Good as Dead(11)

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” she said.

“It’s really no problem,” I insisted. She seemed hesitant, so I added, “Or if your husband needs tools, I could lend them to him?” Her lips pinched like she’d bitten into something sour. I suddenly realized the blatant sexism of my suggestion, so I added, “Or I could show you how to do it?”

And then something unexpected happened. She started to cry. One minute she was sparring with a bench, and the next minute she was sobbing like the jilted heroine in a tragic telenovela.

“I’m ssss . . . sorry . . . ,” she stuttered between sobs. Big, sloppy, wet tears rolled down her cheeks and disappeared into the abyss of her cleavage. I wanted to guide her over to the bench to sit her down, but given its fragile state I thought better of it. She snuffled, and a string of clear mucus slid down her upper lip. If only I were my grandfather, I could have saved the day with my handy pocket square. But alas, I was just me.

“Please, don’t apologize,” I said. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, I was only trying to help—”

“My husband’s dead,” she blurted. And I was confused. Because I literally saw him two short days ago, sitting at their kitchen table. She must have sensed my confusion because she helped me out. “Evan’s not my husband. He’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off. A friend? She kept me in suspense for a beat, then, “Someone who’s helping Savannah and me.”

I found her turn of phrase strange—and not in a tea with milk way—but I let it slide. “Why don’t I take you inside?” I offered, suddenly wishing she wasn’t so beautiful given that my wife was already obsessed with her and would be back home soon.

Holly nodded, and I opened the front door for her and followed her into the kitchen. I found a napkin on the island and handed it to her as she slumped down into a chair.

“I can’t imagine what you must think of me,” she murmured as she smeared the mucus across her face.

“I think you must be in a lot of pain,” I said, taking the seat across from her. As a reporter I had interviewed a lot of people in distress. I knew how to get people talking. And I was more than a wee bit curious now.

“I still can’t believe it. It was . . .” She hesitated, as if not sure how much she should tell me. “Sudden,” she finally offered. Does she want to talk? I wasn’t sure.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She looked down at the floor. She reminded me of a source with sensitive information—wanting to spill, but nervous about revealing too much. I pressed as gently as I could. “I can’t imagine how devastating that must have been for you.”

She wiped her nose, then blotted her face with the back of the napkin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump on you.” She stood up. Nope, doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I’ll grab the bench on my way out,” I offered, and she nodded. It felt weird just leaving her like that, all tears and agony, but hugging her would have been even weirder. So I waved a little wave, then left her there.

Walking back to my garage with that bench under my arm, I started to think maybe there was something strange about my new neighbors.

I cursed my reporter’s curiosity, and my plethora of free time.





HOLLY


Three months ago

They moved me to a private room. Savannah said it had a nice view, but I really couldn’t tell you. They rolled a cot in for her, but mostly she slept with me, curled up against my good side, head nestled under my chin. Having her close to me like that, her shiny hair pressed against my cheek, reminded me of those first few months after she was born, how I used to sleep with her tucked under my arm like a football and breathe in her marshmallow-sweet smell. Except back then she was the helpless one, and I was the protector. Now it was the other way around.

The doctor told me I had suffered a concussion and needed surgery on my knee. Savannah stood over me as I signed my consent, nodding and assuring me it was going to be all right. She brought me Jamba—Peach Perfection, my favorite—to soothe my throat made raw by the breathing tube. She kept track of my meds, ordering the nurses to taper off the painkillers so I wouldn’t become a crackhead like my dead brother.

A few people from the dental office where I worked came to see me, bringing flowers that Savannah arranged and tended. As my strength returned, panic set in. I was living like a queen on colorful smoothies and sandwiches from Bristol Farms, in a hospital room that cost more per day than my rent for a month.

I tried to tell Savannah we couldn’t afford to keep me here, but she brushed me off. “Don’t worry, Mom. Just get well. I need you, you’re all I have left.” Her complexion had dulled—she was as pale as chalk—and I knew that smile she put on when she tended to me was a lie. So I lied for her, too, ate the food she brought me, and weaned myself off the Vicodin, requesting Tylenol instead.

After about a week, she showed up with my makeup. I thought she was just trying to help me feel human again, so I let her smooth foundation over my blotchy bruise and sweep my eyelashes with mascara. When she was satisfied, she leaned back to examine her handiwork, then announced, “There’s someone I need you to meet.”

I pulled on a robe, and she wheeled me down a series of lifeless hallways to the hospital chapel. We were not regular churchgoers—Sundays were for pancakes and grocery shopping these days—but I certainly would have understood if she wanted a word with God.