What Happened to Hannah (16 page)

“Really, I’m fine.” She pushed the up button to call the elevator—she was blowing him off. “The nurse said Anna would be sleepy. They’ll start her on an antibiotic and two different acid blockers tonight and send her home in the morning. But, do you think your mother might be willing to pick us up and take us home? I came in the ambulance—”

“I’ll come.”

“No. I don’t want to take you away from your work any more than I already have. Please, ask your mother for me.” He sighed and agreed as the elevator doors opened. She stepped in and turned back to him smiling—still blowing. “Besides, I need you to make sure that Lucy understands that none of this is my fault. I don’t want her gunning for me.” She gave a soft laugh. “Maybe she could visit Anna after school tomorrow.”

The doors had begun to close when he saw it in her eyes, the relief, the satisfaction that she had once again made a clean getaway from him—leaving no trace of her true self behind. He’d seen it at the cemetery and earlier in the day when they spoke while they waited for Anna to return from school. Hannah was hiding something from him—and it was starting to annoy the hell out of him.

Plus,
it was probably why he’d been so ready to believe she’d been derelict with Anna. Maybe. Maybe believing the worst of her was better than not knowing what to believe . . .

He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets once she was out of sight and the elevator was lifting her up and away from him. He wasn’t surprised by how tempted he was to take the stairs two at a time and meet her when she got off; wrap his fingers around her throat and choke her secret out of her, but, as he recalled, fighting Hannah was never as effective or as expedient as . . . finessing her.

He turned on the heel of his boot, and headed for the door, deep in thought.

He’d tried overhauling an old pickup truck with Cal a couple summers ago, but kids were different today. When Cal turned sixteen, he wasn’t interested in waiting while the two of them gave an old Ford a face-lift, he just wanted to go.

He laughed at himself as he pushed through to the parking lot, the midnight chill refreshing on his face. Come to think of it, that’s all
he’d
wanted at sixteen—a set of wheels, freedom. His parents each had a car for work and it was—help his Dad with the abandoned ’62 Ford truck from the farm, or borrow theirs every time he wanted to go somewhere.

The remains of the teenage Grady shuddered inside at the thought of dating girls in his mother’s car. But in a fully restored tomato red pickup
-mobile,
he’d perfected the art of finessing girls. Well, the one girl he’d ever needed to finesse, anyway . . . the one he’d wanted enough to bother with finessing.

He hadn’t been driving it long—a week, maybe two—still grimacing every time he turned onto the dirt road that led him home because the dust was so hard on his new paint job. Even driving less than the speed limit kicked up a fine film he’d feel compelled to sham off before going into the house.

However, that morning, that first morning of his Finesse 101 class, he was hungover from having passed out beside the campfire he and a bunch of kids from school had been partying around the night before. His mission: to get home and into bed before the sun was fully up in the sky to avoid detection by his parents . . . and the extra chores they’d pass on to him when they discovered he’d been out all night again.

So he was speeding a little, furious about all the damn dust and bracing himself for the extra pain in his head on the down side of the short rise in the road he was taking when he saw her—halfway down the next rise, on foot, coming toward him.

Hannah Benson.

“Fuck!” He lost his concentration and the jolt to his head from the gravel road made it feel like a bell clapper on Sunday morning. His eyes blurred a little, but he didn’t lose sight of her and his mind, despite the ringing in his head—or perhaps because of it—was at a total loss to imagine why she was out walking the road barely after dawn.

Always modestly dressed, it was summer and she had succumbed to black shorts that hit her just above the knee and a pressed white cotton shirt that might have been one of his—the tail out, sleeves rolled up above her elbows. While there had always been catty rumors of the Bensons’ getting last pick from the charitable donations at their church, he’d always thought Hannah’s choices were classic and tasteful if not particularly hip. That day she looked as tidy and fresh as he felt hung over and stale.

He slowed the truck down, leaning his aching body over the seat to roll the rider’s side window down, then came to a complete stop when he rolled up beside her.

“Hey. Good morning, Hannah. What are you doing out here?”

She’d stopped and turned toward him, but stayed near the side of the road instead of approaching his truck—unlike any other girl in town would have, considering who sat inside. And if the other girls didn’t want to flirt with him, they’d at least have expected him to take them up and deliver them to wherever they were going. But not her. She didn’t approach, she didn’t care, she didn’t want or expect anything of him. And, God, it was maddening.

“I’m going to work.”

“Now?”

She nodded. “Mrs. Phillips hired me to help out Old Mrs. Phillips for a while this summer. She needs help bathing and cleaning and cooking, things like that.”

“Old Mrs. Phillips? Who lives on this end of Dempsey?” She nodded again. “Every day?” Another nod. “And you walk every morning.” No nod necessary. “How long does it take you?”

She shrugged. “Hour and a half or so.”

“So you get there by what, seven?”

“Yeah, about.” That reminded her not to dawdle and she turned to walk away.

“Wait a second.” Patiently, she stopped and turned again. He kept his foot on the clutch and let up on the brake so the truck rolled backward to frame her face in the window again. “Do you want a ride?”

He regretted the offer instantly. Every second he wasted here with her was a second closer to his father’s alarm clock ringing at six thirty; to his mother rolling out of bed; to her pulling on her robe and scuffing out of the bathroom and down the back stairs to start breakfast. Being summer they let him sleep until eight, sometimes nine, but his mother was unpredictable. Sometimes the sound of her slippers would simply pass by his door. More often they would slow down. The handle on his door would rattle when she carefully opened it; she’d stand for several loving seconds watching him sleep and then close it again. If she stopped there today, there’d be hell to pay.

What was he doing?

He asked himself the question, then watched as Hannah’s telling eyes asked it as well. Her gaze roamed over his beloved tomato red Ford but gave nothing of what she was feeling away—no envy or scorn or admiration. Just confusion and distrust . . . of him.

“No, thank you.”

“Why not? Are you afraid?”

“No.” She began walking and he started rolling backward again.

“Wait a second, will ya? Why don’t you want a ride? I can get you there in fifteen minutes.”

“Then what would I do until seven?”

He stopped the truck to consider her point, then let it start rolling again. “We could talk for a few minutes.”

There. He’d finally lost his mind. And it was all her fault.

“Talk about what?”

Normally that question would have made his head explode because she’d used it on him before, a couple of times, and the tone of it always made it seem like they had nothing to talk about. Which they didn’t. But he was ready for it this time.

“Well, I saw a bird in our barn last week and I wondered what kind it was. You said you knew about birds.”

Whatever punishment his parents doled out wasn’t worth mentioning in light of the look of surprise on her face. Suddenly, he knew that every tiny little crack he made in Hannah’s shell would make him feel extraordinary things inside his chest. Suddenly, Hannah Benson made some sense to him.

Push and she’d push back. Pry and she’d close up tighter. Attention confused and flustered her. Interest surprised her. Kindness was never expected.

“It’s all blue,” he went on, dreaming up the bird as he went. “Top and bottom but not like a blue jay or a bluebird, with a little black on its wings, I think. It flew by pretty fast but I don’t remember ever seeing—”

“I . . . I said I had a book of birds. I didn’t say I knew anything about them . . . only if I happen to see one that’s not familiar . . . I . . . I look it up and mark it in the book.”

“Oh.” It was imperative that he not sound disappointed, he had a feeling disappointment was an everyday thing in her life. “Good. So you’re not one of those people who sit in the weeds all day or hang out of trees in safari suits with a camera and binoculars around their necks waiting to see double-billed, tri-eyed, single-winged, chartreuse doodas?”

The twitch of her lips in each corner of her mouth shot hope through his veins like adrenaline—but even better was the tiny light of amusement far and deep within her eyes.

She’s alive! Alive!
He heard Colin Clive’s voice from Frankenstein’s laboratory in his head.

“No. Just if I happen to see one I don’t recognize.”

He heard a period on the end of her sentence so he had to think quick.

“I’m guessing that having you over to check out the birds in our barn is out of the question, but maybe you’d loan me your book sometime?” Her expression was quizzical. “Well, I like knowing what’s flying around my farm, too. And you know how it is when you don’t know something, it starts to bug you a little and then after a while it makes you crazy, right?” She looked at him a full ten seconds and was completely unreadable. “Really.”

She wore her backpack loose and near empty but slipped it around to her chest, unzipped it, and reached inside. She withdrew a small 4x8-inch hardbound book and held it out to him through the open window.

“If it’s not one I’ve seen already, will you mark it?”

“Sure.” He took the shiny bird-covered book in his hand and almost flinched with feelings he wasn’t sure he could identify. Feelings he’d heard about in church like
humility
and
honored
and
blessed
;
compassion
and
gratitude
. Sharing a book was not a big deal, he knew that, but sharing anything with Hannah Benson was a rare thing for anyone.

She gave him a satisfied nod and started slipping the straps of her pack back in place.

“Bye.”

“Wait. Damn.” He took his foot off the brake again. “Wait a second. You loan me your book, but you won’t let me give you a lift into town?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Without stopping she looked at him, then at his truck and back again. “Well, for one thing you’re driving backward.”

There it was again, that infinitesimal spark of humor that came and went so fast it might have just as easily been a play of the early morning light. Still, he was so dumbfounded by it, he could think of nothing to say so he pulled away from her slow and easy not wanting to cover her in road dust, drove to the top of the hill, and made a tight U-turn.

This time he pulled up beside her with only the driver’s side door and a foot of air between them.

“Is this better?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t think you’d turn it around. And I still can’t ride with you. My parents wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh,” he said, and yet in spite of all the brain cells he’d destroyed drinking the night before, he came up with, “You mean riding with me or getting a ride, period. That’s two different things there.”

Again she stopped to look at him and again he’d have given anything to know what she was thinking.

“With you, yes. Riding with anyone, I guess.”

“But there’s riding up here
with
me and
just
riding, say, on the tailgate, which is as far from actually riding with me as you can get and still be riding. See the difference?”

She searched his face for deception, for the slightest trace of trickery, then looked over her left shoulder for the first time since he’d come upon her. He hadn’t thought about her still being visible from her house and whether or not her parents might be watching her—so he followed the direction of her gaze and nearly went limp with relief to see that none of the house was visible from this point on the road.

With one last considering look, she turned and walked to the back of his truck. He put it in neutral, set the brake, and jumped out.

“Wait a second. I’ll put the tailgate down for you. Unless you want to ride in the bed.”

She put up a hand to stop him. “The bed’s fine. Thanks.”

And she was up over the end before he could lend her a hand. Of course.

“Okay then. Hold on to your hat.” Her eyes widened with fear and immediately she started to struggle to get up. “I’m kidding. I promise.” He waited for her to settle down again. “And don’t try to talk to me a lot because you’ll get bugs in your teeth.”

Caught off guard, she laughed out loud, a quick, sharp hoot of pure merriment that she tried to cover, too late, with one hand over her mouth.

He wanted to call her on it, tell her that her laugh was the nicest sound he’d ever heard, but he knew instinctively she’d hate it and never laugh for him again.

He cursed the dust again as he maneuvered around potholes and drove barely fast enough to hide the fact that he was stalling for more time.

Glancing back in the rearview mirror it was like watching something private and forbidden when she closed her eyes, tipped her head back, breathed in deep, and sighed. In that moment of peace with tiny wisps of black hair dancing around her face, the healthy hue of her skin looking warm and soft, she was about the prettiest thing he’d seen in all his life.

It was . . . magic, maybe, the way her features changed when she let her guard down; when the sharp edges of caution and distrust drained away, smoothing out and softening her fine features.

A careful glimpse at the road, and when he looked back—their eyes met and held for a long second.

“You okay back there?” he hollered out the window, wanting to seem casual and relaxed. She nodded and he kept his rearview mirror watching a little more furtive after that.