Between Octobers Bk 1, Savor The Days Series (5 page)

I guess we’d passed idle small talk.

“We never planned; they were surprises.”
What surprised me was that I nearly mentioned how I suspected
Solomon had a high sperm count because all of my pregnancies
occurred while I was using at least one form of birth control. What
a strange thing to bring up in a dim conversation with a generous
stranger. Maybe it was easier to be open in the dark.

“Sorry, it’s too personal.”

I couldn’t make out his expression but knew
he saw mine. I wondered what he spotted that made him want to
apologize.

“I’m not offended, but I am curious. Evan,
can I ask you something?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Do you really work in maintenance?”

He drew a deep breath and let it out with a
quick raspberry. “No. I was, uh, visiting a friend,” he slightly
shifted his leg.

The phone moved again, lighting the air
between us enough for me to see his sheepish grin.

“It’s a little early for a social call.” I
heard my voice and it was patronizing.

“Yeah, but I was away, out of state for a
few months and hoping to avoid the morning traffic. You know, I
knew a girl named Gracie in primary school. She used to hit me and
take my snack.”

“She must have liked you,” I pretended not
to notice the sudden change of subject.

“No, I’m pretty sure she hated me.” His
words, though they sounded offhand, carried an element of something
. . . truth, maybe? I wasn’t sure, but my heart filled with
compassion over the possibility. He was being so kind.

“My dad used to call me Gracie.” Memories
sprang up. Me, bouncing on his knee playing Buck the Bronco. My dad
would twist his fingers around the back of my shirt—sending my
mother into a frenzy over the stretched fabric that she swore would
never go back into its correct shape—to keep me from falling to the
floor while he furiously shook his leg, launching me up and down.
I’d squeal, flailing, trying to hang on, and giggling the whole
time. Dad would yell, “Hang on, Gracie! Don’t fall, Gracie!” while
he did his best to knock me loose.

“Did you have any nicknames growing up?” I
asked.

“My mother’s husband used to call me
Shorty.” The reference sounded like a curse word. “I was a tall,
awkward child. That was his way of mocking me.”

“That’s awful.” My own circumstances had
shown me, through two generations of personal experience, how
desperately a boy needs a father. My heart broke for him. Then, I
grasped the tone he used was distasteful, loathsome, and guarded.
The same way he referred to family as enemy.

“You should forgive him,” I blurted, before
realizing what I was saying and how rude it must seem; but when I
felt the weight of the words, I knew I was right.

His leg started to twitch, shaking the light
between us. But he said nothing.

Well, I already had one foot in my mouth;
may as well shove the other in beside it.

“For your sake, not his,” I added before
guilt shook the sense back into me. “I know it’s none of my
business. Sorry, I have this bad habit where I say things . . .
sometimes.”

He pressed his lovely lips together, drawing
the edges up into an awkward smile. “I, too, say things from time
to time. I can relate.”

“I mean . . . never mind.”

“No, no, you’ve intrigued me. Please,
continue.”

“Have you ever felt a need to say something?
Like a prompt?” I gestured between us, “Like, you have to tell
someone something, even if it’s offensive—as if it were the most
important thing in the world for them to hear?”

His silence gave my answer.

“
You don’t have any idea what I’m
talking about, do you?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever said anything
important. Much less needed to.”

“I realize it’s none of my business and you
have every right to be upset with me for being so forward. But I
just think you have more to gain through forgiveness. And I thought
you should know that.”

“How so?” His pitch went up, indicating
genuine interest.

“When someone hurts you, ninety-nine percent
of the time the actions stem from selfishness. So they’re not
sitting at home thinking about how they got over on you. And why
waste your time and energy thinking about them? Forgive and forget
so you can move on.”

“Interesting,” he said. “May I ask you
something?”

“We’re beyond the formalities, now.”

“Are you married?” The light went dim. He
tapped the screen of his phone again.

“Not anymore.”

I looked down, afraid my eyes would give
away too much. Since cleaning out my closet, I could barely keep
them dry. Every time something sad, happy, or funny happened I was
shredded. Tears at the drop of hat, no matter the reason.

“Are you dating anyone?” He hesitated. “You
don’t have to answer. I’m just trying for conversation. You know,
to pass the time.”

“It’s alright. I’m not—” I struggled for the
right words. “I don’t . . . date guys.” It came out wrong but I
left it alone.

He placed his head back against the wall and
closed his eyes. Crossing his feet, the phone slipped to one side.
He caught it and the screen lit with his touch.

My thoughts flew up and away as my blank
eyes became glued to one spot. His gorgeous face. I don’t know how
long I watched him sit there, breathing in and out, before I heard
the muted thud.

The intensity of his sudden gaze took me by
surprise. “You hear that? I think we’re sprung.”

Another thud sounded and Evan was on his
feet, holding his hand out to me. The subtle contact made my empty
stomach flutter, but it was nothing. The hand was offered, so I
accepted. I offered him my thanks and he took it.

My feet were too far over when I stood,
landing me deep in his personal space. I stared up while the light
grew. He smelled like smoke and honey. I breathed him in. Chagrin
heated my cheeks when he looked back and caught me. I turned to the
wide silver doors as they inched open and back to Evan, who was
staring again, or maybe he never looked away.

“Back away from the door!” The call shot
through a thin crack in the passage.

We did as the voice commanded, moving until
we felt the wall at our backs. We watched the metal arm appear
between the door panels and slowly pry them apart.

“It was wonderful meeting you, Gracie.” Evan
offered his hand.

“It was nice meeting you, too. Thank you . .
. you’re my hero.” I mimicked a bad southern accent, attempting a
damsel-in-distress posture and batting my eyelashes. He laughed and
I felt stupid.

The door cranked open, wider and wider,
until there was enough room to pass through into the bright morning
outside. I took my leave and headed straight for the Jeep.

Twenty minutes, my patooty! That was at
least an hour.

After dropping the
kids
at school and sending word to their teachers that
they’d be absent on Wednesday to observe their father’s passing, I
got home just in time to stop Arnold, Sol’s big dumb dog, from
chewing through a fence board. Once he was settled in his kennel, I
fixed the board and made his breakfast. Some leftover brown rice
and chicken broth mixed with his regular food. I set the bowl in
front of him, told him what a good boy he was, and got started on
the housework.

An hour later, I was done. I turned on some
music and watched through the glass door as Arnold ignored the food
in his bowl. Maybe he needed to work up an appetite.

The weather was cool and sunny. A light
breeze drifted in from the coast giving the air a briny smell that
melded with the scent of the surrounding trees. We headed down the
road and jogged around the park, twice. Both of us were panting
when we got back to the top of my hill.

After a shower, while raking the brush
through my hair, I remembered my phone. The battery was probably
completely dead. I reached for my sweatshirt and checked the
pockets. Then, searched the jeans crumpled in the pile of laundry.
I wanted to panic after the first sweep of my purse turned up
nothing, and started emptying each compartment onto the kitchen
counter. Out poured everything I anticipated, except my cell
phone.

I perched on the arm of the sofa,
trying to think. I asked Noah to get it for me, put it in my
sweater pocket. I used it to check the time in the hall while I
waited.
The elevator!

I grabbed the house phone and called Lily.
After explaining what I suspect had happened, she connected me to
the maintenance office.

How could I have been so careless? The
pictures! I’d never put them into the computer. Noah offered to do
it a hundred times, but I refused, saying I would do it myself.
Truthfully, I didn’t like the idea of changing anything. I wanted
the phone to stay the way it was when it belonged to Sol. It was
the only thing that survived the accident. I had to get it
back.

Nauseated and impatient, I waited as the
phone rang over and over. On the fifth ring that felt like the
fiftieth, a machine picked up. I left a message, automatically
looking at the time. They had to be out for lunch.

On the way back to the parking garage, I
couldn’t let myself think about what it would mean, how much it
would hurt to lose his cell phone. Instead, I concentrated on
getting back to check that elevator as soon as possible. On the
way, I was forced to stop at every single light in the city between
my house and Lily’s office. I got stuck behind the slowest drivers
in the history of motorized transportation. When I changed lanes, a
diesel truck ended up in front of me. When I tried to move around,
a taxi cut me off. After that, it was a garbage truck. It seemed
everyone was intent on making sure I had no access to lanes of
moving traffic. I wanted to scream.

Finally, I saw the entrance of the parking
garage. The sign out front read, “Lot Full.” I fought back the
tears and parked in the first opening I found out on the street,
nearly two blocks away.

According to Juan in maintenance, the
elevator had been running smoothly for over an hour and no one had
returned or reported finding a cell phone. When he saw me fighting
back the tears, he let me look through the space myself—the lost
and found, too. But all I found were umbrellas, single gloves, and
reading glasses.

Returning to my car heart-broken and empty
handed, I was forced to learn another hard lesson. Parking by a
hydrant was never as convenient as it seemed. I realized this as I
watched my Jeep being hauled down the street by a tow truck. I
prayed for strength and forgiveness, fighting the desire to curse
the driver for refusing to let me drive away because my car was
already chained.

“What does that mean?” I asked
incredulously.

“It means too damn bad. You’re blocking a
hydrant and you’re gettin’ towed.” He rubbed his greasy hand across
his imposing waistline.

At least I had the presence of mind to take
my purse. I tried to be thankful for that as I walked to the lone
payphone that I knew to be operational a few blocks away. It was on
the corner in front of a small French restaurant. I’d never eaten
there, but the bright blue neon sign mounted over the phone booth
stuck out in my mind. It was a marker to Caleb. Each time we passed
it, he knew we were almost to Auntie’s job.

I kept my eyes on a miserable pebble,
kicking it down the sidewalk along the way. I could’ve used the
phone in Lily’s office, but the waiting area would be full of
patients. No one ever went to the oncologist for something minor.
Everyone within hearing distance would have either been seeking, in
the midst of receiving, or just finishing cancer treatment. They
didn’t need to hear about my problems, so insignificant compared to
theirs. I would have felt guilty for complaining and I really
wanted to mope.

The afternoon didn’t get any better. I never
kept cash on me, so I had to take a taxi to the bank on the way
home. The driver complained because of the slow-moving line at the
ATM.

As the cab pulled away from my curb, Caleb’s
bus pulled up. Maria’s grating voice was drumming from the
answering machine as we made our way inside. I
shuddered—mother-in-law problems—listening to her tell me she was
coming over Wednesday to visit the kids. I ran to the phone to let
her know I’d make myself scarce so she could visit. Of course, my
voice was trembling, so she asked what was wrong. I knew it was
only a formality, but told her anyway. She huffed when I mentioned
the pictures. I really didn’t feel like being insulted, so I made
up an excuse and hung up.

When Noah came home, he immediately asked
what was wrong. I assured him everything would be fine and went to
bed early.

Tuesday was much the same. I spent my
morning riding the bus across town to the impound lot. Thankfully,
my Cherokee was considered undesirable; I could tell right away
that everything was just where I left it. Even my registration
stickers were intact. The temporary wisps of relief were replaced
with guilt and dread as I tried, unsuccessfully, to gather myself
before the kids came home.

Sol always had his phone with him and after,
I always had it with me. I would scroll through the text messages,
read them over and over again. It wasn’t so difficult to accept the
loss of the printed words. It was the pictures I regretted losing.
Irreplaceable pieces of time, framed moments we spent together.
Tangible remnants of happiness.

My eyes were red and puffy over an inanimate
object. Strange how things could take on such immense value because
of the owner.

I managed to keep up the ruse well enough
for Caleb but not Noah. He never asked, but I could tell he was
worried I might end up depressed again. I could see the shadows of
my darkest days in his eyes when he looked at me. The days when all
I could do was sleep. I gave him a reassuring pat on the arm when
he offered to assist his younger brother with a bath and put him to
bed for me. Though my heart ached that he would feel obligated to
make the gesture in the first place, I took it.