installing rain gutters, and then again after we left, how it lit her entire being right up and anyone standing near her.
Margie’s heading down one of the aisles toward the front of the store. “Please don’t tell my aunt about the ghost, okay?” I roll my eyes. “She had a bad experience and ghosts scare her.” The tremble in my voice is gone, replaced by a casualness I don’t feel. I see I’m going to become a good liar.
The shop owner stares at me for another few seconds while Margie walks and reads and doesn’t pay attention to where she’s going. “Sure thing.” She doesn’t say anything else, but I see she’ll keep her word.
“Thank you.”
I meet Margie at the front counter.
“How you doing, Lilybeans?”
“Fine,” I say. “You ready to go?”
“Anytime you are.” She looks at my empty hands. “Didn’t find anything?”
“Not this time.”
The shop lady doesn’t mention ghosts or my weirdness to Margie and I nod at her again before we go—a silent thank you for a silent gift. We leave after I give Cheetah a good-bye pat. He’s wearing a sulky expression when we walk past the front window.
Hank’s expression isn’t sulky where he’s standing across the street with his cup of steaming coffee. Hank’s expression is stony. Decided. He raises his hand not holding the coffee, thumb and index finger in an L, taking a pretend picture.
See you later.
Four
It’s Thursday and today’s focus is easy: get to Dr. Pratchett’s by one o’clock. Margie’s at work now. She’ll honk out front when she picks me up. I’ll have to listen and be ready.
All morning I read in a chair Margie’s got arranged next to the patio doors. It’s big enough for two people or for one to fold her legs up, cozy like. The sun warms it every day it’s not cloudy. Today it’s sunny and the chair is toasty. I’m drowsy from the warmth and from not sleeping too well at night. I keep reading, though. I’m getting to the end of The Stand , to the big showdown.
A bell dings softly in the apartment. I’ve drowsed off, my book on the floor now, pages folded, mashed under the weight of a thousand brethren. I pick it up and put it on the table next to me, then blink hard to clear my foggy brain. Margie’s set an alarm for me to get ready for Dr. Pratchett’s. I have thirty minutes until she’s supposed to honk. Margie said this morning it might be a good idea I pull a brush through my hair before I go.
The bell is a timer on the oven. I click it off and head back to the blue and white bedroom.
I stop too fast in the hallway, feet skidding on the hardwood floor. Hank’s on the bed where Mom sat cross-legged to braid my hair. Everything in me jumps and I want to grab him and make him move from where Mom sat. He’s busy infecting this place with his whiskey and paint, his mints, busy polluting the air and twisting memories.
We stare at each other and pretty soon the bees start up, buzzing their broken pattern in my brain. Hank’s eyes are glassy with their flat light, his gaze steady on me. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just sits cross-legged like he did at the bookstore, only now he’s wearing his flannel again and his jeans with their dark stains.
“What do you want?”
He doesn’t say anything.
I’m watching my feet now, how they shuffle back and forth, how they don’t want to run from Hank-the-murderer. They’re content right where they are, my feet. I think they know more than my head, so I listen to them instead of the bees starting to knock around inside my skull. Buzz-buzz-buzz , making me believe the quiet place will be better than Hank sitting in this blue and white bedroom. This room where Mom and I, we talked about the way things were at home, how Hank had already driven away everyone we knew.
“What ever happened to your friend Heather?”
I ’ m relaxed, sleepy from how good Mom ’ s fingers feel braiding my hair, so I don ’ t think before I speak. “Dad
Margie’s heading down one of the aisles toward the front of the store. “Please don’t tell my aunt about the ghost, okay?” I roll my eyes. “She had a bad experience and ghosts scare her.” The tremble in my voice is gone, replaced by a casualness I don’t feel. I see I’m going to become a good liar.
The shop owner stares at me for another few seconds while Margie walks and reads and doesn’t pay attention to where she’s going. “Sure thing.” She doesn’t say anything else, but I see she’ll keep her word.
“Thank you.”
I meet Margie at the front counter.
“How you doing, Lilybeans?”
“Fine,” I say. “You ready to go?”
“Anytime you are.” She looks at my empty hands. “Didn’t find anything?”
“Not this time.”
The shop lady doesn’t mention ghosts or my weirdness to Margie and I nod at her again before we go—a silent thank you for a silent gift. We leave after I give Cheetah a good-bye pat. He’s wearing a sulky expression when we walk past the front window.
Hank’s expression isn’t sulky where he’s standing across the street with his cup of steaming coffee. Hank’s expression is stony. Decided. He raises his hand not holding the coffee, thumb and index finger in an L, taking a pretend picture.
See you later.
Four
It’s Thursday and today’s focus is easy: get to Dr. Pratchett’s by one o’clock. Margie’s at work now. She’ll honk out front when she picks me up. I’ll have to listen and be ready.
All morning I read in a chair Margie’s got arranged next to the patio doors. It’s big enough for two people or for one to fold her legs up, cozy like. The sun warms it every day it’s not cloudy. Today it’s sunny and the chair is toasty. I’m drowsy from the warmth and from not sleeping too well at night. I keep reading, though. I’m getting to the end of The Stand , to the big showdown.
A bell dings softly in the apartment. I’ve drowsed off, my book on the floor now, pages folded, mashed under the weight of a thousand brethren. I pick it up and put it on the table next to me, then blink hard to clear my foggy brain. Margie’s set an alarm for me to get ready for Dr. Pratchett’s. I have thirty minutes until she’s supposed to honk. Margie said this morning it might be a good idea I pull a brush through my hair before I go.
The bell is a timer on the oven. I click it off and head back to the blue and white bedroom.
I stop too fast in the hallway, feet skidding on the hardwood floor. Hank’s on the bed where Mom sat cross-legged to braid my hair. Everything in me jumps and I want to grab him and make him move from where Mom sat. He’s busy infecting this place with his whiskey and paint, his mints, busy polluting the air and twisting memories.
We stare at each other and pretty soon the bees start up, buzzing their broken pattern in my brain. Hank’s eyes are glassy with their flat light, his gaze steady on me. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just sits cross-legged like he did at the bookstore, only now he’s wearing his flannel again and his jeans with their dark stains.
“What do you want?”
He doesn’t say anything.
I’m watching my feet now, how they shuffle back and forth, how they don’t want to run from Hank-the-murderer. They’re content right where they are, my feet. I think they know more than my head, so I listen to them instead of the bees starting to knock around inside my skull. Buzz-buzz-buzz , making me believe the quiet place will be better than Hank sitting in this blue and white bedroom. This room where Mom and I, we talked about the way things were at home, how Hank had already driven away everyone we knew.
“What ever happened to your friend Heather?”
I ’ m relaxed, sleepy from how good Mom ’ s fingers feel braiding my hair, so I don ’ t think before I speak. “Dad
Similar Books
