Leap of Faith (8 page)

At the bottom of the stairs, the family room and front door are to my right, and the kitchen is to my left. The kitchen is bright with white cupboards. A long oak table sits in the middle with six chairs. Two are mismatched. There’s a lazy Susan in the middle of the table holding salt and pepper shakers and napkins. There’s a sticky ring on the table at the seat on the end.

I’m biting my lip. My heart is about to slip up my throat. Other than the ring on the table, there’s no grease or grime anywhere. All the cupboard doors are intact, closed, and on hinges.

I open the fridge. It’s not full, but there’s milk . . . and orange juice . . . cheese, lunch meat, and some leftovers in a plastic container—spaghetti, maybe. Real people live here, not like at my house. At my house, we’re dead; we just keep breathing and keep waking up waiting for it to be over. But here they’re alive—for real.

A toaster sits in the middle of the counter with a plate beside it and a tub of butter. Crumbs litter the plate and countertop. Breakfast before work—what a concept.

I grab a dishcloth from the sink and wipe the table and counters. I push the toaster back against the wall, then put the plate in the sink and the butter in the refrigerator.

These men need someone to take care of them. God knows it can’t be me, but I can do my part to help while I struggle to keep Addy and myself fed, and with a roof over us.

There’s a back door at the far right end of the kitchen. Through the square window in the door, I can see that it leads out to the patio. On the far left of the kitchen is a small hallway with a laundry room off of it.

I traipse into the family room and down the hallway that runs alongside the staircase. There are two bedrooms and a bathroom at the back of the house. I stop and close my eyes, breathing in Chris’s scent.

Without thinking, I walk into the first bedroom on the left. His guitar is lying on his bed, on top of a navy blue comforter, hastily yanked up but still messy. He has a Spiderman pillowcase, and seeing it makes me happy for some reason. I run my hand over it and smile.

Three beat-up, broken guitars lean against the far wall, under a window. On a shelf above the bed, there’s a collection of superhero bobbleheads. I tap each one and crack up watching them bounce on spring necks. They’re dusty. I wonder how long he’s had them.

A well-worn houndstooth newsboy cap hangs off of his computer monitor. Next to it, empty Coke cans are stacked in a pyramid—their precise spacing an oddity in this disaster of a bedroom.

There’s a dresser with its drawers pulled out, overflowing with unfolded jeans and T-shirts, and a pile of clothes on the floor in front of the closet. Black Converse high-tops peek out from beneath the jumble of clothes.

My hand reaches for a T-shirt, but I pull it back.

I’m a creeper.

I shake my head, returning to my senses. Addy starts crying upstairs.

• • •

By four o’clock, I’m bored out of my mind. Addy’s been fed, and I’ve eaten half a pack of M&M’s I found in the bottom of my bag. I can recite every nonperishable food item in the kitchen cupboards and list the reading material on the floor beside Chris’s bed: Steven Tyler’s rock-and-roll memoir, the book
World War Z
, and several Marvel comics.

I load Addy up in her stroller, determined to find a park or somewhere to waste time during my days until I find a job. We head down the sidewalk, over the cracks and bumps made by the tree roots that have grown too big over the years.

Dappled sunlight filters through the green leaves above us. Addy squints and jerks her head every time the sun shines through the branches into her stroller.

I’m surprised to find people out in their yards at this time of day. There seem to be a lot of stay-at-home moms watching their kids play around, and retired people mowing well-watered, emerald-green lawns.

This is nothing like where I’m from.

This is how normal people live.

People with real jobs.

People who don’t sell drugs or sex or babies.

A little boy dashes down his driveway toward us, on a small black and silver bike with training wheels. He’s not stopping. Immediately, I realize he doesn’t know how to stop. He’s screaming, and his mom’s running after him.

I push the stroller out of the way and prepare to catch him or be hit. The front tire of the little bike smashes into my bare leg as my hands grasp the handlebars. “Got ya!”

Pain sears through my shin. Blood’s dripping down into my sock.

“Oh my gosh!” The mom grabs her son, squeezing him to her chest, while her eyes examine my leg. “Come on.” She motions for me to follow her as she rushes back up the driveway. “I’ll get some Band-Aids.”

I tug the stroller along behind me, following the woman and little boy up the driveway to the open garage. “I’ll just wait. . . .”

She’s already inside. I can hear her scolding her son. “I told you not to touch that bike until I was done bringing the groceries inside and could watch you!”

Addy’s kicking and squirming in her stroller, and I’m afraid she’s about to have a fit. The woman bursts back through the door and walks through the garage to where I’m standing.

“I’m so sorry about that.” She hands me a wet paper towel and some Band-Aids. “He’s not quite five and doesn’t know how to ride it very well yet.”

“That’s okay.” I wipe my leg and apply the bandages. “It’s not that bad. I’m glad I was there to run into.” I laugh, trying to make her concerned expression fade. “He might have ended up worse than me.”

“No doubt he would have. He’s an accident waiting to happen. Thanks for catching him.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “I’m Gail.” She reaches out and shakes my hand.

“Fai—” I cough, covering up my near-blunder. “Leah.”

She looks down at Addy. “What a beautiful baby.”

“Thanks.” I brush Addy’s wispy hair back. “Her name’s Addy.”

“Where do you live? I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Her little boy comes back out and begins to stomp through the flower bed. I point down the street toward the white cape cod with the black shutters and green awnings.

“We just moved in down the street.”

She follows my finger and her eyes widen. “With Ken Buckridge?” Then she peers down at Addy again. “Oh. I didn’t know Chris had a girlfriend.”

“No! No, I’m not.” I indicate Addy. “She’s not. I’m only renting their upstairs. We just met yesterday.”

Gail smiles, but the corners of her mouth are tight, and there are creases between her eyebrows. “I didn’t know they were renting the upstairs.” She squeezes Addy’s teeny foot, and her jaw quirks, relaxes. “You two will be good for them.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but my leg’s throbbing and starting to swell, and I just want to sit down. “Well, it was nice meeting you. I think Addy’s going to start fussing soon, so I’m going to get her back home.”

“Okay, well, stop by and visit sometime. I’ll introduce you to some of the other women in the neighborhood.”

“That sounds nice.” I give the stroller a nudge and try not to limp as we head back down to the sidewalk. I wave and smile, attempting to hide the pain I’m in. “Bye.”

Halfway to 356 Maple, I see a black pickup truck pulls into the driveway. Music blares from the open windows. Chris’s hair blows around in the breeze.

My heart jumps to life.

How have I become so hooked on a guy I met yesterday? But watching him park his truck and hop out, I know how. Nobody’s ever done half as much for me, and he doesn’t even know me. He’s a good person, and I haven’t known many of those.

On his way to the front door, he stops when he spots us. “Hey!” His smile’s genuine and fills his whole face. He jogs across the yard to meet us.

After seeing his room, I half expect him to be wearing a superhero T-shirt, but he just has on a plain white T-shirt covered in dirt. He’s filthy. “All moved in?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I watch his tall frame moving toward me, his jeans shifting with each stride, his shirt hugging his chest. I stop the stroller as he reaches us. “I love the paint color and the privacy wall. Thanks.”

He bends down, leaning his head into the stroller. His fingers wrap lightly around Addy’s arm. “You’re welcome. Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened. My dad can be . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with him sometimes. Do you need help moving anything in?”

I ignore the jab in the pit of my stomach at the mention of Chris’s dad. “No, we’re good. We don’t have much, so it wasn’t difficult.”

He unbuckles Addy and lifts her out of the stroller. “Is it okay if I carry her in?”

I cringe at the dirt on his shirt, but he’s already got her pressed against his chest. “Sure.” I can always give her a bath.

She turns her head toward his neck and snuggles into a ball. Somehow she feels how I do with him.

Safe.

Secure.

Home.

All those months inside my mother must’ve made her feel unloved, unwanted, adrift. Now she has me to take care of her, and Chris, too, I guess. It’s a mystery what he’s providing her with—us with—but whatever he’s offering, we’re taking it.

I follow behind him, pushing the stroller alongside Mom’s car, which makes my stomach lurch. I have to do something about those Ohio plates. Will they even be looking for a stolen car from Ohio in Florida? I don’t know, but I can’t chance it.

At the front steps, Chris hands Addy over to me, takes the stroller, and begins to fold it up. I wonder at his stroller expertise—since I almost lost my mind trying to figure it out.

“What happened to your leg?”

I look down at my bandages and shrug. “Oh, nothing really. Just saved the life of the little boy down the street. You know, nothing big.”

He lifts his eyebrows and laughs. “What? The little hellion who lives in the Tudor?” He points to Gail’s house.

“Yeah. He doesn’t quite have the hang of using the brakes on his bike.”

Chris carries the stroller inside. “Heroics always make me hungry. How about you?” He sets the stroller at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m craving pizza. Want some?”

Pizza sounds amazing. “Definitely.”

“Cool, I’ll order. What do you like on it?”

“Anything’s fine with me. Just no anchovies.” I curl my lip at the thought of salty, crispy fish mingling with my cheese and pepperoni. I used to despise touching them at Giovanni’s.

Chris laughs and puts a cell phone to his ear. I head toward the stairs while he’s ordering.

“Don’t touch that stroller,” he says, cupping the phone. “I’ll get it.”

My leg throbs with each step I take, and I’m relieved when I’m finally sitting on my blue couch.

With Addy on my lap, sucking on her pacifier, I try to talk myself into getting up now to make a bottle, instead of waiting until my leg is black and purple and twice the size it should be. I slide to the edge of the couch cushion and am just up on my feet again when I hear a siren blaring down the street.

A cop cruiser.

chapter

nine

I forget about my leg. Addy’s left lying on the couch. My hands grab everything they can reach—bottles, formula, diapers—and shove it all into the diaper bag.

I’m desperately trying to collapse Addy’s Pack ’n Play, but one side is stuck. Shoving and kicking it isn’t helping. “Come on!” I kick it again.

“Making a quick getaway?”

I spin. My heart feels like it’s just been kicked instead of the stupid Pack ’n Play. Chris sets the stroller on the floor by the door, and a confused expression crosses his face.

What am I going to tell him?

It’s quiet.

There’s no siren.

I dart to the window and look out, expecting the cop car to be parked in his driveway or out front on the street. But it’s nowhere in sight.

I bite my lip and feel my shoulders shrink in on themselves as I turn to face him. “No, just . . . um . . .”

He shakes his head. “It’s cool. You can ask me for help, you know. We’ll move it into your bedroom after I shower. Pizza will be here in forty.”

He turns and is gone, back down the stairs, and I’m standing at the window feeling like a total idiot. Judging from the bewildered look on his face, he knew I wasn’t having trouble trying to move the Pack ’n Play a whole ten feet into my bedroom. But whatever he really thought, he covered for me so I wouldn’t be embarrassed.

Addy’s voice starts out low, then reaches much higher decibels. At least she’s a distraction. I rush to make her bottle and settle back on the couch to feed her, grabbing a dirty T-shirt back out from the diaper bag, where I’d just stuffed it. With the puke-stained shirt over my shoulder, I give her the bottle and let her drink.

She’s so warm and relaxing, the weight of her in my arm, her steady breathing, the squeaky
sucksucksuck
sound of the nipple while she’s eating. I rest my head against the cushions on the back of the sofa. My eyelids feel heavy, like they’re weighed down. I can hardly keep them open.

The doorbell startles me. My eyelids fly open. Addy jolts, and her eyes pop open too. I lift her, and she pukes. Big shock. I sigh and pat her back, making sure she’s okay.

I stand, and her bottle rolls off my lap and onto the floor. Back behind the wall, in my bedroom, I lay Addy on my bed and change her diaper before changing my shirt. By the time I’m cleaned up, she’s asleep, and I put her down in her Pack ’n Play.

There’s a knock on my door. It’s Chris. Who else would it be? He smells like soap, and he’s changed out of his dirty work clothes into basketball shorts and a T-shirt.

He has a pizza box in one hand, and a six-pack of Coke in the other. “Want to eat up here or downstairs?” He glances down at the box. “Or you can just take your half if you want. I shouldn’t assume—”

“No. I’ll eat with you.” I push my hair back behind my ear. “Downstairs, I guess. Addy’s asleep.” I nod toward the Pack ’n Play. “I don’t want to wake her. I’ll just leave the door up here open in case she wakes up.”

We tread lightly down the stairs and into the living room. He sits on the couch, and I sit on the floor, the coffee table between us. He pulls a Coke free and hands it to me. “Guess I should get some plates.”