My vision tunneled. My ears were pounding and I could barely breathe. My hands twitched, and every muscle in my body tightened.
She'd lied to and blackmailed my brother into kicking me out. But that wasn’t what really pissed me off. She’d lied to him about the one thing I knew my brother wanted more than anything—to have kids.
I punched the dashboard as hard as I could. Once. Twice. After that I lost steam. My knuckles were bleeding, and my hand was throbbing.
I drove away, peeling out of the neighborhood and silently vowing never to go back. I couldn't.
Because if I ever saw her again, it'd be her face instead of my dashboard.
28
GIFTS
—Beverly—
Something wasn't right.
It hadn't been right for almost a whole week. On the surface, nothing had changed. Perhaps that's why I'd almost convinced myself that I was only being paranoid. Joe still came and went on his normal schedule.
But he didn't smile. Not even once. His messages were brief, cold, and distant. It was as though a wall had been thrust up between us. One that was even more daunting than the literal one that was already there.
He was slipping away, like sand through my fingers.
I was reminded how utterly fragile the connection between us was. If he stopped answering my notes, or he put his coat somewhere I couldn’t reach it, I’d have no way to talk to him again.
I wanted to reach out, wanted to ask him what was wrong. What had changed? What happened?
I pressed my palm against the windowpane. He was walking to his truck with his shoulders hunched, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. The wind tousled his dark brown hair. It was getting longer, growing out of that military cut I'd gotten used to. It was like that part of him that was a soldier was slowly dying away.
I'd written him a message and broken my own promise to myself.
I told him that I wanted to see him again.
I knew what it might cost both of us. But I wasn't asking for a trip to the beach or even a trip anywhere. He could meet me on the lawn for all I cared. I just wanted to feel his touch again, wanted to fix whatever was broken in him that had taken that precious smile away.
The next day, when he arrived and hung his coat by the door, I waited until I heard the house go silent. Rhonda was making her specialty: fresh artisan bread. Mrs. Pearce was having her morning tea in the sunroom, reading the paper.
I slipped downstairs.
I took the notebook out of his pocket and darted back up to the safety of my room, locking the doors again as I went. I sat down under the window and opened the notebook to the last page.
I want to see you too, Bev. More than anything. More than life itself. I need you to know that. I need you to know how precious you are to me. And how much these last few months have meant.
Someday I'll tell you everything. Someday we won't have to hide like this anymore.
P.S. I'm finishing your bathroom today. There's a gift inside for you. Open the bottom cabinet under the sink. Run your fingers along the inside of the panel right above the door.
P.S.S. Look up.
I closed the notebook slowly. I looked around my dark bedroom, a spacious circular room with a tall cone-shaped roof. It was an odd space. When I'd first moved in, it looked like no one had set foot in it in years. The plaster had been peeling away from the walls flake by flake.
Now it was much different. My bathroom, too, had undoubtedly gotten a much-needed facelift. I was anxious to see it. But I'd have to wait.
All day I sat at the base of the stairs and listened to him work, hammering and drilling in the bathroom. Mrs. Pearce kept coming and going. I was too afraid of getting caught to chance going to see him.
So I sat and tried to think of something I could give him. A gift in return. But I couldn't come up with anything. So I left him a note.
We were only a few feet away for most of the day. But it felt like a thousand miles.
P.S. I miss you, Joe.
I hesitated. There was more. I just wasn't sure if I should. Maybe it was because I could sense him drifting away. I was panicking. I was afraid if I didn't tell him now I might never get the chance. His notebook and coat might suddenly disappear and I would be forced to wallow in those unspoken words forever.
P.S.S. And I love you.
I wouldn't get to see the look on his face when he read it. I wouldn't get to see how he responded. He didn't stop to read my message before he left. I heard the front door shut and watched him walk to his truck.
He got in, buckled up, cranked the engine, and left without ever looking up at my window.
29
TANABATA
—Beverly—
"The bathroom is ready." Mrs. Pearce was in an unusually good mood. Probably because Joe was finally done with all the upstairs work in the bathrooms for now. "Don't take too long. It's already late. And wash your hair. It looks absolutely dreadful."
Bossy as ever.
I gathered up my pajamas and robe, carrying them down the stairs with Mrs. Pearce barking at my heels like an angry lapdog. I couldn't take a breath or even hear myself think until the bathroom door was shut and I was alone in the cool, dark reprieve of the bathroom.
It smelled of fresh paint. All around me were the fruits of all Joe's labor. Even though it was nearly pitch black, my eyes were so accustomed to the dark that I could see the new tile on the floor and walls, all laid with expert care. A new claw foot tub. A new sink with a white marble vanity. New fixtures with special LED bulbs that wouldn't hurt my skin. I wondered what explanation Mrs. Pearce had given for those as I marveled at it all.
I looked around for a clue to this mysterious gift that was supposed to be in here. I didn't see anything out of place, though.
Hmm.
Leaving my robe and clothes on the vanity, I started running the tub so Mrs. Pearce wouldn't get suspicious. Then I crept to the vanity. I opened the cabinet door and felt around.
There it was. Right under my fingers. A button, almost like a light switch.
I pressed it.
A faint light filled the air around me, subtle and soft.
I looked up. Overhead, somehow fixed into the intricate molding on the ceilings, were hundreds of tiny LED lights winking in the dark.
Stars. Joseph Clancey had given me the stars.
I turned off the water and climbed into the tub, soaking and staring up at the replica of the night sky. I picked out constellations. And I imagined I was drifting in the sea with nothing but the expanse of the universe around me. Stars. Galaxies. Nebulas of colorful, milky light.
I closed my eyes. I remembered our night on the beach, the rich, fishy smell of the ocean and the warmth of Joe's hand in mine.
And his kiss, so fierce, deep, and passionate. If I got very still and let my mind go quiet, I could still feel it. The memory of his warm, rough hands still sent chills of excitement over my body.
I opened my eyes again.
I missed him. There were no words I could write in that notebook to describe it. My soul cried out for his painfully, trying to cross this distance between us. A distance of a million miles. The distance between stars.
All I could do was wonder if he felt the same. Wonder and hope I would see him again tomorrow.
30
FRACTURE
—Beverly—
He smiled at me.
As soon as he got out of the truck the next morning, Joe looked up at my window and grinned wider than I'd ever seen him grin before.
My heart skipped a beat. I smiled back.
I watched him walk up the sidewalk and disappear from view. Downstairs, I heard the front door open and the muffled sound of Rhonda’s voice, greeting him like she did every morning.
I immediately began pacing a rut in the floor. I could hardly wait to read his reply. But I had no choice. Waiting was all I could do.
Then I heard him working outside again. He was planting more new shrubs an
d leveling out a path, digging up the sod, where I suspected he was going to lay some sort of paver stones.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching him work, more than I'd ever dared to tell him. He was muscular and so distinctly masculine, from the scuffed toes of his work boots, to the way his brawny shoulders showed through his sweaty t-shirt, to the dirt I doubt he realized was smudged on his face.
Beefy and completely adorable.
He was entirely different from the world I'd grown up in. I'd worked with and been around plenty of male dancers. But soldiers? He was the first I'd ever known.
But as much as I loved admiring him from my tower, I had to sneak down and retrieve his notebook before long. I had to read his reply. I was breathless and nervous, my heart batting at the inside of my ribcage frantically. I flipped through the pages, past days upon days of our exchanges. We were running out of paper, there were only a few pages left in the notebook.
Then I saw it.
I love you, too. I have for a while. But as you know, I'm not so good with words.
P.S. Hope you liked the view last night.
I could feel my skin flushing. My fingers tingled. I couldn't squeal. I couldn't dance around or show my utter and complete joy. Mrs. Pearce would hear me and demand to know what was going on.
But that didn't change the fact that Joseph Clancey loved me back.
At exactly noon, he stopped working like he did every day. He went inside for lunch and to check his coat pocket. There, in his tattered notebook, he'd find the message I had written back to him.
Or at least, that was what usually happened.
I was waiting at the base of the stairs, spying through the keyhole. I could see the foyer and the door. I waited, and right on cue Joe came walking into view with a cup of coffee in one hand and a sandwich sticking out of his mouth. He went fishing through his coat pockets for his notebook and phone. He checked the phone first, flipping it open and obviously reading something.
A text message maybe?
The sandwich fell out of his mouth and hit the floor. The mug did the same. Porcelain smashed against the hardwood. Coffee splashed everywhere.
The sound brought Rhonda out of the kitchen. "Oh, honey, are you all right? Don't you worry, I can clean that—"
She stopped short.
Joe's expression was all wrong. All the color had gone out of his cheeks. His eyes were wild. His body was slack, like he might suddenly keel over at any moment.
He held the phone out to Rhonda.
At that moment, Mrs. Pearce came stalking in, demanding to know what the noise was about, since it was supposed to be my napping hour and they were "making a ruckus.”
Rhonda passed the phone to her wordlessly. And for the briefest moment, I could have sworn I saw sympathy and horror on Mrs. Pearce’s face.
"Very well, you're dismissed for the day." She stiffly handed the phone back to him, although her expression was still crinkled with concern.
Joe snatched his coat off the hook and bolted out the front door.
I barely made it upstairs in time to see him pull away from the curb and peel out of the neighborhood, tires squealing.
He didn't come back.
I sat on the floor by the window anyway, silently praying he would drive by, honk the horn, throw a pebble at my window, anything to let me know he was all right.
But he didn't.
As the foggy, dreary afternoon came to a close, I felt the cold grip of fear around my throat. It was difficult to think. My own mind tormented me with suspicions and worries, coming up with my own ideas of what might have happened. A sense of doom settled over me like a weight on my chest, dragging me down into a darker abyss than I’d ever known.
But there was nothing I could do … except wait.
31
DAY 1
—Beverly—
8 AM came and went.
No truck pulled down our street to park on the curb. No one smiled at me from the sidewalk. There was no friendly, familiar, wordless commotion downstairs as a certain someone came inside to hang up his coat and greet Rhonda.
Joseph didn't come to work at all.
I didn't sleep. For hours I sat by the window and watched, hoping to see headlights coming this way. At last, I went to lie down in bed. I was exhausted. But my mind refused to give up hope.
32
DAY 2
—Beverly—
The sun rose, but the sky was so dark I barely noticed. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rain pattered against the windows and rooftop. The forecast in the paper, which was one of the few informational resources I was permitted access to, said it would be awful weather all week. Well, awful if you liked the sunlight. For someone like me, it meant I could keep the drapes open without any backlash from Mrs. Pearce.
It was 8 AM again. There was still no truck and no Joe. I studied Mrs. Pearce for any clue, or trace of emotion that might suggest what had happened to him. But of course, she was as cold and relentlessly callus as ever. Had she fired him? Had my father found out about us somehow?
The day passed. All night I racked my brain for some idea, some way to find out what had happened. I couldn't ask Mrs. Pearce. If I acted even remotely curious about our handyman, she was liable to become suspicious. She might even fire him on principle, if she hadn’t already. I couldn't risk that.
By sunrise, however, I had an idea.
33
DAY 3
—Beverly—
"Could I ask for something?" I was sitting at my tiny breakfast table, picking at the delicious gourmet breakfast Rhonda had made for me while Mrs. Pearce was making up my bed.
She shot me a challenging glare. She was steeled for battle. Expecting the worst from me, as usual.
"It's just that, well, I've already covered my walls. I've nowhere else to paint. Do you think maybe we could get the walls painted white again so I can start over and do something new? I was thinking I might try to paint the beach."
She snorted disapprovingly.
I waited in baited silence, hoping, willing her with every ounce of concentration I had.
"I'll ask your father what he thinks." She gave me her default answer. "But it would take a week at least."
"Why so long? It's only a bit of paint." I tried to sound disinterested in her reply as I took bites of my perfectly poached eggs.
"The handyman is indisposed for the time being."
There was always a snippy edge to everything she said so I elected to mimic that. Perhaps a little kindred spirit might work to my favor? "Indisposed? Isn't this what we pay him for? What could possibly be more important than doing his job?"
Mrs. Pearce seemed genuinely stunned at my reaction. "I believe it was a death in his family. He asked for the week off while they are making funeral arrangements."
I dropped my fork. It clanged loudly against my plate.
Mrs. Pearce looked at me questioningly again, sizing up my reaction.
Oh god.
I pretended to sulk. Like I'd intentionally thrown my fork down in anger. "Ugh. Fine. I suppose there's nothing to be done for it, then."
Inwardly, I was screaming. Because I knew, I knew, Joe needed me. He needed me right now, this very second, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. I couldn't call him. I couldn't go to him.
Angry, frustrated, guilty tears welled up in my eyes.
I fought to hold it in, biting down hard. My chin still trembled. I had to turn away.
I sat there waiting for Mrs. Pearce to leave. I wondered if she'd always taken forever to fix my bed and tidy my room. At last, she shut the door and locked it. I ran to my bed, buried my face in my pillow, and screamed.
34
EYE OF THE STORM
—Beverly—
I had to deceive Mrs. Pearce into giving me all her old newspapers from the past week to use to cover the floor while I painted. But really, I was scouring the obituaries. It only took an hour to find the article.
DR. JACOB WAYNE CLAN
CEY, 34, passed away at Valley General hospital at 2 AM April 21 after his vehicle was struck in a head-on collision. He leaves behind a beloved wife of eight years, Kara Anne Clancey.
A memorial service and visitation will be held at Wayland Funeral Home on Friday at 4 PM with a graveside service to follow.
The family asks that donations be made in lieu of flowers to the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.
A day before that, I found the article from the accident. Apparently a college student from the local university had been using his cell phone and had drifted out of his lane into oncoming traffic. He'd struck Dr. Clancey head on going 70 miles per hour. The impact had killed the student instantly. But Dr. Clancey had been air lifted to the hospital with massive internal trauma.
After almost eight hours in surgery, he had died on the operating table.
I sat on the floor in the bathroom, the only private corner in the house I had to myself, and read those articles over and over. There was a picture of a crumpled silver BMW with the report about the accident.
I recognized it from when he’d come to get Joe a few times to go look at apartments, even if it was smashed to bits in the picture. It was Dr. Clancey's car.
Tears dripped from chin, dotting the paper. My chest ached. All around me, the world seemed to spin and slow. I was cold, and my throat seized as my stomach rolled.
Breathe. I had to breathe for a moment. I couldn’t be crying when I left this room. Mrs. Pearce would demand to know why.
I looked up at the stars twinkling above me from the bathroom ceiling, and thought about our night on the beach and how he'd smiled at me. I wondered if he would ever smile again.
The Distance Between Stars Page 8