by Tamar Sloan
I look at her, letting it dangle there.
Tara rolls her eyes. “So…Eden?”
I roll my eyes back. “What about her?”
We move down the line, our equally greasy-looking cafeteria lady drops a ladleful of browny-grey sludge onto each of our plates. Maybe Eden has the right idea.
“You two seem to be getting along nicely.”
I grin. “So do you two. You’ve made a friend outside of the Channon and Phelans.”
Tara shrugs, smiling. “There’s just something about her.”
Yes, there is.
We leave the line and head back to the table. Mitch and Eden are chatting easily; Mitch is pointing in various directions as he talks. Eden doesn’t seem to have any issues opening up with him. What does that mean, I wonder? How come she can’t give me that easy eye contact, relaxed posture? Is her discomfort with me a good or a bad sign?
Are these questions actually getting me anywhere but confused?
Tara and I slide into our seats. Tara is just about sitting in Mitch’s lap, but judging by his tender look, that’s just where he wants her. I sit next to Eden, but as much as I would like the equivalent proximity, I maintain a more socially appropriate distance. Mitch and Eden seemed to have finished whatever they were talking about, and have returned to eating. Eden is focused on what looks like a peanut butter sandwich.
“I can’t believe how much homework I have!” Tara is dejectedly poking at her sludgy lunch. Her plastic fork disappears into the rat-colored lump.
Mitch groans in agreement. “Yep, the buildup for midterms is in full swing.”
This is the perfect lead-up for where I wanted the conversation to go. I turn to Eden. “So, we need to finish this assignment.”
Mitch looks outside the window at the autumn rain that is pouring down the cafeteria windows. “You won’t be walking in the reserve today.” I quickly glance at Eden to see if she’s surprised by Mitch’s knowledge of her walk. She follows his eyes to the grey world outside, unconcerned.
One delicate shoulder lifts then drops. “That’s fine, I can work on it this afternoon and show you what I’ve done tomorrow.”
Not exactly what I had in mind. I take an imaginary deep breath. Here goes nothing. Well, hopefully it will be something. Anything. “We could study at my place?”
Eden freezes. I have a sinking feeling that is not a good sign. She opens her mouth, in what I already know will be another rejection. I steel myself to pretend it doesn’t matter.
“That’s a great idea!” The enthusiasm comes from Tara. We all turn to her. “We can have a study sesh!”
Mitch shrugs. “Well, I’m already on the premises, so I should be able to make it. And maybe it will get that Tech Design assignment finished.”
“Come on, Eden. I’ll bring the popcorn. It’ll be fun.” Tara has that wingy-whiny tone that always gets people to cave, just because it’s so annoying.
Eden looks at the expectant faces surrounding her. Her eyes rest briefly on mine, and in that unreadable moment, I have no idea whether she wants to spend this time with me.
“Pleeeease?” Tara’s pitch is progressively getting toward the excruciating range.
Now it’s Eden’s turn to roll her eyes. “Fine, but the popcorn had better be butter flavored.”
“Done!” Tara sounds like an auctioneer closing a sale. She even slaps the table for emphasis. Although I don’t think auctioneers bounce up and down in their seat with anticipation. Over a study session.
Excitement bubbles in the pit of my stomach. Not exactly time alone with Eden, but time with Eden is a gift I’m starting to treasure. If I’m going to be totally honest, I’ll take anything I can get.
The jaunty sounds of Smurfs singing fills the air and Tara dives into her bag for her phone. She glances at the screen, groaning that it’s her dad. Giving Mitch a quick kiss on the head, she leaves the noisy cafeteria to take the call.
We have only a couple of minutes before next class, so I consider trying to make some conversation with Eden, maybe try and copy the easy camaraderie that she had with Mitch. That we almost had walking in. But Eden glances at her watch, the universal sign of someone wanting to make a hasty retreat. She smiles briefly in our direction, mumbling something about talking to her chemistry teacher before class and disappears through the cafeteria doors.
I turn to Mitch, wondering if he’s going to give me another pseudo-lecture that’ll just tick me off. But Mitch is staring out the rain-soaked windows. His index finger is rubbing back and forth along his lower lip.
“What?”
He glances at me, surprised out of his musings.
“Nothing really.” But he continues to stare out toward the soggy oval beyond the school walls.
“What?”
“I don’t think it means anything.”
“What doesn’t mean anything?” Frustration hikes my voice up a few decibels.
He frowns slightly. “When I was talking to Eden, I asked if she’s checked out the reserve yet.”
So that’s how he would have known she was out yesterday.
“She said she went for a walk yesterday and got caught in the rain.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure where he was going with that line of conversation. I wait for him to continue. But the silence stretches out, becoming taut. “And?”
“She said she had to trample back, in the dark—sopping wet.”
My stomach sinks. This time I draw out my question. “And?”
“That was it. She said she got home, had a hot shower, and learned to time her walks better.”
“Huh.”
Neither of us says another thing. Call it the twin bond if you want. But we both know that Eden never mentioned the overwhelming danger she was in stranded in that sleeting storm, or her overwhelming fear at being lost.
Or the overwhelming black wolf that lead her back to the trail.
11
Eden
As I drive to Noah’s house, my mother’s white Saab slicing through the sleeting rain, I notice a dangerous emotion bubbling up. A feeling that’s been buried deep, smothered, practically made extinct by ruthless reality. It effervesces up my spine, warm and vibrant and full of promise, expanding my chest, making me light-headed. I imagine this is what a caged bird feels like set free for the first time. Unrestrained, buoyant, facing a clear sky crowded with possibilities. The temptation to soar on those wings is undeniable.
I think it’s called hope.
And it’s all due to one guy. A guy that’s far too good-looking. A guy that’s much too magnetic. A guy that’s way too appealing, inviting, tempting.
But I know hope is dangerous. I remember what happened when I hoped my mother would chase away the Bogey man that was under my bed. When I hoped a ‘fresh start’ would be a promise of something good. When I hoped that I would be a normal kid like Janey next door. I know what follows hope is crushing disappointment, shattering disillusionment, pulverizing defeat.
As I continue driving, greenery thrives as suburbia thins. Down the unbroken secluded road, without the disembodied voice of google-maps-lady, the only sound is rain pummeling the car. We certainly couldn’t have gone for a walk in this weather. I shudder as I recollect my last foray in the rain. Besides, Todd doesn’t work Thursdays. And time alone with Noah is out of the question.
His presence is too closely linked with hope.
According to my phone, I’m almost at my destination. The rain picks up, hammering down like it wants to be a waterfall when it grows up. I switch the wiper blades to warp speed as it gushes across my windshield. The frantic swishing matches my frenzied pulse, pounding the knowledge that I’ll soon be seeing Noah through every fiber of my body.
“Your destination will be on the right.” I shut off the annoying woman. I drive up the short driveway to a two-story house. A broad veranda hugs the front of the old timber and stone home. Through the rain I see a lawn, made up of a patchwork of greens and yellows, surrounded by
a medley of garden beds. I can’t distinguish the plants, but they rise up in a mish mash of heights and shapes. Not a manicured, landscaped piece of vegetation to be seen. The charming scene is nestled within a small clearing, enveloped by ancient pines, like giant protectors of old.
I dart up the paved path to the front door. Despite the three-second dash, rain soaks my hair and jacket. Great. Nothing like the drowned-rat look. If I hadn’t been so full of nervous anticipation, I would have remembered to bring an umbrella. To the right of the softly lit doorway is a rough-hewn timber seat, sanded and oiled to a rich, warm honey. I look a little more closely at its chunky craftsmanship. Underneath one of the legs is a tightly folded piece of cardboard.
I knock on the door, armed against this warm, inviting home with my shield-like books and a fortifying breath. Heavy footsteps can be heard walking swiftly to the door. My already mad pulse escalates to crazy. The door opens and there’s Noah. I take in the sculpted lips stretched wide over straight teeth, the brilliant blue eyes focused on mine. The dangerous temptation that no one else has ever posed.
“Hi, Eden.”
“Hi, Noah.” The beaming grin amps up to blazing. My lungs stutter for breath and my cheeks flame. Here we go. Another couple of hours of looking like a malfunctioning stoplight.
“Come on in, it’s bucketing out there. Good thing we didn’t go for a walk again.”
He opens the door wide and I walk past, holding my breath so I don’t absorb his warm, masculine scent. The stuff infiltrates my system and it takes hours, days, for it to stop tripping memories of his magnetic blue eyes.
The short hallway opens to an open-plan lounge room. I stand awkwardly as timber furniture built from every wood known to man checkers the room; CD racks and shelves and coffee, side and end tables. And jammed on any flat surface, in a tangle of mismatching frames, are a multitude of photos—each capturing a birthday, a holiday, an inconsequential everyday moment. It looks like any day is a reason for a photo opportunity in the Phelan house.
A series of thumps sound down the hallway and a brown Labrador, ears flapping, tail wagging furiously, catapults toward me. I smile in delight—finally something I’m comfortable relating to. I kneel down and rub my hand through the folds of skin along his neck. The dog sits, his tail thumping out his welcome. “Hello to you too.”
“Well, you’re either a dog lover or you just came from a drug lab.”
I stand and face a mountain of a man, obviously Noah’s dad by his dark blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, and blush the brightest red so far. Enough, I tell the capillaries beneath my cheeks.
“Dad.” Noah says in that universal parents-are-so-embarrassing tone. “Eden, this is my dad, Adam Phelan, and this is Stash.” He stands beside me to pat the Lab. “He’s a police dog, drug detection, and search and rescue.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Phelan.”
“Adam, please. That’s the most excited I’ve ever seen Stash with a stranger.”
“Eden has a way with animals.”
I pretend I don’t hear that one as I bend down to pat Stash, who’s leaning his chocolaty weight against my leg.
A dark-haired woman enters from the doorway on the left, I’m guessing the kitchen judging by the apron. She’s tall, with soft, kind eyes and a welcoming smile.
“Hi, I’m Beth.” She looks meaningfully at both Noah and Adam. She leans forward, one hand cupping her mouth. “I find the best way to handle the Phelan men is to completely ignore everything they say.”
Adam wanders over to slip an arm around his wife. “Which she does astoundingly well.”
Beth looks up at him, grinning shamelessly. She doesn’t look old enough to be the mother of two teenage sons. She pats his chest. “Years of dedicated training.”
I notice that, for once in my life, I’m not the tallest person in the room. It’s a novel feeling, one I don’t want to admit I like. As I look into their open, welcoming faces I begin to relax.
But in the silent pause I finally notice the absence of Mitch and Tara. Then I belatedly register the deserted car space in the driveway when I arrived. Apprehension is gently lapping at the edges of my consciousness. Did I actually think for a second that this would be a safe and straightforward endeavor?
Noah notices me looking around. “Tara got a call from her dad. He needed her to babysit. Something about a doctor’s appointment for her mom.” He rubs the back of his neck. “And Mitch decided to go with her.”
How does this keep happening? Alone with Noah. Twice in one week! I take a very Dougherty-like deep breath. Apparently I haven’t mastered its calming effect, because my nervousness continues to gain momentum. I consider looking for exit signs as I try to calm my racing heart. It’ll be fine. I’ll spend an hour going over the presentation then hightail it home. Please let it be fine.
Noah breaks the silence by telling his parents we’ll study in his room. Anxiety is now crashing in roiling waves, spraying icy droplets down my spine. Maybe his parents will suggest the much more open, safe, and populated lounge room. But they accept his statement easily and, after gifting me with another kind smile, head back to whatever my arrival interrupted.
I follow Noah across the lounge room I don’t want to leave and up a set of stairs. More photos are strung along the wall heading up to the second floor. They seem to be a timeline, starting with twin babies in matching prams, up to a diapered Noah grinning on a trike; the next sees Mitch sitting on the floor with a toy drill. Each milestone celebrated with a step up the stairway.
Noah glances back and notices my scrutiny. He scratches above his ear. “Nothing like having every second of your childhood as a permanent art exhibition, huh? We joke that Mom’s pointer finger is permanently bent thanks to repeated photographer’s strain.”
“It’s sweet. There doesn’t seem to be anything too embarrassing.” Until, halfway up the stairs, the school photos start. From the toothless smiles and flattened comb-overs of elementary school, through to the spotted acne and outdated hair of junior high.
“Oh.” Now it’s Noah’s turn to blush.
Interestingly, Noah and Mitch appeared evenly sized until the last couple of pictures. Then Mitch becomes the burly young man he is now, while Noah stayed the lanky teen. Although, looking at Noah’s broad back—thankfully in a looser T-shirt—he’s had a growth spurt as he no longer seems to match his senior year photo.
At the top of the stairs Noah leads me to a room situated on the right of the hallway. He stands back, bowing slightly at the waist, sweeping his arm out in a gentlemanly flourish. I step through the door into what I imagine is a standard senior’s room. A double bed, covered in a navy comforter, sits against the far wall. A window on the external wall looks out to the ubiquitous mountain range that can be seen from any point in Jacksonville. A small desk, crowded with books and papers, sits below the window. The opposite wall is dominated by shelves holding a myriad books and DVDs and what looks like built-in cupboards.
It seems unthreatening enough. Until Noah enters and the room shrinks with his no-longer-lanky presence. Then he takes the only chair in the room. I stand awkwardly, once again holding my breath in the confined space.
“Just put your stuff on the bed.” Noah grabs a laptop and powers it up, all business. I take two shaky steps to the bed and place my backpack on it. I perch on the edge, pretending to look through my alphabetically organized backpack for the relevant book.
“Your parents seem nice.” I say to break the lengthening silence.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll trade them in this week.” He wheels the desk chair toward me, laptop in hand. I’m stuck between the summer-blue eyes that I’m desperately trying to escape and sitting farther back on the bed. But settling in on that dark blue comforter represents an intimacy I’m equally trying to escape.
Stash grabs that moment with all four paws and dashes into the room. He leaps up on to the bed beside me, tongue lolling. I smile, my hand naturally sinking into his thick fur.
I move back slightly on the bed. I feel a little better with a police escort.
Noah reaches over to ruffle his ears. “And if Stash likes you, then Dad likes you. He’s like his canine barometer for people.”
Eden has a way with animals.
He never says the words but I know they’re there in his summer-sky eyes. And I know he’s thinking of the swan. His brows form questioning arches as he waits. I can feel defensiveness climb up. Brick by oppositional brick. I consider saying something acidic, going on the attack to get him off track.
“I don’t understand it.” I tell this to the quilt in front of me, bunching the dark blue cotton in my fist.
Noah pauses then nods once. “Okay.”
And for some reason I want him to know. “I can’t explain it.”
“Okay.”
I look up. Straight into warm cerulean pools of acceptance. Directly into acknowledgement and understanding. Conclusively into the knowledge that I want to dive and revel in this feeling before it dries up. Noah remains there, and I take the time to study his sculptured features, soft lips, unblinking eyes. A small part of me is taking the time to look for subtle signs of dishonesty. She comes up empty-handed. While I come away full and overflowing. Full of…hope.
Banging and clanging sounds waft up from the kitchen, breaching the breathless moment. I can feel my cheeks warm, but this time it’s not from embarrassment. I straighten and mentally shake myself. My imagination is blazing out of control.
My eyes slide back to my bag. It’s time to step back into reality. “Right. The…ummm…PowerPoint.”
Thankfully Noah takes my cue. “Let’s check out what you think of my efforts so far.”
The assignment sheet is in my hand, although I have no memory of how it got there. I really need to get a grip. I use all my willpower to focus on the paper in front of me. “We need to cover the definition and example of a parasite.”
Noah reads from the screen in front of him. “Where one species benefits at the expense of the other.” He tilts his chin up as he scratches it. “Dale?”