Pictures of You
Page 10
“Then I’d better get back to work.” Without a second’s hesitation, he turned and began walking away.
“No—wait.” I bit my lip. What am I doing? Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Okay. I promise.” Now what? A promise was a promise, something I never took lightly. What was I doing here anyway? Didn’t I have anything better to do with my life? Maybe I could still help him. Somehow. In some way change his mind. There was a pretty big chance I was utterly pathetic. Maybe too stubborn. Too altruistic. Abby and her Christian ways have rubbed off on me over the years. Heaven knows I didn’t learn this behavior from my family. I wanted to stop Adrien from hurting himself and I was sure there could be a way to do it without him actually knowing that was what I was doing. So maybe in a way I was planning to break the promise, but it was for the greater good.
Okay, this wasn’t only about my unselfish side coming through. The truth? I wanted Adrien, period. It was a breakthrough, I realized in wonder. I was finally getting over John. Or at least I was starting to.
“Good,” he said, buying it. “What’re you doing right now?”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Right now? Don’t you have to work?”
“Screw work.”
“Won’t you get fired?”
He chuckled, threw me a look that for a second made me question my own sanity. “Does it matter if I’m going to be dead in thirteen days?”
“Oh.” It was all I could say. He had a point.
“I’d much rather spend the rest of my time playing than at a job I hate.”
“Makes sense.” Once again, I hesitated. I could leave now. I didn’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have to feel responsible if some crazy guy wanted to off himself. I shouldn’t be playing Russian Roulette with my already broken heart.
“So…What do you want to do?” he asked, his green eyes drawing me in.
I stiffened, feeling butterflies in my stomach. Would I be able to stay unattached? Could I do this? “What about the Honda couple?”
“Come on, September, they’ll be fine. Loosen up. Live a little.” He playfully punched me in the arm.
I snorted. “I could say the same to you, Mr. I’m-Killing-Myself-In-Thirteen-Days.”
“Ha, ha.”
I clutched my purse and said, “I have a few errands to run, then we could do something.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll join you on your errands.”
“They’re boring.”
“Not with you. You’re far from boring.”
“Glad I amuse you.”
***
“What made you change your mind?” I asked, examining bell peppers, shoving the biggest, unblemished ones into a plastic sack. The first errand to cross off my list: grocery shopping.
“About what?” Adrien said, pushing the cart, following me around the store like a lost duckling.
“About hanging out with me.”
“I figure I may as well have some fun before…” He trailed off. He didn’t need to finish his sentence.
I frowned as I tossed a bag of organic baby carrots into the cart. “What makes you so sure I’m fun? And why me? Wouldn’t you rather spend your last days with family or something?”
“Nah. Like I said before I’m not so close to them anymore.”
I shook my head. “That’s tragic.”
“Are you close to your family?” he asked, resting his elbows on the cart, gazing at me intently.
“No. Never have been. Well, not since I was little. I wish I could say I was.” I grabbed two baskets of strawberries then led Adrien to the cereal aisle.
“Who would you see then? Who would you spend your last days with?” His green eyes bore into mine. He was so close now I could smell him. He smelled of old cars, hair gel and something else. Sandalwood? Trying to be subtle, I stole another whiff of his scent. I found it strangely sexy.
“I don’t know. My friend Chris maybe.” Four months ago I would’ve said Abby. Without hesitation. But that was then and this is now.
“Is this Chris a he or a she?” Adrien asked, reaching a box of Cheerios for me.
“Thanks. Chris is a he. He’s my closest friend. We work together.”
“Ah. Chris the toilet scrubber.” Adrien grinned.
I slugged him playfully. “You’re not funny. I clean restrooms, too, you know. It’s a perfectly respectable line of work. It pays the bills.”
***
“Come in, September,” Mrs. Watkins said through the dirty apartment door, her voice weak and worn, like a talking baby doll with dying batteries. I had to practically press my ear against the door to hear her.
I pulled out the key to unlock the door (she gave me a copy of it about two months ago) and let myself in. I was greeted by the scent of moth balls, dust and stale vintage perfume. “Hello, Mrs. Watkins. How’re you today?”
“I’m good. But the question is: how are you, September?” She was sitting in her usual ancient rocker, the one with the scratchy fabric, reminding me of Velcro. She threw me an absent smile while patting her cotton candy pink curls—she explained to me once that her medications turned her hair such an odd color.
“I’m all right. Mrs. Watkins, I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend.” Adrien hesitantly stepped into the doorway.
“Oh. A man. A handsome man.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. For some reason Mrs. Watkins referring to him as a man embarrassed me. I mean, I guess technically he was a man, although I was pretty sure he wasn’t more than a year or two older than me.
“Meet Adrien Gray,” I said with a shaky voice. Why was I suddenly feeling so nervous? It wasn’t like I was bringing him home to meet my parents.
“Hello, Adrien.”
“Hello, Mrs. Watkins,” Adrien said, acting kind of shy.
“They were out of whole milk, Mrs. Watkins. I hope you don’t mind I got you two percent.” Adrien and I laid four bags of groceries onto the vintage Formica table.
“Two percent will do just fine. You know I’m grateful for anything. I don’t know what I’d do without you, September.”
I’d first noticed Mrs. Watkins a couple months ago. She’d labored to juggle three bags of groceries up three flights of stairs—the elevator was out of order for a while. I offered to carry them up to her apartment and she invited me in for iced tea, lemon bars and a condensed version of her autobiography. Two weeks after our initial visit, I’d heard she’d fallen and hurt her hip, so I offered to do her shopping for her. I did it every week since then and I have to admit it was nice to think about someone other than myself for once.
After putting away Mrs. Watkins’ groceries, I cemented a polite, happy look onto my face (I didn’t want to burden her with all my problems) and sat on the sagging brown sofa. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Sit, Adrien. Please,” the woman insisted.
Adrien obeyed, sitting stiffly beside me on the sofa, resting his awkward hands in his lap. I felt the warmth of his body when our thighs touched.
She shook her head. “You look so much like Mr. Watkins, Adrien. With a nice crew cut, you really could be his twin.”
“Oh,” Adrien said, nodding politely.
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Today Mrs. Watkins had drawn on one of her eyebrows crooked, the right an inch higher than the left, making her appear quizzical. With a quaking hand, she reached for a beaded coin purse from the coffee table and placed two shiny quarters in my palm. Our hands touched momentarily, hers cold against mine. “This is for your help, dear. Treat yourself to some ice cream.”
“Keep the money—”
She wagged a finger. “Tut-tut-tut. You’re a big hearted young woman. I’m not going to take advantage of that.”
“Well thank you. This means a lot.” We went through this every Tuesday. She gave me fifty cents, from the bottom of her heart and I refused it, knowing she had so little to give.
Each time she chastised me. It was as predictable as the lines in a worn out play. She smiled at me,
reaching over, squeezing my hand.
“Adrien, tell me about yourself. What do you do?”
“I sell cars.”
“He’s also a writer,” I added. I barely knew him and already I sounded like a proud mother.
“For heaven’s sake. A writer. Mr. Watkins was a writer. What do you write?”
“I write fiction.”
“Oh? Have you had anything published?”
“I just finished writing my first novel a few months ago. I’m not published, though. Not yet. I also write short stories.”
“That’s wonderful. I hope you keep it up.”
Adrien coughed. “Um, I will.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. I whispered, “Liar.”
“You look so much like my husband. He was a good man. He fought in the war. He never came home.” Mrs. Watkins looked wistfully at Adrien.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must be lonely without him.”
A single tear escaped her eye. “Very lonely. It’s been a long life without him. It feels like a hundred years since I last saw him walk out that door.” She gestured to the apartment door.
Surprised, I said, “You’ve lived here that long?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. We moved in here as newlyweds.”
“Wow.” I shook my head in amazement. I hadn’t realized this place was so old.
We sat, enduring several minutes of small talk. Normally I enjoyed our little chats, but today I felt restless. There was so much I wanted to say to Adrien, so much I wanted to know. The incessant ticking of the coo-coo clock combined with the fog of stale perfume made it worse. My leg kept jerking—I felt like a junkie in need of a fix—but then I’d force myself to keep still, not wanting to appear impolite. Mrs. Watkins seemed oblivious to my impatience. Today I was nearly invisible. She looked straight past me, eyeing the handsome stranger she swore was a dead-ringer for her husband. Adrien seemed to have her in a spell.
“Adrien, I have something for you,” the elderly woman said, surprising us both.
“For me, Ma’am?” He placed a hand on his chest.
“There’s something I want you to have. In that coat closet there.” She pointed a shaky finger at the closet still covered in last year’s Christmas cards and shiny red bows. Hesitantly, he got up and opened the closet door, which was jammed full of old coats, many of them decades old. A vacuum that looked old enough to be displayed in a museum was crammed into the corner next to sparkling aqua bowling ball peeking out of a bag. He paused, waiting for further instructions.
“In the back you’ll find Ned’s jacket—one of his old military jackets.”
Adrien raked through various sweaters and coats before pulling out a jacket from the very back. A subdued green, it boasted four pockets and shiny gold buttons. Various patches, symbols of achievement, were carefully sewn into their appropriate places. “This is really cool.”
“Try it on.”He paused, eyeing Mrs. Watkins in amazement. “Try it on, boy.”
He slipped into the jacket. It fit him perfectly. “Wow, this is a nice jacket. But it belonged to your husband. I couldn’t take this, Mrs.—”
“I want you to have it. It’s even a perfect fit. Ned was tall like you.”
“But I don’t deserve it.”
“It’s green. Your color,” I teased. I couldn’t resist.
“Of course you do. You’re a warrior, Adrien. Just like Ned. He fought until the very end. Just like I know you will.”
It could be my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw her eyes cut into his, almost accusingly. But then her face softened and she simply smiled a warm smile. Was Mrs. Watkins psychic? An angel? How did she seem to sense his dark secret?
“If you insist. Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.” He looked away, but not before I caught his eyes watering.
I stood. “Well, Mrs. Watkins. If there’s nothing else…”
“No, no. You do too much for me already. Thanks for dropping by. Nice to meet you, Adrien.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you. Thanks again for the jacket.”
“Take care, you two.” The way she said it gave me chills. I knew a deeper meaning intertwined the casual phrase.
“We will.”
Adrien waited in the hall as Mrs. Watkins handed me an envelope filled with cash for next week’s groceries. She whispered to me, her face so animated, she looked like a Saturday morning cartoon, “September. You really met someone. He’s special, I can feel it. Don’t let this one go.”
I smiled in reply, unsure how to respond. “See you next Tuesday.”
As I closed her grungy apartment door, I turned to Adrien. His face was screwed up, his eyes troubled as he ran a finger down the front of his new jacket.
15
“What do you want to do now?” I asked after mailing my photos to three online customers. One to a woman in London, England another to a doctor in Nampa, Idaho and the last to someone named Harry Loveless in Austin, Texas.
“That’s so cool that you sell your art to people around the world. I must say I’m impressed,” Adrien said, stopping to tie his shoe.
“Yeah, I guess it is. I think of it as getting paid to play. Someday I hope to make enough doing just that. As much as I love scrubbing urinals…”
“I have the same dream. For writing.” His eyes met mine for a few seconds. We both chuckled, as if sharing an inside joke. It was funny—in a sad, twisted way—how half of everything that came out of his mouth sounded off. Knowing he was ending it all in a few short days. Of course it made me sad, but I had to push those thoughts aside, sort of be in denial. It was the only way to cope with such a tragic thing. Plus I refused to give up. There had to be a way to stop him. There had to be.
As we walked past a few coffee shops and restaurants, the aroma of sizzling burgers and Chinese food made my stomach growl. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s grab some lunch.”
“I could definitely go for some lunch. But what do you want to do—after we eat?”
“I don’t know. It’s your thirteenth to last day on earth. I’ll let you call the shots.”
“I like that idea.” He grinned. “I want to see some of your photos,” he said, grabbing my hand and playing with it. His hand was soft and warm and the touch of it made my heart flutter. I felt like I was in junior high all over again.
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
Then I had an idea. “Will you model for me?” I asked, suddenly excited.
“Excuse me?”
“You have the most…interesting face.” Your eyes, your jaw, I thought to myself. “I would love to photograph you.”
“Really? You think so?” His innocent surprise caught me off guard. Was he really that oblivious to his good looks? Did he not happen to own a mirror? He continued, “Would I be in one of your fancy art shows?”
“Most definitely. So is it a deal?”
He laughed his classic laugh. “Okay, deal. But I’m starving.”
“Me too. I’ll make us something at my apartment—we’re almost there. Sound okay?”
“Whoa, you met me a day ago and you’re already taking me up to your apartment?” he joked.
I shrugged. “I guess I am, but don’t get any ideas—I’m just making you lunch. Oh and I have to warn you. I have a really weird roommate.”
“Weirder than you?” He squeezed my hand, shooting a jolt of electricity up my arm. He shook his head. “Impossible.”
***
“Adrien, meet Mary. Mary, this is Adrien.”
“Whoa, September, he’s hot,” Mary said, as if he wasn’t there in the room. Mary was like that—very blunt. Sometimes even rude. She sat Indian-style on the purple velvet couch, playing with a rubber band. Her long blue hair was twisted in a knot, a pencil holding it in place. She wore her usual dark colors and rose-red lipstick.
“Hi Mary, nice to meet you,” Adrien said, disguising a laugh with a few forced coughs.
“Are you sick?” Ma
ry said, throwing him a mocking scowl, threatening to shoot the rubber band at him.
“Nope, I’m well, but thanks for asking. Must be allergies.”
I stifled a giggle. “And this is Tiger,” I said, gesturing toward our orange-and-white cat balled up next to Mary on the couch. The cat, bored of the whole situation, gracefully jumped down and left the room.
“You know ancient Egyptians shaved off their eyebrows to mourn the death of their cats,” Mary said, eyeing Adrien up and down. I threw her a warning glance, knowing that she was already thinking of how she could steal him from me (not that he was really mine). She shrugged at me in reply.
“I didn’t know that. Good to know, though.” He nodded politely.
“This is our living room,” I said, feeling silly for stating the obvious.
“Cool place,” he said, looking around, his gaze resting on our endless collection of board games.
“I know,” I said. “We’re kind of nerdy. No one actually plays board games anymore.”
“I think it’s kind of cool,” he said. “Battleship? I haven’t played that in years.”
“Maybe we’ll have to play it sometime. Let’s have lunch. Do you like macaroni and cheese?” I asked.
“I love macaroni and cheese.”
“Good. I happen to make some serious mac. Four-cheese mac to be precise.” I led Adrien into the kitchen. The kitchen echoed the rest of the trash-to-treasure house, with an ugly vintage refrigerator covered in magnetic poetry, a table painted a metallic turquoise (Abby and I had spent a Saturday morning painting it together) and mismatched bar stools.
Adrien played around with the magnetic poetry as I rummaged through the fridge for various cheeses.
“Do you have a bucket list?” I asked, placing a pan of water on the burner.
“A bucket list?” He raised an eyebrow.