One Foot in the Grave Page 10

  “Homework?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I start to look back but he’s standing beside me. I feel his hand on my shoulder. It instantly brings to mind our kiss.

  “Want my help?” he asks.

  I look up at him. “I think I can do it.”

  “Oh, so you’re a badass and smart.”

  I chuckle. “I’m just a temporary badass, but yes, I’m one of the brainy nerd types.”

  “You in honors classes?”

  I nod.

  “Me, too,” he says. Then his smile wanes. “Or I was.”

  I set my pencil down. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Hell no,” he says.

  I frown. “You know, I hear it’s not bad.”

  “What’s not bad?”

  “Heaven, or I guess I should say the afterlife. I’ve been told it looks very peaceful.”

  “I think I like it better here.”

  I inhale. “Aren’t you lonely?”

  “Not anymore. I like the company I’ve been keeping lately. I like her a lot.”

  I bite down on my lip. “I don’t think that’s the way this is supposed to go. I’m supposed to help you move on.”

  “You don’t like my company?”

  “No. I do.” Too much. “But I feel as if I’m not doing my job.”

  He stands up and sits on the edge of the desk. “Maybe that’s not your job with me.” He reaches out and runs a finger over my cheek. “I’m different. You said so.”

  I nod and push his hand away. “I just wish you’d talk to me.”

  “I am talking to you.”

  I frown. “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe in time,” he says.

  I focus back on my paper, unsure how to get him to open up.

  “Was Abby here when you were eating dinner?” he asks.

  I look up. “Yeah. And so were you, I guess.”

  “Well, I popped in. It was extra cold. She makes it that way, doesn’t she?”

  I nod and wonder why he doesn’t make it that way, too.

  “Is she still asking you to find her ring?”

  “Yeah, and I think I’m going to have to do it. Would you really go with me to the state park?”

  He smiles. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “I’m asking you to go with me to find a ring.”

  “It’s a date,” he grins.

  I turn back and start working. I wonder if he knows how much I wish it were a date. How much I wish he were alive.

  “When are we going?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I have to talk to Abby.”

  “You’re scared of her, aren’t you?”

  “A little,” I say. “But mostly I just feel sorry for her.” I remember what I felt last night in the hall. As if I were her. “Maybe I’m scared because she is. Sometimes I feel what a spirit is feeling.”

  “She’s scared?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Not that I blame her, because she was lying on the ledge for over twenty-four hours. She had to have been in pain, and alone.”

  “That would be scary,” he says.

  I draw in a deep breath. “I have to help her.”

  “We will help her,” Hayden says. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

  “Yeah,” I say and look back down to figure out the math problem, knowing sooner or later I’ll have to find a way to fix my Hayden problem.

  • • •

  Dad’s up and moving when I come downstairs the next morning. I’m starting to seriously think I was wrong about his drinking. He gives my shoulder a squeeze and says goodbye.

  I chomp down on cheese toast and give Pumpkin a tiny piece to nibble on.

  Abby hadn’t returned last night. But I woke up at one point and Hayden was in bed with me. He was sleeping. I didn’t know the dead slept.

  I started to wake him up to remind him of the rules. But he looked so peaceful. So I just lay there and watched him. I wanted to roll closer so bad. To touch him. To kiss him. But I didn’t. Then I remembered what he said: “You aren’t alone anymore.”

  He’s right. I haven’t felt nearly as lonely. My job is to get him to pass on, but part of me doesn’t want him to go. Could that be the reason I haven’t been pressing him to talk more about why he might be here? I need to do something about that.

  I get my backpack and shut off the lights. While I didn’t see Hayden this morning, I have a vague memory of him kissing me early this morning and saying he’d see me later. I reach up and touch my lips.

  I leave the house and go pick up Kelsey.

  She gets in my car and studies me. Or I should say, she studies my eye. “I swear it’s even darker now.”

  I frown. “I know. They say a black eye can last a week.”

  “Give me your phone,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you need a picture of this. Someday, when you’re old, you can brag to your grandkids how you were tough as shit and taught a bully a lesson.”

  I laugh, but hand her my phone. “So I’m going to lie to my grandkids?”

  “No. Just embellish it.” She snaps a shot, checks it, and laughs. “Yup, tough as shit.”

  I start the car. I’m not at the end of her street when she says, “So you aren’t going to tell me?”

  I look at her. “Tell you what?”

  “What Jacob said to you yesterday when he walked over to your car.”

  “Oh.” I realize how odd it is that I haven’t even thought about that. A week ago, I would have been analyzing the crap out of it, trying to make more out of it than there was.

  Deep down I know why I’m not obsessing over Jacob. Hayden.

  I tell her what Jacob said about me giving him a ride sometime.

  “Damn, he likes you,” she says.

  “No, he likes my car.”

  “Are you dense?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think he’s cute?” She looks at me all baffled.

  “I did. I mean, I do. It’s just . . .” I’m hung up on a dead guy. “He said it was a stupid idea.”

  “So he lied.” She lifts a brow. “People do that sometimes.”

  I know she’s referring to me. I ignore it.

  She continues, “I’ll bet within two weeks he asks you out on a date.”

  “I doubt that.” We go into school and walk each other to our lockers before splitting up.

  It’s amazing how much easier school is when you have one person you can look forward to passing in the hall, or lunch. As I walk toward the cafeteria, I look for her. She’s waiting just on the other side of the door. We walk in and get in line.

  “How was auto tech?” she asks and we move slowly to the front of the line.

  I hold up one hand. “I broke a nail.”

  She laughs. “Seriously, how was Jacob?”

  “Friendly,” I say, but for some reason I don’t mention that he suggested I take him for a ride in my car again, because I think she’ll make a big deal out of it. And maybe because I’m wondering if Kelsey and Dad are right. I can’t deny there’s a part of me that likes the idea. But I don’t like it as much as I should.

  We get our lunches—Kelsey goes for a salad and water, I go for pizza and chocolate milk—and move in line closer to the cashier. I turn back to Kelsey. “What’s up with this cashier?”

  “Who?”

  “The cashier,” I say. “She weirds me out.”

  Kelsey leans to the left to see the cashier. “Why does she weird you out?”

  “She’s too friendly.”

  “Friendly? I don’t think she’s ever spoken to me.”

  “Yeah, well she speaks to me.”

  The line moves up several spaces and we’re almost in front of the cash register so we stop talking.

  I push my tray and stop in front of her and wait for her to ring it up.

  She stops, looks up, then smiles. “It’s so good to see you two have made friends.” She hits a few keys. “That will be th
ree dollars and fifty cents.”

  I put four dollars on the counter and cut Kelsey a quick look, who appears all kinds of surprised.

  “How do you know we’re friends?” Kelsey asks.

  She looks up. “Your auras are blending.”

  “Our auras?” Kelsey asks. The cashier hands me my change and rings up Kelsey without answering.

  As we walk away, Kelsey looks at me and chuckles. “Okay, now I’m weirded out.”

  “Told you.” We both laugh and find a spot. “She probably saw us talking,” I say and I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, Kelsey or myself.

  “I know.” Kelsey says. “But you’re right, she’s weird. Who believes in auras?”

  “Right?” I say and then I realize something. If I can see spirits, maybe other people can see auras. Then another thought hits. Could the cashier know about me? Know my secret? Does she know I can see dead people?

  • • •

  I park my car in my driveway. When I dropped off Kelsey, she asked if I wanted to hang out. I told her I had some chores today and suggested we do it tomorrow. It wasn’t a lie. I have the chore of being here, hoping Abby comes by. It’s much less of a chore if Hayden stops in.

  I sit behind the wheel and stare up at the house. I remember Hayden asking if I was scared of Abby. I wish he wasn’t so right. Little does he know I’m scared of him, too.

  Not the same kind of scared. I’m frightened that I like him too much. Scared the reason I’m not even happy that Jacob might have a thing for me is because of a dead guy who makes me laugh. Makes me feel less lonely. Makes me want to challenge myself. I spent several hours last night staring at him, wishing he was alive.

  This sucks.

  I get out of my car and go inside. “Hello,” I say to the emptiness, thinking, or maybe hoping, Hayden is here.

  Silence and bare white walls greet me. I think of Kelsey’s house feeling like a home. The walls were covered with artwork or family pictures. The end tables had knickknacks and ceramic cat figurines that gave the place personality. I look around. This house has no personality.

  Or maybe it just feels motherless. Mothers are the ones who hang things, who make the nest.

  There is no mother here. But I’m here. And I should have worked on our nest.

  I remember our old house in Dallas, the one that felt like a home. I suddenly realize that the things in that house could have been put there by my mother. But we still have them, don’t we?

  Yes, I know we brought them. I know because I recall seeing several boxes of house stuff when we were packing to move here. There was artwork and decorative stuff.

  I should find them and make this house feel like a home.

  Pumpkin’s sweet meow pulls my thoughts away from the bare walls.

  I meet him in the kitchen. He’s staring at his empty bowl as if hungry. “You’re going to get fat,” I tell him, but grab the cat food from the cabinet and pour some kibbles out. Then I grab a Rice Krispies Treat. Pumpkin stares at me as if to say, “You’re gonna get fat, too.”

  I put some chicken and potatoes and carrots in the oven for dinner, and still hungry, I grab an apple and sit down at the kitchen table, eating my healthy food for the day. I listen to Pumpkin crunch his kibbles. The house feels too quiet. I remember the crazy vision I had of Abby and I’m suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. I wish I’d hung out with Kelsey.

  I pull my phone over and think about calling her to ask if it’s too late. We’d exchanged contact information on the ride home. But I might miss Abby and I need to see this through. I need to get Abby to cross over so I can really concentrate on Hayden.

  Exhaling a sad sigh, I toss the half-eaten apple in the garbage and decide to do my homework. I grab my backpack and get busy. I’m almost finished when I turn around and see the light beeping on our home phone. Just another telemarketer, I’m sure. I’m not even sure why Dad feels the need to have a landline, since we both have cell phones.

  I hit the message button. “Hi, Bret? This is Nancy Duarte.”

  Nancy works with dad. Why is she calling him here?

  Didn’t he go to work?

  She continues, “I’m just a little worried. It’s two and you haven’t returned from lunch and I haven’t been able to reach you on your cell.”

  My heart drops. Shit. What happened to my dad?

  I grab my phone and dial him. My heart’s pounding. I try not to think about him being in an accident. Or in the hospital, hurt. About him . . .

  He’s all I’ve got. My chest feels heavy with all the ugly possibilities.

  “Hello?” Dad answers the phone.

  The sound of his voice sends a wave of calm over me. “Hey. Are you okay?” I swallow down the raw panic but I’m sure some of it leaked into my voice.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

  “I just found the message that Ms. Duarte left. She was looking for you.”

  He hesitates one second. And it’s that second that makes something feel wrong.

  “It was nothing,” he says. “I went by to pick up some coffee supplies. I didn’t hear her call.”

  But I do hear something in his voice. A slight aggravation. And something else. It almost feels as if he’s . . . lying. I can’t ever remember Dad lying to me.

  Did he go to lunch and start drinking?

  “Look,” he says. “I’m going to stay a little later to catch up on a few things here.”

  My mind’s still racing and I’m trying really hard to convince myself I’m wrong. “I made some baked chicken,” I say. “With the red potatoes and carrots that you like.”

  “Go ahead and eat. It might be eight or nine before I get home.”

  I stand there in the empty house with bare white walls, without a mother, and I feel as if the foundation beneath me is cracking. “Dad . . . ?”

  “Yeah?”

  I close my eyes. “Are you really okay?”

  “Of course I am. Why would you even ask that?”

  “I just worry sometimes.”

  “Then stop. I’ll see you tonight.”

  He hangs up. It feels abrupt. It feels wrong. My foundation continues to crack.

  I put my phone down, stare at the fridge, and remember the sound of ice clinking. Turning around, I stare across the living room. His bedroom door is closed. It’s always closed.

  I stiffen my spine, square my shoulders, and walk over to that door.

  He’s my father. I have a right to know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stepping inside, I find his room is neat and tidy. Dad’s always been that way. The bed isn’t made but only one side of it looks slept in.

  I take a deep breath and my chest hurts. It smells like him. His aftershave. I look around. I’ve only been in here a couple of times. But the quilt on the bed looks familiar.

  There aren’t any liquor bottles sitting out. But knowing my dad, he wouldn’t leave them out.

  I walk over to his bedside table, which has two drawers. My hands are shaking. This feels wrong, but so does not knowing. I open the top drawer.

  There’s a few books, even a bible, but no bottle.

  I open the next one to find magazines. And allergy medicine.

  I draw in a deep gulp of air, turn around and go to the other bedside table. I search it. There’s some tax forms and a notebook. No alcohol.

  I look at the dresser. Then my gaze goes to the door leading to the master bathroom, a room with cabinets. It makes sense he would keep it there.

  I swallow the knot of betrayal down my throat and walk in there. Like the bedroom, it’s clean. Only toothpaste and mouthwash litter the counter. I walk up to the cabinet and open it.

  It’s empty with the exception of some cleaning supplies. I check all of the other cabinets. There’s no alcohol.

  I’m beginning to feel like a snoop.

  I walk back into the bedroom, planning to walk out. But I look at the chest of drawers.

  I walk over and open the first drawer. N
othing but underwear. Folded underwear. Dad really is a neatnik. I open the second and find socks. The third drawer has pajama bottoms.

  The fourth is empty. The fifth has a few books, the sixth, the last, and bottom drawer, has what looks like two stacks of old jeans.

  Nothing.

  Does it mean he’s not drinking?

  I go to close it, but it catches. I push extra hard. When I do, I hear something rattle. Something glass. Something that might just break my heart.

  I pull the drawer open and lift the first stack of jeans and find nothing. When I lift the second stack, I feel it. I pick the pile of jeans up and set them on the floor, and my heart drops.

  It’s not a bottle. It’s a framed photograph. My bottom lip trembles. The photograph is of Dad and Mom. Their wedding day, I think, because she’s wearing a pretty cream-colored dress and Dad’s in dress pants and a button-down shirt with a tie.

  Why wouldn’t Dad show me this?

  I drop back on my butt and pull it out. I stare at Mom’s face. For the first time, I see it, the resemblance between Mom and me. And I see my dad’s expression. He looks so happy, so much in love. Tears fill my eyes. I think of him pulling out this picture, staring at it, and missing her. I imagine him looking at me and missing her. I imagine how lonely he is.

  I wish he could move on. But look at me. I barely remember her and I haven’t moved on.

  I touch the photograph as if it will somehow be like touching my mom. I continue to stare at it, taking in all of the tiny details. Then I notice something. I blink and look harder. At least now I think I know why I haven’t seen the photograph.

  Mom’s pregnant.

  Was that why he’d hidden the picture? I still don’t like it. Don’t like the secrets.

  “You okay?”

  I look over and Hayden is sitting on the floor beside me.

  “No,” I say. I tell him about the phone call and how I ended up finding the photo.

  “That’s good news, though, right? Maybe he’s not drinking.”

  I nod. I want to believe it. “But he acted so funny on the phone.”