son. We want to talk to you."

  Shit. If Dad asked, I couldn't say no.

  I took a seat across the room, avoiding Kara Anne's leering stare.

  "Joe, we all agree it's time for you to start putting together a plan to get back on your feet," Jacob spoke up. "And we are all here because we want to show you our support and let you know we're going to help any way we can."

  "But you can't stay here anymore." Kara Anne's eager expression betrayed her. She'd been dying to get that out.

  My dad sent her a scolding stare, that silent, withering look only a father figure can give. The sort that makes you feel two inches tall. Sick or not, he was still the alpha dog.

  It worked. Kara Anne shrank back in her seat, her face beet red.

  "Sweetie, we know you've been trying. But this bouncing around from job to job can't last forever. It's b
een almost four years." Mom's eyes were misty and pleading. "Your dad and I think you should go to trade school. You've got such talent working with your hands. We would love to see you in a stable job where you can support yourself and settle into a life of your own."

  I wasn't sure what to say, even if I'd been able to say anything. It wasn't like I hadn't considered going to school. The Army would pay for it. It was just …

  I clenched my teeth harder.

  "Three months." Dad was watching me carefully, probably reading me like an open book, as usual. You couldn't hide anything from him. "Three months, son, and then you need to move out of here. I'll co-sign with you to get you set up in a decent apartment. And your mother will help you begin applying for schools. So long as you're enrolled in classes, we are willing to help you with your rent."

  I looked up at them suddenly. It took everything I had to force a smile. I shook my head, took out my notebook, and wrote out my response. Then I passed the notebook to my dad.

  "He says he will manage on his own. He'll be out by the end of the month." My father's tone was disapproving. "And apologizes for being a burden."

  I managed to keep that smile up as I took the notebook back and went to my room, closing the door behind me. I turned on the small TV on top of my dresser and turned up the volume as loud as it would go.

  I didn't want to hear Mom cry.

  7

  QUESTIONS

  —Joseph—

  Well, it was official. I was that person, the one the rest of the family had to compensate for. I absolutely hated it.

  It had never been that way for me before. I'd always been the "full steam ahead" kind of guy. Independent. Reliable. No quit. No fear. And when something around the house broke, I was generally the one who fixed it.

  I was, by nature, a fixer.

  So to say this was a crushing blow to my ego would have been an understatement. I didn't want to be babied or treated as though I were fragile. Frankly, that kind of thing pissed me off. I had been a soldier, for crying out loud. I didn't need anyone treating me like a damn invalid just because I couldn't …

  Whatever.

  One month. I had one lousy month to get my shit together. I was making good money at the Filibrault place. But I wasn't sure how long that job would last. Once the house was in order, was I going to stay on as a permanent fixture? Or was this whole gig short term?

  I was going to need to find that out, sooner rather than later. And maybe look into getting a weekend job as well so I could make rent on a decent place. I was thinking about my growing to-do list as I pulled up in front of the mansion the next morning. I could swing a rent of about $450 a month and still be able to scrape by.

  But school? Nah. No way. Jacob was the textbook guy, not me.

  I hung my coat up and stopped by the kitchen for some of Rhonda's freshly brewed coffee. When those first drops of caffeine-laced goodness touched my soul, I felt like a new man. A new man that wanted to work because, damnit, I was not an invalid.

  By lunch I'd almost forgotten all about the deadline now looming over my head. I was sweaty and covered in leaves and clippings, but in my storm of fury, I had finished trimming down all the shrubs and trees out front. I'd edged the sidewalk, put the weed-eater to work on the wildly overgrown corners of the house, and even managed to start pulling some of the flowering vines down off the side of the house.

  Rhonda studied me from under a suspicious, arched brow. "Someone lit a fire under your tail, honey? You've been at it like a madman all morning."

  I smiled. Yeah, something like that.

  Sitting at my usual spot at the counter, I went over the page of notes Pearce had left for me. She'd selected some tile and grout. She'd also requested marble countertops for all the vanities that would match the tiles she wanted behind the tub.

  She'd written out a blank check to the hardware store, specifically asking for a receipt when I was finished. No problem there. Boy, did I wish I had that kind of money to throw around.

  I glanced at the check. The name printed in the top corner read Edmond Dawning. Not a name I recognized. I wondered if he was some relation to the original Filibraults who had built this place, or if he'd bought it.

  I folded up the check and went for my coat to tuck it safely in the pocket along with the note of her selections.

  My fingers brushed my notebook.

  And I remembered: Beverly. The notes. My ghost.

  I took out the notebook, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming. On the last page was a new message.

  No one who works as hard as you do could ever be a burden. Does your family really feel that way? Why are you afraid to live on your own?

  And for the record, I'm not hiding from you.

  I stood gnawing on the inside of my cheek, realizing she'd most likely seen the note I had given Dad last night. It made me look and feel like an ass now in retrospect.

  Her questions made me stop. Made me think and reflect. I wondered if she was somewhere nearby, right now, watching me, waiting for a reply.

  I took out my pen and answered.

  There are different ways to be a burden. I've been an emotional one on my family for a while now. For my parents, longer than that. I gave them hell growing up. Maybe they’re right.

  Maybe I have been exploiting their kindness so I wouldn't have to deal with things. I don’t like being alone.

  I heard you run away the first time you wrote to me. So if you aren't hiding from me, then what?

  P.S. Are you a ghost?

  8

  ANSWERS

  —Joseph—

  I left my coat and notebook on the hook by the door after I got back from the store. I didn't know if she'd answer again today. But I hoped she would.

  At the end of the day, I found a new message:

  I know what it means to be that kind of burden. To suck the life out of the people you love merely by being there. You see it in their eyes, like a dimness, whenever you're around. A quiet, dying sort of feeling as though they're silently screaming.

  I used to be something great, Joseph. I used to be something strong and beautiful. I'm not a ghost, but when I think about who I used to be, what I used to do, I realize I might as well be.

  I'm a prisoner.

  This is my asylum.

  P.S. Please don't cut down all the vines on the tower. I like to smell the blossoms.

  9

  SEEING IS BELIEVING

  —Joseph—

  Somehow this had gotten deep. Deeper than I'd ever intended. Deeper than I'd been with anyone else. I didn’t talk to people like this … not even the therapists after I’d been discharged.

  I thought about her message all night while I was combing internet pages for apartment ads and crunching numbers for rent and utilities. I filled out an online application for the hardware store. Maybe they'd let me stock shelves or install appliances on the weekends.

  Suddenly, I got a wild idea.

  I ran a Google search for Beverly Filibrault.

  Nothing.

  I tried again for Beverly Pearce.

  Nothing.

  Then it hit me—the name on the check. Maybe she was related to Edmond Dawning somehow.

  So I ran another search, this time for Beverly Dawning.

  And for the first time, I saw really her. Not just a shadow in a window. Not just words scribbled in my notebook.

  I sat at my brother's computer, scrolling through picture after picture, video after video, until the sun began to rise. Each was more beautiful and captivating than the last. I was stunned. Breathless. Confused.

  I took my notebook, finally writing my reply.

  You are a ballerina.

  10

  THE COMING STORM

  —Beverly—

  I resisted the urge to violently scratch out the word "are" and write over it in big, angry capital letters "WERE."

  You WERE a ballerina.

  That's what it should have said. Now
I was, as he had so eloquently put it, a ghost. Or nearly the same thing.

  I'd kidnapped his little notebook, taken it back to the safety of my lair so I could carefully thumb through every page. It was like a game, trying to guess the other end of the conversations logged there.

  But in the light of that final entry, I felt tiny and exposed. He'd seen me. The old me. And no matter how I tried to read between the lines of his last reply, I couldn't tell how he felt or what he thought about that.

  I shrank down into my bed, pulling the worn old quilts over my head. The dark swallowed me like a soothing embrace. I was safe. But I was alone.

  The door lock began to groan and lurch. I had three seconds. Lunging forward, I grabbed Joseph's notebook and stuffed it into my pillowcase. Then I sat up and pretended to read by the soft bluish light of the LED lamp on my nightstand.

  Mrs. Pearce entered like an invading prison guard. She stood, lurking in the doorway for a moment simply to examine me and the entire room. I knew she was searching for evidence that I was up to no good.

  I hadn't quite earned her trust back.

  "Still in bed at this hour?" she asked, as she finally seemed to accept that I was behaving. She came briskly over to remove a tray of lunch dishes from my desk.

  "It's not as though I've got anywhere to go.” I tried to make it sound teasing enough to hide my sarcasm and disdain.

  Naturally, she wasn't buying it. She knew me too well for that now. "Well you might if you could manage to obey the rules. Honestly, Miss Beverly, this is your own doing. You insist on being reckless and in your state you can't afford to take any risks."

  I snapped the book shut and fought the urge to throw it at her.

  "My job is to keep you alive and avoid any more close calls."

 

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