Life Happens on the Stairs

by Amy J. Markstahler

  “I wish.” He kissed me again, and then set me on my feet. “Only a few more weeks.”

  “I love you.”

  He let me go and opened the car door. “I love you.”

  He slid inside, and within seconds he drove away. My chest clenched. Alone again.

  Chapter 36

  After the funeral, I fell back into my routine: school, home again, dinner, homework, talk to Tyler. Except this time, the heavy weight on my chest was because all of the chaos and uncertainty was gone. Poof. I’d heard of survivor’s remorse – more so when a person’s life had been threatened rather than when another life was lost. I resented the sun for rising and setting, the alarm for reminding me I had to put my feet on the ground, and smiling faces in the hallways who complained about their fathers.

  Thankfully, Tyler called every night. He’d talk me down when I thought I would burst from the grief. He soothed me with his dulcet accent, loving words reassuring me that my guilt was unfounded. Once again, he was my refuge.

  On November second, he texted first thing in the morning.

  Tyler: Happy birthday!!!! Love you! Hope you have a great day.

  Me: Thank you! I love you, too!

  Emma brought cupcakes to school for me. Chocolate with white icing. I tuned out the chatter in the lunchroom, sinking my teeth in the buttery frosting and moist cake.

  Holding up a finger, I finished chewing. “Thanks, girl.”

  She licked icing off her thumb, and asked, “Is your mom doing anything for you?”

  “We’ll go out for dinner tonight.” I shrugged, nipping another small bite. “No one’s in the mood to celebrate. It’s cool, though.”

  “Bullshit, it’s not cool. I’ll come along. You know I’ll spice it up for y’all.”

  She would help us laugh. “I’d love that.”

  “Have you heard from MCA?”

  I shook my head, then countered, “Did you finally make a decision?”

  “Yep! I’m goin’ to the beach—Florida State. Well, pretty close to the beach.” Her bright smile slowly deflated. “Mom’s pissed. She thinks I’m choosing Dad over her.”

  “You love Florida,” I said, indulging her. She knew Emma wanted to get away from her mother more than her pursuit of a physics degree. “You’re going to college, not moving in with him.”

  “I know, right?” She took another bite of cupcake. With a full mouth, she said, “Oh well, she’ll get over it.”

  After school, I drove home with the windows down and the heater blasting. Summer without the humidity. Turning out of Morris Chapel, I followed the winding road toward home. Within minutes, I stepped inside the house to savor the silence. Mark was at work. Mom was gone – hopefully, she’d gone to work or was at Ruby’s. I worried about her.

  The past two weeks had been rough, and even though she said she was looking forward to cleaning houses again, the flat tone she used wasn’t convincing. She’d never aspired to clean homes, but the job was lucrative, as long as she could withstand the work. Regardless, she’d always wanted to go back to school. Criminal justice, law and order, subjects like that made her tick. Maybe she could start at the community college in Savannah. She needed to find a passion, something she could focus on. I sorted through the mail on the counter. An advertisement for the local college was hidden under the power bill. I set the flyer on top of the stack. A knock at the front door echoed through the house.

  I hurried to the living room, opened the door, and a stout, bald-headed man stood outside.

  “Hi.” I waved my hand, brightening out of my dull mood.

  “Miss Richardson?” the man asked in a surprisingly high-pitched tone.

  “Yes.”

  “These are for you.” He held out a cobalt blue vase, bursting with long-stemmed, red roses. The magnificent bouquet was so large I lost sight of his face.

  I pressed my nose against the firm petals, stealing a moment to inhale the antique scent of sweet roses. Setting them on the coffee table, I returned to the door. He handed me a small rectangular box wrapped in plain brown paper.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Happy birthday!” He smiled, and then he walked back toward his beige Nissan.

  I shut the door and opened the small note affixed to a plastic stick in the middle of the bouquet. It read:

  For my girl.

  Eighteen roses, for your eighteenth birthday. See you soon.

  Love you, Tyler

  P.S. Open the notes app.

  What did that mean? I stared at the box for a few seconds, dropped the card, and tore off the brown packaging. Inside was a glossy-white box with a shiny silver apple on top. I squealed, pulled out the iPhone, and slid the button to unlock the screen. When I tapped the yellow note icon, a list of entries waited for me:

  I love you.

  Hope you like it.

  Check your music app.

  I’ll see you soon. Just a little longer. You’d better answer when I call :)

  My cheeks throbbed from the smile plastered on my face. I exited out of the app, pressed the music icon, and then checked the playlist he’d made. The first song was, 4 Non Blondes, What’s Up?

  Laughing out loud in the silence, I pressed play, and then I scrolled through hundreds of songs. He’d stocked it with all kinds of music: classical, pop, a few country songs, alternative, everything I could imagine. I exited the app and pressed the green phone icon. His number was the only one programmed. I touched it and held the phone to my ear.

  “I see you’ve gotten my present,” he answered. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Welcome to the modern age,” he said, sounding pleased. “You have a hand-sized computer next to your ear. Enjoy. Google something, ask Siri any question – she’s at your service. Please set up an email account, okay? You really need to get with the times.”

  “I’ll do it right after we’re done,” I said, sounding like a giddy little girl. “I love you.”

  I could hear his smile. “I love you, Elsie. I can’t wait to see you.”

  ~ * ~

  Three weeks after Dad died, I walked in the kitchen on a Friday afternoon. Mom stood in front of the sink, staring out of the window at the dirt driveway that led to the barn. Tears poured down her face. I leaned against the counter on the opposite side of the room. An albatross of sorrow pressed down on her shoulders.

  Apprehensive about speaking, I softly asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Oh.” She spun her head, pressing her palm to her chest. “I didn’t hear you.”

  Even her senses had dulled. She always heard everything.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Your dad, and just... ” Her words trailed off.

  If she wanted to tell me something, she’d keep talking. Sometimes she’d tell you, sometimes she wouldn’t. I waited. She shrugged, picked up her coffee cup, and went to her room. Mark walked in from work as her door clicked shut. We made eye contact. Bonded siblings, he read the worry on my face, then glanced at Mom’s room.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She won’t talk, and I’m afraid to push. I haven’t seen her smile since the funeral. And I don’t think those smiles count.”

  He started to empty his lunch box in the trash. “She hasn’t gone back to work.”

  “What’s she doing, then? Doesn’t she need the money?”

  “Dad had some life insurance, ten grand or something, but Grandpa wrote her a check.” He spun around and eyed me. “Grandma doesn’t know that, though.”

  “That’s weird. She doesn’t ask for money.”

  He opened the fridge and started rummaging through the drawers. “I didn’t say she asked. He just gave it to her.” He tossed a few grapes in his mouth.

  “It isn’t like her to skip work.”

  He shrugged. “She just lost her husband.”

  “Obviously. But she’s usually so strong.”

  “She’s tired of being strong.” He gra
bbed some cookies off the counter, started to pop one in his mouth, then stopped. “It’s different for her than it is for us. Yeah, I’ve cried about it, but it’s not the same. They loved each other.” His emphasis on the word “love” surprised me. “I miss Dad a lot, don’t get me wrong, but she feels like she’s dying inside. She told me herself.”

  “I’ve read about the five stages of grief. Be warned... anger is one of them.”

  “Ah. I can take it.” He waved his hand. “We’ve duked it out before.”

  We laughed. He seemed happy to be able to take the brunt if she needed to blow. I felt even closer to him after our laughter faded. After all the bullshit we’d put each other through, he’d become one of my best friends.

  “You haven’t told me, have you and Megan been going out?”

  His cheeks flushed. “Yeah. She’s pretty cool.”

  “Well, we love her.”

  He flashed a big grin and turned to scrounge for more food.

  A few nights later, I got off the phone with Tyler and went to the bathroom before bed. The hallway was dark, except for the light from under Mom’s door. When I came back out, muted sobs made me turn left. I had to help her somehow, at least be there to listen if she wanted to talk. I tapped on her door and pushed it open without waiting for her answer.

  I hadn’t been in the room since the weekend Dad died. I wasn’t exactly fond of the space anymore. She’d changed the curtains and bedspread, making it warm and cozy instead of an improvised hospital room. She didn’t want company, but I sat on the edge of the bed anyway.

  “Hi,” I whispered.

  “Sorry you keep finding me like this.”

  I looked down at her Victorian, floral quilt. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

  “You’re not. I’ll get past this at some point, right?”

  “There’s no time limit. I can’t imagine how much you miss him.”

  “You have no idea... I know you’re hurting, but you have your whole life ahead of you. Make the most of it.”

  Her words stung, as if she’d been thinking irrational thoughts. “Your life isn’t over.”

  “I know.” Her voice cracked as she looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll get there. I just don’t feel it right now. I feel like part of me had died with him.” She broke down and sobbed in her hands. Tears filled my eyes. Moments passed, and then she continued, “I keep waking up in the middle of the night, and I can feel him next to me. Such a cruel trick of the mind. I swear he’s here. I can feel him under the covers, his warmth, his smell. I even heard him breathing one morning. But I open my eyes, or reach out to touch him—nothing. Of course, he’s not there. Within seconds, my world crashes in on me.” Her tone shifted to mock satire with an edge of anger. “It’s a great way to start the day. If I could just get that to stop, then maybe... I’ll want to get out of bed. But right now, I’d rather sleep. At least he’s in my dreams.”

  “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Thank you, but I have to do this one alone. How’s school going?” Her tears faded, and she sat straighter. “Have you heard from Memphis College of Art?”

  “No. I’m hoping to hear something soon.”

  “You will. How’s Tyler?”

  “We talk a lot more. He runs Nationals next weekend.” Then, I remembered that Mom and I hadn’t talked much. “I never told you about breakfast with his crazy grandmother!”

  “You saw her?” she said, shocked. “What did she say? She’d better not have been rude.”

  “Of course, she was!”

  I told her all about Mrs. Vaughn’s empty threats, and then we gossiped for over an hour about the old woman and the years Mom had spent in her mansion. I’d missed her – my mother’s bright smile, eyes the color of my cobalt vase, and most all, her contagious laugh.

  Chapter 37

  The Friday before Thanksgiving, I was backing out of the driveway to go to school and dumped my coffee on my lap. A creamy, sticky mess all over my jeans and the center console. After I cleaned myself up, and the car, I jogged through the front doors at school, fifteen minutes late. Before second hour, I smashed my middle finger in my locker, and then it pulsed and throbbed all the way through a math test that I undoubtedly bombed. Tyler and I played phone tag all day, back and forth we called, leaving voicemails and “I love yous.” Plus, Emma had the flu, leaving me solo in the hallways and at lunch.

  Worst of all, right before the two-fifty bell released me from Hardin County’s hell hole, Mrs. Sanchez, the school counselor, called me into her office. Shiny black hair pulled in a low bun, she wore layers of draping fabric: deep reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of an Aztec pattern evocative of her native Central American heritage.

  I sat down in the leather chair across her desk. She leaned forward on her elbows and peered over the rim of her cherry-red reading glasses. Her lips pressed in a hard line as she let out a slow exhale, her concerned, caramel-colored eyes affixed to mine. I’d seen that look before. Another lecture for being late to school. Just give me the detention and get it over with.

  “When exactly did you apply to MCA?” she asked in a curious voice as devoid of a Southern accent as mine.

  Her question took me off guard. “Um... early August.”

  “Elsie.” Her brows creased with disappointment. “You were too late. I’m sorry. They didn’t accept your application.”

  I deflated in the chair. Of course. A day late and a dollar short. The story of a Richardson’s life.

  I scanned the cramped office instead of looking at her. Warm and welcoming, one wall was lined in bookcases overflowing with titles. A small window behind her lit an elongated bureau stacked with papers, file folders, a Christmas cactus, and several wooden framed photos of her family. My chest tightened. Fuck. If I looked at her, I’d cry. Rejected. Vetoed. Bam—the door slammed in my face.

  “All you have to do is reapply in the spring,” she said. “Don’t give up. You’re a fantastic artist. Did you apply elsewhere?”

  Devastated inside, I slowly inclined my head. “School of the Art Institute of Chicago and a few others,” I murmured, my mouth suddenly dry.

  Her high, arched eyebrows lifted. “Good, good.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know why I had my heart set on MCA, but I did.”

  “You have plenty of time and more than enough talent. Just reapply earlier this time. Who knows? You could still hear from the others.”

  After a few more words of encouragement, I hightailed it out of her office, gathered all of my stuff from my locker, and headed to the parking lot. Tears burned my eyes. I pulled my phone out of my book bag and glanced at the screen. Tyler. Missed call. Shit!

  I spotted the Honda in the second row. Quickening my step, I took a long stride over a parking curb. An abrupt tug at my foot and my leg jerked backward when my shoelace caught a stray piece of rebar. My stomach lurched, and my phone flew out of my hand. Plunging forward, I extended my arms. Bam. I slammed the ground, hands and knees skidding in the gravel. My book bag flipped over my right shoulder, dragging me down harder. Dust billowed, lime grit dug in my palms and knees, stinging and burning in the open flesh.

  “Fuck!” I pushed off the ground, scrambling to my feet.

  A freshman girl with dark brown hair looked over her shoulder and started giggling. Fuming, I grabbed my phone and hurried to the car.

  The brief moment of isolation faded fast as I jerked open the console and grabbed a napkin to wipe the blood from my hands. Fat, heavy tears rolled down my cheeks. I sniffled a grotesque chunk of snot, a horrific gurgle in the back of my throat. Humiliated, palms stinging, I wiped the blood and pulled out a few small shards of rock. When the bleeding slowed, I checked my phone to make sure I hadn’t cracked the screen. A scuff on the corner, but nothing serious. I slid the icon for the voicemail open.

  “Hey, Elsie,” Tyler’s low drawl hummed my ear. “I’m headin’ to the airport, so I won’t be able to call you for a bit. I’ll try again when I get th
ere, okay? I need to talk to you before I compete tomorrow. So... Answer. The. Phone,” he stressed each word, and then he chuckled. “Love you. Bye.”

  Fuck! I slammed the steering wheel with the side of my fist, making my palm sting more. What a shit day! Nothing had gone right. Missing his calls hurt worse than the scrapes in my skin. I started the ignition and threw the car in reverse. Hopefully, Mom was home. I needed to vent. I needed a hug. What a stupid, stupid mistake. Late application? I felt like a total jackass.

  As I drove toward Morris Chapel, I worried that Mom wouldn’t listen even if she was home. She’d been distant and quiet the past few days. Talking on the phone behind closed doors, quick, one-word answers like she didn’t want to engage too long. She’d stopped locking herself in her room, but the time she spent away from home, I still wasn’t sure about.

  Twenty minutes later, still agitated and shaking, I stepped inside the house. Mom walked into the living room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Mark sat in the recliner, watching ESPN.

  “Why are you home?” I asked him.

  He kept his eyes on the TV. “Off early.”

  “Works out well.” Mom moved across the living room toward the front door. “Have a seat Elsie, I need to talk to both of you.”

  What the hell now? I sighed, set my book bag on the floor, and pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket, setting the device on the coffee table. Eyes fixed on her, I sat on the couch.

  She had a bomb. A big red button in one hand with a pointer finger ready to press. I couldn’t take another ambush. Not today. Run. No, hear her out...

  Mom paced in front of the door, staring at the floor. Pace, turn, pace.

  “Okay, guys. Here’s the latest: McAllister sold the house.” A deep breath. “And I’ve been offered a job at the University in Urbana.” She sped up her words and turned our way.