Love Me If You Must (10 page)

 
15

I coughed at the sudden dryness in my mouth.

“Let’s get you inside before you catch your death,” Dorothy suggested, touching my arm.

Too weak to resist, I allowed her to help me. She led me to my makeshift bedroom and tucked me into the cot, complaining that I should have a real bed. She left the room and appeared a few minutes later with a sandwich piled high with slabs of Brad’s homegrown tomatoes, cucumber slices, and cheese.

“You’re not eating enough,” Dorothy chastised, handing me the fare. “Hardly any food in your cupboards, and what’s there is only fit for birds and rabbits.”

My stomach grumbled as if in agreement. I took a bite, closed my eyes, and savored the juicy combination. A stream of pink squirted from the side of my bread, and I licked it from the back of my hand. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Dorothy lectured as she handed me a glass of milk.

I sniffed the contents before I took a drink. It never hurt to verify the expiration date.

I thought back to the shopping trip with my dreamy neighbor David almost a week ago. I’d been at the milk cooler, grabbing for the half-gallon of skim. He was at the cream cheese, picking up an eight-ounce package. Thankfully, I’d shown him the reduced-fat variety in time. He’d had that special sparkle in his eyes as he thanked me for helping him avoid a major mistake.

I sipped the cold, refreshing milk and looked forward to a future of mind-melding looks from David.

“Far too skinny for my liking,” Dorothy carried on. “A few more pounds would do you good.”

I handed Dorothy my glass. She was either passing out backhanded compliments or bold-faced criticisms. I tried not to let them under my skin.

“You work yourself to death.” Dorothy clucked her tongue. “Rest up. I’ll check back on you later.”

She took the dishes into the kitchen and thumped around in there awhile. I wondered what she was doing. Then I heard the faint sound of the faucet running and realized she must be washing up for me. A few minutes later, Dorothy left the house, closing the front door softly behind her.

An approaching train provided the backdrop to my dreams as I dozed off.

I woke a few hours later, refreshed after my first nap in years. Somewhere under the pile of laundry in the corner, my cell phone rang.

I retrieved it from the pocket of last week’s jeans, knowing before I answered that it must be the vagrant Lloyd & Sons on the other end. Nobody else in Rawlings, not even David, had my phone number.

“This is Tish,” I answered.

“Lloyd here. How’s the permit . . . crackle . . . coming?” The connection was no better than the last time we’d talked.

“I mailed out the application. The next committee meeting is a week from Thursday. I’m not holding out any hope. But don’t worry, I’ve got a Plan B in mind.” I leaned against a windowpane and looked at the overcast sky, completely clueless as to any Plan B.

Lloyd piped up. “While you’re waiting around for approval, I’ve got other projects. I’ll . . . crackle . . . and check back with you in the spring.” The line screeched static and I realized I lost him.

Disgusted, I hit the off button and dropped the phone back on the pile. I steamed into the parlor as fast as my limp would let me, and paced the blue shag carpet. I relished the shot of pain zapping my nerves at every step.

Get back with me in the spring? Was Lloyd crazy? My basement was top priority. And when I lined him up last summer, he’d guaranteed my project would come first.

Looking at the situation from Lloyd’s point of view, I could see where my own stubbornness to have the cistern removed, instead of walled in, was messing with our agreed-to schedule. It was my change, not his, that slowed the renovation.

Of course, when I walked through the house last July, it hadn’t registered that there even was a cistern in the basement. So technically, Lloyd should include its removal as part of the project.

I fingered the banister leading to the second floor, pulling back at the stickiness of the original finish. With everything else to do, there was no time to dwell on the cistern. The matter was now up to the Historical Committee. Once I got an official rejection, and not just some off-the-cuff denial from the village overlord, I could decide my next step.

I toyed with a loose dowel along the stairwell. It would be simple to wall in the cistern as Lloyd suggested. Preferable, even. No more concrete image dangling in my mind at bedtime. No more wondering how a body ended up buried in my basement, and worse, who put it there. But somehow I knew I wasn’t being honest. I already had the overwhelming urge to pick up a hammer and chisel and see for myself what lay under the concrete. A mere layer of drywall couldn’t dampen innate curiosity. If I thought I could maneuver the basement steps, I would be down there even now disproving my morbid theory.

I looked up from the broken dowel to the wallpaper that lined the room. Small pink and yellow roses were arranged in tidy columns. In between each was a strip of larger bouquets tied with blue ribbons. From my place at the stairs, the pattern looked like mama flowers holding hands with baby flowers.

I leaned close to the edge of a leaded-glass window and picked at a gap in the paper with one pointy fake nail, peeling off the time-worn surface in a long strip. The next owners would have inoffensive, off-white paint interspersed with a coat of polyurethane to create a subtle striped effect.

Just for fun, I pulled off every loose section and picked at every long-suffering bubble throughout the parlor. When I’d finally exhausted my urge, the floor was covered in curls of pastel and white paper, like the remains of a hit-and-run baby shower.

I plopped to the carpet and massaged my ankle. Pain or not, I had just made the parlor my next project. The thought of someone walking in and seeing peeled, unfinished walls reviled my sense of pride. I plotted a trip to the paint store, hoping I could still operate a car with my foot in such bad shape.

I was getting up the gumption to stand when the doorbell rang. I looked at my mess in panic, wondering if I should pretend I wasn’t home. Footsteps crossed the porch and the room darkened as the uninvited guest peered in the front window.

It was Dorothy, keeping her promise to return and check up. One hand shielding the glare, she spotted me amidst the evidence of my parlor paroxysm.

Dorothy shuffled around to the door and let herself in, probably feeling sorry for the turtle thrashing around on the floor.

She waded through the shredded wallpaper.

“Give me your hand,” she said with a tinge of frustration. “Thought I told you to rest.”

She pulled me to my feet.

“Sorry.” I brushed off little wads of sticky flowers stuck to my clothing. With all Dorothy’s nagging, I could almost believe I was still living with my grandmother.

“Come get something to drink,” she said.

I followed her into the kitchen, feeling like a visitor in my own home.

Dorothy turned the knob on the water dispenser, filling a glass with the refrigerated liquid. She passed it to me.

I took a long swallow. I hadn’t realized a nap could be so draining. Refreshed, I set the glass on the counter.

“Better?” Dorothy asked, her pale face almost phosphorescent in the waning afternoon light.

“Much,” I replied, smiling.

An awkward moment passed. I scrambled to figure out ways to be hospitable without furniture to offer.

“Thank you for all you’ve done today,” I groped.

She nodded. “Glad you’re not too laid up.”

Guilt oozed in her tone.

I fidgeted with the short ends of my new cut. “You know how it is. I have to stay busy or I’d go nuts.”

Dorothy grabbed a paper bag from under the kitchen sink and started toward the parlor. I hobbled after her.

She scooped up handfuls of debris and loaded them into the sack. I gave my best shot at pitching in, but fell short of her capable efforts. Her navy stretch polyester slacks rose to flood level as she bent over to pluck the last tiny speck from the shag.

“Got an old love seat for you,” Dorothy said, straightening. “Need something to sit on while your foot’s healing up.”

I pictured a tattered, dust-mite-scented sofa. “No, thank you. Really. I’ve still got to pull the carpet from this room. It won’t be ready for furniture until Christmas, at least.”

“Never heard of anything so foolish. ’Bout as comfortable as a prison cell.” Dorothy’s look said volumes.

My throat tightened as my wall of defense went up. Apparently Brad had spread the news of my past. From the look of judgment on Dorothy’s face, the unethical Officer Walters had filled her in with all the details.

I could only hope the news hadn’t traveled to David. All I wanted Friday was a night of pleasant conversation. Fluffy, even.

I checked my stick-on nails. Nine were still intact. I might as well make the rest last until the special night. Then they could pop off in unison for all I cared. David had a one-night shot at seeing me at my girly best. After that, like it or not, I would be back to my normal, frumpy renovator self.

Dorothy headed for the front door.

“Bring you some soup tomorrow,” she said.

I noticed she walked with a slight limp of her own and wondered if it was arthritis or the legacy of some injury from her mid-thirties. At the thought, a lightning bolt of pain shot up my leg, along with a heavy dose of self-pity.

It was bad enough that I was living my life alone. I could hardly handle the thought of becoming old and run-down. Still, at least Dorothy had a grown child to keep her company. I might never have one to call my own.

I watched Dorothy cross the street.

Not that I wanted a child, of course. From what I could tell, kids meant heartbreak. You could never get them to do what you wanted. And if they ever did do as you asked, sometimes the outcome was worse than if they had disobeyed.

No, it was better to be alone. My children were the homes I resurrected.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the parlor window and sighed. If only someone could revive me in the same manner I revived houses.

I tapped a snappy rhythm on the window, quite certain that David was that someone.

I’d find out for sure this Friday night.

 
16

Friday morning showed up ahead of schedule. I hadn’t even picked out what to wear and it was already the day of my big date.

Shower. Blow dry. Get dressed. I worked through my morning routine, furious with myself for putting off what I should have done a week ago. Sure, my parlor looked pristine. But tonight, sitting across from David wearing heaven-knew-what, would I care that I’d gotten the entire room done in two short days on one working leg?

I slipped into my best jeans, the ones without paint splotches or holes. With a painful tug, a nail tip dropped to the floor.

Great. Only seven remained after the one I’d shed yesterday into a can of paint.

Now, not only did I have to track down the perfect outfit before seven o’clock, but I also had to stop in to see Tammy at the Beauty Boutique for a repair job.

First, however, I’d pick up a roll and coffee at the Whistle Stop. Two days of seclusion made me thirsty for human interaction. And while the girl behind the counter was no conversationalist, at least I could look forward to the possibility that she’d added a new nose ring to her collection or an old movie to her repertoire.

I threw on my pink crochet hat and insulated coat to ward against the blustery November wind, then limped my way toward the shop. Leaves crunched in an uneven pattern beneath my feet. Limp, step. Limp, step. The pungent smell of late autumn filled the air.

I crossed the tracks, hardly glancing up, lost in analyzing the coffee girl’s facial jewelry fixation. If she was willing to offer such a countenance to the community, her thinking dipped even below my own cloudy level. At least I kept my societal blemishes hidden. But I supposed there was a place for the coffee girls of the world. Somebody had to make the rest of us feel better. Compared to her, I had my life together.

The door jangled as it opened. Warm, java-scented air rushed past into the street, and I scurried to put the plate-glass door between me and the frosty morning.

The nose-ring attendant was nowhere in sight. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup off the stack and filled it with raspberry coffee. I added some chocolate creamer and stirred.

Mmmm.

The sweet steam loosened up my sinuses. A drip of condensation formed on the tip of my nose. I dabbed at it with a napkin from the counter as I waited to pay.

After a minute, I decided the coffee girl must not have heard me come in.

“Hello?” I called.

The sound of shuffling came from the back room.

I waited. Good service in a small town was optional.

A minute later, a young blonde with a blotchy red-and-white face made an appearance.

“Sorry about that. Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her cheeks with the back of one wrist.

“Uh, sure.” I set my cup on the counter and poked around in my coat for a few dollars. “Coffee and that sticky bun back there, please.” I pointed at a supersized caramel roll sprinkled with nuts.

She plucked a piece of waxed paper from a box and reached for the breakfast treat. I studied her profile, a tad envious of the gold and diamonds that dangled from her ears and neck. First impressions said she was around eighteen, smart in school, and from a highfalutin middle-class family. No facial jewelry allowed in that household.

Curiosity got the best of me. “I guess I was expecting someone else this morning. Are you new here?”

She swallowed, obviously holding back tears. “I’m filling in for the owner’s daughter.”

In my mind, Coffee Girl made the jump from High School Flunky to Indulged Only Child. I felt like snorting. If this were my shop, would I let my daughter wait on people with her face full of sterling silver?

I tried not to snoop, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Is she on vacation?”

The attendant’s lip quivered and a tear chugged down one cheek. “Casey died yesterday. I’m helping out ’til her mom gets things together.”

A chill swept through my body. My legs tried buckling beneath me. I grabbed the smooth wood countertop and steadied myself.

The coffee girl had a name. Casey. I’d never even introduced myself.

Every unkind thought I’d had toward the girl swirled through my mind, and I knew that she would have been ten times harder on herself.

Please don’t let it be suicide.

I blinked hard and took a deep breath. “I am so sorry. Was there an accident?”

A million ways to die flashed through my mind. Quick and painless, long and agonizing, smooth and peaceful, abrupt and shocking. None seemed appropriate for a young woman of eighteen.

But then, death had no manners.

The attendant toyed with my sticky bun on the counter. “They don’t know what happened. Her little girl tried to wake her up, but she couldn’t. They’re doing an autopsy.”

My heart lurched. Casey had a little girl? And now Casey was dead, and the child an orphan. At least the poor thing had her grandmother. They’d make it through.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, devoid of further words of comfort. I grabbed my sticky bun and coffee and hustled out the door, rushing to get away from death before it could latch on to me.

I walked home without seeing anything but my feet on concrete, then blacktop, then dying brown grass. I went inside. I wanted to push the world away. To crawl into my cot and make everything disappear. To plug my ears and block out the droning automobiles, rumbling trains, and barking dogs that proved life went on even without the dearly departed.

Instead, I leaned against the kitchen counter and ate my sticky bun and drank my coffee. A final swallow, then I tossed my cup and napkin in the trash.

I propped my elbows on the sink to take the pressure off my bad foot, and looked out the kitchen window at the catalpa tree. Its twisted, gnarled branches were like skeleton fingers reaching for me . . . Help me end the pain, Tish. The voice echoed in my mind like a remembered dream.

I jerked upright and shook my head.

Grandma was laid to rest. There was no reason to keep bringing her back to life. There was no reason to fear the dead.

Yet at the thought, a prickle crept over my skin. I turned slowly toward the basement door.