Every Time You Go Away Page 3

  But now: the house. I heaved a sigh and turned to face the place inside. Up until that moment I had been so busy trying to lure the dog in that I hadn’t had to concentrate on any other task. That was the way I was going to have to handle this, I realized: one single task at a time. If I allowed all the thoughts and feelings to flood my mind, I’d truly go nuts. But if I did one thing at a time and viewed everything as an accomplishment, I could make my way through the whole thing.

  1.   Pack up and drive to the house.

  2.   Observe happy child on the beach.

  3.   Fool the dog inside using Nilla wafers.

  4.   Call Jamie, try to avoid argument about whiny girlfriend.

  5.   Look around, assess the house, make list of what needs to be done to sell.

  That was it. So far, that was the list. Now I was on item number four.

  I took out my phone and scrolled to my Favorites menu. Ben was still there, right above Jamie. I couldn’t take him out; the action would seem so permanent.

  I know, I know. Death is pretty permanent as well.

  There was no answer when I called Jamie. I squelched an impulse to panic. Every time he didn’t answer the phone I had a moment of thinking The Worst had happened. The fact that The Worst had already happened once didn’t help matters much. I was being paranoid and I knew it.

  “Jamie, you need to answer your phone,” I said after the message prompt, to what I knew would be deaf ears. “I just got here and everything’s fine. I really wish you’d come join me. Think about it. We could have … fun.” He wouldn’t think so. “And we could have Grotto’s pizza.” That was his favorite, but I was pretty sure even that couldn’t get him to spend time with his drag of a mother. “Okay, so give me a call back as soon as you can and at least text me when you get this to tell me you’re okay. You know how I am. ’Bye.”

  Call me back, I wished silently. Let me at least relax about that.

  That done, it was time for item five on my to-do list. Actually go into the house instead of standing outside like a thief casing the joint.

  I took a steadying breath and stepped over the threshold. So far, so good. Absolutely nothing happened. No drama whatsoever.

  Of course. What was I expecting?

  I turned left into the living room. The wide-planked dark hardwood floors were scuffed and dirty, with sand settled into the grooves. That was hard to get rid of, but I considered it evidence of a lot of happy trips. The wood was dusty and scraped. That was going to take some work to clean. I wasn’t even sure if waxing would be enough, or if I’d have to have it refinished.

  That’s how this visit was going to be: a lot of uncomfortable questions about what I could do and what I’d have to have done by someone else … and how much it would cost. And often, how to do it. My friend Kristin would call all the work around the house “a job for someone with a penis.” The feminist in me wanted to defy that, but the lazy girl in me agreed wholeheartedly. All of this was a job for someone with a penis. I only wished I had unlimited funds to hire someone, or someones, to do it.

  In the midst of these thoughts I realized I was alone and turned around to see Dolly standing on the front porch looking in, but she had not followed me. Normally she was my shadow, always underfoot, but she was acting so weird today.

  “Come on!” I slapped my thigh.

  She didn’t move.

  “Come!” More firm. I imagined she thought this was my scary voice.

  She still didn’t move.

  “What on earth is your problem?” I demanded, as if she could answer or would concede. “Come!” My scariest voice, one I never used because she was normally so agreeable.

  At last she sucked it up and came in. Then, just like that, she was normal again. Wagging her tail, lapping my hand, trying to jump up for hugs. Her regular old self. But I, on the other hand, was feeling a lot of apprehension.

  Nothing surprising at all, not fear exactly, only sadness, overwhelming exhaustion, and the creepy feeling of opening a vault. No one had been here since Ben had died and the paramedics and police had cleared the place. I should have come sooner, but I’d used Jamie as an excuse not to. Yes, it would have been upsetting for him, but this was life. The grittier part, but still life.

  Who knew what I’d find? Mice? Rats? A hobo lying on the couch with his feet up and his little red-bandannaed stick on the floor next to him? The only certain thing was that there would be at least small remnants of Ben’s last days. Evidence of … what? Not knowing his fate? Moving along with ordinary ease through his days? Or would I find a scribbled will, half completed on the kitchen table? A premonitory goodbye note, folded neatly and propped up by the bed?

  No, of course not. No one had known this was coming. Least of all, I had been assured, Ben.

  Dolly’s nails clicked along as she followed me into the kitchen, a good-sized room with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and a gorgeous old farmhouse table that I’d always loved. The fridge had fingerprints on it—the fridge always had fingerprints on it—and had a couple old pictures by Jamie pegged up with magnets. They were curled at the edges, looked old, but still made me smile. The stove was a little smudged with ancient remnants of some sauce, but the counters gleamed and the sink looked empty.

  My chest constricted as I looked at what truly was the heart of the home.

  We’d had so many happy meals here, entertaining friends, entertaining each other. I’d made barbecue sauce for the first time by myself in this kitchen. Maybe not a big deal to most, but up until then I had only thought of it as something purchased in a bottle from the grocery store. I’d made dozens of red, white, and blue sugar cookies for the Fourth of July on that counter one year, and given them to all my friends. Except for those I’d eaten myself, that is, and they had contributed to record summer weight gain for me. Still, I considered the haul an achievement and justified my time lying on the beach when I probably should have been running the cookies off instead.

  I could remember a thousand meals here, if I put my mind to it. The shelves, which held all my cookbooks—my own brand of armchair travel—still had a sense of having been abandoned. It was easy to imagine picking out a book and blowing the years of dust off it like something from an old movie. Ah, yes, my old Southern Living annual. I haven’t seen this since aught-nine!

  I’d loved this kitchen. And every moment spent in it. I could even still smell the woodsy barbecue scent that lingered since our many meals here.

  It was an effort, but I tried not to remember the more risqué moments, though there were plenty. But, I reminded myself as I straightened my back, I’d decided a long time ago that I absolutely had to resist remembering moments of intimacy—that was just too difficult. In fact, I had to resist glorifying Ben in death at all and fooling myself into thinking I had lost companionship and could never have it again. Not that I could replace him exactly, of course; I loved him and he was gone and I’d never see him again, but he wouldn’t have wanted me to live the rest of my life alone, turning my soul into some sort of altar to him and only him. I didn’t want that either. At first I had, but then a surge of wanting to live had struck me, and I had worked very hard to maintain that since. Sure, it was a bit of a challenge at the moment, but when this task was done, then maybe the energy would shift and my life would start to feel like my own again.

  “It’s still the same place,” I said to Dolly, who was not wondering. Still, she perked her ears up as if she understood. “There’s nothing to feel creepy about.”

  She didn’t look so sure.

  But she was wrong. Her hesitation was wrong. I fancied it to be some mournful respect, but really it was probably more due to the stale air, the dust, the dark of shades being down and curtains drawn, all the things that symbolized how different things were than the last time she’d been here.

  Together we moved on into the family room. This was tough. I really wished Jamie would come, but in my hear
t I knew if I were to convince him to I had to get the place straightened out and homey before he arrived. Hell, I had to get it straightened out and homey even if he didn’t come—that was the only way it could possibly sell. It was spooky going through like this. I couldn’t stay here like this for long and I sure couldn’t sell it with this gloomy light and sense of lifelessness.

  This family room was the hangout room; it had been since those decades ago when my crew had first rented the place. There were overstuffed lazy sofas, La-Z-Boy recliners (two), and built-in bookshelves full of beautiful editions of classics, as well as a few popular novels I’d read and put there and a nice stack of board games. All the colors looked beautiful against the white of the bookshelves and walls, even though the effect had not been intended.

  This room had seen so many happy times. There were so many memories that would be in my mind forever. They were as much a part of me as my blood type or my internal organs. To my surprise, I found myself smiling at the memories. God, there were so many of them. Games of Scrabble, and Cards Against Humanity, and a million other things had been played here. Meals had been eaten here. We’d watched the Redskins inevitably lose their bid for the playoffs here.

  It was sad to look at it right now and know this was how Ben had left it. A Michael Chabon book was lying facedown on the coffee table, marking a place he would never return to read. I went over and sat down on the sofa in front of it, and touched the book. Tears returned as I picked it up and read a few words. These are the details of death that make it all the harder to accept—the many things left undone. The unfinished book, the dishes I was sure were in the dishwasher. Gross. I’d have to throw those out. Maybe replace the whole thing. That hadn’t occurred to me before.

  Then again, what would I have done? Made a special trip three hours just to come here and empty the dishwasher? Face all of this before I was ready just because I didn’t want to throw a few spoons out or have a piece of spaghetti noodle stuck to the bottom of the dishwasher? No, I’d done everything I could, the best I could.

  All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by everything that needed to be done. My energy zapped, I leaned back. I closed my eyes and saw stars. Low blood sugar personality withdrawal, probably. No protein all day, just Diet Pepsi and Nilla wafers. Who would feel good running on so little? It would have been smart to stop at the store and pick up some cheese and eggs, maybe some milk. More Nilla wafers. Now that would have to wait until later.

  I took a deep breath like I’d learned in the yoga class I’d taken to try and combat grief. It worked. The breath, that is, not the yoga. My hamstrings had resisted yoga like Poland resisting the Soviet Union, but the breathing techniques were solid. I felt my shoulders relax fractionally and took another deep breath.

  Everything was fine. I’d known this house almost all of my life. I’d been here a million times. I’d been alone here a million times. I’d never in that time felt anything sinister or desolate about the place. It was home. It was as much home as anything in my life could get. If anything, I should be relaxed in this space, not tense.

  Dolly whined and looked at a spot across the room, ears forward, head tilted as if trying to comprehend what she was seeing.

  “No, no,” I said, pointing a finger at her. “You are not going to freak me out like that. You are not going to convince me to wig out and leave here. Absolutely not. Come here.”

  Nothing. She kept looking at the spot. That made me look too. Squint and try to see whatever it was she was seeing. Maybe a rodent or, god, no, a snake? I’d heard of them coming into houses for the warmth, but it wasn’t that cold out.

  There was nothing there, just nothing.

  And then, suddenly, a shimmering column of light. So faint it could have been the sun coming in the window through the branches of a tree outside when it moved with the wind.

  I stared, willing it to take some understandable form or go away, but it just stayed there, swaying slightly, before slowly fading like smoke in stagnant air.

  Maybe it hadn’t been there at all. Probably just had been the sun, but it still made me very uneasy. “Come. Here,” I commanded, pathetically looking to Dolly for comfort.

  She paused, then ran over and jumped up on the sofa next to me. Normally we—I—discouraged her from getting on the furniture, but in this case I was pretty glad to have her here, her warm fur nudged up against me. She was panting, but she was always panting. I couldn’t read any meaning into that.

  “Good girl,” I murmured, looking around warily, half wondering if I’d feel a wave of cold come over me or whatever they said happened when a ghost came nearby. I realized I was talking quietly because I didn’t want to disturb—or awaken—anything that shouldn’t be here. Which was, of course, nothing, because nothing else was here. I said it to the dog, just to be clear. “See, there’s nothing here. Nothing at all. Now stop acting all creepy, because you’re totally freaking me out.”

  It was at that moment—of course—that the entire atmosphere seemed to change. It’s hard to describe, but it was as if the fireplace I was looking at warbled out of focus for a moment, and the room took on a stillness like I’d never felt in my life. Not just quiet but the absolute definition of silence. Noticeably, disconcertingly so.

  Then I saw it. From the corner of my eye, but I swear it was clear as day, I saw a person walk right up to the side of the sofa next to me.

  Ben.

  Chapter Five

  Jamie

  Thom Yorke crooned from the record player in Jamie’s room. It was loud, louder than he could have it when his mom was there. She was forever telling him to turn it down. It was like she hated music. It was a relief to have her at the beach house for a while, though he wasn’t sure how long she’d be gone or how long she’d be okay with him staying home alone. She never participated in anything with him anymore, they never hung out in any capacity, she just seemed to hover over his life and drop walls down here and there for him to bump into.

  He turned the music up again and went to his bed and to his computer. It was so tempting to fall right back asleep. He flipped over his phone. Two missed calls from his mom. “You need to answer your phone.” Her siren call. She said it at the beginning of every message like most people would say hello. She didn’t get that the more she told him that he needed to do something, the less inclined he felt to do it. Whatever it was.

  There were also five missed calls and eight missed texts from Roxy.

  “Come on.” Could she never give him a rest?

  He tossed the phone back on the mattress and covered his eyes with his forearm for a minute before forcing himself to pick up the computer, its metal hot from the sun and hotter from being on and running for two hours.

  All right, he could do this. It’s just an online summer-school English class. So easy it almost pained him. A three-page essay on the dynamic between Lennie and George in Of Mice and Men. He should be able to do it in his sleep.

  He nodded his head and pounded on his thighs like he was getting ready to run instead of write.

  He poised his fingers over the keys. The cursor blinked.

  Was that relentlessly rhythmic line taunting him or encouraging him?

  Fuck that cursor.

  Finally, after ten minutes of agonizing over how to just start the essay, he got going. Intro paragraph done. Only two-point-eight more pages to go.

  Almost as soon as he got going, his phone started buzzing.

  It was either his mom or Roxy, he knew that. And he didn’t want to answer either one of them right now. But if he didn’t, he’d only be prolonging the agony.

  He answered without looking. It didn’t even matter who it was, either way he was going to get shit. “Yeah.”

  “Jamie!”

  He shut his eyes hard. Her voice was like microphone feedback shrieking through his brain. Always. No matter if she was happy or if she was pissed, she was always a sharp whine.

  Right now she was pissed. In person, that usually came with
the tangibility of tears or punching.

  He could see her flipping her currently magenta hair in anger. Unless, of course, she’d made it blue again. Or some other color to throw him off. “Roxy.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you, huh? I’ve called you like a hundred times and you’re ignoring me. Seriously? Like you think it’s that easy to get rid of me? Seriously, we’ve been together for almost two years. You’re really trying to act like you don’t love me just like that?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t love you—” One millisecond after the words came out of his mouth, he knew it was a monumental mistake.

  He waited to find out which of her silences it was that followed. Was it going to be the smug laughing-at-him kind? The tricked-you kind? The rarely heard we-are-making-a-huge-mistake kind where she accepted some blame and told him how much she already missed him?

  He listened hard to figure out the sound coming from the other end of the phone.

  Ah. It was the sobbing kind of silence. The kind where she only let a sharp, shuddering intake of breath be heard before eventually letting out a soft whimper and whine, like a dog.

  Jamie shook his head and sat up, braced. He ran his hand through his hair and waited.

  “Jamie…” she said in a tremulous whisper. “I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t do it without you.”

  “Yes, you can, Roxy.”

  After a few seconds and a deep shuddering breath, she said, “I miss you. I already miss you! Give me another chance.”

  Jamie cracked the knuckles of his free hand. “You know how it’s going to go. Same as always.”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was a croak. She cleared her throat and said, even more quietly, “I can change.”