Need Me

by Shelley K. Wall

  Roger’s phone sounded and Carter took the ring as his cue to leave. Roger grabbed the phone, intent on blocking Caroline from his mind.

  His mother checking in certainly helped. Nothing worked better to ruin a fantasy than listening to her drone on. “Have you had a chance to deposit the check for this month? I’m sorry to ask, but things are kind of tough right now.”

  Roger had been depositing checks for his mother since the spring of his senior year in college. He thanked his dad for that responsibility, though she was as much to blame. Ruth was a brilliant woman, salutatorian of her graduating class, yet she’d never had the courage to pursue a worthy job. Instead, she’d taken on office jobs that allowed her to work a minimal schedule and be at home for the family. She could have done much more, but for some reason she didn’t seem to believe it. Perhaps she felt undeserving?

  Her financial needs grew more desperate once his father decided it was time for him to remarry. Apparently a new wife and wedding stretched his father’s income too much. So Roger had taken a longer than normal path through college in order to help his family out. It was his heritage, his responsibility—his transcendence into manhood. Pay bills. Work hard. Support yourself. That’s what a man does, according to dear old dad. What was so great about being a man?

  The fraternity had been an unnecessary extravagance, but his mother thought he needed stability along with “social graces” and a “brotherly influence.” Roger preferred solitude and quiet, but he appeased his parents and did the legacy stint. In truth, he’d simply done what was expected of him, as he’d done all his life. Still, his brothers had been a big plus in getting his legal job, and that had been a career-starter.

  His father could have waited another year before collapsing. It would have allowed him to finish school before he had to funnel money to his mother. Who knows? He might have even accompanied Caroline to Europe and taken a completely different path. The jury was still out as to whether that was a blessing or curse.

  Roger stared out the window. The clouds had settled in cauliflower bunches with darkened edges that threatened a storm. He glanced back at the photos on his desk. A small roll of thunder reminded him of his mother’s question. “No, sorry, I haven’t had a chance. I’ll log onto the bank account and transfer funds this evening. How’s everything else going? Is Rebecca enjoying her sophomore year?” His sister had enrolled in a nearby junior college as a freshman then transferred to U of H once she’d gained some credits. Thankfully she hadn’t pledged because Roger knew his father was only sending a pittance to help with costs. The rest was spread between himself and Rhianna, who’d recently gotten married.

  “She wants to quit.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way. You should talk to her. She says it’s a waste of time, that she already knows most of what they’re teaching.”

  “Of course she says that; she’s a sophomore. The first year is always a review, a test to see where you stand. It won’t be so easy from here on.”

  “Apparently she doesn’t agree. She thinks she’d be more useful by getting a job.”

  His mother had a point. Rebecca was borderline psychotic when it came to studying, and she’d always been the top of the class in everything. It wasn’t enough to be smart; she had to be smarter than the rest. Still, the education was necessary if she wanted to have a decent future. “I’ll call her this weekend. Everything else okay?”

  Ruth coughed into the phone. Roger reared back and looked at the phone as if expecting phlegm to burst through the airwaves. A few ticks of silence. “Eric and Patty stopped by yesterday.”

  Oh. That was the real reason she’d called. His father and the new wife—who wasn’t all that new anymore. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Why?”

  “Um. They wanted me to be the first to know they’re pregnant.” His mother’s voice dripped sarcasm. And pain.

  Roger slammed a hand to his desk. “What? Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Apparently they were worried I would have a problem with it. I mean, why shouldn’t I? Hell, who doesn’t have a problem with their spouse leaving them for a near-teenager after twenty years and four children? He leaves me scraping for money and everything else, and I’m supposed to be happy he’s finally found himself. Hell, I just want to know at what point he lost himself.”

  There she went again. He hated the rants. After six years, one would expect her to move on with her life—or at least get one. “Mom.”

  A few more ticks on the phone. “Sorry.”

  He couldn’t blame her for her bitter attitude toward his dad. He had similar thoughts—but just didn’t have time to allow them to fester. “No worries. I’ll call Rebecca. Check your account later today, okay? I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work.”

  “You’ll come by this weekend?”

  Spending agonizing minutes hearing the gory details about Eric’s new family and her feelings about them appealed to him about as much as yanking out his toenails. “Of course.”

  Roger was nothing if not dependable. He flipped through the pictures on his desk and shrugged. Carter had a point. He might as well try making a little cash off his expensive hobby.

  A few weeks later, while sitting at his desk and sipping his coffee, Roger caught a glimpse of bright purple move past his door. He darted a glance down the hallway but saw nothing. A few minutes later, a soft tapping came at the door. “Excuse me, I’m here to water the plants.”

  Caroline?

  It really was her. He had plants? Roger glanced around the room and spotted a tuft of green leaves that spilled over a pot near the window. Wow, when did that happen? Carter had mentioned getting foliage for the office, but Roger hadn’t expected any for himself. “Uh, okay.”

  A purple scarf tied loosely at her neck draped over her pert and graceful shoulders. He had always loved Caroline’s shoulders. Though slightly shorter than average, she held herself tall and kept her back straight, which made them stand out—especially in strapless or sleeveless clothes. Today, she wore a black sleeveless blouse over a black and white checkered skirt. Black tights covered her legs.

  Roger couldn’t recall ever seeing her in a dress other than the casual skirt that she’d thrown over her swimsuit. That entire day was carved into his memory. He glanced at the spiked heels of her ankle-high boots. Definitely had never seen her in heels. Warmth sprinted through his chest and did a cartwheel in his lower parts.

  She searched the room, met his gaze briefly, then found her target and strode to the lone plant. She doused it generously and plucked off a couple dead leaves. Without a word, she turned. Her footsteps pounded like tennis balls on the carpet toward the door. Was he that easy to forget? “You look great, Caro.”

  He’d used the nickname intentionally. Her water can tapped against the door, and he heard a soft gasp. Her head turned slightly. But she didn’t meet his searching gaze. Turn around. Come on. Acknowledge.

  She yanked the door open and rushed out. He grinned at his computer and picked up the contract he’d been reviewing. The warmth of the storm in his stomach spread. She remembered. Now what?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Caroline pulled at the hem of her skirt and continued down the hall. Why had Abby decided to take on corporate clients and do plant maintenance? More importantly, why had fate chosen this client?

  What were the odds of Roger being there? A deluge of memories clouded her brain, both good and bad. She rushed through the remaining maintenance work and escaped the building.

  Why had the powers-that-be decided to throw him in her path? Come on. She’d spent the last few years healing from her bad choices, and he was the last thing she needed. One of the worst choices she’d made, second only to the screw-up in Teslehad.

  Her arm still tingled from the wound that put her in the hospital that day. She rubbed the ache and accidentally tripped over a ridge in the sidewalk. Shivers scrambled up her spine and settled into the perpetual knot that tightened her shoulders
. She’d watched six children die on the street in Teslehad, something no one should see. She had done nothing.

  Correction: Her presence caused the whole incident. Those sick bastards had wanted to make a statement, and then she’d done as expected and written about it. But hell, that was worth nothing to those kids or their families. They were still rotting in a shared grave dug into a hillside.

  “Are you searching for ghosts, Caroline?” Abby’s voice startled her back to the present.

  The chill rolled farther into a good, stiff headache. She growled. “Actually, in a way, yes. I need to leave.”

  Abby opened her mouth to tease, but after Caroline gave her a nasty grimace, she clamped her lips shut. She nodded sympathetically and motioned toward the door, but Caroline was already on her way. That was the one thing Caroline adored about Abby: the woman knew when to shut up and let her work through the demons of her past. She also knew better than to ask about them, which was another huge plus. Abby had known her before the shit-storm and sensed that something had changed inside her, but she’d never pushed for details.

  Unlike Caroline’s mother, God rest her soul, who was never one to allow a good story to disappear into history. Nope, before she passed, her mother would poke and poke until she’d unraveled all her daughter’s pain and stress. So many psychiatrists had evaluated her over the years that she fancied herself an amateur counselor. For Caroline, this normally resulted in even more hurt. At least her mother hadn’t lived to see the hell she was going through now—trying to fend off her questions and accusations would have been unbearable.

  If her mother had mentioned she was ill, Caroline probably wouldn’t have even been there in Teslehad on that horrible day. She would have stayed to nurse her mother back to health, and all those kids would have lived. Which is probably why her mother kept silent: she was the biggest supporter of her daughter’s ridiculous dream.

  Or would they have? The knot tangled further, and Caroline’s head throbbed. No, they’d have died without a single witness, their tiny little bodies piled over each other like rag dolls, discarded and forgotten. Instead they had a rookie journalist who freaked out. She finally wrote the story and sent it off. Then ran like hell to try forgetting their hollow eyes watching her in death.

  Oh God.

  She rushed back to the shop, synced her iPod to the stereo, and blasted Coldplay over the speakers. It wasn’t until she noticed a customer shouting to their friend as they admired an arrangement that she realized she’d cranked it up twice. Oops.

  She turned the sound down as the woman’s voice screeched, “You should have them hold your husband’s hand, and maybe you won’t get a fishing vest next year for your anniversary.”

  Her words echoed across the store—along with the giggles of her friend, who nodded. “Mine bought me a washer. He remembered that ours was broken and thought I’d appreciate it—not exactly romantic to buy something that you know needs work. A spa treatment or night out would have been a little more fun. Hell, even a sexy gown with a bunch of these roses.” The woman flicked a hand over a vase of pink and red.

  Caroline had heard these phrases a zillion times from women who wished their husbands were more romantic. And yet those very same husbands came in once in a while and bought these arrangements on their way home. It seemed awfully romantic to someone who had no one bringing anything home at all. Not even a washer or vacuum cleaner.

  The woman smiled and redeemed herself. “Actually, it’s not fair for me to say that—he buys flowers a lot. He’s hopelessly romantic, but they’re always a day or two late because he forgets.”

  An idea zapped Caroline. She’d badgered Abby to let her do some advertisements for the store and tinkered with a blog post. That’s it! She shoved her scarier memories into the closets of her brain and starting working on a blog ad, punching the keys of the computer between helping customers. At least she could put her journalism degree to use in a way that didn’t haunt her when she hit the sheets at night. Her head was glued to the screen when Abby returned and delved into the back office to do the bookkeeping. It wasn’t until Abby returned to nix the lights that Caroline let herself relax and ease back into the cozy fragrance of the store. She’d immersed herself in the lighthearted blogging and advertisement efforts enough to banish her nightmares, at least for now.

  She looked down at the striped leggings she’d worn to work. In a whimsical fashion, they ushered away the tenseness in her body. She’d always had a thing for fun colors. The leggings were bright, cheerful, and so not the drab green and tan camo she’d worn while trekking across Europe. Thank God.

  The door to the store jingled, and she turned to acknowledge the new guest. “Welcome to—Oh ... Dad.”

  “Hi there.” Bob Sanders gave a sheepish grin and shrugged with hands extended, acknowledging her disappointment. She hadn’t quite adjusted to having him back in her life after all the years he’d been searching out stories for the New York Times.

  It took her mother’s catastrophic illness and the associated family drama to bring him home to stay. Still, somehow they’d managed to piece a strange but comfortable relationship together from the catacombs of silence. Theirs was a love-hate relationship—or maybe it was hate-love. She hated him for missing her childhood. She loved him for coming back when her mother was ill and never leaving her side. It was odder than odd, but she’d be a fool to complain and lose them both.

  And why was he still here? Her mother’s illness had taken a bad turn right after the big blow-up in Teslehad, which gave Caroline a convenient excuse to come home. Thankfully she’d never had a chance to tell her about that day, though she was still angry her mother hadn’t divulged the illness before she left.

  “Feel like joining an old man for dinner?” Her father was sixty going on forty-five. He still drew glances from the older women, but he was oblivious. Caroline found it odd considering he’d so rarely been around his wife. It seemed unlikely he could be that devoted. He wasn’t gay either—she’d seen the pile of girly magazines hidden in his closet. He must simply be ambivalent about women, she thought.

  Caroline stared out the window. “I finally finished that boring book you wrote.” He’d given her a copy of his life’s work—a story about the many Korean War veterans who had fallen through the cracks of the system and disappeared into lives of trouble and desperation. It was his obsession.

  “I’m guessing you slept through most of it.” He moved closer as the door jingled closed. Her father wasn’t a towering man, but he held himself well and stayed fit. His hair was the color of tree bark, and his eyes a cloudy blue. Caroline was glad she’d inherited her mother’s eyes. Still blue, but sharper—crisp. Clear and honest.

  “Not really. It was ... interesting. How’d you end up with that assignment anyway?”

  He shrugged. Abby doused the remaining lights and ushered them toward the door. He waited for Caroline to gather her bag. “A family thing. Your mother’s dad served, and he was—”

  “Killed. I know.”

  “Yes, well, not exactly. ... Sometimes things aren’t always what they seem. So, what’d you think of my stories?”

  Should she admit that she’d had to put the book down because too many painful memories rushed through as she read? Recent memories of her own experiences with losing her mother.

  She gave a vague answer as they strolled to his car outside and drove to dinner. Her father was a creature of habit, eating at the same dive a few blocks from his house two or three times a week. The place served crazy foods like sausage and spaetzle quiche, and their recipes were filled with flour, salt, and enough carbs to wallpaper Fort Knox. A heart surgeon’s nightmare.

  It wasn’t until they’d finished their meal and were waiting on the check that Caroline noticed the manila folder he’d tucked under a leg. Had he brought it with him? He opened the clasp and reached inside to pull something from within. The papers he tossed in front of her slid to a stop with a solid hiss. Pictures.

&
nbsp; Caroline focused on the images of the glossy photo stock. They were eerily similar to ones she wished to forget. She blinked and shifted her gaze to his eyes. “You took these?”

  He nodded. “Yep, but not these.” He tossed a couple more photos that sprawled haphazardly over the first. She recognized them as ones she’d taken of locals in Teslehad. He tapped each print. “They’re good.”

  Caroline’s throat closed. The compliment of her work loomed between them but mattered little—she still couldn’t look at them. The staccato sound of gunfire burned her ears as memories flooded through the concrete dam she’d tried to build around her thoughts. Why had he brought them? And where had he found them? “I hate them.”

  He picked his teeth with a toothpick he’d sweet-talked the waitress to provide. When satisfied with the result, he flicked his tongue across the veneers the dentist had recently put over his failing teeth. He still had trouble speaking. “Understood. I hated mine, too—at first.”

  “What do you mean, at first?”

  He shrugged. “Caroline, I read about what happened that day.”

  “How? The article was never published. I made them promise not to. I—”

  “My seniority has a few perks sometimes, or had at one time. After you pulled back your submission, the editor sent me an email attached with your draft and the pictures. He wanted me to encourage you.”

  A weight of lead sunk further into her chest. He’d read her rant? Her throat turned to a crusted cavern that no words could pass through.

  Her father pulled out another picture and tossed it forward. She knew it well. A small child with his arms closed over another in a failed attempt to protect. His sister was only a tiny fragment of his size. He’d done the best he could to cover her and take the blows of the gunshots, but the end result was fatal for both children. He’d tried so hard to wrap her up like a tiny doll in his arms.