Ripple

by Heather Smith Meloche

  Corinne Norbrett’s office door looks like every other door in the hospital hallway, except her name is on it with the title “Maintenance Coordinator” underneath. With my hands filled with coffee, I kick lightly at the door to let her know I’m outside.

  “Come in,” she calls.

  “Shit!” I stack the full coffees, slowly open the door, then barely catch the top venti as it almost spills tonight’s caffeinated salvation all over a black bearskin rug.

  “Do you like it?” Corinne Norbrett walks around her desk cluttered with paperwork, frayed electrical wire, a dozen screwdrivers, and a crowbar. She stands in front of me with a face any guy would drool over—long dark brown hair curling over hefty cleavage beneath her button-up denim shirt. Jeans hug shapely hips. “I shot it myself.” Her brown eyes sparkle, her trigger finger spasming as if she’s making the kill all over again. She points at the rug.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  “You must be Jack Dalton.” She holds up a hospital name tag already graced with my name.

  “Pretty sure I am.”

  She eyes the to-go coffee cups in my hands. “Did you bring me coffee?”

  I shake my head. “No, sorry. I figured I’d need as much of this stuff as I could get if I’m cleaning empty hospital rooms and hallways into the early morning hours.”

  She snaps her fingers, then points at me. “Smart kid. But you’ll be doing more than cleaning.” She sways around her desk, sits in the office chair that squeaks under her hips. “And it’s good you didn’t buy me coffee. I hate coffee. Tastes like dog shit mixed with tobacco swill.”

  I smile. I like her. Not just because she’s massively easy to look at, but because, I can already tell, she’ll tell it like it is. Which is good, since I hated to cut down my hours at the car wash, and I hated even more quitting my job at the flower shop. All to fit in all this new work. And I tutored after school yesterday, freshmen mostly, which actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s sort of cool seeing these dorky kids tell me how effed-up math is and then having them spend an hour with me. They walk out of our session all giddy and getting it. Like the numbers are as pretty and interesting as porn.

  I only hope this job works out just as well.

  Ms. Norbrett motions for me to sit down in the empty chair on the opposite side of her desk. I settle into it, set my coffees on one of the only bare slices of desktop.

  “So what kind of experience do you have fixing things, Jack?”

  I shrug. “Not anything formal.”

  “Does that mean none?” She lifts a dark eyebrow.

  “It just means kind of a little of everything. I sort of take things apart and figure out how they work, and then I put them back together again. Used to really piss my mom off when I was younger. She’d come in and find her telephone in a hundred pieces all over the living room floor.”

  Ms. Norbrett smiles. “Perfect. Jenny Barnes said you’d work out well here. I agree.”

  She riffles through a cabinet drawer behind her, then pulls out a folded hospital work shirt. “Let’s put your electrical and mechanical skills to work. I’m going to start you on Floor Eleven,” she says. “There’s a heating unit up there that’s been busted for a week. Heat’s okay, but the air-conditioning won’t kick on right. Not a crisis now that the weather’s cooled, but need you to fix it nonetheless. There is a maintenance closet with all the tools you’ll need on every floor. Here’s the key for those.” She hands me the shirt, the key, and my name tag. “Wear them proud, Jack.”

  She gives me a wink, like I’ve just become part of a secret club.

  I shove the uniform under my arm, pocket the key and tag, then pick up my coffees to go start my new job. But Ms. Norbrett stops me, points at the rug again.

  “You know what it feels like to kill a bear, Jack?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  She leans in, her eyes squinting with intensity. “It feels like cheating death. Getting it before it gets you.” She slaps me on the back. “That’s what every one of our patients is doing here at Worton, Jack. They’re cheating death. And our maintenance team keeps them comfortable and keeps their lights on while they’re doing it.”

  “Good attitude,” I say.

  “Always.” Then Ms. Norbrett shoves me into the hallway and slams her door.

  • • •

  Toward the end of my first shift, I’ve already fixed a heating unit, a floor-waxing machine, and an adjustable hospital bed. And I’ve decided, to my surprise, I dig this job. I get to take things apart, figure out how they work, and put them back together again. I love it. I’ll have to thank Ms. Barnes when I see her next.

  I’m on my way to the maintenance closet on Floor 12 to get a case of spray cleaner for all the metal kick plates on the doors, but stop when I hear the nurses at the floor’s main desk.

  “He just hit her,” a chunky nurse with short, spiky hair says. “The bastard slammed right into her, dragged her a bit, then took off.”

  “What is with people these days?” a second nurse with freckles and a fat reddish braid down her back says. “She’s got to be aching coming straight from the ICU. Did you give her her meds?”

  “Done, but check on her later.” The chunky nurse points toward Room 1223.

  I head straight there. Partly curious. Mostly concerned. This is probably the girl everyone at school is talking about—Emma Hadley. Plowed down, internal injuries, broken legs, and stuck here now for another couple weeks and then on to physical therapy.

  I peer into the dim room. The girl in the bed attached to IVs and machines is tiny. She looks like she’s a middle schooler rather than in high school. Her hands at her sides, her nose, her ears, and even her short, cropped hair all seem miniature. Her eyes are closed, and she’s murmuring in her sleep, probably full of pain drugs.

  I feel like I should give her something or do something for her. I’m no doctor or miracle worker, and I don’t think flowers are going to make her life much better. So I give her room a quick once-over, find the blinds are bunched up on one side.

  “Let me get that for you, Emma.” I stand on a chair in front of the wonky blinds.

  She keeps murmuring, no idea I’m here. Closer now, I can tell she’s pretty banged up. Her face is all black and blue. Her legs are still and limp beneath the blankets. Her arms and upper chest have scabbed-over scrapes and cuts. She’s pretty much the poster child for what Ms. Norbrett would call “cheating death.”

  “I’m sorry people are pricks,” I say to unconscious Emma. I unhook the base holding the blinds and pull it from the window frame, exposing the night outside. “My belief, Emma, is that we all want to think people are decent. You know? Like we can trust them and know what they’re thinking. But then someone comes along and does something to let you down. Like hit you with a car.”

  Or almost kiss you, but then push you away. I suddenly think of Tessa. I guess I kind of led her on last night, and that does sort of make me an asshole. Just like she said.

  I lay the blinds on the floor, adjust the slats causing them to snag.

  “So, Emma, what are you all about?” She makes a noise like a long, constant hum. “Right. So, hey, I’ve downloaded this app.” I let go of the blinds, dig my phone out of my pocket. “It’s supposed to help with those awkward conversations. Just like ours.”

  I open up the beta version of Topic Buddy I downloaded a couple days ago after Sam told me his cousin was a programmer and wanted reviews for his creations. Immediately, a guy in a double-breasted suit jacket pops on the screen. He’s hanging in a home library and holding a cocktail. I press the “Ask” button underneath the smooth-looking black dude. He steps forward, his face getting bigger. He raises a long, digital finger and says, “Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin with his shirt off. Go!”

  I set my phone on the windowsill, step up on the chair, an
d start to adjust the blinds. “Emma, any comments on that one?”

  She murmurs something about Halloween.

  “Good call,” I say with my back to her. “Stay out of that. Too political.”

  I bend down, press the “Ask” button again. Topic Buddy steps away from the wall of books again, his eyes getting intense. “Russet potatoes versus sweet potatoes. Go!”

  “What do you think, Em? Got a potato preference?”

  “Sweet,” she squeaks, suddenly lucid.

  “Hey.” I smile wide before I turn around to face her. “You’re awake.”

  “It sucks, but yeah.” Even her voice box sounds bruised.

  I step down from the chair. “I know you feel like ass right now, but you’re alive.”

  The lids around her dilated brown eyes droop. “Yeah, but I sort of remember my doctor telling me it’s going to be a fight to walk again.”

  “Well, you look good.”

  She gives me a pointed stare.

  “All right, you look like ass, too.”

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “Jack S. Dalton. The S stands for Saintly.” I point behind me. “See. I fixed your blinds. The way saints do.”

  She cracks a semi-smile. “Thanks. I’d rather the world outside that window not see me right now.”

  “It’s a Saturday night,” I tell her. “The world is busy at the movies or a house party.”

  “Why aren’t you at either?”

  I shrug. “Because I thought your blinds were more important.”

  Her smile deepens, even as her eyes grow heavier. “I like you, Jack,” she slurs. Then her eyes shut in her black-and-blue face and stay that way.

  And all I want to do is beat the crap out of whatever lowlife did this to her.

  Tessa

  It’s a Tuesday night, and I hold Seth’s hand as I ring Grandma Leighton’s doorbell. This home has been in our family for three generations. We stare at the gold lion’s-head knocker, waiting for the door to open.

  Helena, Grandma Leighton’s personal assistant, answers. “Hello, Tessa. It’s lovely to see you.” Her thick blond hair is swept into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wears a yellow shirtdress and a polite smile.

  “Hi, Helena.” She’s been with Grandma Leighton since I was a little girl, but I don’t know her well. I’m not here often. This house reminds me too much of my real father. How he took off for something different. Something better than me and Mom.

  Seth and I step into the massive foyer of what can only be described as a suburban palace in the most expensive part of the county. I try not to wince at Grandma’s preferred colors, seafoam green and so much salmony orange. There is tons of space in this house, and there are so many rooms with gilded frames and textured wallpaper and so many square feet with marble floors and hand-carved molding. Yet every time I come here, I feel sort of claustrophobic and actually imagine a painting of myself in this gold, marble, and velvet box—so much fanciness, but everything is tight and pressing in on me. And the whole house smells like a potpourri factory.

  “Whoa.” Seth takes it in.

  “Yeah. Whoa,” I say flatly before swallowing hard.

  Helena heads back toward the kitchen as Grandma Leighton gracefully steps down the enormous twist of staircase in front of us. She’s as coifed as always in a pleated burgundy skirt and white silk blouse, her ever-present gold bangles clanking as her high heels hit each dark wooden stair coated in a red-carpeted runner.

  “Welcome.” She levels a smile at us. “I was just finishing up some business in my study.” She leans in, shakes Seth’s hand. “I’m so glad you both could come.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Seth says. I notice he’s not at all uncomfortable—no tension in his posture, not at all out of place with the fanciness around us. He’s just a little starstruck.

  “Well,” Grandma Leighton says. “Why don’t I check on the progress of dinner, and you can give your friend a tour of the house, Tessa.” Her expression fills with pride. “My grandfather Oswald Leighton built this home in 1936.” She looks around at the walls and the ceiling that stretch twenty-five feet into the air around her. “It might be the finest structure Leighton Custom Homes has ever built.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Seth nods.

  “Thank you.” She gives a wave to the staircase. “Feel free to walk around. I’ll meet you both in the dining room in about twenty minutes.”

  Seth takes my hand and, like he lives here, leads me up the staircase that winds to a hallway with twelve different doors. He opens the door to the first room—a guest bedroom quadruple the size of mine at home.

  “This place is awesome,” he says. Then he turns, kisses me. “It’s like the White House or something.” His lips find my neck, and he leans into me, walking me backward until we fall on the bed. His body pressing down on mine, he asks, “Are you supposed to inherit all of this?”

  I stare past him, at the fleur-de-lis pattern covering the bed’s canopy. I guess lots of people would love to get a house like this. But all I can think about are the woods that run along the side of my house in Pineville. The rooms I made of vines. The carpets of leaves. The rich mustiness of dark soil. And the air. So much air for me to breathe.

  “Come on,” I tell Seth, pushing him up. “Let’s finish the tour.” We make our way down the second-floor hall, looking into each impressive room. Almost to the end, he finds an arrangement of family photos on the wall. In one, Grandma Leighton stands in her wedding dress, alone. Aside from my DNA, no trace of her ex-husband—my grandfather, who died of pneumonia a decade after she divorced him—is in this house. Another shows the friendly face of my great-grandmother in a high-backed chair. And there’s Grandma Leighton as a young girl, formally posed next to her father, his suit and face tight and dark. There’s a thick empty space between them.

  “Who’re these people?” He points at a picture of my real dad and his perfect blond wife and sun-kissed, magazine-worthy children. His new kids are half my age, private-schooled, heads raised and smiles facing forward.

  “That’s my biological father,” I say.

  He nods. “Do you see him often?”

  “I used to.” When I was younger and I’d meet him here for holidays. But he got married and his visits slowed. Until he stopped coming completely. “I haven’t seen him in two years.”

  “Tessa?” Grandma Leighton interrupts. She’s standing at the top of the stairs. She’d been watching us from down the hallway. “I can show you around the first floor,” she says to Seth.

  “Go ahead,” I say to him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  He strides to Grandma Leighton, who gives me one more flat glance as I stand in front of my father’s photo.

  I stare for another minute at my father, who looks back, frozen and perpetually happy. He is so handsome. Tall and dark-haired and poised. He’d bring me gifts—TVs and computers and expensive jackets—when he breezed into town. I remember he smelled like Irish Spring soap, and when he still held my hand, his was huge over mine. I used to think he was a giant. A prince. And like I’m a whiny five-year-old, I wonder, why not me? Why did he have to go look for something more? What was it about me—just a baby when he left, a little girl when he was still single—that wasn’t enough?

  And like every time I’m here, I feel empty and small. This house bears down on me, the hallway like a windowless cell. Tears start to fall.

  I head to the nearest door to find a tissue. But it opens to a storage room with stacked furniture. Before I close the door, I spy a flash of color against one wall. It’s a bunch of framed pictures and drawing pads. I bend down to riffle through the pictures. They’re done in pencil and watercolor, painted women in elaborate dresses in what looks like fifties style. The strapless gowns cinch tight at the waist, and the material folds and flutters all the way to the grou
nd. Each dress is in a different color. Some are beaded, some bustled, one has a giant bow spilling down the back. But the faces and the bodies of these women are perfect, exquisite, the emotion in their expressions showing them caught in a moment of thought and feeling that makes each picture a real piece of art. And Spencer Diane Leighton’s signature is on every one.

  Shaking my head in total disbelief, I grab my cell, angle the drawings to get the best photograph of each one so I can look at them more later. If these are really her paintings, I don’t understand why she stopped, but it instantly gives me new hope that maybe I can find a way off the business-school track she’s stuck me on.

  • • •

  On the ride home from Grandma Leighton’s, I can’t stop thinking about the last thing my grandmother said before we left. “You’re older now, Tessa. You’ve matured. I would like to propose that you come live here, in the Leighton family home.” My insides chilled instantly. “It would give you the chance to start interning at LCH right away, and you could drive to school from here so you finish at Pineville High. Or I could have a car drive you every morning.”

  “Um. Well—” There was nothing I could say. Because I saw what was happening. Her allegiance is to me. Not my parents. Not even Willow, no matter how nice she is to her. She loathes my stepdad. Could take or leave my mom. If I move in, what will stop her from selling my parents’ home out from under them?

  “Think about it,” she’d said before pressing her cold cheek to mine in an air kiss.

  I shake away how her offer makes me cringe inside and turn to Seth driving my car. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

  “Yeah. No problem.” He glances at me, looking totally handsome and at ease. “It was cool hearing her talk about her company.”

  “For sure,” I tell him. And wonder again about her art. If she abandoned it because she had to, or if business was as much a love for her as watercolors and paintbrushes. Maybe she thinks I have both, too. That it would be easy to shove all my creativity into a storage room to walk into a boardroom.