by Natasha Boyd
“I can’t,” I thought I heard him say.
I didn’t care if the beds had no sheets. I needed to be horizontal. Stumbling into the twin room I’d once shared with my sister, I realized vaguely this must be the room he used. The beds were pushed together, the closest one mussed, a navy blanket pulled back from rumpled white sheets. The sight was too much, too inviting, too needed, and my weighted body, boots and all, crawled into the spicy scented cocoon of bedding. And everything went dark.
MY EYELIDS KEPT turning bright red as light fluttered over them every few seconds. Irregular. A shadow, then. Sunlight, perhaps. Sunlight. I hadn’t seen sunlight in so long. Not in the way I liked, anyway. In the way it cascaded through deep leafy shadows and dappled you in the bright hope of spring.
I’d come to in the night, several hours earlier, disoriented, trying to find familiarity with the sheets that smelled so foreign in a place I couldn’t see in the dark. Remembering my escape, the exhausting train ride, my panic attack, and the stranger in my house, I pieced together my surroundings from memory. But soon exhaustion slid over me again, and I sank deeper into the musky male scent of the sheets.
Now, even though my mind was awake, my eyes stayed closed. But it was day. And I smelled food. Toast maybe. My stomach was too empty even to growl. But the hollow ache was there, and I knew I needed to eat. And drink. God, I was so thirsty. But all I wanted to do was stay. Stay exactly like this and not deal with who Tommy was. The caretaker scenario seemed the most likely. And completely explained his familiarity, explained how a speck of memory teased me. He was older than I was, maybe late twenties. If he was a long time island resident, it also explained how he knew me too, remembered me more clearly than I did him.
I peeled my eyes open incrementally. The wood walls were unpainted still, sunlight sliding across them from the window where a breeze stirred the tall longleaf pines and the large oak I’d climbed since I was a child. The dresser stood against the wall next to a small antique campaign desk and lamp. The desk held stacks and stacks of haphazard papers and the old typewriter I remembered. But now, a white laptop cord snaked across the chaos, its small silver head hanging impotently over the side, a touch of modern incongruity in the vignette.
I sat up, curious, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and stretched my aching back and arms. I crossed the creaky wood floor to the desk and the papers. It looked to be a manuscript of some sort. Looking down, it suddenly occurred to me that while I was in my tights, I wasn’t wearing boots. I had no recollection of taking them off. Had I? I couldn’t remember.
A short, sharp knock sounded. I swung around to the door just as it opened.
He stood there, tall and imposing, wearing worn jeans and a dark sweater. Of course, he didn’t do the normal thing and say anything like “sorry to barge in” or “good morning.”
Only his eyes and his hands were visible, what with his facial hair and long sleeves. I had the fleeting thought that he was hiding himself. But it was gone in an instant, replaced only with my questions. Of course, I didn’t ask them.
His brown eyes assessed me, then dropped to the desk. They were narrowed and back on mine a moment later. The implication was he didn’t want me nosing through his stuff.
I tore my eyes from his before it became too uncomfortable and noticed my black boots sat neatly against the wall by the door. Oh no, he didn’t!
I expected him to finally say something. I folded my arms, but all he did was flex his large hand on the door handle.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come into my room when I’m sleeping,” I finally managed, my voice rough with first use.
His eyes narrowed. “Actually this is my room, and you’re awake. Clearly.”
“I meant removing my boots,” I snapped.
He shrugged, turning away. “I thought you’d be more comfortable. See you in the kitchen.”
Well, that was a good start.
Locating my backpack on the floor near the bed, I rummaged for my toothbrush and headed to the small shared bathroom at the end of the hallway. Sue me, but I wanted to have clean teeth before trying to convince someone to get the fuck out of my house.
I stepped inside onto the black and white mosaic tiles, and closing the door behind me, breathed in a smell similar to the sheets. The shower beckoned; the lure of hot water and cleanliness was too much. The conversation could wait just a few minutes. Stripping, I turned the rickety shower head on and stepped into the claw foot tub. I scrubbed myself from head to toe with a small cake of white soap, wanting desperately to steal some of his shampoo, but resisting.
I caved when it came time to brush my teeth, peeking out of the shower and seeing the mashed up tube of toothpaste sitting on the edge of the pedestal sink. I brought it into the shower with me and brushed my teeth for over five minutes because it felt so good to run my tongue over slick teeth.
And suddenly I didn’t care about using his stuff. I grabbed the shampoo and lathered up, even glancing back around the curtain to see if there was a razor. Of course there wasn’t. I rolled my eyes, remembering his caveman face. What was that about anyway? Who did that these days? It wasn’t “movember.” And he wasn’t some crusty old fisherman like Pete. He seemed young enough that he shouldn’t have a beard, though what did I know? He looked about ten years older than me, and I guessed when you were a recluse on an island, you stopped giving a shit what you look like. Or you didn’t want people seeing your face.
Or you didn’t want to see your own face.
I paused at that thought, and then shook my head. Finishing up and turning the now chilly water off, I grabbed a familiar old blue towel off the railing. There were two, and this one seemed drier. It was thin and rough with age, but it felt good abrading my skin. I didn’t want to put my dirty clothes back on, but I hadn’t brought much, and my jeans were stuffed in my backpack in the room. Clever. I’d need to sort out some clothes. I grabbed my underwear and bra and washed them in the sink with soap. Wondering where I could hang them to dry, I settled for the handle of the shower since it probably wouldn’t be used until tomorrow. I’d grab them later tonight.
Securing the small towel around me and clutching my bundle of clothes like a shield, I gingerly eased open the bathroom door. My line of sight to the front door was clear, not a strange caretaker in the vicinity. I scampered toward my open bedroom door and yelped as I came face to face with him clutching the large sheaf of papers from the desk.
We both froze for a moment, and then in typical male fashion his eyes strayed down to my towel before he obviously realized what he was doing and snapped them back up to my face.
A chill went through me. I was so tired of how predictable men were. And here I was, alone on a sparsely populated island with a strange man in my house. Swallowing the bubble of nerves in my chest, I tried to sound calm. “Excuse me, do you think you could get out of my room?”
He stepped aside, still inside the doorframe, not answering.
If he expected me to head in there while he occupied every free molecule of air, he was mistaken. I moved back instead, and he rolled his eyes, brushing past me and heading down the hall to the kitchen. Jeez, the guy hardly said a word, but his non-verbal communication was certainly verbose. Him: too old for this shit. Me: stupid young female.
I darted inside and slammed the door, wishing it had a lock. Dumping my pile of clothes in the corner, I hurriedly yanked my jeans out of my pack, pulling them on along with a black T-shirt. Since my bra was wet and hanging in the bathroom with my thong, I shrugged my hoodie back on to hide my body. I yanked my brush through my wet strands, wincing at the lack of conditioner, and after squeezing as much water as I could out of it, tied it in a loose pony.
Then I headed to the kitchen in my bare feet.
I CAME AROUND the corner and stopped at the edge of the farm table, watching his broad back as he busied himself at the counter. His muscled shoulders moved under the soft fabric of his dark grey sweater, his brown hair cu
rling over his collar.
I wasn’t sure what to say, or how to start the conversation about Abby or the house, so I said nothing and settled for studying his frame. He was well-built from what I could see. Strong looking. Athletic. Again I wondered at his age.
“It’s almost lunchtime, I’m making a sandwich. Do you want one?” He spoke without turning around, so he must have heard me come in.
My stomach finally let out a long, low growl. I cleared my throat quickly. “Uh, yes. Yes, please.” I shouldn’t accept a meal from someone who I was about to kick out, but I’d be dumb to say no. Especially since I had no food. I’d also just enjoyed sleeping in a made up bed and having a hot shower, neither of which I would have found had he not been in residence. “Thank you,” I added and pulled a chair out and sat down. He turned, with two plates, clearly having already anticipated my answer, and placed one in front of me. I looked up at him. Maybe it would be good to let him stay. To have a caretaker. For the house, of course, not me. Perhaps my grandmother’s estate was covering this, and I shouldn’t mess with it. We could just pretend I wasn’t really here. He could go on as normal.
With this fresh perspective on the situation, I felt uncomfortable with how rude I’d been since I met him. Especially when the first thing he’d done was help me back at the docks when I had the panic attack.
He nodded and turned back to grab two glasses of water, and then sat down opposite me, folding his tall frame into one of my grandmother’s dinky farm chairs. It struck me as funny for a moment, and I tried to stop my lips from curling by sucking my cheeks in.
He idly tapped a long finger on the scratched wood. “So—”
“About the—” I tried at the same time. I blew out a breath and took a bite of sandwich, letting him have the next word.
I was too hungry anyway.
I sank my teeth into the soft grain bread and groaned. “Thank you again.”
“Why are you suddenly so polite, and not the viper who arrived on the island yesterday?”
I swallowed my bite. “I was tired and, as you witnessed, had just had a panic attack. I’m sorry.”
“Does that happen often?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity.
This was literally the best sandwich ever. “What kind of cheese is this?”
“Manchego.”
“Manchego’s good.” His eyebrows rose. Probably due to my purposeful subject change. “You’re the one who hardly says anything,” I added, acknowledging his look.
“It’s not like you have the gift of gab.”
Gift of gab? Who says that?
Then a more concerning thought occurred to me. What if he was a tenant paying rent to my parents? Oh my God, why hadn’t I thought of that?
“About that… about you being here…” I paused expectantly, waiting for him to fill the gap. He knew who I was; it was time for him to explain what he was doing here.
He cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.
“Well,” I forged on, “Tommy.” His name didn’t sound any better when I actually used it. It was like repeatedly referring to a dog as a cat. It just… wasn’t. I decided to try another tack on why he was here. “Thank you for being the caretaker.”
His brow creased, but he didn’t refute me. Thank God.
I released a long breath. “I really appreciate you being here. Obviously, since I just turned up out of the blue, it would have been awful to arrive to a cold empty house with no electricity and water—”
“Why did you turn up out of the blue by the way? Where are your parents? Aren’t you still in school?”
I scowled. It was actually hard to be civil to him. He was just so… under my skin with his disapproval. The tone of his questions. “None of your business, none of your business and uh, none of your business.”
“Well, that was certainly mature,” he said lazily, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. “How about these for answers.” He raised a finger. “Ran away.” He raised a second finger. “At home worried sick, and…” he raised a third, “should still be in school. Did I cover it? Truancy is against the law, by the way.”
Was he for real? “Are you a Boy Scout?” I asked sarcastically, looking at his three still-raised fingers.
“Do I need to make a phone call?”
“What? No!” My tongue felt thick. “No,” I said again. Shit, here I was thinking I had the upper hand, it being my house and all. “Please,” I added, realizing I needed him on my side, and unable to avoid the hint of desperation in my tone. I mentally cringed. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
He assessed me, leaning back, one arm slung along the empty chair back next to him and his eyes narrowed. There was a gemstone that exact color. What was it called?
I frantically thought of a way to explain what I was doing here. And I wished I could see something else in his expression through the facial hair.
“Fine,” he said finally, with a stiff nod.
“Fine?”
“Yes, fine.”
“What are you hiding from?” I asked suddenly, not sure where the question came from.
I almost missed the flicker of shock in his gaze, before he shrugged nonchalantly. “And we won’t ask each other questions.”
“Okay,” I agreed, with abundant relief, despite the weirdness of our situation.
Well, well, well. Wasn’t that an interesting puzzle? Why would a guy who was obviously well-spoken and educated, from what I could tell, take on the lonely job of looking after an isolated cottage in the middle of nowhere?
The silence was extremely uncomfortable as we both regrouped.
Eventually he sighed. “You look better without all the black shit all over your face.”
Obviously, he was referring to the black eyeliner and lipstick I’d taken to wearing. It matched my nails, my usual clothes and my mood. And it hid me. People’s eyes glided away from me when I started dressing like that, so I kept it up. It made things easier for me out in the world. All I had to do was also block out the whispers in the hallways of my preppy school. It had the added benefit that my parents hated it.
“Well, you’d probably look better without that hairy shit all over your face.” I bit my lip as soon as the words were uttered.
Seriously, sometimes I had no filter.
There was movement in his beard.
Was he actually going to smile? His caramel eyes crinkled up and suddenly his beard split open in a wide smile filled with perfect white teeth, and a snort of laughter came out. He was almost beautiful, not that I was into older guys. I didn’t know where to look, but his wheeze of laughter was infectious and I found myself fighting my own smile.
Then he took a deep breath. “I… I was in love with your sister. That’s how you know me,” he said.
The words were out there so suddenly, and he looked so shocked that he’d uttered them, that neither of us spoke for interminable minutes.
No questions.
Abruptly, he got up, scraping the chair across the old wooden floor, and walked to the front door. He paused a moment, his shoulders rigid, then yanked the door and smacked the screen open. In a moment, he was gone, both doors slamming shut behind him, leaving a vast emptiness in his wake.
I STOOD IN the time warp that was Gran’s bedroom. She was a strong woman to have lived out here by herself for so long. Never seemed old. I realized now she must have dyed the gray in her hair for years, and I just never saw the lines on her face. Or could see past them. Her eyes were my legacy. Pale blue. It was our Slavic and Scandinavian ancestry, she told me.
Now I used those eyes as I took in every detail. It was all familiar and yet different, the way you’ve seen something for your whole life and just accepted it without really noticing its composition. Her faded patchwork quilt on the white wicker queen-sized bed. The picture of her and my grandfather on their wedding day next to the bed. On the wall, the framed picture of her with her parents and her two sisters, both also deceased, standing i
n front of an old white clapboard church.
Stepping toward the dressing table, I deliberately ignored the picture of two blonde girls. It was a picture of Abby and me taken on the rope swing on the live oak outside. I held my breath, willing my eyes not to stray toward it. I wasn’t ready yet.
On closer inspection, time and neglect had left their covering of dust and cobwebs all over the room. The back of a once silver hairbrush was tarnished to dark brown. I wondered why my grandmother hadn’t taken these things when she’d been moved to the home. Not that she’d been there more than a few months. I guess she’d known it would be a short stay, and there was no point moving her keepsakes and risk them not being given to Abby and me during the logistics of death.
I felt uncomfortable being in this room but, since this caretaker dude was already staying in the other one, I’d have to sleep in here for now. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to leave. I’d been planning on being totally alone, but somehow I felt relieved at finding my plan had changed.
Approaching the bed, I thought of last night and felt disappointed that he’d been forced to stay in here. Disappointed at the invasion of my grandmother’s domain and disappointed that I’d been so wrapped up in my own head and my own exhaustion that I hadn’t even stopped to consider it would have been better for me to be in this room. He must have been so uncomfortable. It was so like me to go crashing into everything, upsetting the apple cart again as my mother liked to say about me. I had no grace, no poise. “No social intelligence.”
Not like Abby.
It was funny, I actually felt closer to her here.
Walking to the bed, I peeled back the quilt. I would have taken it outside and beaten it to get the dust out, but it looked like the beating had already been taken care of. The sheets were slightly rumpled. I leaned down and inhaled the scent of detergent and a faint whiff of the mint and some herb—rosemary?—smell I now associated with my male housemate. His shampoo, at any rate. I’d sleep in here tonight. I went across the hall and pulled the twin bed straight, then grabbed all my belongings and relocated myself.