Текст книги "For All You Have Left"

Автор книги: Laura Miller

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Chapter Seven
Keys

“He can’t be dangerous,” Hannah puffs. “They wouldn’t let him live here, right? They check for that stuff – on the application?”

I think about it for a second.

“I guess. But maybe he’s never been caught or he…”

“Lada,” my sister scolds.

I hate her scolding voice.

“Not every guy has something wrong with him. So, he was weird when you first met him. Maybe he was just taken aback by your rugged, morning beauty.”

I roll my eyes.

“Okay, well, if he’s not a total weirdo, then I’m pretty sure I already scared him off anyway. Hannah, I might as well have been naked.”

She forces out a laugh.

“Really, Lada?” Her voice has turned sarcastic. “You really think you scared him off by showing up at his door naked?”

I sigh loudly and try to push back a smirk. “You really would set me up with a convicted criminal, wouldn’t you? You’re that desperate, aren’t you?”

“Hey, he hasn’t been convicted…yet,” she corrects.

Then, suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and we both freeze.

My lips part, and I feel my eyes grow wide as I immediately find Hannah. Her eyes are wide too, but she’s smiling.

A second goes by like this – with neither of our expressions changing.

“See who it is,” Hannah finally whispers, gesturing her finger toward the door.

I slowly turn and face the door, then tiptoe over to it and hover over the peep hole, and instantly, I feel my heart drop.

“It’s him,” I mouth, looking back at Hannah and pointing at the door.

“Who?” she asks.

“Next door,” I whisper.

Just then, her face lights up, and she grabs her keys.

I shake my head.

“No,” I mouth in her direction. “Do. Not. Leave. Me.”

“I’ve gotta run,” she says, ignoring me.

“Hannah,” I say, trying my best to shout at her in a whisper.

She continues to ignore me, while I watch her run around my apartment and gather up her things. Leave it to Hannah to have a conversation with me about how my neighbor might be an axe murderer and then a minute later, she’s leaving me alone with him. I sigh and roll my eyes.

“Okay, fine,” I mumble under my breath.

I force my attention to the door and suck in some air. Then, on three, I push the air out of my lungs and swiftly pull open the door.

Jorgen takes a moment before he speaks.

“Your keys,” he says, eventually, holding up his big hand and dangling a fuzzy, pink keychain from his finger. “You left them in your door.”

My chest rises and then falls. Well, at least I’m making it easy for him to kill me.

“Hi, I’m Hannah, Lada’s sister,” Hannah says before I can even get the words thank you out.

She bumps up against me and extends her left hand toward him. Hannah’s right-handed, and I would question what she’s doing, but I already know.

“Lada?” he repeats, almost as if it’s a question.

He pauses for a second but then seems to brush it off. “I’m Jorgen.”

He meets her left hand with his left.

“Jorgen,” Hannah says. “That’s an interesting name.”

He smiles. “It’s a family name.”

Hannah flashes him an approving look before she turns back to me.

“Invite him over,” she mouths. “No ring.”

I roll my eyes again, but this time, I only do it in my mind. And before I know it, Hannah is gliding down the stairwell.

“It was nice meeting you, Jorgen,” she calls back up.

“It was nice meeting you too,” he says in her direction before she’s gone.

A moment passes and then Jorgen turns and looks at me with a soft side-smile.

“Lada?” he asks, almost timidly.

I lower my eyes and shake my head.

“It’s a long story,” I say.

“Okay,” he concedes, chuckling a little.

“Paramedic?” I ask, eyeing his blue pants, white, collared shirt and black work boots.

He glances down at his attire.

“Uh, yeah.” He nods his head. “How’d ya guess?”

A soft but unexpected laugh tumbles off my lips, sending my gaze straight to the floor.

“I work out of Truman Hospital.”

His words sober me up fast, and I cringe on the inside.

“What do you do?” he asks.

I slowly meet his eyes again – those blue, blue eyes. “I write for the magazine downtown.”

“Outside?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“We get it at the hospital. Ada Cross?”

I feel the heat rushing to my face. It’s not every day that someone puts my name to my writing.

“Yes,” I say, trying not to smile as wide as I feel like smiling.

“I knew it was you.” He pauses for a second, as if he’s finally putting my face to my name. My photo has really only been in the magazine a couple times. Most of the time, it’s just my byline on top of the story. “I like your people stories,” he goes on. “There are some pretty interesting people out there.”

I force out a laugh.

“You have no idea,” I mumble.

His tanned, chiseled face shows off a crooked grin. “Well, I was just headed to work and I saw your keys,” he says, pointing to my lock.

“Yeah.” I shake my head. “Thank you,” I add, squeezing the pink keychain inside the palm of my hand.

“No problem,” he says.

I watch him start to make his way down the stairs.

“Lots of creeps out there, but don’t worry, I’ve got your back,” he calls up to me.

My smile starts to fade, but he can’t see it; his back is already toward me.

I really hope that wasn’t a warning – him warning me about himself. Deep down, I really don’t want him to be a creep. Maybe I do just want a normal neighbor for once – a normal, cat-less, renaissance-less neighbor.

Chapter Eight
Remember

“Lada, where’s your lotion?” Hannah asks, busting into my apartment.

Hannah’s always been a fixture in every place I’ve ever had. She’s never been an actual roommate, just more of an honorary one, I guess. This new apartment is no exception. She has a key. She uses it liberally.

“My hands feel like dead lizards.” Her voice trails behind her as she makes a beeline for the back rooms.

I scrunch up my face. “Eww. Why do they have to be dead?”

She doesn’t answer me. Instead I hear her rummaging through my drawers in my bedroom. My bedroom! I jump up and run to my room. But right when I spot her, I freeze in the doorway. I know she has already seen it. She’s bent over, with her back to me. She’s staring at something – it – inside my nightstand drawer.

I just stand there and watch her – waiting, for what seems like an eternity.

Eventually, she pulls it out from the drawer and turns back toward me.

“Lada,” she says, holding up a marriage license.

I take in a deep breath and let out an audible sigh.

“I didn’t know you still had this,” she softly says.

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing I can say really.

“Lada, you’ve got to move on,” she pushes out, gently. “I know you love him, but he can’t keep coming in and out of your life like this. You can’t let him. You can’t do this forever, Lada. You have to live.”

She looks at me with two sad eyes – those same sad eyes that she always gives me when this same subject comes up.

“I am living, Hannah,” I force out. “I’m living. I eat. I sleep. I smile every day.”

Her sad eyes don’t waver.

“Lada,” she says and then follows it with a long sigh. “You know what I mean. You’ve gotta let him go. You’ve gotta let someone else in.”

I stare at her for a moment before I lower my face. “It’s not that easy, Hannah.”

A minute passes in the quiet, and then I hear her voice again.

“All I’m asking you to do is try. That’s all anyone is asking you to do.”

My eyes catch and get stuck in the red polish on my toenails.

“I do try,” I whisper.

It’s true. I try. I don’t try in the way she wants me to try, but I do try. I try to tell myself that it is possible to move on – that it is possible to actually live two happy lives in the span of one lifetime. I try to push the thoughts, the dreams, the nightmares from my old life to the back of my mind. But ultimately, I know what moving on means. It means never going back, and that terrifies me more than anything. I know Hannah wants me to forget, but I can’t forget. I don’t want to forget. If I forget, I lose it all twice. I want to remember. I have to remember.

* * *

Hannah’s gone. She eventually got her lotion for her dead-lizard hands – after she had played the big-sister card, of course, and dispensed her infamous words of wisdom. I’m used to that card though and her words of wisdom. She says her peace – and it’s usually always the same peace – and then she leaves it alone. I’m thankful for that – the leaving it alone part. She doesn’t understand me like she thinks she does, but I do love her. Deep down, I know she means well. I just don’t think I’m as strong as she thinks I am.

I rest my feet against the wooden railing on my little balcony and sit back in my Adirondack chair. The chair was a gift to me from my grandpa. He made it himself and gave it to me when I got my first place back in college.

I’m alone now. It’s just me and the warm summer sun and a little, black spider crawling down a far rung in the railing. I’d freak out if I saw it inside, but I don’t mind it so much out here. I watch it scurry across the painted wood, avoiding tiny roadblocks that I can’t see. The spider reminds me of my grandpa’s farm. There were always spiders there – spiders and mice and hay and tall grass and endless games of hide and seek. I think about those days when we were all just kids sometimes. And sometimes, I think about them so hard that I feel as if I’m there – in an open field with grass up to my waist and nothing but hours and hours before the summer sun goes down…

“James, you’re on Hannah’s team,” Andrew says.

“But I was on Hannah’s team last time,” James protests. “You said I could be on Logan’s team this time.”

Hannah sends James her most serious look – the look of death.

“Like I want to be on your team, little squirt,” Hannah says, piercing James with her narrowed eyes. “Andrew, why do you always get to pick the teams anyway?”

She turns her attention to Andrew.

“I’m the oldest,” she continues. “I should pick, and I pick not to be on that little squirt’s team. He’s awful at this game.”

“I’ll be on his team,” I say. “I’ll be on James’s team.”

James is little. He can barely see over the grass. And he’s slow, and he talks a lot. Hannah’s right; he’s not really very good at this game. But I feel bad for him.

“No,” Andrew shouts. “I’ve picked the teams. It’s already done. Hannah’s with James. You’re with me, Logan.”

Everyone’s quiet.

“Fine,” Hannah puffs. “But this is the last time, Andrew, or I’m not playing anymore.”

Andrew smiles proudly. James looks dejected but satisfied enough.

“Okay,” Andrew says. “You guys count to sixty. Me and Logan are gonna go hide.”

Andrew grabs my hand and takes off. I’m jolted forward, but I don’t fall because Andrew has my hand and he’s pulling me along. We run for a few seconds, but then suddenly, he stops and catches me as I almost fly face-first toward the ground.

“And no peeking,” he yells back at Hannah and James. “And don’t let James count.”

“Nine, ten, eleven,” Hannah shouts.

Andrew looks at me and smiles before we take off again. I wonder why he smiles. He must have a really good hiding place in mind.

We run and we run. We run across the field, cutting a jagged line through the tall grass. And every once in a while we backtrack and take a different way. I know Andrew does this to throw Hannah off. I feel pieces of the green stalks slide across my bare arms and legs as we flatten paths in the grass. It tickles my skin.

“Andrew, where are we going?” I ask, finally.

“The barn,” he says.

My grandpa’s farm is full of hiding places. We’ve hid in that old barn a million times.

“They’ll find us there,” I say.

“No, they won’t.”

I keep running, since I’m still attached to his hand, until we get to the barn and squeeze through a little space in a cracked, wooden door that reads Black Angus Farms in old, faded letters across its front. I always imagine the letters being bright and pretty – the way they must have been a long, long time ago.

It’s musty inside the barn – dusty and full of big, sticky cobwebs. It looks like what I think an old dungeon would look like. I’d never be caught dead in here alone.

“Come on,” Andrew says, pulling me along.

He runs to the other end of the barn and ducks his head when he gets to an old cattle chute.

“Watch your head,” he calls back at me.

I duck my head under the wood and metal and let him pull me through.

We stop at the little, wooden slats that climb the wall to the hayloft.

“Up here.” He reaches for a slat high above his head.

“Andrew, they’ll find us up there. It’s the first place they’ll look.”

“No, they won’t,” he says.

My shoulders slump, but after a second, I follow him up the ladder. And no sooner do I get a couple rungs off the barn floor, it starts raining dust and hay.

“Andrew, you’re getting dirt in my hair!”

“What?” He angles his face down to look at me. “Oh. I can’t help it. It’s from the ladder.”

I give him my best unhappy face. Then, I squeeze my eyes shut and lower my head as I climb the rest of the way through the dirt rain.

Andrew’s already standing on the wooden floorboards of the hayloft when my head pops up through the hole in the floor.

“Jeez, Little Logan, you’re a mess. What happened to you?” he asks, laughing.

I stop and narrow my eyes at him.

“You happened, Andrew.”

He holds out his hand.

I crawl up another rung in the ladder. I think twice before giving him my hand, but I eventually do, and he yanks me toward him. The force of his pull sends me flying forward, and before I know it, I land with all fours onto the hard, wood boards.

“You okay?” he asks, bending down to me.

I look up at him. He looks weird all of a sudden – like he actually cares.

“Yeah,” I say, standing up and brushing the dust and the hay out of my clothes and hair.

“Okay,” he says. “Over here.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me forward again. He pulls me to the corner of the barn and then slides behind a big, round hay bale.

“I’m not going back there,” I protest.

“Come on. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head and crossing my arms across my chest. “There are probably mice back there and spiders.”

I really am scared. I really don’t want to go back in that dark hole with all those creepy-crawly things.

Andrew puts out his hand, and his whole face changes.

“There are no mice,” he says, gently. “And I’ll protect you from the spiders.”

I don’t know why he’s being so nice all of a sudden.

“Come on,” he says, in the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard come out of Andrew Amsel.

I think about it for a couple more seconds. Then, I loosen one arm from around my chest and slowly hold my hand out to his.

His face lights up as he takes my hand.

I let Andrew lead me back behind the big bale, and together we crawl into a tiny corner and lower ourselves to the wood floor until our knees bend and press against our chests. It’s dark except for a little ray of light that’s pouring in through a hole in the wood on the side of the barn. And I’m still afraid of the mice and the spiders. I watch the dust dance in that little ray of light, hoping that Hannah and James hurry up and find us soon, until I feel Andrew squeeze my hand.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispers.

I take my gaze off the dust and the light and find Andrew’s eyes. I can barely see them. They match the darkness around us.

He smiles, and it seems like a real smile this time. I look down because it kind of scares me too. What if he’s been bitten by one of these spiders and he’s going crazy or something?

“Logan,” I hear him whisper.

I look up again, and this time, I notice his eyes on my lips.

“Wha…?” I start to ask.

Suddenly, his lips touch mine, stay there for a second and then pull away.

“We know you guys are in here,” I hear Hannah yell.

I stiffen. She’s in the hayloft now.

“What was that for?” I whisper to Andrew.

He just smiles at me.

I can hear Hannah’s footsteps getting closer.

“Found you,” Hannah yells.

Suddenly, Hannah is towering above us at the entrance to the little, dark space.

“I told her you guys would be in here,” James shouts, coming up fast behind Hannah.

“Shut up, James,” Hannah says. “I knew they’d be here too.”

I look at Hannah and then at James and then I feel Andrew squeeze my hand. He shows off the little gap between his two front teeth and then steadies himself on one knee.

“All right,” he says. “You found us. Your turn.”

I watch Andrew crawl around me and then out of the little, dark hole. Then, he turns around and holds his hand out to me. I’m still confused, but I take his hand anyway and let him help me out of the mouse pit.

“Wait,” James says. “You’re not mad? We found you in like two seconds.”

We all look at Andrew. Andrew just shrugs his shoulders, then sets his eyes on me.

“Nope,” he says. “Couldn’t be happier.”

I slowly lift my gaze to Hannah and James, expecting their eyes to be on me. But they’re not. They’re both looking at Andrew like he needs a doctor. They’re just standing there, motionless and silent, staring at him. And I’m just staring at them, wondering how much they had seen, until eventually, my gaze slowly falls back onto Andrew. He’s smiling at me, and immediately, I think he might be crazy too. But then maybe I’m crazy because for the first time in my whole, entire life, I’m smiling back at Andrew Amsel – and there’s no evil plot behind it.

Chapter Nine
The Quiet

“Hi.”

I hear a smooth, deep voice come from behind me. I turn the key in the lock and swivel around.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

I pull my bag’s strap higher up my shoulder, and then a sound forces my attention to the stairs. It’s the delivery guy, and I notice that he’s also got Jorgen’s attention now too. I watch as the boy-man in the George’s pizza shirt and hat meticulously positions himself onto the metal stair railing and then slides all the way down it. I watch him until his feet hit the concrete and he scurries back to an older sedan with a little, lit-up George’s sign stuck to the roof before I turn my attention back to Jorgen.

He’s already looking at me with a curious grin when I meet his eyes.

“He always does that,” I say, waving it off.

Jorgen laughs and glances down at the pizza box in his hand.

“Dinner?” I ask.

“Yeah. Dishes are still packed.”

I nod my head.

“You want some?” He extends the flat box a little toward me.

“Oh, no,” I say. “Thanks though. I’ve got to meet someone for an interview in a few minutes.”

I watch him nod his head now too. He really is intimidating somehow, and I think that’s maybe why I feel so flustered around him. I’m not sure if it’s his muscles and the fact that he could probably crush me with one hand if he really wanted to or if it’s his piercing blue eyes and the way they seem to laser straight through me. Whatever it is, I’ve really got to get over it if I’m going to be living two yards away from him from now on.

“Another people story?” he asks, stopping my train of thought.

“Yep,” I say.

I start my walk down the stairwell.

“A collector, strange addiction?”

I hear his voice trail behind me.

“I’m about to find out,” I call back up to him.

* * *

I pull back into a parking space after the interview. It went an hour longer than I had anticipated, but I guess you’ve got a lot of years – and a lot of stories – between parachuting out of your first plane in World War II and downloading your first Johnny Cash song onto your iPod. I grab my bag off the passenger’s seat and squeeze out of my door, being careful not to bang it against the car parked next to mine. These spaces are made for toys and Smart cars. I shimmy sideways and eventually make it out without a scratch – on me or the car – and head for the mailboxes in the breezeway.

“Hey,” I hear a voice say as soon as I make it under the stairwell.

I look up.

“Jorgen. Hey, again.”

He taps an envelope to his palm. “How’d the interview go?”

I think I seem unfazed on the outside, but on the inside, I’m secretly wondering if he somehow was able to stick a tracking device to me.

“It went well actually. Eighty-seven-year-old. Nice guy.”

I look down to make sure I don’t have any crumbs on my jeans from the granola bar I inhaled on the way back. When I look back up, Jorgen’s staring at me with a questioning smile.

It takes me a second, but I eventually catch on.

“Steam-powered tractors,” I say. “He has nine of them.”

He nods his head. “To each their own.”

I laugh in agreement and then find my tiny, metal box, stick my key into it and eventually pull out a newspaper from the next town over and a couple pieces of junk mail. But before I do that, I steal a glance at the name on the envelope in Jorgen’s hand and memorize it. Then, I shove my mail into my bag and start my walk up the stairs. Jorgen follows me.

“How was dinner?” I ask, angling back toward him.

“Good.” He’s nodding his head. “A little quiet, but good.”

I get to the top of the steps and stop in front of my door.

“Well, next time you get pizza, maybe you can bring it over,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “We could watch…the Food Network or something. Then it won’t be so quiet.”

I turn and push my key into the lock. What the hell did I just say? I swear there’s something wrong with me. I open the door and slowly spin back around. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s got a boyish grin hanging off his lips and a questioning look plastered to his face.

“Really?” he asks, finally.

I think about it for a second. I could take it all back. I should take it all back. He’s a stranger. And he might think I’m hitting on him. Am I hitting on him? No, I’m definitely not. Make up an excuse!

“Or I have some really girly movies,” I offer.

He laughs. “I love the Food Network.”

I could have taken it all back, but I didn’t. There is definitely something seriously wrong with me.

“But you’ll have to share,” I add.

He’s silent then – just long enough for me to realize that maybe I hate the quiet just as much as he does.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

I’m not sure what “sounds nice” exactly – sharing, the lack of quiet over pizza or watching the Food Network. Any way, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably regret this whole thing if it ever pans out later anyway.

“Well, have a good night,” I say, stepping into my apartment.

“Good-night,” I hear him say before I close the door behind me.

I quickly turn the lock on the dead bolt, then set my bag onto a barstool, bolt into the next room and plop down in front of my laptop. I’m on a mission.

I Google Jorgen Ryker—the name on the envelope – and then search the arrest records. After that, I search his name with his hometown and his name with the hospital he said he worked for. I search everything that might be connected to his name. And after an hour, all I’ve found is that he had a reserve champion steer at the state fair when he was thirteen and that his high school football team won the state championship his senior year. He was a running back, evidentially, and also not too shabby of an athlete, which is not that surprising judging by his arms and abs. But other than that, nothing – no arrests, no crazy or embarrassing photos on Facebook, no Twitter account. Nothing.

I rest my elbows onto the surface of my desk and stare into the screen and at an old, black and white newspaper photo of a gangly thirteen-year-old proudly standing next to a really, really big cow.

I take in a deep breath and then slowly force it out.

“Hmm. You’re either really good at hiding your crazy, Jorgen Ryker, or maybe you really are just…normal.”