Текст книги "My Life Next Door"

Автор книги: Хантли Фитцпатрик

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Chapter Forty-six

I’m walking up our driveway, one of the few times I’ve cast my shadow outdoors, when I feel a touch on my shoulder and turn around to see Tim.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, grabbing hold of my hand.

“Leave me alone.” I yank it away from him.

“The hell I will. Don’t you pull that ice queen bullshit with me, Samantha. You dumped Jase with no explanation. Nan won’t say jack shit about you except that you aren’t friends anymore. Look at you—you look like hell. You’re all skinny and pale. You don’t even look like the same girl. What the fuck’s happening to you?”

I take out my key to unlock the door. Despite the heat of the day, it feels like it’s made of stone, so heavy and cold in my hand. “I’m not going to talk to you, Tim. It’s none of your business.”

“Screw that too. He’s my friend. You were the one who brought him into my life. He’s made things better. There’s no way I’m going to stand by and watch you crap on him when his world is already messed up. He’s got enough to deal with.”

I open the door and drop my purse, which also feels as though it’s made of lead. My head hurts. Tim, of course, king of no mercy, follows me right in, letting the door slam shut behind us.

“I can’t talk to you.”

“Fine. Talk to Jase.”

I twist to look at him. Even that movement feels painful. Maybe I’m slowly turning to stone myself. Except that then things wouldn’t hurt so much, would they?

Tim looks at my face and the anger in his fades, replaced by concern.

“Please, Samantha. I know you. This is not how you act. This is how crazy, messed-up girls into power trips act. This is how assholes like me act. I’ve known you since you were little, and you were put together then. This doesn’t make any sense. You and Jase…you two were solid. You don’t just walk away from that. What the fuck is up with you?”

“I can’t talk to you,” I repeat.

His cool gray eyes scan slowly over my face, measuring. “You’ve gotta talk to someone. If not Jase, if not Nan…I’m sure not your ma…Who’re you gonna to talk to?”

Just like that, I start to cry. I haven’t cried at all, and now I can’t stop. Tim, clearly horrified, glances around the room as though hoping someone, anyone, has come in who can save him from this sobbing girl. I slide slowly down the wall and keep crying.

“Shit, stop it. It can’t be that bad. Whatever it is…it can be solved.” He crosses to the kitchen island, pulling a length of paper towel off the porcelain holder, thrusting it toward me. “Here, wipe your eyes. Anything can be fixed. Even me. Listen, I enrolled to work toward my GED. I’m gonna move out. My friend Connor from AA has this apartment over his garage, and I’m gonna live there, which means I don’t have to deal with my folks anymore, and I can…Here, blow your nose.”

I take the scratchy paper and blow. I know my face is red and swollen and now that I’ve started crying, I think it’s very possible I won’t ever be able to stop.

“That’s it.” Tim pats me awkwardly on the back, more like he’s trying to dislodge something stuck in my throat than comfort me. “Whatever’s going on, it’ll be okay…but I can’t believe ditching Jase is gonna help.”

I cry harder.

With a resigned expression, Tim shears off more paper towels.

“Can I…?” I’m now doing that hiccupping thing that comes after too much sobbing, making it difficult to catch my breath.

“Can you what? Just spit it out.”

“Can I move in with you? To the garage apartment?”

Tim goes still, his hand frozen in the act of wiping my eyes. “Wha-at?”

I don’t have enough breath—or maybe courage—to repeat myself.

“Samantha—you can’t…I’m flattered, but…why the hell would you wanna do something like that?”

“I can’t stay here. With them next door and with Mom. I can’t face Jase and I can’t stand to look at her.”

“This is about Grace? What’d she do? Tell you she was yanking your trust fund if you didn’t ditch Jase?”

I shake my head, not looking at him.

Tim skids down against the wall next to me, stretching out his long legs, while I’m crouched in this small hunched circle, knees to chest.

“Spill, kiddo.” He looks me in the face, unblinking. “Hit me. I go to meetings now, and you wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve heard.”

“I know who hurt Mr. Garrett,” I squeeze out.

Tim looks incredulous. “Fuck me. Really? Who?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Are you freakin’ crazy? You can’t keep that a secret. Tell the Garretts. Tell Jase. Maybe they can sue the bastard and get millions. How’d you find out, anyway?”

“I was there. That night. In the car. With my mom.”

His face blanches under his freckles, making his hair stand out like flame.

Silence falls between us like a curtain.

Finally Tim says, “I picked the wrong day to give up amphetamines.”

I stare at him.

“Sorry. Airplane joke. I’m immature. I know what you’re saying. I just don’t really want to know what you’re saying.”

“Then go.”

“Samantha.” He grabs at my sleeve. “You can’t keep quiet. Gracie committed a fucking crime.”

“It would ruin her life.”

“So you’ll let her ruin theirs?”

“She’s my mother, Tim.”

“Yeah, and your ma screwed up big-time. Because of that you’re trashing Jase’s life and Mrs. G’s and all those kids’? And your own…? That’s just fucked up.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Go over there—look Jase in the eye and say, ‘Sorry—you know that person you couldn’t believe existed, the one who would hit someone and drive away? She’s your next-door neighbor. She’s my mom.’”

“He deserves to know.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Nope, I sure as hell don’t. This is not exactly something I’ve run into. God, I need a smoke.” He pats at his shirt pocket but comes up empty.

“It would destroy her.”

“I could really use a drink right now too.”

“Yeah, that would help,” I say. “That’s what happened. She’d had too much wine and she was driving and—” I bury my face in my hands. “I was asleep, and there was this awful thump.” I look up at him through my fingers. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Aw, kid. Aaah, shit.” Gingerly, Tim wraps an arm around my shaking shoulders.

“Clay told her to keep going, to back up and drive off and…she did.” I hear my voice breaking, still incredulous. “Just like that.”

“I knew that guy was scum,” Tim spits. “I knew it. Worst frickin’ type too. Smart scum.”

We sit there in silence for a few minutes, our backs against the wall. Then Tim repeats, “You have to tell Jase, tell him all that.”

I shove my fists against my cheeks. “She’d have to resign and she might go to jail and it would all be because of me.” Now that I’m finally talking, the words are tumbling out of my mouth in a rush.

“No. No, kid. Because of her. She did the wrong thing. You’d be doing the right one.”

“Like you did the right thing with Nan?” I say quietly.

Tim’s eyes flick to mine, widening. He tilts his head, staring at me, and then realization crystallizes on his face, and he reddens, looks down at his hands.

“Uh well, hey,” he says. “Nan’s a pain in the ass and I like to screw with her and generally make her life miserable—but she is my sister.”

“She is my mother.”

“It’s different,” Tim mutters. “See, I already was a fuck-up. I didn’t cheat on papers, but I did every other shitty thing that occurred to me. Kinda seemed like karma that I’d get cheated from. But you’re not like that. You know who you are.”

“A mess.”

He looks at me. “Well…kind of. But if you blow your nose again, maybe brush your hair a little…”

I can’t help but laugh, which makes my nose run more and adds, I’m sure, to my general charming appearance.

Tim rolls his eyes, straightens up, and hands me the entire roll of paper towels. “Have you talked to your mom? Mr. Garrett’s got some infection now—this high fever, and things are just all messed up. Maybe if she knew how bad this shit is.”

“I tried. Of course I’ve tried. It’s like talking to a wall. It happened, it’s over, resigning won’t do the Garretts any good, blah blah blah.”

“Suing her ass would do them some good,” Tim mumbles. “What about the police? What if you gave them an anonymous tip? No, they’d need proof. What if you talked to Mrs. Garrett first? She’s cool.”

“I can barely stand to look at their house, Tim. I can’t talk to Mrs. Garrett.”

“Then start with Jase. The guy’s wrecked, Sam. Working at the store all the time and going to the hospital and keeping up with that crazy-ass training and trying to keep it together at home…all while wondering what the fuck happened to his girl—if you couldn’t deal, or if he did something wrong or if you think his family’s just a train wreck you don’t want to handle.”

“That’s Mom,” I say automatically. “Not me.” My theme song still.

But…it is me. Staying quiet, pretending. I am doing exactly what Mom has done. I am, after all, just like her.

I stand up. “Do you know where Jase is? At the store?”

“Store’s closed, Samantha, it’s after five. I don’t know where he is now. I locked up. But I have my car and his cell number. I’ll get you to him. Not stay or anything. This has to be between you two. But I’ll getcha there.” He crooks his elbow out, offering his arm, like some courtly nineteenth-century gentleman. Mr. Darcy. In somewhat unusual circumstances.

I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around his elbow.

“And, for the record,” Tim adds, “I’m so fucking sorry, Samantha. I’m fucking, fucking sorry about all this.”

Chapter Forty-seven

From that first day, I’ve walked right into the Garretts’ without knocking. But now when Tim puts his hand on the screen door handle, I shake my head. There’s no doorbell, so I tap loudly on the metal of the doorframe, rattling it. I can hear George’s husky voice talking on and on in another room, so I know someone’s home.

Alice comes to the door. The smile drops off her face immediately.

“What do you want?” she says through the screen.

“Where’s Jase?”

She looks over her shoulder, then comes out onto the steps, slamming the screen door behind her. She’s wearing a white bikini top and a pair of faded cutoffs. Beside me, I feel Tim’s focus disappearing faster than helium from a burst balloon.

“Why?” Folding her arms, Alice settles herself firmly against the door.

“I have something I have to—say to him.” My voice is hoarse. I clear my throat. Tim moves a little closer, either in support or to peer down Alice’s bikini.

“I’m pretty sure it’s all been said,” she says flatly. “Why don’t you go back where you came from?”

The part of me used to doing what I’m told, toeing the line, my mother’s daughter, runs down the driveway in tears. But the rest of me, the real me, doesn’t budge. I can’t go back where I came from. That Samantha’s gone.

“I need to see him, Alice. Is he here?”

She shakes her head. Since Mr. Garrett’s accident, she hasn’t kept up with her constant hair transformations, and now it’s wavy brown with blond highlights growing out badly. “I don’t see any reason to let you know where he is. Leave him be.”

“It’s important, Alice,” Tim cuts in, evidently regaining focus.

After fixing him with a withering stare, she turns back to me. “Look, we don’t have time or space for your dramas, Samantha. I’d started to think you were different, not just another private school princess, but looks like that’s exactly what you are. My brother doesn’t need that.”

“What your brother doesn’t need is you fighting his battles.” I wish I were taller and could intimidate her by looming imposingly, but Alice and I are the same height. All the better for her to shoot her death-ray glare straight into my eyes.

“Yeah, well, he’s my brother, so his battles are my battles,” Alice says.

“Whoa, you two.” Tim moves into our midst, towering over both of us. “I can’t believe I’m actually breaking up a fight between two hot babes, but this is fucked up. Jase needs to hear what Samantha has to say, Alice. Put away your bullwhip.”

Alice ignores him. “Look, I know you want to do that whole make-yourself-feel-better routine, la-la-la, you never meant to hurt him and you’d like to stay friends and all that garbage. But let’s just skip all that. Go. You’re done here.”

“Sailor Supergirl!” says a happy voice, and there’s George, pushing his nose into the mesh of the screen. “I had an Eskimo pie for breakfast today. Do you know that it’s not really made by Eskimos? Or”—his voice drops—“out of Eskimos. Did you know that Eskimos make their ice cream out of seal fat? That’s kinda yuck.”

I bend down, away from Alice. “George—is Jase home?”

“He’s in his room. Want me to take you there? Or go get him?” His face is so alight and alive seeing me, no reproach for my disappearing act. George of the forgiving heart. I wonder what the Garretts—Jase—told him—told anyone—about me. As I watch, though, his expression clouds over. “You don’t think they make the ice cream out of baby seals, do you? Those little white fluffy ones?”

Alice pushes herself more firmly against the door. “George, Samantha was just leaving. Don’t bother Jase.”

“They would never make ice cream out of baby seals,” I tell George. “They only make ice cream out of…” I have no idea how to finish this sentence.

“Terminally ill seals,” Tim intervenes. “Suicidal seals.”

George looks understandably confused.

“Seals who want to be ice cream,” Alice tells him briskly. “They volunteer. There’s a lottery. It’s an honor.”

He nods, digesting this. We’re all watching his face to see if this explanation flew. Then I hear a voice behind him say, “Sam?”

His hair’s sticking out in all directions, shower-damp. The smudges beneath his eyes are deeper and his jaw sharper.

“Hey, dude,” Tim says. “Just bringing your girl by, admiring your bodyguard, all that. But,” he says, backing down the steps, “goin’ now. Catch you later. Feel free to call anytime to set up that mud-wrestling match, Alice.”

Alice reluctantly moves aside as Jase pushes open the screen door, then shrugs, heading back into the house.

Jase steps out, face expressionless.

“So,” he says. “Why’re you here?”

George returns to the screen. “Do you think it has flavors? The ice cream? Like chocolate chip seal or seal with strawberry swirl?”

“Buddy,” Jase tells him. “We’ll check it out later, okay?”

George backs off.

“Do you have the Bug? Or the motorcycle?” I ask.

“I can get the Bug,” he says. “Joel’s got the cycle at work.” He turns back to the door and shouts, “Al, I’m taking the car.”

I can’t quite hear Alice’s response, but I’m betting all the words have four letters.

“So, where are we going?” he asks, once we get into the car.

I wish I knew.

“McGuire Park,” I suggest.

Jase flinches. “Not full of happy memories right now, Sam.”

“I know,” I say, putting my hand on his knee. “But I want to be private. We can walk out to the lighthouse or something if you want. I just need to be alone with you.” Jase looks at my hand. I remove it.

“Let’s do McGuire then. The Secret Hideaway is a safe bet.” His voice is level, emotionless. He reverses the car, hitting the gas harder than he usually does, turning down Main Street.

It’s silent between us, the kind of awkward silence that never used to happen. The well-trained (Mom’s daughter) part of me wants to fill it with babble: So, lovely weather lately, I’m fine, thank you, and you? Great! How about them Sox?

But I don’t. I just stare at my hands on my lap, stealing glances at his impassive profile from time to time.

He reaches out automatically to help me as we jump from stone to stone to the tilted rock in the river. The clasp of that warm strong hand is so familiar, so safe, that when he lets go as we reach the rock, my own feels incomplete.

“So…” he says, sitting down, wrapping his arms around his legs, and looking, not at me, but out at the water.

There may be proper words for this situation. A tactful way to lead up. A convincing explanation. But I don’t know them. All that comes out is the unvarnished, awful truth.

“It was my mother who hit your father. She was driving the car.”

Jase’s head snaps around, eyes wide. I watch the color leach from his face under his tan. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I was there. Asleep in the backseat. I didn’t see it. I wasn’t sure what had happened. For days. I didn’t realize.” I meet his eyes, waiting to see astonishment turn to scorn, scorn to contempt, telling myself I’ll survive. But he just keeps staring at me. I wonder if he’s gone into shock and I should repeat it. I remember him giving me a Hershey’s bar after that ride with Tim because Alice said chocolate was good for shock. I wish I had some. I wait for him to say something, anything, but he just looks as though I’ve punched him in the gut and he can’t breathe.

“Clay was there too,” I add uselessly. “He was the one who told her to drive away, not that it matters, because she did it, but—”

“Did they even stop?” Jase’s voice rises, harsh. “And make sure he was breathing? Tell him help was coming? Anything?”

I try to pull a full breath of air into my lungs, but can’t seem to manage. “They didn’t. Mom backed up and drove away. Clay called 911 from a pay phone nearby.”

“He was all alone there in the rain, Samantha.”

I nod, trying to swallow the barbed wire caught in my throat. “If I had known, if I’d realized,” I say, “I would have gotten out of the car. I would have. But I was asleep when it happened, they just backed away—it happened so fast.”

He straightens up, turning to stare out at the water. Then says something in a voice so low, the river breeze carries the words away. I move next to him. I want to touch him, to bridge this gap like that, but he’s stiff and still, a force field around him, holding me back

“When did you know?” he asks, in that same low tone.

“I had a feeling when you talked about Shore Road, but—”

“That was the next day,” Jase interrupts, loud now. “The next day when the surgeons were drilling holes in Dad’s skull and the police were still acting like they were going to figure this all out.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walks away from me, away from the flat part of the rock to the jagged side that slopes into the water.

I follow, touch his shoulder. “But I didn’t really know. Let myself know. Not until I heard Clay and Mom talking a week later.”

Jase doesn’t turn toward me, still looking out at the river. But he doesn’t jerk away either.

“That’s when you decided it was a good time to break up?” No emotion in his always expressive voice.

“That’s when I knew I couldn’t face you. And Clay had threatened to rescind all these contracts Mom’s campaign has with your dad’s store, and I…”

He swallows, absorbing this. Then his eyes flick to mine. “This is a lot. To take in.”

I nod.

“I haven’t been able to get that picture out of my head. Dad lying there in the rain. He landed face-first, did you know that? The car bumped him and threw him through the air. Ten feet, probably. He was in a puddle when the EMTs got there. A few more minutes and he would have drowned.”

Again, I want to just run. There’s nothing to say and no way to fix anything.

“He doesn’t remember anything about that,” Jase continues. “Only noticing it looked like rain and then fade to black until the hospital. But I keep thinking he must have realized at the time. That he was alone and hurt and there was nobody there who cared.” He wrenches his body toward mine. “You would have stayed with him?”

They say you never know what you’d do in a hypothetical situation. We’d all like to think we’d be one of the people who gave up their lifejackets and waved a stoic good-bye from the slanting deck of the Titanic, someone who jumped in front of a bullet for a stranger, or turned and raced back up the stairs of one of the Towers, in search of someone who needed help rather than our own security. But you just don’t know for sure if, when things fall apart, you’ll think Safety first or if safety will be the last thing on your mind.

I look into Jase’s eyes and tell the only truth I have. “I don’t know. I didn’t have that choice. But I know what’s happening now. And I’m choosing to stay with you.”

It’s not clear who reaches for whom. Doesn’t matter. I have Jase in my arms and mine hold him tight. I’ve done so much crying that there are no tears. Jase’s shoulders shake but gradually still. No words for a long time.

Which is fine, because even the most important ones—I love you. I’m sorry. Forgive me? I’m here—are only stand-ins for what you can say better without talking at all.